Emperor Cron, ruler of one of the Nine Worlds of FAMBER, has sought refuge *and exile on a backwards planet in a distant galaxy.
Persuading the natives to administer to his every need has been surprisingly easy.
2
That was the thing about ideas though, mused Cron.
He was sat, laid really, under the dining table whilst above him the family, excepting the son of course, had their weekly attempt to be like the ones he'd seen portrayed on visual entertainment. An odd mix of anxiety, obligation, exhaustion, and not a little dread flooded the spectrum of senses. Because in this frame it affected him not at all, Cron had come to somewhat relish the taste of ‘awkwardness’.
The thing about ideas though...was that once thought, they demanded acting upon in some manner. If Kemp had thought of it, then others would too, and maybe had done so already.
And so Cron fretted. Logic had dictated that even an idea as repulsive as aligning himself with one of the lesser worlds was indeed the most prudent tactic. Yet Logic had no time for Pride, nor the appearance of a thing. And it weighed History only in how it affected outcomes.
He turned his head in the direction of the Goerrida residence, though he couldn’t see it from where he was. Xorot also yet ruled. He would find the suggestion just as horrifying. Yet...
The desperation of their situation. The need for every advantage. Exile had made competitiveness between the 9 Worlds far more pronounced. A galaxy curtailed by the presence of their conquerors had enforced proximity, and things had turned deadly with embarrassing speed for peoples of such cultural distinction.
Survival was at stake after all.
A sudden crash sounded above him. The mother had dropped one of her feeding implements against the base of her drinking receptacle. Possibly because she’d raised that alcoholic repository to her lips almost 5 times as often as the cacophonous implement.
Something the father commented on in his typically snide manner.
Cron didn’t need to see her to know the expression the mother subsequently directed at him. Unfortunately, her only crutch these days was the one she reached for automatically now, proving his point and adding an infusion of helpless, frustrated, anger to the awkward stew.
The daughter kept out of it, displaying a reserve that she otherwise kept well hidden. Too young to realise how this isolated the mother, desperate for support, liquid or otherwise. Human family dynamics were a microcosm of political study should one choose to note it. Being in such close and regular proximity, Cron couldn’t help but do so. That didn’t necessarily negate its tedium though.
He got up.
Walked out into the living room.
These days when the father came home, one scent was predominant amongst all that he’d gathered outside. A female scent, and the same female. Such observations were beyond the scope of human detection though. The mother had no proof, or even suspicion of this, and yet Cron believed she had an unconscious inkling. Some psychic marker that leant a greater sense of isolation to her loneliness. And without proof, she would doubtless blame it on her own paranoia.
From the memories within this frame he’d usurped, it seemed she’d been much better whilst conducting her own affair. Being rejected both within and without the home had proved too much to her fragile self-esteem.
Cron halted. He could feel...running. Four-legged. Not panicked, but with a sense of urgency. Heading this way. He analysed the gait. Smooth, almost horse-like. Kemp.
By the time he got to the garden door at the end of the living room, his reasoning was confirmed. He hovered close enough to the cat flap for his collar to open it, and a moment later Kemp stuck his head through.
“Apologies for the interruption, Overlord. There has been an...incident.”
Cron wondered at the impulse that rushed a body here physically, and then decided to waste time. He stared his urging to continue. If news was bad, there was no ‘better time' to receive it.
"It seems there has been an...interruption to our freight route through the Basilon System.”
Cron peered at him. It was only through Kemp’s insistence on sparing his sensibilities that a lucrative smuggling operation became a ‘freight route'.
“Of what sort is this interruption?” he asked.
“Piracy, my lord.”
Cron's eyes glazed as he went into deep thought.
The routes were not unknown. Hyperspatial travel took a massive toll on the physical structure of ships. Ergo, in the interest of economy, travelling standard hop-distances had become the normal way of traversing the ridiculous distances of the cosmos, rather than pouring the budget for an armada into a few incredibly densely-constructed Universe-crossing vehicles.
