First Contact

T'Nok was born a warrior caste male. As large as a Terran warborg at just over three meters, his blade arms were thick and highly honed, his gripping hands were strong, and his legs were thick and powerful. Before the P'Thok Liberation he would have undoubtedly been eaten during his first mating, his coloration and physique and intellect making him highly desirable. His cranium was well developed and his school scores put him at the top of his classes. The tattoo on his abdomen from the Bongistan University of Lumbering Meat Beast Ford was a source of pride for him and his sash proclaimed to every female and male who saw him that he was not only a prime physical specimen but his intellect made him highly desirable. The fact that he was a reknown crysteel architect made him wealthy and highly sought after to grow the elaborate living crystal domiciles the higher caste females so preferred. More than a females would see him and clean their bladearms while they stared at him.

Which was why he was glad that birth control and ice cream was a thing. He liked his head.

He had been designing a particularly challenging birthing chamber for a shipping company matron and decided to go out and enjoy a bowl of ice cream, perhaps even a banana split, to relax and sweep load bearing computations from his mind. On the trip in his comfortable travel-disc he loaded his favorite game and spent time arranging coins just right for a virtual Terran monkey to grab as it bounced off of walls and objects. It helped discharge the formula from his datalink implant and reset his nervous system.

The ice cream parlor that he preferred was high end and upscale. The bench seats were made of red dyed animal skins in an arcane process that produced soft but firm red leather. All of the edges of surfaces were made of chrome. Each table had a delightful radio that ensured that those sitting at the booths could listen to old style Treana'ad music as the waitresses, wearing large wigs and elaborate white costumes, would roll around on the skates on all four of their legs. He liked the coloration of the ice cream artist working that day, her skill with carving ice cream floats with her sterilized bladearms made him hum in satisfaction.

The sight of the backdrop, showing a Treana'ad on a long board, balancing with an ice cream cone in one hand and a cigarette on the other, as he used the board to skim along the inside of an ocean wave, reminded him that he was going to go foot-disc or foot-board surfing with some friends next week. He double-checked his implant to make sure the appointment was locked in. His friends had all certified their RSVP's and while he waited for the waitress he made sure to order high quality bonfire wood, special order ice cream, and actual Terran Dark Continent Wonderbeast steaks to cook over the open flame.

The waitress took his order, a rainbow tower of sherbet, left him a complimentary cigarette and book of matches, and skated away, tapping her bladearms together in tune with the jaunty song that was playing.

"Hey, T'Nok," came a voice.

Crap, it's J'Vik, T'Nok thought to himself. He found the other Treana'ad somewhat boorish, with poor taste in ice-cream and worse taste in poetry that he tried to inflict upon everyone around him. The problem was, like T'Nok, J'Vik was warrior-caste born, which meant that T'Nok had to be at least polite to him in public. Only J'Vik fancied himself a 'warrior poet' and suffered a fundamental misunderstanding of what that actually meant.

T'Nok looked up and saw that J'Vik was wearing a beatnik on his head. One of those flattened hats the humans called berets. Which T'Nok thought was funny, since the phonetic sounds of 'beret' meant 'delicious looking' in his native language.

Only J'Vik would walk around proclaiming that his head looked delicious with his hat, T'Nok mused, managing to keep from laughing by lighting a cigarette.

The other male sat down and T'Nok made a mental bet with himself that the other male would try to stick T'Nok with the tab.

"Did you hear the news? Everyone is talking about it," J'Vik said, completely unaware of the three barely mature females in the next booth over snickering about his hat and wondering if his head was as delicious as J'Vik was claiming. All three of them had the shiny carapaces of someone who had molted within the last week.

Two of them were wondering if they should lure the 'warrior poet' back to their nests, share him, and then discuss on the satisfaction they got from the taste, consistency, and volume of J'Vik's head.

T'Nok calmed his anxiety over the three females, who would undoubtedly eat a male's head, birth control or no birth control, just because their just matured primal instinct told them too, and enjoy a nice bowl of chocolate fudge cheesecake ripple afterwards.

