Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The twin dawn of Bromothia’s binary star system swept across the remote peninsula’s deep-purple foliage, illuminating the team of Ensigns working under Lieutenant Junior Grade Castro to dismantle the disguised “Duck Blind” Starfleet biologists had been working with.

They were nowhere near a major population center, but per starfleet regulations on a pre-warp planet, they were all disguised as Bromothians, with sealed light-blue body paint, fake horns on their foreheads and fake vestigial wings at their waists. It was nothing that would stand up to a power-wash, but it wasn’t intended for long-term use, and anyway it was just a redundant precaution to begin with. Rutherford’s implant was covered up by a mass of synthetic scar tissue and a large black eyepatch. However, the one who stood out the most, as usual, was Ensign Beckett Mariner.

Mariner had put on a lot of weight since she developed the condition known as Arnaud Syndrome, a rare but permanent alteration to the human biology, especially the digestive tract, brought on by a million-to-one-chance interaction of Bajoran energy drinks, Black Death Marijuana, and Romulan Ale. Since then she’d learned to keep her cravings for humanoid flesh in check (mostly), but even with her vigorous variety of cardio, strength training, and mixed martial arts, she still clocked in at around 400 pear-shaped pounds. Her generous belly hung over thighs thick as a man’s waist, with an ass that could comfortably fill two seats at once. Her face was rounded with a bit of a double chin, too, and right now it was fixed into a neutral expression as she settled into the rhythm of banal but useful and necessary work.

“Rutherford, I need you to decouple those power couplings. Tendi, help Boimler disassemble the holographic projectors, and pick up the pace. I’m getting a report of a stream of exotic particles sweeping around from behind the planet’s largest moon. M-Mariner, just keep doing what you’re doing,” Castro finished nervously.

“Relax, Castro. I’m not even hungry yet,” Mariner said, in a light tone that concealed her hurt feelings. “And there’s always some exotic particles around this system. I read it in the mission briefing.”

“You read the mission briefings? Who are you and what have you done with Mariner?” Boimler asked.

Mariner, Tendi and Rutherford laughed.

Boimler whipped out a phaser. “No, seriously. What’s your favorite cheese? Prove to me you aren’t a Breen infiltrator.”

Mariner held up her hands, rolled-down sleeves exposing upper arms like ham hocks. “It’s Galbrathian spider-cow gouda!”

“Oh thank goodness,” Boimler said, holstering his weapon.

“Geeze, Boims, can’t I shake things up a little without you getting all paranoid on me?” Mariner laughed, hoping his weapon had been set to “stun”.

“Sorry, I’ve just been a little wary about infiltration ever since the raiding party with the fake Bingston,” Boimler said. “And you really do never read the mission briefings.”

“I read the important bits,” Mariner said, a little defensively. “I just skim a little when it gets boring.”

Castro bit her lip and filed away that brief moment for mental recall. Boimler had looked pretty hot holding a phaser. She went back to attaching signal boosters to the generator.

“Well, the good news is we’re almost done packing up,” Castro said with forced cheer. The sooner she could finish this away mission, the sooner she’d be back on the Cerritos, and then she could get somewhere safe and far away from Mariner.

They worked a little longer, with the xenobiologists pitching in as they folded and stored supplies into the designated beam-out point.

“Alright, Cerritos, we’re ready to beam up,” Castro said, wiping her forehead. She wasn’t ready to fully unclench while within 50ft of Mariner, but she felt calmer now that the end was in sight.

“The particle stream is putting a bit of a strain on our transporters, so we’ll have to beam you up in shifts. Standard protocol says the equipment and research scientists go first.”

“Right, of course,” Castro grumbled, but she’d read the same regulations. She could wait a little while.

The scientists and Duck Blind materials vanished in a shimmer of blue light, just as a hole opened up in the sky.

“Some kind of unstable wormhole is--” the message began, just as the Cerritos was sucked down the anomalous cosmic phenomenon to spit it out in some distant corner of the galaxy.

“Well, at least they didn’t forget us this time,” Tendi said, with an anxious little laugh.

Castro whimpered inwardly and tried not to look at Mariner.

Chapter Text

A large orange bird hovered over the road into town, looking for carrion to pick at. There were crushed cans and tattered newspapers, but no fresh meat, or even old meat. It flew lower, ignoring the power lines and refinery buildings in the distance, scanning the road ahead. The only thing of interest it noticed was a small cluster of bipeds, but none of them appeared to be sick or injured.

“Good thing I took that elective in internal combustion technology on top of the standard stranded-on-low-tech-planets required courses,” Rutherford said. He tried not to touch the false scar tissue covering up his implant, but it was really itching. “This place has kind of a dieselpunk feel to it.”

“I can’t remember the last time I’ve come across a planet with a biosphere quite like this,” Tendi gushed. “There’s so many six-limbed body plans. Even the humanoids evolved from a hexagonal-appendage species. And the local microbiomes have such a fascinating mix of prokaryotic species!”

“Whatever,” Mariner said, arms folded behind her head, looking off beyond the purple foliage. “I just wanna get back to the Cerritos so I can sonic shower the grime off of me and get a hot meal. The less time we spend hanging out in the galactic boonies, the better.”

“I can still tell you’re excited,” Tendi said. “Come on, we’re on a planet that’s barely even been studied properly! We could discover a new strain of cyanobacteria, or have to go on trial-by-combat, or something could try to lay eggs in us,” she went on.

“I just wanna get out of Castro’s hair,” Mariner admitted. “I can’t believe she thinks she’s being subtle around me. I swear, she flinches every time I come near her, and every time she talks to me all I hear is ‘please don’t eat me!’ It’s like, duh, I’m not going to eat her. I’ve been on the Cerritos for years by now and I’ve barely eaten any of my coworkers without prior consent, plus I remember to spit them up afterwards, and none of them smelled like that nasty patchouli oil.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” Rutherford said.

“Obviously, I’m not,” Mariner said. “I mean it’s annoying but I can put up with it. This is totally temporary. We’re gonna get a signal set up, or the Cerritos will get back to us, or Starfleet will hear about our plight and send the nearest ship out, or something. After that I won’t even have to worry about whatever dumb stuff Castro thinks about me, because we’ll be on opposite ends of the ship.”

Tendi and Rutherford shared a look of concern.

“But she’ll still be on the ship, Mariner, and you’ll still be working together sometimes,” Tendi pointed out. “You can’t always pull some strings or call in a favor to get out of it, especially because every now and then we run into an all-hands-on-deck situation. That’s the reality of being in a crew together.”

Mariner didn’t say anything back as she continued walking, staring into the distance.

“And hey, it’s not all bad! I mean, if it hadn’t been for that first contact crisis, you and Jennifer might never have actually resolved your awkward frenemy sexual tension into a working relationship!” Tendi said, grinning. “That’s something, right?”

“Okay, that’s true,” Mariner said, grudgingly. “But until she stops acting like I’m staring and drooling while rubbing my belly, I’m going to just avoid her as much as I can. And I can see this next stretch of avoidance being a nice long one, just as soon as we’re back on the Cerritos.”

“That doesn’t sound like the healthiest way to handle awkwardness in a working relationship,” Rutherford said. “Have you considered confronting her about it?”

“What, did you switch into Therapist Mode?” Mariner complained. “And what good would that do? She knows I can eat people, I know she’s afraid I want to eat her. It’s already out in the open now. I’m not gonna go the extra mile to point it out.”

“I wasn’t saying that,” Rutherford said, ignoring the jab because he knew it was an attempt to get him sidetracked. “I’m just saying you might want to work on distress tolerance, get ready for the next time fate throws you together instead of trying to indefinitely postpone it, that sort of thing.”

Mariner opened her mouth to reply, but shut it again as she saw they were approaching the village.

A chubby local woman in a green skirt left the front porch of her house and headed towards them. Like most of the locals, she had a simple wrap around her chest and shoulders that left her midsection fully exposed and her vestigial wings free.

“Welcome, visitors! Where are you from?”

It was a shame they didn’t have much cultural context for the planet, otherwise Mariner would have chosen a remote and obscure region that might explain their eccentricities and lack of otherwise common cultural knowledge. At least, that’s what Mariner thought before she noticed how good the alien woman smelled.

“We’re visitors from a remote and obscure region that explains our eccentricities and lack of otherwise common cultural knowledge!” Rutherford spouted.

Mariner and Tendi both stared at him.

“Oh, you mean you’re from the northern archipelago?” the woman said, her powder-blue face blank of expression.

“Yep! That’s us!” Tendi agreed.

“Totally!” Mariner confirmed.

“Oh, well you don’t have to be all self-conscious about it,” the woman said, laughing and waving a fan. “Come on in, I just made some herbal tisane.”

Tendi discreetly wiped a tricorder over the brew when her back was turned to fetch some honey.

“What a lovely place you have,” Rutherford said politely.

“Oh, I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” the woman said. “I’m T’abagail by the way.”

Tendi, Rutherford and Mariner all introduced themselves.

“So, T’abagail, is there a local machinist or specialist store where we could get machine parts?” Rutherford asked.

“Oh, I’m afraid She could tell you this little town isn’t big enough to have an Ermen’s Supplies or Big Gear Metalworks. You have to head downtown to find that kind of thing, into the city.” T’abagail frowned and stirred her drink. “Though I suppose young Wigiw up by the church might have something. It depends on what your looking for.”

“That uh, might be a little hard to narrow down until I can see the items on offer,” Rutherford said carefully. “So tell me about yourself! What’s life like here?”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear about my boring old life,” T’abagail said. “The edge of the northern archipelago is a much, much more interesting place!”

“No, we really do,” Rutherford said, laughing nervously. “Isn’t that right, fellow travelers?”

“Oh, I’d love to hear about your daily activities!” Tendi squealed.

“Yeah, me too!” Mariner said, trying to feign enthusiasm.

“Well, I’ve been on my own now since I lost my wife in the war,” T’abagail said with a sigh, “but don’t you worry about me, the army has a generous widows, widowers and orphans fund to take care of the families of fallen soldiers.”

“Still, that must have been rough,” Tendi said. Mariner decided to take a sip of tisane rather than press the issue.

“Your concern is touching,” T’abagail said. “But most of the time I like keeping busy. I take in knitting work, of course, and there’s always something that needs to be done around the house, plus I volunteer with the church and I have a garden out back, and there’s always something interesting to read in the periodicals,” she said, going on at some length. She talked about a childhood romance blossoming into a spring wedding, about her brother who worked in the city, about her parents and their various medical ailments, and about almost everything except the recent war. Whenever Tendi or Rutherford got too close to that subject, Mariner expertly maneuvered them away from it with careful questioning or an admiring remark. There were some very oblique idiomatic references to a figure known only as “She”, but they weren’t able to parse if these were based on a literal person or a more metaphorical figure. The conversation generally provided a basic deal of anthropological interest without answering any large-scale questions about this planet’s governance or worldview, although they gleaned enough details to figure out it did still practice some form of capitalism.

Tendi’s enthusiasm for the details of this woman’s life, especially her gardening and her six-legged dog-like striped purple pet, never dimmed during the conversation, but Mariner found her mind wandering, and Rutherford found himself noticing as the green suns crept across the sky that they were still far from securing any parts. Eventually he made their apology for taking up so much of her time and thanks for her hospitality, and the widow let them get on their way without Rutherford dropping too many hints.

Wigiw’s house turned out to be on the far side of town, and uphill on a poorly maintained road, so they spent most of the trip in silence. Rutherford knocked on the door.

“Just a minute!” a harried voice called from inside. “The experiment’s at a very precise stage of--”

There was a loud zap, followed by a small explosion.

“Well, back to the proverbial drawing board,” the figure said, coughing smoke and stepping through the doorway. Rutherford, Tendi, and Mariner’s jaws all dropped.

Aside from the soot and debris, the person facing them was quite possibly the most attractive humanoid life-form any of them had ever seen. Their chest was either flat for a cisgender female or thick for a cisgender male, their stomach toned in a pronounced way but also not too flat, their arms gently muscular, and their thighs looked powerful. Their horn was perfectly polished. Their hair was perfect. Their bright red eyes were deep and soulful. They had a pair of supple lips that begged to be kissed, and their wings fluttered uselessly but prettily. Each of the three ensigns imagined stroking those wings, tenderly exploring their folds with fingers and tongue. Mariner wiped away drool from her mouth, and it wasn’t entirely because she wanted to eat the stranger.

“Sorry, I’m being terribly rude. My name is Wigiw Alstaconzi, and I’m one of those annoying they-them people you’ve probably heard complaints about,” they said, waving a hand. “And before you say it’s not good grammar, the singular ‘they’ has been in use for at least three hundred years.”

“Definitely wasn’t going to say anything like that,” Mariner said, the first to regain her power of speech in the face of the androgynous beauty. “I’m Mariner, by the way. I use she/her pronouns.”

“Tendi, she/her”, Tendi contributed.

“Rutherford, he/him, and pleased to meet you,” Rutherford said, extending a hand. “We were actually hoping we could take a look at your workshop.”

“Well, it’s in a bit of a state right now, but I suppose there’s no harm in letting you poke around,” they said, casually flipping back their hair in a devastating way that should have left sparkles in its wake.

The three of them followed him through the front door, although Mariner had to squeeze a little.

“Sorry I haven’t updated the doorframe. It’s an old house,” Wigiw explained. “I should really apply for a government grant.”

“No, it’s cool,” Mariner said, catching her breath and rubbing her scratched-up side rolls.

“Whoa, nice setup,” Rutherford whistled, as he surveyed the remaining tools and supplies amid the rubble. “This is some pretty advanced stuff for—for a small town workshop, I mean.”

“Aw, you flatter me,” Wigiw said, with a musical laugh that made the three ensigns feel themselves getting wet. “Of course, you already know about the pilot space programs, and the different moon landings, but what I’m interested in is something that could really get them off the ground, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, but I’d love to find out,” Rutherford said, with genuine enthusiasm.

“See, I want to invent a way of getting around conventional speed barriers by folding space around the ship, in a kind of little space-time bubble. Why, just think of how fast you could go! The sonic barrier would be nothing!”

Mariner shot Tendi a meaningful look. Tendi turned back and tried to give a reassuring smile, even though she wasn’t entirely clear on what meaning the meaningful look was intended to convey.

“That sounds...incredible,” Rutherford said, struggling to maintain his composure. He forced his gaze away from the sexually ambivalent hunk and focused on the various parts that weren’t portions of the pre-warp experiment. “Unfortunately, I don’t think you have any of the parts we would need.”

“Yeah, and even if you did have it, we forgot to bring currency with us,” Tendi said, nudging Rutherford. “Why don’t we go meet up with the others?”

Rutherford sighed. Mariner sighed. Tendi sighed. They tore themselves away from the beautiful sight and began the long trek back towards Boimler and Castro, empty-handed.

Chapter Text

“So, as it turns out, there’s somebody who *might* be *on the verge* of inventing warp drive, but we’re not really sure how close they are to actually getting there, so for now the prime directive still applies to our interactions with this civilization,” Rutherford said to Lt Jr Grade Castro. “And we weren’t able to find any of the things we needed in the outskirts village, so we’ll probably have to go into the big city.”

Castro steepled her fingers and nodded thoughtfully in what she hoped would be a confidence-inspiring way.

“So what you’re saying is, we might be stuck here for a while, but there’s also a potential for a first-contact situation to unfold. This needs careful handling.”

Castro surveyed the thoughtful Ensign Rutherford, the cheery Ensign Tendi, and the dreamy Ensign Boimler. And then there was Mariner…

To say Mariner was a loose cannon would be an understatement. Ensign Beckett Mariner was a danger to herself and others. But, Mariner was also somebody who could swallow her whole in a single gulp.

“Mariner, what do you think?” Castro said, forcing a smile. She would show that she was relaxed around Mariner, that she wasn’t afraid.

“Oh, I don’t wanna put myself forward,” Mariner lied. “But I was thinking, maybe we should spread out and get more intel on the situation? Also, since this is a capitalist society, we’re going to need to earn some money.”

“Right!” Castro said, a little too quickly. “Great idea!” She bit back the words “please don’t eat me,” because she was thoughtful and considerate.

“Well, as long as we find a way to resolve things without breaking the prime directive,” Boimler said, folding his arms in a no-nonsense manner that Castro found incredibly attractive.

“Oh, of course, dude. We’re gonna respect the prime directive completely,” Mariner said, encouragingly.

At the earliest opportunity, Mariner snuck off with Tendi.

“So, we’re totally gonna break the prime directive if necessary,” she whispered into Tendi’s ear.

“What?! We can’t break the prime directive, Mariner. That’s like, the Federation’s most sacred law!” Tendi squealed.

“Oh, yeah, of course, right. I was just joking,” Mariner said, a little too quickly, as she thumped Tendi heartily on the back. “You know me, right? I play around a lot.”

“Okay, then,” Tendi said, but her suspicions were not entirely quelled.

“We’re definitely going to do everything we can to preserve the sanctity of the Prime Directive,” Mariner said, reaching over to give Tendi a big squishy hug.

Mariner’s stomach rumbled and she let go of Tendi hastily. Orion flesh *was* pretty delicious, and she didn’t have any syrup of ipecac with her.

“So, I was thinking, if we’re going to be stuck here for a while, our first priority should be finding a good source of food. We’ve already got water here,” Boimler said, gesturing at the bubbling brook beside him.

Mariner and Castro nodded enthusiastically.

“Food should be our priority,” Castro said, firmly yet approvingly.

“Yeah, I guess I could do with a bite to eat,” Mariner said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Chapter Text

“You’ve got the trap set up, right?” Mariner said to Rutherford.

“Okey dokey, no problem. It’s a classic pit trap. Just remember to--”

“Hey, you dumb space pig! Come at me!” Mariner shouted.

“Or we could do that,” Rutherford sighed.

The forest remained silent.

Tendi, Boimler, and Castro were out gathering fruits and edible leaves. Mariner stood out in the middle of the forest clearing, jiggling her oversized ass, waving her arms.

“Come on, you know you want this,” she said, slapping her massive ass.

“I think that works better in bars than it does in forests,” Rutherford mumbled. Even if he’d raised his voice to an audible level, he doubted Mariner would listen to him.

Rutherford heard sniffing and grunting noises in the distance. Porcieniform life-forms were common to a lot of M-class planets, ruthless omnivores with high levels of aggression that nevertheless had a tendency towards domestication. Where you got domestic animals, of course, you got their wild counterparts, and that was why he had built a pit trap for a Bromothian Wild Boar. Try to stab one of those creatures with a spear would just result in it sliding up the spear so it could gore whatever hunter was foolish enough to challenge its power.

The beast was striped purple and blue, it was hairy, it had tusks the length of Rutherford’s forearms, and it was much, much bigger than he had expected.

Then Boimler walked into the clearing.

“Hey, Mariner! We were able to find this fruit that--” Boimler began. Then the boar turned and charged for him.

The scream that filled the air was a familiar one, high and penetrating. To his credit, he held on to the bright pink scaly fruits in his arms. He just turned and ran.

“Boimler, to the left! Left!” Rutherford warned him.

Time slowed down. Boimler pumped his long, skinny legs as fast as they could go. He could smell the hot stink of the animal, feel its hooves thundering on the ground as it charged after him. He could feel his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. It wasn’t a feeling he liked, not exactly, but it was one he was familiar with.

Boimler swerved *just* in time, narrowly missing the pit trap, with the six-legged wild hog hot on his heels. The swine-like alien did not swerve when Boimler did. It charged straight forward and fell through the false ground. Boimler grew faint as the blood sprayed from its broken body, legs still twitching and running in place, its piggy little eyes still full of hate. Boimler pulled out his phaser, adjusted the setting, and shot it, just to make sure. The twitching stopped and Boimler worked hard to hold onto his breakfast.

“Alright! Looks like we’ve got lunch and dinner in the bag,” Mariner said. “You okay there, Boims?”

“I’ll be fine,” Boimler said, queasily. “I’m just, uh, not really used to encountering pigs in anything other than replicated portion-size.”

“Eh, you get used to it,” Mariner said, licking her lips and rubbing her hands together. “The important thing is we’ve got our protein for the day.” Mariner took out the knife she’d made by sharpening two flints together and went to her bloody work.

“Hey guys, we sent Boimler ahead but we found a lot of fruit,” Tendi said, coming out with Castro close behind her.

“And Rutherford and me have taken care of the meat side of things,” Mariner said, “and Boimler helped!”

“Oh, good,” Castro said with audible relief. “Because protein is very important in a survival situation.”

“I’ll just stick to the fruit for now,” Tendi said. “Orion physiology doesn’t need external protein sources as often, plus I try to avoid non-replicated meat.”

“You certainly weren’t avoiding non-replicated meat last night,” Mariner said, waggling her eyebrows. Tendi chuckled and blushed a little. Castro resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the cheesy innuendo.

“Okay, let’s gather together some kindling and firewood,” Castro said. “Er, except for you, Mariner. You just uh...keep butchering the meat.”

Mariner’s hands were already soaked with blood.

“Sure thing, boss!” she said.

“Um, I don’t mean to put myself forward, but maybe somebody should stand watch to make sure we don’t get arrested for poaching?” Tendi said. “We don’t know what the land laws and hunting regulations are like here, but we do know this is a capitalist society.”

“Why would a capitalist society be more likely to regulate hunting?” Rutherford asked. “I thought capitalism was all about deregulation.”

“Sort of, but also no,” Tendi said. “You see, in capitalist society, pretty much all land is owned by somebody, so if somebody else owns this land, you aren’t allowed to hunt on it without their permission.”

“So you need permission to get your own food?” Rutherford asked, incredulous. “Can’t you just like, opt out of the thing and live off the land?”

“Well, no. A key feature of capitalism is that you *can’t* opt out of it. Either you own enough stuff that you don’t have to work for anyone, or you work for somebody else to avoid starving to death.”

Rutherford’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? I know they charge money for a lot of things, but food, medicine, shelter? Those are things you *need* to survive! They should be free!”

Tendi put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, Rutherford. But uh, in a capitalist society, people will charge you more money for something *especially* if it’s something you need to survive, because that puts them in a better position to extort you. It’s complicated.”

“Seriously?” Castro asked. “That’s messed up. I mean, I took the mandatory courses on capitalist-era civlizations, but I didn’t know it was *that* bad.”

“I’m afraid so,” Tendi said. “By the same token, we’re definitely going to need lots of money for the transmitter parts that Rutherford needs to boost our comm signal so it can reach federation ships.”

“So how are we going to get money for the parts?” Rutherford asked.

“It’s not just parts, either,” Mariner thought out loud, looking up from the pit where she was dismembering the wild hog while Boimler kept his eyes skyward. “We can’t count on finding fruit and catching wild animals consistently, especially if it turns out somebody owns this land privately and comes snooping around.” Her stomach gurgled and she licked some of the blood off her fingers. “I mean, obviously, I’m the biggest liability here, but all of use need to eat, and that means earning money as long as we stay here.”

“Yeah, keeping you fed is important,” Castro said, with a nervous little laugh. “I mean, keeping all of us fed is important.”

“You know, normally I’d find and join an underground fighting ring, but this particular species smells so good, I’m worried I’d lose control and accidentally eat one of them,” Mariner said, thoughtfully. “I mean the grab-and-gulp has become one a standard move in my already-extensive combat repertoire, and if these guys taste half as good as they smell, once I get a bite in there’s gonna be no stopping me,” she said, pausing to rub her broad, low-hanging belly.

“Okay, so Mariner doing illegal blood sports is off the table,” Castro said, putting on what she thought was a convincing display of calm. “I suppose there are other ways to earn money. Even though we don’t have any tools, connections, or capital resources to start with.” She frowned.

Everyone got quiet for a while. Castro opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, still frowning. Then Boimler cleared his throat and straightened up.

“Okay, okay, I can see where this is going,” Boimler said.

“You can?” Tendi asked.

“It’s obviously a ‘somebody’s gotta take one for the team’ situation. We have no resources, very few skills that are marketable in this kind of society, so we’ve gotta take up the proverbial Oldest Profession.”

Castro’s eyes went wide. “You mean…”

“No, I’m going off of what you’re all not saying. It’s gonna be me, right?” Boimler said, with a resigned sigh. “I’m the obvious choice for our rent-boy. It’ll be me, walking back-alleys, giving blowjobs to creepy old men, topping or bottoming depending on customer preference even though I’m not really much of a bottom, and letting people snort the local equivalent of coke off my concaved chest and everything.”

Castro was blushing beet-red as a flood of mental images drowned the conscious portions of her brain.

Mariner looked at nowhere, an expression of frozen horror on her face, and dropped the half-eaten raw heart from her hand.

Castro coughed and sputtered. Tendi tried not to laugh. Mariner was still fixed in her blue-screen-of-death face.

“Um, actually, I wasn’t suggesting that,” Castro said, in a small, quiet voice. “I would, I would never try to push an officer under my command into sex work, even to survive on an alien planet.”

“Oh,” Boimler said, and now he turned red. “Well, now I just feel stupid.”

“It’s okay,” Castro squeaked. “My fault for not being clear enough.”

“You know, I studied this technological era back at the academy and I learned a lot of retro-engineering. Maybe I can earn us money by working in a repair shop or something?” Rutherford suggested.

“Oh, yeah. That makes a lot more sense,” Boimler said, rubbing the back of his neck and still blushing and perspiring. “Um, Mariner, you going to be okay there?”

“I’m fine,” Mariner croaked, still standing immobile at the bottom of the pit, halfway through butchering the alien hog. “I just uh, might not remember this later because I’ll be busy repressing it.”

“I also know how to juggle,” Castro said, demonstrating with a few of the fireball fuschia fruits. “Maybe that could earn us a little cash?”

“Juggling, right,” Boimler said, putting his flushing face in his hands. “Yeah, that’s a good skill.”

“Hey, buddy, I’m sure you could make plenty of money turning tricks in back alleys if you put your mind to it,” Tendi said, patting Boimler on the shoulder.

Chapter Text

“So, normally my implant regulates my body’s testosterone production so I get the amount I need without injections or pills, but there’s some kind of low-level interference on this planet that makes it difficult for my implant to carry out that function,” Rutherford explained, as they walked along the road headed towards the nearest city.

“Well, that just means you need artificial testosterone, right? How hard could that be to get on a reasonably advanced if still pre-warp civilization?” Castro said. “I mean, they used to distill estrogen from pregnant mare piss, way back when.” She’d chosen Rutherford to accompany her on this mission downtown, on the basis that he was the one with useful skills and on the basis that it meant she could leave Mariner behind, far away from her.

A flock of two-winged, four-legged cerulean bat-like creatures soared overhead as the green afternoon sun beat down on them.

“I guess we’ll have to add testosterone to the list of things we need money for, along with the signalling parts and the food,” Castro reflected.

“I still don’t get how people can charge money for that sort of thing. I mean, it seems so...cruel.”

“Indifference is a powerful force within capitalist societies,” Castro said sadly. “And people are often forced to do cruel things to other people in order to survive.”

A dull orange rodent-like creature ran across their path and skittered up a tree, its body undulating with the furious motion of six legs.

“How long do you think we’ll be trapped on this planet?” Rutherford asked, trying not to sound nervous. There was something just a little unsettling about the skittering motion of hexapodal fauna.

They walked on in silence for a while, thankful for the shade provided by occasional copses of purple-leafed trees by the side of the road. Every once in a while a gasoline-powered vehicle roared past them, kicking up dust. Some sort of unknown creature let out a long, high-pitched cry in the distance. It sounded a little bit like Boimler’s scream, but more menacing.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Rutherford said.

“What?” Castro asked.

“Around Mariner, I mean,” Rutherford said, as if she didn’t know what he meant.

“Pff, I’m not nervous,” Castro scoffed.

“It’s pretty obvious,” Rutherford said, deciding to drop the subtle approach. “You tense up around her on missions, you avoid her as much as you can on the ship, and when you are in command of her you always defer to her as much as possible.”

“What? No, I’m not scared. I just...I just respect her experience and abilities,” Castro said, with a quick little forced laugh.

“I’m pretty sure you actually don’t,” Rutherford said. “It’s okay though. I was a little scared too, at first, after we found out she’d developed Arnaud Syndrome.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t have a problem with anyone who has Arnaud Syndrome. That would be incredibly offensive of me,” Castro said loftily.

“And how many friends with Arnaud Syndrome do you have?” Rutherford asked.

“Well, none, but that’s because it’s a vanishingly rare medical condition,” Castro sputtered.

A gigantic bus rumbled past them in the opposite direction.

“And because it’s rare, it’s something that’s relatively unknown to you, and unknown things can be scary,” Rutherford said, reasonably.

Castro kicked an empty beer can out of her way, but remained silent.

“Look, she’s still the same Beckett Mariner, she’s just got a bit of a condition, and maybe when she’s fighting bad guys she has ‘eat’ added to the list of her many, many combat maneuvers she’s experienced in, and I just realized as I said that it probably won’t make her seem any less threatening to you,” Rutherford trailed off.

A motorcycle whizzed past them, revving as loudly and obnoxiously as it could.

“Jeez, that guy isn’t even wearing a helmet,” Castro observed, to break the awkward silence that had arisen. “I mean I know it must be harder for a species with horns but there *are* workarounds.”

Rutherford searched for the right words. This would be easier if he could just tap his implant into Diplomatic Mode (which he’d agreed not to do on Diplomath Nights with Boimler, even though he still felt it was a bit of a stretch to call it “cheating”.)

“Look, what I’m saying is, Mariner really doesn’t want to actually eat you. She’d never eat a fellow member of Starfleet. At least, not without their consent. Well, there were a few times but she always spat them up afterwards,” Rutherford said, realizing by Castro’s elevating heart-rate and fixed stare that he was not helping matters.

A small, gryphon-like creature looked up from some unidentifiable roadkill and hissed at them. They gave it a wide berth, just to be on the safe side.

“It’s too bad the buses probably cost money. The city still looks pretty far away,” Rutherford sighed.

“Hold on. I read about something called ‘hitchiking’ in novel,” Castro said. “If you show a little leg, sometimes people will pull over and give you a ride to wherever they’re going.” Castro rolled up her pant leg, exposing her blue-dyed thigh to the world, and stuck her thumb out as another non-flying car approached. It passed by without slowing down.

“We could be at this for a while,” Castro reflected. “I guess I shouldn’t expect it to work on the first go.”

“Here, let me give a try,” Rutherford said, rolling up his pant leg and exposing his own muscular thigh.

The next vehicle on the road, a big, red, pickup truck, pulled over right in front of them. The driver was a heavyset, hairy young man with a goatee, a green baseball cap, and a scar under his left eye.

“You two heading for the capital city?” he said, with a slight drawl.

“Yeah, we’re looking for work,” Castro said, taking the initiative now that they’d secured transportation and trying not to feel annoyed. “My friend here is an engineer, and I’m a juggler.”

“I reckon that makes sense,” he said. It was interesting the way the universal translator rendered accents depending on the recipient’s regional understandings of their own native language and dialect. “Lots of new positions opening up these days, thank Her. I’ve got a lot of crap on the passenger seat, but the pair of you can just hop in back with the egg crates. I’ll get you at least as far as the city limits.”

Rutherford shook his hand enthusiastically. “Really appreciate it.”

“I’m sure you’d do the same for me, if our positions were reversed,” their benefactor said, blushing faintly. “Name’s Chip, by the way.”

“I’m Rutherford, and this is Castro,” Rutherford said.

They both hopped on. “This seems like such a nice planet. The people here are so friendly,” Rutherford said, as the started bumping and rumbling along the road.

“Well, you’ve only met about three people. I think it’s a little early to generalize,” Castro said cautiously.

“I dunno. I got a good feeling about this world, even if it’s still using inherently exploitative currency-based economics” Rutherford said brightly.

“I wonder who that Her he mentioned is,” Castro said. “You could practically hear the capital letter.”

When they really picked up pace, the roaring wind and rumbling of the engine made conversation difficult.

Rutherford couldn’t tap his implant without damaging the fake scar tissue, but he’d set up a few files for internal neural access and pulled up some results on the history of pre-warp Earth medical history. He skimmed the file for testosterone.

“They stitched in goat testicles where?!”

Chapter Text

“So, just who do you think this ‘She’ T’abigail mentioned is?” Boimler asked, as he peeled one of the vivid pink fruits with Mariner’s knife, very carefully cutting away from him, just the way his mother had drilled into him. He couldn’t help tensing up a little whenever he saw somebody cutting towards themselves, and that horror movie they’d watched last week with the vegetable-chopping scene certainly hadn’t helped matters. He didn’t remember if the scent of human blood had any special effect on Mariner’s appetite, but he figured it was best to play it safe regardless.

“I’m thinking evil supercomputer,” Mariner said, before swallowing a superhuman bite of alien “pork” that they’d drizzled with the fruit juice, which paired surprisingly well.

“I don’t think they have the tech level for evil supercomputers here,” Tendi said, in between bites of the sweet, slightly tart fruit, which had pale yellow flesh once opened up, and just a hint of minty edge to its flavor. “No, She’s probably some kind of local deity. Maybe the supreme god of their pantheon, or the demiurge, or maybe they’ve even got some kind of exclusive monotheism in place. Those are exceedingly anthropologically rare, but they do crop up from time to time.”

Boimler tossed aside his peel and bit into the fruit with his eyes closed. (He’d learned from experience after the previous three times he got an eyeful of stinging juice).

“Maybe She is just the country or planet’s ruling authority figure,” Boimler suggested, after he finished chewing.

“I’m telling ya, it’s an evil computer. They could have some kind of schizoid tech thing rigged up with punch cards and vacuum tubes, or maybe it was dumped here by a more advanced civilization, or maybe this used to be an advanced civilization before the evil computer took over and banned technological advancements that might threaten it,” Mariner said.

“My money’s still on some kind of spirit or deity,” Tendi said. “There was a definitely a reverential tone in the way T’abagail used the term, and the idiomatic uses suggested some kind of allegorical meaning.”

Mariner offered Tendi a strip of the meat, wrapped in leaves, but Tendi waved it away.
“Thank you, but I don’t eat non-replicated meat,” Tendi said.

“You’re a vegetarian? I had no idea,” Boimler said, as Mariner handed him the strip instead.

“I guess it doesn’t come up very often when you have this wonderful little device that can make whatever food you want,” Tendi said, smiling. Then she frowned. “Ugh, I’m going to miss so many foods while I’m stuck down here. They’ve never even heard of pesto.”

“Ooh, yeah,” Mariner said, managing to keep the worry out of her voice. “I’m definitely going to be missing my favorite replicated meat, if you know what I mean.”

Boimler tried not to let his expression change as he considered the implications.

“All the more reason to get off this rock as soon as we can, right?” Tendi said. “I mean, we’ll get the parts together, Rutherford will do his magic, and then we’ll be back to civilization before we know it!”

“Maybe if the parts end up being expensive I can bring in a little extra revenue to the table,” Mariner said thoughtfully, trying not to think about the fact that she was light years away from the nearest replicator capable of making humanoid flesh to satisfy her cravings. The space pork only tasted a little bit like people, and her stomach was still rumbling halfway through the slab of meat she was consuming. “I’m a pretty good pickpocket, so I could rustle up some funds for signaling parts and a few snacks that way.”

“Isn’t that kind of risky?” Boimler pointed out.

“And morally dubious?” Tendi said.

“Nah, it’ll be fine, I’ll just steal from rich people” Mariner scoffed. “And it’s not that risky if I’ve got backup ready to provide a diversion. Trust me! When have I ever lead you astray?”

“Do you want the alphabetical list or the chronological one?” Boimler said, but he was smiling when he said it.

Chapter Text

Rutherford’s heart was breaking.

“We don’t even have anything to give him,” Castro whispered, pulling him along past a heavily scarred beggar in a wheelchair missing one of his wings. The cardboard sign he held read “SOUTHERN FRONT ACTION WAR VETERAN, ANYTHING HELPS, MAY SHE BLESS YOU FOR YOUR KINDNESS”.

An animal that looked something like a cross between a cat, a dog, and a gryphon nosed up against Castro’s leg. It had white fur, but you could barely tell that under all the soot and grime.

“I’m sorry, little fellow, but I don’t have any treats for you,” Castro said, kneeling down to scratch its head. The creature wagged its tail and chirped at her.

This time it was Rutherford who prompted Lieutenant Junior Grade Castro to keep moving.

“Look at it this way, it’s still better than some late-capitalist Earth cities,” Castro whispered. “I mean, there’s unhoused people begging for change to survive, but not on every corner. This is still way better than the conditions that lead to the Bell Riots.”

It was probably a big city by local standards, although the skyscrapers were barely a few hundred feet rather than superstructures penetrating the cloud-line. The predominate color was rust-brown, with structures made mostly of steel and iron. Brick chimneys and factory steamstacks belched smoke into the air.

His eye was drawn to a humble shop front in between a cheap-looking diner and an expensive-looking clothing store. It was called “Big Ell’s Maintenance and Repairs”. Hanging in the window, right next to a naked light bulb, was a bright green “HELP WANTED” sign.

“Okay, you check out that place, I’ll go try to find a bar to juggle in,” Castro said decisively. “Buzz me on the comm when you’re done and I’ll sneak off somewhere safe to discreetly get in touch with you.”

“Okey-dokey!” Rutherford said, resisting the urge to salute.

He stepped through the shop’s wide double-doors, which rang a little bell. The shop had a beautifully cluttered display of tools and parts, from shiny and new to rusty and old. There were gears, pistons, and pipes. There were bottles of oil and lubricant and boxes of gears and grommets. There were magnifying instruments and welding torches and wrenches galore. One small part of his brain observed that the ceiling was much higher than he’d expected, but the rest was taken up with sheer excitement and delight.

“For the last time, we’re all out of 7B gears and we don’t do major repairs without a downpayment, and if Sa’am sent you then you should know his tank still won’t be ready for three more days,” a towering woman said, without looking over her shoulder. She stood at least seven feet tall, without the horn, and her wings were so big they looked like they might actually enable her to take off. Her broad shoulders rippled with huge muscles as she hauled a massive coolant tank off a high shelf, and the piston in her prosthetic leg pumped as she set it down again. Only after collapsing onto a high spinny chair and wiping her forehead with an already questionably-clean rag did she turn around to face him.

“Um, actually, I was here about the job,” Rutherford said, blushing a little and tugging on his chest wrap, trying to keep his eyes on her rough-but-handsome face and away from her bare abs. (Full shirts didn’t really make sense for a species with wings, even vestigial ones.) “It said ‘help wanted’ outside? Are you still hiring?”

“Oh, that,” she said, pausing to clear her throat. “You know your way around an engine? I don’t have any time for apprentices or on-the-job training.”

“I sure do!” Rutherford said confidently.

“Then prove it,” the woman commanded, pointing at a disassembled engine. “Put that thing back together and maybe we’ll talk.”

Rutherford set to work, replacing stripped gears, wrenching things into place, oiling and greasing as he went. The woman didn’t say anything, but she watched him while he worked, and he could feel the ice in the room gradually melting. He thanked his lucky stars he’d taken those electives at starfleet and played around with retro tech.

Finally, Rutherford wiped off his hands, stepped back, and admired his handiwork. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I think I can start you here today,” the woman said. “Name’s Ellerite, by the way, but everyone calls me Ell for short.”

“Please to meet you, Ell. I’m Rutherford.” He remembered this was a financial transaction, not a meeting of equals. “I look forward to selling my labor to you for currency that has no inherent worth but is an agreed-upon unit of value per the social contract!”

Ell frowned at him while she shook his hand. He noticed she had a few wooden replacement fingers.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda weird, kid?”

“Ah, yeah, everyone was saying that, uh, back in the Northern Archipelago. I’m considered quirky and eccentric even by their standards.” Rutherford said, laughing nervously.

“Anyway, you’ll be doing most of the grunt work around here. I’ll pay you thirty an hour.”

Rutherford frowned and checked the list of services posted by the door. “But it looks like you charge 45 for a basic oil change, and that takes less than an hour. If I’m doing the bulk of the work, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get more money rather than less?” he said, in innocent confusion.

“Kid, it’s my shop. I can charge what I like. But maybe if you work hard and keep your head down, you might be running your own shop one day.”

“Oh, is that how you got yours?” Rutherford asked.

“No, I inherited it from my mom,” Ell said, frowning. “Kid, are you trying to be smart with me?”

“No, ma’am! Not at all,” Rutherford said quickly.

Ell glowered at him suspiciously.

At that moment, the bell over the door rang. Rutherford let out a breath of relief as a short balding woman came in with a motorcycle.

