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The Cleon Memorial Library For discussion of Traveller fiction, both official and fan-written. Fan-written drafts are explicitly welcome.

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Old November 7th, 2017, 11:39 AM
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The thunderous roar of thousands packed in an open air coliseum reverberated through Aston’s body as the two golden maned bare chested combatants clashed with one another in a flurry of striking and slashing with bloody results. It was like watching two adult male lions on the Serengeti or Sumo wrestlers in Soli space. The Aslan crowd ate it up, cheering and literally roaring in approval the more intense the mayhem became.

Aston wiped his forehead with one of several bandannas he kept in his scout service cargo pants. The official data described Leaiyhoh as a garden world. They failed to mention the extreme heat and humidity that usually came with warm jungle climates. Bare chested with his shirt tied around his waist, nested between two hulking Aslan males, Aston was sure he was the only human in the stands, and no one seemed to mind.

Again, another collision in the designated tournament circle, and another thunderous roar of approval from the mostly male audience. Or so Aston assumed. Sexes between Aslan were pretty distinct, but he didn’t want to assume that this kind of thing was a male only spectating sport, even though he had not seen any Aslan women enjoying the fare.

He wiped more sweat from his brow, then took a sip of the bitter-sweet liquid he had resting next to his knee. The world data said the beverage was non-poisonous, and as usual all the online reviews were mixed between those who loved the native foods and those who hated them. He’d tasted better in his time out in this section of space.

As usual the rest of the crew were away on official business, leaving Aston to sight see by himself. He had wandered the central city which looked like a mixture of stone buildings with electronic signs and ancient Roman architecture, replete with stone worked streets that catered mostly to foot traffic, which is how Aston had found himself in this section of town. A large stone architecture coliseum beckoned to be explored, and so Aston splurged on a ticket for himself to experience the native fare. Bloody and violent, but no deaths so far.

An ornately dressed male, adorned in gold inlaid purple fabric, flanked by an honor guard armed with razor sharp polearms, shouted a command in the native tongue. The two stopped, and slowly back peddled as the honor guard approached with weapons levelled. The well dressed male made some kind of announcement, pointed to one of the two fighters, then said something else. A foul? Aston wasn’t sure, but whatever it was sparked a hushed murmur punctuated with the occasional unintelligible commentary from those seated nearby. Aston hadn’t bothered to get a data burst of the local dialects (though he understood that the Aslan were united in language, unusual for most sophont species), but he could imagine what they were saying.

Aston checked the old fashioned paper pamphlet tour-guide that he’d purchased at one of the starport gift-shops. Apparently, these kinds of bouts were scheduled to settle matter of personal honor—slights, other insults, and whatever constituted a dent in one’s honor—were made a spectacle before the public. What these two were fighting about again Aston hadn’t a clue, but he was sure that by human standards it was probably something petty.

Some kind of loud chime clanged in the upper tiers near the skybox, and the two combatants approached the well dressed individual who pointed them where to stand. Yet another group of individuals came into the tournament circle carrying something covered by ornately gold inlaid cloth. And yet another set of seemingly younger individuals pulled the cloth aside to reveal to large cases, one for each fighter. The cases were opened to reveal long mirror polished scimitars.

Aston quietly shook his head. Didn’t these people believe in small claims’ courts or simply apologizing? He didn’t question it. This was the norm for this society and who was he to comment on something that worked for these people—however barbaric. He shoved the thought aside. Someone was probably going to die. The Aslan on the left, the shorter of the two and seemingly younger, seemed to bear more scars than the slightly taller one to Aston’s right, who was also not as winded.
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Last edited by Blue Ghost; December 17th, 2017 at 08:34 PM.. Reason: 1st draft rewrite
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Old November 8th, 2017, 02:02 PM
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Okay, I'm cringeing. Lots of "Terran this" and "terran that" and blah blah blah. Oh well.
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Old November 10th, 2017, 03:12 AM
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Each combatant carefully took a weapon and examined it with a warrior’s appraisal. Each stepped back and took practice strokes, dazzling the audience with another flurry of maneuvers that flashed and glinted in the noon day sun, then once again re-appraised their blades. The official shouted something and the small entourages that bore the weapons quickly withdrew as the official and his honor guard stepped forward once more. He called out while pointing to two spots in the tournament area.

