BREAKDOWN

“The syndicates snapped just like that!” Major General Gomen hollered as he jutted out his hand and snapped his fingers. “You can stretch a rubber band only so far.” He began to pace in front of the wall-sized window that doubled as a view screen.

Colonel Stephanop was at a loss for words. Despite his own rage matching his superior, he maintained his composure and clasped his hands behind his back as a form of personal restraint. “And yet the Council continues to deflect from their own mistakes and point their fingers elsewhere. We’re better off blaming those lecherous perverts in heat,” he added, hooding his eyes and rocking back and forth on the balls of his heels.

“The Zn’ngrits. Don’t get me started with them. I don’t even want to think about that pelt fetish of theirs. Good Lord! What a crazy ritual.” The general grimaced. “Just imagining it makes me sick!”

“Yet we provided the goods. Now, we’re wrapped around their fingers.”

“Then again, they might dump us like a one-night stand now that we’re out of their precious stock.”

Stephanop muttered a few words under his breath, but held his ground with the exception of a single Freudian slip. “I’ll even go as far as to say that we should’ve redressed our standing with…the uplifts.”

“Can’t change the past, Colonel. It’s been several years since those flea-bitten rebels packed their bags and vanished from sight. We’ve run out of skins, and the Zinns are now angrily squirming away.”

Stephanop knitted his brow. “I understand, sir, but we shot ourselves in the foot when making them smarter, enough to realize we betrayed them to the highest bidder. But it was key to the Zinn alliance.”

“Of course, they weren’t too keen on being treated as livestock…and skinned alive because the price on their coats superseded their right to life.” Gomen tittered ironically. “But sentient or not, they’re still animals, Colonel.”

“Except they can talk like us.”

“So?”

“Just a point of consideration when readdressing the Federation’s logistical flaws.”

“But the Zinns paid top currency for them, Colonel, as well as being our lynchpin for stability.”

“Even though many of the beasts were part of the mobile contingency divisions? When word got around of our transactions with the Zinn, they quickly abandoned their posts, leaving a gaping hole in our defenses.”

Gomen faced away, staring into the black void marked by the white crescent of Hammond’s World. “A whole lotta nothing out there, Colonel, and we’ve gotta swallow every bit of it up, or it’ll swallow us up!”

“Space is big, sir.”

“And starless when you’re out in its midst…like perennial daylight. This might be a breach of professionalism, but it gives me the chills,” he said icily, twisting around to lock eyes with his subordinate.

“Listen,” Stephanop pleaded, leaning over the console and rapping it with an open hand, getting back to the colloquy at large. “If it’s any consolation, the Terran-Zn’ngrit alliance is as flimsy as a sheet of plywood over a busted hull. It was already cracking before ratification.”

“I’m aware of that, Colonel. And you understand its repercussions on regional stability. It’s not just the pelts. The Zn’ngrit’s influence spans far and wide, so we’re dealing with more than a single star system.” Gomen faced back around, inching forward in contemplation. “Without a solid trade route, all the dependent worlds are screwed. You know how many criminal organizations are popping up in the wake of this mess?”

“It’s osmosis, sir. They’re filling in the vacuum where law and order failed.”

“And it says a lot about our hiccups in diplomacy. If we don’t come down hard on this potential flashpoint, Colonel, they’ll soon conquer the entire resource sector. Imagine the galaxy’s most dangerous men wielding monopolies on everything from raw materials to the final product…not to mention the impact on our budget!”

“If we consolidate our forces, we’ve got a pretty good shot at nipping them in the bud. Our attack fleets are some of the best in the Periphery.”

“That’s not factoring in the enemies’ access to heavy industry. We’re drinking from a firehose, Colonel. Our forces are too thin to cover the hotspots. Without allies like the Zinns, we’re sitting ducks.” He paused, glancing at his grav chair. “The cost would be terrible if we can’t stamp out the threat. And it’ll be tenfold if the Zn’ngrit decide to bail. We’re playing Russian Roulette as it is!” He slumped into the chair with a buck.

“We still have allies throughout the zones, sir. We can forge new alliances, and patch up old ones while we’re at it.”

“With what? Paper tigers?” Gomen flailed his hands. “We’d be sifting through whole sacks for a few grains of rice. Any coalition would be tenuous at best, and we’d be dealing with more chaff than wheat.”

“I admit, sir, it’s difficult, and the Federation Council hasn’t helped. It’s all tentative. They drag their heels with every decision. It makes us look weak, that we’re avoiding transparency, admitting to guilt. We’ve all got a right to be mad, sir, but—”

Gomen reeled his fist and struck the console. “You’re damn right I’m mad…stark raving mad! And it’s all on account of losing our damn animals!”

Outside, the sun inched its way into the window, its blinding glare instantly filtered by auto-tints.

“We can only waive it off as an experiment that had gone awry. Our own Frankenstein monster.”

“Nonetheless, Colonel, we still own them! They were designed to serve us. And yes, we made them too damn smart to keep on a leash. So much so, while we’ve been embroiled in the Council’s incompetence, they found a window of escape and hotfooted it across the galaxy, collar free, and left us high and dry!”

“Now, they could be anywhere in the cosmos.”

Gomen’s brow lifted higher than facial anatomy allowed. “And they could all end up in hell, for all I care! Their last trajectory seen was somewhere in the Doradus sector. Or maybe it was Horologium. I don’t know—it’s anybody’s guess. They could’ve swung a right turn in the Pavo sector and bounded deep into the intergalactic medium. Maybe they spirited away into the Magellanic Clouds, or had fallen into a black hole.” He tittered dispassionately. “Strange how the Federation’s become a little less important since then.”