“What is it this time, Jet?” Ell said, turning to face the customer with a different sort of frown.

“The engine keeps stalling out. I had to walk halfway here and I’m lucky I was able to do that! You gotta help me, Ell!” she said.

Rutherford’s eye lit up as he surveyed the specimen. He turned towards Ell.

“May I?” he said.

“Of course, kid. It’s what I’m paying you for,” Ell said, grudgingly.

Rutherford wheeled it out and got it propped up against a workbench. He grabbed the tool he needed from the rack and got started.

When he finished a few minutes later, Ell stepped back and whistled.

“By the grace of-uh, shit there, Rutherford, you’ve got yourself a gift.”

Rutherford wanted to ask if that meant she was going to pay him more, but he didn’t want to push his luck and risk “being smart” again.

“Aw shucks,” Rutherford said, confident that the skin dye would conceal his blushing. “It’s not that impressive.”

“I’ll let you know if it runs into any more trouble,” the customer gruffly said, handing over some paper money.

Ell got Rutherford started on another engine in need of repair, and pretty soon he was happily lost in the rhythm of the work. He replaced stripped gears, oiled joints, and secured pistons. Before he knew it, he had run out of things to do.

Where had Ell gone? Maybe she was out taking a lunch break or something.

Maybe now would be a good time to buzz Castro and check in with Mariner. He got up and started wandering through the backrooms of the shop, passing clothes hanging across doorways and unfinished projects, trying to find the bathroom or some other private place he could use the comms without attracting attention.

He stopped at an odd spot in the wall. There was the faintest hint of a seam along it. Curious, he knocked on the wall. It produced a hollow sound. There was a fairly obvious knot in the wood that, when pressed, caused a hidden door to pop open.

There were three small statues. They looked mostly like Bromothians, but one had four wings and a massive ovipositor, one had a snake-like head, and one had a single eye for a face. There was a folded mat in front of them and a cushion, and three incense burners, along with a small book.

“Oh shit,” Ell said.

Rutherford turned around to face her.

“I can explain,” she began.

Rutherford stared and waited. He didn’t know what needed explaining about this little shrine.

“Okay, I can’t explain. You already know I follow the trio of old gods of our land. Just, please, don’t report me to the secret police! I’ll make you an equal partner, split the work and the profits fifty-fifty, and pay you daily instead of weekly, just please don’t rat me out. I have a family to support!” The towering woman got down on her knees, real and artificial, and grabbed hold of him, tears filling her eyes, her vestigial wings flapping furiously.

“Please, don’t worry!” Rutherford said. “I promise I won’t tell anyone! My lips are sealed,” he added, hurrying to assuage her panic.

“Oh thank the three,” Ell said, gasping in relief. Slowly, her wings ceased their frantic motion. She got awkwardly up to her feet again, lifted Rutherford off his feet in a rib-bruising hug, and kissed him on both cheeks. “I was so terrified!”

“It’s all good!” Rutherford said, struggling for breath. “Just uh, put me down again and we’ll be cool.”

“You have no idea what a relief it is to find a fellow believer,” Ell said. “May the Father, the Benefactor, and the Protector bless you and your family in--”

“I’m not actually a believer,” Rutherford said, awkwardly, knowing there was no way he could maintain a bluff like that. “I just don’t like getting people into trouble.”

“Oh, oh thank you again then. That’s...remarkably enlightened of you,” she said, thumping him on the back and causing him to stagger. “There aren’t many people like you out there.”

Rutherford was once again glad the dye prevented him from showing a blush.

“It’s nothing special,” he said. “By the way, I don’t see a radio broadcast coil and a signal modulator here. Do you know if we could order one?”

“Oh, I’m sorry buddy, but that’s a little outside of our range. You’d have to save up for a while to get one of those.”

The bell rang again.

“I’ll go see the customer,” Ell said. “And thanks again.”

“No problem. And, uh, where is the bathroom? That’s what I was looking for,” he said, quickly closing the hidden door.

“Oh, two doors down on the left,” Ell said, over her shoulder.

“Thanks,” Rutherford said, he headed off for the small room. When he closed the door behind him, he was relieved to see that, low-tech though they may be, this civilization clearly had a handle on indoor plumbing. He tapped the comm, buzzed Castro, then contacted Mariner.

“Hey, Mariner, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is I found a job that pays money. The bad news is we’re probably going to be stuck here for a while,” he explained.

“Oh,” Mariner said, and he could hear how crestfallen she was in her tone of voice. “But uh, you’ll still be able to whip something up, right? You’re an engineering whiz.”

“Not anytime soon,” Rutherford said. “I still need tools and basic supplies to work with, and none of them are going to come cheap. This isn’t a Buffer Time situation.”

“And if we are stuck staying here long-term, we’ll have to think about food, lodging, and a enough disposable income for the basic leisure activities to keep us sane in this capitalist backwater,” Mariner groaned. “So that means it’ll take even longer.”

There was a brief pause.

“Why don’t I come downtown with the gang and rendevouz? I’ve got a few ideas about how to speed up our cash-acquisition process,” Mariner said, and Rutherford felt a cold chill run down his back.

“Mariner, I thought we talked about this,” Boimler said in the background.

“I don’t think Castro would be very happy with the plan you put forward,” he heard Tendi say.

“Maybe we should run those ideas by Lieutenant Junior Grade Castro first, Mariner. Just so everyone’s on the same page and we can coordinator our efforts?”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure she’ll be cool with it,” Mariner said, in what she clearly meant to be a reassuring tone of voice. Rutherford was not reassured.

Chapter Text

“Man, we’ve been trying to flag down a car for at least an hour now,” Mariner grumbled. “There’s gotta be a better way to get downtown.”

“Well, we don’t have any money for a bus, so it’s hitchhike or walk,” Tendi said.

“Maybe people are put off by the group size. We might be more likely to get a ride one at a time, you know? A lot of these gas-powered vehicles only have one passenger seat,” Boimler said.

“Okay then, you give it a try,” Mariner coughed, as a bright green four-door with no passengers kicked up a cloud of dust in their faces.

“Watch and learn,” Boimler said, with a confidence. “You guys go hide out in the bushes.”

Mariner rolled her eyes, but she went into the bushes with Tendi anyway.

“I saw this in an old Earth cartoon,” Boimler said, rolling up his pant leg to expose his duck-egg-blue-dyed thigh.

The first few trucks and cars went by without even slowing down, but Boimler remained undeterred. Eventually, a sedan car pulled over to check him out.

“Hi there,” the driver said, stepping out of the car with his purse in hand. “Where are you going?”

“Actually, I was hoping to just head downtown,” Boimler explained. “I assume you’re heading that way too?”
“Sure!” the stranger said, brushing back his thick dark-blue hair around his horn. “Fancy, a pretty boy like you, traveling out here all alone.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Boimler stammered, blushing slightly under the light body-paint.

“Sure,” the stranger said. He extended a hand for a shake. “Name’s Clemelc, by the way.”

“I’m Boimler,” Boimler said. “Bradward Boimler.”

“Sweet,” Clemelc said, before stabbing Boimler in the neck with a syringe.

“What are you...doing to...me?” Boimler stammered, as he faded away from consciousness.

Clemelc grinned as he shouldered Boimler’s unconscious body. He popped his trunk open and began shoving Boimler into it.

That was when Mariner and Tendi charged out of the bushes. Tendi prepared her weapons sooner, but Mariner charged faster, and by the time D’vana Tendi had set her weapons to stun, Mariner had already grabbed her opponent and began slamming him against the car door.

“What were you going to do with him?” Mariner hissed.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Clemelc sneered. “You won’t really hurt me. You don’t have the—”

His words were cut off as Mariner shoved his head down her throat.

“Mmph!” Clemelc said.

Mariner gulped further, her neck swelling as she forced down Clemelc’s shoulders and torso. His vestigial wings fluttered and his legs kicked wildly, but Mariner kept gulping him down. Her stomach expanded as she forced him inside her, bulging well past her knees, but she kept sucking him up until the last futile foot kicked inside her jaw. Mariner finished the swallow with a prolonged belch, ending in one of his shoes popping out of her mouth.

“Holy shit,” Mariner said. “That guy tasted sooo good. You wouldn’t believe it!” Mariner reached down to finger her protruding navel as her stomach began to digest Clemelc.

“Okay, but let’s get out of sight,” Tendi said, picking up Boimler’s unconscious body with a fireman’s carry maneuver. Mariner nodded vaguely, but she didn’t actually move until Tendi grabbed her and started dragging her towards the nearest copse of trees and cluster of bushes by the roadside.

“Seriously,” Mariner lamented, as Tendi dragged her along, “you would not believe how good these guys taste. It’s better than Boimler Chili with hot sauce. It’s better than you in a stir fry. It’s just *urp* amazing,” she stammered, drool running from the corner of her mouth.

“Okay, Mariner,” Tendi said, tugging on Mariner’s arm. “The people here taste really good. We still need to get out of sight.”

“Good? They don’t just taste *good*,” Mariner muttered. “They taste *sublime*. They taste amazing. They taste great! Like, holy shit, I’m gonna have a really hard time not denuding this planet of it’s population because everyone smells and tastes amazing,” Mariner said, wiping away the streams of drool.

“Okay, let’s...not do that,” Tendi said, patting Mariner on the gut. She responded by burping in Tendi’s face. “I know this situation has a lot of...temptations, for you, but let’s try to keep all of that in check.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got a handle on it,” Mariner said, trying to stand up. She managed on the third try. “Lots of tasty, tasty people, but sure, I can manage. I’ll just not eat anyone who isn’t a bad guy.”

“That’s...good to hear,” Tendi said, trying her best to stay positive.

“Totally. No problemo. Even though these people taste better than any human or Orion I’ve ever tasted,” Mariner said, her eyes on the horizon.

“Oh. Alright, then” Tendi said, with more hope than conviction.

“I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a tummy-rub?” Mariner said, hopefully.

Tendi warmed up as she stepped over to her girlfriend, and began massaging her distended gut, ignoring the cries of protest and weak struggles from within. Mariner’s eyelids grew droopy and a big, dumb smile spread across her face as Tendi got to work.

“Ooh yeah, that’s *belch* the ticket,” Mariner said, reveling in the attention. “Keep going,” she moaned, a trail of drool falling from the right corner of her mouth. Tendi dutifully obeyed, until the presence of Clemelc went from a series of captive struggles to a few bumps in the digestive slurry filling out Mariner’s midsection.

“Okay, are we ready to go back to hitchhiking?” Tendi asked, keeping the faintest note of trepidation out of her voice.

“Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll flag *burp* down somebody, no problem,” Mariner said, the distended breadth of her dyed navy blue belly exposed to the air by the halter top.

Before Boimler woke up from his drugged sleep, Mariner had managed to attract a driving couple, consisting of one punk-looking woman with a half-shaved head and one absolutely unfuckable man with abnormally tiny vestigial wings, who said they liked Mariner’s vibes, and piled in to the six-seater station wagon.

Chapter Text

Boimler woke up with a full-throated scream.

“Don’t worry, Boims, you’re safe and sound. You haven’t been spirited away for who-knows-what nefarious purposes,” Mariner said, slapping him heartily on the back.

Boimler winced and rubbed his back. “I...the last thing I remember is somebody stabbing me with a syringe...are you sure I’m safe here?”

“Positive!” Tendi said, patting him on the back much more gently.

“But that guy tried to--” Boimler began.

Mariner thumped her tummy and belched raucously. “I took care of him.”

“Oh, good,” Boimler said, uneasily.

“Anyway, time to wake up sleepyhead. This is as far as our benefactors go,” Mariner said, opening up the door and hefting her bloated girth out of the car seat.

They thanked the driver, who also handed Mariner a piece of paper with his phone number on it. Then they started heading towards a tavern called The White Bird.

“Apparently unicorn hunters are a galaxy-wide constant,” Mariner said with a sigh, once the vehicle had driven off. “I might have actually been up for it if the guy wasn’t so hideous. You’d think they’d mix it up sometimes, like a cute GNC guy with an ugly girlfriend, but it’s always the same.”

“Mariner, you know we can’t get...involved, with anyone on this planet. We don’t know if they have...I mean, we might not...the body paint covers everything but we don’t know if the less-visible areas match up. I mean, we’re not *completely* disguised. You know…” he stammered, sweating and blushing purple.

Mariner broke out laughing. “Oh, I know, but it was fun watching you fumble your way through that. Don’t worry, Boims, I’ll keep things professional.” She burped. “Anyway I’m a little worried I’d have trouble getting intimate without letting my appetite get the better of me. These guys taste really, really good,” she whispered, as they approached the bar.

Heads turned as they walked in through the huge swinging doors. Most of the women in the bar fixated on Boimler and most of the men checked out Mariner.

“Hey, Castro!” Mariner said, waving to their away team leader, who was currently juggling a variety of knives and torches.

To her credit, Castro didn’t drop any of them when she saw Mariner, but she did flinch a little. There was a pile of small bills and change in front of her. Her eyes were drawn to Mariner’s distended stomach.

“Hello Mariner, Boimler, and Tendi,” Castro said, catching the knives and torches one by one, then doing a little bow to scattered applause and a few more tips. “Do you need me to order you some food?”

“I’m good,” Mariner said, belching hugely. “I had a little snack on the way here.”

Castro’s eyes widened as she extinguished the torches and set down the knives on the bar.

“Don’t tell me you...um…”

“Hey, some bastard tried to *burp* kidnap Boimler,” Mariner said, putting a protective arm over her friend. “The guy had it *urp* coming. And actually, is it okay if I borrow some of your cash? I’ve got a plan to make more.”

“Um, I suppose so?” Castro said, hesitantly.

“Sweet,” she said, eyeing a card game taking place at a nearby table.

The bartender came over to Boimler with a glass of something blue and fizzy.

“Uh, I didn’t order anything,” Boimler said.

“No, but that woman wanted you to have this,” the bartender said, pointing to a heavyset older woman with long curly green hair who waved shyly at Boimler.

“Oh, that was nice of her,” Boimler said, waving back. He took a cautious sip of the drink. “Ooh, I like this. It’s kinda fruity and sweet, but not too sweet.”

Mariner waddled over to the table with a card game in progress and a lot of currency on the table.

“Ooh, this game looks fun,” Mariner said innocently. “Would anyone like to teach me how to play?”

“Mariner, don’t you think it might be a bad idea to gamble with our only money?” Boimler said.

“Relax, buddy, I know what I’m doing,” she whispered. “Besides, if this goes south we still have Rutherford’s job to fall back on.”

One of the women at the table pulled out a chair for Mariner. She was pear-shaped, but nowhere near Mariner’s size. It creaked a little under her weight, but it didn’t give way.

“You’ve never played Queen of Stars before?” she asked.

“Nope, but I’m sure I could learn if you show me,” Mariner said, giving her best Tendi-like eager grin.

Boimler slurped his drink nervously.

One of the women at the table patiently explained the rules to Mariner, pausing only now and then to answer her questions, and then they dealt her in. The game sounded pretty similar to Poker, Lahj-Ranal and other bluffing-based card games.

Just as Boimler finished his blue drink, a slender young man sent him something pink in a goblet.

“Rutherford was right, the people here really are friendly,” Boimler said. “Ooh, and this tastes great. More sour than I expected, but still good.”

“So, is the four of stars and the six of moons a good combo, or a bad one?” Mariner asked, frowning at her hand.

Tendi picked a quiet spot to sit down and people-watch. Based on her experience, Mariner generally knew what she was doing when it came to mission-oriented stuff.

Normally she tended to get a lot of attention in bars, but most of the population here seemed more interested in Mariner’s body type or Boimler’s. It was a refreshing change of pace. She always hated having to hurt people’s feelings when she rejected their advances, and the fewer people hit on her, the fewer she would have to say “no” to.

Mariner’s pile of cash shrunk rapidly. Castro had taken up the juggling again, this time with some of the pink fruits that were apparently popular in cocktails, but she couldn’t earn money as fast as Mariner could lose it. Castro was sweating bullets as she watched Mariner get confused about what a winning suit was and give away her position by grinning or wincing as she drew her cards.

“Okay guys, I’m almost out of money but I just gotta see where this game goes. I’m having so much fun tonight!”

Then Mariner looked over her shoulder, right at Castro, and winked.

When she returned to the game, Mariner’s face went utterly blank.

The wings of one of her opponents twitched ever so slightly, and Mariner folded. The game continued. She put the last of her currency into the pot. Then she revealed her cards.

“Is this any good?” Mariner asked, innocently. The rest of the players groaned at her hand.

“Guess that’s a ‘yes’ then,” Mariner said, sweeping the pot up. “I must have beginner’s luck!”

From then on, things went considerably worse for the other players. Castro relaxed a little, and even took some time to buy herself a drink and a platter of fried food.

“Aw, are we done already?” Mariner said, with a sad face after the other players had either run out of money or decided to leave the game while they still had their crop tops. (Full-lenth shirts were apparently impractical for a species with wings growing out of their waists). “It’s been real, everyone! Hey Boims, think we’ve got enough money for those parts now?” She looked around the room. “Boimler?”

“Oh hey Mariner! How’d the *burp* game go?” Boimler said, spinning back and forth on his barstool, this time with a nearly-empty purple drink in his hand. Lots of women and more than a few men were practically swooning over him. “People here sho...so friendly. Everyone is being so nice to me! I’m getting these *hic* drinks for free!” He put a hand over his mouth and covered a long belch. “Why do free drinksh taste better anyway?”

“Boimler, did you have anything to *eat* tonight? Or any water?” Mariner said, lifting her massive ass out of the chair and cramming the money into her pockets. “You know you get when you drink on an empty stomach.”

“But is not an empty stomach. Filled it first with that blue stuff.” Boimler continued swaying as his unfocused eyes searched the room, oblivious to his admirers.

Castro looked at the money Mariner had netted them. “These are still mostly small bills. It was a good idea, but it’s going to take us days to earn enough for the parts however you slice it.”

“Hey, you! Don’t you think just cuz you’re our superierior you can go around dishrepecting my friends. She worked hard to win all that money!” Boimler set down his glass and staggered to his feet.

“Whoa there, buddy, I think you might need to cool your jets a bit,” Mariner said, putting herself in between Boimler and Castro. “That’s not synthehol, remember?” she whispered.

Boimler stepped around Mariner and put up his fists.

“Ensign Boimler, please, listen to Mariner,” Castro said, as he ducked and weaved unsteadily.

“You’re not the boss of me! Don’t tell me what to do!” Boimler said. He swung at her and missed, then began to fall. Castro caught him.

“You...you saved me!” He sniffed and began crying. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Boimler. It’s okay,” Castro said, patting him on the back.

“Th-thank you,” he whimpered. “You’re such a good f-friend,”

“I’m glad you think so,” Castro said awkwardly, reflecting on all the times she wished she could cradle Boimler in her arms and trying not to blush.

Boimler struggled upright again, although he was still swaying. He narrowed his eyes at Castro.

“Hey, heeey, hey, Castro,” Boimler said. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda cute?”

“Oh dear,” Tendi said, getting up.

“Um, a few people,” Castro said. Why did it have to be now? Why did it have to be this way?

“Wanna make out?” Boimler shouted. “Or we could take our pants off? You’re really *burp* pretty.”

The rest of the bar was watching the exchange with rising interest. A few people shouted “Do it!”

“Ensign Boimler, I’m extremely flattered, but I think you should know that you’re not in any state to consent right now,” Castro said, forcing herself to be a gentleman. “You’re very, very drunk.”

“Drunk? I’m not drunk,” Boimler scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare call me drunk if I was sober.”

“Okay, buddy, that’s enough for tonight,” Mariner said. “Remember me, your friend, Mariner?”

“M-Mariner? Hmm? Why are there two of you? Did you get into a transporter accident?”

“Boimler, it’s time to go...well, not home, because we’re not home, but we’ve got enough money for a flophouse for the night.”

“No. I don’t wanna,” Boimler said, going back to get another gulp of the purple drink. “I’m not done, and all these friendly people keep buying me drinks, and I wanna make out with Castro.”

“Boimler, my guy, you know you’re too wasted to walk straight. Trust me. I’ve been there,” Mariner said. “Remember when I accidentally sliced your leg open? You’re drunker than I was then.”

Boimler crashed back onto his barstool.

“Okay, clearly reason is not going to work,” Mariner said, dragging her friend upright.

“Don’t wanna go,” he grumbled.

Mariner sighed, picked him up bodily, and then flung him over her back like a sack of potatoes.

“Okay, guys, let’s blow this joint and find a hotel or something,” Mariner said. “I mean, if that’s okay with you, Castro,” she added quickly.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Castro agreed.

Tendi turned to the bartender. “Excuse me, but do you know the nearest place where we could get our friend to lie down and sober up?”

“Moonlight Motel, three blocks north of here on the right, you can’t miss it,” the bartender said.

“Thank you,” Tendi said.

Castro looked longingly at Boimler, who was now kicking and protesting, although Mariner didn’t seem to notice. It probably helped that she weighed roughly four times as much as him. He grabbed hold of the swinging doors on their way out, but Mariner dragged him free.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” Castro said.

They stepped out into the night, lit by buzzing neon and gaslights. If anyone thought there was something wrong with a woman carrying a man kicking and screaming over her shoulder, they also weren’t brave enough to approach the group. In any case, Boimler fell asleep by the time they crossed the first block.

“You know, I was kind of hoping we’d run into more trouble,” Mariner said. “Like, I was full earlier, but I could really go for a mugger or two right about now.”

“She’s just joking, right?” Castro said to Tendi.

“Probably,” Tendi said, patting her on the shoulder. “To be honest, I think she jokes about it more because she knows it makes you uncomfortable.”

Castro sighed. That sounded about right.

They reached the Moonlight Motel without incident. The building had a chapel dedicated to “Her”, a vending machine, and free hot tisane, but was otherwise rather Spartan. A bored-looking clerk with an unusually short horn greeted them.

“So, how many rooms do we need?” Mariner asked Castro.

“Well, I figure one room for Rutherford and Boimler, and you can share a room with Tendi. I’ll just get a one-bed room for myself,” Castro said. Hopefully her room would be as far away from Mariner’s room as possible, and with a good strong lock.

“I guess you were right, Tendi,” Mariner said, pointing to the chapel.

“Lucky guess,” Tendi said modestly.

Mariner handed over the money for their rooms, then they went their seperate ways. Tendi grabbed Mariner’s generous ass, causing her to squeal. “Wait until we get into the room, babe.”

Castro stopped into her room. There was a surprisingly large bed, a bathroom with a surprisingly large shower, but otherwise things were pretty basic and grey. She buzzed Rutherford, who very quickly called her back.

“Rutherford, we’re staying at the Moonlight Motel. Buy whatever parts you can afford, then come back here. We’ve got a room for you with Boimler.”

Chapter Text

Boimler woke up with a groan and a whimper. Sunlight drilled into the back of his skull. His mouth tasted like death. His empty stomach ached and his throat felt like sandpaper.

“What...what happened last night?” Boimler moaned.

“Sorry, you were already asleep by the time I got in,” Rutherford said.

Boimler found somebody had thoughtfully left a pitcher of water by his bed, probably Mariner. He staggered over to the sink, gargled, spat, and then greedily finished off the pitcher.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

“Come in,” Boimler said, rubbing his temples as some native wildlife squawked outside his window.

“Hey Boims. I brought a hangover remedy for you. They don’t really have worchestershire sauce here, but I did my best to improvise, and they have something pretty close to hot sauce and pepper. Plus it was easy to get a fresh egg with so many domesticated avian species,” Mariner said, holding out a small cup of cloudy liquid with a bright green yolk floating in it.

“Is this...safe?” Boimler asked, hesitating.

“As long as you down it in one gulp,” Mariner said. “Trust me, no amount of advanced medical technology can top the classic prairie oyster when it comes to cures for too much fun the previous night.”

Another seizmic wave of pain passed through Boimler’s skull, and he reluctantly knocked back the revolting concoction.

“Oh my nontheistic moral principles, that was disgusting!” Boimler gasped. “It’s like, slimy and salty and spicy all at the same time,” he added, with a prolonged shudder. He could already feel the heat rising in his tongue and sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“Yeah, but I bet you feel better already, don’t you?” Mariner said, elbowing him in the ribs.

Boimler winced and rubbed his chest. “A little bit, yeah. At least I don’t feel like jumping out of an airlock anymore.” He frowned. “So uh...you said I was having too much fun last night? I didn’t do anything embarrassing, did I?”

Mariner avoided meeting his gaze.

“Depends on how you define embarrassing. To start with, you didn’t seem to notice that two thirds of the women in the bar and a quarter of the guys had the hots for you something fierce. Honestly, I know you’re on this Bold Boimler kick, but you don’t have to say ‘yes’ to every person who buys you a drink, even if you’re just trying to be polite.”

“So, that explains why I can’t remember much after I got into the bar, but uh, what did I actually *do* once I got plastered?” Boimler asked.

Mariner put a consoling hand on his shoulder. “You may have hit on Lieutenant Junior Grade Castro a little.”

“I propositioned a superior officer?” Boimler squeaked.

“I mean, only a bit?” Mariner said, with desperate cheeriness. She wasn’t any good at sugar-coating bad news the way Tendi was.

“I propositioned a superior officer,” Boimler moaned, covering his face with his hands.

Another fist rapped on the door, and Castro stepped in.

“Hello, Rutherford, Mariner...Boimler,” Castro said, awkwardly.

“Oh, Castro, sir, Lieutenant, I mean...I just want to, let me apologize for last night,” Boimler said, hurrying over.

“It’s fine. You were accidentally blitzed out of your mind. I won’t hold it against you,” Castro said, managing to keep the blush from her cheeks.

“No, really, I’m sorry. I would never have done that sober,” Boimler said, clutching his hands nervously. “I mean, I would never, not in a million years, think of propositioning a senior officer.”

“Forget about it,” Castro said, drooping a little.

“Seriously, I wouldn’t dream of having sex with you. I’m not that kind of guy, and you’re obviously not that kind of gal, and I am shocked and deeply ashamed that I asked to make out without pants or whatever I said. I just want you to know that isn’t me, not even the slightest,” Boimler said.

“Oh, thanks,” Castro said, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm out of her voice.

“Not to say that you’re not attractive! I mean, obviously, you’re a very attractive woman, by anyone’s standards, drunk or sober. Er, wait, no! That’s not what I meant!” Boimler stammered, furiously backpedaling.

The church towers began tolling. A speaker grill overhead crackled into life.

“Attention, all citizens with non-essential duties, please report to the nearest house of worship for prayer and morning services.”

“Saved by the bell,” Boimler whispered to himself, wiping off sweat as everyone in the Moonlight Motel filed out of their rooms and began shuffling towards the chapel.

Chapter Text

Castro, Boimler, Rutherford, Mariner and Tendi didn’t have much experience with organized religion, but they followed the general principle of “pretend you know what you’re doing and just copy everybody else”. They followed the assembly of Bromothians, most of them in rough clothing with a working class appearance, more than a few missing fingers or a wing, and sat down in the pews. The chapel had various depictions of a female figure, presumably the “She” everyone talked about in hushed tones. The first thing that became obvious to them was that She was massively fat, possibly weighing in around a thousand pounds, with breasts far bigger than her head, a double-chin beneath huge rounded cheeks, an ass that three women would be proud of, upper arms like hams, thighs like tree trunks, and a belly that could have comfortably housed several people. She was also conspicuously hornless and wingless, and the colored tapestry hanging on the wall gave her a peach-colored skin tone rather than native blue.

The disguised Starfleet members gave each other nervous looks, each of them beginning to get an inkling of what was going on on this pre-warp planet.

The pastor was a tall, thin woman with dark blue skin, wearing a buttoned-up black crop top with a white bow-tie and long pleated black slacks. She stood at a simple wooden pulpit and opened the book in front of her.

“Before She descended from the heavens, this was a land of peril and suffering. We were plagued by hurricanes, tornadoes, flooding and wildfires. Drought lead to famine across the land. Now She controls our heavens, when and where it rains, whether villages are spared or destroyed. She has brought an end to the famines. She came to save us all. She works miracles, sending objects from place to place in a shimmer blue light without occupying intervening space. She can heal grave wounds. All She asks is a few simple offerings, from us, for the good of all. Remember, for Her power is not free, nor is our salvation from chaos, famine, and destruction.”

The starfleet members in the audience were all picking up on the same thoughts. Some rogue human was using advanced technology to set herself up as the god-queen of this underdeveloped planet. For those who cared about it, the prime directive no longer fully applied.

Mariner began fidgeting. She was already getting bored with this sermon and it had barely started.

Mariner tried to pay attention, she really did. She wasn’t religious herself, but she knew people who were, and more importantly she knew how much religion could inform a culture’s worldview. It was just that the sermon was so repetitive, harping on about how awesome the mysterious She was, and how much life sucked before She came. Plus, she hadn’t had breakfast yet, and all of these Bromothians around her were overwhelming her with their delicious smell. Her stomach growled.

“Remember, turn your heart away from false gods. Do not lavish your praises upon dead relatives or mute idols or non-existent spirits. She is the only one with the power to move heaven and earth! She is the only one who can command matter with Her words! She is the one whose hunger must be appeased at all costs, lest her righteous wrath fall upon the populace who defies her! One wayward sinner can doom an entire community, and those who oppose Her royal will shall be smitten by disasters and plagued by suffering.”

While Boimler listened to the sermon, his eyes wandered over the illustrations decorating the chapel walls. A lot of it was what he thought of as traditional religious imagery, with Her descending from the heavens and performing miracles, but some of it was downright pornographic. One carved wooden panel displayed the deity being double-teamed by women with swollen ovipositors, another showed her smooshing a man under her belly, and yet another had her masturbating while gazing imperiously at the viewer.

“With great power comes a great appetite. It is our sacred duty to satisfy Her salivating desires and answer to Her hunger. Only a luxurious and splendid gut such as Hers has the power to move the heavens and the earth. It is an honor to satiate Her everlasting desire. Lo, She shall fall upon and devour any of Her enemies that she does not smite with sacred fire!”

One of the pictures showed Her with Her jaw unhinged, a bound Bromothian on a plate before her.

*Holy shit,* Boimler thought. *What are the odds? This “She” has Arnaud Syndrome too.*

Chapter Text

The god-queen stirred awake to greet another beautiful, climate-controlled day. The weather control matrix She installed was working perfectly as ever. She shifted Her leviathan mass in bed, causing Her nubile male concubines to slide closer to Her in the fast expanse of cushions and satin. Her massive stomach grumbled, and She considered wolfing one of them down for breakfast, but Her bladder levied for attention, and if She had to get up anyway She may as well leave the royal bedroom in search of other food.

After completing Her morning ablutions, the god-queen waddled out of the jewel-encrusted bathroom and rang her gong to summon her attendants with the breakfast sacrifice. She was already salivating and her cavernous belly rumbled.

Ceremonial guards marched in, four of them, each carrying a pole of an object like a sedan chair, but instead of a seat it was mounted with a plate. On the plate was a Bromothian. He was hogtied with rope made from edible plant fibers and a bright green fruit was crammed into his mouth. His body was coated with oil and sprinkled with spices, and his vestigial wings were tied together, as if adding insult to injury. As they approached, the god-queen rubbed Her belly and licked Her lips. Her stomach growled like a wild animal.

The incense was burning. The candles were lit. Pastors spoke words of worship over the bound captive as tears rolled down his face, the fruit gag muffling his pleas for mercy.

The royal attendants carried him up the small staircase, put in place so they could reach the summit of Her inhumanly fat body without stepping on Her luxuriously gigantic belly.

The god-queen unhinged Her jaw and opened Her mouth. The attendants tilted the plate so that the hapless sacrifice slid towards Her slathering maw. He scrabbled futilely with his hands.

The god-queen swallowed him in a single gulp. Her gut was so enormous that he barely made a visible difference under all that fat. Although his cries for help were rendered completely inaudible by the muffling, She could still feel him inside her, hopelessly trying to break free in his final moments before he was digested.

The god-queen let out a window-rattling belch, blowing back the styled hair of Her royal attendants and scouring them with Her exhalation. She raised one chubby hand and snapped Her fingers.

She grinned as the attendants rushed over and began rubbing Her voluminous belly, their agile fingers sinking into the mass of regal fat. One of them gently inserted her fingers into the god-queen’s deep navel. She burped and moaned as the pressure was applied, enjoying the sensation of gentle hands kneading Her fat.

Today was a good day. It was always a good day to be the god-queen of this pathetic, backwater planet, full of devoted and delicious worshipers.

When she was satisfied, she waved the attendants away. She rose to Her feet, heaving a thousand pounds of quivering flesh, and waddled over to Her electrum throne. She snapped Her fingers, and the attendants gathered with trays of rare delicacies from the farthest discovered reaches of Her world. She shoved an entire roasted leg of wild bodovan into her mouth and washed it down with a jug of jenkal-fruit wine while her advisors and supplicants assembled.

Her leading general stepped up, trembling.

“The war to the south goes well. Supply lines remain clear and we are slowly starving them out as your drought prevents them from renewing resources.”

“I expected *burp* no less,” the god-queen said, waving Her chubby hand. “You may leave.”

Next the state treasurer presented herself.

“Tax collection goes well, except for some holdouts in the northern Archipelago who have decreased revenue by 12%.”

The god-queen frowned, Her fat cheeks bulging with another mouthful of meat. She swallowed before answering.

“I’ll send a hurricane to plague their shores. That should convince the survivors to fall in line,” She said.

The treasurer bowed. “A most wise decision, your holy majesty.”

One thing She really missed was chocolate, as a servant tipped a tray of rare sweetmeats into Her mouth. She should have brought some seeds with Her. Her private replicator didn’t have the pattern for chocolate, something She considered a gross oversight, and without raw material to scan it was impossible to program in. She’d never been much good with replicator tech, anyway. Transporters and weather control were more Her speed.

The chief pastor stepped forward.

“I have a list of petitions from those who request your magical healing powers. Chief among them is a family whose son is slipping into a diabetic coma.”

The god-queen stroked Her double chin.

“Are they a godly family?”

“Yes, your holy majesty. They have been most faithful in their devotions and politically loyal.”

“Then they shall be rewarded for their faith. Tell them *belch* I shall send the cure within the hour.” If She kept to schedule, She would be able to transport the pills to them before her brunch was over. Helping Her people to invent artificial insulin would only encourage the weak and the lazy.

Once She tired of the daily reports, the god-queen rang Her gong, indicating she was ready for brunch to be served. The meal consisted of a massive omelet made from eggs of the endangered four-winged keffit-bird, some “mimosas” made by mixing citrus-fruit juice with jenkal-fruit wine, and one of the leading dissidents, who had allowed herself to be brought forth as a sacrifice under the condition that her family be spared from their planned executions. She gulped up the “normal” food in a matter of a few heartbeats, saving her appetite for the resistance leader.

The woman stood before her, eyes proud and defiant, her chubby body stripped naked save for an edible thong and a local equivalent of hollandaise sauce.

“Your reign will not last forever. You are no true god. The three will prove victorious in the end!” the captive shouted.

“Obey me, or we will bring your firstborn daughter to suffer in your place,” the god-queen said. She loved breaking these rebel’s spirits almost as much as she enjoyed devouring their delectable bodies.

“Yes, my queen,” the woman said, the fire going out of her eyes.

The god-queen gestured for her to move closer. The plump young woman stepped forward, her face blank, but her vestigial wings flapping frantically in her desire to escape.

The god-queen scooped her up into Her mouth, sucking down the delicious Bromothian with luxurious slowness, until she was nothing but a bulge traveling down her throat. The captured woman kicked and struggled inside the god-queen’s belly, adding to Her pleasure and sexual excitement. In a few minutes, She would need to return to her concubines and leave the trusted advisors to handle day-to-day business in Her stead.

“Buwaaaarp! What is the next item on the agenda?” the god-queen asked, casually fingering her very deep navel as her latest victim fought hopelessly against her stomach muscles and digestive juices.

Chapter Text

The away team gathered in Castro’s motel room to discuss their next move.

“So, just to be clear, we’ve all realized that some human woman has set Herself up as the god-queen of this planet using Starfleet technology, right?” Mariner asked.

“Correct,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Castro said, suppressing her annoyance at Mariner for stealing her thunder. “And that means that the prime directive no longer applies, because this woman is breaking the prime directive already and we have to stop her.” Castro tried to put some punch into her speech, even though it was hard because everyone knew that she was too scared of Mariner to really lead this mission. If only that stupid woman had never contracted Arnaud syndrome, she’d be ready to put her in her place. Well, maybe. She was also even more terrified of Mariner ever since she’d stunned them at Salon when they were docked at Deep Space Nine.

“So, what are we going to do about it, then?” Boimler asked.

Castro sighed. She didn’t want to look weak in front of Boimler. She really hoped that it hadn’t just been the beer-goggles talking last night, or whatever the local mainstream booze was, and that he had real feelings for her. She was also aware that she was stranded on a planet with a not-entirely-friendly human who had contracted Arnaud syndrome, and who was currently without access to a replicator capable of reproducing humanoid flesh. Mariner had already eaten somebody, recently, and that didn’t comfort Castro because she was genuinely worried that without a fresh supply of humanoid meat for Mariner that she, Castro, was going to be next.

“Rutherford, you know a lot about technology,” Castro said, wincing the moment she said it from sheer embarrassment. Rutherford was a starfleet engineer, of course he knew about “technology”. This would only make her look like less of a leader in Boimler’s eyes and more of a potential meal in Mariner’s eyes. She had to be useful. She had to be important. “What’s your assessment of the god-queen’s tech situation from the ground level?”

“Well, the weather-control definitely depends on an orbital system, but there must be some way She can contact that on the ground, since She doesn’t seem to have any regular travel into space. The transporter tech and replicator tech used to address the famine is definitely ground-based, so I should have an easier time hacking that if the need arises,” Rutherford said, stepping forward.

“Good,” Castro said, feeling a little more confident with this status report. “Maybe we’ll be able to hijack it somehow and hoist Her by Her own petard, to use an old Earth saying.”

Tendi raised her hand and Castro instinctively pointed at her.

“Yes, Tendi?”

“I’m concerned about any direct attacks on the transporter systems,” Tendi said. “These people have been through some serious natural disasters and planned famines. If we cut off their infrastructure, even if it’s anachronistic tech, it could lead to massive levels of devastation in the civilian population. I’d advise against directly shutting it down, even if it is technology beyond what they would have available by their natural course of societal evolution.”

Castro frowned. Dammit, Tendi was right.

“You have a good point there,” Castro said. After all, it wasn’t like they’d be furthering interference in the native population’s way of life. They’d just be managing damage control for what this god-queen She had done.

“I say we track down this asshole, infiltrate her base, and expose her as the false god she is,” Mariner said, punching her palm for emphasis.

Castro thought about all the myriad ways that could go wrong. “Maybe we should gather some intel first,” she suggested, as demurely as she could, hoping that she could convey the severity of the larger situation without Mariner literally or figuratively biting her head off.

“Yeah well...I guess so,” Mariner said, folding her arms over her voluminous breasts with a harrumph.

“Good,” Castro said, letting out an internal sigh of relief. “Rutherford, you keep working at your job and try to earn us enough money to get some parts that’ll summon help because this is largely above our pay grade. Tendi and Boimler, I want you to track down the god-queen’s technology, see if we can hijack Her stuff to help us dethrone the royal power base and return control of the weather and everything to the civilian leadership.” She frowned, realizing she’d left a crucial component of the mission out of hand. “Um, Mariner, you stick with me,” she said, gloomily. “Let’s see if we can figure out a *peaceful* solution to this mess.”

Mariner clapped and rubbed her hands together. Her stomach growled.

Castro groaned inwardly.

“Maybe we should get breakfast first," Castro said.

Chapter Text

Mariner wiped some drool from her mouth. Sure, there were delicious skewers roasting in front of her, but her attention and her appetite were focused on the hunky Bromothian running the food stall. He had broad shoulders, a muscular physique, and rather large wings. She wondered a little about how wing size was viewed in this culture. Were large wings seen as attractive and virile, or were they considered an ugly, animalistic feature? Maybe it differed along gender lines. Either way, she found herself fantasizing about stroking those limbs tenderly, feeling them fold along her hands...or just feeling them flutter futiley as she crammed him down her eager throat.

“You looking to buy something or you just gonna stand there drooling?” the man said, in a friendly tone that belied his confrontational words.

“Right, sorry,” Mariner said, wiping her mouth again. She tried to figure out how little she could get away with spending without letting her appetite get out of control. “I’ll take five skewers for me and two for my friend here.”

