Feast
“It doesn’t fit right.” Peterson fiddled with his squared, white mask, tried to adjust it over his eyes.
“Don’t fidget.” His wife, Greta, grasped his hands and pulled them down. “Here, let me.” He accepted her help with a sigh, looked over the other invitees to this fancy dress ball. There were all manner of man and beast and he grinned as a tall, ethereal, female Monarch glided by dressed from crown to toe in white. A stout, leather clad… what were they? Oh, yes, Klingon, from one of the classic filums, followed the Monarch as if he were her guard. A Starship captain, dressed in a black, form-fitting outfit with red shoulders, hailed the Klingon.
“I don’t know how I ever managed to dress myself before you came along.” He murmured and she smiled.
“I do: you dressed badly with an awful clashing of colour that scared the customers away.”
He lowered his eyes to her. Twenty-five years they’d been married and he still felt a thrill in the region of his heart every time he looked into her corn-flower blue eyes.
“How do you figure that?” He asked and stepped away as she patted his chest; her signal that he was fit to be seen in public.
“Because you had every vegetable group colour spread out like vomit.”
Peterson winced at her analogy.
“I put everything out in the order it came.” He protested mildly.
“Yes, dear: the reds mixed with the greens with the occasional orange; yellow with purple or blue. It seared the eyes, as did you with your flamboyant dress code. A grocer should make his produce as appealing to the eye as possible, if he’s to make a success of himself.”
He wrapped his arms around her in a hug. “Then it’s lucky you came along and showed me the error of my ways.”
“Yes, indeed; most fortunate. Now then,” she cast a critical eye over him, “I think we’re ready.” She looked up into his eyes. “You make a wonderful Moon Base commander.”
“Thank you my dear, but they didn’t wear masks, so how come I’ve got to wear one?”
She patted his cheek. “It adds to the mystique.”
“Ah, of course. And you my sweet,” he raised her hand and kissed the back of it, “make a rather fetching High Priestess of Dahl.”
Greta withdrew her hand and swirled around in her diaphanous red silk outfit. The material whispered around her ankles. “I do, don’t I?”
Peterson chuckled. “Come on,” he grabbed her hand, “let’s go party.”
The double doors to the ball room stood open, most of the invitees already inside the cavernous room.
Lights sparkled from above and every five metres, silvered mirrors hung, reflecting the crowd, lending more size to the room.
Peterson tucked his arm around Greta, guided her through the cheerful crowd to a side point.
Ancient music pumped out of hidden speakers. He could feel the base reverberate through his body. He settled his wife in a chair and caught two highball drinks from a passing waiter.
Greta accepted with a smile and Peterson lowered himself into the chair next to her.
“I wonder if we know anyone here.” She asked and sipped the pale green liquid. “Mmm. I haven’t had one of these before.”
Peterson sipped his pale orange drink. “This one’s pretty good, too.” He frowned at the liquid. “Why would they give us the good stuff?”
“Oh, I don’t know, because we’re guests?”
“And so we are. But, honey, I’m a grocer. I mean, look at the people here? All dressed up with sparkling jewels…” He stared harder at a nymph. “At least, I think they’re genuine jewels, but how would I know?”
“Darling, don’t go on so. If the United Federation didn’t think we were worthy, they wouldn’t have sent us an invite. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
The nagging sense that he shouldn’t be here continued, but for the sake of his wife’s happiness, he ignored it. Over the years, he’d rarely treated her to a night out; the shop took all their time and effort. She deserved this night and he wasn’t going to spoil it for her.
“Okay.” Then he plucked her half-empty glass from her hand and set on the tray of another passing waiter. “Let’s dance.” He said and bowed to her. “My lady.” He held out his hand and she took it with a giggle.
“Sir.” She allowed and he swept her into his arms, moved into the crowd of dancers.
He hummed along with the music, held her close and swirled around the floor. His eyes left hers and swept around the other dancers, but his gaze caught the multitude of mirrors.
Reflected back, the partiers expressed joy, happiness and quiet contentment. In one mirror, he thought he saw a shadow, but he dismissed it as he guided Greta around the floor, carefully avoiding the other dancers.
“The Federation puts on a terrific party.” Greta said, attracting his attention.
“Would you care for another drink, or something to eat, perhaps?” He asked and barely missed bumping into another couple, this pair dressed as matching wizards.
