Please vote and feel free to comment. Constructive criticism is welcome. Destructive criticism, not so much.
Warning! This story contains depictions of violence toward plants and may be too intense for delicate ferns, vines, or melons. Reader discretion is advised.
No actual plants were trimmed, pruned, cooked, or turned into compost in the making of this story.
Time: Five or six years from now, just far enough in the future for the world to slip farther away from democracy and closer to totalitarianism.
-- 1 --
Big-Dick-1 paced about the bridge of his flagship, the stumps formed from his matted root mass clumping on the deck. The green Botanoid clenched and unclenched the tendrils sprouting from the ends of his irregular vine like-limbs. It wasn't prebattle jitters or nerves of any kind. More impatience. The operation wasn't going smoothly, and it sparked his ire. His thick vine-like limbs twitched in the sleeves of his custom-made tunic. He never wanted to seem out of control unless it served his purpose, and he was getting uncomfortably close to that appearance. Maintaining perfect control of his demeanor helped him project the aura of authority that aided his ascent.
He had risen quickly through the ranks of the military, proving his leadership skills over numerous campaigns as the armada strode across the local arm of the galaxy like a colossus, destroying enemies and innocents alike while plundering world after world. He now held the title 'Supreme Commander of the Imperial Expeditionary Force' thanks to a combination of his legendary exploits and a healthy dose of falsified reports, bribes and blackmail. Skillfully executed assassinations of a few rivals along the way didn't hurt either.
He had one last objective: Plunder a blue, water-covered planet with technologically primitive inhabitants before returning home in triumph. One more victory, and he could leave the military behind and ascend to the ruling council, assuming the rank, Grand-Dick-, three hundred and...,
what was it?
Depending on the most recent accounting of deposed, jailed and assassinated council members, three hundred, forty something.
The scout ships had brought word of this potential conquest, a resource rich jewel in a remote part of the galaxy. The target planet was over seventy percent covered with an average depth of two miles of water, a commodity precious to the empire. The dry surface area was inhabited by competing (warring?) factions of a mid-level industrial population. They were only beginning to experiment with space travel, and other than a few interplanetary probes, didn't appear to have ventured farther than near orbit around their planet.
Surveys indicated the planet had huge stores of silicon, aluminum, iron and magnesium, not to mention sizable amounts of rare semi-conductors, important materials for the empire's industries. Its vast underground reservoirs of liquid fossil hydrocarbons could be used as feedstock for the manufacture of thousands of essential industrial materials.
The Botanoids had evolved from carnivorous plants, and while they were mainly meat-eating bulk feeders now, they still needed to absorb nutrients through their root mass from time to time. The massive deposits of fertile topsoil on the dry land masses would be a welcome addition to the empire's compost farms, easing the burden of feeding a hungry population.
The natives had already discovered the resources and mapped their locations, and once conquered could be used as slave labor to harvest everything worth taking. And then, there was that ridiculous amount of water. It would take a major effort to transport it back to the empire, but that phase of the operation would be somebody else's problem.
He looked at the tactical display of the fleet on the bridge's main viewscreen and scowled with his eyes. His green head was the size and shape of a large cantaloupe, and while not as rigid, had the texture and fibers of a husked coconut, its surface only broken by his beady black eyes and narrow downturned mouth. The otherwise featureless surface couldn't convey emotions, and the Botanoids learned to speak volumes with their eyes.
The fleet's alignment was ragged and uneven, with no balance and little tactical order. A surprise rebellion in a subjugated star system, while easily put down and profitable, delayed their progress and disrupted the mission. The once semi-autonomous subjects now provided the empire with several billion new slaves that required transport. Cargo carriers were reconfigured into slave ships and Big-Dick-1 released two thirds of his force to escort them back to the nearest imperial commerce center. The sixty-five thousand plus ships remaining in the flotilla were more than enough to resume the mission and capture the target planet without breaking a sweat, but they needed to get organized into a proper fighting force and too much time had been wasted already.
