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Honorable Service

“Come," the slightly graying Regulian motioned towards the bar.

Abel sighed and swung around the counter, planting his palms on the white marble counter and looked at his father in his steely, gray eyes. Neither of the two spoke or dared to break away from the challenge that the gaze represented.

It was the Regulian who ended it first, rolling his eyes and downing his brandy, hissing as he swallowed, “You're too old to act like this, Abroth."

“Abel," the young man said firmly, “you got it right the first time."

“I thought you'd outgrow that human name nonsense when you got accepted into the Imperial Academy," the Regulian grumbled and slid his glass across the bar, “well then, Abel, how about you fix me a drink and one for yourself?"

“Are you asking me as the help or as your son?"

“My son," the Regulian's impeccable posture slouched, “why would you even suggest that-?"

Abel popped open a bottle of cognac and filled up the Regulian's glass along with pouring himself a tiny puddle in a shot glass.

“My apologies, Regnath," Abel flashed a sarcastic smirk, knowing full well that the Regulian was incapable of picking up on human facial language properly, despite all the years they had spent together, “it's a little difficult to view myself as a Regulian noble when so many of my species are slaves."

Regnath did not respond to Abel calling him by his given name and merely uttered, “It's a voluntary program and the families are well-compensated."

Abel wanted to open up his jacket and slam the documents he had stolen onto the bar counter, really rub his father's nose into it. He knew the Regulian didn't believe what he just said, not a chance in hell, but as a cabinet minister for the Kingdom of Earth, Regnath had trouble taking off his politician hat.

Nodding, Abel raised his glass and the Regulian mimicked him. The two roared a Regulian cheer and took a sip.

“Anyways, that's not what I want to talk about tonight," Regnath coughed and set his snifter on the counter, “what were you doing out so late? Where were you?"

“I was out collecting scrap iron for the war effort."

The Regulian stared back at Abel with a blank expression on his face as his tail lashed behind him, “Do I look like I'm in the mood for jokes, son?"

He wouldn't have believed me the first time, even if I told the truth.

“Was gonna meet some of my friends from the marksman club in Ralothburg and go for some drinks," Abel smacked his lips, “then they called and bailed as soon as I got off the train. Didn't want to waste the trip so I entertained myself."

“It's dangerous to be there by yourself so late at night! You worry me!"

“Afraid I'll get kidnapped?"

“This war has everyone on edge and not every soldier is going to know that you're part of a respected family and a graduate of the Cultural Advancement Program!" Regnath hissed, digging his claws into the stone counter, an irritable habit that he had which necessitated replacing a lot of the wooden furniture in the house. “An unattended human in the capital? The place is teeming with Claw agents and-!"

“I thought you always said I had nothing to worry from the Regulian government?"

“That was before the war and the Claw...they've always been a necessary evil!" Regnath wrinkled back his snout and put special emphasis on that last word, as if he was wanting to make sure his opinion on them was extra clear.

Regnath reached across the counter and wrapped his thick paw around Abel's hand. The large feline blinked slowly at his son.

“War stops people from thinking clearly...I don't think even I could do anything if you were arrested. You can't stop the Claw once they come after you."

“Father," Abel whispered, rubbing the short furs on top of his paw, “I'm not a rebel. I'm just a free human exercising his rights as a Regulian citizen. I'm not going to end up in a jail cell anytime soon."

“I think you should cancel your trip to New Orleans."

Abel was about to object but his Father raised his paw to silence him.

“I know you're going to raise a fuss and I'm not going to stop you, son, but I still think you should cancel," Regnath took another sip of brandy, “more orbital strikes from the Lacertans are expected. They'll be intercepted but..."

“I'll be fine," Abel sighed, “whether I'm halfway across the galaxy or right here, I'll be fine."

“You've always been stubborn like..."

The Regulian trailed off, lost in thought.

Suddenly, Regnath snapped his head and looked at the clock, “By the Emperor, it's 2 in the morning! You should head up to bed!"

Abel finished the last drop of brandy and was about to walk away when Regnath snatched his sleeve.

“Or..." Regnath's tail playfully swiped behind him, “...there's a hockey game coming on in an hour! Vancouver Canucks versus the Ralothburg Comets! We could stay up all night and watch it, just like the old days! I'll get Yin to make some pork cracklings and some popcorn!"