She handed over a few bills and reluctantly put one in the tip jar, then forced herself to turn her back on the sexy, delicious alien. Mariner also forced herself to take individual bites instead of just sucking the meat and vegetables right off the skewers.

“This is actually pretty good, for street food,” Castro said as they walked. They both headed for a narrow back-alley where they could operate tricorders unobserved. Mariner desperately hoped there would be a tasty mugger waiting to ambush them, but all that awaited them were empty beer bottles and a broken syringe amid the rusting pipes.

“Yeah, they managed a nice balance of sweet and savory,” Mariner agreed, letting out a tiny burp. “Still not as good as some replicated Boimler with scorpion sauce though.”

Castro couldn’t completely stop a small shiver, even though she knew that Mariner was probably saying that just to get under her skin. Honestly, she didn’t know how Boimler managed to be so calm around her. It was just another thing about him she found impressive. Castro quickly finished off her kebab and licked her fingers before pulling out the tricorder.

“Are you seeing this?” Castro said, as the readings spiked. She spun around in a circle, making sure of her direction.

“Definitely some kind of advanced tech,” Mariner said. “You wouldn’t get these measurements from ordinary diesel technology.”

Castro tapped the instrument a few times, reading the display intently.

“It looks like it’s coming from that village we visited earlier,” she said, frowning.

“That’s weird,” Mariner said. “Although I suppose if you want to hide the source of your ‘magical’ powers, a middle-of-nowhere backwoods village might be a good place to do it.”

Mariner reached into her pocket. “So how much do you think a cab costs?”

Most of the places here seemed designed specifically to accommodate plus-sized women, but this must have been an older model. Her generous ass crossed over the line into the middle seat, and she struggled to pull the seatbelt over her broad belly several times before giving up. Castro was pressing her body up against the door, as far away from Mariner as she could get while still staying inside the rear of the vehicle.

They rode together in comparative silence, at least in the back seat. The driver kept up a running commentary about the other drivers on the road, complete with very colorful language and broad hand gestures. She smelled pretty good, too, but Mariner thought the kebabs she had would at least be enough to tide her over until lunch.

The taxi driver dropped them off just inside town. It was pretty quiet, so they didn’t have to wait long for a chance to be unobserved. Castro and Mariner followed the beeping directly to Wigiw’s house.

“Oh, it’s just Wigiw’s prototype,” Mariner said, disappointedly. “We told you about that, right?” she said, scratching her head.

“You caught me up on it, yes,” Castro said. She opened her mouth to say something else, when she saw a heavily ornamented tank rumbling up to the dwelling place and workshop, escorted by similarly decorated armed guards. “What is *that* doing here?”

“Looks like trouble to me,” Mariner said, rubbing her hands together.

Castro sighed. “Let’s just...scope out the situation first, okay? Please don’t charge in headfirst.”

“Oh, I’ll scope it out alright,” Mariner said.

Castro sighed.

Mariner and Castro went in through the back door.

“Hey Wigiw! There’s a big fancy tank coming up to your door. Might be a good time to skeedaddle,”

They looked up from the machine they were working on and lifted their goggles.

“Oh no. They’re here already? That means...I’ve been *chosen*,” Wigiw wailed in alarm and despair, wings flapping furiously. “No, it’s too soon. I haven’t finished my prototype!”

“Forget the prototype, we’ve gotta get you out of here,” Mariner said. “Nobody’s getting sacrificed on my watch,” she said, pulling out her phaser.

“Okay, if we let them come to us, we should be able to-” Castro began, only for Mariner to kick the door open and begin firing on the armed guards. Castro rolled her eyes and set the beam to wide spread stun.

One of the guards managed to launch a knife right into Mariner’s shoulder, causing her to drop the phaser, which skidded away. She laughed and grabbed a pipe wrench before tucking and rolling her way into the melee.

While she was twisting the helmet off one guard, another managed to drive a spear through Mariner’s left fake wing to pin it against the house’s wall. The guard’s jaw dropped when Mariner tore free, kicking her in the chin on the upswing and knocking another guard out by swinging the helmet to clang against his helmet. The guard about to run her through with a sword was taken out by one of Castro’s phaser blasts.

The tank swung it’s turret to aim at her, but tanks were not built for precision one-on-one fighting and Mariner easily ducked under it. Behind her, Castro switched the setting from stun to high burn. With one precise blast, she sheared the cannon off the tank. A screaming Bromothian jumped out of the tank, wings fluttering, trying to put out the fire that had started in her hair and with part of her horn sheared off by the blast. Mariner took her out with three rapid blows and a roundhouse kick.

“Who...what are you?” Wigiw gasped, their eyes wide, goat-like pupils focused on the place where Mariner’s “wing” had come off. “What were those weapons you used? You’re not...you’re not really a Bromothian, are you?”

“Nope,” Mariner said, wiping some blood off her chin and resisting the urge to go down and start snacking on her unconscious enemies. She had a witness here, after all, and she didn’t want to make things even more complicated.

Wigiw got down on their hands and knees.

“Please, whatever you are, wherever you come from, you’ve got to let them take me. You don’t understand. If I don’t let them take me for sacrifice, then the god-queen will execute my family.”

Mariner cracked her knuckles.

“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to dethrone the god-queen,” she said, with easy confidence.

Castro stared at her incredulously.

“You *can’t* be serious. It’s not going to be that easy!”

“Watch me,” Mariner said. “This isn’t the first self-appointed god I’ve overthrown.” Mariner grabbed a bucket of water, walked up to one of the unconcious guards, and dumped it over her face. The guard coughed and sputtered awake as Mariner grabbed her by the throat.

“Take me to your leader.”

Chapter Text

Mariner scoped out the god-queen’s castle from her vantage point on a nearby roof. It wasn’t the most well-defended seat of power she’d ever had to mount an attack on. Compared to the rat-people’s high council chamber, the halls of Arcturas 5, or the Dominion stronghold on asteroid AR-7773. Whoever this god-queen had been before She came to conquer this planet, She clearly didn’t come from a military background.

Mariner was just coming up with an attack plan involving a hastily-constructed hang-glider and some smoke bombs when her communicator buzzed. She tapped on it quickly.

“Mariner here.”

“Mariner, it’s Rutherford. I finally found a transporter station and I’ve been able to tap into the transporter array!”

“Rutherford, that’s great!” Mariner said. “I knew I could count on you.”

Mariner sneered at the guards posted outside the building. They had the bored look of guards who didn’t really expect anyone to challenge them.

“Hey, do you think you could use the transporter network to beam me into the god-queen’s personal chambers?”

“Hold on a sec, let me just...okey dokey, if you can describe the internal layout I should be able to beam you in there!” Rutherford said.

“Excellent,” Mariner said, adjusting the setting on her phaser. “Beam me out.”

Mariner manifested in a place of such wasteful opulence it was obvious, even to somebody from a post-scarcity society like herself. Emeralds, rubies, sapphires and opals glistened on every available surface, from the walls and floor tiles to the roof and windows, as well as furniture of fine gilded wood with plush pillows of a silk-like substance. Solid electrum statues of the god-queen lined the walls. At the center of it all was a truly massive canopy bed. At the center of the canopy bed was the fattest human woman that Mariner had ever seen in her life.

She had to be a thousand pounds at least, her body draped with a diaphanous shimmering nightgown. Her upper arms were like ham hocks. Her breasts were mountainous. Her ass spread out like a puddle beneath her. Her tree-trunk thighs ended in chubby little feet. Her belly was towering beyond belief, rising feet above her body and still spilling out to either side, practically burying the concubines next to her. A single opal of enormous size in an electrum cradle stuck out of her vast navel. Her blond hair was woven into elaborate braids filled with electrum ornamentation and opals.

Mariner calibrated her weapon and aimed at the gorgeous villain’s head.

The sound of the transporter must have disturbed one of the concubines. The tubby young woman stirred and nudged her companions. Mariner couldn’t help noticing that Bromothian anatomy included an ovipositor, and a rather sizable one at that compared to most humanoids with ovipositors. It was easily thirteen inches long, and a darker indigo at the tip compared with the navy blue color of the rest of the figure’s skin.

Mariner pulled the trigger, only for her phaser to produce a sad little fizzling noise.

“Damn it!” Mariner hissed. She might not know how to station guards efficiently, but apparently this self-proclaimed god-queen was still cautious enough to install a plasma inhibitor field in Her royal chambers.

The god-queen stirred awake. Her eyes shot wide open, taking in Mariner’s missing wings, and pulled a bell.

“Guards, guards, to me!” she shouted, as a siren started wailing and alarm bells clanged.

When armed guards come onto a scene, they take a moment to assess the situation. Mariner didn’t give them any moments. She spun around both helmets, disarmed one, used her newly acquired weapon to skewer the second guard. For all their skin was blue, they still bled red.

The smell of blood filled Mariner’s nostrils and her stomach roared. Even as more witnesses piled into the chamber, she simply couldn’t stop herself. She lunged at the first guard, mouth-first.

The guard swung a fist that Mariner caught and gulped down. Her goat-like orange eyes went wide.

“You’re...you’re like-” her words were caught off as Mariner sucked her up to her head, the exclamation ending in a muffled yelp of distress. Pleasure rushed through Mariner as the flavor hit her taste buds, saliva filling her mouth. Mariner’s throat continued swelling up with its burden as she hefted the guard into the air, the arms and head visible as a bulge. The bulge traveled down into Mariner’s already-wide belly as she sucked the guard up to her waist, then stretched her mouth over her wide, muscular ass. With another gulp, Mariner sucked up those powerful, muscular thighs and calves, then the kicking feet. Mariner swallowed those down to, and disgorged a helmet and a stray sandal with a shuddering belch, thumping her still-struggling fat and distended stomach.

The guards all froze.

“Well? What are you doing? Seize her!” the god-queen said, pointing one chubby finger at Mariner.

The royal guard still hesitated.

“I think they’re doing some mental math and reevaluating the virtues of your monotheism,” Mariner said, with a grin. She belched directly in one guard’s face, blowing back his hair. “They don’t want to be my next snack any more than they want to be sacrificed to you.” She frowned a little. “Speaking of which, given how delicious these folks are, why aren’t you even fatter than you are now? You certainly haven’t been exercising restraint.”

“I have a really high metabolism, okay?” the god-queen snapped. Then She sighed. The god-queen’s chubby-cheeked, double-chinned face turned into a dimpled smile then.

Mariner burped up a horned skull and stalked forward.

“What, are you proposing an alliance with me? I’d never considered it, but I could be inclined to share my power here. We are clearly both women with...similar appetites, and great abilities. We’re not so diff-mph!”

While the god-queen had been preparing Her villainous speech, Mariner had waddled up to her, and just as she closed her eyes to deliver the next line, Mariner closed her unhinged jaw over the god-queen’s head. The god-queen tried to push Mariner off of Her, but Her arms were too weak compared to Mariner’s powerful grip.

Mariner opened her mouth impossibly wide, slurping her way down the flailing god-queen’s titanic mammaries. She stretched even wider, wider than she’d ever stretched, her stomach roaring with approval as the taste of plump, savory, human flesh filled her expanding mouth. Once Mariner had swallowed the god-queen’s gargantuan belly, it was all downhill from there, greedily gobbling up Her fat ass and thunder thighs, swallowing right down to her pudgy little feet.

“Ouwuuuuuurrp!” Marine belched, grabbing hold of her fantastically distended stomach, the god-queen’s huge mass all crammed inside her along with the semi-digested remains of the guard she’d eaten. The rest of her fat body looked practically tiny compared to it.

“Actually, we’re *burp* very different,” Mariner said to her quivering gut. “For one thing, I’m *urp* not getting digested today. And you’re just a *belch* predator. I’m the only apex predator around here!”

Mariner leaned back to admire her own massively bloated blue belly. She was the second-most stuffed she’d ever been in her entire life, and damn if it didn’t feel great. If there weren’t so many witnesses in front of her, Mariner might have been tempted to start touching herself.

The muffled screams of the former god-queen were almost drowned out by the churn and gurgle of Mariner’s digestive juices as her impressive stomach struggled to handle the titanic meal squeezed into it. Mariner leaned back and began rubbing her belly, letting loose another planet-shaking belch.

“So much for the god-queen,” Mariner said, smacking her distended tummy and burping raucously. “You’re all free now!”

One of the guards looked at her ceremonial spear, then stepped forward and knelt before Mariner.

“Hail to the new god-queen!” she said.

“Hail to the god-queen!” the other guards echoed.

“Ah, shit,” Mariner muttered as the chanting began.

Chapter Text

Castro had tried to put up a fight, but the guards had won out with sheer force of numbers. In the end, she was taken to the royal palace.

This was it. She was going to end her starfleet career right here and right now, on this pre-warp planet, at the hands of a rogue human turned dictatorial despot. She was going to be beheaded, or eaten alive, or maybe suffer some even worse fate, she thought, as the guards marched her down the halls filled with jewels and electrum and fine tapestries and stained-glass windows depicting the human god-queen.

They opened the doors the royal chamber only to reveal…

“Mariner?” Castro gasped.

The guards let go of Castro, bowed, and stepped out into the hallway.

Mariner had certainly been fat before, clocking in a little over four-hundred pounds. Now though? She was so massive she barely looked human anymore.

Her thighs were wider than Shaxs’s shoulders at their thickest point. Each ass cheek appeared to need an entire chair to itself, although the throne was designed to accommodate even her massive girth. Her belly stuck out a good five feet in front of her and hung down at least three feet to either side. She didn’t so much have love handles as a circumference. Plus her boobs were easily as big as her head, which had round cheeks and a double chin and rested on a generous amount of neck fat. Her upper arms were also huge with flab. What was more, she’d completely abandoned her disguise. Her fake horn was gone and she must have washed off the blue dye.

Boimler, Tendi and Rutherford were also assembled in the chamber.

“Mariner, what in space happened to you?” Castro blurted out, then immediately hoped she wouldn’t be devoured for her lack of tact.

“So, the good news is, I dethroned the evil god-queen,” Mariner said, pausing to belch up a few slimy bones, which made Castro shudder with fear and revulsion. “The bad news is, uh, turns out if you *burp* manage to eat the god-queen, you become the new god-queen.”

Castro started swaying on her feet. “What?! Seriously? You were supposed to dethrone the technology-using human interfering with this prewarp society, not replace her! Can’t you just abdicate or something? Return this planet to the sovereignty of its own people and let them guide their own destinies again?”

“Don’t you think I tried that?” Mariner groaned. “I tried telling them to think for themselves but that just lead to everyone chanting ‘be an independent thinker’ and asking me what to do next! These guys have had their entire society restructured around a central absolute monarch and theocratic authority figure and apparently that isn’t going to change overnight.”

Castro put her head in her hands. “We were trying to remove the outsider-lead monarchy, not replace it.”

“I know, I know,” Mariner said, in her best placating tone. “But uh...that’s just not exactly *belch* how things shook out. I’m sorry.” She looked at Castro nervously eyeing the bones. “And you can stop flinching, I am *urp* completely stuffed right now,” Mariner said.

“Wha-at? I wasn’t flinching,” Castro said with a nervous little giggle.

“Whatever,” Mariner muttered. “Anyway, the good news is, you’re all members of the board of royal advisors now! That’ll be fun, right?”

Tendi grinned and gave a thumbs up. Rutherford tapped his now-exposed implant (he’d finally shrugged off the disguise when the others had exposed their true natures, and it was a relief to peel off all that artificial scar tissue and have full access to the technology embedded in his head again). Boimler sighed and shrugged, but he was smiling when he did it.

“We’re just going to peacefully transition a theocratic absolute-monarchy into a non-capitalist state ruled by the will of the people instead of a chosen few, preferably without being killed by an angry mob or doing something that’ll get me drummed out of starfleet later. How hard could it be?” Mariner said.

Chapter Text

Shafts of sunlight slanted through the window, disturbing Mariner’s uneasy sleep. She brushed the crusties from her eye with chubby fingers and surveyed her own body.

She’d really packed on the pounds after eating the god-queen. Her upper arms were wings of flab. Her nipples were wider around the tip than her thumbs. Her swollen breasts rested on top of a belly that would enter a room strides before her, with a navel deep enough and broad enough she could lose her fist in it. Her massive thighs rubbed against each other as she shifted position, and her ass was something four women could be proud of.

“Oh geez, guess I should’ve seen this coming,” Mariner grumbled. “That’s what I get for eating somebody more than twice my size.”

Right on cue, her stomach roared and rumbled. She was absolutely starving, but she still thought she should probably get dressed before breakfast. She rummaged around in a jewel-studded wardrobe, pulling out diaphanous silky material of a pale lilac color that could have been fashioned into a tent for ordinary humans but was just the right size to fit Mariner now, though it was a lot more femme than her style. She’d have to see the royal tailors or whatever about setting her up with a decent suit. In the meantime, though, it was better than going to breakfast naked, though she supposed if she did that nobody could really object to her. After all, she was the god-queen now.

That was strange and...uncomfortable. How was she supposed to be anti-authoritarian now that she *was* the ultimate authority on this planet?

Mariner shivered, although the temperature was, if anything, a little warm. Did the god-queen have buff guys waving giant fans to cool down? She’d have to see about that.

A hunger pang stabbed through Mariner, reminding her of what the most pressing royal agenda of the moment was. There was a gong nearby. Maybe that was to summon the servants? Man, she hadn’t had servants since that weird undercover mission shortly after the Dominion War, and she didn’t exactly like the idea. Then again, she had to get food somehow, and she didn’t exactly know where the royal pantry was.

Mariner rang the gong.

She heard hurried footsteps.

Mariner didn’t have to wait long before the hanging curtains at the entrance of her royal bedroom were pulled back. Candles were lit. Incense was burnt. A couple of pastors were holding holy texts.

Then there was the sacrifice.

He was a slender, awkwardly tall young man who looked to be in his early twenties, if that. One of the guards was leading him by a leash on his neck. His mouth had an oblong, bright orange fruit crammed into it and held in place by a gag. Sauce and melted cheese covered his bare shoulders and shaved head. His eyes were brimming with unshed tears, but his face was tight with stoic defiance, or maybe fatalistic resignation.

“Whoa, um, hold on guys. I just wanted to order breakfast,” Mariner said quickly, as her stomach rumbled and she could feel drool filling her mouth.

“But it is traditional to start the day with a morning sacrifice! How else shall we satiate your divine hunger?” the pastor asked, sounding confused.

“Um, I’m not *that* divinely hungry right now,” Mariner stammered. He *smelled* divine though, and she could tell from a whiff that the sauce and cheese were just the right things to compliment his savory flavor. Still, that look on his face said he was definitely not a volunteer, and she couldn’t go around eating people just because she was hungry, even if they were an abnormally delectable species. “Maybe we could just start off the day with like, some scrapple? Bacon and eggs? Kimchi?” She frowned. “Oh, right, you guys probably don’t have most of those things. What do you guys normally eat for breakfast around here?”

The pastor frowned, looking disappointed. “I suppose we could prepare you some fruit salads, fried slice, and an omelette from the eggs of the giant screaming maya-bird. But what of the sacrificial offering?”

“Oh, he’s, what’s the word? Pardoned. Yeah, I’m pardoning him. Please send him back to his family, alive and well, with a year’s wages for being a good sport or something like that.”

This time the young man’s tears spilled out of his eyes, and he scrambled down to bow at her feet, sobbing through the gag.

“Oh geez man, take it easy. It’s okay,” she said, patting him on the head. “Just uh, please get him back out of here and send him home ASAP.” Him being closer to her was making it even harder to resist the alluring smell of savory sauces and cheese-coated Bromothian. “But uh, gently, okay? We don’t need the leash.”

The guards unleashed the boy and he followed them out of the palace chamber.

Mariner’s stomach growled. She idly fisted her navel, and felt a sudden surge between her legs. *Okay, that’s new*, she thought, filing away the sensation for later consideration.

“Try to make it quick with the breakfast though, okay? And you’re all dismissed for now.” She really didn’t want to be surrounded by delectable Bromothians while her stomach was empty.

Chapter Text

Breakfast finally arrived, and Mariner was treated to a truly royal spread. The omelette was three feet wide. There was a wide cold cut platter filled with strips of something like bacon, sausages, and ribbon-thin slivers of meat, as well as a single sprig of some purple garnish. There was a platter of cheeses, jams, and pickled things with a selection of crackers to spread them on. There was also a fruit-salad piled a foot deep, with fruits in every color of the rainbow. There were fluted glasses of pink juice and decanters of blue liquor.

Mariner rubbed her pudgy hands together and licked her lips. Before she could get up to waddle over to the trays, a line of servants decorated with fine green clothing and opals stepped up with the platters and cutlery to meet her.

“Where would you like to begin, your holy highness?” asked a member of her court with more jewelry than the others and a little trimmed red cape.

“Oh, I think I’ll start with the omelette,” Mariner said, drooling. It smelled almost as good as her Bromothian courtiers did. “And that pink juice to wash it down with.” She was about to ask if it had citric acid in it, when she realized that, one, she didn’t know if these aliens had discovered citric acid yet, and two, she didn’t have any ADHD medicine left for it to interfere with. *Dang, trying to focus on royal business without my meds is going to be hard,* she thought.

As soon as she opened her mouth to speak again, one of her servants tipped a huge triangular slice of omelette into it. She chewed and swallowed quickly, taking just enough time to appreciate the rich creamy cheese and savory mushrooms inside it. She opened her mouth again, and another generous section of the egg-based dish was inserted between her lips. Another servant raised a green cloth napkin to clean the corners of her mouth, while a third tipped a glass of pink juice into her mouth, which she greedily gulped down. Before she knew it, the entire omelette was gone. She merely had to point one chubby finger at the cold cut platter for it to be brought to her.

Her stomach roared with approval as she finally settled something into it. She had to exercise some restraint not to gobble up the Bromothians feeding her, but she managed. Before she knew it the entire royal breakfast had vanished, and she was still achingly, ravenously hungry.

“I need *Buwoaaarp* more!” Mariner snarled, as her stomach rumbled. “I mean, more *belch* please. If that’s okay,” she said, blushing a little. “And just regular food. Not like, more people.”

One of the terrified servants nodded and rushed off.

Mariner gestured to the one with the most jewelry and the little cape.

“Uh, what’s your name?”

“Davad, your holy highness” Davad said, bowing low to the ground.

“Nice name. Davad, these uh, servants, they’re not slaves, right?”

“Oh, of course not!” Davad said, sounding scandalized. “The, uh, prior god-queen ended slavery.”

Mariner blew out a sigh of relief.

“No, they’re compensated through our prison employment transfer system,” Davad said cheerfully. “It gives inmates an opportunity to gain income and valuable work experience!”

Mariner had a coughing fit.

“And how much are they paid, exactly?” Mariner asked, raising an eyebrow with the severity of a Vulcan.

Davad told her, and Mariner had to stop herself from eating him then and there. She drew up to her full wobbling height as her stomach growled, then wiped away the drool from her mouth. Davad hadn’t started this policy, and he was probably the only parroting this whitewashing propaganda because it had come from his god-queen. She had probably threatened horrible punishments and blasphemy charges for anyone who disagreed with her official lines. She seemed the type. On the other hand, maybe she simply surrounded herself with vapid yes-men who truly believed her bullshit. She seemed like like that type, too.

Whatever his degree of complicity in the evils of this government, Mariner had to remind herself that it wasn’t really Davad she was mad at. The person she was mad at had already given her victims their revenge. She wasn’t going to start her accidental reign as god-queen with a great purge of anyone loyal to the previous administration. She was going to try to work with people as they were, try to gently change hearts and minds while subtly dismantling a corrupt system with a minimum of collateral damage.

She sighed. Mariner wished she’d still had her ADHD medicine with her. There were a lot of very important, very dull things that definitely demanded her attention. *Toppling* corrupt regimes was exciting work that never gave you enough breathing room to second-guess yourself, or mull over mistakes, or properly panic over what was at stake. *Breaking down* a corrupt regime, though? That would leave her all the room she needed to regret, and question, and self-doubt. When you *weren’t* working undercover or constantly under threat of violent death, that was when all the ghosts came out to play.

Mariner shook her head and tried to focus on the situation at hand.

“Are you alright, your holy highness? Do you require another sacrifice to restore your divine energy?” Davad said, sounding concerned.

“No,” Mariner said firmly. “I just...need to reevaluate some policies. Summon all my non-Bromothian friends.”

Davad hesitated. “Your holy highness, the people have been wondering. Are they divine too?”

Mariner stared at him, thinking furiously.

“I mean, do they also have a hunger that is sated with living flesh? Can they also devour their enemies?”

“No,” Mariner said. For some reason she felt the need to conceal that Tendi could unhinge her jaw, at least for now. That could be her ace in the hole. “They just come from somewhere else, like me.”

Davad nodded. He seemed like he wanted to know more, but was afraid to ask.

“Summon my *belch* advisors,” Mariner said, belatedly adding “please. I’m discussing these ‘policies’ and other important things over the next course,” she said, her stomach growling again.

It didn’t take long to gather together Castro and Mariner’s friends, along with the various courtiers, advisors and sycophants the former god-queen had chosen to surround herself with.

“Your holy highness, tax collection is up three percent in the central mainland, down two percent in the northern archipelago, and--” one of the advisors, a short plump woman with braided hair, began.

“Yeah, yeah, we can save that stuff for later,” Mariner said, waving a flabby arm dismissively and cramming an entire roasted four-legged fowl into her mouth. She wanted to skip the boring—that is, the less important stuff, for now at least. Mariner swallowed and motioned to the next VIP, somebody with heavily dented armor and a plumed helmet.

“I am general Kanak, your holy highness. The war to the east goes well, and we expect--”

Mariner spit out a glass full of very fine fruit brandy and started coughing.

“You’re still fighting *wars* in my name?” Mariner gasped. “What the hell! Call an immediate ceasefire until I can get up to speed on this whole thing!”

The general blanched for a moment, but quickly recovered and bowed.

“As you wish, your holy highness. I beg your forgiveness!”

“I’ll think about it, since I’m full,” Mariner lied. She felt like she could have easily consumed half these advisors and still have room for dessert after having her stomach stretched out from eating the previous god-queen, but she didn’t want to start her tenancy by devouring courtiers.

Mariner looked at the servant who brought over the crystal decanter to refill her glass.

“That reminds me, from now on all my palace servants get a living wage,” Mariner said, nodding to the slender young man filling her glass. He gasped at her.

“Just how much is a living wage, exactly, your holy highness?” piped up a middle-aged woman with an especially long horn and short wings.

“I dunno, go take some formal surveys and figure out the median income in our city, then base it off of that,” Mariner said, shrugging her powerful but plump shoulders. “Do I have to do everything around here?”

“Of course not, your holy highness” the woman said, with an extremely low bow. “I, Gorog, your grand vizier, will see to it.”

Mariner made a note to watch Gorog for backstabbing tendencies. Grand viziers were always the ones who secretly plotted against the monarch in holo-novels.

“Who’s next?” Mariner asked.

“I’m Wrakoth, minister of agriculture, your holy highness. Famine relief efforts in the Western subcontinent are going well,” said an androgynous woman with large wings and an emerald-studded choker.

“Hmm,” Mariner said, scratching her double-chin. “Most famines don’t just happen without some kinda underlying sociopolitical power imbalance. I’m gonna have to investigate that to figure out the real causes,” Mariner said.

“As you wish, your holy highness,” Wrakoth said, bowing and stepping back.

“Also, I’d like you to *hic* expand the famine relief efforts to all rebel states, *burp* and send peace envoys to ask what kind of *urp* weather they’d find most useful,” Mariner said, in between mouthfuls of meat.

The treasurer popped up again.

“Your holy highness, are you ready for an update on the state of tax collection? There really are a lot of documents that can only be completed with the royal seal, and I’d like your permission to continue reviewing them.”

Mariner sighed and took a big gulp of brandy.

“Fine, go ahead.”

Chapter Text

T’abagail put away her pruning shears and pulled of her work gloves. Her flowers were coming in nicely, and the Farafa fruits were almost ripe. Dumpling, her pet verdak, barked at her heels as she returned to the cottage she once shared with her wife. She lit the stove, put on the kettle, and filled the tea strainer with some of her favorite herbal concoction, setting it into the flower-patterned mug her wife had bought her for no particular reason seven summers ago.

While she waited for the kettle to heat up, T’abagail decided to catch up on the daily news. She switched on the radio and tuned it to the official news station.

“--passerby were amazed by the unusually large amounts of blood. In financial news, glorka berry futures are up by twelve and a half percent, although leading investment experts still propose caution as the market remains volatile.”

The bumper music played.

“And now, an important announcement from Her Holy Highness,” the announcer said. Patriotic music played in the background.

“What’s up, bitches? This is Beckett Mariner, and I’m your new god-queen! Yeah, the last god-queen isn’t around anymore. I swallowed her in one gulp, digested her, assumed all her divine domains and powers, and there’s going to be a few *belch* changes around here now. Don’t worry, I’m still controlling the weather, healing the sick, performing miracles, all that jazz. But I’m definitely going to be easing up on the whole Bromothian sacrifices thing. I’m still divinely hungry but I’m *urp* not *that* hungry. Also expect radical changes to economics, governing, that sorta thing. Peace out!”

The patriotic music faded out, and the bumper music began to play. The kettle was whistling. T’abagail realized that it had been whistling for some time. She went over, mechanically, and poured the boiling water into her mug. She let it steep for a few minutes while she stared into the bright green sunlight cascading off of her purple and orange garden, taking in none of it.

“What the fuck?”

Chapter Text

“Okay, so I was thinking we abolish currency-based economics, set up a representative system of government, and just reduce the god-queen to a figurehead so nature can take its course and we have an anarcho-communist paradise established. Problem solved, right? Everybody’s happy that way except for the oligarchs and hangers-on.” She picked up an entire roasted haunch of meat from the pile of delicacies her servants had assembled for Mariner before their dismissal.

“No. We can’t do it that quickly or easily,” Castro said, trembling with fear but stepping forward. “Any kind of planet-wide complete overhaul will create backlash and cause casualties. We can’t just rewrite the entire socio-economic system with the snap of your fingers without causing large-scale collateral damage.” She shook her head. “Slow and steady wins the race, in this situation. We have to be smart about this.”

Mariner’s jaw dropped, the haunch halfway to her open mouth. She closed her mouth. She opened it again. She stuffed it with the haunch of meat to give herself time to think.

“I’m actually with Castro on this one,” Boimler said, rubbing the back of his neck while he avoided looking Mariner in the eye. “Sudden, radical regime overhauls can cause more harm than good. There’s counter-revolutionary violence and power vaccuums to think about, plus we don’t know enough to say if the Western rebels would see this as a sign of weakness and attack the central mainland. We need more information and slow, gradual steps, like turning for-profit private utility companies into free government services.”

Tendi also stepped forward. She did look Mariner in the eye. “I’ve seen a few regime changes of the really quick kind, and they tended to involve a lot of public decapitations, either at the beginning or near the end. It’s a pretty messy process.”

Rutherford frowned and folded his arms. “Well, I’m willing to back whatever Mariner says, at least.”

“Not if it’s an option that will get tens of thousands killed, you won’t,” Leiutenant Junior Grade Castro said. “As your superior, I order you to consult with us and develop a thoughtful, gradual plan for transitioning this entire planet out of an oppressive capitalist autocracy. I know you could disobey me anyway, because you’re currently the god-queen of this planet, and you’ve never liked following orders. But this time, I beg you to consider what’s actually at stake.”

Mariner recoiled as if slapped.

“Okay, geez, I’ll try to do it your way. No need to break out a Picard speech at me,” Mariner said, with a twinge of sarcasm. “For your information, I already understand what’s at stake. I just happen to also be aware of a fraction of the evil and suffering that’s already going on, right here and right now, in this city-state. I know there’s children sleeping in gutters, I know there’s policemen breaking up homeless encampments, I know there’s people driven to do horrible, unethical things to each other in order to make ends meet. So please forgive me if I’m a little overeager to change the status quo.”

There was a long, awkward pause while Castro stared at Mariner.

“I’m not saying we don’t do that. I’m saying that we change the status quo very, very carefully, and that we don’t rush headfirst into changes we don’t understand. We’re explorers with a handful of diplomatic training. We’re not political scientists. You just happen to be the only person who can do something about this, right here, and right now, and I’m asking you to consider input from multiple sources and not try to lead with your gut.”

“Fine. Like I said, you don’t have to break out the speeches,” Mariner said, finishing the statement with a belch. “So what are the first things y’all propose I do? And thanks for the vote of confidence, Rutherford, but I’m willing to play ball. So what do you think I should do?”

Rutherford scratched his head. “Well, thanks. I’m just not sure I’ve got a lot to contribute. I never really looked into political theory beyond what was necessary for basic starfleet academy requirements. I suppose we could start by increasing funding to scientific development though. Like, the previous god-queen had a vested interest in keeping these people technologically stagnant. I bet there’s a lot of people like Wigiw out there, on the cutting edge of new knowledge, and it would help wean them off the god-queen thing if they could achieve the stars by their own abilities and developments. The more they discover technology on their own, the less miraculous her accomplishments will seem.”

Mariner nodded and swallowed what looked like an entire pressed ham, with a slightly more purple hue. “Okay. Funding science and learning never hurts, although it still doesn’t address the underlying societal problems. We have to reframe these people’s economics and basic moral framework away from a capitalistic and monarchist mentality. Some of that will involve restoring the old framework of pre-conquest spirituality, but a lot of the new principles could be completely alien to these people. I mean, they literally live in a civilization that tells you that it’s reasonable to expect people to pay you for the opportunity to live!” She groaned. “Why is toppling the evil regime so much easier than rebuilding a non-evil regime?”

Boimler cleared his throat. “Actually, on that subject, I was thinking we could begin this royal regime by introducing universal basic income. It would mean no more people being homeless just because their job doesn’t pay enough or they got fired for trying to organize. Oh, and that’s another thing that would help. Establishing a royal universal basic income.”

“But we’d have to do it carefully so the landlords don’t just raise rent by that amount and use it to line their pockets,” Mariner pointed out.

“Sure, but there are ways to work that out,” Boimler said. “I mean, if parts of old Earth New York City could implement rent control I’m pretty sure a centralized monarchy could manage it.”

“Okay, good, taking that onboard,” Mariner said through another mouthful of meat.

“I could also help you go over the existing laws and figure out what to keep and what to toss. You know, review the tax incentive system, go over traffic statutes, optimize resource management to benefit the larger economy, and I can see your eyes glazing over already.”

“Right. Sounds good. You can go over that stuff,” Mariner said, stifling a yawn. “Tendi, do you think you can help at all?”

“Well, I’m pretty good at internal administration. Plus, whenever you have a large monarchy like this, you have lots of corruption within the institution. Bribes, extortion, petty bullies using their limited power to boss other people around. I’m pretty good at following the money and rooting out that sort of thing,” Tendi said, cracking her knuckles.

“Right. I’ll go over the war records, try to understand if there’s any reason why we’re fighting in the first place besides the former incumbent’s greed and ego,” Mariner said, rubbing her chubby hands together. “Plus if there’s any war criminals, we can see about setting up a war crimes tribunal,” Mariner said, licking her lips. “I’m not about to let the Bromothian equivalent of Henry Kissinger get away with it. We’ll have this in the bag in no time.”

Chapter Text

After making sure the weather, transporter, and replicator tech were safely under control with Rutherford, reviewing tedious economic and social justice theory with Castro, helping identify some likely points for bribery and insider trading with Tendi, and then going over some mind-numbingly dull tax and tenant laws with Boimler, Mariner felt she was ready for a break. Sure, she’d had a steady supply of rare delicacies and fancy cocktails to help her get through it all, but her ADHD brain could only take in so much in an unmedicated day, with or without a royal brunch to help her get through it. She made a mental note to find out if the local medical understanding included treatments for ADHD, or if they just chalked it up to bad behavior or treated it with trepanation or exorcism or something. You could never tell with these pre-warp societies.

What Mariner needed was a chance to unwind. Fighting was one way to do that, but they didn’t have holodecks here, and before she set out to kick any bad guy’s ass she needed to figure out who were actual, hardcore bad guys and who had been just doing their best in a corrupt system.

Also, she needed some proper clothes.

“Gorog, do I have some kind of royal tailor or somebody?” Mariner said, seizing up the billowing mint-green material weighed down with opals and amethysts that made up her current outfit. There was at least enough material to make sheets for a twin-sized bed, but on her massive body it looked scanty and revealing as a davo girl’s dress. “I need to introduce this civilization to the concept of tuxedos.” That would be formal enough to wear as a god-queen, she figured, but still more in line with her personal sense of fashion.

“All the highest bespoke tailors in the land vie for the honor of providing the god-queen’s royal outfits, your holy highness,” Gorog the grand vizier said. “I can have whatever you specify prepared at a moment’s notice.”

“And, we pay them, right?” Mariner said quickly. “This isn’t another case of obey-or-die, is it?”

“Of course they are payed at full price out of the royal treasury,” Gorog said, putting a hand to her throat as if in shock. “That’s why they struggle with each other for the privilege. Well, that and the increased customer traffic that comes from a royal seal.”

“Okay, good. I want to get something nice to wear before I hit the local bar scene,” Mariner muttered. It would probably also be a good idea for the current god-queen to get some personalized underwear and bras. The ones the prior incumbent Mariner had digested fit pretty well, but they really weren’t her style, all fine lacework and delicate panties and nothing resembling a decent sports bra or booty shorts with a funny catch phrase on the back.

“The local bar scene?” Gorog gasped, recoiling from the very notion. “But you have anything you could possibly want to drink here in the palace! Why does a bar ‘scene’ have that you could conceivably desire, with all due respect to your holy highness?”

“Well, people to hook up with, duh,” Mariner said, crossing her flabby arms over her vast stomach. “It’s been a long day at the office and I want to unwind a little.”

“Your holy highness, you have an ample supply of concubines here to attend to all your sexual and romantic desires,” Gorog said, bowing.

“And let me guess, they have to be here under penalty of their families being executed while they watch or something?” Mariner said, full of dark suspicion.

“Oh no, your holy highness! Perish the thought. No, they all begin by competing in local beauty contests and only those who receive the highest honors and careful vetting are allowed to be considered for the rank of concubine,” grand vizier Gorog said. “It is a great and rare privilege. Many are called, few are chosen.”

*Yeah well, these people also acted as if getting eaten was a great and rare privilege, so I’m going to continue taking everything with a grain of salt,* Mariner thought. *Still, it sounds like I can get laid today without venturing into ethically dubious territory.*

“Well, send out the word that I’m taking fresh applications for the position of concubine. Try to recruit a wide range of genders and body types, and maybe throw some sparring or non-lethal combat tournaments into the beauty pageant stuff. I like variety,” Mariner said. “And as for the prior concubines, eh, send them home with a pension or whatever.” She might be into bad babes, but she wasn’t exactly up for an evil dictator’s sloppy seconds.

“As you wish, your holy highness,” Gorog said, bowing so low her horn scraped the ground. “Your sacred royal will shall be done.”

There was a pause.

“Your holy highness, I understand I am but a lowly servant, but could you please give me your signature of approval for the newest system of pipe refits in the royal capital city?”

“Wait, the city doesn’t have a mayor or something? Geeze, talk about micromanaging,” Mariner said with a sigh. “Okay, we can take a look on it, but I need to teach everyone a lesson about decentralizing power and delegating.”

Hours later, when Mariner’s wrist hurt from signing so many documents, the grand vizier informed Mariner that her first round of prospective concubines had arrived.
Mariner leaned back and whistled. For once, she was drooling for reasons other than hunger. There were all sorts of Bromothians, tall ones and short ones, thin ones, muscular ones, flabby ones. Some had long natural hair, some had it styled, and some were shaved or bald. They ranged in hue from teal to periwinkle, from the lightest duck egg blue to the darkest navy blue. They were also completely naked, aside from a collar they each wore set with a single opal.

Mariner reached into the bucket of something that had here that was not dissimilar from popcorn chicken as she considered her options.

“Hey you, what’s your name?” Mariner said, pointing to a tall, butch-looking woman with long, thin wings, a close-shaven head of purple hair, scars over her face and arms, and an eight-pack of abs. Her ovipositor was easily nine inches long and she had a firm, shapely ass.

“Raithia, your holy highness,” Raithia said, prostrating herself before her.

“Okay, Raithia’s in for this round,” Mariner said. “And you there, cute chubby guy with the short horn?”

