The IPD Isosceles settled into a parking trajectory alongside the Imperial Devastator Station, the battle cruiser's mile long hull dwarfed by the huge bulk of the Station. The Devastator Station was an enormous cylindrical construction, perhaps five miles in diameter and twenty miles in length. During the initial design and planning phase of the Station, it had been referred to by the nickname Death Tube, but before it had become fully operational, a memo had gone around requesting that use of the nickname should cease; the Imperium's Public Relations department felt that it did not project the image they were looking for with the new station.
A small Tydirigible class shuttle dropped from one of the smaller docking bays of the IPD Isosceles and flew towards the Devastator Station. Three THIGH Fighters swept down from an adjacent bank of launch tubes and took up escort positions around the shuttle. The four craft covered the short distance of open space within minutes, and the THIGH fighters broke formation and peeled off as the shuttle approached the brightly illuminated entrance of the docking bay. Two of the THIGH Fighters swung around and sped back towards the Isosceles. The third spiralled upwards and cut its gravity repulsor engines; it drifted silently in space for a moment, and then an attractor beam stabbed out and drew the Fighter up into the T-73a Launch Tube.
The shuttle's wings folded neatly as it entered Docking Bay S-73 of the Devastator Station. It settled gently on the polished floor, and the ramp hissed open. The ranks of assembled Shock Troopers snapped to attention.
The fearful figure of Barth Vapour strode down the shuttle's ramp and across the deck of the docking bay. Commander Jared fell hastily into step beside him, having to scramble to keep up.
"Report, Commander," said Vapour.
"Yes, my Lord," gasped Jared. "The prisoners are being transferred from the Isosceles now. They should be ready for your personal attention within the hour. Uh, the Great Muff requests your presence in the boardroom for a meeting due to begin in, uh, thirteen minutes. And, uh..."
Barth Vapour stopped and turned towards the Commander. "And, Commander?" His breathing regulator hissed menacingly.
"And we taped all your favourite programs while you were away."
"Excellent, Commander." Vapour recommenced striding across the deck. "Inform the Great Muff that I am on my way."
"Yes, Lord Vapour."
Inside his THIGH Fighter, THIGH Pilot Lieutenant Colonel Javamaprandarah Rajamajarandaibuggah removed his flight helmet and returned it to its storage niche. He flipped a few switches, powering down the internal systems of his Fighter. Finally he reached up and detached his pair of lucky fluffy dice from the rear view monitor, and slung them casually over his shoulder. Unlocking the Fighter's access hatch, he clambered out, dropped down onto the flight deck, and waddled across the hangar bay to the change rooms.
As with all THIGH Pilots, Javamaprandarah Rajamajarandaibuggah was not entirely human. Produced by the same technology which had, thirty years before, culminated in the Clown wars, Javamaprandarah and his fellow THIGH Pilots were genetically engineered to be able to withstand the high stresses generated by the engines of the craft they flew.
THIGH Fighters—the acronym, describing their method of propulsion, stood for Triple High Intensity Gravitational Hummers—were ungainly-looking craft whose appearance belied their high manoeuvrability. From the central, spherical cockpit, three arms radiated out, each arm supporting a large solar panel which provided a secondary source of power for the Fighter. Equi-spaced between the solar panel support arms were the three large singularity generators, producing the artificial gravity wells which enabled the craft to change direction almost instantly; based upon the same technology which provided the artificial gravity field for ships the size of the IPD Isosceles, the generators bathed the interior of the Fighters in a lethal field of conflicting gravitational forces which would have crushed a normal human to a pulp within seconds.
THIGH Pilots—the acronym stood for Transmogrified Hermetically Incubated Genetic Humans and, while coincidentally similar to the acronym describing their ships, was completely unrelated—were grown in vats, and indoctrinated from an early age with the training and propaganda required to turn them into highly efficient Imperial Fighter Pilots. All were barely more than three feet tall, with highly dense musculature and bones, in order to be able to function efficiently within the high-grav environment to which they were exposed. Their lower body tended to be quite well padded, their buttocks and thighs artificially moulded to fit the seats of their craft and support their weight.
Consequently, of course, they tended to waddle. One could often hear a THIGH Pilot approaching merely from the sound of his thighs rubbing together.
Javamaprandarah Rajamajarandaibuggah, known to his Imperial Overlords as THIGH-72493a, and known to his friends as Joe, waddled through the small circular doorway into the THIGH change rooms. He stripped out of his black flight suit, folded it neatly across a bench, and stepped into the showers. As he lathered up, the stocky Pilot began to sing.