The two combatants approached the designated spots, and stood with weapons held flat as if to present them to the official. The referee approached each fighter in turn, asking questions. The taller one to Aston’s right gave a quiet rudimentary response, but the slightly shorter and more winded warrior levelled his blade at the taller when approached. The official’s honor guard quickly levelled their polearms at the younger warrior. The referee was unmoved by the impassioned gesture, and held his ground as he watched the younger warrior spout something in the local dialect. His soliloquy was long and loud, and the young warrior finished his accusatory tirade that garbled the words to even the most fluent speaker of the language, though Aston could imagine what was being said. He didn’t know the entire context of the fight, but there was enough blood and venom to give the gist that one of the two had been slighted, probably the more tired of the two, though Aston couldn’t be sure.

The official quietly ordered the accuser to back off, but the young Aslan warrior didn’t move, daring the official. The official locked eyes with him, arms akimbo, then barked a single command. The young warrior hesitated, but obeyed with a snarl and roar. The official then turned to the tall quiet combatant, and asked the same thing. The response was inaudible and seemed to underscore a larger point. Again, what it was Aston could only guess.

The official stepped back to the middle of the tournament area, then called his honor guard back to his side. He then stepped forward and looked at the crowd with a cool gaze. Again, Aston was tempted to tap into his computer to get a translation, but felt the raw experience was worth forgoing the technological aid. Even if he had a translation he was sure that he wouldn’t have been able to get the full story. Besides, one grudge match was like another. Someone felt wounded, another denied it, meaning one of them was lying, and the only way to settle honor was death or severe injury.

The official delivered a brief speech to the crowd, then stopped. Tails flicked, the hushed murmur quieted down during the soliloquy, after which only the wind flapping of the flags ringing the stadium could be heard. The official shouted a question to the crowd, but no one answered. Aston looked left and right to see the crowd reaction, but all eyes were fixed on the official. Still no one spoke.
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Last edited by Blue Ghost; December 20th, 2017 at 12:16 AM.. Reason: Rewrite 2
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Old November 12th, 2017, 01:32 AM
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The younger blood scarred Aslan left his mark to approach the crowd in the stands, then shouted something to plead his case and berate all who would not speak in his behalf. Again, Aston couldn’t understand a word, but the accusing tone coupled with him levelling his sword in a circular fashion at the crowd, told all. The warrior stood there, as if expecting a response. But no one spoke. Again, only the ambience of flapping flags and gentle wind filled the stands. The young warrior’s eyes widened in a moment of shock. It was perhaps the most human thing Aston had witnessed from an Aslan in his entire time he had been in the Hierate. The young warrior turned back to face both official and his opponent, then growled another defiant phrase.

The official glanced at both, stepped back, his guard still flanking him, then shouted a command.

The two combatants circled one another, scimitars held upright. Both yelled and charged one another again. The sabers clanged several times before the two became locked, blades and bodies pressed against one another in a life death struggle. They pushed off from one another, regaining distance. The more tired of the two then cried a roar unlike any Aston had ever heard, and charged with his weapon held high.

The taller took a step back, his scimitar held low at his waist, the blade pointing at an angle at the ground, then quickly stepped back again and slashed with lightning speed, the blade slicing a clean diagonal that sprayed thick vermillion liquid over the tournament circle. The young warrior stood there for a heartbeat as if paralyzed by the fatal blow before dropping into a lifeless mass of flesh. The taller Aslan muttered something, then casually tossed his weapon at the feet of his vanquished enemy, the blade impacting with a grass muted clanging thud. The victor then calmly walked towards one of the arena exits, his fellow clan members in tow until they vanished into one of the shadowed door wells.

The official stepped forward and shouted something, seemingly calling the match. The dead Aslan’s clan members came out and tore off his combat harness. A female Aslan sprayed foam across the slash, but there was no motion. Aston wasn’t sure how good the local health care was, be he was sure that no one could survive that kind of attack, no matter how skilled the paramedics were. The man, or Aslan, was dead. Aston figured the medical aid was merely to show how dedicated the clan was to their fallen member. Aslan were big on that kind of thing, or so it appeared to Aston. For all he knew they had saved him, but he doubted it.

