Magnetism, Maybe
"How is she?"
"Hurt," was the succinct, distracted response. Mixed with the sounds of mechanical instruments. Little hums and beeps. Little green, blinking lights.
"I know that. I mean ... " The red squirrel let out a breath. An exhale. And she cleared her throat, her bushy, luxurious tail flicker-flicking like a flag. Her sky-blue eyes closed, and she shook her head, as if trying to fully compose herself. "How badly?" she whispered.
"You want a blunt answer?" the coyote responded.
"Isn't that the only kind you give?" Talkeetna shot back, no hesitation, eyes opening. She met Konka's gaze. Her chief engineer wasn't dangerous, necessarily. Though he was a predator. He simply had an unruly attitude. Either that, or it was all a front. Drilled into him during his youth, and unable to be easily unlearned.
He showed his white-yellowish teeth. As if preparing to say something biting. But, seeing his captain's no-nonsense gaze, he thought better of it. This time. And simply said, "This ship isn't going anywhere. Not anytime soon. With the tools we have, and the resources ... " A squint. " ... the only way we're getting off this planet is if someone rescues us."
Talkeetna said nothing. She crossed her arms and padded a few steps away, and then padded back. Her bare foot-paws in the dirt, leaving scuff-trails. And little prints. Her blunted toe-claws digging into the ground. And, eying Konka, she asked, "I don't suppose we could risk a distress call?"
"I wouldn't," was all he said.
"Yeah," she whispered, nodding in agreement. "If the Federation picks it up ... they could dispatch a patrol unit, and ... "
" ... we'd be incarcerated or executed as 'examples'," the coyote finished for her. Their little ship, crew compliment of ten, had fled Federation space. Fled martial law. Illegally. But, then, what wasn't illegal anymore? Talkeetna had, with her crew's support, made a run for the border. And they had made it. There was no point in staying. Not when the Federation was on the verge of civil war. Stay, and be soldiers. Have you ship conscripted. Run for it? And you'll find some freedom, maybe. Her only regret was that, in fleeing, they'd been forced to leave behind family. Relatives. Homes.
You ran. Like a coward. You should've stayed and made things right.
At what cost, she countered? Our lives?
If that is the price of freedom, then yes.
I couldn't.
Then are you a coward, you admit.
"Most likely," the captain whispered, eyes darting a bit. Turning off her internal monologue. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other, standing contrapposto. She was as beautiful as any ancient sculpture, truly. Marble could not capture her form, her features. At least that's what her husband, Antioch, told her. She flushed, thinking about that. About him.
"The food processors are shot. We have enough field rations to last us a few weeks," Konka said. "But, aside from that ... "
" ... we don't know anything about this world. Except that there are no civilizations on it. So ... "
" ... we'll have to wait it out," Konka finished. "Make shelter. Poke around. And wait for the snow rabbits."
"Looks that way," she said. That was their best hope, yes. That a snow rabbit patrol ship, patrolling the midway point between Federation and snow rabbit space, would somehow pick up their debris trail. The particles their destroyed engines had left behind. But, even if that happened, one couldn't expect any actual help for, what, a week?
If they're watching their scanners, she thought, of the snow rabbits.
They're very diligent. They'll pick you up.
But how diligent are the Furry Federation patrols? What if they pick us up, too? What if ...
" ... you're afraid." The coyote squinted his predatory eyes. Those golden-hued eyes. "I can smell your fear, captain. Your uncertainty."
"You're in the same boat, lieutenant-commander."
He tilted his head. A sign of acknowledgment. "True. But this 'boat' ... does not scare me."
"I'm not scared."
He peered at her. Raising a dusty-furred brow.
"What CAN you salvage?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Well, the power core is down. The engines. So, without the core ... the computer systems only have back-ups, and those won't last long. Really, she's a ... "
" ... lost cause?"
"Structurally, maybe. Everything else?" A pause. "She's just an empty shell, now. When we DO get rescued, we can't bring her with us."
"A tractor beam."
"Captain ... "
"I'm not leaving my ship to ... rust away on this planet. This," she said, looking around, squinting, "place," she whispered.
"Reverie," the coyote told her, of the ship (for that was its name), "did its job. We should ... "
" ... fix it. I want you to ... "
" ... captain, there's no ... "
" ... fix it."