Despite never having been exposed to such forms of entertainment during their intense training regimen, and despite being tone deaf and therefore completely unable to hold a tune, and having no sense of rhythm, most THIGH Pilots loved to sing. While their handlers did not object to the practice in principle, the fact that THIGH singing invariably sounded very much like a small furry animal being run through a blender had led to several restrictions being laid down, the most important of these being that they should only ever sing in their own company.
After a few minutes the sounds of small furry pain ceased, the hiss of water stopped, and a minute after that Joe waddled back out into the change rooms, a towel wrapped around his waist. Tapping his combination into the keypad, he opened his locker and, after sniffing cautiously at his flight suit, hung it back on the rack. He whipped the towel off and tossed it into the nearest laundry chute, then dressed in a pair of blue shorts and a grey T-shirt. Locking his locker again, Joe waddled barefoot out of the change room through a second door opposite the one through which he had entered.
The designers of the Devastator Station, while recognising the necessity and, indeed, the value of THIGH Pilots, were also sensitive to the fact that many people were more than a little uncomfortable in their presence; likewise it was acknowledged that the diminutive THIGH sometimes felt threatened when being towered over by a group of full-sized humans—whom THIGHs generally referred to, amongst themselves, as 'Bigguns'. In an effort to maintain a happy crew, and to avoid any recurrence of the unfortunate incident aboard the IPD Agamammanon a few years back, they had designed into the Station an entire network of THIGH-sized walkways and travel tubes, thereby keeping interactions between the two groups at a minimum. It was down one of these corridors that Joe now walked, the leathery soles of his bare feet slapping heavily on the polished metal.
He stopped at the elevator and pushed the button.
As he waited, he whistled a tuneless tune. It was the only kind he knew.
There was a soft ping and the doors hissed open. Joe stepped into the elevator and keyed in the combination for the THIGH food court. Elevators were another reason for building two independent networks of corridors; in a standard sized elevator, THIGH Pilots could only reach the bottom two rows of buttons. There was no elevator music in a THIGH elevator; anything which might actually put a group of THIGH into a singing mood was considered a bad idea.
The doors pinged open again, and another THIGH stepped into the elevator with Joe. They nodded politely to each other but did not speak. After travelling a short distance the elevator stopped again and the second THIGH walked out into one of the dormitory levels.
Joe yawned. He had had a long day.
Ping. The doors opened onto the large atrium of bustling chaos that was the THIGH food court. Any large ship had THIGH Pilots active around the clock, and the Devastator Station was the largest by far. Some of the THIGH here were eating their breakfasts, some their dinners.
The chamber echoed with the susurration of a hundred pairs of thighs rubbing together.
Joe sauntered out into the court and looked around. Although several speciality restaurants offered food from a wide variety of cultures across the galaxy, most of the food bars offered various ranges of standard THIGH food, custom designed to best fuel their genetically engineered bodies.
"Hey Joe," called a familiar voice. "Whaddaya know?" Joe looked in the direction it had come from, and saw his friend, First Lieutenant Nummalarandrajah Nuttarumbalum, waving at him. Joe waved back and wandered over.
"Hey, NumNut," he greeted, "how's it going?"
"Oh, you know," said NumNut, "about the same as always. Hey, check this out."
"What is it?" Joe twisted his head to stare at the small display screen NumNut held, shielded from casual view, in both hands. The screen showed a distorted fisheye view of what seemed to be a meeting room of some kind, and by the looks of the view, the camera was mounted in the centre of the conference table, pointed at the ceiling.
"Just look," said NumNut.
"Hey, whoa," said Joe after a moment. "That's Admiral whatsisname? Motheaten. Are you crazy? If they trace that signal..."
"Don't worry," said NumNut. "Even if they found the camera, they'd never trace it down here. Just watch."
"How did you even get a camera..." Joe stopped, held up his hand. "No, wait, I don't wanna know!"
Joe stared at the screen, nervous but intrigued despite himself.
Several high-ranking Imperial officers sat around the conference table, waiting for Great Muff Tarragon to arrive.
"Apparently, he keeps her in a private suite right next to his quarters. No-one is allowed in there." An Imperial General leaned in over the table. "I heard she's not even human, but one of those Twilight chicks."
"Trilegs?" asked another General.
"Yeah, whatever. You know, green and blue with tentacles on her head. Apparently those things are insatiable."
"Well I say good for him," said Admiral Mothears. "Have you seen his wife? Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. You really can't blame him for..."
"Blame who for what?" asked Great Muff Tarragon as he strode into the room. He was tall and lean, almost verging on skeletal. He took his seat at the head of the table and pinned Admiral Mothears with his penetrating gaze.
