Repatriation
© 2021 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  Major Matt Mason
Stanislaus Coon, Ivar Vargsson, and The MacRuari of That Ilk are ©  EOCostello



My companion on my last mission, Ivar Vargsson, had a habit of simply sitting comfortably or leaning against any nearby vertical surface, and when I would ask him what he was doing the wolf would reply, “I am awaiting developments, my dear Stanislaus.” This oracular statement might have been followed by the wolf eventually going off in search of food and drink.

Sadly, the food at Detention Facility Number Nine would not have come close to Ivar’s exacting standards. His view of dining as a sacred process would be sorely abused. Well, uninspired the cuisine might have been, but in the words of my friend Lihan Pembroke, “It’ll keep body and soul together.” The corgi had experienced some species of a religious awakening, and prayed to Deus three times a day, always before meals.

I could almost see his point. He had a family, whereas I did not, and he hoped that someday he’d be reunited with them.

So, we awaited developments, Lihan and I, and would play chess while the other inmates discussed and argued about the rumors.

Yes, the rumors had proliferated like cockroaches over the past several weeks or so. I finally plucked up enough courage to approach one of the guards and ask her directly.

Her reply was, “Don’t believe everything you hear,” followed by the ewe smirking as she added, “You of all people should know that.”

The awful part was that she was right. I’d been a police officer before getting seconded to Intelligence, and I had learned that the proper response to rumors is not to take them with a grain of salt, but to reach for the saltshaker.

I refrained from telling Lihan about my encounter.

A few days later, several guards in armor started appearing at various strategic points in the facility, and all of us were ordered to leave our cells and report to the facility’s dining hall. No one was exempt from the summons, which made a few furs grumble, but we filed into the huge room, found seats, and waited.

A small drone came in on artigrav and rose toward the ceiling before its emitters came on, and the holographic image of an okapi femme in uniform appeared, towering over us. “Fair day, all of you. I am Administrator Chen, and I have ordered you all assembled here to make an announcement.

“Negotiations between the Colonies and the Confederation have resulted in an agreement regarding prisoners being held by both sides. We will soon be welcoming delegations from the Confed Government to cooperate with us in sending you all home – “ Anything else she was saying was drowned out by a full-throated cheer from the vast majority of the assembled prisoners, my friend Lihan among them.

There were one or two shouts of “I’m not going!” That was only sensible; some of the crews of the commerce raiders had been culled from military prisons and the ranks of the ‘politically unreliable,’ so you would think that these furs might be wary of returning to the Confed to face returning to prison or worse.

For ‘worse,’ look no further than Ivar’s last resting place.

I turned away as the projection faded to see Lihan sobbing into a swatch of cloth. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose before looking up at me and saying, “It’s the answer to my prayers.”

I smiled. “I’m happy for you, Lihan.”

But I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.


***


It wasn’t a shoe that dropped, but those of us out in the exercise yard that afternoon looked up as a Navy assault lander eclipsed the local sun as it descended from orbit. I’ll be honest; seeing something capable of landing a brigade with all its equipment coming at you from orbit is pretty awe-inspiring.

The craft sported an insignia on its belly: The stylized wreathed globe of Terra in white and light blue, signifying that it was, in fact, a Confederation Navy vessel. It made the ground shake a little when it touched down nearby, outside the facility’s perimeter, and when the first uniformed furs began to appear I was finally convinced that this might really be happening.

Of course, it would also take time, as some of my fellow prisoners learned after they had hastily ‘bashed’ all their hoarded food, gulping it down without much regard for whether it had spoiled or not.

The infirmary saw a number of gastrointestinal cases after that.

Two days later the first inmates started getting escorted from their cells to the facility’s administration building, returning looked very pleased. They were being called by their registration numbers, and since I had been a relative latecomer to Facility Number Nine I would have to wait my turn.

After Lihan Pembroke had returned from his visit to the administration building, we settled down facing each other for a game of chess. He looked happy, and I said so as I moved a pawn to open the battle.

“It was a full medical exam,” the onetime merchant pilot said, “followed by an interview.”

“Interview?”

He nodded as he advanced a knight. “A lot of questions. What ship I was from, what happened, am I being treated well, things like that.”

