A Christmas Cactus for the General: IMP Universe, #1

Chapter One

Exile

So much water. General Teer checked the boards again, but he had read his instruments correctly. In the entire vast universe, there were bound to be planets such as this one, but his Irasolan brain refused to accept it. So much water.

Granted, much of it was saline, but those huge salt-laden expanses drove weather patterns. There would be rain more than once every few years. Enough rain that plants grew on the surface, huge plants in some cases, the likes of which he could not have imagined in dreams.

Oxygen levels ran a bit high, the average temperature too warm for comfort. I have only two choices remaining, though: acclimate or die. Perhaps it would be better…

No. His Exalted Keeropness had taken that from him. Denied an honorable execution and sent into exile, his last shred of honor would burn in the winds of this alien sun if he took his life now. No one would know, of course. Still, the idea was too repugnant to entertain for more than a moment.

Teer tapped into the record pod to send his final message home. I, General Teer of the Second Horath, hero of the Violet Day Offensive, acknowledge my arrival in orbit around the planet of exile. I confirm that I have no knowledge of this system's coordinates. My stasis sleep remained uninterrupted throughout transit. I failed you, Karet. For that, I am deeply sorry. For the good of the people and the Keerop, I resign myself to this uncharted gravity well. May the mother of seeds have mercy on me.

With a sharp hiss, the landing pod closed around him, molding to his body so tightly he felt he would suffocate until the inner membrane began to feed him oxygen in little sips, just enough to keep him alive. The edges of his vision darkened. It was better to make these pod flights half-conscious.

The words of an old spacer's prayer whispered in his head as the pod launched. I step out of the great night into the unknown. May the gravity pit's clutching embrace leave me breath and bone.

For the first week, Teer hid. The dominant bipedal species built cities and obviously had global communications tech, but he knew precious little else about them since the comm system on the exile drone had limited applications. He lurked in filthy access ways between buildings, trying to glean enough words for the translation chip in his brain, watching these strange beings with little shivers of revulsion.

They covered their bodies but left their naked faces exposed, a practice Teer found obscene. One didn't parade around with a naked face. It was so uncivilized. There did appear to be two genders. At least that was familiar. But with a nearly equal number of each, how did one tell the males from the females? He thought he had it after enough observation. The often smaller ones, the ones with more elegant noses and body structures, he thought must be the males. Many of them walked successfully on complex, heel-elevated shoes, much more graceful than the shambling, larger ones. These, he reasoned, were the ones fit for battle. The larger ones seemed likely to fall on their faces in close combat.

Projecting his cultural biases was dangerous. He understood that but needed to cling to something for the sake of sanity, something that nearly came unhinged one night when he observed a mating pair through an unsecured window.

They were nearly hairless, both genders. That was horrid enough. The larger one had some sort of external genitalia. From what Teer could tell, none of it had descended during mating. It appeared permanently external. It seemed both a biologically dangerous way to carry an ovipositor and an odd placement for one, at the apex of the thighs. He didn't see any way that the smaller one would be able to deposit fertilization gametes either. The big one simply thrust the ovipositor into the smaller one. Perhaps all of the male organs were internal. At least that would come close to sensible adaptation.

Afterward, he was too nauseous and ashamed to go to his usual refuse container to scavenge for discarded meat. At least he wasn't in danger of starving, but there had to be a reason why the people of this planet threw away so much food. Perhaps they had some biological recycling he had yet to encounter.

At the start of the second week, his language acquisition accelerated to the point where he felt he could communicate. By this time, he had also found a public container of discarded clothing to cover his pelt. Since no other builder species inhabited the planet, assimilation would be vital. For all he knew, he might be their first offworld person, and those sorts of contacts tended to end badly.

He found a bright pink and blue shirt with a high collar and a pair of the blue leggings they called pants that didn't offend his sense of harmony too badly, plus a pair of gloves to cover his furred hands and a pair of boots with moderate heels. More than likely, being unable to walk in the challenging footwear would be seen as a sign of weakness. He would need to learn. His mane had grown out enough to cover his ears that were different enough to cause alarm. That left only his furless neck and face exposed, to his everlasting shame. He had spotted two or three humans wearing something similar to the kurya to cover their heads and faces, but those were so few, it was most likely a sign of status.

Best to blend in with the common ones.

Head high, only wobbling every few steps, Teer made his way to what he understood was a resettlement assistance facility. Homeless shelter was an odd thing to call it, since the shelter didn't require a home, but he wasn't going to quibble over semantics. He would find some way to contribute in this alien society and access their credit system. From there, it was only a matter of time before he acquired a den of his own and perhaps some resurrected serenity.

Chapter Two

That Weird Little Man at Benson's

T GIF, huh, Bruce? Hal, the new mechanic, shot him a grin and a too-cheery wave on his way into the office.

What the fuck ever, Bruce snarled, shouldering his way out the door. He'd just landed his last scheduled flight of stupid hunters for the week. One last nerve, he didn't have.

Shh, Hal, Belinda said from behind the reception desk. We don't say that to him.

Why not? What's his problem?

The explanation, if Belinda gave one, cut off as the door snicked shut. Quiet. Blessed, blessed quiet. He needed that more than anything else. Some weeks, Fridays weren't that bad anymore. A little melancholy, but bearable. During the run-up to the holidays, though, they started to suck big brass donkey balls again.

He shrugged into his sheepskin coat and trudged through the loose-packed snow to his truck. Some Novembers brought a ton of the white stuff. Others, not so much. So far, there'd only been about eight inches total for the month, not enough to slow down any self-respecting Alaskan. Certainly not enough to keep him from his regular Friday routine.

Same route, same set of steps every Friday. He wasn't sure if it was superstition or some fucked-up way to seek comfort from something familiar. First stop was for the takeout order of Kung Pao chicken from