At the sight of the Great Muff, Joe took a wary step back. This wasn't just any old conference room, it was the conference room, up on the Command level.
"Ah, I was just saying, uh," said Admiral Mothears as he broke into a light sweat. "Uh, that the, uh, that the Rebellion will continue to gain the support of the Imperial Senate as long as we, uh, we continue to, uh..."
"Yes, thank you, Mothears. I won't ask who you ladies were gossiping about this time."
Mothears swallowed nervously.
"As for the Senate, they are no longer a concern. The Imperator has permanently dissolved the council, thus sweeping away the last remnants of the old Republic."
"But," said General Tiggle, "how will he maintain control? I mean, without the bureaucrats to act as middle men..."
"The regional governors will assume direct control," said Tarragon. "Fear of this station will keep the local systems in line. In fact, once we go fully operational, this station will scare the pants off of them!"
Joe backed away another step. "Turn it off, man," he said to NumNut. "If Tarragon is there, Vapour won't be far behind. And he won't need to trace it, he'll just know."
"Don't be such a girl," said NumNut.
"Hey," said Joe, "I fly interference for Vapour, and he scares the pants off of me! I don't want anything more to do with this. You shouldn't either. It's dangerous. He's dangerous!"
"Don't be silly," said NumNut. "What can he do?"
"I don't want to find out," said Joe, "and neither do you. Please, buddy, turn it off. I'll buy you a drink."
"Well," NumNut considered for a moment, torn between curiosity and the offer of free alcohol. "Okay, let's go." He deactivated the display screen and dropped it into a pocket.
Joe breathed a sigh of relief.
Javamaprandarah "Joe" Rajamajarandaibuggah and Nummalarandrajah "NumNut" Nuttarumbalum sat together at a small, scarred table. They were both on their third beer. Joe squinted in the dim light of the cantina, trying to guess how the pile of unrecognisable shapes in his bowl was related to what he had ordered from the menu. He prodded the pile gingerly with his wooden eating sticks.
"All I'm sayin'" said NumNut, "is that the old HyperDrive 5500T series are still the best."
Joe poked suspiciously at a small lump of green. "What does this look like to you?" he asked.
"Sure, the new 6004T series have all the fancy extras," said NumNut. He began to chew on a mouthful of his Pad THIGH.
"This is supposed to be THIGH Long Dong," said Joe, "but that doesn't look right." He lifted the mystery nugget closer to his face, and took a cautious sniff.
"They may even have a higher top speed," added NumNut, ejecting several partly chewed particles of his Pad THIGH across the table.
"I think this is Rong Pong," concluded Joe. "I can't eat this stuff." He waved his hand furiously to attract the attention of the waiter 'bot.
"But you put one of those things into a fifteen gee turn, and it'll fall apart around you," said NumNut. "Fall. Apart. Around. You," he repeated, emphasising each word by stabbing his utensils into the air over the table.
"How can I help you sir?" droned the synthesised voice of the waiter 'bot in a monotone.
"I ordered Long Dong," complained Joe, "and this is Rong Pong. I just can't eat Rong Pong—it smells funny."
"And what good," said NumNut, "is a fancy cup holder and an inertial stabiliser when you find yourself floating home?"
"I shall replace it for you sir," said the waiter 'bot; it picked up Joe's bowl and trundled away, weaving between wandering customers on its way to the kitchen door.
"And bring us some more beers," Joe called after the departing 'bot.
"Now the 5730T," said NumNut, continuing his diatribe on the virtues and pitfalls of the various THIGH Fighter models, "now that was a pretty good ship, but it had that damn weak spot over the aft gun port."
"Long Dong, Rong Pong," muttered Joe, "it's not like anybody could mistake the two!"
"One shot there and... What?" said NumNut. "I heard a song about that. Wanna hear it?"
"What?" said Joe. "A song about what?"
"The Long Dong Rong Pong song," said NumNut. "Or was it the Long Rong Dong Pong song? No, that doesn't make sense."
Joe swallowed another mouthful of beer. "All I want is the food I ordered," he muttered. "Is that so hard? Is Long Dong so hard?"
NumNut, sounding like a tomcat on the prowl at the height of the mating season, began to sing.
It's the Long Dong Rong Pong song,
And it won't take very long,
If you have a bowl of Long Dong,
And you mix in some Rong Pong,
You'll have Long Dong Rong Pong,
Which tastes so very wrong.
NumNut let loose a resounding belch.
"You just made that up," said Joe.
