Of a Feather
(c) 2003 Dominique Millette
I sure hope this works, thought Gloomba.
The coloured feathers were uncomfortable, sticking to her
membranes and fanning out in six directions. They looked authentic enough, just
like the ones on an honest-to-goodness Zinfang.
Of course I’m not a Zinfang, Gloomba mused in trepidation,
fussing with her dorsal tendrils. It’s rather obvious. But there must be a Being out there who will still want me around when I take
the feathers back. Even if I’m just a little old Flink.
She sank further into the giving wetness of the floor
lining, flinching under the phosphorescent pulsations of the ambient strobes.
All around the Grotto, diaphanous Ariels floated with
condescension over stocky Turbons and slithering, fluorescent Draganites. No
Zinfangs in sight, breathed Gloomba. I might still have a chance. She surveyed
the room with her multifaceted ocular tentacles, specially slimed with
phosphogloss and copperite speckles, and adjusted her asteroid-fragment Mula
belt with her bottom left fin-paw.
Just ahead was a Flegon. What a catch, thought Gloomba. Her
two hearts raced with instant passion. He was flopped around the bar. With his
lissome tentacles and arrogant, perfect maw, he looked just like the
untouchable creatures who used to contemptuously
squirt their ink jets at Gloomba when she was just a Flinkette in the murky old
neighbourhood. Gloomba shrank back in awe mixed with apprehension. The Flegon
had perfect, glistening spotted greenish skin. Three lambent eyes lined the
front of his hammer-shaped head. He swished his scaly tail with perfect
self-possession. Even his thoraxic gills were beautiful, undulating
hypnotically under the cold, shifting light.
Flegons usually didn’t go for Flinks. Zinfangs,
yes. But this one looked friendlier than most. Sensitive.
Open-brained. Wishful thinking?
wondered Gloomba, feeling just as insecure as before
she got the feathers and the gloss. It was difficult to tell a Flegon’s
attitude. They looked angelic by nature, but could wither a Flink or a Turbon
into nothingness with a single snobby swish of that long, sensuous tail.
Gloomba affected a posture of indifference,
nonchalantly curling up her ocular tentacles in what she hoped was an inviting
pose. Try not to look at him, she silently commanded herself. Look like you
don’t care. She drummed her fin-paws on the rippling surface of the table in
front of her.
The Flegon casually glanced at the drumming motion. Its gaze
travelled slowly up to Gloomba’s curled tentacles. She felt her membranes oozing
in panic and secret hope. Please be
interested, you gorgeous thing, she prayed, suddenly feeling utterly
foolish. Her phosphogloss was the wrong colour. Too
ostentatious. She was sure of it. Her skin trembled like a Jeliate in
flight.
Suddenly the Flegon was beside her, in a single graceful
flop. “Hi there,” it rumbled with erotic virulence. “You’re kinda cute.”
Gloomba demurely waved her tentacles and wiggled her
membranes. “Why, thank you,” she gurgled suggestively. “So are you.”
The Flegon twisted its maw into a lovely jumble of tangled
cilia. “Well, well. Let’s share a slime-dish, shall we? They have an
inter-species special in here. By the way, my name is Zgurmtnk.”
Gloomba flicked her borrowed feathers flirtatiously. “A lovely name for a lovely being. Call me ‘Mba.”
Zgurmtnk aspirated the slime with confidence. Gloomba
slurped through her snout holes, trying to look sophisticated, the way a
Zinfang would. Of course, Zinfang snouts were more pulpous, dripping with
pungent fluids. It was difficult not to feel self-conscious in comparison.
Nevertheless, Zgurmtnk seemed enchanted. Or
at least well-disposed. His tentacles curled around Gloomba’s lower
fin-paws, sending out inviting secretions. Her dorsal tendrils juddered in
ecstasy.
“So. What’s a beauty like you doing
in this part of the Galaxy, Mba?”
Gloomba paused, composing herself for the perfect reply.
“Well, actually, I’m an assistant. To a
very important Draganite right in this quadrant. Lfmtg,
to be exact.”