The coyote let a growl escape from his throat. "Ma'am," he whispered, as patiently as he could. He wasn't fond of arguing with prey. They were too emotional. Too often, they took things 'to heart.' A weakness, to be sure. Baggage. And to think that he was married to prey! Well, I guess it shows, he mused to himself, that we all have lapses in judgment. We all have our weaknesses, he thought. But he'd be damned if he was going to admit that out loud.
"Yes?" she whispered back.
A tilting of his head, golden eyes narrowed. "Our energies would be better spent setting up shelter and trying to survive. Fixing Reverie? Is a waste of time. I'm the engineer. We're not a large vessel with a crew compliment of forty or eight or a hundred. We don't have a repair team. We don't have the minds," he said, "or the paws."
A swallow. She said nothing for a moment. And then, "Can't we take shelter IN the ship?"
"She's leaking radiation from the engines. Prolonged exposure ... would be lethal. We'll have to move away from it."
"Prolonged?"
"An hour or so of exposure is fine. A day? Maybe. But, more than that ... ask Aspera," he said, referring to their medical officer.
Talkeetna took a deep breath, nodding, biting her lip. "Alright," she whispered. "We'll leave the area ... in three hours. I'll do some scouting. When the others come back, coordinate with them, and ... " She trailed, shaking her head. Frustrated. Exhausted. Her whiskers twitched. "Just stay off my nerves," she told him. "I don't need it."
"No?"
"No," she whispered, whiskers twitching again.
"Maybe you better find that marmot o' yours," the coyote teased, showing his teeth again. "Bet your breeding cycle's nearing peak, isn't it?"
"And yours isn't?" A pause. A breath. What did he think he had over the rest of them? Where did his ego come from? He's a predator, Talkeetna, she told herself. That answers everything about him. "You have your orders, lieutenant-commander," was her level response. As she let out a heavy sigh and began to wander off, tail arched as proudly as she could arch it (though she felt rather tired).
The coyote watched her go, grinning to himself. The grin fading into a scowl, forcing him to shake his head. Before turning his attentions back to the crash-landed ship.
"It's fresh. Or fresh enough," the black-and-white warbler added, closing her scanner. She let out a breath, looking around, clacking her black beak a bit. Her tail-feathers moved up and down. "If we need to use this stream for water, we should be able to." A pause. A consideration. Her feathers fluffing up. "It must lead to a bigger stream. Or a river. A lake. Something ... " She trailed. She was very interested in geography. Being a 'flyer,' of course, she had a keen interest in the layout of the land. In mapping things.
Emerson just nodded, whiskers twitching. Nose sniffing. And tail snaking. Exhibiting a smorgasbord of 'mousey motions.'
Aspera turned her head. A soft, easy motion. "Are you alright?" she posed, giving one of those friendly 'beak-smiles.' Different than a lip-smile. "Lieutenant?"
"I'm fine," the mouse replied, in his wispy voice. Most male mouses were effeminate things. He was no different. He was a field mouse, and his fur was a sandy-brown. "Just ... four hours ago, you know, we were in space. And, now ... what are we gonna do?" he asked. His voice shaky. His anxiety flaring.
"We shall wait for rescue."
"And if it doesn't come?" was his desperate response.
"It will," the warbler assured. "God allowed us to survive the crash. Why would you doubt that He'd keep up alive?"
"You're right," the mouse whispered, swallowing, nodding. His whiskers twitched. "Just nervous. I do have faith. I just ... just nervous," he repeated again, trying to slow his racing heart.
"I understand," she whispered. "I'm married to a chipmunk."
"Chipmunks aren't mouses." A deep sigh from him. He looked around. "I don't know. I just ... I don't know," he said again.
"You wanna sit down? Rest a bit? I don't want you to ... be in some kind of shock or anything," she told him. "I really think you should sit down." She gestured with her winged arms. Her plumage was very pretty. Very simple. With black and white streaks and stripes, with her throat and her front being mostly white. The feathers looking very soft.
"I'm fine," Emerson repeated.
"I am the medical officer. I can order you to rest," she reminded him.
A small, shy admittance. "I know."
"And?"
"And I'll sit down," he agreed, looking out, letting out a deep breath. "Uh ... where?"
"Over here. Against this tree-trunk."
Emerson nodded, and went over to where she'd directed, his back soon resting against the slightly-rough bark of a big deciduous tree. His long, silky-pink mouse-tail wavered about. "I'd feel better if Azalea came back, is all." His wife. A fellow mouse. A western jumping mouse, actually.
"She'll return. Soon."
"Mm ... " His whiskers twitched. And he swallowed. "Where's Taylor?" he asked, of her husband.
