Skricket's Tails, part 1

Skricket's Tails, part 1

The first work of fiction on this blog, it's just a bit of fun. More serious stories are in progress. However, this mini story should give you a taster of some game rules to come... not just a new ship, but a new(ish) race...

"Not your tails, your BACKS!!" Gunleader Skricket screeched. Honestly, give a rat a tail and it forgets it has any other muscles. The turnover of slaves on labour crew was always so high, it was teacher day every day. One of the lashers swung at and tore the back off a rat on the safety lock crew. Skricket scowled. Lashes were best kept as a threat and saved for dramatic effect. He twisted his tuft of whiskers, considering whether to rebuke the lasher, when Deckleader Garitti yelled from behind "get-get a move on Skritchit! Can't you control your own slaves?!"

Skricket bristled at the humiliation. He stuck his nose in the air and sniffed haughtily, as if the supervision of a higher rank was unnecessary and a waste of his time. Just as he was mulling over plan Kill-Garitti-And-Take-His-Job-Version-6B-Attempt-Two, alarms and sirens bleated overhead and an incomprehensible voice snarled something over the voice box.

Skricket swaggered to the nearest viewport, grabbed a nearby ratling and wiped the filfth off with it, then nodded smugly as if the three approaching green-thing ships were just as he suspected. He marched towards his turner-rat lashers and squealed coordinates. A third-nail on the left hand angle of fire would be sufficient, as the enemy was banking. He smirked at his own cleverness. Not many gunleaders understood fire control well enough to measure angles of fire.

One of the shouters, with an oozing scar for a left ear, was a little slow at passing on the order to the fourth wheel-team, so Skricket shot him and called for a replacement volunteer. A big black-eyed rat had a guttural snarl which was mightily impressive, so Skricket gestured his promotion in the haughtiest arm-wave he could. Black-eyes took well to the passing on of orders, but he was very large for a slave-crew, so Skricket decided to keep an eye on him.

All this took place in the fifteen seconds it took for three hundred slaves to pull, run on, yank, jump on, dangle and gnaw at the aiming wheels enough to turn the cannon as per Skricket's instructions. One rat got stuck in the breech, never mind, its gore would provide a good lubricant for the seal. Another couple got fingers trapped and howled with pain, but never mind, the slaves would dine well on damaged comrade flesh, and slaves were easily replaced.

Skricket, of course, considered himself the most valuable rat on the ship. Norat else could run a gun like him. He sighed and leant on a control panel. The order for the deck fire should come from Deckleader Garitti. The order to fire came barely three seconds after Skricket's gun was ready, but not before Skricket had elaborately raised an eyebrow and stage-whispered "gun's ready, where's the deck order?."

At least three of his officers glanced curiously up at Garitti. Skricket smirked inside. He was a veteran at this game. Constant suggestion of his superior's ineptitude and quiet assertion of his own superiority would maintain the respect of his underlings, as far as any rat could truly respect an officer anyway, maybe just enough to keep him alive another shift...