Dark Retreating Hush
Ketchy sighed. Eating ice cream with a fork. In the mess hall. Using a fork because the ice cream was frozen pretty hard, and ... she'd bent two spoons before throwing the second spoon at the wall (out of frustration). It had clattered and drawn several stares, but ... she didn't care. Right now, she didn't care. It was after supper-time. She'd stalked back into the kitchen, grabbing a fork, and ... was now digging in. It was peppermint stick ice cream. Ketchy loved peppermint. But ...
She sighed again. Pushed the ice cream away. This wasn't working. This wasn't helping. This wasn't making her feel good.
"I don't know what my problem is," she whispered to herself. Bushy tail arched (but drooping) behind her. Her whiskers twitched quietly.
But she did, didn't she? She did know her problem.
"Not problem ... problems," she corrected, emphasizing the plurality of the word.
She was lonely. She didn't have much self-confidence, did the squirrel. Not like Rella had. Ketchy was jealous of Rella. And she was jealous of Adelaide, of Field ... she supposed that was wrong of her. Wasn't that a sin? And she would never admit it. Never let on. But she was jealous. In a sad, sorrowful way, not an angry, bitter one. As if that somehow made it better.
She could never relax like other furs could. Could never "have fun" like other furs could. And every time she tried to "have fun" (like bringing the telescope with her on their away mission a while back, or ... going for drinks), it always fizzled on her. Or ran away from her. And, in the end, she simply sought any way to distract from the pain. Or ...
It was, like, in a way ... she didn't know how to relax. And what drove her mad was ... when she looked at Field ... he couldn't relax either! She looked at how shy he was, how awkward he was ... he was SO much like her in so many ways, and yet ... he had a mate. In Adelaide. And Wren thought enough of him to make him first officer on this ship! Which, in Ketchy's mind, was a mistake. They had survived that pirate attack, but Field's mental capacity for handling disaster was NON-EXISTENT. Why didn't Wren see that? Why didn't Rella persuade him to demote Field and ... and she realized how petty she was being.
"Field's my friend," she whispered to herself. "I like him." Her ears swivelled as she sighed. But she still couldn't look him in the eyes. Not after making a fool of herself ... on Pelios Station.
He had everything Ketchy wanted ... and, truth be told, the mouse's confidence, the mouse's sense of self and purpose, it was growing. Sure, he was still a mouse, but ... not in that hopelessly, mousey way, maybe. He was growing. He was making progress as an individual. As a living creature. He was moving forward.
Ketchy felt she was treading water. Stuck in place.
It was why she had lashed out with him ... when she'd been drunk. She resented him. He had his issues. Good grief, he was a mouse. Of COURSE he had his issues. But it was typical for mice to be shy and introverted, so no one made a big deal of it. But squirrels were supposed to be energetic and bushy-tailed and ... Ketchy felt that the things Field got passes for ... were held against her. The things that furs found cute in Field ... they found sad in her. And ...
She didn't know ...
It wasn't fair.
She was under everyone's radar. Her only true friend here was Assumpta, and the snow leopard was so aloof that ... Ketchy felt like "prey" around the predator. Felt like "prey," not a "friend" ... and she wanted to be a friend.
But ...
She didn't know what to do. She prayed about it, but ... anyway, she had the evening off. Wren had let her off duty early, and she'd come down here. Said to herself, "I'll have a treat. I'll do something nice for myself." And it wasn't often that she let herself eat ice cream. She weighed about fifteen pounds more than she should (for a squirrel of her height). And she loved peppermint, and ... she'd come down here with a hopeful spring in her step, feeling that maybe this would be nice.
But as she'd been eating the ice cream alone and with a fork ... she imagined how sad and forlorn she must seem. And now she had no appetite. She wanted to cry. Inside, she scolded herself for being a constant "pity party." You want furs to feel sorry for you? Why should they? You've just got a depressing personality. You've just ...
Ketchy sighed and looked up. And blinked.
There was a skunk sitting in the corner. In the shadows, near the windows. Looking out at the stars. As if looking for something. As if he'd lost something out there.
There were several skunks serving aboard Luminous. Ketchy didn't really talk to them. Skunks were so refined, so intellectual. They had rich, rich fur, and ...
Ketchy felt she should say hello. She worked up the nerve to say hello, because ... he was cute. Maybe he would want to talk to her. Maybe ...
