Assessors

A femto second after the vessel entered orbit around the pale blue planet, an alarm belched Blark into wakefulness. He was sure he hit snort only once, but by the time he had tugged on his captains hat and lumbered to the bridge, a shuttle was already on its way to the surface.

“Computer; disable the launch bays. No one else leaves.”

The computer gurgled compliance.

Sucking on a tube of bean paste in order to wake up his other brain, Blark squinted at the status screen. He thumped the intercom sponge.

“Captain to the crew. We are now in orbit around... “ He glanced at the porthole, “a blue and white wispy planet. I know that this last leg was a long stasis, but I want those reports ready for presentation in the meeting vat in three movements. All shore leave is cancelled until we have transmitted the final report. Out.”

He leaned back, and with a complex sequence of nasal airlockings, began to clear his sinuses.
______________

Blark took a salacious inhale of his own musk before entering the vat. These report meetings rarely went the way he wished these days, and he thought that the pheromones would give him a commanding boost. The assessors were waded around the block waiting for him. The only abscence was the culture representative, who had jumped ship earlier to get a first hand account. Blark had deliberately called the meeting early in hope she wouldn’t return in time to give her input; he loathed the shrill of a gender four. Also, as the mission had progressed, the responses from the Empire Resource Committee had become more and more biased towards the cultural perspective, and he speculated this was due to liberalising of the governments back home. He despaired as to what kind of Empire he might return to after the mission was concluded.

“OK, lets start this. Keep it to the point. Bok, off you go.”

An elderly churl leaned out of the liquid, expunging some mucus from a lower snout before addressing the group.

“Report of planet 817588-M, resource division. I’ll just mention the more pertinent chemicals on the surface; silica 60%, alumina 15%, calcium oxide 6%, magnesia 4%, iron oxide 4%, and. “ He paused and looked around the group, failing to tease any anticipation until he blurted, “Sodium oxide 3%.”

The gathering whooped and bubbled, slapping the the froth with ferment. Blark allowed himself an effervescent fruff before bringing order.

“OK, calm down. I know it’s good news for your lusty grub sacks, but we have to get on with the report. Bok continue.”

“Thank you Captain. The planet is of course ideal for agriculture, and the unique composition of minerals will provide an excellent habitat for Crelp. There is also an ample array of metals that can be extracted, with minimal damage to the warmer equatorial regions. These will make ideal resorts with some atmosphere adjustments.”

Bok slumped back down into the liquid and concluded with a moist sniffle.

“Braz, you go next.”

“Sir. Single dominant biped species. Tech group F-3. Fragmented colonies with some major alliances, however those will require time to organise a response. Some fissile weaponry, but all easily countered. Virtually nil bio-defence, but that is usually due to a reluctance to embrace the benefits of bio-warfare. I recommend a grade 2 adaptable nano virus. Should have the bipeds glooped within a few rotations.”

Some of the group became frenzied at this and chanted, “Flush them away! Flush them away!” almost in unison.

Blark was already swelling with anticipative gases at the thought of administrating a genocide, but thought he should consult his helotry assessor first.

“Any objections to flushing them Blain?”

“Nah, they’d make terrible slaves. They seem to thrive on adversity and have a clear history of rebellion. Quite touching really.”

Blark glared at him for a long moment, and then fumbled for his control stick. A merit indicator on Blain’s chest was extinguished.

“There is no room for sentiment on this ship Blain. I’ll transfer you to culture if you talk like that again!”

“And what would be so bad about that?”, came a high pitched retort from the door valve.

Blark bobbed around to look at the culture assessor, leaking a noisy vapour that actually did little to betray the sincerity of his greeting,

”So nice to see you Quinty.”

“My flap its nice to see me! What’s been decided here?”

“Nothing is decided here my dear, we’ve just finished documenting the facts.”

“Well you’ve not finished as you don’t have my report!”

Blark rolled an eye. “OK Quinty, have your say.”

The culture assessor launched into the vat and sailed up to the block.

“After spending just a few movements inhaling with the humans, I must demand that they be studied further. Their diverse factional history is on the brink of unification, driven only by economic advantage. This situation alone singles them out from any other species we have found. Over a third of their population spends more than two thirds of its alert time engaged in reception of cultural input. This ratio exceeds any other known species by a factor of three. They are unique, we must preserve them.”

Blark chewed a lip while he listened. The final report would have no input from him and he knew the Committee back home may lean towards Quinty’s recommendation again. Reluctantly, he signaled that the report was ready, and the rodentine secretary scurried across the block and paddled to a wall ladder, clambering out of sight to use the transmitter.

The secretary returned with the result pre-instantly, a pleasant quirk of poly-relativistic communications. He handed the Committee’s response to Blark, who fondled the gel message into a nostril with little enthusiasm. He immediately sneezed it out again, and expelled so much gas that a whirlpool formed in his wake. He read out the message.

“Terminate all culture crew. Prepare planet for harvesting.”

The old Empire was back. “Flush her away!