“I’m M-Modom, your h-holy highness,” he stammered out, hiding behind curly locks of orange hair. His wings were average-sized, his hue a sort of latex blue. Like most Bromothian males, he had two short penises, curved so that they were almost touching, presumably designed to clench around the ovipositor so the emerging eggs would be sprayed with ejaculation.

“Yeah, you can come along too, Modom,” Mariner said, gesturing for him to join. “I’ll need somebody to feed me and rub my belly. Is that something you're okay with?” She figured a constant stream of normal food would keep her from giving in to the impulse to devour her sexual partners.

“I would be delighted to serve you in any capacity, your holy highness,” Modom said gravely, blushing purple.

“Also you can drop the ‘holy highness’ stuff. If we’re having sex together, just Mistress will do,” Mariner said, with a coy smile.

“Yes, your holy-I mean, Mistress,” Modom said stiffly.

Mariner also picked out a tall, buff guy with a short horn and small wings named Lorthok and an energetic heavyset trans woman named Aga.

“So, can I get y’all anything to drink?” Mariner asked. “Before we dive right in I mean.”

Modom actually raised his hand. “Um, I’d like an herbal tisane, please.”

Mariner snapped her chubby fingers and a servant dashed off.

“I’ll have a glass of whatever you’re drinking, you’re holy-I mean, Mistress.” Raithia said with a toothy grin.

Mariner decanted some fruit brandy for both of them and offered the glass. Raithia took it reverentially and savored the flavor while Mariner knocked it back like a shot.

“Okay, everyone. If I do something you don’t like, you yell out ‘safeword’. I know I’m your god-queen and all that crap, but I really do want you to let me know if you’re not having a good time, alright? I don’t get off unless everyone’s happy and safe.”

Her four concubines nodded.

“Now, who wants to wear a leash?” Mariner called out.

Raithia and Modom raised their hands.

Mariner licked her lips and rubbed her hands together.

After a servant arrived with leashes, whips, and a variety of sex toys, Mariner settled into her bed and began undressing. Her four concubines watched with reverent arousal as she peeled off the pale green outfit, exposing the vastness of her leviathan bulk.

Mariner waddled over and hooked a leash on Modom and one on Raithia. Her stomach growled.

These Bromothians all looked and smelled so good, and with their clothes off it was even harder to resist the urge to gobble one up, but Mariner managed it. Instead she yanked on Modom’s leash, to which he responded by scrambling over on all fours.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“Feed me,” Mariner demanded, pointing at her open mouth.

Modom rushed over to the bucket and began shoving handfuls of meat into Mariner’s eager maw. She overcame the instinct telling her to suck down his hand along with it. Instead, Mariner reached over to pat the young man on his head, twining her fingers in his curly hair and rubbing her thumb over his horn.

“Good boy,” she said, in between bites, and she watched as his twin penises curved and stiffened with excitement.

Mariner smacked her belly, prompting a burp, and then idly stuck a finger in her belly button. A thrill of pleasure ran up her spine. She tried two fingers, then three, and finally she shoved her whole fist in. Within a matter of seconds, Mariner started getting wet.

She eyed up her selection of sexual partners and began fingering her nipples. Then she remembered she didn’t have to handle that herself. Mariner snapped her fingers.

“Aga, Lorthok, suck my tits,” Mariner said imperiously.

The two Bromothians rushed to obey, hurrying over to her truly vast bed. Mariner couldn’t help noticing that, despite being bigger than four or five people, even with her various concubines there was still plenty of room to play around on this titanic mattress. Maybe she could set up an orgy during the weekend or something.

Mariner leaned back as the two cuties started sucking at her nipples, and rested her hands on their heads. They seemed to like it when she rubbed their horns, so she kept doing that.

Mariner looked Raithia right in the eyes and winked. She was gratified to see the woman, already panting with desire, blush at her. Her ovipositor was at full mast already, and the tip was dark and engorged.

Mariner tugged on her leash.

“Belly rubs. Now,” Mariner said quietly.

Raithia hurried to obey. She plunged strong, agile fingers deep into Mariner’s deep layers of fat. She could feel the movements aiding her digestion, working out air bubbles. Mariner leaned down and belched directly into the woman’s face, causing her to moan with delight.

“Thank you, Mistress,” Raithia purred.

Mariner tugged on Modom’s leash, and he increased his speed, shoveling rare fruits into Mariner’s mouth. It wasn’t enough to sate her ravenous hunger, but at least it made a dent, and while she was chewing and swallowing the fruit she wasn’t thinking as much about how good Modom would taste.

As Mariner felt lips on her nipples and watched Raithia watching her with adoring lust, she decided it was time to move things along. She had a wild new idea and she was itching to try it out.

“Alright,” Mariner said, gently detaching the two partners from her nipples. “Time to heat things up. Aga, fuck me up the ass. Lorthok, you eat out my pussy. And Raithia?” Mariner said, tugging on her leash until they were almost kissing. “I want you to climb up on top of me and plunge your ovipositor right into my belly button.”

Lorthok set to the task at once, plunging his tongue deep in search of Mariner’s g-spot even as he rubbed his lips on her clit. Mariner dug her nails into the skin of his back as he got to work.

Raithia awkwardly stepped around him, climbing Mariner’s mountainous belly, sweating and panting with excitement all the way. Mariner gripped the swollen member with one chubby hand, guiding it in before Raithia took the plunge, causing Mariner to cry out with delight.

Aga was the one who took the longest to get into position, practically having to wade through a sea of ass, spreading the colossal dimpled cheeks to finally reach the prize within, applying a generous amount of lube to Mariner’s anus before plunging her twin curved penises inside it.

Mariner rocked back and forth gently, her entire body quivering with the fury of their fucking, every ounce of fat shaking and jiggling. The frantic thrusting in her belly jarred more air loose, which caused Mariner to burp at Raithia, which only made her bucking and thrusting more frenzied. Waves of pleasure surged through her immense body as she jerked and heaved. Raithia stiffened suddenly, crying out as she discharged a sticky load of eggs into the depths of Mariner’s navel.

Mariner pulled the naked woman into a passionate kiss, dislodging her floppy and still-dripping ovipositor from Mariner’s belly button, still grinding against Lorthok’s face and clenching around Aga’s dicks. She burped right into Laithia’s mouth, then broke off for air, gently depositing the flush-faced woman’s pleasure-limp body onto the mattress.

“I think...that freed up some...room,” Mariner panted, as her stomach growled for more. She yanked on Modom’s leash again. “Hungry,” she snarled.

Modom raised an entire roasted fowl to Mariner’s lips. She snapped it up and swallowed it in one jaw-distending gulp while Aga furiously pounded her behind and Lorthok explored her womanhood with his mouth.

Aga’s body stiffened and she bit her lip, her hands plunging into Mariner’s ass-fat for support. Mariner could tell the woman was close to cumming. She decided to help matters along by clenching her anus and letting out a moan of encouragement.

“Keep going, Aga. Almost there,” Mariner said, shifting her hips so her ass jiggled like jello.

Seconds later, Aga came. Mariner felt the hot fluid of Bromothian ejaculation gushing into her asshole, even as she recognized her own approach to climax.

Mariner clenched Lorthok’s shoulders between her knees and dug her nails into the back of his neck. She jerked and thrust, faster and faster, as he reached closer to that magic moment.

“I think...I’m gonna...BEEOOUWARP” Mariner belched and orgasmed at the same time, riding out the wave of pleasure as she soaked her concubine’s face.

Lorthok came up gasping for air.

“Good boy, Lorthok,” Mariner said, in between gasps for air.

“Glad to be...of service,” Lorthok panted.

Mariner tugged Modom’s leash.

“Hey, Modom? Lorthok? What are your orientations?” Mariner asked, flush with afterglow but still feeling horny enough to try for another orgasm.

Modom blushed. “Bisexual,” he said.

Lorthok gave Modom a speculative look, then raised an eyebrow.

“What does our Mistress wish?”

“You two both look pretty cute together. If you make out, I’ll finish you two off at the same time,” Mariner said.

“You don’t have to b-bribe us to--” Modom began, tugging nervously at his collar.

“No, but I like everyone to have a good time when I go to bonesville. So you two make out, and I’ll make sure nobody leaves unsatisfied.”
Raithia curled up against Mariner, using her thigh as a pillow. Aga slumped against her vast ass cheeks but perked up at the mention of the show.

Modom went up to embrace Lorthok, tentatively at first, then hungrily, their lips locking, stroking each other’s hair as they pressed together.

Mariner leaned back and masturbated as the two men sucked face.

When Mariner reached her second orgasm, she snapped her fingers. Lorthok and Modom broke off and turned to her, eagerly. Modom came almost the second Mariner touched him, twin jets of foamy purple semin gushing out in arcs. It took Mariner a little longer with Lorthok, but soon he was bucking and cumming all over her hand. Mariner resisted the urge to lick her fingers clean, in case it stimulated her appetite for more Bromothian flesh. She wiped her hands on a conveniently placed towel instead.

“Alright, scene over, time for cuddling,” Mariner said. Her concubines all curled up together on the bed with her. She took time to kiss each of them on the forehead, careful to avoid poking herself with the horns and to resist the incredibly delicious flavor.

Maybe being a god-queen wasn’t always that bad, Mariner reflected, as she dug eggs out of her belly button.

Chapter Text

Mariner rubbed her massive belly as she surveyed breakfast. There was another queen-sized omelette, two whole roasted pig-like beasts, a giant bowl of something not unlike kimchi, and a fruit salad arranged into a four-foot-high colorful pyramid. Her royal advisors were assembled with their own smaller platters. That had been Tendi’s idea, to make them feel more included in the decision-making process. There was her possibly-traitorous grand vizier, the head general, the minister of finance, minister of agriculture, the lead pastor, a few more ones whose position she didn’t remember, and of course Castro and her friends.

“Let’s start with one of the roasts,” Mariner said, her stomach growling and drool running from her mouth as she tried not to think of her advisors as part of the delicious spread. One of the servants, who was now earning a generous wage from the palace treasury for his hard work and whom she had pardoned, hefted up the roast into the air and carried it over with some difficulty. “And the taxes.”

The finance minister and Boimler both sighed with relief.

“So like, we currently tax people based on their income alone. I’m thinking at higher levels we should levy a tax based on wealth, so that people start spending into the economy instead of sitting on giant hoards getting richer.”

Boimler grinned and gave a thumbs up while the finance minister visibly drooped.

“Also, I know we have programs to feed some of the disabled and needy, but I’m thinking of implementing food stamps for everyone, regardless of ability or income level. I mean, if it’s necessary to life it shouldn’t be something you have to pay for, right?”

The royal advisors gasped.

“But, your holy highness, how will the people work without the threat of starvation to motivate them? The lower classes will become lazy and indolent.”

“I agree,” the pastor said. “People need to work for a living. Otherwise, who will sweep streets, clean toilets, and do stoop labor on farms? Your society will collapse if you just give everybody food for free!”

“People will still do those jobs, because believe it or not, they still like to have money to spend on nice things, and people will do all kinds of things to avoid being bored. Believe it or not but there’s some people who *like* doing things you consider menial chores, or are at least willing to do them without direct financial incentives,” Mariner said.

Most of the advisors looked unconvinced.

“Besides, I think I know a lot more about *hunger* as a motivating factor than you all do,” Mariner said, her stomach growling ominously as she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

The advisors quickly nodded ascent as Mariner unhinged her jaw and swallowed the entire roasted pig-beast in one throat-distending gulp. After she’d ingested it, though, it wasn’t enough to even make a visible bulge in her mammoth belly.

“Man, am I hungry today. Eating my predecessor must have really stretched out my stomach,” Mariner mused, finishing her statement with a prolonged belch that disturbed dust from the upper rafters.

The servants hurried over with the omelette and a cocktail glass. Mariner drank deep.

“Thanks, dude. Discussing fiscal policy always makes me thirsty.” She sipped it. It wasn’t exactly Romulan ale, but it would do to take the edge off. She knew her limits and how much she could have while still remaining coherent enough to discuss national governmental policies.

“Another item on the agenda, you’re holy highness. Most of the iconography in the churches will have to be redone to reflect the new ruler,” the lead pastor said.

“And we’ll need to build new statues and commission new royal pornography,” the minister of culture said.

“Wait, there’s official royal pornography?” Mariner said. *Dang, that god-queen really must have had a big ego. Still, who am I to break with non-harmful royal continuity?* Mariner thought.

She scratched her double-chin thoughtfully. “Why don’t we make replacing the iconography a public works project? You know, jobs for homeless veterans and stuff like that?”

“Sounds good to me,” Rutherford said with a thumbs up. The rest of her coworkers and the royal courtiers nodded in agreement.

Alright, maybe this federal government policy thing wasn’t going to be that hard after all. She’d landed on a policy that everyone approved of.

Well, not *everyone* as such. These were just people already sympathetic to her goals and position. She needed some outside voices and stakeholders who wouldn’t automatically go along with anything she said.

“By the way, I’d like you to bring me any captured rebel leaders you’ve still got in the dungeons or whatever.”

Chapter Text

“But if taxes *don’t* fund federal spending, what do they do? I mean, what’s the point of it?” Mariner asked, throwing her flabby arms into the air.

“Like I told you before, Mariner,” Bradward Boimler said, gently. “Taxes are how the federal government *deletes* wealth from the economy. Federal spending is how the currency-issuing agency *creates* wealth.”

Mariner took a long gulp of her berry-wine.

“You sure you want to be hitting that stuff this early in the day, Mariner?” Boimler said, with a note of mild concern in his voice.

“Trust me, Boims, it is a *necessity* for any and all federal tax discussions,” she said, before chugging the rest of the bottle. “I am *urp* not going to go through the ins and outs of currency-based macroeconomics stone-cold sober. Trust me though. I *belch* know when to stop.”

“Like the time you sliced my leg open?” Boimler muttered, without a hint of judgment or reproach.

Mariner blushed and looked down. “Admittedly not one of my finest moments, but yeah actually, I’d say I know when to stop now. Give me some credit, alright? I’m trying to mature and grow. If nothing else, this whole Arnaud Syndrome experience has taught me some self control. Aside from that and one other time, I’ve always known how to handle my liquor, and where to draw the line between buzzed and *burp* wasted.” She paused to empty a bucket of the alien “popcorn chicken” into her mouth. “Like when’s the last time I ate an unwilling coworker?”

“Okay fair, it *has* been a while now. A few weeks, maybe even months,” Boimler said, reflecting on the recent past.

“So I know how much day-drinking I can get away with and *burp* still stay lucid,” Mariner said, almost managing to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. “I’m under a *lot* of pressure right now, and I’m really struggling to self-motivate without my ADHD medicine. Like, I know I’m kind of self-medicating right now, but honestly I need to find little ways to get myself to actually deal with boring things instead of just ignoring them until they reach crisis point and become impossible to ignore! So sometimes, in order to focus on the task at hand, I need to the edge off and find other little ways to make the boring stuff fun.”

“Okay then. Because I’m you’re friend and you’re not actually showing any other problem behaviors, I’m going to trust you when you tell me that you know when to stop,” Boimler said. “Now, let’s get back to the reasons for deleting wealth from the economy,” he said eagerly.

Mariner sighed and forced herself to pay attention to him, grabbing a roasted haunch of meat.

“The first is probably to prevent inflation,” she said, tearing most of the flesh from the bone in a single jaw-dislocating bite. “And um, the other ones…”

Mariner frowned, trying to concentrate, trying to force her memory’s priorities to align with her own by sheer force of will.

The attempt failed utterly.

A great bell tolled, and a voice cried out over the crackling speakers.

“Your holy highness, she who rules the earth and moves the heavens, exalted one of the eternal hunger and endless benevolence, we your loving servants humbly inform you that we are ready to receive your presence in the throne room.”

“That sounds pretty important, I should go,” Mariner said, muffling her gasp of relief. *Saved by the bell. Literally!*

“Mind if I tag along?” Boimler asked, shyly poking his fingers together. “I really love watching federal politics being enacted.”

“Of course you do,” Mariner said, rolling her eyes while smiling. “But yeah, be my guest.”

Mariner wobbled into the throne room. Mariner gasped. Her eyes went wide, her jaw overflowed with drool, and her nostrils flared.

“Boims, hold me back,” Mariner whispered.

“Mariner, you could pick me up over your head and spin me no matter how drunk you get. Just show some of that famous, newly-found self control you told me about,” Boimler whispered back.

Mariner struggled to even speak.

“We present you with the leaders of the political rebels, your holy highness!”

There were seven of them. Some of them where gagged with cloth, others were gagged with fruit, still others gagged with a root vegetable. Some of them where basted, some were brined, almost all of them covered in some sort of seasoning, butter, and/or sauce. Some of them looked at her with pleading and desperation, others with defiant hatred, and still others with the resignation of the hopeless.

Mariner barely felt Boimler grabbing her right arm with both hands, digging his feet in and holding on as if for dear life. She dragged him inexorably forward with every waddling step. Her stomach roared.

“Just let me have one of them. Please? Or maybe just two?” she whined.

“Mariner, no! You told me you’re better than this. You told me you had things under control. Now prove it!” Boimler shouted in her ear.

The closest rebel leader felt her hot drool splash onto the back of her neck and prepared for death.

Mariner pulled herself back. She forced her jaw shut. She swallowed her saliva, clutched her stomach, and bent over, groaning.

“Okay...okay. Yeah, you were right. I’ve...I’ve got it under control now,” Mariner said, straightening up, dusting her flowing green robes off as if she hadn’t just been begging Boimler for permission to devour a helpless captive guilty of nothing worse than fighting back against a tyrannical self-styled god. Or two...

“I think what we have had here is a *failure to communicate*,” Mariner said, with a heavy emphasis in an otherwise toneless voice. “I asked you to bring the captive rebel leaders here for the purpose of *talking* to them. You thought, based on previous experiences, that I wanted to *eat* them and so presented them with, what I must admit, is a truly perfect and mouth-watering arrangement of seasonings and sauces to complement the favor of the, the uh, meat in question.”

“Oh. Do you mean you wanted to interrogate them?” the grand vizier said, in the tone of somebody who thinks she is being helpful.

“No, my grand vizier, I mean that I wanted to talk *with* them. I want to hear their ideas. I want to get external feedback on my empire. Find out *why* they rebelled and what they think could be improved upon.”

“You’re going to do everything they say?” the minister of finance gasped.

“No, I did not say that,” Mariner growled. “I never do what anyone says.”

“She really doesn’t,” Boimler confirmed, fondly.

“What I’m saying is that I want to understand perspectives of stakeholders who do not necessarily share my unifying personal goals but still have something to contribute to the conversation. If I just surround myself with people who already agree with me, that’s a recipe for building a culture of yes-men who never tell me unpleasant but vital news.” Mariner pounded her hand into her fist.

There were more gasps and looks of disbelief.

“No, I’m serious,” Mariner said. “I want to welcome dissenting viewpoints into my sphere. I’m not saying I’m going to accept everything they say uncritically, because I know even in a revolution everyone has their own agendas and personal angles, but I want to know what they’re unhappy about, because if they’re unhappy about it, odds are a lot more people are unhappy about it, and if a large portion of my subjects have a major problem then I at least want to *know* about it. That’s the first step to understanding if I can solve it, and then if I should do what I need to do in order to solve it. Even if it’s a bad reason, I at least want to be aware of the motivations of other factions. Get it?” Mariner said.

What she thought was, *I am not going to eat them. I am not going to eat them. I am not going to eat them. Not even the seasoned ones. Not even the greasy little grand vizier. That would just be a Great Purge with peptic acids. I am not going to eat the shifty politicians or the innocent but incredibly well-seasoned rebels. I am not going to eat them. I am not going to eat them. I am not...*
“Could I...could somebody bring me some meat? Please? Like right now?” She said, voice rising into a growl. “And my seasonings?”

The seasonings were closer to hand. Mariner opened the bottle of non-replicated, artisinal, small-batch carolina reaper sauce she carried around with her and pour half of it down her throat.

Boimler gasped. “Mariner...are you...are you gonna be okay?” He stepped back to make sure he was completely out of the hot sauce’s possible splash radius.

“Yeah, it’s got a little bit of a kick to it, but that’s nothing I can’t handle,” Mariner replied, smacking her lips. “The important thing is getting a different taste to focus on and getting that delicious smell out of my nose.”

She hurried back to her private quarters.

“Mariner, are you okay?” Boimler asked. Despite her massive, jiggling body, Boimler was struggling to keep up with her.

“I’m fine!” Mariner shouted without looking behind her.

“That means your not fine,” Boimler said, slowly gaining ground as she rounded a corner.

Mariner suddenly drew up short. Boimler barely stopped himself from skidding into her. She turned around, and her fists were clenched, nails digging into her palms. ‘

“You have no idea how hard that was. They taste better than anything I’ve ever eaten in my life. Better than dad’s home-made stew. Better than human flesh or Orion flesh. Better than Betazoid or Pakled. Everything and everyone I’ve ever eaten pales in comparison,” Mariner said, her eyes wide, her jaw clenching, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, just like Milgeemoo had taught her to. “And I *almost* lost control today.”

“But you didn’t,” Boimler said, reaching up to pat her on the shoulder. “That’s the important thing.”

“Not because of myself! I only managed not to eat them because you were holding me back,” Mariner said, slamming a fist into the wall so hard that Boimler winced.

“Mariner, I can never hold you back, physically or otherwise,” Boimler said fondly. “Trust me. I didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know. You would’ve stopped yourself, one way or the other.”

Mariner sighed. “I guess I’ll have to trust you. I’m just not sure I completely trust myself, even now.”

“Hey look, the real food’s here,” Boimler said, pointing to a couple of male servants approaching with an entire side of barely-cooked red-dripping meat.

“Oh thank fuck,” Mariner gasped. She shoved the entire thing down her throat and then belched out the rack of bones. “Man, I really needed that.”

Boimler managed not to flinch. “Looks like you did, heheh.”

Mariner’s stomach gurgled. “Heheh, guess I’m still hungry though. I’d better head down to the royal kitchens.” Mariner grinned sheepishly.

“Heheh, yeah,” Boimler said.

“After that though, I intend to remind my privy counselors that, while I’m very open to *hearing* dissenting viewpoints, this is still currently an absolute monarchy, and they should do well to remember it,” Mariner said, cracking her knuckles.

Boimler looked up at her and laughed.

“I mean, in a firm-of-purpose, reforming-will-be-inconvenient-to-the-ruling-classes kind of way, not a mad-with-power kinda way,” Mariner said, laughing along with him.

Chapter Text

“So, as her holy highness knows, there is no need to ‘pay for’ federal budget items with corresponding taxes. Taxation and spending are two distinct government agendas,” Boimler summarized, while Mariner sipped on a cocktail made with mixed berry brandy and the potent extract of a local root.

“So we don’t actually *need* to fund any of these new *burp* initiatives with a wealth tax, right?” Mariner said, pausing to swallow an entire melon-sized fruit without chewing.

“No, but it’s still a good idea,” Boimler confirmed, adding “your holy highness,” with a shit-eating grin.

“Thank you, advisor Boimler,” Mariner said, determined not to let him see how much it got on her nerves when he did that.

“But if we don’t need taxes, then where does the federal money come from?” the lead Pastor asked, scratching at his head. Apparently he hadn’t been appointed for being quick on the uptake.

“Advisor Boimler already explained that, head pastor. We spend it into existence,” Mariner said.

“But what about the federal debt, your holy highness? Debt is bad, right?”

“The national debt is the national wealth. A balanced budget is a *bad* idea for a federal government,” Mariner said, to show that she had managed to retain at least *some* of the incredibly dull and counter intuitive economic theory that Boimler had drilled into her.

“But, er, traditionally, your holy highness, the god-queen’s privy counselors and closest advisors have been exempt from taxes and levies. This would still be the case with the new proposed ‘wealth tax’, yes?” the head pastor said, nervously.

Mariner glared at him. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. After all, she’d only had fifty pounds of food for breakfast.

“Right! Nothing wrong with wealth taxes, your holy highness! I’m more than happy to do my part for the health of our economy!” he said hastily.

Mariner scratched her prodigious belly, her hand sinking deep into the fat. That lean little pastor was starting to look pretty good to her, which she recognized as a signal that she should probably get some more food inside her.

She gestured to the nearest servant, a topless young man with a physique that would have had Ransom asking him for workout tips.

“Xivix, isn’t it?” she said, after fumbling around in her memory.

“Yes, your holy highness,” Xivix said, bowing low.

“Would you please be a dear and ring up the royal kitchen? I’m in the mood for some of those four-legged bird-roast thingies, with extra seasoning,” Mariner said, her mouth watering.

“How many do you want, you’re holy highness?” Xivix said, trembling nervously.

“Have them send them up and I’ll say when to stop,” Mariner said, rubbing her titanic belly with both hands and smacking her lips.

Xivix hurried off.

Mariner gestured to Boimler. “Continue.”

“Right, so I’ve figured out a plan that would allow us to implement rent controls and limits on corporate ownership of residential property that would pave the way for a universal basic income rollout,” Boimler began, excitedly handing out papers. “I’ve prepared some basic outlines with bullet points on the subject.”

The minister of finance adjusted her reading glasses and surveyed the text before her grimly.

“About item D-5,” the finance minister said, cautiously.

“Yes?” Boimler asked. He was particularly proud of that one.

“Aren’t you concerned that this use of eminent domain will stifle economic growth and threaten consumer choice?”

Boimler placed his hands together. “Okay, finance minister Vakav, I understand your concerns, but the bigger threat to consumer choice is posed by near-monopolies, and that should be addressed by item F-7’s anti-trust laws. You see, public utilities will help in the long run with...”

Mariner could feel her eyes glazing over and her stomach rumbling. It used to be that fifty pounds of any foodstuff was enough to at least keep her sated, but her stomach must have really stretched out when she devoured the previous god-queen. Now, as she listened to Boimler drone on and on about economics, all she could think of was how delicious all her privy counselors smelled. When she got down to it, Boimler would look pretty good with a little hot sauce, and they had a type of capsicin-rich berry here that wasn’t that dissimilar to poblano peppers...

No! Mariner was not going to eat her advisory counsel, or her best friend. She was going to stay firm of purpose. She was going to...to lose her damn mind if the servants didn’t show up with some meat in a few minutes.

Her stomach rumbled, much louder this time.

“—and you can see how, um,” Boimler said, pausing to turn and stare at Mariner. “Um, your uh...your holy highness? You’re...drooling, a bit?”

“Am I? Hahahah, go figure. How long has it been since lunch?” Mariner said, brushing back her hair in a way she hoped would look nonchalant.

Somebody rang a bell. Right on cue, a procession of servants appeared, each carrying a roasted four-legged fowl on a platter.

“Oh thank fuck,” Mariner said. She leaned back, closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and pointed into it.

The flavor hit her like a phaser blast. She had to stop herself from swallowing her servant along with the roast, but she managed to pull his hand free from her mouth before gulping it down.

“Hey uh, just a bit of constructive criticism, but could you guys keep your hands out of my mouth? Just toss the fowl in first. I promise it’ll get to where it needs to be,” Mariner said.

“Of course, your holy highness!” the servants all chorused.

Mariner swallowed about a dozen of the roasts before the hunger pangs subsided, and then a dozen more to feel full.

“Hey, Xivix? Could I possibly trouble you for a royal tummy-rub?” Mariner asked lightly.

“As you wish, your holy highness,” Xivix said, bowing down and blushing a little. He really put his back into it, using his powerful muscles to work over her bloated belly and layers of flab. Mariner sighed and moaned a little as he went to town on her comfortably stuffed stomach.

Boimler cleared his throat.

“As I was saying, line item B-5 clearly specifies that…”

Chapter Text

“So I was thinking we could go over-whoa! Okay, sorry, maybe I can come back another time!” Tendi said, covering her eyes.

“Nah, it’s cool!” Mariner said, as she was getting each of her enormous fat tits sucked by a Bromothian concubine. One of them was a tall, slender twink, while the other had a hunkier build with well-defined muscles. She had a possessive arm wrapped around each of them as they suckled. “See, I know the daily briefings have a lot of important but boring stuff in them, so I figured this was a way I could keep it interesting.”

“Oh, I see,” Tendi said, blushing a little. She’d participated in that threesome with Jennifer of course, but she hadn’t just watched Mariner with other lovers before. It was, well, pretty distracting. The guys were both fairly hot, with nice hair and cute little butts. Mariner was, of course, gorgeous at any size, but there was definitely something erotic about the way their hard, lean bodies sank against her voluptuous flab while they stimulated her.

Well, Tendi had worked hard on this report, and if Mariner said she was ready for it then she was ready for it. Tendi just hoped she could deliver it without getting too...distracted.

Tendi tore away her eyes from the sight of a naked, aroused Mariner being stimulated by two very attractive scantily clad concubines and forced herself to return to her briefing notes.

“So, as expected, there’s a lot of corruption in an authoritarian organization this size. At the lower levels, there’s a lot of favor trading and bribes. At the higher levels, there’s rampant cronyism and extortion.”

“Uh-huh,” Mariner said, gently pulling the twink off her left nipple so she could reach over and fist her belly button. “Sounds like pretty standard evil and corrupt imperial stuff. What’s our plan?”

“Well, right now, bribery is *technically* illegal, but there’s a lot of loopholes people can work through. For example, it’s not considered bribery if somebody pays for a government official’s vacation or buys them an expensive meal, or even gives them a favorable real-estate deal.”

“Okay, so I’m guessing we want to make some laws against that kind of stuff? Especially the, oh yeah, right there, real estate deals?” Mariner said, as the twink slid down and pressed his lips against her coochie. It was impressive how quickly he found the right spot, considering Bromothians didn’t have internal genitalia.

“Well, yes. A good start is a law against government officials engaging in any behavior that creates even the appearance of a conflict of interest, because that’s easier to regulate than having to prove malicious intent in a court of law,” Tendi said, trying to concentrate while Mariner wrapped her fingers around the twink’s horn and nuzzled the hunk’s head. She sniffed, opened her mouth, and then forcibly pulled her head back, choosing to move him down so his face was pressed up against her belly button. Mariner moaned.

“Do ya think that’s really necessary?” Mariner asked.

“I know it sounds harsh, but it’s about setting precedents and establishing a reasonable standard for proof. One old Earth nation relaxed the standards for what constituted bribery and it, uh, didn’t go well. They had a court majority that was more or less bought and paid for because they couldn’t prove that a variety of junkets and favorable business deals and gifts of luxury vehicles were intended to influence them. Even in the late capitalist era, nonprofit establishments had rules against things that would present the appearance of a conflict of interest.”

Mariner ran her nails across the twink’s periwinkle back skin while the hunk plunged his tongue inside her navel.

“Okay, fine then. We can go with banning stuff that fits the whole appearance of improper conduct thing. Anything else?”

“Well, there’s some reports of warlords in the far southeast peninsula. Apparently there’s a hotly contested area of fertile--”

“Hot damn! Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Mariner said, thumping her fist on the arm of the throne. There was a fire in her eyes, and she squeezed the twink so hard he yelped. She quickly let go of him. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Are you okay?”

“Y-yes mistress. Honestly, I’m more startled than hurt.”

She leaned down to kiss him on the top of the head, licked her lips, and then forced herself to pull back, and gently patted him on the head.

“Good boy. I don’t want to hurt my lovers in any way they don’t enjoy, okay?”

“Yes, mistress,” he said, his eyes wide with adoration.

“Now, what was this about warlords?” Mariner asked, her face lit up by a very non-sexual lust. “They’re bad guys, right? Bad guys we can kick?”

Tendi folded her hands together. “Well, yes, technically they are kickable, but you see they have armies at their command with ranged weapons, so we really should be looking at some kind of larger military strategy, cutting them off from supply lines, sending in spies to get intel--”

“And then kick them right in their stupid faces!” Mariner said, pumping her chubby fist in the air.

Tendi sighed. “I mean, yes, the end goal is to take out the warlords, but they’ve each got their own strengths and weaknesses, and they’re a problem because they have large, dedicated consolidated fighting forces at their command. Some of them can be defeated with concerted military efforts, and some of them I think you should try to handle with trained assassins. I’ve outlined it all in this paper,” she said, shuffling the pages of a hefty-looking document.

“Ugh, fine. Okay. I won’t try to kick them personally without reading over your recommendations first,” Mariner sighed, rolling her eyes. “Happy now?”

Tendi smiled. “Yes, actually, I am.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good then,” Mariner said, returning the smile.

Chapter Text

Mariner was just polishing off a bucket of savory dumplings when she noticed her glass was empty. She reached down and pressed the intercom button.

“Hey guys, could I get another *urp* pitcher of that varnatham-root extract cocktail, heavy on the glorka berry wine? Oh, and another two-hundred and thirty six dumplings.” Her stomach rumbled. “Maybe make that two-hundred and thirty seven, actually?”

“Yes, your holy highness! At once!” the voice crackled out on the other end.

Mariner settled back in her opulent throne and tried to read through Tendi’s proposal of recommendations for a judicial code of ethics for the third time this morning. She leaned one way, then leaned the other way. She had layers of the finished cushions on the planet, yet somehow she was still restless and unable to sit comfortably. Zovoz, her official cup-bearer, a large, attractive woman with an hourglass figure and a scar on her left cheek, hung around awkwardly with nothing left to pour refills with. She smelled delicious. Mariner’s stomach grumbled again. She was bored and hungry, hungry and bored, and the boredom made it harder to ignore her hunger. She idly fisted her navel as she read the excruciating detail about what did and did not qualify as a “junket”. She yawned and scratched her massive side rolls.

She was still stuck on the second page when somebody knocked on the throne-room door.

“Come in!” she hollered, licking her lips expectantly. She was getting pretty hungry again, and thirsty too.

The massive doors were swung open, and instead of a servant carrying food, Rutherford stepped in.

“Hey Mar-I mean, your holy highness,” Rutherford said. Him calling her that didn’t annoy her as much as Boimler using the address, because he didn’t have that shit-eating grin and he didn’t do it to get under her skin.

“Oh, hey Rutherford. I mean, advisor Rutherford,” she said, chuckling a little. “What’s up?”

“Well, I popped over to Big Ell’s to do some repair work. I know we don’t really need the money anymore, what with you having control of the entire treasury, but it’s a pretty cool workshop and I miss doing repairs. Anyway, you asked me earlier about any legislative items that were on my mind, and it made me realize, the old religions are still banned. Do you think maybe you could do something about that?”

Mariner frowned. “Shit, you’re right. I forgot I need to do something about that.” Mariner flipped on the intercom. “Yo! Old religions are legal again, pass it on. And uh, I’ll make a more formal announcement about this stuff later today, but yeah, I’m official revoking the no-gods-before-me legislation.”

Zovoz gasped and almost dropped the empty pitcher.

Mariner turned to her. “Did I say something wrong?”

“F-forgive me, your holy highness, it’s not m-my place to speak,” she said, trembling a little.

“Relax, I’m not going to eat *you*,” Mariner said. “Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Well, your holy highness, I just...I don’t understand. Why would you knowingly let the people worship false gods? Don’t you feel threatened by that?”

“Why would I be?” Mariner asked. “I mean, it’s not like I’m a jealous god or anything.”

“But how will you take care of them if they don’t worship you as their one and only god?”

“I mean, the same way I take care of all my worshipping subjects? Good rains and harvest, reasonable legislation, public works programs, administering justice, all that shit. Even if they don’t pray to me I still care about them.”

“I see,” Zovoz said, in the tone of voice that means “I don’t see.”

“Look, the well-being of my subjects is my responsibility, whether they worship me or not! Faith is, like, a really personal choice, and I trust my subjects enough to make that decision for themselves. If they want to pray to ancestors or other gods or nature spirits or whatever, that’s their business. I’m not some insecure petty tyrant who constantly needs her ego to be appeased.”

There was another knock on the door. Maybe the dumplings were finally here.

“Come on in,” Mariner said, rubbing her enormous tummy with both hands. “I’m starving.”

The smell hit her, along with a sudden, stabbing hunger pain. There were herbs, and spices, and something savory. Every inch of his exposed skin glistened with oil, and she could see the dusting of seasonings covering it. He was also completely topless, wearing the shortest yellow-green skirt that Mariner had ever scene, flashing a glimpse of lacy underwear every time he moved his powerful muscular thighs. His body was tall, broad-shouldered, and incredibly ripped. He must be mildly dehydrated, because she could see his eight-pack*, and she knew that most humanoids couldn’t achieve visible “shrink-wrapped” muscles like this without losing a little water weight. His large wings were folded at his side but quivering slightly. He had something of a boyish face, although it was still very handsome, his eyes a dark pomegranate-red, and his hair was long and flowing moss-green with a streak of blond in it. He had a Farafa-fruit impaled on his narrow horn. He looked like he was torn from the cover of a romance novel.**

“Your holy highness, I come bearing your drink refill,” the new Bromothian servant said.

Her stomach roared. “Uh, yeah. Right. The drink,” Mariner mumbled. “Step forward or whatever.”

The man beamed at her, blushing, then batted his eyelashes and hurried forward. In the process he “accidentally” splashed a little of the alcoholic beverage on his chest. It dribbled down, bright and sticky against his pale blue skin and hard muscle definition.

Zovoz accepted the new jug and set down the old one, then hurried over to fill Mariner’s carved amethyst goblet. She seemed to have forgotten she was holding it.

Rutherford was immediately concerned. Mariner did not just *forget* to drink when an alcoholic beverage was in her hand.

A lot of the time, Mariner tried not to get horny. Right now, Mariner was trying desperately to get horny, to focus on the horniness, because that was the only thing that could distract from the hungriness.

He might not be the most attractive man she’d ever seen, but he was certainly in the top ten. For some reason, right now, that fact didn’t make her want to eat him any less. If anything, it sharpened her appetite with a sick sort of sexual craving. She *needed* to get that dude into her belly.

Mariner rose from her throne like an emerging continent. Her whole body jiggled with the motion, from her arms to her calves. Drink sloshed in her goblet, spilling a little, and that was even more worrying, because Mariner *never* spilled her drinks, even if she was already nine drinks in. Mariner’s idea of “just getting started” was four shots in a row.

Mariner took half a step before remembering that she probably *shouldn’t* eat this innocent Bromothian before her. She wasn’t supposed to eat *any* of the members of her court, from the grand vizier to the janitorial custodian. In fact, she should probably make a royal proclamation about that, so other people could hold her to it.

Mariner turned to her goblet and gulped its contents down, as if to distract herself from one temptation with another. She handed the goblet back to Zovoz. Then she took a few more shuddering steps forward. A ribbon of drool fell from her mouth. She blinked and shook her head vigorously, causing her belly to wobble.

“What’s your name?”

“Nimin, your holy highness. Is there anything I can possibly do for you? Anything at all?” he asked, sidling up to her and batting his eyelashes innocently as he peered up at her, legs crossed, his arms crossed behind him.

“Right, Nimin,” Mariner said. Maybe knowing his name would make it easier to think of him as a person instead of a slab of meat. “Uh, why are you all greased up and covered in herbs? And topless?”

“Oh, I thought it was getting a little hot in here, so I stripped down a bit. I hope you don’t think that’s disrepsectful in any way, your holy highness, but I was just sooo overheated I had to strip down. Oh, and the herbs and oil are a new skincare regimen I’m trying,” Nimin said, unconvincingly.

She shouldn’t eat her courtiers. She really shouldn’t eat any member of her royal staff, *especially* the servants!

On the other hand, he did seem to be acting pretty...seductive. He almost acted as if he was specifically tempting her to eat him. His wide red eyes were fixed on her dripping mouth.

No, that was her stomach talking. He couldn’t possibly *want* her to devour him. She was just projecting her own desires onto him and trying to rationalize them.

“No thank you, Nimin. I’m uh, I’m good. Just waiting for the dumplings to come up.”

“Oh, the chef said it might take a while. They ran out of dough and have to start over from scratch,” Nimin apologized, bending low to the ground, his tight, well-muscled ass sticking out into the air, barely concealed by his skirt.

Dammit, she was really hungry. But she still shouldn’t eat him. She’d learned self control by now.

But she was really, *really* hungry, and he looked and smelled so damn *good*. Maybe she could have just a little nibble, a lick even, and that would be enough…

No! She couldn’t even allow herself one taste of him. One taste and it would all be over. These Bromothians were a frustratingly delicious people. They tasted better than Chicken a la Pike, better than the shrimp gumbo at Cisco’s, better than the finest Andorian crème brule. As soon as the flavor hit her tastebuds, there would be no turning back. A couple of heavily armed Naussicans wouldn’t have been able to hold her back from that delicious, pale-blue, living flesh. She was certain of that. Her nearly-empty stomach growled angrily.