"Checking the perimeter of the forest. With the rabbits."
"I don't even know," Emerson said, whiskers twitching, "what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm not being much help."
"There isn't much," the warbler admitted, "to do. Other than size up our situation and ... stay put," she finished.
The mouse just nodded, closing his eyes. Trying to steady his breathing. And saying a little prayer.
"Huh. Uh," he whistle-grunted, grinding against her, pushing into her. With a familiar, comforting cadence. Silvery-grey fur on his belly, his chest. And his shoulders, too. But reddish-brown on the lower half of his back, as well as his rump and his long, bushy tail. Though his tail didn't have the 'perk' or the 'arch' that hers had. His tail may have been bushy. But it wasn't luxurious.
Talkeetna was flat on her back. In the twigs and dirt and weeds, in a somewhat-dim area of this unexplored forest. Though little pools of light dappled here and there, providing a golden glow around the edges. They were a good ten-minute walk from the crash-sight. She, like her husband, was naked. In the fur. Their clothes, their uniforms, communicators, all of it was in a semi-tidy pile in the grass. All of it momentarily forgotten. Just like their dangerous flight from Federation space. Just like their crashing on this world. Forgotten. Obscured by the waves of pleasure and physical need that lapped over them.
Wasn't love the glue that held one's sanity together?
Antioch was panting audibly. From sensitive exertion. Male marmots weren't as trim as, say, male mouses. Or male squirrels. Not to say he was overweight for his species. He wasn't. He panted, panted, his hot, eager breaths washing over her neck-fur. And her cheeks.
She felt this, and sighed out. Out. And drew in quick, squeaky breaths, only to sigh them out again, her tail pinned between her bare back and the dirt. As he plunged into her feminine depths, driving his stiff, circumcised member into her slick, steamy tunnel, plowing her for the eventual sowing. Oh, going, going, going.
It was a good thing she wasn't in heat. The last thing she needed right now was to get pregnant, she knew.
His belly slid over hers. His chest-fur, soft and moving with his motions, rubbed over the surfaces of her hard, pink nipples. Her supple, furry breasts pressed against his body. And he sucked on her cheek. As best he could. Nostrils flaring, whiskers brushing her own. Panting, he sucked, moving to her lips. Where their muzzles pressed in eyes-closed, breathless kisses. One, two, three of them. Tilting, squirming. Breaking to breathe.
The red squirrel squeaked. Chitter-squeaked in pure, rodent fashion.
He returned the sounds. Marmots were rodents, too. But his sounds were more whistle-like. He even gave what amounted to a trill. Indeed, rodent love-making could always resemble an abstract symphony.
Her heart hammered, her arms around his back. Paws, fingers clutching at, digging into his back-fur, feeling his body move forward, pull back, move forward. Rocking her against the earth. Hips-to-hips. "Uh! Uh ... oh," she breathed, her head lolling slightly to the right. Her eyes half-open, looking at their surroundings. All those tall, old trees. The flashes of azure sky. The slivers of light. The insects moving around. The dust motes. And her eyes closed. "Mm ... "
He took the opportunity to nibble on her neck. Grunting, hips grinding forward. Nibbling, saliva wetting her fur. Her fur, though, already becoming matted with a light sweat. For, not only were they getting hot from their breeding, but the air was warm, as well. But the trees saved them from the bulk of the sun's heat, shielding them with limbs and leaves.
She sighed, whimper-squeaking, eyes watered to a shut. Her angular ears swivelled slightly atop her head. "Oh ... oh," she moaned with weak, helpless pleasure. He was pacing himself. He was brushing against her walls with perfect thrusts, entering her with perfect angles. Oh, his hips. Oh, the heat of him. Oh, the beautiful, satisfying feeling of being filled. That need, and his need to fill. Mutually satisfying. Oh, what presence. That friction. Her walls, all the surfaces, brushed by moving, male flesh. He was inside her. And it felt so right.
The marmot huff-puffed, giving whistle-squeaks as he humped forward. His shaft slip-sliding slickly into her, the glistening, raw-pink muscle that was like a lubricating furnace, stimulating him in all the perfect, little ways. Their bodies fit like a glove. Designed for this, this push-and-pull, give-and-take. This desire, this love, and all the subsidiary emotions it could make.