Another pawn was moved forward. “They just want to be sure.” I glanced up at him. “They don’t want to bring a Colonial spy home with them.”

The corgi chuckled as his other knight sallied forth. “Was that what you did for a living?”

“I neither confirm – nor deny.”

The Confed team was very efficient. Only two days later my cell intercom chimed and a voice said, “Seventy-one six twenty-three?”

I looked up from my bed. “Yes?”

“Get dressed and stand by your door for escort.” I was on my feet before whoever it was finished speaking. I dressed hurriedly, made sure I looked presentable, and was standing at the door when it opened to reveal two armored guards. One brought up a scanner as I extended my right paw, and it verified my identity.

“Come with us, please, Lieutenant.” Now, that surprised me; I hadn’t been called by my rank in quite a while.

I kept my eyes open without being too obvious, taking in the various security measures as we moved from the housing area to the office block and wondering just how daft you had to be to even contemplate escaping. Of course, Ivar might have had a go at it, just for the sport.

Lihan was telling the truth; the medical scan was very thorough, but I was judged to be in good health, albeit a trifle underweight. The radiation and poisoning issues that I’d had when I was first incarcerated were long gone, and the Confed doctor eyed her Colonial counterpart as she thanked him for taking care of me.

After that came the interviews.

“Name?”

“Coon, Stanislaus.”

I couldn’t help noticing the look that the two exchanged. These guys had my service file and bio; what was the problem?

“Rank and posting?”

“Lieutenant, Directorate III of Confederation Intelligence.”

“Have you been treated well here?”

“Yes.” I would have died if they hadn’t.

“What was Counterintelligence doing on the border?” one asked, clearly fishing for information.

The Commander had given us a stock phrase to use, so I used it. “None of your damned business, but one day when you have sufficient clearance, I’ll sit you down and draw you a diagram.”

“Have the Colonies offered you a job?”

“Yes. I turned it down.”

“Why?”

My ears went back. “I don’t turn coats.”

And that, it appeared, was that. I was returned to my cell just in time for dinner.

Pembroke perked his ears at me. “You don’t look pleased.”

“The questions were a bit long,” I said.


***


Finally, the day arrived. We were all issued standard Confed Navy jumpsuits, no rank flashes, and our inmate ID cards were taken away from us. The Colonials deactivated the ID chips in our paws, and this was verified by the Confed before we got to within ten meters of the ship.

Those inmates who didn’t want to go were seen off with a terse “Good riddance” from the stern-faced captain of the ship. The goat femme always looked as if she’d tasted something bad, and it seemed to infect her mood.

The landing ship had been set up with a full hospital and housing areas for us, and as we all settled in the craft shook a tiny but noticeable bit as its artigrav started and we began to ascend.

I was still getting odd looks from the crew when my name was mentioned. No one was telling me why.

After we phased into hyperspace, the repatriation team had us all gather to watch some shows that were being broadcast in the Confed. I was in the mood for some Theater of the Mindless, so I settled back with a drink (sadly nonalcoholic, although beer was available) and some small meaty treats to watch as a show titled Secret Service Fur began.

What the _____?!

The main character was a feline named, no prizes for guessing, Stanislaus Coon, and he was a dashing and good-looking agent for some Intelligence outfit or other that was such an obvious fiction that my suspension of disbelief jumped out of an airlock. I know I never looked that good in my life, and things got worse when it was revealed that the fictional Coon took unacceptable risks, boldly used his right name when dealing with an endless parade of shady characters, and still managed to somehow avoid dying in any number of nasty ways.

His assistant in these endeavors was a wolfess.

A wolfess.

Her name was Ingrid Vargsdottir, and she was stunning in tight leather. A number of my fellows were greeting the sight of her with catcalls and cheers, but not me. I realized something, looking at her.

They had given Ivar tits.

In my mind’s eye, I could almost see my erstwhile partner shudder.

And . . . something snapped.

I started laughing.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

Pembroke looked concerned.

I kept laughing.

Someone tried to stop me, and things got hazy after that.

I think I punched someone, and still kept laughing.

I was told later that I didn’t stop laughing until they’d dragged me to the hospital and sedated me.