Being an aggressive species that traveled hundreds of lightyears so that they could wage war on Earth and conquer it as part of their hegemony, it only stood to reason that one of the cultural exchanges they accepted was a love of hockey. The Regulians and their subjects saw it as one of the most maddening and violent bloodsports in the galaxy and they quickly invaded the leagues. Rules were altered to encourage more fights and pretty soon only a few humans remained in the leagues. Vancouver's team happened to be the only all-human team left and Abel didn't have any desire to watch them get brutalized, which seemed to be solely what they existed for nowadays.

“Maybe next time!" Abel walked around the bar and placed his hands on Regnath's shoulders. The two leaned in, rubbing the sides of their faces together.

“I worry about you..." Regnath whispered.

“You shouldn't."

Abel left the room and climbed the staircase to his room. Yin, the family's Vulpeculan servant nodded politely as they passed on the stairs, his black fur and white chin complementing his Edwardian-style tail-coat, which Regnath found to be a quaint and charming fashion.

“Make sure to study for your exams, Master Abel!"

Entering his room, Abel turned on the air-conditioning and tossed the files on his computer desk before sitting down and kicking the power switch on the tower. The machine roared to life and a logo popped up announcing that WhiteStarOS was booting up. Abel preferred the Sirian operating system to the Imperial Standard OS, it was a little clunky but it had a lot less backdoors and it was possible to use custom encryption protocols.

Which was handy when communicating with resistance groups.

Abel scanned the files and transmitted them over the Extranet using an encryption tunnel that the technician had assured him would bounce around the Extranet in a manner that would be untraceable and that it would take the Claw years to crack the encryption. Abel wasn't sure how true this was, but he hadn't been caught yet.

Eventually, the screen displayed, “Transmission complete!" and Abel shut down the tunnel. Exploring the Extranet while on the resistance tunnel would be a supremely bad idea and Abel wanted to get some browsing in before he went to bed. As soon as he opened up his browser, he was greeted with a daily alert.

“Emperor Haresh the Third has mated with a human by the name of Linda. She was a rebel who was captured and presented before the Emperor due to her great beauty and fiery spirit. After charming her, the Emperor made her submit to imperial authority and dominated her in the bedchambers today. She suckled his phallus eagerly in submission and the Emperor mounted her from behind before gifting her with his royal seed. She curled up her legs and gently wept, regretting that she could not bear her beloved Master a litter. Long live the Emperor!"

Back when Abel was a child, the human internet was in place but strictly regulated to the point of being obsolete. The Information Laws were in place and humans just couldn't be trusted with unrestricted access to a network. Thankfully, those laws were abolished and Earth was finally connected to the Galactic Extranet and could be freely exposed to Regulian propaganda ads that increasingly insecurely proclaimed the Emperor's sexual dominance, Lacertan psy-ops campaigns that would attempt to convince you that a collar of gold was preferable to one of silver, and all the inter-species porn that one could ever dream of.

Whether you had a taste for Regulian subject species or Lacertan, the Extranet had you covered; though Abel did not like looking at the Lacertan subject species online, not because they were unattractive but because a lot of the videos online were of prisoners of war being humiliated and he found the subject depressing. The only banned lust was that for Lacertans themselves and daring to search up “Lacertan," followed by any sexual act or fetish would flag your computer and put you on a list; there were rumors that typing in 'snuff' would bring back some particularly horrible Claw-approved videos without getting put on a list, but Abel had no stomach nor desire to test that.

It's a shame we're at war, Abel thought as he passed an article describing the execution of three Lacertan officers who were captured at a battle on some jungle planet, with a mutual hatred of the Regulians, we could have been great friends.

Part of Abel feared that the Regulian propaganda that the Lacertans would be far worse to humanity was correct and he had no desire to work for any rebel group that cooperated with them.

But still, he blinked, staring at a picture of a Lacertan who was next in line to be shot. His green scales were glistening in the sunlight like gemstones and he was staring at the camera defiantly. It's a shame.

“When you enter the audience hall, you are not to look at His Majesty in the eye. If you do that, we will all be punished severely. Take one step, lower your head, take another, bow, take another step and immediately stop. If you do not stop, you will be treated as an assassin and we will all be punished. What scent are you wearing?"

The scrawny Eastern Regulian leaned his nose against Brolath's neck and sniffed. Brolath grumbled, not quite sure where they got such weak specimens of Reguliankind to serve as palace officials. If the striped fop didn't cease his infernal chattering, Brolath swore he would snap his neck in two.

“I'm not wearing any scent!" Brolath snarled, shoving the lesser Regulian away. “I've done this before, I'm a Captain of the Imperial Guard and the Emperor is fine with doing away with protocol!"