She waited to see the effect of her words. Lfmtg was the
Quadrant Doge, rumoured to be in line for the Galactic Supreme Council. Gloomba
was employed mainly in the Subaltern section, sorting and directing messages.
But at least she was there – right where the action was.
The Flegon looked suitably impressed. Gloomba basked in her
perceived status. “And, might I ask, what brings you here?”
Zgurmtnk waved a tentacle loftily. “Oh, I’m just passing
through on an important trade mission. Bringing emerite
crystals to those poor Troggans. You know their so-called technological
wizardry that everyone raves about would disappear without emerite.”
Gloomba nodded in conspiratorial sympathy. Her fin-paws
quivered with anticipation. “I have a wonderful idea.,”
she wheezed out seductively. “Let’s go to my sludge-hole. It’s just the place
to get really oozy.”
Zgurmtnk burbled in acquiescence. Gloomba floated with
happiness as they exited the Grotto.
The sludge-hole was only a short distance away, carved out
of the ectoplasm at a nice convenient angle. The Flegon hopped and slided his
way in, leaving a trail of enticing slime. Gloomba
crawled in after him. The walls were line with the stretched skins and
membranes of dearly departed friends and relatives, as Flink tradition had it.
Some Beings balked upon first sighting this particularity. Gloomba peered at
the Flegon. Zgurmtnk betrayed not a trace of uneasiness.
Good. Now for the real test, thought Gloomba.
She lay her fin-paws on the open
tentacles stretched out before her.
“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to make myself a little
more comfortable.”
Zgurmtnk wiggled his cilia and narrowed his eyes
lasciviously. “Please do,” he rumbled.
She slid into her room. The inner
sanctuary. Her jelly bed was carefully teased into a rounded pulsating mound,
ready for action. Inside fluted, square and oval jars, spread out on various
tables, eyes floated beside tendrils and tentacle parts. Gloomba sighed.
Memories flooded her.
She took off her feathers carefully, so as not to ruffle
them. Then she wiped off the gloss. The reflection from the pond in the corner
was not kind. Oh, well, Maybe this time would be
different.
Gloomba gingerly made her way back to Zgurmtnk, her fin-paws
drooping and her snout hanging down in a nervous grimace. His entire body betrayed
unmistakable revulsion, the thoraxic gills pursing primly, the tentacles
curling up close to the trunk. His facial cilia waved superciliously.
Gloomba’s condifence plummeted. She felt growing resentment.
Again.
Zgurmtnk moved back and burbled an apology.
“Aah… I just remembered. I have an importance conference on
inter-galactic trade tonight. The speaker is a friend. He’s a diplomat from the
Gurkon system. I just don’t know how I could have forgotten. Please forgive the
faux pas.. I’m sure we’ll meet again some time.”
Gloomba trembled in anger. “You’re just a typical Flegon
snob!” she bleeped out.
Zgurmtnk drew himself up haughtily. “It was a simple
mistake, my dear.”
His tentacles reached for the entrance. It was sealed, the
flaps fused shut and oozing in finality. The Flegon’s eyes
widened in growing terror.
***
Gloomba burped. Zgurmtnk was delicious. Even if he was just
a Flegon jerk
She took the end section of the long swishy tail and placed
it into a jar. What a catch.
***
Two systems away, Blurg, a Dweebalak foreman, shook his
hammer-shaped head in irritation. The mounds of emerite dust were piling up in
the hangar again. “Where is that Zgurmtnk idiot?”
His assistant, Thrungk, tendrils protruding at the
ungracious angle of the thorax, blurped out in a withering tone: “Ever since he
got that transgenic mutational implant procedure, he thinks he’s a real Flegon.
Too good for us. I’ll bet anything he’s hanging out
with some Zinfang cutie, hoping she’ll take him for a diplomat.”
Blurg rumbled out: “Stupid creature. Zinfangs think they’re
the goddesses of the universe – not like Flinks. Anyway, it’s your turn to
sweep up. Zgurmtnk is fired. He’d better not show his bloody tail around here
again!”