“No, thank you, dear.” Greta murmured.
“It’s funny, but most people here are dressed as characters out of fiction, or filums.” He said and Greta chuckled.
“It’s not as if there are many aliens to copy even if we do live in the Age of Enlightenment. It’s only been five years since first contact with the Bellaria, and they are just as cautious as we are.”
Peterson thought of the bird-like creatures. They were taller than humans, with a feather-type plumage and vestigial wings. He’d only seen them on the info-network. They disturbed him on a fundamental level with their beady eyes and claw-like, four-fingered hands.
“Then there are the Corusca,” Greta went on. “Small, cute and furry. Though I think they have too many limbs. A little too grabby for good manners to abide.”
“I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Peterson mused and his eyes once again caught a shadow in one of the mirrors; he frowned, tried to puzzle it out, but again dismissed it. “Let’s go and eat. All this dancing is making me hungry.”
“Okay, dear, but then I want to hunt down anyone we know. Or better yet, do some schmoozing for more customers.”
“Honey.” Peterson complained.
“Where better? Get to know them, talk to people, lure them to the shop with your lethal charm.”
Peterson laughed. She was so good for his ego, he thought and led her through the crowd to the food-laden buffet table.
“Oh, what a feast!” Greta murmured with glee. “Let’s eat.”
* * *
“Five hundred and forty, as you requested.” The Federation officer bowed his head. He had no wish to stare at the invitees through the mirrors. To him, it was an abomination, but the Federation had no choice. Across the world, there were a hundred such fancy dress balls.
“Thank you, Officer Cortez. Your services will be required for the next quarter’s harvest.” The metallic voice synthesizer stated.
Cortez kept the disgust and fury off his face until he’d left the room. To express anything other than absolute respect and obedience would land him on the Coruscan menu, like those poor unfortunates in the next room.
But one day, he promised himself, he would make certain to purge this world of every last one of the bastards. If he’d known the small, multi-limbed, furry monsters made contact because they thought human flesh a delicacy, he and the others of the United Federation Council would have blasted the little rugs out of the galaxy.
But he hadn’t known; no-one knew until the invasion was complete and harvest had begun. Now, instead of being the mightiest force in the known galaxy, humans were fodder.
© Copyright Jaye Patrick 2007
“Don’t fidget.” His wife, Greta, grasped his hands and pulled them down. “Here, let me.” He accepted her help with a sigh, looked over the other invitees to this fancy dress ball. There were all manner of man and beast and he grinned as a tall, ethereal, female Monarch glided by dressed from crown to toe in white. A stout, leather clad… what were they? Oh, yes, Klingon, from one of the classic filums, followed the Monarch as if he were her guard. A Starship captain, dressed in a black, form-fitting outfit with red shoulders, hailed the Klingon.
“I don’t know how I ever managed to dress myself before you came along.” He murmured and she smiled.
“I do: you dressed badly with an awful clashing of colour that scared the customers away.”
He lowered his eyes to her. Twenty-five years they’d been married and he still felt a thrill in the region of his heart every time he looked into her corn-flower blue eyes.
“How do you figure that?” He asked and stepped away as she patted his chest; her signal that he was fit to be seen in public.
“Because you had every vegetable group colour spread out like vomit.”
Peterson winced at her analogy.
“I put everything out in the order it came.” He protested mildly.
“Yes, dear: the reds mixed with the greens with the occasional orange; yellow with purple or blue. It seared the eyes, as did you with your flamboyant dress code. A grocer should make his produce as appealing to the eye as possible, if he’s to make a success of himself.”
He wrapped his arms around her in a hug. “Then it’s lucky you came along and showed me the error of my ways.”
“Yes, indeed; most fortunate. Now then,” she cast a critical eye over him, “I think we’re ready.” She looked up into his eyes. “You make a wonderful Moon Base commander.”
“Thank you my dear, but they didn’t wear masks, so how come I’ve got to wear one?”
She patted his cheek. “It adds to the mystique.”
“Ah, of course. And you my sweet,” he raised her hand and kissed the back of it, “make a rather fetching High Priestess of Dahl.”
Greta withdrew her hand and swirled around in her diaphanous red silk outfit. The material whispered around her ankles. “I do, don’t I?”
Peterson chuckled. “Come on,” he grabbed her hand, “let’s go party.”
The double doors to the ball room stood open, most of the invitees already inside the cavernous room.
