Space Command and the Planet of the Bejewelled Concubines

“Commander Ledder.”  The Space Command page at the door of Ledder’s chambers coughed nervously.  “Analyst Fladder is still awaiting your presence.”

Ledder whirled around from the mirror.  The petty concerns of mere pages could not be permitted to dictate the contours of his grooming regimen.  Otherwise, how would he retain the respect of his subordinates?  “Wait outside, page.  Until I emerge from my chambers.”

“But Analyst Fladder has already been waiting over an hour.”

“Do I look like an analyst’s lackey?” boomed Ledder.  “Outside.”

The page reluctantly shut the door and returned to the passageway.

“This crew desperately needs refresher training in protocol,” Ledder muttered to himself.  He gave his beard one last, careful inspection and turned to review his new, deep blue Commander Coat from all directions in his full-length, multi-paneled mirror.

“A Commander even Mul’ Dwyndite would respect,” Ledder said quietly.

Satisfied with his self-presentation, the new Commander at last emerged from the automated resealing door to attend his meeting with Fladder.

Space Analyst Diego Fladder pulled at his beige, imitation gopher-fur gloves in a sporadic, absent-minded manner.  He sat at the shiny, silver-surfaced conference table in the Huge Map Room, named for the size of the impressive map it held, not for the dimensions of the room itself, which was not nearly as huge as some of the truly cavernous storage chambers and hangars that lurked deep in Blouder Base’s sub-structure.  According to legend, some of these hangars harbored spacecraft that hadn’t flown for generations, bulky behemoths such as Galactic PeopleCarriage X-89 and the fabled Moonbuster. 

Fladder idly considered the odds of Space Command archivists mounting an exhibition of Moonbuster history as he waited for Ledder to answer his latest query.  The Prime Commander sat across from him, along with his beard, one hand placed on his chin in a pose of wrinkled contemplation.

“No, I’ve never heard of it,” Ledder said at last.

“Very well, then.” Diego effortlessly adopted the tone of a Space Academy instructor, a smooth, authoritative manner that gave most people an irresistible urge to take notes.  “I can assure you that The Planet of the Rapacious Dogg exists, and it currently poses an imminent threat to one of our most reliable allies in the BenBen System.”

“But can’t these dogs be put down?  I thought there were procedures for this?”

“Not dogs, Commander.  Dogg.  The word is a title, an honorific, used for the prime leader among the Slin-tokine.” 

Fladder pressed a square, lime button on the conference table and a visi-cube instantly popped up.  As Ledder watched intently, the confident, squinty visage of the Slin-tokine ruler appeared in the cube.  The Dogg wore his ceremonial beige and black ruff and a very narrow, silver circlet.  His leathery skin had the slick, but cloudy, grayness typical of the Slin-tokine race and his small, black eyes, placed close together, stared out with concentrated cunning.

“The Slin-tokine!” cried Ledder.  The Dogg’s face had instantly brought back memories from his courses in Comparative Galactic Cultures.  “Yes, they’re known for their grub mines.  And lucrative trading in bog animals.”

“Exactly, Commander.  They’re a race who generally focus their attention on the galactic work animal and rare insect markets, enriching their coffers by trading in pale grubs and other unattractive creatures that most races prefer not to raise.  But this new leader, Dogg Mesma, is becoming a nuisance.  I expect that he harbors ill-considered delusions of self-importance.  The fact is that Mesma’s made barely-veiled threats against our perennial BenBen allies, The Planet of the Bejewelled Concubines.”