While Big-Dick-1 was irritated at the lack of progress he hadn't lost faith in his forces or his ability to lead them into battle. He knew the Botanoids had the best fighters, the best strategy and tactics, the best technology, the numbers and the biggest dicks known to exist in the galaxy. The very sight of their genitals was enough to cause the males of most races to weep with envy and the females to cower in fear. Entire planets acquiesced at a single demonstration of the often-fatal punishment they could inflict with their majestic pricks. As soon as the flotilla made its presence known, the local population would probably surrender without a shot being fired.
Once under the military's control they would be worked, to death if necessary, for the benefit of the empire. When the planet was stripped of its resources, a decision would be made. If the locals proved to be productive slaves, they would be removed and sold; if not, they would be left to starve on whatever husk was left of the planet.
With his frustration building and his patience nearing an end, Big-Dick-1 tapped the com system and growled, "Department chiefs, my conference room,
now!
"
-- 2 --
Brian got out of the shower and assessed his reflection as he shaved. The muscle tone he developed over the winter was beginning to fade. The weather was nice now and it was always tempting to do something outside instead of working out indoors, but if he didn't want to get any softer, he knew he needed to get back to the gym. At least he wasn't gaining weight. He washed the rest of the shaving cream off his face and again wondered about growing his facial hair. He had average features and thought a mustache or short beard would make him look more dynamic, but so far hadn't had the patience to grow either. As he styled his short dark hair, he made mental note about needing a haircut and hoped he could remember to do something about it when he had the time.
He changed his routine this week. Instead of his usual Friday night hunting at the singles bars, he went to a party hosted by Tom, a friend of his from collage. The bar scene was getting him nowhere and he thought maybe he'd have better luck in a different environment. Brian arrived, fashionably late as usual, with the party already in full swing. He shook Tom's hand and exchanged pleasantries as he gave a quick hug to Tom's wife Susan. Looking at Tom, he noted how well his short beard worked with his curly red hair and again, briefly thought about growing one as Tom took him around and introduced him to a few of the other guests. Brian engaged in small talk and tried to memorize names, especially the names of several attractive women Tom presented.
One of Tom's coworkers, with a rare Friday night off accepted an invitation, also wondering if she could meet someone interesting. Tom and Brian walked up behind the her as she participated in an animated discussion with a couple of the other guests. Only seeing her from the back, Brian decided he wasn't interested. She was tall, easily as tall as his five-foot-eleven and the mane of wavy, voluminous, tousled hair spilling over her shoulders looked disheveled. Her trim body was impressive, but the total package wasn't what he was looking for. Tom was set on introducing her, so Brian decided he'd go with the flow, thinking it won't hurt to learn her name; maybe she'd have a sister or a girlfriend more to his liking.
Tom said, "Brian I've got somebody I want you to meet. I think you two attended the same high school, which one was it? South Central? Doesn't matter." He gently tapped her on the shoulder and teasingly called her name, stressing each syllable with a sing-song intonation, "Gen - ah - vieve". She turned around, frowning, with her lips pursed in exasperation as he began the introduction.
"Tom, you know I don't go by--"
"This is Jenny. Jenny, this is--,"
Jenny's eyes lit up and her mouth gapped open in surprise. No,
disbelief.
She leapt forward, wrapping her arms around Brian's neck pressed the sides of their faces together and screamed "BRIAN!" loud enough to make his ear hurt.
Brian wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. "My God! Jenny!"
Tom finished his introduction, "--Brian. But something tells me you already knew that."
Releasing the hug, Brian explained, "Yes, we went to the same high school, but we've actually been friends since before junior high."
Jenny added, "Until we both left for collage and lost touch, that is." Turning to Brian, she said, "I ought to kick your butt for not letting me know you were back in town."
Tom warned, "Watch out, she's a black belt!"
Brian said, "I guess I should have tried to find you, but I didn't think you were back either."
Tom said, "OK, I've got to go mingle. Looks like you two have some catching up to do."
They tried to continue the conversation, but somebody had turned up the music making it difficult to hear. The look on Jenny's face indicated she was just as aggravated with it as Brian was. Giving up, he said, "Do you want to go somewhere quieter where we can talk?"