She loved his solidity, his strength. His affections. His loyalty. She remembered their wedding night, sixteen months ago, and that fierce, sparking thrill she'd gotten when they'd bred with each other for the first time. That moment of penetration, and the blur of hot pleasure that followed. She remembered how, at that time, she'd been overwhelmed by the intimacy. Her paws shook from it. Her eyes had watered up with emotion. To be so close to someone as to be completely vulnerable. Baring not only body, but heart and soul, as well. That kind of trust and that kind of willingness, stemming from this kind of mutual love. Sheltered by their faith. A God-given thing, this, and to use it so purely. It never got old. That thrill never went away. She felt it now.
His paws stroked over her fur, her body, as best they could. He loved the feel of her. And her quiet, humble confidence, and the way she squeaked. Among other things. Really, the list was too big to read. And he couldn't focus, now, anyway. Right now wasn't for thinking about love. Right now was for loving. And, oh, there was a difference. Oh.
"Oh ... oh," Antioch moaned, pulling his hips back. A slick squelching sound, coming from the source of their union. Slurp. Squelch. Hump. Slick. "Huh." he huffed, eyes screwed shut. He swallowed, nose flaring. Body sliding, hips doing their own thing. For how much of this was being orchestrated by his mind? By now, it was all instinct. By now, the rest of his body was running on automatic. It knew what to do.
Breath shaking, the red squirrel wormed a paw, an arm, wriggling it between their pressed, horizontal bellies. Through the fur. Panting. She sighed heavily upon reaching her un-hooded nub, which she weakly, needily pressed and prodded with a furry fingertip. "Uhn, uhn ... uhh ... " Squeaks ricocheted off tree-trunks. Getting lost in the forest somewhere. Her trapped tail flicker-flicked in the dirt, kicking up dust-grains, scooting aside tiny twigs.
The marmot's humps were growing erratic, unsteady. A sudden, body-tingling paralysis welling down in his furry sac, where his seed pooled. The orbs swelling, the sac tightening, drawing so close to his body. Still slapping against her vulva, but not as audibly. "Mm, mm," he trilled, shivering as he pulled his hips back, and whistling with fierce, tortuous pleasure as he slipped back into her honey-pot.
"Oh ... ohh, ohhhh ... " A chain of squeaks. Chittering from her muzzle. Her vagina tightening, in spasms, rippling in orgasm. The pleasure flung through her nerves at light-speed. A happy, dazed moan, just letting it happen. Just living it. Her paw, the one that had been between their bellies, stimulating her clitoris, withdrew. And the arm went around her husband's back. She held on, now, with both arms, laying there. Shiver-squeaking. Listening to him grunt breathlessly in her ear, which sent lusty shivers down her spine, all the way to her tail-tip.
Bliss.
Antioch had stopped moving, laying on top of her, buried to the hilt. Whimper-grunting, whiskers twitching. "Uh-uh!" A sharp breath. "Uh ... uh ... "
"Mm, mm," the squirrel was going, her pussy still in tremors.
"Uh, uah, ahhh! Ah!" His body gave a singular jerk. His foot-paws pushing off the dirt, as if instinctively trying to push his hips as close to hers as physically possible. His penis gave a spurt, spurt. Spurt! Shooting spoonfuls of seed, in firework-like bursts, the ejaculations drawing loud, pleasured barks from him. He sowed her. But also imprinted her, as well. Both of them one fur, one flesh. Brushing souls.
Joy.
Thank you, dear God.
Relief.
Oh, thank you.
And both of them panting, huffing, clinging. Sweaty, fur-matted arms wrapped around. And brushy tails giving wayward waves.
"Oh ... oh, Antioch," she finally breathed, eyes closed. She swallowed, licking her own dry lips. "Oh, gosh ... " She swallowed again, clearing her throat.
"My sentiments," the marmot replied, nose burying into her neck-fur. He breathed deep. "My thoughts ... exactly," he managed. "Darling ... "
Her paws clutched at his lower back-fur. She took a few breaths, letting her neck turn slightly. Allowing him to 'nose' her better. "I love you," she finally whispered, as she always did at the end of this. How else could such an act end? But with those words?
"Love you, too," was the tender response. He nosed her some more, pulling his hips back. Slipping out from between her legs, where the excess seed, all that hadn't been flung directly at her womb, dripped out in a slow, molasses-moving stream. "Oh," he breathed, giving a shimmy, staying atop of her. Going nose-to-nose, opening his eyes. And smiling. "I love you, too."
A giggle-squeak from her. And a smile. And a satisfied, "Mm."
"Where's the captain?"
"Having sex," was the coyote's blunt answer. He looked up at his wife. "Like we'll be doing ... soon enough."