“Not wearing any scent!?" the servant yowled and clapped his palms. Instantly, two nearly naked Vulpeculans emerged from some trailing velvet curtains and spritzed Brolath in the face with some perfume. Once Brolath was able to see again, the two slaves had vanished. A horrific mixture of vanilla and cinnamon filled his nostrils.

“Why did you make me smell like human spices?"

“It's very much in fashion!" the official tapped a claw against his white chin and then began rubbing at Brolath's golden, ceremonial chest-plate. “You told me you had this cleaned!"

“I washed it with water."

“And?"

“Water."

“Guard, I've dealt with visiting dignitaries with far more power and a worse sense of humor," the servant lashed his tail in irritation, “if you think I'm going to let you ruin my career-"

“Career!?" Brolath snorted and brushed the smaller Regulian aside. “You're a slave, you have no career."

“A very experienced and important slave!" the slave fastened the strings hanging from the bottom of Brolath's armor, tightening it until he could hardly breathe. “I am not some harem harlot that is kept locked away, pining for the one night that the Emperor might visit them, I am a steward of the Audience Hall! And if you lay an unkind hand on me again, I will report it to the Emperor and we will see who's truly free!"

Rolling his eyes, Brolath let the slave polish his armor. He was still hurting from the events of the raid.

Why, Chikal?

The Procyonid was alive. Arrested by the Guard but refused to let the Regulian visit him or argue on his behalf. Chikal was going to spend the rest of his life in prison and he would rather do that than be with Brolath.

Why?

Despite giving him a hard time, the Regulian slave seemed content, powerful even, in his own way.

Is it so bad, Chikal? Being my slave?

Brolath had never concealed his name nor his house, taking the Procyonid back to his apartment despite having safehouses available. Back then, it had been a place of warmth, them sitting by the stone fireplace while an inferno blazed, sharing a glass of wine.

When Brolath returned after the raid, the place felt dead. Like it had been abandoned for centuries.

The case was high profile and although he wasn't able to implicate the mastermind behind it, who remained at large, the Emperor wanted to give Brolath a personal commendation.

If the Emperor offered a boon, Brolath could order Chikal forcibly put into his possession.

Brolath's chest hurt just thinking about it and he wasn't sure why.

“Okay, you're finished!" the slave stepped away, pulling a round mirror on wheels in front of Brolath. “Not perfect, but another treasure created from trash!"

“Trash?"

“Metaphorically speaking, your grace!"

Brolath felt the anger and regret vanish from his stomach, replaced with disgust. Black makeup was traced around his eyes and parts of his normally brown facial fur were almost white from powder. Truly though, Brolath was disgusted at the gaudy, golden armor he was wearing, which covered up a silk, white tunic and matching trousers. He hated wearing this, it felt old, impractical, and made him feel like a fraud.

“Seven hundred years ago, Emperor Hasham “The Toothpick," declared this to be the only proper courtly attire."

“Some things never go out of fashion!" the servant nodded.

“Seven hundred years have passed and he's long dead," Brolath sighed and rolled the mirror out of the way, “and no one has bothered to correct his mistakes."

“You look very dashing!"

I look like some hedonistic, layabout noble's idea of what a soldier looks like! Brolath thought but didn't want to antagonize the slave further. He just wanted the rest of the day over with and let the servant guide him towards the Audience Hall.

Despite his ridiculous getup, the two Regulian Guards standing in front of the Audience Hall doors saluted the Captain and stepped aside, shouldering their ceremonial rifles against the black pauldrons of their armor.

“Long life, Captain," the Regulian Guard on the right motioned towards the door, “Emperor Haresh the Third awaits!"

The slave lowered his head and pushed open the platinum-plated door, which was engraved with an epic depiction of the last Western-Eastern Regulian War with thousands of soldiers portrayed, each one uniquely designed and performing a role in the battle.

Ignoring the slave's advice, Brolath closed his eyes confidently and took three steps into the chamber. He immediately realized he made a huge mistake when his ear twitched in the direction of a snap. When his eyes opened, it was like he was caught in the middle of a battlefield with lights flashing off in every direction. It took him a bit before he realized he was not caught in an ambush by Lacertan infantry but rather something far worse.

“Captain Brolath T'Fath!" a thin Eastern Regulian female with faded stripes across her shoulders jabbed a microphone straight into Brolath's muzzle. A camera flashed, sending Brolath reeling. “Imperial News here, do you think your success in the recent operation has made you above imperial protocol?"

Another microphone began hovering behind Brolath's head, just close enough for him to notice without turning.