She sidled up to his table.
He looked up. Blinked.
"Hi," she said shyly. "Um ... you're sitting all alone. I just ... I've never seen you before. Um ... " Say something, say something, say something ... " ... um, you serve in, uh, engineering? Or ... where? I serve on the bridge. I'm the comm officer," she said, trying to instill pride in her voice. After all, being the comm officer was important. She answered hails, distress calls. Had to decipher alien languages. Communication was important. It helped furs to understand one another. It fostered community.
"Stellar cartography," was the skunk's reply.
She blinked.
"I serve in stellar cartography."
"Ah ... well, I ... " Ketchy pulled out a chair. Sat opposite him. She clasped her paws in her laps. Diminutively. "Mapping stars isn't exactly my cup of tea, but ... I love to look at them," she said, and she smiled shyly. Looking out the window. At the stars going by. Streaking by at warp speed. "They're pretty," she whispered. "To think there are so many, and we can only visit so many of them. It makes your ... it feeds the imagination."
"The stars are deceptive."
Ketchy blinked. She'd never heard stars described as "deceptive."
"They hold secrets. Each star is a secret ... you go there, to each little light, and the light gets brighter, and it reveals ... its secret. Sometimes, the secret is harmless. Innocent. Other times, it's deadly. Other times, it's vicious."
Ketchy shirked a bit. The sound in the skunk's voice ... was one of long-harbored pain and loss. Of bitterness. Of a heart that had hardened.
The skunk caught her eyes. "Is there something you wanted?"
"Well ... yes, I already said ... " Her voice trailed. "To talk to you. To say hello. You looked lonely."
"In other words, YOU were lonely. And I looked like I might be able to chase it away?"
"I ... you looked," the squirrel stammered.
"I'm as dark as my fur," the skunk told her. And he shrugged.
Ketchy hated it when furs shrugged at her. It was like they were brushing her off, or looking at her with ... superior detachment. Dismissing her.
"I'd like to be alone," the skunk said.
Ketchy, looking away, nodded. "Um ... what's your name, then? If you're gonna be so rude to me, at least let me know your name."
The skunk hesitated. As if he didn't have an answer. As if he needed to make something up. "Welly," he said.
She squinted at him. Welly. She SWORE she'd never seen him on this ship before, and they'd been in space for weeks. There were only eighty-three furs onboard. Why hadn't she seen him before ...
Welly's eyes darted past Ketchy and over her shoulder. As if he were seeing a ghost.
Ketchy frowned and turned.
Rella.
Ketchy turned her eyes back to the skunk. He was still watching Rella. Eyes vacant, following her as she went to the kitchen.
"You friends?" Ketchy asked.
Welly blinked.
"I mean, I wish a male would stare at ME like that ... " The intensity, the power of that stare ...
"I thought it was someone else."
"Who else?" the squirrel prodded. There was something about this skunk that wasn't right. There was something about ...
"I asked to be left alone," Welly said. Annoyed. And he stood. And left. Presumably for his quarters. Or stellar cartography. Ketchy imagined that anyone who worked in stellar cartography must have an ego problem. And must find stars preferable to other furs.
And Ketchy, looking back to her table, realized her ice cream was melting.
Chester's eyes were closed. The mouse, spotted black and white, squeaked ... aimlessly. Paws roving. Also aimlessly. Everything about Chester was aimless.
But Juneau didn't care. She rather liked it. Rather liked that about him. That she could help him. That he would want her help.
The chief engineer and the pilot hadn't meant to be an item. They hadn't sought to be mates. They hadn't even talked until the snow rabbit outpost, where Chester had bumped into Juneau on E-Deck (the ship having 8 decks, lettered A through H).
Juneau had chittered in annoyance, her tool-kit falling from her paws. Clattering open. The diagnostic items scattering about the floor.
Chester had gone "eek" ... what a cute sound! Eek. The kind of surprised, unexpected sound a mouse would make when taken by surprise. And it wasn't just a verbal exclamation. The look in the mouse's eyes as he "eeked" ... matched the high-pitched, "I'm so, so, so sorry" sound in his voice ...
He'd crouched down to retrieve her things. "I'm ... I'm sorry," he'd stammered. Still "eeking," though quietly. In high, tiny pitches.