“Of course, I would do *anything* to make you happy, your holy highness. There is no request I would not grant you, no sacrifice I would not make, no appetite I would not help to satisfy…” he said, trailing off and looking up expectantly at her from his place on the carpeted floor.

She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t projecting her own desires onto another person’s behavior in order to rationalize them.

Or was she?

“Nimin, are you uh...do you…”

How the fuck did you ask a question like this?

“Yes, your holy highness?” he asked, innocently, rising to his feet, still staring at her salivating mouth.

*Jump in my mouth. Jump in my mouth. Jump in my mouth,* she thought.

“You’re really willing to do *anything* for me?” she said, desperate to confirm or deny, stalling herself while hunger pangs shot through her body.

“Mariner, are you okay? Your vital signs are doing something weird,” Rutherford said, stepping forward.

“M’ fine,” she said, through clenched teeth, not trusting herself to open her mouth.

Mariner had tried not to make a habit of eating people who didn’t deserve it. Then again, if her prey was consenting to it…there was a precedent there. Not everyone on the Cerritos was *afraid* of getting eaten by Mariner.

Of course, back on the Cerritos, they had syrup of ipecac. She’d been able to cough up Tendi and other partners on command, but that might not work with a meal as delicious as fresh Bromothian inside of her. She didn’t want to risk churning up Nimin into another patch of pudge on her already massive body.

Even if he really, really wanted it…?

The doors swung open and a servant came in with a trough of dumplings.

“Oh thank fuck,” Mariner said, shoving Nimin aside and dove into it headfirst, scooping up hot steaming dumplings with her bare hands, oblivious to the pain as she shoveled them into her mouth as fast as she could.

“Would you like me to feed you, your holy highness?” Nimin said, walking up to her.

“No! I mean, *chomp* no thank you, I’m *gulp* good,” Mariner said through mouthfuls of tasty dough pockets. She didn’t stop until two-hundred and thirty-seven of the dumplings were tucked away inside her cavernous stomach.

“You’re *buoowarp* dismissed, Nimin.”

“Yes, your holy highness,” Nimin said, in a disappointed tone of voice. He walked out again, his shoulder’s slumping a little.

“Oof. That was too close for comfort,” Mariner said, thumping her stomach and letting out another crass belch.

“Um, maybe this is just me, but was that Nimin guy acting kinda...strange?” Rutherford said, struggling to articulate his vague feelings and half-formed suspicions.

“No, he was definitely being...strange,” Mariner said, certain that wasn’t the right word to use but for some reason feeling reluctant to use the correct one in front of Rutherford. Desperate, maybe. Flirtatious.

*He was deliberately tempting me.*

Mariner closed her eyes and took in slow, deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. She should probably dismiss him from the palace grounds if he was going to act like this, whether he was doing it intentionally or not.

On the other hand, the poor guy shouldn’t lose his job just because she was tempted by him. She’d find a way to control her appetite.

She took the jug out of her cup-bearer’s hand and drained it in three gulps, then pressed the intercom.

“I need more dumplings. And another pitcher of cocktail. And a cold cut platter.” ‘

“By the way, I’ve got some good news and bad news,” Rutherford said, suddenly remembering. He stepped up to whisper in her ear as she waved away Zovoz the cup-bearer.

“The good news is, we got the transmitter up and running. The bad news is that, without subspace communications boosters, it might not reach anybody for months, maybe even years.”

*Both Bromothians and Orions had different abdominal muscle structures than most humanoids
**Lately Mariner had been really getting into vintage genderqueer vampire romance from the 2120s

Chapter Text

“Let the royal feast begin!” Tavat the butler said, ringing the gong.

Mariner got a kick out of flaunting protocol, but she also liked to look good, so she’d decided to try out her latest formalwear for the occasion. She was decked out in a tuxedo the exact tint of blue as Jennifer’s skin, and she’d gotten a navy blue bowtie to go with it. It had taken a while to explain the concept to the royal tailors, but eventually they’d gotten the idea and produced something she was satisfied with. They’d needed a lot of material, of course, and the resulting outfit accentuated the lines of her body rather than hiding them. Her watermelon-sized breasts strained the upper buttons. Her belly was roughly the size of a tool shed on its side. Each of Mariner’s ass cheeks was big enough not just to fill an entire chair on its own, but to overflow it. Her gooey thighs were wider than Shax’s waist at their thickest points.

In the past, royal dinners had consisted of the god-queen dining by herself while her various attendants watched, always with a Bromothian sacrifice near the end (right before the dessert and the herbal tisane courses). This time, she’d invited her royal courtiers (including her friends and Castro), the terrified rebel leaders, and all sixteen of her current concubines to dine with her in the throne room. They’d brought in extra chairs and tables. Mariner had made sure that they had seated all her friends together, and that those of her concubines who seemed to have a budding attraction to each other, or at least had shown the most chemistry during group sex, were seated around one another as well.

The first course was caviar. Mariner knew that caviar was considered a fancy dish in many cultures, and that it would be considered shocking and offensive to treat it otherwise. Naturally, she upended the entire bowl into her mouth without touching the silver spoon.

That proved to be a mistake. While her friends, sexual partners, coworker, political opponents and courtiers were nibbling spoonfuls of the delicacy, she was suffering through the saltiest flavor she’d ever made the poor choice to go hog-wild with.

Maybe she could kill the saltiness with another flavor, she thought, as she drained her glass of water. Her mouth still tasted salty. Some replicated Boimler would easily solve the problem, but then, she didn’t have her specialized replicator programs down here, now did she?

Mariner’s stomach grumbled, and she drank another glass of water as soon as Zovoz refilled it. Mariner was fine. She was just also very aware that she was in a room full of people who had turned out to be the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted, even better than dad’s home-made almond croissants.

Modom was chatting a mile-a-minute about some radio serial while Lorthok gazed lovingly into his silver-grey eyes. The minister of agriculture was not-so-subtly hitting on one of the rebel leaders, who was either very oblivious or choosing to ignore the overture.

The next course was a hearty vegetable soup, including something like onions and something like carrots only sweeter, but there was nothing that could hold a candle to potatoes. She’d sampled cuisine from across the alpha quadrant, and the potato reigned supreme among cultivated root vegetables. It was even better than the Delta Quadrant’s Leeola root. Still, the soup was nicely seasoned, and it wasn’t bad even if it didn’t have any potatoes in it. She tried to use her spoon and sip rather than drinking, because it was still hot and she’d learned a little from her experience with the caviar.

Her stomach continued to rumble for more. Mariner ate her soup a little faster and resisted the urge to reach out and grab her server.

She could *feel* the painful emptiness in her belly. Her large and no doubt expensive bowl of vegetable soup was not enough to fill her stomach. It was barely a drop in the bucket. She needed protein.

Fortunately, that was when they brought out an array of stuffed mushrooms with heavy melted cheese. Mariner had the same food as everyone else, although of course in ten times the portion size. She unhinged her jaw, tipped the enormous plate’s contents into her mouth and swallowed them without chewing.

“So, minister Wrakoth, any progress getting to the bottom of the famine situation?” Mariner asked her minister of agriculture.

“Inquiries are continuing,” Wrakoth said solemnly. “The catalyst for the famine appears to have been a rust mold that targeted the predominate staple crop in the region.”

“Find out what other crops they were growing and where those crops were being exported to,” Mariner said. “There’s always somebody who *isn’t* starving.”

Rutherford and Tendi were talking about their favorite quadratic formulae. Boimler was engaged in what he thought was a playful disagreement with Vakav over fiscal propriety. Vakav, on the other hand, was growing rigid with barely-controlled tension, and she was either about to start screaming at him or ask if she could fill his ass with unfertilized eggs.

The next dish was the fish course. It was seasoned with strong herbs, farafa fruit extract, and melted butter, grilled to perfection. The other plates had a nice little steak-like section of fish on them, but Mariner? Mariner had an entire grilled shark swimming in a pond of butter.

“Now this smells good,” Mariner said, and it did. It smelled almost as good as the cute server boys carrying it in between the two of them. Mariner swallowed it down in four quick gulps, causing her tux to ride up and a few of the buttons to pop off. She rubbed her enormous belly, finally starting to feel some approximation of sated, or at least less inclined towards giving into her instincts to devour the delicious Bromothians around her.

“Please, your holy highness, allow me to do that for you,” one of her concubines, Raithia, said, stepping up from her half-finished seafood dish to hurry over to Mariner’s side. Despite being right next to her, there were at least four feet of rolls holding her back.

“Oh, it’s okay, you don’t have to do that,” Mariner said quickly, thumping her upper gut and prompting another belch that dislodged dust from the rafters.

“Please, you’re holy highness? I would be honored by the privilege,” Raithia pleaded, looking up at her with huge, entreating yellow eyes.

“Oh, okay then, if you really want to,” Mariner said, blushing a little. She leaned back and relaxed a little as Raithia’s big, strong hands kneaded her supple fat, exploring, jiggling, and playing with it. It reminded her of the way Jennifer went to town on her tummy. Mariner reached down and ran her fingers over the woman’s purple buzzcut. “Oh, *burp* that feels really *urp* good,” Mariner sighed.

While Mariner was still getting her hundreds of pounds of fat groped and fondled, her royal servants brought in the salad course. The salad was mainly composed of a sharp-smelling purple leaf, interspersed with sliced mushrooms, thin peels of the carrot-like root, and bright pink berry-like fruit that tasted like minty tomatoes, all served in a vinagrette dressing with nut oil. Tendi dove into her salad with voracious enthusiasm, and Mariner guiltily remembered she’d forgotten to ask the kitchen to provide her girlfriend with vegetarian alternatives. Oh well, at least she’d been able to eat the mushrooms and the soup course.

Mariner normally wasn’t much of a salad gal, but she was enough of a gourmand to appreciate the change of pace it presented and the role of variety within the larger selection of dishes. Of course, her portions were still outsized, with her own salad bowl being large enough for somebody to take a bath in. She still stuffed huge chunks of it into her mouth and crunched them up. It really wasn’t that bad, as far as salads went, but she ate slowly enough that it took her a few minutes to finish.

Finally, the first main course arrived. It was some kind of bird, as big as a turkey but with four wings, deep-fried, then coated with a glaze that smelled sweet and a little bit spicy. “Alright, now we’re talking!” she said, drool running down her chubby cheeks, rubbing her plump hands together while her concubine continued rubbing her belly.

Mariner lifted up the fowl to her mouth. She wanted to chew it, but instead she just gulped it down the moment she tasted it. It was delicious.

She looked down at Raithia. Mariner pointed at another roasted fowl, opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. Raithia got the message. She picked it up and tossed it right at Mariner’s mouth. Mariner caught it, swelled her cheeks inhumanly large, chewed once or twice, and then swallowed it down.

Mariner had one more deep-fried, spicy-glazed fowl, taking the time to savor the flavor, tearing meat from bone, and Raithia returned to her role as royal tummy-rubber.

The next dish was a farafa-fruit sorbet. Mariner inhaled it without a second thought. She still had a cute butch gal rubbing her belly, and she liked it. She was almost as good at it as Jennifer was.

A few minutes later, Mariner felt the throbbing headache begin and remembered exactly why she should have taken her time with the sorbet.

She groaned and rubbed her temples. She should ask for an aspirin. Wait, did these people even have aspirin? For that matter, were gods allowed to get headaches, or would they take that as a sign of weakness and question her divinity? Eh, she was probably fine. Maybe she should just tough the headache out though, to be safe.

Mariner worried that she might get a little bored waiting for the next course, but having a hot butch girl massage her belly fat proved to be interesting enough. Lately she’d gotten a taste of orgies, but she might just bring Raithia back to her room for a little one-on-one after this meal was finished.

That gave her an idea. “Ooh, could you reach a little lower?” she said, lifting up some of her massive belly flab. “Right there.”

When Raithia obliged, Mariner let go and smooshed Raithia under her crashing belly. Mariner burst out in giggles as Raithia squirmed and flailed under her flabby bulk. She didn’t just hear the mammoth stomach gurgle and churn, she *felt* the bubbles building up and the muscles working the food along her digestive tract. It was like massaging a very soft boulder.

Most of the advisors tittered sycophantically at her antics, but she could tell from the throbbing ovipositor digging into her yielding fat that Raithia was enjoying it too.

Mariner let her struggle under there until the second main course came out. This was the six-legged boar like animal, sliced into sections, cured, and drizzled with mashed farafa fruit. While the other guests had individual sections of meat, of course, Mariner had an entire roasted animal presented before her on a silver platter, resting on a bed of purple leafy vegetables, and with a whole farafa fruit crammed into its mouth. Mariner lifted up her belly again so a flush-faced Raithia could crawl out from under her.

“You okay there?” Mariner asked playfully.

“Y-yes, your holy highness,” Raithia gasped out, adjusting her pants in a futile attempt to conceal the bulge of her throbbing ovipositor.

“Now, why don’t you feed this thing to me, one dripping forkful at a time? I wanna savor the flavor,” Mariner said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Raithia was already blushing deep purple, but when Mariner said that she broke out in a sweat. “Of course, your holy highness!” she said eagerly.

Mariner leaned down, scrunching up her enormous belly in the process, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth. The taste was familiar and pork-like, but the royal chefs had done an excellent job, roasting it to perfection, and the mashed fruit sauce perfectly complimented the savory flavor. Mariner sucked it right off the fork, chewed it twice, and swallowed. More of the delicious meat was popped into it as soon as she opened it again. She continued for a few minutes of this, focusing on the taste instead of just gobbling it up thoughtlessly. Then her stomach reminded her that, while it wasn’t empty anymore, and she’d had to deal with addition button loss and clothing tearing, it was still not yet full.

“Okay, Raithia, maybe you can pick up the pace a little,” Mariner said, blushing as her guts rumbled.

“As you wish, your holy highness,” Raithia purred. She ripped off an entire haunch of the meat and shoved it at Mariner’s face. She chomped down on it, trying to savor the rich juices before swallowing it down, bone and all. She repeated the process three more times, then sighed. “Okay, just feed me the whole thing.”

“As you wish, your holy highness,” Raithia said, using her impressive muscles to heft up the entire remaining roast and climbing Mariner’s belly like a staircase to deliver it directly into her mouth. She felt the heat of digestion and heard the sloshing underfoot. Mariner chomped down on it, waited carefully for Raithia to climb back down and out of the danger zone, and then swallowed it down, her throat bulging enormously before it vanished into her overflowing belly. By now, the tux had completely split open, although it was still able to cover most of her gigantic wobbling breasts.

Without even being asked, Raithia resumed her position as royal belly rubber. Mariner could feel her innards gurgling away, the pressure building as Raithia squeezed air pockets and digestive gases accumulated.

“BOUWAAAARP!” Mariner let loose a belch that rattled the cutlery. Several of her courtiers briefly flapped their wings in alarm. Raithia looked up at her, her eyes full of lust and wonder. Tendi had paused in conversation with Rutherford to gawk. She blushed as soon as Mariner caught her staring. “Ah, that feels better,” Mariner said, following up the statement with another, smaller burp. “What’s the next course?”

The servants wheeled in an enormous dish with a silver cover. Mariner rubbed her hands together and licked her lips.

They lifted up the cover to reveal a young male Bromothian, hogtied on the platter with edible purple ferns, his twinkish body drizzled with syrup. He looked up at her with wide eyes reddened by crying. Despite his fear-boners, each about four inches long, he didn’t look like somebody who wanted to be here.

Mariner sniffed the air. Mariner drooled. Mariner could tell the sticky topping would enhance the already exceptional flavor of the meat. She was getting closer to full, but she still had enough room in her for a whole person, and this skinny little thing wasn’t going to take up that much room. She licked her lips and leaned forward, flabby arms extended.

She stopped herself. With a sigh of effort, Mariner closed her salivating mouth, leaned back, and crossed her arms in front of her enormous breasts. She took deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. She reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Look, there’s been some kind of...communication error. That’s on me, okay? I should be more precise and direct. Just, could you please get this guy out of my face? I’m pardoning him or whatever.” She wiped the saliva from her mouth.

“It was traditional for the third-to-last course to be a sacrifice,” Gorog explained. “The chefs were not instructed otherwise. But if we have in any way offended your-”

“Yeah, I get that, my bad,” Mariner said, waving away the apology. “Can we just, like, skip to the next item on the menu?” Damn, he smelled good. They all smelled good.

The man made muffled noises of gratitude, unable to speak around the large parafa fruit shoved into his mouth, as they wheeled him away again.

“Look, guys, from now on, until I tell you I want to eat a particular person, just assume I’m not asking you to bring me people to eat, okay?” Mariner was trying to do her best, but she was genuinely worried that the next time she had a Bromothian sacrifice literally served up on a silver platter, she might not have the strength to overcome her baser natures. It wasn’t her fault they had evolved to be so delicious!

“Are you sure-” the grand vizier began, but something in Mariner’s expression made her stop and decide that Mariner was, in fact, very sure, although the whole subject of eating people could be reopened at any moment.

“As your holy highness wishes,” Gorog said, with an obsequious bow. “I shall pass the information along.”

“Please do,” Mariner said, archly. “Now who’s ovipositor do I gotta suck around here to get dessert, huh?”

“I will see to it at once, your holy highness,” Gorog said quickly before hurrying off towards the kitchens.

“Thank you!” Mariner called after her retreating back.

The conversation around Mariner rushed in to fill the silence. Tendi excitedly told Rutherford about the latest development in biology theory around the fundamental nature of Earth’s lichens, a subject which had been hotly debated for literal centuries. Those two always did get along well. It was nice to see that their new level of intimacy wasn’t interfering with any of Tendi’s platonic friendships.

For dessert, the servants wheeled in a pastry roughly the size of a wedding cake. Each of the attending persons got a slice of the cake, including the servants, and then Mariner dug in to the remaining three-fourths of the cake with her bare hands, shoveling it down her throat by the layer, frosting flying everywhere.

“Hoo boy, that was good! My *BELCH* compliments to the chef!” Mariner said, licking her lips and sucking the frosting off her fingers while she ignored the napkin one of her servants pointedly offered to her.

The next course was a tray of cheese, nuts, and dried fruit, accompanied by a steaming hot tisane. This time, Mariner took time to try out and savor the different combinations. Once these guys reached warp capability and joined the rest of the alpha quadrant, somebody needed to introduce them to the joys of chocolate and raktajino. Those would be the perfect finishers for a complex, multi-course meal like this.

Mariner looked at Tendi, plowing through the dainties on offer, and a twinge of guilt struck her. She pressed the intercom button. “Hey, could we get some more servings of that vegetable soup and salad up here? My friend Tendi is a vegetarian.”

Mariner leaned down to address her concubine. “Well, we’ve finished dinner together. Why don’t I take you back to my bedroom and we can get comfortable together, just the two of us?”

“Just us, your holy highness?” Raithia said, blushing a little.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still like the foursomes, fivesomes, and orgies, but tonight I’m in the mood for something a little more...intimate,” Mariner said, planting a kiss on Raithia’s cheek. Raithia gasped and giggled as Mariner picked her up in a bridal-style carry, cradling her against her distended belly as she waddled off towards the bedroom. “Now, come on. Now that my stomach’s full and properly cared for, I want you to pump my pussy full of eggs,” she whispered into Raithia’s ear. Raithia lovingly stroked the curve of Mariner’s gargantuan gut.

Chapter Text

“So, I think it’s about time we started discussing potential threats to your life,” Tendi said, solemnly.

“Hell yeah!” Mariner said, pumping one fist in the air and using the other to take a big gulp of fizzy blue cocktail. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. None of those boring trade wars or landlord-tenant laws.”

Tendi sighed. She loved her girlfriend, but they really needed to figure out some kind of substitute for concerta. Unfortunately, this planet didn’t even have coffee, one of those beverages that spread pretty quickly to every civilization in the galaxy that was advanced enough for whom caffeine was non-toxic. She should consider herself lucky that at least Mariner was taking this seriously. Well, she had captured Mariner’s attention, anyway.

“Right. So, the people most likely to target you will be people whose economic interests you threaten. In the long run, that’s going to encompass a large number of political enemies, but the most immediate problem is the utility barons. Big oil, general electric, and the water suppliers. I mean, they are *really* unhappy about your Plumbing For All proposal.”

“I don’t see why. I mean, we need to do *something* about the Green Fever epidemic, and that spreads through contaminated water. Having entire extended families crammed into unsanitary slums certainly isn’t helping matters either,” Mariner said, taking a sip of fruit wine.

“Right, but there’s a lot of rich and very powerful people who benefit from them being stuck in the slums. Especially the slum lords, but also the for-profit hospitals” Tendi said, patiently.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not stupid. I know my reforms are going to ruffle a few feathers,” Mariner said, waving away the subject.

“It’s going to do more than ‘ruffle feathers’, Beckett. It’s going to upset very powerful people who will try to get you killed!” Tendi said, putting her hands on her hips and glaring to let Mariner know she was serious.

“Let em come!” Mariner said, licking her lips and thumping her prodigious belly, causing it to ripple with surfable waves of fat. “It’ll save the castle cooks a lot of time.”

“Babe, even you only have a finite amount of room in your stomach, and there are a lot of pissed-off capitalist oligarchs, and a lot of unscrupulous people who might be willing to take a chance if it means getting paid big money. You have to be lucky every time. They only have to be lucky once!”

Suddenly, Tendi was standing face to face with Mariner, her tiny body digging into Mariner’s massive gut, looking Mariner right in the eye.

“I need you to take this seriously,” Tendi whispered. “Okay? I’m worried about you. There’s going to be a lot of assassins coming after you, and I mean professional assassins, not enthusiastic amateurs.”

“Whoa there, ease up, Tendi. I *am* taking this seriously. I just want you to remember I can handle myself, okay?” Mariner laughed. She was taking this seriously. At least, she thought she was taking it seriously. At least, that was what she thought on a conscious level.

Somewhere inside, she was replaying the flash of a Jem Hadar disrupter, one aimed directly at her head. He was a genetically engineered supersoldier, armed with heavy weaponry, and it was a headshot. That was a guaranteed kill. The chances of the disrupter blast not hitting her lethally were a million to one.

Somehow, she had ended up being the one.

Good people, important people, people with futures ahead of them, had died that day. There was Jamee, the andorian who had just gotten engaged to the boy next door. There was Alex, who joined up to study the covergent evolution of ferns across the Alpha quadrant. There was Jarak, that klingon girl who was barely nineteen and joined the fighting force so her father would stop being ashamed of her. They’d all gotten to know each other during the crucible of pre-combat training. They’d all been mowed down in the first thirty-nine seconds of the fight, all except her.

The power pack, against the odds, had fizzled and died when the Jem Hadar pulled the trigger. He stared at his weapon. He pulled the trigger again.

To her dying day, Mariner would swear that her hand had moved all by itself, arm raising it into position without a single thought. She only dimly felt the pressure of the trigger against her fingers as she squeezed, and squeezed, and kept squeezing, and then suddenly all the Jem Hadar in front of her were dead, and the people behind her were charging forward, and she had to keep her eyes open for new Jem Hadar and not accidentally shoot any of her comrades so she’d stopped squeezing the trigger and charged and then there was too much to do all of it too fast for her so she couldn’t think or feel, so the memory got compressed and hardened into a dense ball in the pit of her stomach that was there all the time because if she tried to take it out and look at it it would be too hot to touch.

“I’m taking it real seriously. What do you want me to do, like, take up more training? Hire new guards?”

It should have been her. All those shots fired, all those innocent lives taken, all those people with brighter, better lives ahead of them deserved to have taken the dumb luck that had landed on her shoulders, unexpected and unasked for…one of them should have lived instead, so they could actually make something of themselves.

None of them would have ended up like her. She still might have taken that shot to the head. For all she knew, maybe she had. Maybe she was lying in a biobed or a cave floor as the last neurons fired in her oxygen-starved brain.

“Actually, I was thinking we start with a professional food taster, although I would like to change up the guards’ patrol schedules. This place is way, way too easy to break into.”

“Well, you are right about the guards,” Mariner said, remembering her plan with the smoke bombs and improvised hang glider. “But isn’t a food taster, like, a little extreme? I mean I don’t want anyone to *die* on account of me.” *I don’t want anyone to die on account of me again.*

“If you get a good professional food taster and have antidotes on hand, it should work out fine,” Tendi said, absentmindedly fingering Mariner’s navel and causing her to blush. “I still have notes on the biosphere of this planet, and it’s pretty short on flavorless, untraceable, incurable poisons. But um, I *really* need you to recognize that you’re a politically important person now. You have an impact on millions of lives, and your death would impact them dramatically too. This isn’t just about personal responsibility, it’s about humanitarian stakes!” Tendi said, almost shouting. “If you die, this entire nation, maybe even the entire *planet*, descends into anarchy, and I don’t mean the polyamorous mutual aid kind.”

“You’re...right,” Mariner said, reluctantly. Dammit, Tendi was right. She was responsible for the Bromothian people now, just as surely as she had been responsible for her squad when she’d shouted “Attack!” and lost half of it. She couldn’t afford to half-ass this. Even if she didn’t know all the people under her control, what childhood sweetheart they wanted to marry, what plant they wanted to study, what they wanted to do with their lives. Even if they weren’t faces she recognized or names she knew, they could still become ghosts that would haunt her. “Okay, I’ll hire a food taster. Put out an advert in the state newspaper, ask around, whatever. What’s the next item on the agenda?” She chugged her glass of wine, then grabbed the pitcher it came from and chugged that too. She burped loudly and reached out before remembering her cup-bearer wasn’t allowed inside the royal chambers during her private council meetings. She really needed to get up and grab some more booze, preferably the harder stuff, but her throne was really comfortable right now.

Tendi frowned, surprised that it hadn’t taken more pushing from her to get Mariner to move on the subject. “Oh. Um, okay then.” Tendi continued nervously playing with Mariner’s belly button, dislodging a rather large belch in the process and causing Mariner to blush even harder.

“So, you haven’t built up a lot of public support yet. Your rule is still in its infancy. That’ll make it harder to execute your political enemies without alienating people. So, I’ve been scouting out the homes of major General Electric and National Oil shareholders and found a lot of strategic weaknesses. I’m working on building contacts and the Bromothian underworld, and I should be able to secure some responsible professionals to take care of your problems pretty soon,” Tendi said, finishing the statement with a wink and a thumbs up.

Mariner shook off the warm feeling and pulled Tendi’s hand out of her belly button. “Um, I’m not sure I’m following you there, D’vana,” Mariner said nervously, although she was pretty sure that she *did* follow what Tendi was saying, and that was the problem.

“Your political enemies can’t send assassins after you if they’re dead,” Tendi said cheerfully.

Mariner recalled the stealth mission, many missions after that disastrous first charge, where they’d introduced a neurotoxin into the Ketrosel White supply. A week after that, they were pinned down under enemy fire, and that time she knew she was going to be dead for sure, but more importantly, she knew that the commander she was serving under was going to be a dead woman, and that was unacceptable with the sheer number of times she had saved all of their lives. But then the accumulated neurotoxins kicked in, and the Jem Hadar began screaming, crawling, flailing, spasming, then breathing blue foam, calling out to the absent Founders with their dying breaths. She’d seen the confusion on their faces, the fear, and the agony. She hadn’t just *liked* it. She’d wrapped the feeling around her like an electric blanket, drawing comfort and strength from it, and fighting on. It wasn’t until years afterwards that Mariner really began to realize how *ugly* that feeling was.

“No,” Mariner said, with the full weight of her royal station and proclaimed godhood. “I’m not going to kill people just because they *might* come after me.”

“I’m not saying we go after them right now,” Tendi clarified. “Just that we prepare for the future and keep our options open. It’s important to consider all the different ways you can address a situation.”

Mariner pressed the intercom. “Hey, yeah, I’m sorry but I’m dying of thirst up here. Could I get another pitcher of fruit wine? And a pitcher of Archipelago Sunrise?” She paused. “Sorry, do you want anything Tendi?”

“Just farafa fruit juice for now,” Tendi said.

“Also get me a farafa fruit juice. Oh, and a decanter of glorka berry brandy,” Mariner added, pressing the intercom again. “Sorry, where were we?”

“Look, *somebody* is going to send assassins after you. You can’t threaten the power base of this many rich capitalists without creating major enemies. Plus we haven’t even gotten into the subject of enemies from the church coming to get revenge for killing their god. I’ve heard whispers there’s a big schism coming up in the state religion.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had the pissed-off followers of a self-proclaimed god I killed coming after me,” Mariner snorted while her nails dug into the armrest, as if she could pry the opals out of it. “And don’t you dare suggest cracking down on the side of the schizm that declares me a false god. I am *not* compromising my stance on religious liberties. Lieutenant Fatimah got stranded on a rogue planet with me for a while, and she told me about how her ancestors were on the receiving end of anti-minority religious violence. I do *not* want a repeat of that,” Mariner said firmly, crossing her arms.

“I...I wasn’t going to suggest that,” Tendi said, with an unconvincing giggle. “Just maybe, like, keep some tabs on them, find out what they’re planning, you know?”

“Tendi, I am *not* spying on members of a religious community for refusing to recognize me as divine. They’re free to pray and protest all they want about it just as long as they don’t start lobbing molotov cocktails into my bedroom window.”

“Okay, fine,” Tendi said, relenting. If she didn’t give a little, she wouldn’t be able to get Mariner to see reason in the areas that really mattered, like protecting herself more directly. “But I’m still going to cultivate a network of informants. You never know when you might need some information and ears to the ground.”

“Very well,” Mariner grumbled, thinking back to the time she’d been surgically altered to look and smell like a Jem Hadar during a recon mission. Her commander had only survived the next wave with reinforcements cut off because of the information she’d been able to obtain as a spy. “Did you pick up anything interesting?”

“Well, there’s an organization called The Old Firm that controls most of the organized crime in the central mainland, but they’ve got competition coming in from the Northern Archipelago, called the Bracini. Much less tightly knit, but that also means they have fewer bitter internal battles over family succession.”

“So we wanna, what, reinvent the RICO act and bring both of them in for various naughty things?” Mariner said.

“Oh no, they’re way too powerful and entrenched to arrest right now,” Tendi laughed. “No, I was thinking we evaluate their relative strengths and arrange a temporary truce between them to cut down on gang warfare.”

“That...that seems kind of counter-intuitive,” Mariner said, scratching her head.

“Well, right now the crime lords don’t see you as a direct threat to their interests. It won’t be until the poverty drops of that they begin feeling the pinch and realize how your more passive programs actually reduce the crimes of desperation that fuel their empire,” Tendi said, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, most of them are nepo babies, so I don’t expect a lot of competence or foresight.”

Mariner frowned.

Tendi blinked. “Er, sorry. Not that I’m saying nepo babies can’t be competent or intelligent! Obviously some people really deserve their positions despite family connections, and uh, I’m just going to shut up now before I put my foot in my mouth again!”

Mariner laughed and pinched Tendi’s cheeks. “Relax, Tendi. It’s cool. I know I’ve said far worse things to you, back when I was running through the Vindicta simulation,” she said. She ruffled Tendi’s hair and kissed her on top of her head. “I’m not offended.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief,” Tendi said with a sigh, and kissed her back, this time on the lips.

“Mm, Tendi,” Mariner said, licking her lips and smiling wickedly down at Tendi.

“Mm, Mariner,” Tendi said, licking her own lips with a twinkle in her eye. “Although, I think at this size I can’t actually fit you down my throat anymore, even with my elastic tissues and unhinged jaw.”

“Aw, I’m going to miss that,” Mariner said. She was usually the predator instead of the prey, but sometimes it was nice to snuggle up inside somebody, feeling safe in their enveloping wet warmth.

“Now, about these guard rotations,” Tendi said, picking up a sheath of papers. “I have a new roster and plan that should eliminate most of the security weakpoints around the castle.”

Mariner listened to Tendi explain, at length and in great detail, how her plan would help. She listened to stuff about blind spots and peripheral vision and lines of sight. She wondered when more booze was going to arrive. If they didn’t come here soon, she’d have to get up and waddle down to the castle’s wine cellars herself.

“I’d also like to brief you on some of the security plans for the formal coronation. I know it’s still a while away, but the early bird gets the worm, as you humans say!”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Mariner said, nodding. A new idea trickled into her mind. “Hey, do you think any of the concubines are hot?”

“What?” Tendi squeaked, blushing. “I mean, uh, maybe Jakaj? He’s big and hairy, and he’s submissive, but not like, annoying, clingy, ‘pwease step on me’ submissive. You know?”

“Oh, I totally get it,” Mariner said. “There’s such a thing as sexually passive-aggressive. I’ll see if I can talk him around to a threesome with us, though to be honest I don’t think he’ll take much convincing. People on this planet might prefer women on the heavy side, but you’ve got a special charm that’s all your own, skinny or not,” Mariner said, leaning down and planting another kiss on D’vana’s neck.

“I’m glad you think sharing is caring,” Tendi said, leaning into the kiss and lifting a hand to stroke Mariner’s chubby cheek.

“Well, duh. It’s like I said. I’m not a jealous god,” she said, and stuck out her tongue playfully.

Chapter Text

“Thank you for setting aside this time to meet with me,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Castro said.

“Well, you *are* my superior officer,” Mariner whispered, sloshing her solid jade wine goblet and taking another gulp. “By the way, can the palace servants get you anything? Snack? Stiff drink? Maybe some Sparkle?”*

“I’m good,” Castro said, but then her stomach rumbled. Mariner laughed out loud at her and Castro blushed. “Okay, maybe some of those things like deviled eggs, only they’re twice the size and a little spicier, and a small tray of vegetables with creamy dip**. But that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.”

*Oh jeez, what’s she going to nag me about now?* Mariner thought. She had a decent afternoon buzz going on, but she still was too sober for a lecture on the spirit of the prime directive or a pathetic attempt to pull rank without any solid reasoning behind the decision or some bullshit like that.

“It’s about the humanoid sacrifices,” Castro said,

“But I put a stop to those,” Mariner said. “I haven’t eaten anyone since I took up the throne, and let me tell you that hasn’t been easy for me.” Her stomach growled, as if on cue. She pressed the intercom. “I’d like some blood-red eggs, a vegetable tray with dip, and a whole roasted winged swine***,” Mariner said. “But remember to knock before coming in, okay?”

Mariner folded her hands. “So, what did you want to discuss?”

“Actually, I think you should continue the humanoid sacrifices,” Castro said, gravely. “I was even thinking it could be more of a public spectacle, and I want to incorporate them into the coronation event.”

Mariner’s jaw dropped. “You *want* me to keep eating people? *You*?”

“Look, it may not neatly align with our values, as outsiders, but humanoid sacrifice clearly plays an important sociological function in this community, even if it was imposed on them at first from an outside source,” Castro said.

Mariner’s stomach rumbled again. Just the idea of it got her drooling, and maybe just a little wet. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s a cultural touchstone and a ritual with a great deal of bonding value for the rest of society. It’s hugely cathartic and cements feelings of loyalty through shared experiences of excitement. It’s not pretty, but humanoid sacrifice does play a role in pre-warp societies. Consider the religious practices of the Aztec empire, or the public beheadings at Andoria’s northernmost continent during the height of the Thanoi dynasty, or pre-unification Ferenghi blood rituals. It’s an emotionally charged event that binds disparate individuals closer together under the social contract.”

“I’m sorry, are you saying humanoid sacrifice is, like, some kind of important civic event? Fun for the whole family?” Mariner said, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I’ve reviewed the laws and ordinances of the nation, and they still have the death penalty on the books for a few things. You’d just be enforcing the existing legal precedents, but with a bit more, well, flair, pomp and circumstance, spectacle,” Castro said, awkwardly.

“You really think I need to keep eating these people to keep the throne and *prevent* open rebellion?” Mariner asked, incredulously. “What, do you have a list of people in mind?”

“Actually, yes,” Castro said, pulling out a folder with a triumphant smile. “Some of the criminals I’ve prepared profiles on are already incarcerated. Most of them are not.” She handed the folder over to Mariner.

“Henri Pissinger?” Mariner said, reading one of the files incredulously.

“He’s still at large. He’s a war criminal, worked for the National Intelligence Agency, very big on staging coups against democratically elected southern leaders. Then there’s Joanne Musk. She used the financial success of her children’s fantasy literature to build her own private army and fund local politicians running on transphobic platforms.”

“Jeepers, they still have transphobia on this planet?” Mariner winced. She thought back to Wigiw’s little introduction that accompanied their pronouns. “That sucks.”

“Yeah, she makes a big deal about protecting cis men from evil trans men, who she’s convinced are really just women trying to sneak into men’s locker rooms and gain an unfair advantage against them in sports. Of course, that ‘protect the men’ stance didn’t from having what she claims were consensual relationships with several of her tenants and employees, or asking various secretaries to fertilize her eggs and firing them if they said no,” Castro said darkly.

“Holy shit, what a creep!” Mariner said. “Still, are you sure we want to go back to public executions by humanoid sacrifice? Isn’t that kinda anti prime directive or something? Also, I thought the Aztec Empire stuff was still pretty academically uncertain. It might have been just, like, the priest giving somebody their last rites before execution, and the Spanish just interpreted it as human sacrifice because of their biases.”

“On the contrary, it’s about providing cultural continuity and respecting the customs of other civilizations,” Castro said, her voice firm. “Humanoid sacrifice is something these people have embraced and integrated into their worldview, just like the previous animal sacrifices that were part of the largest native religion to this region,” Castro said. “They may have been subjected to outside influences, but they still embraced the practice as a whole. Continuing it in a more responsible form will provide continuity of government and cement your right to rule in the eyes of an uncertain public.”

“So, you want me to keep eating these people for the greater good of the species as a whole? Doesn’t that strike you as kind of ethically dubious?” Mariner said.

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” Castro said, piously.

Mariner’s stomach rumbled. Castro shivered.

Mariner could see the fear reflected in her eyes. She could also see courage there, and guilt.

“I don’t *like* the idea any more than you do, but we have to focus on what we can change without moving too fast. People turn to monarchy because it provides them a sense of stability, and with all the changes you have in store to improve the quality of these people’s lives, on a national scale no less, we need all the stability we can get. That’s why I’m *advising* you to continue the practice of the Bromothian sacrifices, even if you find it personally distasteful, no pun intended.”

Castro knew she’d go for it, if she made an appeal rather than a command. That was what had given her the confidence to push the issue. Besides, of course Mariner would give into her appetites. Mariner was fundamentally selfish and always sure that she knew best. Something that appealed to her appetite and her vanity was sure to win her over to the cause. Castro knew the type.

“Okay, maybe you *might* have a point,” Mariner said, reluctantly.

Castro smiled. “Thank you, Ensign Mariner. I knew you’d see reason.”

Mariner resisted the urge to roll her eyes and say “I knew you’d see reason” in a mocking tone of voice. Instead she smiled graciously. “Well, Lieutenant Junior Grade Castro, I always appreciate your unique perspective on the situation. Thank you for your advice.”

“I mean, I minored in Anthropology before I transferred to Starfleet Academy, so it wasn’t that hard to figure out,” Castro said, bashfully. Then she stopped and wondered if Mariner had been making fun of her. Well, if she had been, it would be best to just ignore it anyway.

There was a knock at the door.

Mariner turned and shouted “enter!”

It was Nimin again. She could recognize him by the smell, even before he entered the room. This time his exposed abs were smeared with whipped cream and glorka berry syrup. Mariner nearly dropped her crystal wine goblet. He was carrying a tray of vegetables with dip and spiced eggs and pulling a trolley with the roasted flying pig on it.

Mariner stared, drooling. Castro drooled too, but for a very different reason.

“Okay, no way is whipped cream and glorka berry syrup a skin treatment,” Mariner said, as her stomach rumbled. “What’s going on this time?”

“Oh, no, you’re holy highness. It’s just a new fashion statement,” Nimin said cheerfully.

“Oh, thank you so much!” Castro said, picking up the tray and biting into one of the eggs sensually. “What’s you’re name, by the way?”

“Nimin,” Nimin said disinterestedly.

“Wow, that’s a cool name,” Castro said, eyes fixated on the smear of whipped cream and syrup, as she twirled her hair.

“So, your holy highness, I’ve brought your food as requested,” Nimin said, batting his eyelashes. “Do you want anything else to eat? Anything at all?” he said, leaning over in front of her.

Mariner’s stomach roared. “Nope. I’m good with the pork,” Mariner said, not looking him in the eye as she pulled off a wing and tossed it back, bones and all. “You’re dismissed, Nimin.”