Wasilla, if she was bothered by his casualness, didn't let it show. Just said, "I thought the ship was giving off radiation."
"It is."
"And you've been right beside it for ... what, several hours?"
"I'll be fine," he insisted. "I was just about to leave, anyway."
She met his eyes.
"To come looking for you," he elaborated.
"Worried about me?"
"You know that a predator would kill," he whispered back, "to protect his mate."
"I do," she whispered, "know that, Konka."
"My little pika," the coyote whispered. His eyes fixated upon her.
She padded toward him. A bit. Saying, lightly, "Sometimes, I wonder what I see in you. Why I married you."
"Do you?" he posed, nonchalantly.
"I do," she whispered. And a pause. "But other times, I ... " She let out a slightly-shaky breath. "Other times, you hypnotize me. I suppose it is enough to know that I love you. You do make me laugh," she admitted. "You make me feel safe. You ... I guess coyotes aren't like wolves, are they? You're very enigmatic things ... I've come to find," she whispered.
He didn't answer that. Just said, "I love you, as well. I may not gush about it, but ... "
" ... I wish you would. Just once. Gush about it."
"Not today," was all he replied, a bit stiffly.
She swallowed and nodded, looking around. She, as a pika, was a fairly short creature, with peppery-brown fur, large round ears, and no visible tail. That had been, in fact, the first thing Konka had said to her, back when they'd met: "You've got no tail, miss. And I don't know why, but that intrigues me."
And the tawny-colored coyote sighed. His angular, keen ears perked atop his head. And his tail gave a single wag. "Shall we go, then?"
"Go ... "
" ... do our deed."
"Make love? Can't you say that? Say it. Say 'make love'," she prodded. And she wasn't mad. Wasn't upset. It actually amused her. It was like a game. Trying to tame him, teach him. At least, that's how she treated it. Were she to treat it any other way, his predatory aloofness would frustrate her to the point of depression.
"Breed," he said.
"Make love."
"Whatever it is, we must go ... and do it," he said, as he rose to his bare foot-paws. He cleared his throat. Extending a paw. "M'lady," he said. He was, at times, very refined. He could be very cold. Or very polite.
Wasilla smiled, extending her paw. Taking his. "Where to?"
"Somewhere distant," he answered. "Twenty minutes out."
"Shouldn't we stay closer to the ship?" the pika asked, her large, round ears swiveling this way and that. Her whiskers twitched. "Closer to the others, I mean?"
"Your species is ... vocal," he said, simply, "during breeding."
"And yours isn't?"
"I can bite down on my urge to howl ... if I need to. Unfortunately, you cannot control your 'sounds.' It would be better if we went further out. Or they will tease us when we come back."
"They're all doing the same thing. If they wish to tease us ... "
" ... I won't have you be teased," he said, protectively. Or was is 'possessively?' Sometimes, she wasn't sure. A mixture of both?
"Alright," she relented, her paw still in his.
He gave her paw a squeeze, looking around, and then leading her off into the forest.
"I'm glad I'm the only one doing any work here," Taylor said, with a bit of a frown. His whiskers twitching, and his brushy chipmunk-tail flapping up and down. "Are you listening?" he demanded.
The rabbits were not.
Taylor shook his head and shut his scanner, pocketing it. "Whatever," he mumbled. "Look, let's get back ... I ... I have a wife to get back to."
"We'll stay here," Cordova responded. The piebald-furred rabbit had her paw in her husband's pants. The back of his pants, so that her fingers were in his rump-fur. So that she could squeeze his rump-cheek and make his bobtail flicker-flick.
Kempton, her husband, was also a rabbit. A cinnamon-furred rabbit. He giggle-mewed. "Mm ... yeah, we're fine, Tyler."
"Taylor. Taylor. You KNOW it's Taylor ... "
" ... yeah, we're fine," Kempton said, ignoring the chipmunk. He bumped up against his wife, trying to nibble on one of her slender antenna-ears. Both of them standing, limbs wrapped around one another, swaying in a sensuous fashion.
The chipmunk sighed, looking to them. "Will you be able to find your way back to the crash-site?"
"Mm-hmm." Lip-sucking.
A sigh from the rodent. And he lingered, raising an eyebrow at something Cordova was doing. He flushed beneath his fur. Clearing his throat, feeling hot, he sighed. And, shaking his head, he scurried off.
A second.
A few more seconds.
And Kempton, still wrapped around his wife, whispered, "Is he gone? You think?"