"Um ... no problem," said Juneau. She'd given him a reassuring smile. Had apologized for her huffing reaction. And for not looking where she'd been going. She recognized him as one of Luminous' helm officers. One of the pilots. She didn't think he was the main pilot. She didn't recall him as being a bridge officer (for he hadn't been at any of the senior staff meetings in the conference room). He must be stationed to the shuttle bay. He must be stationed to care for the shuttle pods, maybe. She ...
"Um ... um ... I'm sorry," Chester had said again, and before Juneau could say anything more, the mouse had scurried off.
She had turned, sweetly amused, watching him go ...
They'd only really known each other a week, and ...
... here they were, at night, in her quarters, and ...
"Huh ... mm," exhaled the mouse. As if his breath was being stolen by what she was doing to him. And his cheeks were hot beneath his fur. And his ears were gorged with blood.
Juneau was on her knees on the floor. Still dressed ... well, okay, semi-dressed ... she still had her undergarments on. Over her plain brown fur. But the mouse was in a soft, plush seat, and she had her paws on his thighs, keeping his legs open. And her lips, slick, soft, sweet ... slid smoothly, slowly ...
... down, down his mouse-hood. Paused when she felt she could take no more of it. And she slid slowly back ... and took her mouth off the head. Blowing a little, hot blast of air onto the glistening wet of it. The pink of it.
"Hmm," whimpered Chester.
Juneau's tongue lapped out. Lapped, lapped ... at the head, at the direct top and bottom of it, along the slit, at every sensitive stretch of flesh.
The mouse squirmed. Tried to close his legs. Tried to clamp them shut. It was too sensitive! He squeaked! Writhed ...
... but she kept his legs open. Her paws holding him in place. As she bobbed again.
"Uh ... huhh ... oh," the mouse panted, feeling silly. He'd never had this done to him before. He, like most male mice, was submissive. And would sooner do oral than receive it (though he could enjoy it ... either way). With mice, the females were more dominant. It was like that with many prey species ... but the reverse was true of the predators. Generally. For there were always exceptions (Wren, for instance ... for a male rodent, he was amazingly assertive ... but, then, that's why he'd been made a captain). When it came to yiff, all pre-conceptions ... seemingly went out the door. And the rules melted away ...
Love was love.
And Juneau, who'd gone too long a time (seven months, six days ... oh, yes, she'd kept count) ... too long a time between suckling a male like this ... her blood was surging, nose flaring. And she didn't want to stop. The smoothness of this. The intimacy of this. The quiet huffing and squeaking of this. The ...
Beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep!
Chester's dishy ears swivelled. "That's ... uhn. Uh, not ... " It wasn't his comm badge.
It was Juneau's. No, no, no, no ... she pleaded in her mind. Stop calling me! Go away! Whoever you are! She kept bobbing, eyes closed, unconsciously rubbing her own sex with a paw. Through her underwear. Her plan (her diabolical plan!) was to tease Chester to the very edge, and then back off ... and then ride the mousey. She blushed sheepishly at the fantasy, but ... oh, gosh ... what thoughts!
Beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep!
The squirrel ... pulled off Chester's mouse-hood, which was stiff and twitching slightly. Damn! He was SO close ... she'd almost gotten him ... there. To the edge. To that spot, seconds from orgasm, where he would squeak in pleasured torture ... but not cum. Not yet. But ...
Beep-beep.
"Alright!" she panted, breathless. Clearing her throat. Being chief engineer had its perks. You got more off-time. Et cetera. But you had more responsibility. And when someone called you on the comm after evening ... it was normally because (A) something was wrong with the engines, or (B) something was ABOUT to go wrong with the engines. Her paws fumbled for her comm badge. She, on her knees between his legs, on the floor (and him still in the chair), she smiled at up at him. Squeezed his paw. "Sorry, sweetie ... " She felt so silly now. Answering the comm. Both of them half-bare. Having to PRY herself from their yiffy act. She felt ...
The mouse, trying to catch his breath, just nodded weakly ... his throat dry. "It's ... it's okay," he said, voice barely audible.
"I love you," Juneau whispered. She did. She really did. Maybe Juneau wasn't the hopeless, starry-eyed romantic that Field was. Or that other furs on this ship were. She showed her emotions in her own, unique way. But she did love Chester. She hoped he knew that. She tried to tell him as often as she could. Squeezing his paw tighter. "Hold on ... I'll tell them I'm busy," she said. "Okay?"