The clan ceremoniously hefted his body onto a stretcher while a female Aslan clapped a respirator over his mouth, then hastily bore him away into an equally dark gate at the opposite end of the arena. The silence was gradually broken by a general low murmur, and eased into full conversations. Aston wasn’t sure what to make of it—the whole spectacle, but it did seem like this was how most matches panned out.

Aston tried to be non-judgmental, but it had been a barbaric spectacle that seemed familiar on a primal level. Aston imagined that this is what it must have been like in ancient times on a world light years away. But then he reminded himself that duels of honor happened in Imperial space, it just depended on the system and people involved—usually the over-privileged and those with way too much money and time on their hands. Aston mused that settling scores between high ranking nobility (or even royalty) was no different than rival low life gang members shooting it out on the streets. It came down to economy and ego, and it didn’t matter who was involved. The Aslan just didn’t make any pretense about it. It was a straightforward system of justice.

Aston found himself with mixed emotions, but reminded himself that he was not in Imperial space. Mugging, robbery, assault, arson, or whatever else, crime wasn’t unheard of in Aslan space, but their system of dealing with it struck Aston as almost being criminal. No hearing, or none that he could see, no evidence, no witnesses, no jury, no over-priced lawyers, just letting the clans decide when and where honor would be satisfied. The young warrior’s diatribe before he was slain spoke volumes for what he thought of the system, and that’s the part that would stick with Aston for years to come.
Maybe there was something more to it than simple combat to the death, though Aston couldn’t be sure, it appeared that this was all there was to justice in Aslan space.

The official and his honor guard stepped back to his dais and sat on something that was almost like a throne, while his honor guard flanked him with their polearms held out at arm’s length.

“You there?” A female voice. Aston briefly looked around, then remembered he left his earpiece on in case of an emergency. He reached for his PDA and hit the talk function.

“Yeah, I ‘m here.” Aston said out loud, which caught a few glances his way from the hulking Aslan males seated next to him.

“Where are you?!” the voice demanded.

Aston chagrined. “Well, if you got my signal, then you know where I am.”

“You’re watching those blood sports, aren’t you.”

“Ah, just taking in the local culture.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is? Did you take someone with you? A guide or one of those robot minders?”

“No, I’m out here by myself, surrounded by thousands … eh, maybe a few ten-thousand natives. I haven’t stepped on anyone’s toes, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Aston took another sip. A hamburger-mango smoothie, or so Aston surmised … that is if anyone could imagine successfully mixing the flavors—maybe with a chicken after-taste. Not good, but interesting all the same.

“Count yourself lucky.”

“Look, no one’s taken offense at me wandering around downtown.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. The captain wanted you to purge the drives before we jumped out system.”

Aston rolled his eye. “We’ve been over this before. I can’t do a decontamination until the tanks are flushed. You’re supposed to get the gear so I can run the routine…”

“Would you just get back here.” An order, not a request. “I don’t want a Scout Service engineer’s mate winding up dead in some Aslan arena. Sharon out.”

Aston heard the buzz of static in his ear signifying the closing of the channel. He shut the thing off while shaking his head, and then uttered some very impolite remarks, hoping that no Aslan within earshot understood what he was saying. Of course, even if they did, his comments were directed at the female of his species, and no Aslan females were within sight.

The official made an announcement, and two more combatants stepped from the doors at opposite ends of the arena. Aston really didn’t have the stomach for another sampling of Aslan arena justice and culture. He was curious to want to see it once, and that being done it was time to leave.

Aston briefly covered his face with his forearms and yawned, then moved down the aisle seemingly without any protest by anyone. Whether it was because he was just another ignorant and inadvertently rude human or they legitimately didn’t mind, Aston wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t about to complain nor dedicate too much thought to it.

He made his way into one of the many corridors leading to the main foyer where a few concession stands were open, manned by mostly females and catering to a small number of off-worlders. Money was exchanged, and noticeably the male Aslan attendees ignored the concession stands.

Aston tossed his drink into a waste receptacle before stepping out onto the common walkway. He looked around. Everywhere he saw mostly Aslan dressed in a variety of ornately colored and inlaid clothes, save for a few. That’s when he noticed some kind of confrontation between two males, one flanked by other males, wearing a fine flowing robe like garment made of a shiny fabric trimmed with gold filigree. The other wore a jump suit, held some kind of tool, and seemed to begrudgingly apologize.