And kept me like that.


***


The darkness was soft, and warm, and oh so comfortable. Nice and quiet.

But all good things come to an end, I suppose.

I was drifting upward, toward a light source, and I briefly thought that I’d died before the thought of meeting Oliver Wilk in the afterlife caused me to twitch. The movement demonstrated two things: one, I was quite alive as my breath drew in harshly enough for me to hear it; two, my eyes opened to look upon a fairly mundane ceiling; and three, I seemed to have a great deal of trouble moving my arms and legs.

I must have started struggling, staring around blindly, until a heavy paw came down on my shoulder.

“It’s all right, lad. You’re among friends, so calm yourself.”

The voice was deep, the tone formal but friendly, almost like a favorite uncle.

A voice I thought I’d never hear again outside of my memories.

I looked to my right, then left, blinking until I could focus, and I found myself looking up at Commander the MacRuari of That Ilk. The buck looked down at me and smiled reassuringly. “Hello, Lieutenant,” and I clung to that voice and let it pull me into full consciousness.

“H . . . He . . . Hello, Sir,” I managed. Deus, my throat was dry.

“Not going to start laughing, are you?” he asked, raising one bushy eyebrow. “This is the fourth time we’ve tried to revive you.”

Laughing?

Oh. Oh, yes. I could feel it, bubbling away at the fringes of my mind; was that what madness was? Wilk’s madness had seemed more sober.

I took a deep breath, and then another, and the danger receded. I was going to have to be on my guard about that.

“I . . . I think I’m good, Sir,” I rasped. “May I have some water, please?”

The MacRuari smiled. “There’s a good lad.” He withdrew slightly as two rather massive orderlies approached. “These two gentlemen will remove your restraints, but before they do, I would ask that you restrain yourself. I wish to talk with you, not observe your prowess at paw-to-paw combat.”

“Yes, Sir.” I lay there like a good little kitten, my tail swishing under the covers, as the ‘gentlemen’ removed the straps holding my arms and legs fast to the bed. The bed then elevated until I was sitting upright, leaving me facing a broad window with a view of a forested mountainside. The orderlies withdrew.

A glass of water with a straw was offered to me, and I had to hold the tumbler in both paws for a moment as I drank. After a few deep swallows, I felt better, and placed the glass aside before looking at the window. “Where am I, Sir?”

“Back where you two started,” the buck said, “at a convalescence center we keep for wounded operatives. We’re not far from the Lodge, as a matter of fact.” He sat back down and studied my face with a serious expression. “Let me offer my congratulations, Lieutenant.” He offered a paw.

I took it. “Thank you, Sir, but it was a successful failure.”

“Oh?” The eyebrow lifted again and his ears swiveled. “Tell me.”

“I – “ I felt the paw on my shoulder again. “We didn’t stop Wilk – “

“You slowed him down enough,” the Commander said. “A commendation will be entered in the Classified portion of your file.”

“Ivar . . . “

He nodded. “Vargsson will have his entire record cleared.” He tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “I have my ways.”

I could feel it again, the laughter, and I pushed it down and sat on it. “Yes, Sir.”

The MacRuari smiled again and gestured. Another orderly stepped forward, bearing a tray that held a carafe of single malt, a small carafe of water, and two glasses. “Do you feel up to talking about your mission, Lieutenant?”

Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard Ivar, gently admonishing me to never pass up a chance to deplete The MacRuari’s supply of whisky. “Sir,” I said slowly, “it’d be an honor, but the Kashlani recorded – “ I stopped as the buck raised a finger.

“Very true, and I’ve seen it. But I want to hear it from you; your impressions, your thoughts. Now, fix yourself a whisky and begin when you and Vargsson left aboard the Ed Roth.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said meekly, and as the aide held the tray I poured a measure of whisky and added a few drops of water. I took a deep, savoring sniff of the liquor, took a tiny sip, and asked, “May I ask who put my name on that show? That’s what set me off.”

The Commander chuckled. “That was Herself’s doing. The Confed needs heroes, young fellow, and at the time the Director wasn’t too picky about where she found them.” He sat back, his own drink in his paws, and intoned, “The agent is directed to report.”

I took another sip, and told my tale.



end