“Government News Association here, Captain Brolath!" a male Western Regulian without a mane spoke, pushing his thin glasses up the bridge of his muzzle. “In these trying times, why do you spit on tradition like this?"

“I..." Brolath's eyes were aching from all the flashes going off. All of the intricately carved Regnal Columns reaching out from the floor into the ceiling were mere blurs, the carvings portraying each column's Emperor's life, no matter how short, completely indiscernable.

“News of the Empire here!" a squeaky voice called out and a Sirian that couldn't have been too much more than four feet tall stepped past one of the Regnant Columns. His tiny ears folded back as he held out a microphone and cranked it, extending the pole on it until it was close enough to Brolath's face to catch his voice. “Is it true, Captain Brolath, that you sleep in a bathtub full of Equuleian urine every night in order to increase your sexual powers!?"

“No! What th-!"

A loud boom rang out through the hall and the reporters all went silent. Brolath's vision finally cleared enough to see the Imperial Arch and a figure standing beneath its golden halo-like crown, wearily slamming the butt of his scepter into the ground.

Haresh the Third looked weary, there were deep bags underneath his eyes, his short tan fur failing to cover it up. His mane was thick and youthful, but it was lined with graying fur that betrayed his age. The Emperor wore the traditional imperial robes, which were orange with sharp, black stripes cutting across it; fine brown tassels made of soft fur were tied around the breast buttons and along the shoulders, looking very similar to the tuft on the tail of a Western Regulian. The robes represented the unification of East and West long ago and on a more modern note, it helped hide the surgery scars on his chest.

A strong Regulian Emperor never sat down when on official business, unlike other past monarchies there was no throne. Instead he was supported morally by golden statues of all the subject species of the Empire, bowing and groveling before his grace to his right and left. It did not change the fact that the Emperor was leaning against his staff for support and was close to falling over.

Despite his age though, the Emperor was able to manage a cocky snort and a carefree, youthful wave of dismissal, “If we cannot do away with formalities for our most precious of confidants, what would be the point of having such precious relations?"

The room went deathly silent, as it always did when the Emperor spoke and his words required more than a single neuron to interpret. Thankfully for the reporters, Chancellor Agath, a tall, lanky Regulian standing to the side of the Imperial Arch; began a slow clap that the reporters quick imitated, filling the room with applause.

Another bang on the floor ended the applause with a screeching halt.

“For his efforts in successfully tracking down The Night Ravens, one of the most despicable and treacherous group of rebels in the galaxy..."

They weren't rebels. They just wanted to find a new home, Brolath swallowed, Chikal…

“...I hereby recognize and honor Captain Brolath T'Fath with the Silver Sun!"

Agath picked up a small, platinum tray and stepped over to Brolath slowly. Looking the Captain in the eye, the Chancellor picked up a thin, silver circlet with a tiny sphere in the center, and placed it atop Brolath's brow.

The cameras erupted once again but Brolath paid them no heed. He was lost in his thoughts once again, pondering what he could have done to have made things right. He didn't even realize the Emperor was talking.

“...we would have a moment alone with the Captain. We shall return shortly!"

Brolath snapped out of his trace just as the Emperor turned around the arch, flapping the trail of his robes behind him dramatically, and followed, keeping a good distance in order to avoid breaking protocol yet again. The Emperor frowned deeply as he passed a blank Regnal Column with a square hole cut into it. One day, the Emperor's ashes would be interned here for all eternity and his life carved into the surface.

Through a doorway to the side of the arch was a small, unassuming hall that led to an elevator. The solid gold doors were carved to depict a Regulian Emperor and Empress holding paws where the doors met. Precious emeralds marked their eyes, along with earrings and necklaces of diamonds and sapphires.

Haresh cursed as he pressed the call button, a flawless ruby, three times before it lit up and the elevator roared to life. Haresh sniffed deeply and coughed, causing Brolath some worry that he was going to suffer from another asthma attack.

“You smell like one of those awful desserts my human concubines keep demanding," Haresh cupped his paw around his snout, rasping as he gasped for fresh air.

“My apologies, Majesty, I was told-"

“Were you not told this was a press circus? I couldn't give a damn if you came in dancing, but I'm going to have to hear about this from the Chancellor and how it degrades our bloody grace or some shit!" Haresh cursed under his breath as his amber eyes shifted towards the still-closed elevator doors. “Someone was supposed to have told you about this!"

“The slave didn't say anything," Brolath paused and cleared his throat, “and he spritzed me with this scent."

“Eastern Regulian? Skinny?"

Brolath nodded.