"Mm-hmm," was the rabbit-purr. "It's safe."
And the cinnamon-furred rabbit chuckled. "Mm. Good," he whispered, arms leaving her body. "We can get back to work, then. Resume our scans ... "
A giggle from her. As she parted from him, resuming her composure. "You're incorrigible, sometimes. Know that?"
"Sometimes?" A wink. His waggle-ears waggling.
"We really shouldn't tease the rodents like that," she continued, opening her own scanner. Getting back to word. She padded lightly through the grass.
"I like to fluster 'em. It's cute." His scanner went beep-a-beep as he moved it around. He squinted at the read-outs.
"Like to give 'em the impression that we're stereotypical rabbits, huh? Rampant sex maniacs? I mean, what they must think of us ... "
"Impression?" A grin. "I thought we WERE rampant ... "
" ... uh-huh." A look. "Well, you like to play-act it up a notch or two. You like to put on a show. Can't you ever be serious?"
"I can be serious," he assured, in his best 'serious' tone.
A giggle-mew. "Mm," she went, shaking her head, and taking a deep breath. And then letting it out. There was a spark in her honey-brown eyes. "Really, though, we ARE gonna have to, uh ... commence to what we do best," she said, trailing. Picking up with, " ... pretty soon. For real, this time."
"Well, we got work to do, honey."
"Indeed." She gave him a cheeky look.
"You know, I'm just disappointed in Taylor, you know. Running off like that. Not pulling his weight. We're gonna have to talk to the captain about that."
Giggles. "Stop it ... "
"He just up and abandons us ... while we're being so studious."
"He only left cause we embarrassed him into leaving," she said again.
"Well ... " A slow smile. "Regardless ... we're the only ones that know that."
"Leave the poor chipmunk alone."
"Well, if I can't tease him, who am I gonna tease?"
"Well, I know a few furs who wouldn't mind bein' teased," she said, "by the likes o' you."
"And who would they be?" Their eyes met. And he tilted his head, whiskers giving a singular twitch. His cinnamon-colored fur looking so warm. As tasty, indeed, as cinnamon itself. Could it be so?
And she raised her paw. "Me," she said, lowering it, "for one."
"I had no idea," he breathed, though he smiled as he said this.
"Just run your scans," she told him, turning slightly away. Padding a few paces. Let him chase me, she thought. I want to be chased.
And he did take a few steps toward her, scanning. Scanning.
" ... me. You're scanning me," she realized, turning around.
"Am not. Am ... "
" ... not?" Cordova grabbed his scanner. Raising her brow. "This is me ... my physiology."
"So it is." Kempton raised his brow. "You know, it says that your body temperature has risen by ... "
A giggle. As she leaned into him, whispering something into his ear. Pulling back, and nodding, saying, "I see you get flustered as easily as you fluster others, mm?"
"Turnabout is always fair play. Isn't that what they say?"
"I believe so," she said, giving him a nod.
"Well, now that you've turned my mind about, aren't you gonna do the same to my body? Aren't you gonna throw me through a loop?"
"I'd considered it."
"And?"
"I'm still considering."
"Well, consider quickly," he whispered. "I love you too much to stay away."
Cordova took a deep breath. And she nodded, and pocketed her scanner (again). "You are," she whispered to him, affectionately, sensuously, "incorrigible."
Azalea, somehow, had ended up by herself.
The western jumping mouse padded slowly, looking around, sniffing the air. She was a very distinct mouse. Her fur was brown-yellow on her sides, with a dark band down her back. Her belly-fur was white, tinged yellow in spots. And her long tail was darker above, whitish below. And she had very large foot-paws. All the better to jump by. Hence her being a 'jumping mouse.' She could bound. She could hop. Leap. Oh, she could scurry, too. But not as fast as Emerson, her husband, could. A normal mouse might beat her in all-out scurry. But, oh, she could leap. And when startled? Well, when truly startled, ceilings often met her head. Which would make Emerson giggle-squeak. He claimed he 'couldn't help it.' Truth be told, she didn't really mind his giggle-squeaking. For it was a cute, endearing sound. And she liked to see him happy.
She stopped. In the midst of her daydreaming and her straying thoughts, she stopped. For, with her incessant nose-sniffing and whisker-twitching, she'd come across something odd. A smell of burning wires. Like copper wires. Electrical wires that had gotten too hot. She squinted, confused, and tilted her head, turning in a slow circle. And she stayed quiet.