"Maybe," said NumNut. "Whaddaya think of it?" He belched again, then slowly toppled forward, landing unconscious and face-down in his bowl of Pad THIGH. Joe sighed. Grabbing his friend by the hair, he lifted his head out of the food, shoved the bowl out of the way, and lowered him back onto the table.
After a couple of minutes, the waiter 'bot returned with a steaming hot bowl of Long Dong and another couple of beers.
"Thanks," said Joe.
"Welcome sir."
Joe poked at the new bowl of food. It looked okay. He lifted some into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
He swallowed his mouthful of Long Dong. "What about the 5810T?" he asked.
NumNut snored.
"Oh. Yeah. Never mind." Joe went back to his food.
Joe waddled, a trifle unsteadily, down the corridor towards the detention block where his friend Bahri Dinngel was on duty. Joe wanted to call in and say hello before he retired for the night. Dinngel was okay, for a Biggun.
As he walked, Joe sang quietly to himself.
It's the Long Dong Rong Pong song,
And it won't take very long,
If you take a bowl of Long Dong,
And you throw in some Rong Pong,
You'll get THIGH Long Dong Rong Pong,
Which tastes so very very wrong.
That NumNut is crazy, he thought with a chuckle.
He reached the round doorway which marked the boundary between THIGH and Biggun territory. The corridor beyond was deserted. Joe looked both ways, then scurried quickly down the corridor, hugging the wall. He reached the door to the detention block without seeing anybody else.
It was not that THIGH Pilots were forbidden to wander around in Biggun territory, but the practice was frowned upon.
Reaching high over his head, Joe slapped the button to open the door. He waddled into the detention reception area, and the door hissed closed behind him.
Behind the desk, Bahri looked up as he entered. "Hey Joe," he said, "what do you know?"
Joe smiled. Bahri was okay, but not all that bright. Joe had finally given up trying to teach him the traditional "Whaddaya know, Joe" greeting. The guy was trying, but he didn't quite seem to get it.
"Hey Bahri, how's things?" he said.
"You know," said Bahri. "Keeping busy. Same old stuff. How about you?"
"Pretty good," said Joe. "I got a sweet assignment last month; I'm flying as personal escort for our Hard Lord himself."
"Wow," said Bahri. He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. "He's here now, would you believe?"
"What?" said Joe. "Vapour is here?" He leaned out past the desk and peered down the cell block hallway Bahri had indicated. About half way down, a pair of grey-armoured Shock Troopers stood to attention either side of one of the cell doors.
"Yeah," said Bahri. "We've got a really important prisoner in here. A Rebel Princess, or something like that. Vapour is interrogating her personally."
"No shit?" said Joe.
"No shit," said Bahri. "Look, I can open the comm channel if you want."
"Uh, no," said Joe, "that's okay. Thanks. Uh, look, I can't stay. Just popped in to say 'hi', y'know?"
"You're not scared of him, are you?" asked Bahri.
"Are you kidding?" asked Joe. "Have you heard the stories? Of course I'm scared of him. Aren't you?"
"Well, I guess I am, a little," said Bahri.
"You should be," said Joe. "Do us all a favour, and don't go listening in on what he's up to in there, okay?"
"Okay Joe."
"Well, watch your back," said Joe. "I gotta go."
"See you around, Joe," said Bahri. He tapped a button on his console and opened the main door for his short friend.
Joe waved and waddled out of the door. As soon as it hissed closed, he broke into a run, headed for the safety of the THIGH tunnels. He sagged against the wall, breathless. What the hell is wrong with people? he thought. Everywhere I go, they want me to eavesdrop on Barth Vapour!
Sing the Long Dong Rong Pong song,
It won't take you very long,
If you have a Long Dong,
And it has a Rong Pong,
It will sound so very wrong.
The song echoed within the small lift cubicle. Joe had the feeling he had changed the words slightly, but it didn't really matter. He yawned. He was ready for bed.
He had a nasty feeling he would be dreaming about the Hard Lord tonight. Again.
Great Muff Tarragon stood on the primary bridge of the Devastator Station, hands linked primly behind his back. Barth Vapour marched in to stand beside him.
"Well, Lord Vapour?" asked Tarragon as he gazed at the vast star field displayed on the main view screen of the bridge.
"She refused to cooperate," said the Hard Lord shortly. "Her resistance to the mind probe was considerable."
"I told you so," said Tarragon. "She will never willingly betray the Rebel Coalition. We need to present her with a more persuasive argument, something that will force her to choose between the Rebellion and..."
Tarragon rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Commander," he said more loudly, "set a course for the Alderbark system."