Haresh murmured under his breath as he slipped a small datapad out from his sleeve and tapped something on it before hiding it again just in time for the elevator doors to slide open, breaking the couple's handhold.

The car was made entirely of glass, as was the shaft, and once they cleared a story they were able to get a fair glimpse of the capital below in the valley, past the metal support beams reaching up from the palace below and the mesa it was perched on. The towering skyscrapers of the city looked like mere shacks from the height they were at.

“You seem a little down, Brolath," Haresh's nose twitched and he instantly regretted it, retching, “I can smell it, even past that awful cologne you're wearing!"

“It's nothing, your Maj-"

“We're in the private residences now, you will address me as Haresh, that's an order!"

“Haresh," Brolath cleared his throat. They had been casual with each other numerous times before but it had always seemed a little strange referring to the most powerful Regulian in the galaxy by his name like they were pals, “it's nothing. The mission just left me a little tired."

“Don't lie to me. I received the abridged version of the debriefing and even that saw fit to mention that you seduced the Chaplain. Fell for him, hm?"

Brolath's ears began to burn and he fidgeted beneath his armor.

“No shame in admitting it, happens to all of us."

“Even you?"

The Emperor snorted, “I ever tell you, back when I was a Prince, how I fell in love?"

“I don't believe so."

“Doesn't have a happy ending," Haresh sighed. “I was on Beta Vulpeculae acting as a diplomat to one of the Princes there, don't ask me which one. Got separated from my guard and ended up in the slums where I met the most beautiful Vulpeculan in the world. She was selling sand-lilies by the side of the road, dressed in nothing more than rags, but she had the body and grace of a Princess."

“My guard tracked me down and I whispered to the Captain to have someone get in contact with her and to arrange a meeting. I was told within the hour that she was willing to become my concubine if I would have her and so I agreed."

“When she arrived at my quarters, she was…not quite whole. She was there but her mind was not, it was hard to describe. It didn't stop me from mating with her but even that felt awful, worse than all the nights I've been forced to mate with a random concubine in the palace by some bureaucrat!" Haresh swallowed, carefully considering his next words. “Eventually I found out the truth: she wanted nothing to do with me and the Captain had threatened her family if she didn't comply."

“I tried to make it up to her. I treated her well, gave her gifts, and gave her space when she wanted it, which was almost always. When word came around that my Father was abdicating, I released her and let her return home, so that she wouldn't be doomed to be locked up in the Imperial Harem for the rest of her life," Haresh placed his palm against the glass walls and stared at the city below. “When your love is based on something wrong, there's nothing you can do to make it right. You can only let them go and hope they can find happiness far away from you."

“I don't understand," Brolath nervously shuffled.

Haresh clapped his palm on Brolath's shoulder, “I hope you will one day. If you're looking for someone to keep you company, I'd be more than willing to show you around the harem. There's hundreds of attractive beings there who would want to be anywhere but their cells, dreading the next time they're forced to mate with an old feline! They don't deserve their fate."

“I'll consider it, Haresh," Brolath breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open.

They entered into a vast garden that surrounded the white stone manor that the Emperor called his home. Giant ferns and tropical palms swayed over the pathway that the two walked under as a hidden fan blew, simulating a breeze. The biosphere capping the platform they were on was designed to keep the climate humid and hot, which the Emperor was fond of, contrary to most Regulians who preferred a more arid heat.

“I bet the Lacertan Speaker would love my manor," Haresh chuckled, “if we lose this war, perhaps he'd appreciate it as a gift?"

“The Regulian Empire will triumph," Brolath said firmly.

“We haven't won a single war against them and we had far finer Emperors back then," Haresh leaned against the trunk of a palm tree and closed his eyes. “It's only natural for a child to want to kill their parent."

“What do you mean?"

“Nothing!" Haresh lifted himself off the trunk and began walking down the trail with surprising vigor, playfully swishing his tufted tail behind him. “I didn't invite you here to hear me whine about my regrets! If any of my children overheard us they'd see it as a sign of weakness and assassinate me on the spot!"

“The Imperial Princes would never do such a thing."

Haresh turned around and stared at the Captain incredulously.

Brolath shrugged, “I was just trying to be polite."

“You needn't be. I can't even remember which one is the Crown Prince anymore, couldn't give half a damn! They're all rotten, except for a few good ones, but unless the bad ones all pull a Litho they're not going to inherit anytime soon!"

“The Empire is in good paws."

“Sure, whatever," Haresh sniffed a wilting sand-lily on a thin stalk, looking a little sad as he did, “Brolath, I need your help. I need you to go to Earth."