Chester just nodded.
Juneau cleared her throat, trying to get into a business-like demeanor. And said, "What?"
Chester smiled at his. Almost started to giggle. At Juneau primping herself to answer the audio-only call, only to have her answer with an up-front, "What?"
Juneau smiled at Chester's smile. Holding up a paw to shush him. To indicate quiet.
"Um ... Juneau, yeah, um ... I found something wrong."
"Fredrick?"
"Yeah," said Fredrick. The chief engineer of the night-shift. The assistant engineer, overall. Under her command. "Yeah, it's me. Um ... I don't know what I found, but it's ... odd. I need you to see."
Juneau let out a breath. Craned her head to the ceiling. Closing her eyes. Swallowing. Putting her head back down and opening her eyes and asking, "Can it wait? I mean, really ... can it wait?"
"Um ... no?"
She sagged a bit. "Alright," she said. Reluctant. "Alright. Okay. Um ... yeah, I'll be there in a minute." Pause. "This going to take long?"
"I don't know," Fredrick answered uncertainly.
"Okay, hold on," she said, and she cut the channel. And looked up to Chester, and she leaned forward, climbing into the chair with him ... to his lap. And her nose went to his cheek. Nose-nuzzling. "I'm so sorry, sweetie ... mm ... " She nosed him more. Breathing of his mousey musk. "One of the down-sides to being mated to a senior officer, you'll find ... I got too many responsibilities." She nosed his neck now. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay ... I'm proud of you. That you ... that you," the mouse stammered, for he was shy like that. "You keep the whole ship running. You keep us in one piece. You're so bright. I'm proud of you."
She was touched by his gentle words. "I don't want you to think," Juneau said, looking him in the eyes from a mere two inches away. So close. So intimate ... this eye contact. The windows to the soul. Peering.
The mouse almost flinched from it. Timid as he was. But he held it ... for her. To show he trusted her. Loved her. Would never look away.
"Don't think my job will get in the way of this. I know our mate-ship is young, and ... maybe we're naive, but ... I don't want you to think that my job's more important than you. It's not," she whispered honestly. "I don't want it to be. I just ... can't ignore my job. We're on a star-ship. I'm ... the chief engineer."
"I understand," he whispered back. "I do ... " And his voice showcased his empathy. His genuineness.
"Thank you," she said. Hugging him and breathing deep.
The mouse blushed shyly. Bit his lip. Hugging back.
She pulled back a bit, nose-to-nose. "I better go ... but I'll be back, okay? As soon as I can? Just ... curl up and relax. I'll be back, okay?"
" ... 'kay," he went, squeezing her paw.
Oh, he was adorable! She beamed. And bolted upward, fumbling into her uniform, stumbling out the door.
Wren paced back and forth ... back and forth. Stopped. Looked to them. "So, what are you saying?"
"I just told you."
"Field ... "
"He's here. I don't know WHO he is, but he's here. He's on the ship."
Wren squinted. "The shadow fur," he stated. Repeating what the mouse had said a minute ago.
"Yes," Adelaide piped in. At Field's side. Wings folded delicately in front of her. Pink and soft and web-like.
Wren sighed and went back to his seat. Sank into it. He had no reason to believe that either of them was lying. They wouldn't lie about something like this. Or about anything, even. Field and Adelaide were two of the most religious furs on the ship. Wren would've bet they viewed lying as a sin ... whereas Wren, himself, viewed lying as a necessary evil. Sometimes, you had to do it. Wren was a captain. A leader. He knew what the truth could do to morale. He knew that there were times when it was better to lie, to keep things, to bend them ... and, lying, like all skills, needed to be practiced. Else you couldn't be good at it.
"Be it a sin or not," Adelaide told Wren, point-blank, locking eyes, "it's not admirable, lying. It doesn't foster trust. It destroys it. It doesn't promote openness. It promotes distance. I don't think one should defend the practice."
Wren nodded quietly. "I know," was all he whispered. "And I'm not." A pause. "And stop reading my mind."
"Stop projecting your thoughts, and I'll stop sensing them."
