Supply Office
Corvette Yard Eight-and-Two
Munro I
M’raq wanted nothing more than to rip the throat from the body of the supply officer. “Yes, I fired off that many missiles at that many fighters.” He growled in frustration. Apparently, this was a Kilrathi who never had to face down trained pilots flying Scimitars.
The supply officer, an annoying whelp by the name of Shrokt, looked down at his data slate. “You should only have required two IR missiles for two fighters, not three.” By the way Shrokt spoke; his words were practically the words of Sivar.
The first encounter was easy; he did kill one Ape fighter with one missile. However, an hour later, a second wave of fighters intercepted him. He had no way of knowing if these were the exact same pilots or not, but knew they came from the same ship. “If you did not paw off defective missiles on me, I would only have required two!”
Shrokt gave him a glare that was well above the whelp’s station in life. “The Supply Office is hardly responsible for improperly maintained equipment.”
M’raq bared his teeth in a vicious smile. He had to struggle hard from unsheathing his claws. He did not have this problem with the technicians. They accepted the fact that Terran fighters damaged one of his ship’s turrets, and went to work repairing it. After all, they had seen far worse damage during the past Kahrik in the Munro System. Some corvettes returned with half their crew dead and a good portion of their ship open to space. The only real blockade he came across was requisitioning the parts, which for some unknown reason, the Lord Commander of Supply did not see fit to have sufficient spare parts of a few vital pieces.
M’raq shoved a furry finger into the supply officer’s face. “Perhaps you should come along with me on my next patrol, cub. Then we shall see how much you love you numbers.” M’raq was beyond understanding how natural selection could allow the existence of paper pushers. Intellectually, he understood the need of proper record keeping, but his heart could grasp while any proper warrior would resign himself to such a role.
Shrokt hesitated; perhaps some shame has crept up his hide. He stiffened. “Lord Captain, it would not matter even if I wanted to help you. I could not. The Snekirit has jumped into the system, and its fighter compliment is low on image-recognition missiles.”
M’raq let out a short sharp curse. It was not aimed at the Snakier-class carrier, but at its captain. He could not remember the upstart’s name, only that he was a scion of the Trk’Pahn Pride. Any scion of the Eight Prides took precedence over everybody, except for a scion of the Imperial Pride. He could be short on oxygen and water, to the point of death; but if a scion wanted to top off his suite– well then, M’raq and his crew would just have to sacrifice their lives for the good of the Trk’Pahn bloodline. After all, what warrior would not happily throw away his own life to save those with more wealth in their quarters than M’raq’s own Pride had period.
Give him the Terrans over the Eight any day; at least he could kill the Apes. He could kill Shrokt as well, but was uncertain as to his own blood connections. He had to possess a few drops of noble blood as to have landed such a safe and comfortable position. How many young warriors have lost their chance to claim a Pride in this war? At least a whole planet’s population worth. And yet, this— M’raq snarled at the sight of Shrokt. He did not even have a proper mane around his neck, and yet he dared deny a warrior of M’raq’s caliber proper supplies.
M’raq growled. “I expect my missile compliment to increase before I go out again with my crew, and we put our lives on the line for the glory of the Empire. If I lose any of my crew due to lack of weapons, I will be back, and I will be taking it up with you!” M’raq snapped a turn before the supply officer could respond, and stomped out of the cramp supply office in a very frustrated mood.
Mess Hall
Krasnyk
Orbit of Munro I
M’raq still felt the burning desire to rip somebody’s arm off and beat them to death with it. He would prefer his victim to be one of the supply officers, but right now would settle for anyone who earned his ire. His ship’s mess hall was mostly empty. Only one other crew member sat at a table, gnawing away at his dinner. The Imperial Navy had little in the way of descent food, but dried meat and synthetics were a sight better than what the lowly ground pounders were issued.
Or maybe not.
Their poor rations prompted them to live off the land, to hunt the local wildlife. Not much to hunt in space, and what little there is often hunted him back. M’raq flexed his claws at the mere thought of sinking them into his prey.
Hharras looked up from his freeze-dried meal with an unhappy sneer on his face. “Just for once, I’d like some fresh meat.” He spotted his captain’s extended claws. “I see I’m not the only one. I take it the supply officer was uncooperative, Lord Captain.”
M’raq spat. “An understatement. By the way that whelp hoards the missiles; one might conclude he was paying for them.”
“Any you persuaded him otherwise?” Hharras beamed a predatory smile.
M’raq snorted. “Hardly. Some highborn nobles in their carriers are in need of missiles. The odds of a lowly corvette receiving its appropriate compliment are about the same as some grizzled ground pounder taking a wealthy Pride.”
Hharras laughed loudly. “The very notion is absurd. I hear it happens with the Prides that turned their backs on the Empire. Some don’t even bother killing the cubs when they take over.” There was no denying the corrupting effect the Terran Confederation has on the Kilrathi hiding in their borders.
M’raq remembered when he took the Vrindl Pride. Killing the cubs was not a pleasant task, but necessary. Thinking back on it, and factoring in the losses the Empire has taken in this prolonged war, perhaps it would not have wise to let them live. If nothing else, the males would have made cannon fodder. Perhaps they would have even taken an Ape with them. The culling made more sense in times between wars, when there was a danger of the male population growing to a boiling point. With only so many Prides to go around, it would not take long for chaos to reign across the Empire.
Hharras continued. “Without a full complement of missiles, what are we supposed to do?”
M’raq bared his teeth at the question. “Go out on patrol, same as with a full load. With so many lord high admirals and scions arriving in the system from Kilrah, I would assume some Ape blood is about to be shed by the rivers.”
Hharras finished his slab of freeze-dried flesh. “When do we leave, Lord Captain? The crew is eager to kill more Apes.”
M’raq had his doubts. They were likely in one of the pubs within Corvette Yard Eight-and-Two, drinking themselves into a stupor. He hoped, for their sake, they were drunk on proper Kilrathi liquor, and not some alien make. The Apes, aside from being cunning were also masters of alcohol. They had many eights times the number of drinks his own people had ever produced. Rum was popular, as it was a sweet taste to the Kilrathi tongue. The others--- he never fancied drinking that which tasted like paint thinner or ash.
“Two days,” he said, the last word not being a native Kilrathi word. As Kilrah is tidally locked with its sun, the Kilrathi have no native concept of days. The word was borrowed from the tongue of the Empire’s first victims, the Shata. Foolish beings if there ever were any. He was not entirely sure if there were any still in existence. The only Shata he ever saw were preserved as trophies in Kilrathi war museums.
Days themselves differed from system to system. The Munro System used the days of Munro II, rather short compared to other planets. “Round up the crew and make sure they are back on board in one day, and I want them fit for duty the next. Try not to kill them if they aren’t as quick in recovering as you’d like. The Personnel Office doesn’t like it when warriors are executed without a good reason.”