There were the sounds of native tree-birds. Small songbirds. The sounds of bees droning here and there. The sound of the breeze.
Other than that, quiet.
She padded to her right, stepping between two bark-laden tree-trunks. And she gently moved aside a sharp-thorned limb with her fingers, stepping past some bushes. Past some brush. Approaching the source of the smell.
It was a device. A three-dimensional, pyramid-shaped device. The insides must be on the fritz.
Azalea squinted, her tail swaying. Snaking. And she reached out with a paw, stopping herself. Very quickly retracting her paw. Suppose it shocked her? She didn't even know what this thing was.
Scan it.
So, she pulled out her scanner, and ...
... zzt! Zap!
"Ouch!" she squeaked, tossing her scanner, which was now smoking and smoldering. "Gosh," she breathed, shaking her paw. She sucked on her fingers, squinting, and padded over to where her scanner was. Crouching down, she poked at it. It was definitely fried. Taking a breath, she looked back at the pyramid-shaped device, which couldn't have been more than a foot across at the base. And it's top glowed red, slightly, from heat? Or was it just a power source indicator? Regardless, it must be broken. But she couldn't touch it.
You'll just have to tell the others.
Well, with my scanner, how will I remember where this spot is?
You're a fur. Find your way back with your nose. Your instinct.
And she just nodded to herself, eyeing the strange, technological device, and then eying her burned-out scanner.
Strange.
Four hours later, it was dark.
And the ten furs were gathered around a modest, crackling fire, which illuminated all of them. They'd moved a good distance away from the crash-site.
"Alright, so ... our deal," Talkeetna said, with a calm, meandering tone, as if thinking out loud, "is that we can't risk activating a distress beacon. If the Federation picks it up and decides to come after us ... I don't think any of us wants that. We've been branded 'enemies of the state'." She paused. And sighed. "I'm hoping that the snow rabbit patrols are, uh, remembering to run their long-distance scanners, or something. I think they're our best hope of rescue. Or, rather, the ideal choice ... " She trailed. "We're bound to be found sooner or later," was her assurance.
"Why DID we crash?" Aspera asked, raising a black-and-white-streaked wing. "I don't understand ... " She lowered her winged arm, clacking her beak. "I mean, we weren't attacked, right, and engines don't just ... "
" ... malfunction? No, they don't," Konka agreed. "Especially when I'm looking after them."
"So, it wasn't a mechanical error?" Taylor asked, somewhat leery. But, then, he was leery of all predators.
"No," the coyote said quietly, but with enough force in his voice as to keep the chipmunk from asking again. The firelight that flickered, the flames that flapped, they lit the coyote's eyes. And cast a glow over his fur. He seemed extra-dangerous in firelight.
"So, WHY did we crash?" the warbler posed again. And one of her winged arms unfurled and wrapped around Taylor. The chipmunk seemed to relax at this, closing his eyes and basking in the heat from the fire.
"I don't know," was Konka's eventual admittance. "I haven't really had time to ... look, things just shorted out, we crashed, and I haven't had time to launch a detailed investigation. It's not like I have a whole engineering team here. It's just ... "
" ... you. Yes," Antioch said, sitting on the ground behind Talkeetna, who was standing. The marmot had his wife's bushy tail in his paws, and was softly stroking it. Was running his fingers through the fur. "Reverie was a small ship. You knew that when you accepted the assignment, didn't you? If you wanted a whole staff to boss around, then why didn't you ... "
" ... is," Talkeetna injected, looking down to her husband. "Is," she whispered, warmly. "Reverie IS a small ship."
"Captain, I told you," Konka injected, his keen, angular ears perking, "that she's beyond repair. Even if we get rescued ... "
" ... when. Don't you mean 'when' we get rescued?" Cordova supplied.
"Alright, stop it. Let's all ... " The red squirrel sighed, closing her eyes. "Let's all calm down," she breathed. And, even with her eyes closed, she could see the light the firelight was giving off. Through her eyelids, almost. As a dark, swirling, reddish hue. As heat. And she took a slow breath. Oh, Antioch's tender stroking of her tail felt good. She wanted to sit down, or lie down. But she remained standing, despite the slight weakness of her knees. And continued, "What's important here is that we survived."
"We shouldn't have," Wasilla whispered.
And all eyes turned to her. Including Konka's.
"I mean, did you ... SEE the wreckage? None of us was even scratched," she whispered. "I mean, I'm as devout a Christian as the rest of you, and I know God must've had a paw in that, but it ... it ... " She let out a breath. "We shouldn't be okay. We shouldn't have survived a crash like that."