Barely mature females were dangerous, everyone knew that, but there was always 'That Guy' who thought that his head was armor plated.

All of his life T'Nok had been careful not to be 'That Guy'. He'd known a few.

J'Vik definitely fell in the "That Guy" category.

"I have been busy with my work. My client is most eager for me to complete my work," T'Nok said, exhaling smoke through his forward legs.

"Got a smoke?" J'Vik asked.

"Alas, I did not bring a pack along. Perhaps when you order?" T'Nok said.

"Here, I have one," one of the females said, leaning over the back of the bench and offering a menthol cigarette. "You can have it," she said, staring at J'Vik's beatnik.

The other two slowly cleaned their bladearms with their mandibles, their compound eyes sparkling as they watched their friend offer the cigarette.

"Thank you, pretty," J'Vik said, fluttering his antenna at the female.

She turned around with a titter and rubbing her wings together, looking smugly at her two companions, as J'Vik lit the menthol.

Don't be That Guy, T'Nok thought to himself.

"I'm surprised you didn't hear. It's pretty big news, especially for your caste," J'Vik said somewhat smugly.

"You are too concerned with castes," T'Nok said, shaking his head. "We are free of castes."

"Mm-hmm,' J'Vik said, making T'Nok want to roll his eyes but his eyes weren't designed in such a way. "Easy for you to say."

J'Vik preened for a moment.

Oh, warrior, who has everything he pleases

Cannot I have a bowl that you have not cleaned

For I am but a worker

In this society of ours

J'Vik said. He preened for a moment, ignorant of the giggling of the three females and the flat out laughter from two matrons watching over a clutch of a dozen little hatchlings.

"I wrote that," J'Vik said.

"You're not worker caste," T'Nok reminded him.

"Poetry transcends caste," J'Vik said, smugly cleaning his antenna with his bladearms.

T'Nok tapped his bladearms in a shrug. "I am not one for poetry," T'Nok said. Not quite true, he quite enjoyed Hard Core Rigellian Saurian Gangster Rap. He particularly enjoyed the recent poetry-song 'I got yer eggs right here, suckah' by the Big Tail Ganstas.

"You caste often is not," J'Vik said. "Still, I would have thought that you would be excited by the news."

T'Nok gave a sigh. "What news?"

"The Confederacy voted to go to war this morning," J'Vik said, excitement in his voice.

T'Nok froze. He had to close his opaque eye-shields for moment as the horror rolled through his mind. History requirements in school had ensured he'd been exposed to plenty of media he would have preferred to avoid.

Only someone like J'Vik would be happy that uncounted sentient beings will kill each other, he thought to himself.

"You're excited, I can tell," J'Vik said. "I knew that news would speak to you and excite you."

"Have you ever been to TerraSol?" T'Nok asked carefully. He signalled one of the waitresses to bring him a pack of smokes, changed his mind, and asked for a powersmoker, a 'vape' as the humans called it along with a swamp-apple flavored cartridge.

J'Vik gripped his hands together in a frown. "Why? Oh, because the Terrans will undoubtedly be fighting in the war?"

T'Nok had to resist the urge to hold the smaller male down and allow the three females to eat his head.

"I take it you'll be signing up right away?" J'Vik asked.

T'Nok managed not to sigh, turning and thanking the waitress for the power-smoker and tipping her a handful of credits for her ability not to snicker at J'Vik's beatnik.

"Why would I do that? I don't know one end of a power-rifle from the other," T'Nok said, shrugging again. "I'm sure the Confederate Military can get along just find without me dropping my rifle and accidentally shooting off my own genitals."

That made the three girls snicker as they slowly cleaned/sharpened their bladearms, still staring at J'Vik's hat.

"But the Confederacy is going to war," J'Vik actually sounded confused that T'Nok hadn't jumped up, ran out into the parking lot, and immediately fired off a power-rifle into the air.