As Nimin walked off, Castro thought she saw actual tears forming in his eyes as he called out a reluctant “Yes, your holy highness.”

Castro frowned at his shapely retreating backside. He also had amazing back muscles.

“Okay, either he’s trying to seduce you or he’s trying to get you to eat him. Maybe both?” Castro said, incredulously.

“Well, he wouldn’t be the first one,” Mariner said thoughtfully. Castro looked up, uncomprehending. “Come on, not even everyone on the Cerritos was *afraid* of this big old belly. Some people actually wanted to be inside it, the weirdos,” Mariner said, grinning devilishly.

Castro goggled at her. “Seriously?”

“Hey man, there’s a kink for *everything*, and it’s not the weirdest one I’ve heard of out there,” Mariner chuckled. “There are dudes on Ferenghinar who get off on a human woman wearing winter clothes while she spends their latinum and insults them.”

Castro shook her head, not rejecting the information, but as if trying to get a marble inside her head to roll into the right hole.

“Okay. Um, hm. That’s interesting.” She frowned and chewed through one of the carrot-things after dipping it in a generous amount of dressing. “How would you feel about expanding the roster of humanoid sacrifice options to include volunteers?”

“Say what? No way, dude! I’m not going to gobble up innocent people just because they’re too horny to survive!” Her stomach growled again. “I mean, let’s at least see what we can do with the roster of actually guilty people first? And maybe keep the rest of our options open.” She blushed as her stomach continued to gurgle, and quickly stuffed the rest of the plucked swine down her throat.

“Excellent,” Castro said, clasping her hands together. “Now, of course there’s existing religious services for the act, but in past examples, spectacles of humanoid sacrifice were accompanied by a wide variety of chants, music, and warm-up events to add to the atmosphere and heighten emotions.”

“So, what, we build up some kind of festival around it?” Mariner said, incredulous.

“Well, yeah, actually, something like that. You don’t want to waste the humanoid sacrifices, do you? No, you make as big a deal as you can out of it. You whet people’s appetites for the main event, you bring in other entertainments, you cement national identity and shared cultural values, and in the process you build up a little political goodwill from the masses.” Castro said, with a strange light in her eyes.

“Isn’t that, well, kind of disrespectful when it comes to the humanoid life being expended? Shouldn’t executions be, like, a solemn affair, traditionally speaking?” Mariner said, shifting in her seat and failing to cover a large belch.

“Not humanoid sacrifices. Look at the blood rites on pre-warp Ferenghinar. Look at the puritans’ witch hunts or the crimes of Christopher Columbus. Look at the sacred duels to the death from the central continent on the Gorn homeworld. From the perspective of the onlookers, this is about celebrating the power of life and the role of the state in preserving social order.”

“So, basically, and let me be clear about this, we are effectively planning a giant party, just with me eating people as the main event?” Mariner said, still sounding skeptical.

“I mean, more like a grand festival or a public holiday, but yeah, basically,” Castro said.

“Well, I *did* do a good job planning Morn’s surprise party during my stint on Deep Space Nine. I might still have a trick or two up my sleeve,” she said, speculatively.

“Oh, do you?” Castro said, nervously. In her limited experience, when Mariner came up with ideas of her own they tended to be somewhat dangerous.

“Yeah. I’m gonna start auditioning bands, for one thing,” Mariner said brightly.

“That’s the spirit!” Castro said eagerly. “I was thinking we could also introduce some Earth traditions to the mix without too much cultural contamination. Like, we could have face-painting for the kids, and even though they’ve learned to deep-fry food, they don’t have any fried food on sticks! That’s something that would certainly enhance the atmosphere.”

“Oh, and you could do juggling,” Mariner said. “Maybe we could even have a mixed martial arts tournament.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’m *that* good. I mean, this is a big state event, and there’s bound to be better jugglers out there somewhere in the country. We should make sure we get the very best,” Castro said earnestly.

“Okay, okay, I’ll let you off the hook,” Mariner said, rolling her eyes. “You can be a DJ or something else. Anything else you wanted to bring up?”

“No, not really. That was the main agenda item for today,” Castro said, sensing that she’d pushed about as much of an agenda as she could for now. Mariner wasn’t the only one who needed to take things slow and steady for this to work out.

“Okay. See you around, then, and feel free to take the snack tray with you,” Mariner said graciously.

*Maybe she’s not that bad, even if she does smell like patchouli oil*, Mariner thought.

*Thank goodness that’s over,* Castro thought. *I can’t wait to get back on the Cerritos and go back to avoiding her for the rest of my life. I swear just listening to that stomach rumble shaved a few months off my lifespan.*

*Sparkle was an easily-produced mild hallucinogen that the previous god-queen had officially outlawed while keeping a private stock of it. Naturally, Mariner had decriminalized it, pardoned everyone in prison for drug related crimes, and was making sure the people who had been arrested for selling Sparkle under the old regime would be first in line to get licenses for official legal dispensaries.

**Thus far, attempts to recreate the flavor combos that amounted to Ranch Dressing with Bromothian raw ingredients had not been successful

***The wild boars weren’t the only porcine fauna planet Bromothia had produced, and some of the tusk-bearing omnivores had become domesticated and bred for food purposes. In short, on Bromothia, pigs could fly.

Chapter Text

Jerej stalked across the rooftops. She watched and waited as the guards began their shift change. She’d spent the past fourty-eight hours studying their movements. This was the moment to strike.

She fired the zipline bow at the third tower from the right. That was the area with the least guard presence.

This was it. This was going to be her last job. This was the one that would make it all worthwhile and allow her to pay off all her debts and escape to the Northern Archipelago with the only man who’d ever really made her smile. Her hands were soaked with blood, but he still loved her, no matter what she did.

Jerej ziplined down to the tower. She shimmied down the outside of the building, clambered over the fittings and gargoyles, then slid in through the one open window that led to the royal bedroom.

This was it. This was the big one. She’d had doubts, of course, when the oil barons commissioned her. After all, who would dare to go after the new god-queen, the ruler of the civilized world? But then again, if one god-queen could die, so could another, right?

Besides, they were offering her a *lot* of money. No more small jobs, no more payments that would cover a few months of rent. She would have enough money to live anywhere, do anything. After she pulled off this job, she would finally be free. She wouldn’t ever have to kill again.

Jerej crept towards the royal bed on silent feet. She’d taken dozens of lives this way. Everyone had to sleep sometime. She could count on one hand the number of targets she’d actually taken out while they were awake and able to fight back. That was the trick to assassination. Strike your target in their moment of weakness. Stack the odds in your advantage. Nobody could win all the time.

The god-queen shifted her massive bulk in her bed. In the darkness, her leviathan form was a mountain of flesh, breasts and belly rising many feet above the mattress. Penetrating all that fatty tissue would be difficult, so Jerej had chosen a longsword instead of her usual dagger. That would be sure to drive through the thick chest and plunge into the beating heart.

Assuming it *did* work at all. Assuming her target was truly mortal.

The previous god-queen had ruled for decades, for generations. According to legend, many had tried to slay Her when She first came to the world, and all had failed. But then this new god-queen had taken Her out. That proved that She had longevity, not immortality. Right?

Unless the power of a god-queen could only be usurped by another god-queen.

No. Jerej couldn’t believe that. Sure, the god-queens were powerful. They could heal great wounds in a matter of seconds. They could cure incurable diseases. They could control the weather and shake the foundations of Bromothia. But that just meant they had special powers. They hadn’t created the planet and the stars. They couldn’t raise the dead or foretell the future. Their abilities might be supernatural, but they were not infinite.

Jerej would prove that, here and now, and then she’d collect her payment and retire. She’d head off to one of the smaller islands, like Architeca or Pomlo, and buy a little house on the beach, and retreat with her beloved to enjoy the sand and surf until their joints failed and their hair turned black with age. Maybe they’d hatch some eggs together, or maybe they’d just adopt a series of small house gryphons. They’d greet each day with the rising sun and fill every night with gushing cum and eggs. They’d get to know their few neighbors, and she’d soothe her troubled conscience with the finest glorka berry brandy that bloody emeralds and untraceable amber could buy. Her mother and father wouldn’t be able to track her down. The law would never find her. She and her sweetheart would live long, happy lives together.

She drew closer to the sleeping figure.

“Mm, Kirk, Spock, and Janeway? Sure, I’ll be your fourth,” the god-queen muttered.

Jerej stepped onto the bed.

The god-queen shot upright as the springs squeaked. She reached out and broke Jerej’s wrist, causing the weapon to fall from her hand. Jerej drew breath to cry out in pain, but never got the chance. The god-queen crammed her into her mouth head-first, like a roasted kanaj-bird hatchling. Jerej screamed fruitlessly as her world turned into a narrow, hot, wet tunnel. The muscles that forced her down into the acid bath were impossibly powerful.

Jerej cried out in terror and agony, but it was no use. Even if somebody could hear her, they would come to the aid of their god-queen, not her. The oil barons had written nothing down to maintain their plausible deniability. They hadn’t even mentioned the world “kill”. They’d told her that the new god-queen represented a threat to their interests, and those interests would be better served if the god-queen was “less lively”.

The muscles of the god-queen’s digestive tract squeezed Jerej with impossible strength as the juices seeped in, stinging her eyes and skin.

“Huh? Did I *BUUUURP* fail the Kobyashi Maru? Please don’t fail me. I wanna...wanna graduate. Gotta get into starfleet, just like...like dad,” she muttered.

Jerej couldn’t try to unravel the nonsense the god-queen was speaking. Her focus was all on the pain in her shattered wrist and her searing eyes.

She would never retire to a distant windswept island. She would never raise children or gryphons. She would never see her beloved again.

She wondered if this was how her victims felt as they bled out onto their bedsheets. Probably so. She had stolen away so many futures, made sure so many strike leaders, pastors, and rival gangsters never saw their respective beloveds again. Maybe this was her just desserts.

Mariner closed her eyes, moaned, belched again, and rolled over, going back to sleep. She drifted back into the realm of the unconscious, her dreams of an anachronistic foursome fading into another dream about eating a giant marshmallow, while the assassin gurgled away to organic slime inside her innards.

Chapter Text

Mariner woke up to a pounding on the door and in her head. Maybe she’d had a little too much to drink last night, even for her. She normally consumed saurian brandy by the fifth, not by the handle.

Was she late for her shift? Wait, that couldn’t be true. The corridor had no doors to knock on, and her bed was memory foam and artificial fibers, not springy soft mattress and silk-like sheets. It hadn’t been saurian brandy either, or whiskey, or kanar. It had been glorka-berry brandy, and Archipelago Sunrise, and farafa fruit cider.

“Mariner, I mean, your holy highness! Are you alright? Please, open the doors!” Tendi cried out.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m coming, I’m coming!” Mariner groaned. She slid her leviathan bulk out of the bed, pulling on a sleepshirt that could have fit a midsized family as she wobbled towards the doors.

“What is it?” she groaned, throwing the doors open.

The guards spread out into the room while Tendi plunged into her arms. Mariner felt her Orion girlfriend’s grip against her breasts as she rose up, but she seemed indifferent to Mariner’s personal space and sensitive nipples. She looked around, eyes wide and wild.

“Where are they? Who got in?”

“D’vana, what are you talking about?” Mariner asked, groggy confusion fading into genuine alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“There was a zipline lodged right above your room, M-god-queen! Somebody got in!” Tendi gasped out.

“I don’t *UUURP* know what you’re talking about,” Mariner said, burping up a leather belt laden with weapons. “I slept like a rock the whole night. Well, maybe not like a rock. I had some weird dreams, but I’m totally fine.”

“I’ve found a weapon!” one of the guards, Josoj was his name, cried out.

Mariner frowned. It was a sword. It was long and sharp, made of blue steel, and it was right next to Mariner’s bed.

“How did that get there?” Mariner asked, trying to pull back the scattered recollections of last night. She’d gotten up twice to pee, and then she’d felt a little hungry and called up the intercom to get a few dozen dumplings, and then she’d finished off the dumplings with a glorka-berry brandy nightcap, and then...Kirk and Spock? Or was it Janeway? And she’d eaten a giant marshmallow.

Mariner didn’t even *like* marshmallows that much, but in her dream it had been delicious.

“Mariner, somebody tried to *kill* you!” D’vana shouted into her face. “This is evidence of an assassination attempt. Didn’t you even see or hear anything?”

Mariner examined the belt she’d burped up. It was slimy, and the leather was partially-digested, but there were a few blades sheathed into it, along with a mostly-dissolved crossbow and a series of bolts.

“I uh...I think I ate them,” Mariner said, dumb-founded. She’d never had a history of sleepwalking, much less sleep eating. “Uh,” she gestured broadly and burped again. “Yeah, I shouldn’t feel this full before breakfast.”

Tendi sighed. “Well, I guess it’s too late to interrogate the would-be assassin.”

“BRAAWP. Probably too late, yeah,” Mariner said, picking at her teeth with a fingernail. “I thought I remembered tasting something good. Oh well,” she shrugged. “No harm done.”

“No harm done?” D’vana said, glaring at Mariner with uncharacteristic fury in her eyes. “No harm done?!”

Mariner took a floor-creaking step backwards, her belly wobbling as she moved.

“Mariner, you could have *died*. Somebody in here tried to flipping *kill* you!”

“But they didn’t kill me, did they?” Mariner said, putting a comforting hand on D’vana’s shoulder. “I just ate them and went back to sleep. I told you before, if anyone comes after me, I’ll just gobble them up.” Mariner tried her best disarming smile.

“But they never should have gotten this far!” Tendi almost screamed at her. The guards were staring, open-mouthed. Tendi turned around to glare at them. “Where were you all? What happened?”

“We were all at our posts,” one of the guards said.

“I wasn’t even on shift last night,” Josoj the guard said, cringing under the withering heat of D’vana’s reproachful glare.

“Shit. The shift change!” Tendi muttered. “It must have happened during the late night changeover. I’m so stupid! Why didn’t I schedule overlapping shifts?”

Mariner squeezed her shoulder. “Hey, babe, it’s okay. Nothing happened, right? Nobody’s perfect. You can’t account for every single possibility.”

“Will you please take this seriously, you big fat dummy?” Tendi shouted. “I’m not playing around here!”

Some of the guards gasped. Some of them raised their weapons.

“Chill, guys,” Mariner said, disarming them with a single gesture.

“I should have been better. I should have been smarter. I know I’m smarter than this, and I shouldn’t have overlooked a late night shift change. Of course assassins are going to strike at night!”

Mariner reached out and hugged Tendi, burying her in the squishy embrace. She could feel D’vana trembling in her flabby arms and she pulled her in closer, Tendi’s lean, hard body sinking into Mariner’s abundant fat. Her eyes were wet.

“Babe, I can take care of myself. I *did* take care of myself. It’s okay, alright? So you slipped up a little. I’m still safe,” Mariner whispered.

“I was so scared,” Tendi whispered back. “What if I screw up again?”

“I’ll survive,” Mariner said, before kissing her neck. “I’ve gotten along fine before you came into my life, okay? I’m not some precious damsel in distress who needs your protection.”

“But I *want* to protect you,” Tendi said, looking up into Mariner’s big brown eyes. “I want to keep you safe. I don’t want to worry about you.”

“Then don’t worry about me,” Mariner laughed.

D’vana glared at her. “That’s not funny.”

“Seriously, dudette, take it down a notch. My safety is not your personal responsibility.”

“As you’re royal advisor--” Tendi began.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Mariner replied, gently but firmly. “It’s the responsibility of the captain of the guard to keep me safe. Your responsibility is to help me out, and be my friend, and occasionally finger bang me.” She reached down to stroke Tendi’s short hair. “It’s not all on you, okay?”

“Okay,” Tendi sniffled.

Mariner looked at the guards.

“Could you give us a minute?”

“No, they can stay,” Tendi said, wiping her eyes and her nose. “From now on, though, I’m setting a guard post in your bedroom at night.”

“All night? Are you sure?” Mariner said, frowning a little.

“Positive,” Tendi said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

“But what if I need to pee, or um, I feel like, you know...” Mariner said, poking her plump fingers together.

“Then ask them to turn their backs, but keep their eyes on all the entrances,” Tendi said, squeezing one of Mariner’s massive side rolls affectionately. “We’re not leaving anything to chance.”

“Babe, there’s always going to be something left to chance,” Mariner said, stroking D’vana’s cheek. She leaned down and licked away her tears. She never knew how to deal with tears. One of her partners had broken out crying during sex, and she’d just licked the tears away then, too. “It’s going to be okay. Relax, alright? I can handle myself. I promise.”

“I just worry about you,” Tendi whispered.

“Well, don’t. I’m a big girl, remember?” Mariner said, forcing a smile. “I can totally take care of myself.”

D’vana sighed. “But you’ll let me implement the new guard structure?”

“Of course I will,” Mariner said, patting her head. “Just don’t worry so much, okay? It causes wrinkles,” she added, trying to lighten up the mood.

“Orion skin doesn’t work that way. But alright, I’ll try,” Tendi said, straightening up.

Mariner’s stomach rumbled. “Heh. Guess that assassin didn’t quite fill me up.”

“Well, it *was* only one assassin, and that was more than a few hours ago,” Tendi said, patting Mariner’s gigantic belly.

Mariner squinted at the dawn coming through the window.

“Also, I know it’s a bit warm here, but could you please promise to sleep with your windows shuttered and locked?” D’vana said, clasping her hands together.

“Good idea,” Mariner conceded. “Also, um, maybe I should always sleep alone, if I’m going to start grabbing meals when I’m half asleep. Don’t want to accidentally snack on any of my concubines,” she said, blushing.

She pressed the intercom button next to her bed. “Good morning everyone. I think I’m ready for another breakfast.”

Chapter Text

“Leave the palace? To go...clubbing?” the scandalized grand vizier repeated.

“Yeah. I mean, we need the best gigs for the coronation ceremony, so obviously I gotta hit some dive bars and find out what kind of real music people are listening to,” Mariner explained, as if it was obvious, which it was to her.

“But, your holy highness, why don’t we bring the bands here to audition?” the minister of culture asked.

“Naw, man, if we do that we’re just gonna get the really confident and snooty bands,” Mariner said. “I want to uncover the real sound of the city, get into the beating heart of the underground scene, uplift small-time local artists, that kinda thing.”

“That sounds like a great idea! But you’ll probably still have to bring your entourage,” Tendi said.

“Don’t worry, advisor Tendi, we can bring along the royal guard or secret service or whatever. They could probably use a night on the town too,” Mariner said, patting Tendi on the arm. “You can come too. You’ve been working really hard on security policy lately.”

“I dunno, I should really get to the bottom of the guard rosters, and see if I can find a local substitute for methylphenidate, and--” she stammered.

“Babe, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but you *need* a break. Tell her she needs a break, Zovoz,” Mariner said, turning to her cup bearer as she refilled her carved opal goblet.

“I mean, you gotta spend time on yourself,” Zovoz said, pouring more Glorka berry wine. “I’ve seen you hard at work in every single meeting of privy counselors.”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me, you’re coming along too,” Mariner said, slapping Zovoz on the back, causing her to stagger and nearly spill the pitcher. “All work and no play makes Jane a dull girl. In fact, I’d like to invite the castle kitchen staff as well. They’ve really been doing a top-notch job, and I certainly keep them busy.”

Most of the Bromothian council members looked pretty shocked, but if they had any objections to that, they thought better than to speak it out loud.

“Of course, we won’t head out until much later. I know you guys have some more stuff I need to take care of first,” Mariner said, sighing and finishing her glass.

“There’s lots of things we need to get in place for the coronation. For one thing, we need the actual sacrifices in custody,” Castro said. “That will be easier with people who are already living inside the nation, like Henri Pissinger, but not as easy for the warlord Joanne Musk. If we make a move on her northern front, with resources freed up from the other contested areas, we should be able to get her to surrender in a matter of days.”

“Whoa now, the ink’s still drying on the ceasefire agreements,” Mariner said. “Let’s not rush ourselves getting back into warfare.”

“Alright, but it’s a problem you’re going to need to address sooner or later,” Castro said.

“She’s right,” the leading general said. “Musk has agreed to the ceasefire, but she’s only going to use this time to build up her army and solidify her position as she prepares for an attack on the eastern flank.”

“Perhaps we could weaken her position by cutting off some of her funding. Joanne Musk pays for her private army with the sales of her children’s fantasy literature. If we were to ban the books within the uncontested territory of your realm,” the grand vizier began.

“Oh, no way! I am *not* banning books in my country. Book banning is just a short step towards book burning,” Mariner said, shaking her head emphatically.

“Well, actually, your uh, previous incumbent organized a mass burning of pagan religious texts shortly after ascending to power,” the grand vizier said.

“Seriously? Man, I’m glad I ate her,” Mariner said. “So, I wanna hear from the rebel leaders. Why don’t you tell me why you decided to fight back against the conquering forces and if there’s anything about the empire you think needs improvement.”

The former enemies of the state turned and looked at each other. There was a moment of hesitation before one of them stepped forward. She was tall, with just a hint of green in her color, and a broken horn.

“We’ve been talking it over with each other. The main reason we all share is that our nations want their autonomy, and we’ve all lost people we care about in the invasions. All we want is peace and freedom!”

The head general frowned and raised her eyebrow, but didn’t say anything for now.

“Hey, no argument here. I’m much more laid back than the previous god-queen,” Mariner said. “Not about that whole endless imperialist conquest thing. By the way, would any of you like something to drink? Herbal tisane, farafa fruit juice, something stronger maybe?”

“N-no thank you,” the leader said nervously.

“Aw, c’mon. I’ll even take the first sip to prove it’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” Mariner said cheerfully.

“Maybe some juice then?” she asked, rubbing her broken horn. “I prefer to avoid alcohol.”

There were a few more hesitant requests from the assembled leaders. Mariner buzzed the intercom with the requests, along with another pitcher of Northern Archipelago Sunrise.

Mariner pulled out a paper pad and a pen from in between her rolls of fat. “Okay, opening the floor to constructive feedback on administration of the empire. Things you like, areas for improvement, that kinda stuff.”

The former captives turned to look at each other, frowning as if to say “Is she for real?”

“Uh, well,” one of them shuffled forward, “it would be nice if we could get some of our Bromothian remains and the Sacred Bell back from the royal museum,”

“Repatriation of artifacts, can do,” Mariner said, making a note.

“Would you please lift the medical supplies embargo on the Northern Archipelago?” another one asked. “Half my family have slipped into diabetic comas!”

“Okay, the embargo is officially lifted as of now. You tell me where they are geographically and I’ll send over some medicine right now,” Mariner said.

She told Mariner, and Mariner hauled her wobbling fat ass over to the replicator. While the glow was still fading, she hustled the vials out to the transporter room and beamed them out.

Mariner hurried her way back to the throne room, wheezing and sweating a little.

“You know, it’s been a while since I had a really good workout. I need to find some sparring partners or something,” Mariner said. She drained her goblet before picking up the pen and paper again. “So, other thoughts?”

“The Western Free Lands would appreciate a recompense for the property we lost during raids on our glorka berry plantations,” said a tall, thin woman with narrow cheekbones and a sharply curved horn.

“So, what does this property consist of?” Mariner said, moved by some unnameable instinct to probe further.

“Several tons of glorka berry juice, twelve thousand jars of pickled glorka berries, several hundred slaves, some farm equipment,” the woman mumbled.

The pen in Mariner’s hand exploded into a spray of ink and broken pieces. “File that under no fucking way,” she said. Her stomach rumbled. The woman took a few steps back. “You guys still have slaves?”

“You’d know that if you read the report I gave you on the most prominent extra-territorial enemies of the state,” the general hissed.

“Well, that’s definitely a subject that deserves an entire chapter heading dedicated to it, not some minor footnote or something on the umpteenth page,” Mariner growled back.

The grand vizier winced as Mariner wiped the ink off on an exquisite piece of embroidered fabric.

Mariner moved far faster than anyone weight over a ton had any right to move. She loomed over the woman, her eyes bright with a disturbing light.

“So, here’s the plan. I’ve declared a massive ceasefire, because I’m a peace-loving god-queen. That means I have a lot of troops freed up, and right now your little ‘free’ country is the only one that has my attention. I’d really prefer *not* to break that ceasefire again, deploy troops into your country, unleash hurricanes on it, all that stuff. I’d really rather stay on friendly terms with all my neighbors. It would be a lot easier to maintain friendly diplomatic relations with your little nation-state if y’all started paying your workers *wages*, and gave them the option to leave if they don’t like their working conditions. Are we clear?”

The thin woman backed up until she was pressed against the marble wall.

“But, our economy depends on it! We need a broad base of agricultural laborers and--”

Mariner stepped forward so that her belly lifted the woman up and squished her against the wall. Drool ran from the corners of her mouth.

“I’m sorry, did you say your *economy* wouldn’t be able to survive a shift from slavery to paid labor? Maybe you should be less concerned with abstract sociological concepts, and more concerned with the fact that I know you would taste extremely good with a few choice herbs from the garden and some southern white sauce,” Mariner said, licking her chops. “And that’s the best-case scenario, as far as your concerned. I have some other ideas, other recipes. Do you want to know how lobsters were traditionally prepared? Or do you want to learn about my blood sausage recipe? I could show you how it’s made, although it would be a long, slow process. Or, if I’m in a really bad mood, I’ll ask advisor Tendi for some culinary tips. I’m sure she has a lot of creative...recipes.”

“I...don’t know,” the thin woman said, swallowing nervously. “I don’t want to learn.” All eyes were on Mariner. Most of them were thinking “this is why you don’t mess with the god-queen,” although a few of them were thinking “this is so hot”.

“Well, I could give you a free education, or you could learn how to adapt economically. So which is more important to you?” Mariner said, still smiling.

“Please, your holy highness, I’m only the leader of the Western Free Lands military force. I still have to answer to civilian authorities.”

Mariner gave her a friendly slap on the back. “Well then, why don’t you go *advise* the civilian authorities to start making better choices if they want to stay on friendly terms with this well-armed nation and the god-queen who rules it. And advise all the plantation owners to start eating a lot of butter.” She finally stepped back far enough for the thin woman to slide down the wall. Her stomach was still growling. “By the way, does anyone else want some snacks? Because I’m *starving* right now.”

A few of the assembled dignitaries nervously raised their hands.

“Aw, nothing for you?” Mariner said, turning back to the thin woman representing the Western Free Lands. “But you really could do with some more meat on your bones,” she said, reaching out to pinch her hip.

“I, uh, I have a pretty high metabolism,” she said nervously.

“All the more reason to eat up then!” Mariner said, patting her on the shoulder and grinning maliciously. “How about some bitterberry pie, with extra whipped cream? That should be a nice start.”

Mariner turned back to the rest of the assembled independent leaders.

“Okay, gonna clear this one up for anyone who’s slow on the uptake. This woman is no longer a member of my advisory council. I will instead be paying for her trip back to her homeland, to advise the civilian government as best she is able, assuming the food arrives in time. Now, does anyone have any requests for my government that don’t involve claiming financial compensation for the slaves it liberated?”

“We were hoping you could lower the tariffs on crude oil by a few percentage points,” one of them said.

Chapter Text

Mariner tugged on her cargo pants, heavy with wallets and chains. Each leg had sufficient space for Tendi and Boimler to hang out without violating one another’s personal space. She’d slashed the bottoms with a knife to make them sufficiently ragged, and put a few patches of different colors on them. Each side had a chain running up to her new belly button piercing, a metal ring with a fist-sized gemstone descending from it on a short chain. In turn one chain ran up to the spiked collar on her neck. Her watermelon-sized breasts rested in the open air, sagging on top of her massive gut. Their protruding nipples were covered by Xs made of dark purple tape, in token concession to modesty. Her scars and stretch marks were on full display, paler striations crisscrossing her dark skin.

Mariner peered into the full-length mirror, checking out the strategic tears and voluptuous mass on display. She reached back and gave her titanic ass a big smack, setting it jiggling for several seconds. There was definitely enough space back there for a lover to get lost in, and the cargo pants were just tight enough to show it off without giving too much away. They made a pleasant contrast with her bare chest and belly rolls.

She opened up the case of royal lipsticks next to her bedroom window and settled on the matte black, running it across her full lips and giving a good smack to even it out. She also reached out to the platter of pepper-shaped fruits and popped one into her mouth. On this planet, various fruits had evolved menthol content as a defense mechanism, but no herbs were minty. She chewed it up and breathed into her hand, to make sure she’d gotten the last hints of seasoned meat, herbed cheese, and vantham root out of her breath. She ate another minty pepper, just to be sure, and then swung open the doors of her bedroom.

“Alright, who’s ready to party?!” Mariner called out.

The assembled dignitaries looked like their eyes were about to pop out of their heads. Blue faces flushed indigo. Most of them were shocked, and some of them were very obviously offended at the wanton display. Mariner could tell it was eating them up inside, and she absolutely loved that they couldn’t say anything about it for fear of offending their divine absolute monarch.

“Y-your holy highness,” the grand vizier began. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather where something a little more...er, befitting of your cosmically elevated station?” Her hands were arched together, her wings fluttered, and she was sweating bullets.

“Nah, this is more of a tiddies out kind of day,” Mariner said, grinning wickedly as she squeezed her enormous breasts together, causing the chains to jangle. Tendi looked like she was about to faint. The grand vizier respectfully averted her eyes.

Most of her advisors were wearing moss-green tops, tightly buttoned, with black bowties and gem-studded cufflinks. The head pastor wore the traditional black top with white bowtie and black slacks. Many of them wore a bright flower tucked into their buttonhole. Each hue had its representation, from candy red to deepest purple, except for blue. The women wore long dark-green skirts, while the men wore loose-fitting mint green pants. The servants stood behind them, wearing modest cream-colored robes with silver clasps over their purple kilts and tunics. Her concubines were wearing light, gauzy tops and baggy pants that revealed nothing but suggested everything, most of them decked out with jewelry in electrum, opal, and jade, along with little opal-topped chokers to indicate their ownership. Their eyes were sparkling with awe, their faces tight with naked lust for their god-queen.

Rutherford was decked out in a powder blue tuxedo, which was just a little too short to completely cover his midriff. (Mariner had patiently explained the concept of tuxedos to the royal tailors, but they were still struggling with the execution.) Castro was wearing a low-cut cherry-red cocktail dress that showed off her admittedly impressive collarbone and the paw-shaped birthmark on the upper part of her left breast. Mariner’s jaw dropped when she saw Tendi step out in a shoulder-baring floor-length sparkling black gown.

“Damn, Tendi, you’re looking spectacular!” Mariner said, wiping away some drool that had nothing to do with her predatory inclinations.

“You’re not looking too shabby yourself,” Tendi said, blushing forest-green and crossing her legs.

“Well, one of us is going to have to change,” Boimler said, frowning. He was wearing an identical shoulder-baring sparkly black dress.

Tendi frowned back. “Oh come on, Boimler. I put it on first!”

“No, I put it on first. I just had to check in the mirror before I stepped out to make sure the back clasps were done properly,” Boimler said.

“Hey, Tendi shouldn’t have to give up her outfit just because you took too long in the changing room,” Rutherford said, stepping up in front of D’vana. “You’re with Tendi, right Mariner?”

“Of course not. Mariner’s got my back,” Boimler said, squaring up against Rutherford while Tendi watched anxiously.

Mariner lifted up her hands in front of her. “Oh, no, I’m staying out of this one. You guys sort this out on your own.” No way was she going to get involved in a fight between her best friend and her girlfriend.

Boimler and Rutherford glared at each other. Tendi put her hand on Rutherford’s shoulder.

“Easy there. I’m sure there’s some reasonable way we can settle this between ourselves,” she said. “Like, we could toss a coin, or roll dice, or--”

“Or competitive blowjobs,” the finance minister said.

“What?” Tendi and Boimler both said.

“What?” the finance minister said.

“Or we could do rock paper scissors,” Boimler said, carefully turning away from the finance minister, who was staring at the ceiling as if this whole thing had nothing to do with her.

“Yeah, rock paper scissors sounds good to me,” Tendi said, smiling her winning smile.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” they both said, throwing out their hands. They both frowned. Each hand was displaying two fingers extended.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” This time they both had their hands splayed out flat.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” Both D’vana Tendi and Bradward Boimler presented a closed fist.

Boimler laughed awkwardly. “Well, we’ll just keep trying. Eventually we’re not going to tie, right?”

An hour later, Mariner’s stomach was growling and her patience was wearing thin.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” they shouted. Once again, both of them had their outstretched hand flat to indicate paper.

“Oh, come on!” Mariner shouted, throwing up her hands in exasperation, causing her excess arm-fat to jiggle. “Seriously, guys? How long has it been?”

“One hour and thirteen minutes, your holy highness,” Zovoz said, refilling Mariner’s glass of dunik fruit juice. (Dunik was an extremely bitter but caffeine-rich fruit from the Northern Archipelago. It was considered an acquired taste to most mainland Bromothians, but Mariner had worked on acquiring it quickly since she was stranded on a planet without raktajino, Bajoran uppers, espresso, taurine, or klah.)

“Eventually we’ll stop tying,” Boimler said, gritting his teeth and not breaking eye contact with Tendi.

“That’s what you said over an hour ago!” Modom the concubine shouted.

“Advisor D’vana Tendi, advisor Bradward Boimler, we are just going out to a night club, not a wedding!” Gorog the grand vizier said, tapping her foot. “The outfit looks good on you, Boimler, because it works well with your hair, and it’s good on you, Tendi, because it brings out your eyes. Wearing the same thing to an underground cider bar is not a major faux paux, and I think we’ll all feel a lot better if you just settle this and let us get on with the affair!”

Everyone stared at Gorog.

“Oh come on! We were all thinking it!”

“You really think it looks good with my hair?” Boimler said.

Most of the assembled dignitaries nodded in agreement, along with the kitchen staff and the concubines. Raithia even gave Boimler a thumbs up.

“It does bring out your eyes,” Rutherford said to Tendi, and again the small crowd agreed with him.

Mariner pulled a notebook and pen out from between her rolls.

“Okay, we’ve beamed out the essential medical supplies to the afflicted areas. We’ve sent macronutrient-dense synthetic food pellets to the region suffering famine to take care of the immediate needs and set aside funding for research into the origins of the breakdown of local food systems. I’ve got rain set up in the dry places that need it and headed off any major developing storms. Seismic plates and magma flow are fine so we don’t have any earthquakes or volcanoes to worry about. I’ve left notes for all the admins and stuff. Signed royal decrees and gave the royal seal on documents until my hand cramped up. Healed the sick kids and that guy with second-degree burns. Tendi’s double-checked all the patrols and assigned security guards for the excursion. My work here is done, and we are *officially* good to go!” Mariner said.

They made it halfway to the door before Mariner stopped.

“Advisor Boimler?” she said.

“Yeees, your holy highness?” Boimler asked, smiling.

“Did you remember to eat something before we go? Because you know what happens whenever you drink on an empty stomach,” Mariner said, in a faintly condescending tone.

“Yes, *your holy highness*,” Boimler said, making it sound like “Yes, mom”. “I had some of those orange fried noodles with cream sauce and purple greens. Though I guess that’d just make them purples? Anyway, even if I hadn’t, I can always order some snacks at the bar, right?”

“Yes, but if you have a drink in your hand, you’re probably going to end up drinking it, and last time you went to a bar here you were positively swamped by admirers,” Tendi reminded him.

“Guys, I’m not some kind of child that constantly needs to be supervised,” Boimler complained, as they walked down the halls decked out in marble, opal, and electrum.

“It’s not like that, Boimler. It just means you have friends who care about you and worry about you,” Rutherford said, tugging at his ill-fitting shirt and patting Boimler on the back.

“Yeah. This time maybe you won’t end up getting so wasted that you try to attack, then befriend, and then proposition me,” Castro said, hiding the pain with something she hoped came out like a natural laugh.

“I’ll also remember to drink lots of water,” Boimler said.

“Yeah, to be honest, you should probably doing that anyway,” Mariner said. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but like, you’re complexion’s been kinda off for a while now.”

“So I’ve been told,” Boimler sighed, briefly recalling his holo trauma during his simulated assimilation. He shuddered. It had token months for him to stop flinching at certain lights or trying to plug his nanoprobes into a command console. Migleemoo had tried to get him to open up, but in the end it had been reading through some of Seven of Nine’s published journals that had really helped him process it. He’d tried talking to Mariner, of course, but she hadn’t really understood what he was going through with the borg trauma, and the holo programs that worked for her hadn’t really done anything for him, especially because the first time he’d needed to dial down the artificial pain settings.

Two pairs of uniformed guards swung the main doors open and they stepped onto the palace grounds. Mariner checked the lines of sight for the telltale glint of a sniper’s weapon and scanned the assembled guards and workers for any unfamiliar faces, or the signature strains around the face that signaled a changeling was struggling to maintain their humanoid form. She should do a quick phaser sweep--

Except there wouldn’t be any changelings on Bromothia. They weren’t even still at war with the Dominion, so even if there had been any changelings around, they’d probably be non-hostile.

Mariner made sure her pounding footsteps were still regular. Nobody around her had been talking about anything important. She knew for a fact that her face still gave away nothing, relaxed into a bland-yet-confident smile. She was going out for a night of clubbing, and how long had it been since she’d done that? Too long, that was for sure.

“I’ve never really been clubbing before. At least, not as far as I can remember,” Rutherford said. “It might have happened somewhere in the memory gaps my personality reconciliation process left me with,” he said, sadly. When his older personality had died, so much of his core memories had vanished along with them. Did their impression still linger on, affecting his behavior without him being aware of them, or were they just wiped away, gone like the information from a bricked PADD?

“I haven’t been to a lot of night clubs myself, at least outside of Orion,” Tendi said eagerly. “But I wanna order that thing that Mariner said is sort of like a margarita, and I really want to try some of the local craft-brew farafa fruit cider.”

“I want to try a little of everything, but I’m definitely interested in the keffek liquor. Apparently it’s made by chemically separating the sugary portion of Bromothian breast milk. It’s a regional specialty here in the capital," Mariner said.

Rutherford raised an eyebrow. Boimler gasped. Castro grimaced. Tendi grinned.

“Isn’t it fascinating how so many radically different cultures managed to unlock the art of fermentation?” Tendi said.

“All I know is, the breast milk tastes great, so I bet a liquor made from it would be amazing. It sounds like it’d taste like crème de menthe or brandy alexander or Bolian Cream Liquer.”

“How would you know what...ew, TMI Mariner!” Boimler said, pulling a face and shuddering. “I don’t wanna think about *you* doing *that*,” he said.

Mariner grinned, unrepentant and reveling in his discomfort.

“Is one of your concubines a new parent?” D’vana asked.

“Naw, Bromothians can lactate more or less on demand,” Mariner said, part of her still scanning for potential sniper positions.

They piled into a series of armored cars, one of which had a truck-sized rear end to accommodate the god-queen’s royal girth. Tendi and some of the concubines piled into that one.

“So, I heard about this place from Zovoz. Apparently it’s a fun, high-octane lesbian bar and popular with the closest thing this city has to a punk scene,” Mariner said, her face pressed up against the window so she could take in the local cityscape and scope out possible angles of attack. It felt like forever since she’d last set foot outside of the palace grounds. She was already seeing fewer people out on the street begging with signs and more vendor carts popping up.

In a matter of minutes they pulled up in front of The Broken Wing.

“I’ve never been to a lesbian bar before,” Tendi said excitedly. “Back on Orion, well, I thought I was only into guys for a long time, and when I was in historic San Francisco I pretty much spent all my time studying.” She frowned. “Um, I still identify as bisexual, rather than lesbian. Is it okay for us to come in?”

“Relax, Tendi. It’s not like they’re gonna check you for a lesbian card with a gold star at the door,” Mariner laughed. “And Zovoz said they don’t gatekeep. Bisexuals, pansexuals, asexual supporters, genderqueer people… Pretty much anyone is allowed in as long as they’re respectful and all that stuff.”

“So Boimler and Rutherford will be good,” Tendi said, relaxing and sinking into Mariner’s enormous belly. “And I think Castro might actually be straight.”

“Really? Her?” Mariner said, frowning. “I could have sworn Jen said she was a bisexual lesbian.”

“Maybe I’m thinking of somebody else from the Cerritos,” D’vana said, frowning.

“Could be. I always have trouble keeping Gamma shift straight,” Mariner said, the vehicle shuddering as she stepped out and relieved it of her massive weight.

The guards opened the front doors for Mariner and she waddled in. Whispers spread like wildfire. All eyes turned to face her. Even the musicians on the bandstand stopped, setting aside their instruments. Everyone stopped what they were doing to bow down before her.