"What are you saying?" Emerson asked, airily. Squeakily. Fear creeping into his voice. His paws clutched at Azalea's tail. The two mouses were sitting side-by-side.
"I'm saying this place ... I mean, Azalea mentioned ... that thing she saw ... "
" ... it was like a magnetic sort of thing. When I tried to use my scanner on it, it fried the scanner."
"Right. Right," the pika whispered, swallowing, eyes darting. Eyes following the wavering of the flames. "And what if there was a larger version of that, uh ... pyramid thing," she settled, "stationed in orbit. Designed to make sure that no one could land here. Or ... "
" ... we weren't trying to land, though," Taylor assured. He was the ship's helm officer. "I wasn't trying to land. I wasn't trying to be anywhere NEAR this place."
"So, we were off-course?" Talkeetna injected, still standing. Everyone else was sitting.
"Well ... yes. At the last minute. But, believe me, ma'am, I didn't change our course. We were drawn toward the planet on our way through the system, and when I tried to correct the course ... the helm shot." A pause. "I just thought that was because there'd been a problem in engineering, or ... you know?"
There was quiet. Filled with the crickle-crackle of the flames. The burning of the dry wood they'd collected.
"So, if we're talking intense, high-powered magnets," Cordova, the science officer, continued, "then it could've scrambled our computers. Could've pulled us into orbit. Caused the crash. And ... the same magnetic forces," she reasoned, nodding her head, now, her waggle-ears bobbing, "could've cushioned the fall. Like how when you place two magnets together and they push away from each other?"
"So, we were pulled here ... and then the PUSH cushioned our crash?"
"Well, I don't know," the piebald rabbit whispered. Swallowing. "I mean, I don't know. All of this is conjecture. But if we're to assume that this place has strange magnetic ... "
" ... powers?"
"They don't have to be powers," Kempton said. "It could be a natural element here."
"Magnets?"
"Well ... magnetic forces. I don't know."
"Look, that's all well and good," Antioch injected. He was the ship's tactical officer. "But if that's the case, then ... how are we gonna be rescued? Wouldn't any ship that rescued us run into the same thing? And crash, too? I mean, how would we get OFF here ... "
Quiet.
Emerson cleared his throat. The mouse saying, "We, uh ... we find the source of the magnet. And destroy it."
"What if the magnet is the entire planet's crust?"
"Well, if it WERE the planet's crust, then why would those, uh ... mechanical pyramids," he posed, "be needed to amplify the effect? It would already be strong enough. But since those things are, uh ... there," he managed, starting to stammer. Everyone was looking at him. "Well, it must be coming from a fur-made source. And those mechanical things are, uh, amplifying or honing the power, or ... something," he said, swallowing. "Some furs or someone must've seen that magnetic possibilities, and ... and, uh, tried to harvest it." His ears went rosy-pink. "I'm not an engineer," he mumbled.
Azalea smiled, putting a paw on his thigh.
Cordova, eyes a bit distant, lost in thought, nodded. "Yeah," she whispered, blinking, and looking to the captain. "That sounds feasible."
"Well, our scanners still work," the captain said. "Except for Azalea's. So ... we can use them to extrapolate a point. And do some exploring. But NOT," she emphasized, "tonight. Let's just calm down, and, uh, get some rest. And ... " An exhale. "We all had a chance to 'relieve' ourselves?"
Nods and lip-bites. A few smiles.
"Alright, then," the squirrel whispered. "Well, stick as close to the fire as you need to. Stay in sight. We'll all sleep here," she told them, "for the night."
There were some nods.
And some whispered conversations.
And some nuzzling (some of it 'heavy nuzzling').
And the red squirrel sat down, sighing, and laid on her back, staring upward. They were in a tiny clearing, and the stars could be seen. Lots of them. Sparkling, twinkling pinpoints of light, burning balls of God-made wonder, strewn out across a void of black velvet.
"Are you okay?" was Antioch's tender whisper. Right into her ear.
A weak, little nod. "Just tired," she whispered back.
"Then sleep, love."
"I will. Just ... a second," she whispered, and she closed her eyes. Saying her prayer.
Dear God, thank you for Your watchful eye, and Your steady paw. That you've kept us safe. I do not know what is going on. I do not know where we are. But I trust You. And, please, help rest to come to me. I feel I am going to need it.
In Jesus's name I pray, amen.