Brolath's mouth hung open, “Am I being punished? I know we weren't able to track down the rebel's benefactor and-"

“Don't be foolish! You were able to do what the Claw failed to do and I need you to do the same on Earth!" the Emperor huffed with a wave of dismissal. “Truthfully, if it weren't for the fact that we believe a cruise liner or a colonist ship has been compromised, I'd say we could let those disloyal elements leave Regulian space for good! Bon Voyrash, as the humans say!"

“Sedition and disloyalty is a crime."

“Ha ha ha! This is why I can trust you, Brolath! Always the good, loyal cub of the Empire, even when you're given leave to loosen up!" Haresh sighed. “I need someone like that on Earth. The Claw has been struggling with a terrorist plot and I need you to step in."

“I don't understand," Brolath scratched behind his ear, “you're not concerned about disloyal elements fleeing the Empire but you're concerned about a terrorist plot on Earth?"

“It's all in the details about it," Haresh pulled out the datapad and after a few moments of struggling with the thumbpad scanner, began perusing a document, “a mildly toxic gas that effects only Lupiads and Sirians was released in public on Earth. It caused a burning sensation in their mucous membrane."

“Canines have stronger noses, perhaps they just picked up on something we can't?"

“Three Vulpeculans were in the area of effect and were completely unharmed," Haresh swiped across the pad again. “It gets worse. A sample of the gas was captured and analyzed, it's not a natural compound. In fact, it looks like it's almost reverse-engineered from Smart Antibiotics, but instead of being trained to seek out harmful viruses or cancerous cells..."

“It's targeting Lupiads and Sirians, making their noses itch?"

“So to speak. I have on good authority from the finest medical minds of the Empire that such a thing is impossible," the Emperor motioned towards his nostrils with a claw, “there's no major chemical difference between all of the Empire's subject's nasal canals. Swabs were taken and the gas was only present in Lupiads and Sirians, regardless of how distant they were to the bomb, as if it was targeting them from afar."

“Naturally, if I don't give a toss about some stripe-tails wishing to flee the Empire, I wouldn't normally care about some humans giving our subjects the sniffles. But if they're able to accomplish this, something that by all means should be impossible? What else could they do? We're looking at something that could potentially be a super-weapon but the Claw..."

“They're not helping?" Brolath asked.

“They're arresting a lot of suspects, yes, but they're not doing a fine job of arresting the right people," Haresh flipped the pad around, showing a report, “furthermore, I've gotten a report from my cub, Shalth, who is working inside the Claw on Earth, that their recent rebel infiltration schemes have been met with almost total failure."

“It can be difficult for a Regulian to infiltrate a subject's terrorist cell."

“Which leads me into my biggest concern with the Claw. The Claw has members of every subject species in it, many of which hold high positions, and yet they're still unable to infiltrate the humans effectively!" Haresh scoffed and slapped the pad with the back of his paw. “But then you were able to infiltrate that Procyonid cell and dismantle them in such a short period. You were able to learn and adapt to such a strange culture as if it were child's play!"

I didn't understand anything.

“I need you to go there and meet up with Shalth, get him to get you acquainted with the local Claw and form a team. Then you must locate whichever group is behind this, infiltrate them, dismantle their operations, and capture all of their research intact. Do not hand over the research to the Claw, hand it over to Shalth or, if anything happens to him, to me directly. Do not hand it over to the Claw, understood?"

“Understood," Brolath bowed, “this will be quite a journey, but-"

“Your journey starts now, I trust you have no affairs to put in order?"

Brolath thought back to his empty apartment.

“No, nothing of the sort."

“Good!" Haresh lifted the datapad up to his mouth and tapped the side of it. “The Captain has complied. Execute the orders."

“By your will, Emperor," a tinny voice replied.

“We'll book you a first-class room on the Caravan Line, it's leaving tonight for Earth. It will be slower than a military vessel, but the Claw would know right away if you came on one of those. I'd prefer to keep your visit a surprise for now.

“Thank you, your Majesty."

“You'll be given an Imperial Budget to use on mission expenses. It is effectively limitless but try to use some discretion," Haresh swiped on the pad, “I've also given you a personal budget for you to use."

“Pardon me?"

“You look tired, Brolath. A Regulian of your age and standing should have at least one consort to keep you company. Perhaps Earth has one waiting for you?" Haresh cleared his throat. “If need be, you can buy one. Humans are quite attractive, no? Just watch out, they're more manipulative than a damned Vulpeculan!"