Mariner sighed and rolled her eyes. “*Please* get up again. You really don’t have to do that every time I step into a room, okay? I’m just here for a good time, along with everyone else. Come on. You can all start talking again, and pick up the music, okay? I want to hear what it sounds like.” She needed to scope out potential bands to play at her coronation ceremony.

The band was the first group of Bromothians to rise to their feet again. They consisted of a tall skinny drummer with a very large drum set, a long-haired woman playing what looked like a strange silver flute, a voluptous accordianist with spikey hair who looked to be at least three-hundred pounds, and a legless, chubby lead singer with a buzzcut and a wheelchair. All of them were wearing torn, patched-up purple clothing and had their hair dyed purple. Against all expectation, while some of the instruments looked different, the sound was remarkably similar to late-22nd century klezmer music.

Undeterred by reverently silent stares, Mariner waddled up to the bar, her friends following close behind her. Thankfully, the barstools were all extra-wide and reinforced, whereas she would have struggled to squeeze between seats at a bar designed for less plus-sized people. At least some of the previous god-queen’s policies had been beneficial, Mariner reflected. She wrapped her knuckles on the bar.

The bartender hurried over. She was a spry older butch woman with black hair and an eyepatch. She was also probably unaware of how many younger women fantasized about her but were too shy to approach directly, and she thought people just really liked the bar’s drinks, but Mariner could read the individual flows of sexual tension in the room almost as easily as a Betazoid. This bartender might have given Captain Janeway herself a run for her money when it came to provoking secret sapphic crushes.

Mariner pulled a wallet out of her cargo pants and slammed a stack of large bills down on the table, just to the left of her massive belly, which took up most of the space directly in front of her.

“I’m sorry, *your holy highness*, but I don’t think we have anything that expensive in the bar,” the bartender said, but with a strange sort of bravado in her voice rather than reverence. She was prepared to serve her, but she was also trying to convey that she wouldn’t be intimidated by grandeur. She was possibly the only person in this bar who wasn’t in danger of fawning over Mariner, aside from Mariner’s colleagues. Her wings were held almost unnaturally still, sticking out to either side of her.

“Oh, this isn’t for a drink. This is your tip,” Mariner said, leaning close and treating the elderly butch to a disarming smile. “I want to ask how much it would cost to buy drinks, for the rest of the night, for everyone here.”

“Oh,” the bartender said, momentarily nonplussed. She reached up and scratched the wrinkled skin just under her horn. She thought for a while, counting the number of people in the room and looking at her list of prices. Then she named a number that made Rutherford and the royal Treasurer wince.

Mariner pulled out another wallet from another cargo pants pocket and counted out every bill while looking the bartender dead in the eye. The bartender blinked at her, or possibly winked, then nodded.

“So, what would you like to start off?” she said, her voice no longer containing that note of icy defiance.

“I’ll have a bottle of keffek liquor and a roasted winged swine, left on the spit,” Mariner said, her stomach rumbling. “And some of your fried cheesesticks, with the spicy-sweet dipping sauce” she said. “And a shareable plate of deep-fried short-horned beetles.” She turned to her friends.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic,” Boimler said, “and a bag of thin-sliced root vegetable chips.”

“I’ll have a glass of your finest local farafa fruit cider!” Tendi said. “And what was that one drink you told me about? The tangy one?”

“The Dirty Weekend,” Mariner said.

“Yeah, a Dirty Weekend, with salt on the rim,” Tendi said. Her stomach gurgled and she blushed moss-green. “Maybe I’ll have a pack of vegetable chips and some fried cheesesticks too, but I’ll go with the herbed yogurt dip instead of the spicy-sweet sauce.”

Rutherford scratched his chin thoughtfully as he assessed the menu on the wall. “What’s in a Soft Butch?”

“Do you want the joke answer or the real answer?” the bartender said, smiling at him.

“Real answer,” Rutherford said.

“Eh, it’s just farafa fruit cider with a splash of mixed berry brandy and the house bitters,” the bartender said with a shrug.

“Sounds tasty. I’ll have one of those,” Rutherford said.

“And you, ma’am?” the bartender asked, turning to Castro.

“I’ll have a glass of glorka berry wine and some fried beetles,” Castro said.

Mariner looked at the line of dignitaries and employees behind her.

“By the way, you might want to ring up any of your part-time employees who want more hours. It’s going to be a busy night,” Mariner whispered.

“I can tell,” the bartender said, with feigned gruffness. “Also, most people order keffek by the shot, not the fifth.”

“I’m asking for the bottle,” Mariner said. “I’ve got a strong constitution and I want to do a lot of drinking tonight. Trust your goddess, it’ll be more efficient this way.”

The bartender shrugged, stretched her wings, and then got to work. She handed Mariner a tall, thin bottle of pale-yellow liquid.

Mariner uncorked the bottle and sniffed it. She’d expected it to smell vaguely cheese-like, but aside from a faint hint of generic alcohol, it didn’t smell like anything in particular.

“Here’s to a fun night of clubbing!” Mariner shouted. The rest of the bar patrons all raised their respective beverages and echoed the sentiment. Mariner closed her eyes and knocked back a mouthful of the swirling beverage.

It was a testament to Mariner’s self control that the only visible reaction this produced was a slight tightening at the edges of her face. Maybe she would have shown more if she hadn’t spent so long in a Cardassian enhanced interrogation facility, and if she hadn’t spent even longer repressing her more vulnerable feelings at every opportunity.

If she wanted to be generous, Mariner would have described the flavor as something akin to blue cheese schnapps filtered through a crunchy sock. Repeated encounters with cis men and trans women, and that one time at Risa with the extremely well-endowed nonbinary Klingon, had also given Mariner an almost superhuman degree of control over her gag reflex. Right now, she was extremely thankful for that.

“Well,” she said, when she trusted herself enough to open her mouth without anything more than words coming out, “that’s certainly a unique flavor.” She set the bottle back down. “You know, I really want to get the full range of the Broken Wing experience, and I’ve got amazingly high alcohol tolerance and metabolize the stuff faster than ever these days. Why don’t I try one of everything on the menu? Starting with a shot of imported grain vodka.”

“Of course, your holy highness,” the bartender said, but there was just a ghost of a knowing, sadistic smile on her face. “Coming right up.” She went over the telephone set in the wall and stuck her finger into the dial while one of her employees pulled down a bottle of vodka from the Western Free Lands and poured Mariner’s shot. Mariner knocked it back immediately, grateful for anything that would kill the taste lingering in her mouth like the memory of war crimes.

A tall, plump young woman with teal skin, a spray of freckles, and purple braids sidled up to Boimler, carrying a glass of something bright pink with a glorka berry and slice of farafa fruit on the end of a cocktail sword.

“Hey there,” she said, shyly. “What do you think of the music here?”

“Oh, it’s pretty good,” Boimler said, turning politely to face her. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Zavaz,” she said, twirling one of her braids and grinning.

“Boimler. Bradward Boimler,” Boimler said, extending a hand for her to shake.

When she clasped it awkwardly, Boimler realized that her palm was sweaty. What was she so nervous about?

“Um, so, I wanted to know, are you like...a really skinny butch girl? Because I’m a Skinny Admirer,” she admitted, as if it was some embarrassing sexual deviance.

“Oh. Sorry, no, I’m just a twink in a dress,” Boimler said, with a self-depreciating little chuckle.

“Oh, my bad,” Zavaz said, ducking back behind her braids.

“You should try saying hi to Tendi though. Or Castro. She seems to be kind of lonely for some reason,” Boimler said, completely oblivious.

“Thanks for the tip,” Zavaz giggled.

Boimler returned to his vodka-tonic. She sidled over to Tendi and raised her glass.

“This one’s a standard glorka berry brandy,” the other server said, passing Mariner a glass, which she also downed in one gulp while gesturing for another, “and this is our mixed berry brandy,” Mariner downed that without so much as a cough. “And this is our award winning oak-aged mead,” Mariner downed that in two gulps. The server frowned at the accumulating empty glasses. “You sure you don’t want to wait for your food to come out first?”

“I know what I’m about, girl. Just keep ‘em coming and don’t serve me the same thing twice,” Mariner said.

“Just to make sure, you’re a girl, right?” Zavaz said awkwardly to D’vana.

“Oh, definitely. I tried being a boy for half a summer back in my awkward teenage years, but it wasn’t for me,” Tendi said.

“And you’re an advisor, not a concubine, right?” Zavas said, flipping back one of her braids and taking a big gulp of cocktail.

“No, I’m not a concubine,” Tendi said, sipping her cider. “This stuff is really good by the way,” she said, turning to the bartender. The bartender nodded acknowledgement and finished her phone call.

“Oh, sorry for interrupting!” Tendi said, when she realized what the archaic technology was.

“No problem,” the Bartender said. “We’re pretty proud of our cider here, if I do say so myself.”

“Yeah, I’m not M-I’m not the god-queen’s concubine. I’m just her chief of security, policy adviser, and girlfriend.”

Zavaz almost choked on her drink.

“Girlfriend? Oh, I’m so sorry! I never would have approached you if I realized!” she said, her eyes wide with fear, her wings fluttering.

“No, it’s cool. The god-queen and me are in an open relationship,” Tendi said, smiling and putting a hand on Zavaz’s shoulder.

“But...but she’s the *god-queen*. And...and she lets you see other people? She doesn’t get jealous?” Zavaz said, eyeing Mariner nervously.

“Oh, the god-queen doesn’t get jealous about her romantic and sexual partners. Friends sometimes, but not partners,” Tendi explained, smiling.

“Oh. That’s...really nice of her,” Zavaz said, twirling her hair.

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?” Tendi asked. “Like, what do you do for a living?”

“Oh, I’m a traveling botanist,” Zavaz explained, tugging on a braid and finishing off what was left of her drink.

Tendi’s eyes light up. “Really? That’s amazing! Tell me more! I mean, if you’re comfortable with it,” she added, taking another demure sip of cider.

So Zavaz told her, while D’vana listened with rapt attention. Mariner finished off something called Tears of the Ancestors, after reassuring the bartender that she wouldn’t get in trouble for having a cocktail with such a blasphemous name, especially because it was spicy and tart and her second-favorite so far.

Rutherford reached the bottom of his Soft Butch. He leaned back and stretched, then felt the ill-fitting attempt at a tuxedo ride up so far it exposed the bottom of his masectomy scars. He quickly tugged his shirt down and hoped everyone had been busy paying attention to Mariner.

“I’ll have another Soft Butch,” Rutherford said, reaching for the cash in his pocket before remembering that Mariner had opened up the bar for the night. He sat there, waiting on his next drink, listening to the unfamiliar alien music and trying to relax. He didn’t really go clubbing that much, either, though going with his friends was still probably more fun than going alone. Still, he felt a little out of his element.

Tendi seemed to be making a new friend, and Boimler looked surprisingly relaxed. Maybe it was because the stakes for him were lower now, with no high-ranking officers to impress or disappoint.

“Hi there,” said a young woman with long curly tresses of green hair. She had bright orange eyes and a low-cut pink dress stretched tight across her voluptuous form. “I hear you’re an advisor to the god-queen.”

“Oh uh, just a minor one. Really I’m more of a friend,” Rutherford said awkwardly.

“That’s still pretty impressive,” she said, before taking a big gulp of her glowing green cocktail.

“Honestly, my main passion is engineering and mechanics,” Rutherford said shyly.

“Oh Her, that’s so cool!” the young woman said, throwing back her head and laughing. “Check out this girl here! She’s so funny.”

“He,” Rutherford corrected. “I use he/him pronouns.”

The woman looked at him and frowned. “You’re like, one of those he/him lesbians? I mean, not that I have a problem with it, but I don’t really get it.”

“No, I’m not a lesbian, I’m a bisexual man,” Rutherford explained as patiently as he could. He tapped his implant to switch into Chill Mode.

“I saw your scars,” the green-haired woman said, leaning closer to whisper it.

Rutherford attempted to remain chill while the implant struggled to lower his adrenaline and blood pressure. He didn’t really know much about the societal norms of this planet.

“Don’t worry. I think flat-chested girls are hot, actually,” she said. “And it’s so hardcore butch.”

Rutherford took a long drink. He set down his glass again. He looked the green-haired girl right in her orange eyes and spoke as slowly and clearly as he could, careful to be heard over the drum riffs.

“I am not a butch woman. I am a man. Not everyone born with large breasts is a woman.”

The woman frowned, although the scrutinizing lust didn’t leave her gaze. “Oh, don’t be so uptight. You know what I mean.”

Mariner reached down and spun around the young woman’s bar stool so she was facing her. She leaned in very close, close enough the green-haired woman could feel hot breath on her face and see the unyielding glint in Mariner’s dark brown eyes.

“Hi there. What’s your name?”

“M-Magam, your holy highness,” the green-haired orange-eyed woman stammered, trying to back up and spilling somebody else’s drink in the process. The other person turned to protest, but froze at the look in Mariner’s eyes.

“Well, Magam, I have the divine gift of prophecy, because I’m about to tell you exactly how the immediate future is gonna unfold. First, you’re going to apologize to my friend Rutherford. Then you’re going to tell all of your little friends that you’ve had a change of heart, and that actually, if somebody tells you they’re a boy, then they are a boy, regardless of how they look or what they wear or how they were born. Or somebody who says they’re a woman is a woman. Or somebody can be both at once, or neither of those, and everyone has the last say on what gender *they* are. I mean, they would know best, right? And then you’re going to go home and think about your life.” Mariner raised her voice gradually during the speech, and when she finished she turned around to survey the entire club.

“Right. Sorry. Of course, your holy highness,” Magam said, bowing as she walked backwards. She hurried out through the double doors, not even stopping to finish her drink.

Mariner’s smile faded and her glare intensified as the doors swung shut.

“You okay, Rutherford?” Mariner asked, her rounded face softening as she turned to her friend.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rutherford said, waving the situation away. “I’m just sorry you had to make such a bother over me.”

“Rutherford, of course I’m going to stand up for you! You’re my friend,” Mariner said, reaching out to grab his shoulders. “I’m not going to let some fetishizing transphobe harass you if I can do anything about it, and as it turns out, there’s a *lot* of things I can do about it, so I did one of them.”

“Yeah, Mariner really handled that situation well,” Boimler said, finishing his vodka tonic and biting into the slice of fruit that garnished it. “I’m almost surprised she didn’t break any bones.”

“What can I say? I’ve been working on my self control,” Mariner said, before chugging a slightly different-colored hard cider from each fist and following it up with a belch that rattled the glassware.

“Really, Mar-I mean, your holy highness, really, I’m sorry I made you worry about me,” Rutherford said, but Mariner shushed him by a pressing a finger against his lips.

“*You* didn’t make me worry. *That woman* made me upset.”

Rutherford sighed. “Hey, would you look at that? My glass is empty.”

“Hey, barkeep, my friend here needs a refill!” Mariner hollered.

“Coming right up,” the bartender shouted back. “I’m just a bit busy at the moment,” she added, pointing to the crowd of advisors, cooks, and concubines swarming the bar, along with the regular patrons.

“No rush!” Rutherford said.

“Okay. If you tell me you’re fine, then I’ll believe you. But if you need to talk about this, I’m here, alright?” Mariner said, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder.

“That goes double for me,” Tendi said, hugging him.

“Me three,” Boimler said, joining in. Mariner lifted them all up into a big, squishy group hug.

“Your food is ready, your holy highness” a server said as he stepped out from the kitchen.

“Thank you very kindly,” Mariner said, reaching out to grab the platters, already salivating. She picked up the spit, then dove into the roasted swineflesh ravenously. She bit, tore, and gulped huge chunks, working her way along the roast as if she was eating corn on the cob. Savory sauce and meat juices sprayed with every greedy bite.

While Mariner continued her undignified display, Castro reached down for one of the fried bugs on the share plate, only to end up grabbing the same one that Boimler had seized upon.

“Sorry!” they both said at once.

They stared into each other’s eyes, for a moment. Castro felt her cheeks growing hot, but she couldn’t read the expression in Boimler’s eyes. Was it attraction? Revulsion? Indifference?

Ensign Bradward Boimler withdrew his hand and the contact broke. Castro picked up one of the beetles and bit into it. It tasted good, but she’d really rather be biting into Boimler’s earlobe right now.

“So, how do you like the music here?” Castro asked, regretting her choice of words immediately. It was such an obvious chat-up line. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“It’s growing on me,” Boimler said. “It also feels kinda neat, not being the only purple-haired person here. Makes me feel like a trend-setter,” he said, chuckling a little.

“Ah hah hah hah, trend setter! That’s hilarious,” Castro said, twirling her hair with her finger. Was that supposed to be funny? She hoped it was meant to be funny, otherwise she might hurt his feelings. She took a sip to wash down the last of the beetle she ate only to realize her glass was suddenly empty. When had that happened?

“Glad you think so,” Boimler said, with that warm, earnest, disarming smile of his. He picked up a beetle and crunched it up, then coughed and sputtered.

“Hey Boims, you okay there?” Mariner asked, thumping him on the back.

“No biggy. I think a beetle leg just went down the wrong tube,” Boimler wheezed.

“You should slow down when you’re eating,” Mariner said, handing him a glass of water which he gratefully drank.

“You’re not...really in a position to talk,” Boimler said, after he’d caught his breath.

“Well, I’ve got a better lung capacity,” Mariner bragged.

Boimler just rolled his eyes, finished his water, and grabbed another bug.

The next server followed with refills on their drinks, including a row of shots for Mariner.

“So, that’s how I discovered that they weren’t actually common Blue Star Ferns, but an entirely seperate species,” Zavaz finished up. “I hope I’m not boring you.”

“No, you’re not boring me,” Tendi reassured her quickly, grabbing her hand. “I like hearing about botany!”

Zavaz blushed. She enjoyed talking about her work, of course, but since she’d started talking to Advisor D’vana Tendi, there had been one burning question on her mind. The problem was, it wasn’t an easy question to ask. It was incredibly personal and more than a little embarrassing.

“Hey,” somebody said, in a rich, low voice that somehow cut right through the bar chatter and the live music.

Zavaz and Tendi both turned to face the newcomer. She was also tall, but considerably wider than Zavaz, weighing in somewhere around 400 pounds at least, with a generously proportioned pear shape and a pale blue cocktail in her hand with a zinden berry speared on a toothpick. Her hair was a deep red buzzcut, and she had the confident grin of somebody who was used to getting what she wanted.

“Oh, hi there! My name’s D’vana Tendi and this is my new friend Zavaz. Who are you?” Tendi said eagerly. She was halfway through her fourth glass of farafa fruit cider.

Zavaz winced a little at the word choice of “friend”, but she refused to back down. She’d gotten this far.

The woman leaned down to Tendi’s eye level. “Adina. Charmed to meet you. Have you tried the Twin Rivers cider yet? It’s a very nice brand.”

“You know, I haven’t,” Tendi said. She finished off her drink and turned to one of the servers behind the bar, a tall thin woman with long dreads. “One Twin Rivers cider, please,”

The massive (by Bromothian standards, at least. By comparison to the god-queen she looked positively slender) woman took a sip of her cocktail, still very close to Tendi. She turned and looked at Zavaz.

“I hope I’m not intruding, of course. But I couldn’t help noticing the two of you from across the bar.”

Zavaz opened her mouth to say something cutting, to get this woman to back off and stop butting into their conversation, but she stopped.

“Both of us?” Zavaz asked, warily.

Adina grinned wickedly and took another sip of her drink. “I can tell you’re clearly attracted to her. I’m also attracted to her, but there’s no reason why we have to be at odds with each other. I was thinking we could work together…”

Zavaz blushed deep indigo and turned her gaze on her drink, wings unconsciously fluttering. “I...um..I don’t…”

Tendi looked at her in surprise. “Is that true, Zavaz? Are you attracted to me?”

Zavaz murmured something that Tendi couldn’t make out.

“Sorry? Didn’t catch that,” Tendi said, leaning closer.

“Is it true you have internal genitalia?” Zavaz blurted out, just as the music and conversation hit a low ebb. Half the bar turned to look at her.

It was a good thing that the god-queen was here in the bar, her leviathan seat-overflowing bulk just a few chairs away, because then Zavaz could personally beg her to smite her down right where she sat and save a lot of embarrassment.

“Feel free to ignore that question!” Zavaz said, hands raised, wings flapping frantically. “Totally understand if it’s too personal! I didn’t mean to, I’m just, biologically I was, I heard…” she trailed off.

“Oh, I’m happy to answer questions about alien biology,” Tendi said with a cheerful tone and an easy smile. “And yes, I do have an innie instead of an outie when it comes to genitals. My ovaries are tucked up way inside of me. The closest thing I have to external genitals is my clitoris, and although I’ve got a rather large one it’s still nowhere near big enough to stick out, even when I’m aroused. But yeah, the bulk of my genitals are a big oriface, sort of like an anus, but self-lubricating. Does that satisfy your curiousity?” Tendi said brightly.

Zavaz blinked. “Um, yeah, thank you. That’s very informative,” she said, still blushing. She wouldn’t have been able to be that candid and confident explaining her genital anatomy to a stranger. Was she really able to just think about it that dispassionately for the sake of scientific enthusiasm?

“Mind if I see for myself?” Adina asked.

“Oh, thank you, that’s very flattering, but I don’t think I’d be quite comfortable with that yet,” Tendi said, smiling gently and putting her hand on the woman’s fat-covered but surprisingly muscular shoulder.

“Does that mean you’re not interested in me, either?” Zavaz asked shyly.

Tendi leaned forward and planted a kiss on Zavaz’s burning cheek.

“I don’t recall saying I wasn’t interested at all,” Tendi said, turning over to plant a kiss on Adina’s cheek too. “Just that I’m not ready to go full-steam-ahead threesome in the club bathroom yet. But you’re both cute, and I *am* up for a little bit of sloppy makeout sessions.” She grinned.

“Go get it, girl!” Mariner said, swinging around to high-five Tendi. Tendi completed the high-five and gave Mariner a kiss on the cheek too. Mariner kissed her back. “Guess somebody’s getting a few phone numbers tonight.”

Tendi blushed as she turned back to the two Bromothian women.

In the end, it took less than an hour for Mariner to go through the bar’s entire drinks menu. Her belly was a decent way towards feeling full, helped along by the fact that many of the drinks were carbonated. She barely had room for one or two people left, and that would be pushing it.

“Oh, thank fuck, I finally *feel* drunk,” Mariner said, chewing up the pickled root garnish. “In between my increased bulk, my increased metabolism, and my already high alcohol tolerance, it takes a lot to get me properly wasted these days,” she explained, wiping her lips. Earlier, when she’d gotten tired of reaching to one side or the other to get her drinks, the bartender had brought her a specially designed tray that would rest on top of her belly. Mariner set the tray back on the bar table with exaggerated care.

Boimler finished off his fourth vodka tonic, then yawned hugely. “I think I might be all partied out.”

“Oh come on, Boims, it’s not even full dark yet! The night is literally just getting started,” Mariner whined. “Bartender, get this man a full glass of dunik fruit juice.” She frowned. “I really should have researched the local drugs here. I don’t know if they have anything close enough to blow.”

“See, I told you research would make partying more fun!” Tendi said, while the two plus-sized woman squeezed her between them, running their tongues along her neck.

“Wow, I’ve never met a male engineer before,” the short, squat woman talking to Rutherford said. “Was it hard for you to learn?”

“Not really, it came pretty naturally to me,” Rutherford said. “At least, it comes easy to me now, and I don’t have any reason to assume it wasn’t always that way, based on my fragmented memories. I lost a lot of my past due to an accident. Well, it wasn’t actually an accident, more like cover-up surgery performed on me without my knowledge or consent.” Rutherford said, finishing with a small laugh. “You know how it is.”

The woman stared at him. “Uh...not really, I don’t.”

Rutherford frowned the frown of somebody just realizing his “funny” story is actually something he should be traumatized by.

“Oh, well...what do you think of the band?” he asked awkwardly.

“They’re decent, but there’s better ones out there in the genre,” she said, with a half shrug. “If you really want to hear some good stuff, you should check out the Cracked Eggs or the Rudimentary Stain. And of course, there’s always classics, like Roasted Gryphon or Seven Green Hearts,” she explained. “They don’t tour anymore, but there’s always records, and sometimes they do radio shows.”

“Well, I’ll have to check them out too,” Rutherford said. “I haven’t really heard a lot of music since I moved into the area.”

“Oh, man, you have so much to look forward to! I’m almost envious,” she said, grinning to expose a protruding pair of fangs.

Rutherford frowned. “Do all Bromothians have fangs and I just never noticed until now?”

She squeaked in alarm and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, sorry. I uh...I’m a Varkathian,” she said, eyes downcast.

“What are you apologizing for?” Rutherford said, taking another mouthful of Soft Butch.

“I just...I don’t want anyone to hurt me. I should have kept my mouth shut,” she murmured, hurriedly finishing her drink.

“Why would anyone hurt you? What’s wrong?” Rutherford asked.

“Well, Varkathians aren’t a particularly popular ethnic group, here and now,” she said, as if to a child. “Most of us, but not all of us, have fangs, and greenish skin, and/or curly hair.”

Rutherford stared at her. He tapped his implant a few times, trying to find a mode that would make it easier for him to understand the situation.

“Well, people shouldn’t hurt you just because you look different. I’m...really sorry to hear that,” Rutherford said. “By the way, I’d uh, like to know your name. I didn’t think to ask when we started, and then by the time it occurred to me that I didn’t know what your name was it felt too awkward to bring it up, but I guess I’m bringing it up now.”

“I’m Ajerban,” she said, smiling with her lips closed.

“Well, I’m Samanthan Rutherford. And uh, not to brag, but I have a little bit of pull with your glorious leader, so maybe there’s something I can do about this situation. Make it more comfortable for the other Varkathians, at least in this country.” He said. “You’ve got a lovely smile, by the way.”

“Aw, thank you,” she said, blushing a little. “And uh, just so I’m not leading you on, I’m an asexual lesbian and I’m taken. I’m just here to make friends tonight.”

“Well, here’s to new friends,” Rutherford said, raising his glass to clink against hers before knocking back the rest of it.

Mariner leaned back, rubbing her belly with both hands, lifting it up and letting it slam down on the counter again. She let loose a belch that rattled every unsecured glass in the building.

“Alright, time to do my good deed for the night,” Mariner said, rising to her feet.

The crowd parted in front of her quivering belly and clinking chains. Mariner reached out to a short, chubby young woman with long frizzy green hair standing in the corner.

“Hey, you should ask the bartender out,” she said. “She’s definitely into you. She lit up as soon as you walked in the door, and I’ve *seen* the way you look at her.”

The woman blushed and set down her nearly-finished cider on the nearest table.

“Oh, no, but I could never...I mean, she wouldn’t be interested in somebody as young and skinny as me,” she said.

“Stop being stupid. Go over there and make the first move, otherwise she’s going to keel over waiting for one of you to act,” Mariner said, smiling to take away the edge in the words.

“Are you sure?” she said, looking imploringly at her.

“Consider it a royal decree,” Mariner said, slapping her on the back so hard she staggered. “Now go out there and get your ovipositor sucked already!”

She turned to another woman, a tall butch dressed in purple with purple spiky hair, a muscular build, mirrored shades and a broken nose. Her horn was very thin, and her wings were slightly smaller than average.

“Hey there. Wanna go fuck in the bathroom?”

The woman lifted her sunglasses in surprise, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Who, me?”

“Yeah, *BELCH*, you,” Mariner said, advancing on her. “I mean, if you’re not into it, just say the word and I’ll back off.”

She didn’t say the word.

Mariner grinned and stepped forward until her belly squashed the woman against the wall, her chains jingling and the gemstone piercing pressing into her belly button.

“So, are you up for it?”

“Yes, your holy highness,” she breathed. Mariner felt the woman’s throbbing ovipositor digging into her soft, overabundant fat.

Mariner backed up, then grabbed the woman by her belt and dragged her towards the restrooms.

The unisex bathroom had a lot of graffiti and band name stickers on its walls. Mariner was pleased to see it had been designed with enough space for even her titanic bulk, as well as some rails to make it handicapped accessible, the latter being more than she had come to expect from this planet.

“So,” Mariner said, as she confidently unzipped the woman’s pants, “got any kinks you want to try out? You’ll find I’m pretty open-minded.”

“You’re asking what kind of kinks *I* have?” she gasped. She was really pitching a tent right now. Her ovipositor had to be at least eleven inches long. “Your holy highness, I consider myself lucky merely to bask in your presence.”

“Yeah yeah, I know, I’m your god and monarch and stuff,” Mariner said, rolling her eyes, unbuttoning the woman’s pants and pulling the woman’s shirt (with slits cut in it for her wings) over her head, exposing a neon green bra and a set of abs she could grate cheese on. “Look, here’s the thing. I want to make sure all my sexual partners have as good a time as I’m having, so it would speed things along if you just let me know what you’re into so I can get you spurting eggs into my butt or whatever.”

“W-well,” the buff woman stammered, “I’ve uh, I’ve always wanted to be sat on by a woman with a really big ass.”

“Well then, I guess you’re in luck, because I’ve got the fattest ass on the planet,” Mariner said, grinning proudly. “Anything else?”

“It’s a little embarrassing,” she said, shyly.

“I won’t tell anyone else. I promise,” Mariner whispered into her ear, prompting her to moan and lean into her wall of flab. “Is it pain related? Farting? Findom? Something weirder?”

The buff woman mumbled something in audible.

“Come on, use your words like a big girl,” Mariner prompted.

“Your holy highness, it uh, this may seem like an odd request, but since you did ask,” she said, her voice dropping low.

Mariner nodded encouragingly and tugged down the woman’s underpants, exposing her engorged ovipositor, which was practically purple at the tip.

“Could you sneeze on my tits?” the woman said, blushing furiously and clasping her hands in front of her. “Please?”

“Is that all?” Mariner said, smiling and resisting the urge to laugh. Maybe a few years ago she would have teased somebody over something like that, but she could tell it was something this woman was really sensitive about, and she’d learned to be a little gentler since then, especially when people were opening up and being vulnerable around her.

She nodded earnestly, her purplish-red eyes wide.

“Happy to oblige,” Mariner said, reaching over to press a hand against the woman’s flat stomach, enjoying the physical contrast between them. With her other hand, she reached into one of her many pockets and pulled out a jar of dried carapa leaves. The herbs had a flavor that she couldn’t really compare to anything else she’d eaten, although it paired well with seafood dishes. The more important than was that, when crushed and inhaled, it had an effect remarkably similar to that of black pepper on human sinuses.

Mariner snorted. It hurt a little when it reacted with her mucus membrane, but she was no stranger to pain. She’d even reached the point in her budding relationship with Jennifer where she trusted her hot andorian girlfriend enough to let her have the whip and give her some moderate electric shocks when she was domming. Of course, if anyone was going to dominate during a night club hookup, it would be Mariner, but there was no harm in being a little magnanimous.

Mariner crinkled her nose and inhaled. The pain rose. She leaned down, her belly sagging down to rest on the floor, until her nose was level with the woman’s bra. She reached back and unhooked it with the expertise of long practice, letting the bright green undergarment fall to the floor, exposing the pert pair of breasts with deep indigo nipples.

Mariner prepared herself for the sneeze. The woman closed her eyes and pressed her hands against her powerful thighs, possibly to avoid the temptation to wrap them around her ovipositor and start jerking it.

“Ah crap, it’s a false alarm,” Mariner muttered, as the painful sensation faded. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” the buff woman said, smiling awkardly.

“So, shall we get down to ha-ha…” Mariner felt her eyes crossing. The pain rose up again, along with the need for release. “Hachoo! Heshoo!” Mariner sneezed twice in rapid succession, peppering the woman’s perky breasts with her shnoz.

The woman’s eyes lit up, and her ovipositor grew even stiffer and longer. Before Mariner could react, the buff woman leaned in for a savage, hungry kiss, her genitals digging into Mariner’s overflowing belly fat.

Mariner resisted the urge to open her mouth wider and swallow the delicious woman whole. Instead, she broke off the kiss and shoved her back.

“Now then, we can’t have you going off early, now can we?” Mariner taunted. “Kissing your god-queen without permission though, that’s very naughty. I think I’m going to have to punish you, foolish mortal,” Mariner said, winking.

“Yes, your holy highness,” the buff woman gasped. Her cheeks were still flushed a deep indigo.

Mariner stood up to her full height and waddled over. “Lie flat and try to get comfortable,” she commanded, in her most authoritative voice. “And tap the floor twice with your hand if you need me to get off you,” she added, briefly breaking character.

“Yes, your holy highness!” the buff woman said, as Mariner squatted over her, preparing to descend.

“Now, time to discipline my unruly little subject,” Mariner said, carefully lowering herself. She knew most humanoid bones could take a lot more pressure than people realized. That was something she’d discovered since she gained all that weight from eating people. Then again, given the wings Bromothians might have had hollow bones. Best to err on the side of caution. Mariner continued to lower her body, feeling her immense ass spread out across the buff woman and the bathroom floor, fitting her face and chest neatly into Mariner’s ass crack.

“What a naughty girl,” Mariner cooed, as she felt the buff woman’s wings struggle fruitlessly against her thousand plus pounds of girth. The woman wriggled and squirmed in between her colossal ass cheeks, but she didn’t tap out, so Mariner continued sitting on her. She leaned back and clenched her ass muscles, enjoying the pleasant buzz from the alcohol inside her system and the heat between her legs.

“Having fun down there?” Mariner asked. The woman reached up and squeezed the side of Mariner’s ass, prompting her to shift again. The fruitless struggles gave her a delicious feeling of power, even though they tickled just a little bit.

The tickling in her nose returned. Mariner raised a hand to her mouth and sneezed again, a big one. She felt the buff woman trapped under her shudder with delight, and saw the ovipositor trying to push out an egg.

“Ah ah ah, you still don’t *achoo* have permission to cum yet,” Mariner teased, as she felt the woman groping the ass cheeks she was practically lost between. She struggled to her feet, careful to avoid brushing against the swollen ovipositor.

Mariner pulled the buff woman upright and kissed her on the horn. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to undo this piercing. You’re going to cum in my belly button, and then I’m going to teach you how to pleasure somebody with internal genitalia.”

“Oh please, yes, your holy highness,” the woman moaned, reaching up to squeeze her massive tits. Mariner hadn’t told her to do that, but she certainly didn’t mind a little improvisation.

Mariner removed her piercing, then fumbled with it for a few moments trying to get it unhooked from the chains. It hit the floor with a thunk. She leaned down and stepped forward, so that the ovipositor slid right into her fist-wide, deep, belly button. She grabbed a roll on either side of her belly with each hand and jiggled it violently, causing it to quiver and ripple, moving her belly button against the ovipositor.

“You like that?” Mariner said, her voice low and husky.

“Yes, oh my goddess, yes! Th-thank you, your holy highness,” the butch moaned.

Mariner took a step forward, pushing the buff woman up against the bathroom wall, then started to gently buck her body, forcing the ovipositor deeper and deeper into her navel, feeling the moisture rise between her legs as she thrust.

“Please...don’t...stop,” Mariner’s partner whimpered.

“Sure, whatever,” Mariner said. It only took a matter of seconds before the woman blew her load, slimy eggs popping out one at a time, filling up the chasm of Mariner’s belly button. Mariner pulled free and the woman slowly slid to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Was it good for you?” Mariner teased, her voice only hitching a little from her intense arousal.

The woman moaned.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Mariner said. She unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled down her cargo pants, revealing silky red boxer shorts that were already stained at the front from her juices. The butch lesbian struggled to her feet again, eyes wide with fascination as Mariner slide down the panties and pulled apart her pussy’s lips. Mariner took the woman’s hand in hers and placed it directly on her labia.

“Now this is the cervix, where you would normally stick a penetrating member, like a penis, finger, ovipositor or tentacle,” Mariner explained. “Reach a little deeper, and curl it back like so, and right...yes, yes, right there, is my g-spot. That feels really good when it’s pressed,” Mariner said. “Of course, it’s not very easy to cum from penetration alone. That’s why we have this spot, right...yes, right there,” she said, guiding the woman’s fingers again, “under the little hood. That’s my clitoris, and if you really want to make me happy, you need to work it. Gentle, gentle, but slow, circular motions are the best. Yeah, keep doing that.”

“Is it supposed to be this drippy?” the woman asked, still fascinated as she worked at pleasuring Mariner.

“Yes, yes, keep going,” Mariner sighed. “I’m already pretty darn turned on, so yeah, it’s gonna be wet.” She giggled. She couldn’t help it. The woman just looked so earnest and serious.

“You’re a quick learner,” Mariner purred. “Good girl. Now, let’s give those fingers a break and show me what that mouth can do.”

She grabbed the woman by the horn and lowered her face down to crotch level. She was tentative, at first, tasting the tissue and juices hesitantly, but quickly rose to the occasion, encouraged by Mariner’s panting and moans of delight. In a matter of minutes, Mariner came, squirting all over the woman’s face.

“Did I do well?” she asked, trying to wipe the sexual fluids off with a paper towel. Some of it had even gotten in her hair.

“You were great,” Mariner sighed. “Now, I’m going to leave for the next bar, but you have a fun night, alright? By the way, that purple-haired, apple-shaped femme with the pierced nose has been sizing you up all night. You should really introduce yourself to her. She looks cute.”

Chapter Text

The God-Queen’s Arms was experiencing a rather slow evening before Mariner and her entourage arrived. Still, it was with a mixture of relief and concern that the bartender saw the crowd of VIPs flow into her establishment.

“Hi, I’ll *hic* have one of *burp* everything,” Mariner said. Her belly had preceded her entry by a good six feet, and her ass stuck out at least three feet behind her. She slammed down two piles of bills. “Here’s your tip, to share with your employees, and here’s the money to open up the bar for tonight.”

“Do you mean one of every food item, or one of each drink, because we have a selection of over--” she began.

“One. Of. Everything,” Mariner repeated, looking her dead in the eye. Her stomach rumbled.

“Okay, coming right up away!” the bartender said nervously.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna, like, eat you if you’re too slow or anything,” Mariner said, only slurring her words a little. She squeezed into a booth, pushing back the table so she had room for her belly. “Tendi, Boimler, and uh, Rutherford, c’mere, *BELCH* sit with me,” Mariner said, leaning down an squishing her own belly to the sides so she could reach over and thump the table.

Her friends followed. More of the cooks, concubines, and counselors moved into unoccupied tables, while others lingered at the main bar. A nervous waiter in a sea-green uniform approached them.

“So, you’ve ordered one of everything, but uh, I have some menus for the rest of you,” he said, handing them over to the remaining three. Castro was still at the bar, eyeing some of the men there longingly. She’d been hit on by one other thin woman back at the Broken Wing, but they’d both flirted back and forth awkwardly without it going anywhere, and at the end the woman’s annoyed girlfriend showed up. However, she was reminded by the direction of looks that this planet’s standard of female beauty was a matter of quantity rather than quality. For some bizarre reason, these people found gluttony and lack of self-restraint *attractive*. Unlike some people, Castro knew how to control herself and her appetite. She always stopped at the first slice of pizza, she avoided red meat, and she limited herself to one major protein a day. Besides, she did regular yoga classes with Jennifer. She was living proof that it was possible to stay thin and keep healthy, if you weren’t lazy and undisciplined.

Instead, the men here fawned on women who had no self-restraint whatsoever. It was absolutely backwards! She was supposed to be the pretty one, the normal one, people like her and Jennifer and Tendi. All these people were out here just...just glorifying obesity!

She sniffed. “I’ll have a vodka-tonic,” she said, leaning in and regarding a pale blue Bromothian woman who had to be at least 300 pounds, laughing and flirting with two different perfectly attractive men. One of the men was jostled by a red-eyed woman, spilling his drink. The woman immediately apologized and offered to fetch him another drink.

Castro’s attention was diverted when Tendi waved to her.

“We got them to pull over some extra seats! Come on, Castro. Sit with us and Melem! We’re ranking captains by cuteness!”

“I still say Kirk needs a really good pegging,” Mariner said.

Castro giggled. She couldn’t believe it. The Bromothian liquor must have gotten to her, that was the only explanation for her laughing at one of Mariner’s lewd comments.

“And I think Archer has a certain himbo charm, especially if you look at his earlier campaigns,” Tendi said, blushing but still smiling.

“And I say that you two have horrible taste in men, because it’s obviously Picard!” Boimler said, crossing his arms. “I mean, just listen to that *voice* of his. I could listen to him read the phone book, I swear.” Boimler sighed, then shifted in his seat.