"Which is a profession and activity best left to skilled professionals," T'Nok shrugged. "The closest I've been to warfare is I watched the episode of The Nitrogen Seven when they robbed the Terran Army base only to discover that they'd just stolen a bunch of Terran pornographic magazines instead of the Commander's secret ice cream recipe, and that series is a Tri-Vid comedy."

"Well," J'Vik preened with smugness for a moment. "I heard they're going to start a draft. I'm sure such a prime specimen of the warrior caste such as yourself will be right at the top of the list."

T'Nok shook his head. "A draft is as likely as," he stopped himself from saying 'You writing decent poetry' and instead got out "the Digital Omnimessiah appearing in the bathroom to bless the faucets."

The females giggled to each other.

"It's all the talk on the Net Boards," J'Vik said.

"I would suggest not spending so much time on the Boards," T'Nok scoffed. "Just last week you were telling me that there was going to be a chocolate shortage by now, but here we are and the prices are the same."

"Peak chocolate is real," J'Vik said, straightening up, his wings rubbing in anxiety.

"Pfft, you sound like a Precursor," T'Nok said. "There is only enough chocolate for me."

The girls snickered again.

"Well, of course, you wouldn't notice any shortages. Your caste never does," J'Vik said.

T'Nok took a long pull off of the power-smoker and exhaled through his legs, feeling irritation rise up.

If we were still having castes, I'd tear your bladearms off by now, he thought to himself. No, not my education, not my years of study and hard work even sacrificing social gatherings, but no, it's all my caste, all my coloration and size. It doesn't even matter we're the same caste to you.

"Hmmph, you're feeling annoyed because you know I'm right," J'Vik said, his antenna flicking with smug assurance.

"You realize you're warrior caste too," T'Nok pointed out. He didn't point out that J'Vik would have been eaten as a hatchling if the caste system was still in place.

J'Vik might have been warrior caste but his coloration was poor, he was small for a male, and his vestigial wings were off pitch when he rubbed them. Worse than that, his poetry was execrable and he had put off education to create poetry and live off of his parent's wealth.

That made J'Vik sit quietly for a moment. The waitress came by and J'Vik ordered a triple chocolate destructor bomb with double-fudge.

She didn't leave a complimentary cigarette and T'Nok almost busted out laughing.

"When are you signing up for the war?" J'Vik said once both of their ice cream had been delivered. The three barely mature females had ordered half-bowls and were giggled to each other, still eyeing J'Vik's head. J'Vik, of course, started eating his ice cream like it was going to vanish while T'Nok savored his, letting it partially melt and mix properly.

"Never. Me joining the military would be suspected of an enemy plot," T'Nok answered. "I would be so incompetent as a warrior they would suspect me to be an enemy agent."

"I figured you'd be braver," J'Vik said, pushing his empty bowl away. "Where's your caste pride?"

That made T'Nok sit up straight, reaching for the power-smoker to mask his pheromones of anger. "Don't go there, J'Vik. You and I are the same birth-caste, but that does not give you the right to insult me."

"Insult is never given only taken," J'Vik quoted, sounding smug. "I thought a prime example of the warrior caste such as yourself would be more inured against perceived insults."

Really? Quoting Terran stoicism at me? Well, let's see about that. I've about had it with your subtle insults, T'Nok thought, not bothering to pick up the power-smoker in order to let the other male realize how angry T'Nok was.

"J'Vik, if you feel your ability to attract mates is so threatened by my very existence to the point of attempting to goad me into joining a profession I would be incompetent at, in hopes I would be killed in some far off struggle, then perhaps you should attempt to reconcile that with the obvious issue that you are too cowardly to sign up to go to war despite being warrior caste yourself," T'Nok said, tapping the edge of his spoon on the bowl.

Every female in the ice cream parlor, even the waitresses, burst out laughing. The high pitched squeals, the humming of wings, even the chirping of matrons rubbing their back legs together filled the parlor.

J'Vik went completely still.