“I will keep that in mind, but I intend to return it when the mis-"

“If you don't spend it on something for yourself, I will have you tried for treason!" Haresh's voice was full of dark humor. “I need my Guard in top physical and mental shape! Do it for me, if not for yourself!"

“As you order," Brolath bowed.

Haresh stood up and grabbed Brolath by the shoulders, brushing up the side of his face against the Guard. The Emperor was covered in perfumes that only barely disguised a slight, unpleasant scent of rot. Another organ was failing, perhaps a kidney.

Brolath's face was full of worry as the Emperor broke away from his embrace.

“It's my kidneys again," the Emperor sighed and returned to his datapad, loading up a picture of a totally gray Regulian surrounded by Lupiads posing for a picture. They were all making goofy smiles at the camera and despite the fact that the Regulian was the former Emperor Haresh the Second, the father of the current Emperor, he looked younger and more vigorous than his son. “Never become Emperor, Brolath. It ruins the mind and body. My Father was right to abdicate, but..."

Brolath swallowed.

“Please, get moving," Haresh sat on the concrete rim of a planter, “I would like to be alone."

The Emperor's face was heavy as Brolath left the residences, back into the elevator. When the elevator doors slammed shut, Haresh's eyes were still fixated on the picture on the datapad.

Brolath was left alone with his thoughts as the elevator slid down back into the audience chamber. The same old agonized thoughts bounced around in his stomach along with new anxieties born from his mission and seeing the Emperor in such a state. The Regulian Guard Captains were trusted with the confidence of the Emperor but in return, it meant seeing his Majesty at his most vulnerable.

According to the propaganda broadcasts, the Emperor was vim and vigorous. He was at the peak of his health, able to wrestle a full-grown Regulian half his age into submission, and mated with a new concubine each night in order to establish dominance over the lesser species of the Empire.

Such things were not entirely true. The Emperor's numerous surgeries were obvious if once was given the slightest glimpse of his torso and he would be likely to break one of his arthritic bones if he were to wrestle someone twice his age. He certainly did engage in mating every night, as was required by Regulian tradition, but he was frequently exhausted and required a Guard or another servant to guide the concubine to ride the Emperor.

One could not speak of such things publicly. It was for the greater good of the Empire. One stray word could erode the confidence of the average citizen in the Emperor and that would lead to anarchy, or worse, conquest by the Lacertans.

No, it was better to keep things quiet and Emperor Haresh was a good sorts, there had been far worse than him, as far as Brolath was considered.

When the elevator came to a stop, Brolath stepped out and slipped into the audience hall. Thankfully, the reporters were all gone. Perhaps the Emperor had sent an order on his datapad to have them dismissed, but regardless, Brolath was grateful. After everything that had happened, he wasn't looking forward to getting interrogated by the press.

Brolath stared at the blank column that was to be the Emperor's legacy and his final burial place. The Emperor's father's own column was just a few feet behind it, filled with ornate carvings from head to toe despite the Emperor's lack of any noteworthy events during his reign and the fact that he was still alive, hanging around with a Lupiad pack on Lupus. The panel for his ashes was closed as if he was really dead.

It's a cruel fate, being Emperor.

Your schedule, hobbies, even your love-life was dictated from the moment you inherit the throne. You couldn't even die without it being made into a big affair.

Feeling a little unsettled by the pressure of the audience chamber, Brolath stepped around the Imperial Arch and headed towards the exit. Somehow knowing he was approaching, the Guard opened up the doors for him, allowing him to escape silently.

Something spicy in the air caused Brolath's nose to twitch. Whatever it was, it was overpowering the atrocious cologne that was clinging to his fur.

Sniffing at the air, Brolath tracked it down to a curtain in the dressing room.

“I'm in charge now, you disgusting little bitch!" a voice, Sirian in accent, hissed.

Something cracked sharply and Brolath shoved the curtain aside.

A lanky Sirian with short gray fur and a narrow tail was holding the Eastern Regulian slave by the scruff and forcing him to suckle at the Sirian's tapered cock, his red, veiney knot swollen.

Spotting Brolath, the Sirian narrowed his brown eyes playfully, “Ah, care to join us? Your little faux pas in the chamber got this useless bitch demoted. Look how happy he is now!"

Brolath sighed and shook his head.

“Suit yourself! See you around, I'll be your steward at your next audience, Captain Brolath!"

With a wink, the Sirian grabbed the curtain and drew it shut. Huffing, Brolath stepped away as the Sirian continued to degrade the former steward.