But the other (and obviously insulted) Aslan wasn’t satisfied, and stepped forward intimidatingly, growling something that by its tone sounded like a demand for an apology. The jump-suited Aslan tried to plead his case, or again so it appeared, but the other wasn’t having any of it, and his tone became more challenging, more demanding. The jump suited Aslan bowed with his arms spread, open palmed, so far that he was staring at the ground with his body bent like a jack knife. But it wasn’t enough.

“I am not worth it!” the jump suited Aslan stated clearly in Galanglic. “Pick someone else, I beg you.”

The demanding Aslan wasn’t having any of it, and growled angry dissatisfaction.

“I’m only here temporarily! I am not of your world! Would someone help me?!”

Aston sighed, the muttered to himself, “I’m going to regret this…” before stepping forward. Arms humbly folded, eyes low, trying to put on a display of humility and humbleness that would be recognized by even the most hardened Aslan, Aston stepped forward and asked what the problem was.
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Last edited by Blue Ghost; December 20th, 2017 at 08:18 PM.. Reason: rewrite 3
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Old November 14th, 2017, 01:22 PM
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raw, not proof-red (heh, as if my other installments were) text

Aston sat on the wood bench just inside the arena gate wearing nothing but a human fitted warrior harness, staring at the battery of Aslan guards staring at him, watching him with arms folded seeing that he didn’t try to escape as so many a human had in the past (or so he had been told).

Aston just stared at a patch of stone brick wall behind his personal guards, his arms spread out at his side with his palms open and facing up. The amount of dejection washing over him was counterbalanced with his anger at the ignorance of Aslan society as a whole, resulting in a cool gaze that occasionally met the eyes of one of the Aslan.

He had been stripped clean. There was no contacting Sharon, the captain, the rest of the crew nor the ship itself.

Aston made an attempt to explain himself, but apparently trying to explain himself was worthy of being slain on the spot. Given a choice he opted for the arena, hoping beyond hope that he could think of something in the few brief minutes the respite it would buy him. But nothing came except for a dozen hulking Aslan arena guards. And with them came being guided into the chambers under the arena, having his clothes torn off and being deloused before being thrown a ceremonial battle harness and having traditional liquids tossed onto his body—something about anointing the warrior spirit.

No pep talk other than what a great honor it was for him to offer to fight in the place of the offending party. A few of the guards even tried to mimic what they thought was a human tradition by slapping him on the back. It did nothing for his confidence, and only knocked the wind out of him in addition to getting his ire up more than it already was.

The worst part was that he didn’t even know what the offense was. Maybe the guy in the jump suit had accidentally dropped his tool on the other guy’s foot or something. Did it matter? On any other human world, even a human-Aslan world, it would. But not here.

All Aston could here were the deep grumblings mixed with a kind of purring. Aslan didn’t smile, at least not like humans. If he didn’t know any better they were happy he was here with them, about to get hacked up on some world light years from home, and miles from his cabin back on the ship.

A familiar face, unfortunately it wasn’t from the ship but the official he had seen earlier. He forgot the Aslan terminology, but he was the guy who ran the matches and decided whatever it was that needed deciding during the fight.

“How do I get myself into these things.” Aston muttered.

“Are you ready?!” the official’s voice was deeper than the rest, again Aston really didn’t know how to read Aslan facial expressions, but he seemed delighted like everyone else.

Aston grinned. “No. No, I’m not ready, and I want to go home.”

The official and the guards responded with a grunt that sounded like a laugh to Aston, coupled with a gleeful flickering of tails.

“This day write your history, and you will go into the hollowed halls of the clan memory for your valor.”

“Great.” Aston mocked a friendly reply. Again, the effect was lost on them.

“What needs have you before the match?”

Aston again grinned broadly, “I’d like to go back to my ship.”

More mirthful grunts and flicking of tails. “You’re humor is most amusing. We delight in your mocking of cowardice. This will be a day long remembered, as you are the first of your kind to enter our arena! May the gods of speed and strength grant you victory. And if they deny you this, then may they grant you a painless death. May they favor you, human!”

With that he turned and left with several heavily armed guards flanking him, which didn’t lessen the dozen or so guards still surrounding Aston.

