Keegan found himself back in his quarters before the Patrol was drawn to the scene he'd just caused. In breathless thanks he leaned against the inside of the hatchway, escape completed as if by rote, a mindless and unremarked retreat to safety. It wasn't like the fox to get careless, drop his typical caution so outrageously, not even in the midst of a celebrational binge. That he'd slipped away so easily was at least some consolation, proof of instinct still alive to save his own pelt.
He wasn't even drunk. Not really.
But a low profile had always been his single best asset, Keegan knew: preserve anonymity, remain below the radar. Without that, an immortal fox in the midst of mortals would be nothing short of a target. He felt himself drop into a protective crouch within again, his attempt to relax failing inexplicably. At least in his rooms, he'd always felt safe before.
He tried not to think of the Healer in green.
Self-preservation was second-nature to Keegan, as natural to a fox as his coat, and even pride didn't touch that spot. There was simply no mark or sting from the beating he'd taken, no trace of shame or humiliation at having been cast, stunned yet untouched, against a far bulkhead by a casual pawpass from a furre so much smaller than he. Keegan knew when to fall flat, play dead - give in to survive. One simply doesn't live three centuries by insisting on his rights, he knew that in his tail. Pride is a fatal risk factor against longevity.
The smart he did feel was of chagrin, a self-effacing stupidity which burned beneath the fur of his face at letting himself be drawn into something that was none of Keegan's concern. Heroics are for obituaries.
And he hadn't challenged the small fur in robes out of some sense of justice or obligation - certainly not from protectiveness or pity for the small cougar kit over whom he'd spied the hooded one. Those things he'd outgrown at least a couple hundreds of years ago. Keegan was a realist, and long practice kept him from those sorts of illusions. He'd had kits before - hard not to, skipping from life to life through the centuries as he had - and he knew it wasn't misplaced affection that had caused him to attack. Nor any specious sort of social rightness, morals. But what had been the cause, the fox himself didn't know.
Something worse gnawed his hackles.
It wasn't nothingness unseen within the small furre's hood that troubled the fox, but what he himself felt, back and front and in the air around him. The barrier, the shield hadn't been outside him, something to struggle and strive and define identity against. Indeed, the force that held him bound and stunned with the Traveler's counterattack was deceptively, mockingly internal. It taunted him with the most subtle of devices, whispered to Keegan the fatal secret. He'd been held paralyzed, by external control of own fear, a puppet on the most unbreakable of invisible threads.
Keegan could deal with defeat, knew when to flee. Judicious cowardice is simply survivalism. He just couldn't stand helplessness.
The fox poured another drink, tossed it back easily. The Scotch went down more comfortably than his recent rout. The second round was even better.
Keegan didn't feel drunk, just pleasantly energized and light now. With the ebb of adrenaline from his veins, that benevolent panic which had more often than not saved his sorry hide, and the replacement of that precious stimulant with volumes of ethanol, he remembered the turn of fortune which had set him to such good cheer in the first place. Lazarus' news was just the thing to liven him up again. A full Directorship on the Family Corporation!
And, anyway, it was still his birthday! Perhaps he'd go out later, cruise the lounge for company, a vixen with whom to continue his celebrations. Discreetly. It would help him pass over his potentially fatal faux pas, almost getting caught out for what centuries of Long Family genetics made him.
The Healer resumed lotus upon the quiet hassock in the corner of his room. His errand, so interestingly interrupted, was an unsatisfying anomaly in his perfect stream of peace. He'd fetched comestibles, more than his wont after the unexpected stress. Even now it was all turning to colors and swirls, his memories of the events. If he ever again saw the cougarboy, he'd surely not remember him.
He spread paws over fruit and cheese, wine, bread and oil, infusing them with eternal radiation.
Krishna giggled as he ran, high and light as an adventurous feather on the newest of spring breezes, along the deserted rear passageway. He was so sure Tad was about to pounce him back there! That would have been fun, too! He sensed Tad wasn't following anymore, and a dimming as by a cloud came over him, then a deliciously teasing thought of going back - of pouncing... Tad! Krish giggled, thinking how cool that would be!
On he ran.
Telegrand's tail lashed with helpless frustration. Never had he been so trapped before. It burned him through like a laser.
"Do you have a clue where we are, Bridget?" He felt himself begging her help, tried to conceal it in his voice. His jaw was so firm he thought his fangs might crack.
The ligna feline shook her head slightly, a frugal motion, non-committal and abdicating. "Looks like the insides of a ship, boss. I think we've been Jonahed."