Restrictions on how close to populated planets ships could emerge were usually around the 1 light-day mark too, meaning all transport navigated their way to destinations whilst highly detectable. This was where the art of the smuggler came forth.
At least one other of the 9 was also engaged in activities along the route. Cron had thus created a precise schedule of travel times and decoy ships inconvenient to the constabulary. Due to this increased reliability, his people now dominated the market for such transportation needs in that sector.
Hence, the list of possible perpetrators included disgruntled fellow smugglers, the other of the 9, a new player hoping to upset their business and free up some for themselves, and even a bold System Government strategy of using outlaws to take on outlaws, though this did not rank as probability-significant.
“What information do we have?” he asked. Within, computational strategy nexuses were desperate for more data from which to produce viable and effective policy.
Kemp hesitated a moment, as all the feeds available from the attacked vessel were relayed to his master’s visual cortex, then continued speaking, providing commentary over them.
“Reports say two ships, one a battle-drone, with no markings. They were Nugget Class derivatives so could’ve been built anywhere.” Kemp, possibly unconsciously, showed fangs before he continued. “They were well drilled. Allowed the drone to focus our fire before crippling weapons and engines themselves. Kept the crew sealed on the bridge and in habitation whilst they plundered the cargo hold. No idea of species.”
Cron twitched a whisker. The interlopers were clad in exosuits that concealed their nature. They seemed almost quadripedal with the way their torsos leaned forward. With every move, Cron half-expected the overly long forelimbs to reach down and plant themselves for a step. Such gait would doubtless eventually narrow the search.
The exercise itself seemed purely commercial in nature. Yet he wasn’t sure the cost of the operation, including the bribe required for their travel times, made fiscal sense unless...
“Our people are unharmed?”
Kemp nodded and Cron did likewise. The perpetrators had worked fast and been careful enough, all garbed in identical vacsuits, to give no indication of their true numbers. There was no point in disabling communications when you were both involved in illegal activity. Though a risk, allowing the crew to survive created far fewer enemies, and less eager ones too.
“A gentlemanly robbery,” stated Cron. “They will be back.” At Kemp’s querying look, he decided to elaborate. Firstly, from his calculations it would take at least two such attacks for the perpetrators to make a profit worthy of both effort and risk. But there was a better reason. “They believe we can readily absorb the cost of such incidents.”
Yet they were wrong. His people did what they could to survive, but they were not natural criminals. It took time to develop such traits. Too many still clung to their previous lives and shunned the best way of gathering income in the here and now. As such he had a considerable number of mouths to feed who were not working for it. Others had not taken such chances. Xorot had forced every able-bodied individual to do what must be.
As with allying with a lesser world, that had been another time Cron had turned away from the advice of Logic. The cost of that decision, that leniency, showed itself daily in accounting reports. Despite this, Cron was yet reluctant to conscript his people to illegality. Was it unreasoning hubris to maintain that despite circumstances, they really were better than all this?
“We need to track down the source of their information. Their execution of the deed was too polished to be mere opportunism. They knew when we would be there and what we would be carrying. Find who has been selling our secrets.”
He ducked through the catflap himself and breathed deeply of the fresh air as it hit him. Kemp was off back the way he’d come. Cron broke into a saunter. The wind, more than a breeze at this time of year, carried a thousand scents and stories, all clamouring for investigation. Through its own senses, a genuine member of Felis Catus was kept quite busy.
Cron overrode such urges for now and made for the chestnut tree.
It's position, and aesthetic, was such that it seemed to pin the estate to the earth. From its branches, a complete sensory overview of the street was possible that could then be linked to current geological observations from the asteroid ring of data-extractors that watched the Earth constantly. Together, Cron could feel and listen to the planet’s heartbeat: younger, more excitable, than QBarryL, but its voice more melodious. Cron admitted to himself that for the first time in millenia, he loved something not of his home planet.
He twitched an ear at the upper branches as he approached.
And there was always the possibility of a daft bird or two for complete de-stressing.
[Source] (https://wallpapersafari.com/w/PSXpWx)