Trumpets sounded, and the thunderous roar of the crowd filled the dark hall shadowed by the closed doors. A second fanfare and the gates opened. That’s when the arena guards pushed Aston to get on his feet and move towards the newly opened doors.

The hall was dark to begin with, but with the light streaming in from the afternoon sun the sides became showed black.
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Old November 15th, 2017, 05:50 AM
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More unedited material. I think I need more texture in the second draft. The ending needs a re-write I think, but is still enjoyable.

Aston’s escort flanked out along the arena walls as he stepped out into the afternoon sun to another chorus of trumpeting fanfare and the roar of male Aslan packing the stands. Aston, in his black harness with some kind of gold emblem on the soloplexis part where the various straps met, looked around with his mouth half open, wide eyed like a child but a child also gripped with fear.

He wasn’t on some uncharted world, he wasn’t on a world which had no relations with civilized space, this was civilized foreign, nay alien, space in the raw. There were laws, there was justice, and he was about to be the victim of both. Off to Aston’s left was the official sitting in his throne like chair, looking at him, and then looking back at the crowd.

The official stood, raised his three fingered hands beckoning the crowd to silence. That’s when Aston thought he heard a distant female voice; “Oh my god! Richard!” But whoever it was was drowned out as the official spoke, his voice booming in the acoustically perfect arena, his voice again sounding like a Romance language punctuated with growling, strange inhaling inflections and even a few purrs.

The speech went on for some time and ended with the official pointing at Aston. The crowd went wild. The official silenced them once more, and then went into another speech, again ending in him pointing at the offending party, or so Aston was under the impression. But it wasn’t the Aslan who had made the challenge, a challenge Aston had vehemently protested and denied, but another Aslan. One much larger (if that were possible), wearing a similar harness but also with a blood red sash tied around his waist that bore some kind of crest, or so it appeared to Aston.

Aston couldn’t take it, “You got to be kidding me! This isn’t the guy I’m supposed to fight!”

But whether it was the translator, ignorance, or just plain willful deception, Aston’s speech was translated as something other than what was said and the crowd went wild.

Aston’s shoulders sagged as he looked around. “Oh great.”

The red sashed Aslan, hands on hips, spoke, then gestured to Aston in some kind of gesture. There was a reserved hush from the stands, as if wondering how Aston would react.

“Human, for your valor your opponent has decided to let you use a weapon for the first bout.”

A group of young Aslan males, the same ones Aston had seen when he was in the stands, came and offered another cloth covered wooden case. They too removed the cloth and opened the case to reveal a scimitar with a knobby handle made for an Aslan paw and not for humans.

Aston reached for it and the moment he touched it the young Aslan males withdrew to the officials stand. The thing was heavy. Not impossible to wield, but heavier than any hand to hand weapon Aston had ever held.

The official called both Aston and the other Aslan to the center, the honor guard standing at the official’s side with halberd like weapons at the ready. Similarly the red sashed Aslan also had a polearm, something like a halberd, but with a different shaped blade. Almost like a Japanese naginata, but Aston’s own memory wasn’t in tip top condition to recall ancient melee’ weapons just now. For that matter he didn’t even know how to use a sword, much less some version made by an alien culture.

The official glanced at both, then yelled “Begin” in the foreign dialect. The red sash crouched and flipped the blade from side to side, eyeing Aston, assessing, judging, watching, waiting. Aston held the hilt inverted, then made a flurry of slashing manuvres he had seen done in a martial arts’ holo-vid, hoping beyond hope that it would at least put doubt in his opponent’s mind about how much Aston knew. If nothing else it caused a brief hushed “ah” from the crowd, but Aston was hoping for more of an intimidating effect.

The Red Sash did his own version, but much more expertly, putting his polearm into a kind of helicopter twirl above his head and then doing a similar flurry of slashes towards Aston before finishing in a thrusting movie the Aston parried with the sword.

Maybe using a sword wasn’t so hard afterall? But Aston spoke to seen as the Red Sash pushed his attack. Aston back peddled then ran briefly and turned back to face the Red Sash, tossing the hilt of his sword between his hands. Again, he didn’t have an ounce of fighting skill with a sword, but hoped that the pretense of skill might buy him some time.