“Sir, in all seriousness, the Council just needs a swift kick in the hide to get their wheels spinning.”

“Yes, Colonel! But it’s hard to get a smug little gerontocracy to switch gears so readily.” He dropped his fist again, but with less intensity, letting gravity take control. “The heavens will burn out by the time any of them decide on anything…or kick the bucket.” Gomen paused, averting his gaze from Stephanop toward the window. He spoke in a softer tone as he fixed on the planet’s terminator. “We need as many allies as we can depend upon. The Zinn have connections…business ties anywhere they choose. They can finagle their way around any bureaucracy, no matter the race. They’ve got the gift of gab, the cunning ability to lure anyone to their side—the crafty bastards!” He turned to face the colonel. “The problem we face are the repercussions of losing their damn pelts, so it could be a matter of time before they give us a valedictory salute and leave us wallowing in the gutter. Bunch of velvet knives! Now that I think about it, couldn’t we just substitute the fur of normal animals and not say a word of it?”

“Afraid not, sir. They rely on sentient creatures—with proof upon kill. The smarter, the better for their rites of war.”

“What the hell kind of religion are we dealing with? They sound like a brood of tantric vampires, for crying out loud!”

The room whined into a hiss, placing both men on alert. It turned out to be the ventilation shaft recirculating transmuted oxygen.

Gomen shrugged. “Whatever. Without them, we’ve got no aces in our deck.”

Stephanop raised a crucial finger. “Sir, we just might have one ace up our sleeve.”

“How? Being the galaxy’s comic relief? I’m sure everything we do from now on will give our enemies a hardy chuckle.”

“Think about it, sir. We’re their only key to the pelts. Without them, it might negatively affect their mission objective.”

“Oh, give me a break! Everyone knows damn well it’s a show of force, a placebo effect that makes them stir-crazy. They’re a bunch of lascivious freaks with a penchant for fur…and war. What else is there to know?”

“If there’s any merit to this claim, they might be more vulnerable than we think. From what a few of our sources say, the Zinns can’t have one without the other. Their mode of histrionics reflects their collective psychology, and knowing their religious convictions, a sudden disruption to their rituals could maim them, far more than what any of us might expect, especially when no one else in the galaxy can fulfill their demands…but us.”

“Oh, come off it. They can’t be that stupid.”

“Not stupid, but hampered…by faith. They’ve been entrenched in a set of beliefs, long before human contact. They once had their own stock—nearly as intelligent, but they culled them into extinction.”

“And by the sake of fortune,” Gomen said with bitter sarcasm, “they met us soon after.”

“They saw the same value in our uplifts. They went wild. They’re ravenous for this stuff. It makes them high, arouses them, and it stirs their battle lust. To them, everything revolves around arduous sex, and their religion reflects it. Makes them unhinged, impulsive, belligerent…”

“Like berserkers. Give them munitions and watch every star system fall.”

“Sir, they crave it like a drug, an aphrodisiac, and like an addict, they’ll expend their own supplies. They need the constant fix, hell or high water.”

“And no pelts, no deal! They’re now liable to come after our skins.”

“Sir, don’t you see,” Stephanop leaned in toward Gomen, crushing his brow, “judging by their predilections, they helped spur the uplift rebellion.”

“The Zoic Wars took a lot from us.” Gomen flared his eyes. “As a reprisal, would you recommend destroying them, even under the present constraints?”

“As we speak, it’d be fatal to attack them. Let’s stick with diplomacy. Our top priority should be searching every star until we find the fugitives. And with what better way than by exploiting the Zinns’ insatiable desires?”

“Hm. Good point, Colonal. If we agree to get back the stock, they might be inclined to bury old wounds and help us.”

“They could even recruit their own circle of allies in the course of the search. It’s a win-win, sir.”

“But do you think they’ll take the bait?”

“I’m certain of it, sir. Their fix becomes our leverage. Right now, they’re too hooked to argue our proposal, whether they see through our plan or not.”

“Alright. But do you seriously know how long it’ll take to root out the stock?”

“Depends, sir. It’s all in the number of allies. The more the merrier, and the less time it takes to finish the job. Their ears and eyes can expedite the investigation.”

Gomen leaned back into his chair and steepled his hands. “We can barely afford another operation of this magnitude,” he said after a moment of thought. “Can’t say that I disagree with your strategy. But we’ve got no other options. We’re being attacked in all directions. Everyone’s taking advantage of our susceptibility. We just better find enough people to ward off these pirates eating us alive from the outside in.”

“Many factors come into play, sir. We need stability. We can’t rebuild without it.”

“Frankly, part of me doesn’t give a damn about the Zinns, the pelts, or anything stemming from the Zoic Wars, but we can’t ignore the economic strife that’s likely to follow, especially when getting roped into another needless entrapment. If we’re not careful, it’ll splinter the Federation. Then we can all become pirates!”

“Then this search party can serve to unify our forces.”

“We’ll have to convince that crotchety Council first.”

“That’s another factor. They’re as venal as they come. The older, more experienced, and embedded they are, the more they’re accustomed to moonlighting.”

“You know I’d hate to do that, but there’s no other way to steer this ship around. The starfield’s a minefield. And we can’t let this slip out of our hands. Like any rogue, the uplifts now could be heavily armed,” Gomen said, swiveling around in his seat toward the window, “enough to blow us out of the galaxy!”

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