Lights sparkled from above and every five metres, silvered mirrors hung, reflecting the crowd, lending more size to the room.
Peterson tucked his arm around Greta, guided her through the cheerful crowd to a side point.
Ancient music pumped out of hidden speakers. He could feel the base reverberate through his body. He settled his wife in a chair and caught two highball drinks from a passing waiter.
Greta accepted with a smile and Peterson lowered himself into the chair next to her.
“I wonder if we know anyone here.” She asked and sipped the pale green liquid. “Mmm. I haven’t had one of these before.”
Peterson sipped his pale orange drink. “This one’s pretty good, too.” He frowned at the liquid. “Why would they give us the good stuff?”
“Oh, I don’t know, because we’re guests?”
“And so we are. But, honey, I’m a grocer. I mean, look at the people here? All dressed up with sparkling jewels…” He stared harder at a nymph. “At least, I think they’re genuine jewels, but how would I know?”
“Darling, don’t go on so. If the United Federation didn’t think we were worthy, they wouldn’t have sent us an invite. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
The nagging sense that he shouldn’t be here continued, but for the sake of his wife’s happiness, he ignored it. Over the years, he’d rarely treated her to a night out; the shop took all their time and effort. She deserved this night and he wasn’t going to spoil it for her.
“Okay.” Then he plucked her half-empty glass from her hand and set on the tray of another passing waiter. “Let’s dance.” He said and bowed to her. “My lady.” He held out his hand and she took it with a giggle.
“Sir.” She allowed and he swept her into his arms, moved into the crowd of dancers.
He hummed along with the music, held her close and swirled around the floor. His eyes left hers and swept around the other dancers, but his gaze caught the multitude of mirrors.
Reflected back, the partiers expressed joy, happiness and quiet contentment. In one mirror, he thought he saw a shadow, but he dismissed it as he guided Greta around the floor, carefully avoiding the other dancers.
“The Federation puts on a terrific party.” Greta said, attracting his attention.
“Would you care for another drink, or something to eat, perhaps?” He asked and barely missed bumping into another couple, this pair dressed as matching wizards.
“No, thank you, dear.” Greta murmured.
“It’s funny, but most people here are dressed as characters out of fiction, or filums.” He said and Greta chuckled.
“It’s not as if there are many aliens to copy even if we do live in the Age of Enlightenment. It’s only been five years since first contact with the Bellaria, and they are just as cautious as we are.”
Peterson thought of the bird-like creatures. They were taller than humans, with a feather-type plumage and vestigial wings. He’d only seen them on the info-network. They disturbed him on a fundamental level with their beady eyes and claw-like, four-fingered hands.
“Then there are the Corusca,” Greta went on. “Small, cute and furry. Though I think they have too many limbs. A little too grabby for good manners to abide.”
“I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Peterson mused and his eyes once again caught a shadow in one of the mirrors; he frowned, tried to puzzle it out, but again dismissed it. “Let’s go and eat. All this dancing is making me hungry.”
“Okay, dear, but then I want to hunt down anyone we know. Or better yet, do some schmoozing for more customers.”
“Honey.” Peterson complained.
“Where better? Get to know them, talk to people, lure them to the shop with your lethal charm.”
Peterson laughed. She was so good for his ego, he thought and led her through the crowd to the food-laden buffet table.
“Oh, what a feast!” Greta murmured with glee. “Let’s eat.”
* * *
“Five hundred and forty, as you requested.” The Federation officer bowed his head. He had no wish to stare at the invitees through the mirrors. To him, it was an abomination, but the Federation had no choice. Across the world, there were a hundred such fancy dress balls.
“Thank you, Officer Cortez. Your services will be required for the next quarter’s harvest.” The metallic voice synthesizer stated.
Cortez kept the disgust and fury off his face until he’d left the room. To express anything other than absolute respect and obedience would land him on the Coruscan menu, like those poor unfortunates in the next room.
But one day, he promised himself, he would make certain to purge this world of every last one of the bastards. If he’d known the small, multi-limbed, furry monsters made contact because they thought human flesh a delicacy, he and the others of the United Federation Council would have blasted the little rugs out of the galaxy.
But he hadn’t known; no-one knew until the invasion was complete and harvest had begun. Now, instead of being the mightiest force in the known galaxy, humans were fodder.
© Copyright Jaye Patrick 2007
posted by Jaye at
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