Field looked from one to the other. Sensing a sudden tension. Which worried him. Wren, since his injury from the space pirates, had been removed, distant. Stand-offish. Every attempt Field had made to talk to him or hang out with him during off-time ... every attempt, the squirrel had rejected. Every time, seemingly annoyed at Field's presence. What had happened in his head? Field was worried about him. Wren only seemed truly at ease when in the presence of Rella. And his thoughts ... were full of her.
Wren just nodded. Quiet and breathing. And said, "So, there's a shadow fur on Luminous? You're sure?"
"I've told you, like, three times now," said Field. "We both sense it."
"Yet you can't tell me WHO it is?"
"Whoever it is," Adelaide piped in, taking over for Field, "they've been taught ... or maybe they were self-taught ... in mental aversion. They can block their thoughts. Mask their mind from telepathic sweeps. Whoever it was, they knew about Field and I. Were prepared to deal with our abilities."
"You're saying this shadow fur has detailed information ... not only about the ship, but about the crew? And he's loose?"
"Yes," Adelaide whispered.
"How long?"
"Probably since the snow rabbit outpost."
Wren nodded. Was quiet. And asked, "What do you suggest we do about it? Can we flush him out? I mean ... he has future technology. I mean, I'm assuming he's actually FROM the future, and ... we don't know what kind of fur he is ... what form he's taken. What his natural base form is. I mean ... how do we stop him?"
"We don't know," said Field.
Wren digested that word: we. Hearing Field say that, he looked to his friend, the mouse, and saw ... someone more confident than he used to be. Someone with more purpose. Finding his mate, finding Adelaide, had really changed him. Made him so much happier. He still had his flaws, and he still had his moments, but ... oh, the mouse was developing.
And Wren had that with Rella, but ... he didn't FEEL different. He felt better, maybe, felt ... he loved Rella so much. But had his love transformed him? Was his love transforming him into something more ... like Field's love was doing?
There was something about Field's mind ... Wren would've gaged he was intellectually smarter than the mouse. He was, in fact. He'd known Field for a few years. Considered the mouse his best friend (well, outside Rella now). And the mouse's mind, while not book-smart, was wiser beyond his years ... the mouse was different. It was starting to come to the fore. And it was starting to make Wren uncomfortable.
"So, you're saying," Wren finally said, "that we're not gonna know who this shadow fur is ... until he strikes?"
"I don't know," was Field's whisper. "I just ... we wanted you to know. We didn't know how you'd want to proceed."
Wren nodded. Why did he feel that the quiet things, the shaded dangers, were about to abandon their shell? Were about to come to the fore? So much for his hope of rest tonight ... he doubted he'd be able to hear his dreams in this dark retreating hush.
Juneau (hoping she didn't smell like mouse ... could they tell ... could they tell she smelled like mouse?) ... she burst into engineering, having scurried there. Panting. And looking around. Padding forward to the engine core, and craning her neck upward. To the railing of the second level.
"Fredrick?" she called.
The other squirrel peeked his head from over the railing. Looking down at her. "Hey," went.
"Yeah, hey," Juneau replied briskly. "Um ... yeah, so what's the problem?"
"Oh ... "
"Yeah ... hmm?"
"Um ... well, I was running diagnostics, and I found that ... some of the sensor arrays, and some of the weaponry circuits ... they were deactivated. Rather, they were, um, sort of ... fused."
"What?" Juneau frowned. Suddenly making way for the nearest ladder. Scrabbling up it. To the second level, and to Fredrick's side.
"Yeah, it's ... I don't know. Looked suspicious."
Juneau squinted, nose sniffing, rodent senses alert as she surveyed the damage. "Oh, my gosh," she whispered. "Fredrick ... when did you discover this?"
"Right before I called you. I did the right thing, no?" The squirrel often ended his sentences with a question-marked "no."
"Yeah, yeah ... " Her voice trailed. She looked around. They were the only two on the second level. The lights were blue-hued and dim. The core thrummed. "You know what this is?" she asked.
He swallowed. Seeing the seriousness in her eyes. "It's why I called you," he whispered back. "I know you said not to bother you, but ... except for emergencies."
"This is sabotage," Juneau voiced.
A vessel a light year away ... activated a beacon. A distress signal. A lure. The ship wasn't in distress. It was just in need of victims. Test subjects. And the markings on the hull could only belong to one species: human.