Telegrand shook his mane, anger working over shock. "But how? And by whom?" He wanted to shout, felt he'd come apart if he did so.
"By whom:", began Secundus, with great surety, less self-confidence. "We might assume by the furson or fursons pursuing us. How: they completed a probability jump, ending smack in the same 5 dimensions as we occupy."
Bridget cocked her head, considering.
"As to the method of this fete, and just how they knew just where we'd be - and precisely when - that, I don't know." The second officer shook her head, in disbelief and admiration, even as she finished.
Primus nodded grudging concurrence. "Bridget, does the inertial navigation system show any anomalies? Is there any sign of sudden acceleration, like the instant we were engulfedby the other ship? Perhaps if we've been moved, it should show." Telegrand turned to his exec, Primus watching him carefully. The First Officer counted coup, with no thought to the moment.
Bridget read her indicators. "Nope, no such noise. But it tracks only the most common three dimensions. So we can assume we're in the same spot in space, and haven't been time-warped or anything, can we?"
Telegrand's brow knotted. It made sense, dark and final. Any technology advanced enough to straddle dimensional barriers, and gobble a moving ship in probability flight, could certainly be expected to tesser through a fourth dimension, time.
It wasn't only a question of where they were, but also: when.
"Bridget," he ordered. "We've got to think about getting out." It seemed so much simpler than wondering where - when - they were. The directness was comforting, a litte. At a snort from Primus, he saw his folly. "Or - if we can't get out, we've got to think about defense. Are the weapons up? Can we cut our way out of the whale?"
Bridget's paws came down upon the engine controls, priming the system for heavy draw. The deck began to rumble as the reactors came to full power. Or tried.
"Tele, we're at overload point, but there's nothing going to the weapons. The engines are running near bursting, but there's no power!"
"Is the repair on the weapons system holding?"
She nodded. "System's ok. Just getting insufficient power from the reactors."
"Damper field?" The negalion's tail lashed again, frustration and helplessness showing despite himself. He sensed they were caught fast, tighter than they yet knew.
He didn't like it a bit.
"I don't see it on my instruments," returned Primus, verifying. "But then, an energy damper is like a black hole: by its very nature, you can't see it."
The captain nodded. "Ok, we can't cut our way out. Any ideas?" He searched faces, trusting that between them they'd find a way. He'd just run out of ideas.
Secundus spoke up. "There's something we might try, shield expression. Bridget, are the shields still operable?"
The executive officer indicated the affirmative.
"Well, what you do is create a shield region around the ship, a sphere or so, as for normal battle. Then you expand it, rapidly. Explosively. It would burst through the hull of the ship that's got us, like a chick breaking out from an egg."
Tele grinned. "Great! Let's do it!"
Primus snorted, a sneer audible in voice cutting across his muzzle. He directed short venom at Secundus, who had been forgetting her place of late. "Wouldn't work. Look -" here he formed a hollow ball with paws. "As the shield sphere expands, power falls off with the cube of the distance, diameter. As it gets bigger, it gets weaker, too. There's not enough power in storage, and the engines aren't giving us what we need. Second Officer, I'd appreciate if you don't..."
Bridget nodded. She'd spent most of the battery power, too, in their last salvo. She felt she should come to the aid of Secundus, though. The mus had only been trying.
Telegrand cut in. "Well, for the moment we're safe. Near enough. They'll - whoever they are - they'll contact us. Or attempt to board. Until then, let's fall back to defense mode." He was surprised at how easily the decisions came. And held it suspect as blatant uselessness, the folly of resistance.
"Captain," reported Secundus, coming to attention without a glance at Primus. "Short of engine power, the external shields won't operate. And the hatches, we blew them into space during the counterattack. They'll come, whoever's out there; there's naught to stop them. If we've got to repel boarders, we're going to have to do it the old fashioned way."
Tele nodded. "Right. What do we have for weapons?"
The bridge crew of mus came to attention, drawing light sabers.
It was sudden, and totally unexpected. Telegrand stood taller, that pride which is fear trembling his veins.
"And we've got a couple of sidearm blasters," Primus added. From his tone, it was obvious what he thought of so pedestrian a means of killing.
Telegrand realized he hadn't held their "issue" Raytheon 505's in his paws in years. Even as an informal distributor of the galaxy's most prized recreational substance, fursonal combat with weapons wasn't in his CV.
If he had to defend his ship, he thought, this would be the crew he'd choose.
"Right. Ok."