Finish him! T'Nok heard in his mind and he tapped his ice cream bowl with a bladearm tip making it ring as he continued speaking, delivering the final bladearm thrust.

"I'm sure if the enemy attacks you can drive them off with that detestable whining you insist is poetry that you instead inflict upon us all every time you see another male that appears to be content with his own life due to the glorious fact that he is not you," T'Nok finished.

Even the other males joined in with the laughter.

"Ice pack for table nine to treat that burn!" A male called out.

"Confederate statutes don't allow you to own someone like that!" a female laughed.

"Quick, molt your shell and run off before he realizes your husk isn't you!" another female giggled.

Someone threw the image of J'Vik up on the ice cream parlor's display with the caption "LOCAL MALE MURDERED BY WORDS" underneath. The image of J'Vik looked up as a shadow covered him just in time to be crushed by the words "U R PO-EHT!"

J'Vik didn't move the entire time, pheromones of anger rolling off of him.

The three barely mature females sniffed the air and perked up, clicking their mandibles and rubbing their bladearms together in excitement. One dipped the tip of her bladearm in the ice cream in front of her and carefully cleaned it as she stared at J'Vik's head.

When the laughter died J'Vik slowly looked around, then back at T'Nok.

"You're caste..." he started loudly.

"We're the same birth-caste, J'Vik," T'Nok answered slightly louder. T'Nok held up his gripping hands and flexed his fingers.

"Insult is only taken never given," T'Nok quoted back.

"How dare you insult me in such a manner," J'Vik said. "That quote is not meant for someone intentionally insulting someone the way you have."

"Put up," T'Nok said, raising his gripping hands and flexed his fingers. He flexed his wrists. "Or shut up," T'Nok finished.

J'Vik clattered out of the booth. "A Gripping Hand Challenge it is, then, T'Nok. In the parking lot. Right now."

"Traditionally I would choose the location," T'Nok said, moving out of the bench seat. "But that's fine with me."

J'Vik was opening and closing his gripping hands, obviously trying to impress everyone with his grip.

The matrons, mature females, and the three just mature females all hurried out of the ice-cream parlor with almost unseemly haste. The mixing of anger pheromones of two males making the veins in their wings flush with blood.

Even the waitresses and ice cream sculptors came out.

The males of course, hung back. Not wanting to get involved.

A matron, a half-dozen small hatchlings hanging on her abdomen, moved forward with grace and elegance. She sniffed at the air, tasting the anger pheromones in the air.

"Can this only be settled by challenge and not a cigarette and conversation?" She asked. "Perhaps a cigarette or two will mask the scent of your anger and allow you to discuss your emotions with more cultural maturity than you are feeling now?"

"If J'Vik wishes to submit I will accept," T'Nok said, looming over the smaller warrior-caste male.

Several of the females breathed deep.

"Insulted I have been

"Words cutting most cruel

"I will not remain

"Insulted without response," J'Vik quoted poetry that made several of the females snicker. He looked around almost smugly. "I created that."

More giggles and J'Vik went rigid.

"Gripping hand challenge it is," the matron said. The little ones one her back raised up their bladearms in joy, their immature minds reacting to the angry pheromones in the air.

One had ice-cream on his head, between his eyes.

T'Nok held still as J'Vik moved into position. They locked hands, interlacing fingers. Their bladearms clashed, held away from each other's bodies and pointed away from one another.

The matron lifted up a handkerchief and waved it between the two males.

Several cars had stopped to watch. Challenges were exciting to witness. They were less common over the last few centuries, but still occured with enough frequency that they could not be outlawed.

The handkerchief fell from her hand and danced away on the breeze. The larger of the three just-mature females hurried over and picked it up, bringing it to her face and inhaling deeply as she moved back over to her friends and passed it to the next biggest one.

T'Nok didn't notice. He just locked his wrists and tensed his fingers as he pushed out and down with his bladearms.