I have no patience for these harem games! By the Emperor, is everyone in the palace completely mad!

Forget them! Just focus on the job. Earth, Smart Anti-biotics, humans...keep your mind straight, you're a Regulian Guard!

Class had been long and very stressful, and all Abel wanted was to get a beer at the campus pub at the Imperial Academy and then catch the shuttle back home.

He had gotten into an argument with his Earth History professor, a bitter, geriatric Regulian whose mane had long since shedded with age. Regnath had warned Abel about him before he attended the Academy but was convinced that he'd be long dead. Sadly, Abel's adopted Father was hopelessly wrong. Professor Rowth was surviving and thriving off of his burning hatred for, as he called them, lesser species, in particular: humans, Lupiads, Sirians, Vulpeculans, Procyonids, Lacertans, Equuleians, Ursines, and Eastern Regulians. The latter of which was why he was stuck teaching at the Earth campus of the Imperial Academy and it was a little ironic as he was only alive because of a heart transplant from an Eastern Regulian.

Professor Rowth had made an exceptionally ignorant and bombastic claim about human history and how all humans lived in mud huts before the Regulians arrived. Abel merely pointed out that this contradicted his story about visiting Earth during the invasion and borrowing a soldier's sniper rifle so he could hunt humans who crossed windows in a local shelter; but that was enough to cause an hour-long argument that just about ended with the Professor mauling Abel like a rabid lion, but the Professor drew upon his Regulian pride and arrogance, calming himself down by loudly dismissing the opinions of lesser species.

It's not like Abel expected the Academy to have a decent Earth History course, but he expected something a little more elaborate in terms of lies. Something that he could proudly and defiantly refute, gaining the applause of his fellow humans. Instead he found himself stuck just saying, “You're wrong," when Rowth said an obvious lie like, “Democracy on Earth never existed and every human kidnapped their sister and married her."

Sighing, Abel sat that the dark, wooden bar and looked over the rows of liquor bottles from across the galaxy. Abel adjusted the shoulder of his college uniform, based on the Imperial Army's cadet uniform, pitch black and with golden trim around the chest buttons, cuffs, and shoulders. Despite being officially part of the military, most of the Academy's programs were civilian in nature; the military aspect was more of a way to get rich layabout Regulian children an honorary military title to advance in society.

Waving the bartender down, a Vulpeculan wearing a tight, neatly starched, black suit from shoulder to ankles; Abel placed his order.

“Chimay Blue and a cheeseburger with fries."

“As you wish, master," the Vulpeculan smiled gracefully. His eyes were light yellow and his looked like soft, golden velvet. If it wasn't for the fact that he was likely property of the Academy, Abel would have been tempted to ask him out one night.

It's okay. The Vulpeculans are our oppressed siblings, Abel reassured himself, as he always did when he found himself attracted to aliens. When we take back the planet, we will free them and stand by them, side-by-side.

Abel was attracted to nearly every alien but there was something degrading about most sexual experiences with them. Regulians, Sirians, and Lupiads, although not true for all of them, liked treating humans as the submissive partner, painfully dominating them with their barbed or knotted cocks. It was too close of a metaphor for the current occupation and it made Abel uncomfortable to an extent that he refused to humor any amorous proposals from them, even when they were attractive.

I must be strong. When Earth is liberated and humanity is free, maybe I can loosen up a little.

A plate rattled and Abel was broken up from his agonized thoughts. A dark beer in a tulip-shaped glass along with a plate carrying a sorry-looking burger and french fries were there. Regulians thought that McDonalds hamburgers were the height of human cuisine, thanks to their taste-buds being heavily salt-biased, so Abel wasn't expecting much.

Abel picked up his napkin and was surprised to see a yellow slip of paper fall out. He called over the bartender.

“I found this in the napkin. Is it yours?"

“It must be yours, master," the Vulpeculan nodded.

“What do you mean?"

“The note was in your napkin, so it must be yours, master."

“I don't-"

“There's an old saying back on Beta Vulpeculae, in the palaces of the Princes," the bartender poured some liquor into a shaker. “A letter quietly given should be quietly read."

“I see."

“Enjoy your food, master."

As the bartender began shaking the mixer, Abel unfolded the note. The ink was red, which to the color-blind aliens would look very similar to the paper it was written on and difficult to read, at least those who didn't have spectrum surgery.

Second Son of Adam,

New Orleans operation confirmed.

Meet at Red Rose on Burgundy Street.

Target: Union Biotech.

Bring weapons.

Destroy this note.

Long live the Terran Confederation!