But then it dawned on him, this was Aslan chivalry, giving him a relatively inferior weapon. Red Sash was already bigger than him, like the rest of the Aslan males, why in the world did he get the advantage? The notion was fleeting as Aston ducked and quickly stepped back even further, slashing with his weapon as best as he could as Red Sash tried a screw like thrust which Aston batted away.

Aston tried chopping at the shaft, but Red Scarf was too, and caught Aston’s blade with the spearhead, nearly disarming Aston with the axe part. Simply put Aston was outmatched. He only knew what he’d saw in holo-vids, and that was enough to get him killed as Red Scar made a vicious quick slash nicking the harness and carving a micron deep red scratch across Aston’s chest.

Bigger, stronger, relentless, Red Scarf only briefly stopped his attacks to burn a thought or two, like he was taking his time and experimenting on how best to finish off Aston. The crowd grew restless, Aston could hear individuals calling out though he had no idea of what they were saying, still the context was clear.

Astons arms were tiring. He could feel the lactic acid buildup in his shoulders and biceps, and he was already breathing hard. He kept in shape as per regulations, but he was using muscles that hadn’t been used in a long time, or at least not under this kind of duress coupled with a massive adrenaline rush.

He intercepted one blow after another, parrying others and running back when he could. That’s when he unconsciously realized he had been fighting by their rules, their way.

Red scarf did another series of twisting slashes before laying into Aston with a polearm equivalent of a haymaker. Aston again intercepted the blow, but let it knock him to the grass covered arena floor. And with a massively loud and deep roar that would put any feline to shame, Red Scarf, polearm held high in both hands rammed it down hard at Aston’s body spread eagle over the grass.

Somehow Aston managed to twist his body away at the last minute, quickly got to his knees and generated enough torque to sweep Red Sash’s feel out from under him.

The spear had been driven deep into the soil, and Red Sash was cursing up a storm as he rolled to his left to get back on his feet, but Aston was already there, stepped forward while gyrating his body to generate more torque, and like a tornado spun three-hundred and sixty degrees while gaining air to smack the Aslan full force in the side of his head with his left foot.

The warrior stood dazed for half a heartbeat before dropping stone cold. Aston thought he heard a familiar female voice call out from the stands, “Oh my god!”

Aston looked around, but all eyes were on him. The official had not stopped the fight. Aston staggered over his dropped sword, picked it up, walked back to the unconscious Aslan, raised the blade over his head, and brought it down with all his might.

“Richard, no!”

But the blade bit into the turf next to the stricken Aslan’s neck, missing the equivalent of Red Sash’s jugular by no more than a millimeter.

There was a hushed “awe”, then the tumult of Aslan conversation.

“Human. You must finish him.” The official boomed at Aston.

But Aston shook his head. “Your honor, or whatever you’re called, I thought I knew your ways enough to walk around by myself without any help. I was wrong. I am ignorant of your culture, and it almost cost me my life. Even so, I will not take another’s life for my mistake. I hope that’s clear.”

“So be it, human.”

The following afternoon Aston relaxed on the tarmac in a foldout chaise lounge that he kept in the ship’s locker, sunning himself with sunglasses and a tall cold drink from the ship’s galley.

Sharon walked down the ramp, saw Aston with a broad grin on his face, and hardened her own expression. “What do you think the captain’s going to say when he gets back here and finds out?”

Aston, sunglasses and grin all, looked at her, sipped his smoothie, smacked his lips and said “Like I care.”

That’s when Flight Captain Gavin Chavae, marginally overweight, returned with the ship’s engineer and navigator. He approached Aston none too pleased with the scene. Sharon backed off and gave Aston an impish grin. “You said you weren’t going to care.”

Gavin looked at Sharon, then back down at Aston. “Mister, aren’t you supposed to be flushing the tanks and decontaminating the drives?”

Another sip of smoothie, “I got it covered, skipper.”

Gavin wasn’t amused. “You better explain yourself.”

That’s when there was the clanging of dropped tools followed by the low roar and vocal tones of two Aslan males arguing. Gavin looked and took several steps back, “What the heck was that?!”

Another smoothie sip, “One’s my slave for life, the other’s the ship’s new engineer’s mate.”

The two Aslan quieted down, and several beats later the engines were thrumming to life.

The end.
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