You're grip is nothing. I used to play this with my drunk frat-brothers in Bongistan, T'Nok thought to himself as the other male squeezed tightly, attempted to twist T'Nok's wrists backward, and pushed ineffectively with his bladearms.

Getting a Doctorate in Architectural Engineering with a minor in Materials Science had required over a decade of study, and during that time T'Nok had tempered his natural aggressiveness by socializing with his Terran Descent Human school mates.

A matron tittered as J'Vik had to open his wings slightly to breathe as he kept struggling to move T'Nok's wrists or bladearms.

"Yield," T'Nok ordered. The sun was shimmering down, warming him, and the sweetness of the day's nitrogen level gave him strength.

"No," J'Vik's feet ground against the tarmac as he attempted to lean into the gripping contest. The way his back feet scrabbled on the pavement made several females giggle and the smell of his anger increased.

T'Nok began to bring his hands forward, squeezing tightly.

He knew that J'Vik had figured that T'Nok's grip would be weak, that T'Nok spent his days working with architecture and computer programs.

T'Nok also shaped the crystal of his creations with his own hands rather than robots. The tiny imperfections is what gave his works their beauty.

J'Vik's hands began to bend back and his bladearms were forced down and outward to the point of pain and still T'Nok just stared at the other male as he increased the pressure.

J'Vik's legs gave out and he crashed to the ground, giving a high keen of pain. T'Nok released his hands and stepped back as J'Vik moaned and lifted his hands and arms protectively against his thorax. The thick sour smell of defeat emanated from defeated male.

The matron stepped forward, an ornate and bejeweled power-smoker held up to her mandibles with one beringed hand as she inhaled deeply and expelled smoke from her legs and abdomen. The smoke covered the two males, wiping away the smell of anger, contention, and defeat.

"Thank you, your grace," T'Nok told the wealthy matron.

"Of course," she replied. The little ones on her abdomen raised their bladearms and gave small shrieks of victory to him.

"And thank you, little ones," T'Nok said.

The three just matured females, their just-molted carapaces shining and glittering in the sun, rushed forward to comfort J'Vik.

The gathered Treana'ad moved back into the ice cream parlor, gossiping about what they'd just seen, many of them showing one another the recordings they'd made of the contest, admiring one another's angles or artistic filters.

T'Nok was thinking. He had been struggling with nitrogen release in the garden of the birthing chamber. Enough to encourage the eggs to hatch and the grubs to mature, but not exposing it to the air or depend too much on computerized systems.

Tantervellian ferns. They uptake, fix, and release nitrogen on a steady pattern, he mused as he returned to his table.

The ice cream parlor's central air system had cleared away the heavy pheromones of anger and T'Nok sat down, moving the holo-emitter from next to the radio to the center of the table. He transferred his planning file to the holo-emitter and idly moved things around with one bladearm as he slowly ate and savored his ice cream.

J'Vik left with the three females, who were comforting and praising him. One of them had a fancy hover-disc, painted bright attention getting hyper-blue with ultra-violet accents. All four of them sat on the comfortable seats and the bigger female activated the privacy screen as the hover-disc floated away.

Paying attention to his work, T'Nok didn't notice J'Vik leaving or the interested looks from the females. He went through another bowl before he was finished, leaning back and looking at the chamber. The ferns provided just the right edging. The grubs, which would burrow under the ground and eat roots, would avoid the ferns due to dirt, sticking to the sand of the middle of the chamber.

It would give the chamber the right nitrogen cycle in the right levels without requiring HVAC systems that the matron was concerned might harm her grubs.

On the way home, relaxing in his hover-disc, one of the public warning billboards caught his eye.

J'Vik was featured prominently.

Below him a scrolling banner read: "UNCONTROLLED EMOTIONS KILL! DON'T LOSE YOUR HEAD LIKE HE DID! 836 LOST IN THIS CITY THIS WEEK ALONE! SMOKING SAVES LIVES!"

Right as he passed the huge sign a stamp appeared across J'Vik.

"DON'T BE THAT GUY!"

T'Nok laughed all the way home.