An elderly black-haired Bromothian man approached them.

“Oh, your holy highness, I have never been a pious man, but after such a display of generosity as this, I will start attending church every free minute of every day!” he said, weeping openly.

Mariner reached over and awkwardly patted him on the back. She’d been here for days and she still hadn’t actually found the time to tactfully figure out what the social verdict on wing contact represented. Was it the same as a pat on the back, or was it incredibly intimate? Sure, she had some concubines who loved having their wings touched, but then there were some people who liked to be touched all over. Pick any body part and you’d find a fetishist for it. So, to avoid an accidental umox situation, she continued to pat him on the upper back, carefully avoiding the wings.

“It’s cool, dude. And once a week should be plenty of church time. You’ve still got a life to live, alright?”

He knelt down before her, wiping away tears.

“Aw, man, don’t cry. It’s okay, really,” Mariner said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. “You’re a good subject.”

“It’s more than that,” he said, slowly struggling to his feet again, stiff wings creaking as he worked to regain his balance. “Thanks to your national food stamps, I don’t have to choose between paying the rent or buying groceries. I make too much to qualify for the old program.”

“Well, you’re very welcome. I’m glad I could help you,” she said, reaching out a hand to him. He received it with trembling fingers, but his grip was still strong. Mariner got to her feet, squeezed out, then pulled over one more chair. “Here, why don’t you join us?”

The man sat gratefully.

“Where were we, anyway?” Mariner asked. She hoped that was a regular moment of distraction, and not anything to do with her lack of ADHD medicine. She’d tried to ask Tendi about going on botanical expeditions, using a medical tricorder to scan for plants with the right medicinal properties, but there was always some urgent part of public policy that needed to be seen to here and now by the god-queen, and Tendi couldn’t seem to bear the thought of leaving Mariner’s side in her time of need. She wasn’t merely Mariner’s girlfriend, she was her true friend, even if Mariner had a closer friendship with Bradward Boimler. That didn’t mean their own bonds of friendship counted for nothing.

Mariner and Tendi both jolted back to the present as the waiter came out with the first round of drinks, including Mariner’s first flight of Beetle Liqueur. They were all apparently from the same small farm collective.

“I was explaining why it’s *Picard* who was the cutest captain,” Boimler said, as he and Castro received their vodka tonics.

“But he’s bald,” Mariner objected, causing Tendi to almost choke on her cider and Rutherford to gasp.

“And you’ve never found *anyone* attractive who was also bald?” Boimler said, incredulously. “Not one Bolian? You’ve never seen somebody without hair on their head and thought you wanted to tap that like a keg at a university party?”

“Well, okay, the female cenobite from the original Hellraiser film is pretty hot,” Mariner admitted. “And I’ve definitely met some cute Bolians. But I still maintain that Kirk is at least 33% cuter than Picard,” Mariner said.

“You just say that because he’s a hothead, just like you,” Boimler said.

“What can I say? I find taking dramatic actions a lot more attractive than long speeches,” Mariner said, with a shrug.

“Hey, Kirk had some pretty cool speeches too,” Boimler pointed out. “He just doesn’t top Picard,” Boimler said.

Tendi struggled to maintain a poker face. Rutherford spit out his drink. Mariner laughed so hard the shot came out through her nose. Boimler winced in sympathy for the pain she must be going through, but she just powered through it and downed the next shot, then picked up one of the hot wings from her towering basket.

“You know, I’m not sure I want to give this place my royal seal of endorsement,” Mariner confided as soon as the waiter had left earshot.

“Why do they call it Beetle Liqueur anyway?” Boimler asked.

“Oh, that’s because the honeypot beetles ferment it inside their distended abdomens,” the old man explained. “Some of them are trained to regurgitate it on command, but others are flash-fried and served as edibles.”

“Ooh, I’m gonna get one of those next,” Castro said, licking her lips. “Sounds like the ultimate bar food, snack and shot in one mouthful!”

Mariner sniffed her next shot, gingerly tasted it, then swallowed it.

“It tastes pretty good, considering what it’s been through,” Mariner said. “Certainly tastes better than Luwak coffee. That stuff was exactly as gross as you’d expect it to be. Anyway, Castro, who do *you* think the cutest Captain is?”

“Oh, um, honestly?” Castro said, leaning in and looking around, as if there was anyone other than them in the building who would even know what she was talking about, “I think the cutest one is Captain Gomez.”

Boimler whistled. Tendi gasped. Rutherford stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“You intrigue me,” Mariner said, right before covering up another large burp.

“Yeah, you certainly are a woman of unusual tastes,” Boimler said, causing her to wince inwardly again. *If only you knew,* she thought.

“And then I said...honey, are you okay?” the three-hundred pound light blue Bromothian with a sharply curved horn and medium wings said. The slender young man next to her rubbed his purple eyes and shook his wings.

“I’m fine. I guess that cider was a stronger than I thought,” he said, with a little self-depreciating smile that revealed his sharp canines. “Maybe I should have had something to eat first.”

“You know, why don’t I get you a ride home,” a helpful young woman with red eyes said.

“Who are you?” he murmured.

“I’m your friend, remember?” she said, loudly and slowly. “Don’t worry everyone. I’ll call him a cab.”

“Ooh, that looks good,” Mariner said, hoisting herself upright and waddling over to the bar. “Can I try some?”

The woman’s cherry-red eyes went wide when Mariner sniffed, then sipped, the man’s drink. She wiped her mouth and smacked her lips.

“But that’s mine,” the man said, weakly.

“Ooh yeah, that is delicious!” Mariner said, setting the drink down out of the woman’s reach. “Kinda salty, but I like it that way.” Mariner burped.

Mariner’s friends frowned. Tendi pulled out her medical tricorder.

“Yup, that’s a very high-quality roofie,” Mariner said, without changing the tone of her voice or her expression one iota.

The Cerritos crew members rose to their feet. So did most of the guards and some of the concubines and cooks. The bartender reached under the bar and pulled out a wooden cudgel.

Mariner reached out and grabbed the woman by the shoulder, gently forcing her back into her seat.

“Oh, shit!” Castro said. “That’s why she spilled his drink earlier! I didn’t realize what was going on.”

“I should have spotted her,” the bartender apologized.

“Not your fault. She’s very good at this. I can tell she’s had a lot of practice,” Mariner said, nails digging into the Bromothian woman’s flesh, even as the god-queen’s smile remained unchanged.

“Oh come on, now, your holy highness, this is all just a big misunderstanding,” the woman said, laughing nervously.

The swaying man tried to focus on her, frowning.

“I...I remember you, now. You were the...you kept hitting on me at the tisane shop where I worked...I told you I wasn’t interested, and you...you got so mad…”

Mariner’s stomach rumbled like a castle drawbridge coming down.

“Hey, your holy highness, you’re not gonna hurt me for having a little bit of harmless fun, right? I mean, I wasn’t going to actually harm him,” the red-eyed woman said.

Mariner grinned blankly at her while Castro stared in horror, Tendi whistled, Rutherford tapped his implant into a more emotionally withdrawn mode, and Boimler mimed somebody digging their own grave.

“Come on, what did he expect going out dressed like that? He’s just one of those Varkathian sluts,” she said, red eyes brimming with tears. “Your holy highness, you know what they’re like! You’re not going to send me to jail just for something like that, will you?”

“Oh, I’m not going to shend you to jail at all,” Mariner said, words slurred, her grin starting to look a little more like a rictus, saliva dribbling down her twin chins. Mariner reached out and picked up a shaker of salt, tapping it very deliberately over the red-eyed woman’s head.

The tears were in full flow now. “Please, your holy highness, I’ve got a family to support at home!”

“Pretty sure they’re going to get on a lot better without you,” Mariner said, still smiling. “Most rapists start at home.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she whined, still sobbing. “I have a promising career ahead of me!”

“Hey, Grand Vizier, was rape legal during my predecessor’s time?” Mariner asked, still looking directly into those teary red eyes, still smiling wide.

“No, your holy highness,” the Grand Vizier said, coldly, looking at the woman with red eyes.

Boimler covered his eyes. Tendi opened her eyes wider. Rutherford folded his arms. Castro raised a hand as if to speak, but thought better of it.

Mariner lifted her up, and her smile kept getting wider and wider. The actual moment of the gulp happened lightning quick, exploding her spiked collar, setting all her chains jangling as the new mass settled into her stomach.

“Not the best joint I’ve ever been to, but the bar food is pretty good,” Mariner said, to the nearly-silent bar.

There were some spurts of nervous laughter.

Castro wanted to point out that Mariner could have saved that one for the coronation ceremony, but she wanted to live a long and healthy life even more.

Muffled screams came from Mariner’s stomach. She thumped her gut, burying the chubby fist in soft fat, and then let out a colossal belch. Castro shuddered.

“Mariner, shouldn’t you be, like, unconscious by now? You downed the rest of that roofied drink,” Boimler said, nervously.

“Oh, higher body mass means I have a higher tolerance, plus I deliberately built up a resistance to it when I was stationed on the Turkana IV. I know the *burp* place has improved a lot, but, yannow, it hash a reputashion.” Mariner rubbed her eyes. “Not that I’m completely immune though. It just makesh me a little...silly,” Mariner giggled.

“Mariner, you should really do some hydrating,” Boimler reminded her. “Normally I wouldn’t worry about you with your alcohol tolerance, but you did have an entire bar menu’s worth already, plus who knows how that will interact with the roofie.”

“Good idea. Garcon, bring me a hose,” Mariner said.

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “You know, we have glasses for water,” she said, gently.

“Not efficient enough,” Mariner grumbled. The bartender flapped her wings once, then sighed and handed over the soda stream nozzle.

Mariner happily munched on her platter of cheese-dipped beetles, having already finished the inadequately spicy hot wings. Honestly, they were barely in the low millions of the scoville scale!

Castro drained her vodka tonic and wrapped her knuckles on the bar. “Same again,” she said, when one of the servers came over.

She looked longingly at Boimler, with his messy-yet-perfect purple hair, his beautiful twink physique, and his animated hand gestures, infodumping excitedly about his plan for a new liquor tax. Damn, she really wanted to tap his warp core. She normally had a pretty easy time seducing people she was genuinely interested in. That was why she had a side piece in every spaceport the Cerritos regularly visited, from that charming older Romulan woman at the Alpha Centauri repair station to the pair of binars on Deep Space 7. But Boimler? Trying to hit on him was like trying to chew through a brick wall.

*Maybe I should ask Mariner for advice.* The thought came, sudden and unbidden, as if a telepath had planted it in there, even though there were no telepaths on this planet. Why would she do that? If she did that, she’d definitely owe Mariner a favor, and she didn’t want to get any closer to that...that woman, than she needed to. She liked Jennifer, of course. Everyone liked Jennifer. But Jennifer had really terrible taste in women. Castro had gently reminded Jennifer of that when she was crying her eyes out after Lieutenant Farina dumped Jennifer back at Deep Space 14, and then Jennifer had shut down and gotten defensive and they hadn’t spoken for a week.

Castro didn’t believe in gods, but the sight of Boimler in a sparkly black dress brought her pretty close. She’d love to find out what he was wearing under that dress, if it was anything at all.

“Your drink, ma’am,” the server said. Castro nodded and took a gulp without looking at him. She had eyes only for Ensign Bradward Boimler. She felt a little silly about crushing on an ensign, but then, there was no minimum rank for hotness, and his lack of experience added an extra layer of intrigue. She wanted to take that fresh-faced, idealistic little twerp and break him down, or corrupt him, or both. If he wasn’t into any freaky shit right now, she’d make sure he was by the time she was done with him.

Of course, first that required scaling his metaphorical walls, and this boy was the Great Wall of China when it came to romantic and sexual denseness.

“So what do you think, Castro?” Boimler asked, and she felt her heart skip a beat when he said her name. “Is 7.3% adjusted too high?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” she said quickly. “I think it’s just right.” She forced herself out of a fantasy involving Boimler with a large pumpkin and whipped cream.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Mariner said, not even pretending to pay attention. She grabbed hold of the nozzle, stuck it in her mouth, and squeezed the button. She began drinking.

Mariner was disgusting, and she’d always been disgusting, even before she let herself go and started craving humanoid flesh. She was crass, and rude, and tactless. It would take a while for the water to even fill the base of her stretched-out stomach. There she was, chugging away, as if this was one of those stupid pie-eating contests or like she was holding a beer bong. She’d managed to beat Ransom at the round-for-round drink-off, well, at least she had been winning until somebody ratted them out to the Captain and then they’d all gotten in trouble.

Mariner’s cheeks bulged as the water gushed in, and she steadily swallowed. Her stomach slowly swelled, the lax chains stretched across it slowly tightening as she expanded, sloshing and gurgling. Her belly stretched out an extra foot in all directions, then two feet, pushing back the table and her friends with the force of its growth.

Mariner finally turned it off and let it fall out of her mouth, still dribbling. The bartender frowned as she took it back and wiped it down with soap and water.

“UWOOOARP, ahh,” Mariner said, patting her sloshy belly. “Very refreshing.”

She turned over and grinned at Tendi. “Hey cutie, are you single?”

“Of course not,” Tendi said, giggling in between bites of her fried cheese curds.

Mariner’s eyes went wide and she began to sniffle.

“No, no, it’s okay!” Tendi said hurriedly. “I’m *your* girlfriend remember? And even if I wasn’t, I’m polyamorous.”

Mariner leaned over. “You sure? You’re *BELCH* not just saying that *BURP* to spare my feelings?”

Tendi leaned over and kissed Mariner on her side-rolls. “Positive. You’re mine and I’m yours, babe.”

Mariner heaved her belly. “How do you like that, huh, you stupid rapist?” Her stomach made a lot of loud bubbling noises, but whether that was from the seltzer or its occupant was unclear. Mariner crossed her eyes and let loose another hair-ruffling belch.

*She doesn’t even say Excuse Me,* Castro thought. There she was, covered in stretch marks and scars, and she didn’t even try to hide them. Mariner positively reveled in violating the norms of officer behavior and good taste. Castro took a bite of deep-fried scorpion-like creature. It was nice this planet had some kind of native arachnid, but what she could really go for right now was some good old homestyle fried tarantulas.

“Okay, those drinks and the *UUUUURRP* roofie are going shtraight through me,” Mariner said. “I gotta go leak a *BUURP* whiz, whiz a take, I mean, *BELCH* go pee.” She shoved the table backwards, spilling some drinks and squashing her friends, then rose to her feet, belly sloshing and swaying. “Oopsh. Shorry,” she said. “Waiter, can wOORP, can we get a few replacement drinksh?” Mariner said, waving to attract attention and knocking Boimler’s vodka tonic into his lap in the process.

“Do you think she’ll notice if we swap her drinks with flavor syrup?” Boimler whispered. “I haven’t seen her on a bender like this in months.”

“I heard that, and yes, I *BUUUURP* will notice,” Mariner called over her shoulder. While she wasn’t looking where she was going, she knocked one of the servers to the floor with her belly, sending the tray clattering to a messy oblivion.

“Whoopsh! Sorry dude,” Mariner said, reaching down to help him upright. “I shoulda been looking, er, watching where I wash going.”

“Forgive me, your holy highness!” the waiter said, his wings fluttering as he cringed.

“No, dude, it’s okay!” Mariner said quickly. “Here, gimme that rag, I’ll help clean up my mess.”

“Oh no, your holy highness! If I let the god-queen reduce herself to cleaning spilled drinks and broken glass I could never forgive myself!” he said, still kneeling in the spreading puddle.

“If you’re sure. Just, be careful, alright?” Mariner said, patting him on the back so hard he almost lost his balance.

“Yes, your holy highness. Thank you, your holy highness!” the man said, clasping his hands together before getting to work.

Mariner looked back at him for a moment, sighed, and then resumed her progress towards the restrooms.

“Scuse me, *BUUWOARP*, pardon me, god-queen coming through in a *HUWOORP* hurry,” Mariner said, trying not to knock anyone else over with her giant, bloated, jiggling belly. (She was not entirely successful in that attempt). Finally, Mariner reached the bathroom doors, and was proud of herself for remembering to knock before entering. She managed to find an unoccupied restroom on the third attempt, and then squeezed herself through the doors, letting loose a few reverberating belches in the process.

While Mariner was relieving herself, a young man sidled up to Castro. He was tall and thin, with big wings and a deep blue skin tone, along with bright ruby eyes. He had a glowing green drink in one hand and a fizzy clear one in the other with a slice of sour pink fruit.

“You like vodka tonics, right?” he said, smiling nervously. This one didn’t have fangs.

“Yeah,” she said, hesitantly taking the glass. “What drink have you got there?”

“Oh, this is a Naman’s Fizzer,” he said. “It’s made from farafa fruit wine, Winter Root Extract, and Beetle Liqueur from honeypot beetles fed a special diet. The minerals in the Beetle Liqueur interact with the acids in the farafa fruit wine to produce a mild phosphorescence,” he explained.

“Ooh, that sounds interesting,” Tendi said, pulling out her tricorder. “I just love science.”

“That reminds me, Marin-I mean, the god-queen still hasn’t appointed a minister of science and technology yet,” Rutherford said.

Castro really hoped that Tendi wouldn’t drag this guy’s attention away from her, but thankfully he seemed to still be focused on her. She relaxed a little and raised the vodka tonic to her lips, tasting it gingerly. There was no hint of salty flavor. She leaned back and took a big gulp.

“So, what do you do with your time?” Castro asked.

“Oh, I work for an insurance company as a claims adjuster,” he said proudly. “I make five figures a year.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Castro said. She had no idea what any of that meant, nor was she terribly interested in figuring out. When she asked most people what they were doing with their time, they told her about a book they were reading, or some creative endeavor, or a science project, or even their attempts to reconnect with their estranged father, but she supposed that, in a capitalistic society, people largely defined themselves through the income-generating activities that took up most of their time and energy.

He looked back and forth, then leaned in close to her, as if confiding a secret.

“You know, I don’t have a problem with thin women,” he said, in what he clearly thought was a seductive tone.

“Oh. Thanks?” she said. She’d dated a lot of people, and been hit on by even more, but she couldn’t remember the last time somebody had acted as if they were doing her a favor by being attracted to her body type. Was this what life was like for fat women? She instantly squashed the thought and shoved it under the rug of her mind. To aid in this endeavor, she finished off her vodka tonic. Fortunately, at this point, the waiter arrived with her fried honeypot beetle. She popped it into her mouth and crunched it up, tasting the sweet and sour liquor with just a hint of bitterness on top of the normal alcoholic bite. It contrasted nicely with the crunchy fried bug.

The man frowned at her. “I thought skinny women liked to eat salads and stuff.”

Castro frowned back. “Well, I eat salads sometime. Like, I enjoy a good caesar salad, or a grilled chicken salad with raspberry vinagrette dressing and goat cheese, but I guess you guys don’t have those here.”

The man took a sip of his Naman’s Fizzer. “But like, you still exercise, right?”

“Um, yeah? I mean, don’t most people?” Castro said, with an awkward little laugh.

He leaned in close and his red eyes lit up. “What kind of exercise do you do?”

“Uh, mostly yoga and aerobics. Yoga’s like, a kind of sustained stretching activity,” she said, realizing the universal translator might not be able to handle the nuances of it.

He nodded eagerly. “That’s cool. Women who exercise are so hot.”

Castro looked at her empty glass. Sure, that was always the implication, but hearing it spelled out that way made her feel kind of...odd. Sure, she worked out and was proud of her thinness, but this guy made it sound like it was some kind of niche sexual deviance. And she liked salads well enough, but she couldn’t see eating one as something she’d do to attract sexual partners.

Mariner threw back the doors of the restroom, accidentally giving somebody who was checking to see if it was available a bloody nose, but she wobbled out without noticing it.

“Ah, that feels *BUUURP* so much better,” Mariner slurred. “But now I’m r-OURP ready for a refill!”

The crowd hurried to part around her, but a few were too slow. She tried not to barge into them, but she was a little unsteady on her feet. And that was it. She was drunk. Truly, happily, drunk. She was so drunk that she couldn’t remember the Dominion war, couldn’t hear her boyfriend’s dying gurgles, couldn’t think of what Sito’s final moments must have been like. She was just drunk and happy.

Mariner sized up the dudes on offer. All of them looked immanently edible, but she tried to ignore that. Most of them were twinkish, but there were a few muscle guys among them. One of them was topless and nearly hairless, although his chest was crisscrossed with shallow scars. He had an eyepatch and tight dreads, with deep cerulean blue skin and large wings. His one exposed eye was a deep purple.

“Hey there, cutie,” Mariner said.

A number of men turned their heads inquisitively. Mariner stepped up to the handsome guy, unconsciously pinning him against the wall with her voluminous belly.

His wings fluttered involuntarily, and he looked up into her eyes with a mixture of nervousness and excitement.

“Yes, your holy highness?”

“Hey, I’m uh, *UWOORP*, trying to hit on you,” Mariner slurred. “But uh, *BELCH* I’m kinda drunk, and roofied, so *URP* I may be a little s-sloppy.” She waggled her eyebrows and leaned forward, forcing him further up the wall with her bloated midsection. The pressure caused her to let loose with another belch that flattened his hair and ruffled his wings.

“Really?” he said, blushing a little and looking down to her massively distended belly. “You’re not, like, just flirting with me before you eat me?”

At that, Mariner looked away, blushing. “Nah man. You’re hot. I mean, I won’t lie and say you don’t look very edible, but I’m interested in getting you into my coochie, not my stomach.”

She waved at her concubines. “Hey, anyone else want a turn with this dude? I mean, if he’s okay with it?”

“Oh, of course, your holy highness,” he said, shifting from indigo to purple. “I mean, if you don’t mind, I’m uh...I’m more than willing to accommodate everyone.”

“Cool!” Mariner said. She pressed up closer, pressing him against the wall. She tried to narrow her eyes seductively, but the effect was ruined by another huge, nasty belch. “BRAAAWP! ‘Scuse me,” she said, with a little drunken giggle. She could feel his erections rising up against her belly fat. Then she remembered that she had him pressed against the wall of the building, and she backed up a little, allowing him to slide back to the floor. “I get first crack, though.”

“Of course, your holy highness,” he said.

Mariner dragged him into the nearest bathroom, which was thankfully empty at the time. She tugged down her cargo pants and her red boxers in a quick series of practiced motions. She licked her lips and rubbed her distended tummy as she watched him struggle out of his kilt.

“So, I’ve gotta ask, are *BUUURP* there any kinks you *BELCH* want me to indulge?” Mariner asked, sizing up his naked body, complete with a pair of eight-inch erections.

“Simply being in your presence is excitement enough,” he said piously.

“You sure, dude? I mean, this is your magic moment. Anything you want, I’m game to try,” Mariner said, leaning in close. “I mean, I’ll at least give it a shot even if I can’t promise anything.”

He blushed even harder, his face looking like a boysenberry, and he finally admitted. “I want somebody to bite me, and burp while kissing me.”

Mariner scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Okay, burping I can *BELCH* do, obviously. I’m afraid I can’t really get a bite in without swallowing you whole, though. Is that okay?” Mariner asked, brushing back his hair from his sweating face. He nodded affirmation.

Mariner leaned in close, grabbed a dick with each hand, and clenched her stomach muscles. She felt it brewing up inside her, with all the seltzer and the rapist’s remains. Mariner opened her mouth and let loose a blast of gas that blew back his hair and forced him to close his eyes.

“You like that, you weird little freak?” Mariner teased.

“Y-yes, your holy highness,” the Bromothian man moaned.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“Vikiv, your holy highness,” he whispered.

“Cute. I’m Mariner, by the way,” she said. She let go of his dicks and spread her pussy open with one hand. “Now, use both of those dicks to penetrate each of my holes.”

“Yes, your holy highness,” he said, his voice trembling. He was unable to believe his own luck.

Mariner waited as he came to her, sliding his members in. His second dick was almost lost in the meat of her ass, but he finally managed to slide it up inside her asshole without slipping the other one out of her pussy. She was in ecstasy as he began thrusting.

“You’re a good subject,” Mariner moaned. “And a faithful worshipper.”

“Y-yes, your h-holy highness,” Vikiv moaned, thrusting away as hard as he could. Both of the orifices clenched around his members, and he was transported by the excitement of it. This was better than grinding against an ovipositor. This was a level of pleasure he had never known before. He had seen images of the previous god-queen, with her “pussy” spread wide open, but he’d never imagined how delightful it could be to interlock his parts with that kind of hole. He tried to hold back. He tried to restrain himself. He failed. Before he knew it, Vikiv was gushing gouts of semen into the twin openings of pussy and butthole.

“I’m...sorry, your holy highness. I tried to hold back,” he begged, aware that his life was now forfeit but unable to care about it in the heat of the afterglow.

“Hey dude, it’s cool. Just make sure you finish me off. And as soon as you recover, I’ll pass you on to my other partners, and you can start pleasuring them,” Mariner the god-queen said.

“Really? You’re not going to eat me for cumming before you?” he gasped out.

“Of course *BURP* not,” Mariner said, laughing as she pulled up from his flaccid penises. “I’ve still got some loaded varnatham-root fries and pig wings waiting. No, just finish me off and I’ll be good.”

Mariner the god-queen guided his hand to her sensitive spots, and he was able to work them after a few false starts. Before he knew it, his deity had squirted onto his arm with her love-juices and slumped back against the cold bathroom wall.

“Okay, gimme a sex, I mean, sec, heheheh, and I’ll go grab a concubine for you to fuck,” Mariner the god-queen said. She struggled upright, despite her heavy inebriation and the light of afterglow in her.

She grabbed hold of Jakaj. “Hey, dude, you’re bishekshual, right?”

Jakaj blushed. “I mean, I haven’t really done anything with other men before, but I’ve always wanted to try--”

“Super! Go suck this guy off or fuck him up the ass or whatever,” Mariner said, shoving him into the bathroom. “I mean, if you’re okay with that. If not just tap out and say the safeword.”

Vikiv looked up at the well-muscled, hairy, powerful man before him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jakaj said, also blushing. “Do you mind if I suck you off a bit?”

“No, not at all,” Vikiv said, standing up, already regenerating with excitement.

Mariner waddled out of the bathroom, swaying and sloshing. By now, she was pretty sure the rapist was fully broken down into a slurry of proteins inside her. She thumped her stomach, just to check, but the only result was dislodging another belch that rattled the glasses. She quickly planted herself between Boimler and Rutherford.

Mariner became aware something was wrong when she heard a yelp, quickly turning into a delighted moan.

“Uh, Mariner?” Boimler said. “You may want to get up.”

Mariner struggled to her drunken feet again. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay,” Tendi said, in a muffled voice. “Really, I’m good.” Mariner spun around, looking for Tendi, but she couldn’t spot her. Her seat was empty.

“Tendi’s stuck in your butt!” Rutherford blurted out.

Mariner clenched her buttocks and felt something stuck up in her crack. “Oh. Oh damn, sorry Tendi!” Mariner said.

“Don’t worry about me,” Tendi said, her voice a little tight. Mariner reached back and dislodged her girlfriend from the chasm between her ass cheeks.

“Maybe we should go back home,” Boimler said, putting a hand on Mariner’s arm.

“Nah, man. I still haven’t had all their local ciders and cocktails,” Mariner said, petulantly. “Plus I wanna see how many of my bisexual concubines this new guy can satisfy tonight.”

Boimler sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Yes, your holy highness.”

Chapter Text

“Good morning, your holy highness,” the grand vizier Gorog said.

“Not so loud!” Mariner said, clutching her head. She was no stranger to hangovers, but this was an especially bad one. Her mouth tasted as though a sick tribble had used it as a toilet and then later as a mausoleum. Her skull felt as though honey badgers were hate-fucking inside it. Her recently-emptied stomach ached and gurgled, demanding new food while also threatening to force up the last of her bile. Against all laws of human biology, her hair ached and her toenails throbbed.

“Your bitters and soda, your holy highness,” Zovoz said, stepping forward with a glass carved from a single massive chunk of amethyst.

Mariner sipped it gingerly, sighed, and then chugged the rest. She followed it up with the sourest, foulest-tasting burp she could remember ever experiencing. “Please distribute more of this to anyone else who needs it. I’m sure there’s a few cooks, courtiers and concubines who will be suffering similarly. In fact, send some of it down to the kitchens first. Those hard-working folks deserve it the most.”

“Oh, I’ve already set up a barrel of bitters and soda in the kitchen for the castle staff, as per your instructions last night before you went to bed, along with the other restoratives” Zovoz the cup-bearer said.

Mariner sighed. “Oh, right. I forgot. That’s one less thing to deal with then.”

“Great!” Boimler said, running up to her with a stack of papers, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “Now, *your holy highness*, I’ve got an exciting new plan for capital gains taxes and commercial building codes that--”

Mariner groaned and held up a hand in protest.

“Hang on, dude. I’ve only got the first hangover cure down. That one’s more to settle the stomach and help brace me for the other hangover cures.” Mariner covered her mouth and struggled with another burp that made her regret her life choices. Her cup-bearer handed her a clear crystal glass, chilled, with a raw egg with an unbroken yolk, hot sauce, salt, bark shavings from a local tree that tasted a bit like pepper and had mild analgesic properties, and the closest thing they could get to Worchestershire Sauce. She knocked back the improvised prairie oyster in a single gulp, shuddered, and then relaxed a little as her symptoms began to recede.

“Okay, gonna let that sit for a few minutes and then it’s time for the corpse revivers*. Why don’t you make some more of those for everyone who needs them?” Mariner said.

Zovoz bowed and started pulling chilled glasses out of the cooler along with a carton of eggs from the four-winged chicken-like animals, carefully adding the ingredients one at a time.

The minister of finance raised a hand, along with Rutherford, the skinny green-eyed Bromothian woman that Rutherford had hooked up with at the last bar, Raithia, Tendi, Aga, and the minister of agriculture.

“Okay, I’ll take this time to review my footnotes and double-check my figures,” Boimler said cheerfully, heading back to his desk and taking out a pen.

“How is he so...perky?” Rutherford moaned to Tendi.

“We were so busy making sure he stayed hydrated and paced himself that we forgot to take care of ourselves,” Tendi replied.

Mariner wanted to come up with a really biting put-down for her ridiculously fresh-faced friend, but her head was still throbbing too hard for her to think properly, so she settled for blearily glaring at him.

After checking the clock a few times, Boimler straightened out his papers, stood up, and cleared his throat.

“Now, if we could talk about this capital gains tax, I think I’ve come up with a pretty tight plan to close the existing loopholes and prevent landlords from--”

“Excuse me,” the minister of culture said, stepping up in front of Boimler, unconsciously spreading her wings and straightening her posture to appear larger. “But we really need to talk about damage control from last night.”

“Damage control?” Mariner asked, tilting her head, while Boimler frowned at the minister of culture. Mariner’s cup bearer brought her a corpse reviver and she gratefully knocked it back, managing to take the mixture of strong herbal liquors without so much as a cough.

“Yes. We did our best to keep the official press away from last night’s, er, escapades, but a few rogue journalists have recorded the events, and word among our informant network is that the rebel papers and foreign news sources are publishing it. We’ve even started hearing about it on the foreign news radio. We need to seize control of the narrative and stop any dangerous facts from changing the tide of public opinion.”

“Um, what do you mean by ‘rogue journalists’?” Mariner said.

“Journalists who aren’t under the control of the Royal Board of Press and Media, your holy highness” the minister of culture explained patiently.

Mariner pinched the bridge of her nose. “I think I already know the answer here, but what does the Royal Board of Press and Media do, exactly?”

“Well, your holy highness, they ensure that journalism and popular media are held to certain basic standards. They preserve accuracy in reporting and censor any material that is untruthful, blasphemous, seditious, or otherwise consisting of dangerous ideas.”

“And there it is,” Mariner said with a sigh. “Yeah, we’re not doing that anymore.”

The courtiers responded with the expected gasps and shocked expressions. Mariner rolled her eyes.

“But your holy highness, what if people report false information?” the minister of agriculture said.

“Then we publish the right stuff in the official state news. By the way, you guys need to start breeding spicier plants. The hot wings on this planet are a huge disappointment. Next question,” Mariner said in a bored voice.

“But what if people publish blasphemous material, things that question your godhood and the moral principles this nation holds dear?”

“Then let them blaspheme,” Mariner said, waving to Zovoz to get another corpse reviver and taking a sip. “I’m not frickin Tinkerbell. I’m not going to disappear if people stop believing in me. I can still heal the sick, control the weather, move matter instantaneously across vast distances, and all that jazz. If people question my godhood the worst that happens is a few more people don’t show up at church and they end up looking silly the next time I make a thunderstorm appear with a snap of my fingers. As for the moral values our nation holds dear, I’m pretty sure actual moral values can stand up to a few people printing paper that says ‘nuh-uh’. If people really care about them, they’ll stick to them despite questions being raised, and it’s not like I don’t have the full power of legislative control to enforce nationwide moral behavior or whatever.”

“What will you do when seditious and pro-rebellion sentiments are disseminated amongst the masses? What if they cause the peasants to rise up against the duly constituted government authority?” the minister of finance said, clutching her amber necklace**.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure we had rebels back while there was full government censorship, so we’re always gonna have rebels. I’m gonna keep violent uprising to a minimum with good government and popular policies, not by making anyone who doesn’t kiss my ass shut up.”

“But without censorship, impressionable young men could get dangerous ideas and act out immoral fantasies normalized by works that romanticize abuse and toxic behavior!” the grand vizier said.

“We’re literally right here,” Boimler said.

“Pretty sure grown-ass men can tell the difference between fantasy and reality,” Rutherford said.

Even the head pastor turned to give the grand vizier Gorog the stink-eye.

“Yeah, I’m letting my associates just remind you why that’s fucking stupid,” Mariner said, finishing her corpse reviver. Her stomach roared like a bear.

Mariner turned on the intercom. “Hey, I know a lot of you are hungover too, but could y’all whip me up some, I dunno, cheese babies and ham dancers? No, I don’t know what those actually are, but they sound like the kind of greasy food I need to help recover from this, especially since this planet doesn’t have black coffee. Just try to invent something that fits the profile, okay?” She rubbed her still-aching forehead and wondered if Castro would consider the invention of pizza a form of prime-directive-violating cross-cultural contamination. After all, they had cheese, and grain (even if it wasn’t wheat) and some surprisingly tomato-like fruits (even if they tasted minty in addition to the normal tomato flavors).

“So, what is this big narrative that you guys want to wrestle control over?” Mariner asked.

“Well,” the minister of culture said carefully, “there are certain, um, facets of the past event that might benefit from some more creative reporting, to avoid the illusion of you being represented in a poor light.”

“Such as? Come on, people, I need specifics,” Mariner said, impatiently.

“Your holy highness, you got so drunk that you tried to befriend a strange horse, then you got pissed off because it wouldn’t do what you asked it to do, and then you fought it!” Boimler shouted.

“Yeah...and won!” Mariner said. “Is that really a narrative that needs covering up?”

The various ministers and grand vizier all avoided her gaze.

“You kind of forgot we were girlfriends and cried about it,” Tendi said, in as gentle a tone as she could muster.

“Okay, but that was kind of funny in hindsight,” Mariner said, blushing.

“We don’t want ‘funny’ moments from our ruling divine monarch, your holy highness!” Castro said in exasperation, before immediately flinching as Mariner looked at her.

“Honestly, I think my reputation will survive the damage,” Mariner said. “I mean, how high am I ranking in the polls?”

Everyone looked at the grand vizier Gorog.

“Well, um, we haven’t actually collected any popularity polls yet. Generally we gauged how well things were going by the amount of internal rebellion.”

“Well then, with only one assassination attempt and no internal rebellions, I’d say things are going pretty well,” Mariner said, thumping her belly and causing it to sway. Her stomach growled. “Man, I hope the staff are creative enough to invent ham dancers soon. I figure they’d take less time than the cheese babies.”

There were some stares, moments of awkward silence, and a few coughs.

“Well, when you put it like that, I suppose it makes sense,” Rutherford said.

“Still, we should probably get some feedback mechanisms in place for the population,” Castro said thoughtfully. “Opinion polls, official petitions, things like that. I mean, I assume you have a spy network already, but that can only really pick up anecdotal evidence. It’s not as good for looking at large-scale demographic triends.”

The grand vizier nodded her head, either confirming the existence of a spy network or agreeing with Castro’s points, maybe both.

“Yeah, okay, I can get on board with that,” Mariner said, nodding as her stomach continued to complain. She really hoped that Nimin wasn’t going to show up again and try to seduce her into eating him. If he did that, well…

Her stomach gurgled and almost everyone in the room looked uncomfortable.

“In hindsight, maybe I should have ordered breakfast before I called this meeting to order,” Mariner murmured, blushing a little.

“So, you still want to get out an official narrative,” Castro said, making sure she was out of grabbing range. “Just something to tell the press.”

“I mean, what kind of narrative do I need?” Mariner asked. “Sometimes the god-queen likes to go party and have fun. Didn’t my digestible predecessor have some kind of fun?”

“Those were mostly private events held within the castle grounds,” the minister of culture said carefully.

“Okay, so here’s the official story,” Castro said thoughtfully. “You wanted to go out and get to know the people better, while experiencing the local culture and sampling popular music for the running up to the coronation festival. You want to make sure you don’t become alienated to your subjects. The god-queen wants to make herself available to the people and understand the lives of commoners.”

The ministers began nodding along as Castro spoke.

Mariner wanted to point out that this was basically what she already said, but restrained herself. She didn’t want to get into any fights until her food arrived.

“What are we going to do about the fight with the horse though?” Boimler brought up.

“The god-queen measured her strength against the beasts of the field, and was not found wanting” Tendi said smoothly.

This one brought more murmurs of approval.

“And ordering one of everything on each menu?” Gorog the grand vizier said hesitantly.

“Another part of getting familiar with local tastes and culture,” Castro said, “as well as demonstrating her divine alcohol tolerance and appetite.”

There were more nods of approval.

“Okay, so how’s that for control of the narrative?” Mariner said. “May as well call a press conference as soon possible and get out ahead of it.”

“Maybe not quite as soon as possible, your holy highness” Boimler suggested nervously. “You might want to run over your speech and talking points first, to make sure.”

“Boimler, this is easy stuff, I’m not gonna get tripped up by a few gotcha questions from friendly media. This is a royal speech to my worshippers, not Old Earth trivia night,” Mariner said, the annoyance at his uptight and rigid approach almost distracting her from the hunger pangs. She still had the hot sauce on hand…

“I’m just saying, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. You never know until you’re going up in front of a massive crowd, and it will be a massive crowd even if you can’t see them right now, your holy highness,” Boimler said, folding his arms and refusing to be cowed.

“I find myself in agreement with Advisor Boimler, your holy highness,” Grand Vizier Gorog said as she sidled over. “After all, with all due respect, we, err, it may be more prudent to avoid a repeat of the most recent royal radio address from your holy highness. Perhaps something more...carefully phrased, might better appeal to the masses, with all credit to your celestial wisdom. I quite understand your desire to be, hm, more approachable to your subjects, but I believe there is precedent for a certain tone of formal royal communications that our subjects and worshippers find, well, a little more familiar and reassuring.” Her cringing posture, her wings folded tightly to the sides, all of her body language screamed “please don’t hate me for this”, with a back note of “please believe me or we will have hell to pay and it’s going to hit me first.” Mariner relented. She didn’t have a heart of stone.

“Okay, have your nerds write up a decent script and get me some cliff notes on cue cards or whatever. I’ll give it a rundown before I try to approach the press outlets.”

“If we time it right, we should still be in time for the evening edition, maybe even the afternoon edition if you can memorize your lines quickly,” the minister of culture said.

Mariner chose not to reveal that her college drama teacher had called her “proof that acting isn’t for everyone,” especially when it came to long monologues. After all, she’d gone on stage at talent night, and this time she knew there wouldn’t be some judgy little aspiring art critic in the back making notes on everything to post an anonymous review on the Cerritos intranet that left her using the old “going to snort cocaine in the bathroom” excuse to cover up her crying in a stall. The worst they could do was assassinate or overthrow her. They wouldn’t make her feel...*vulnerable*. She shuddered, setting her flesh jiggling.

Finally, at long last, the royal chamber doors swung open to present a servant, thankfully not Nimin, rolling out a covered plate on a trolley.

“Alright!” Mariner said, rubbing her hands together and licking her lips. “Finally time for a breakfast that’ll sponge up all this nasty bile.”

The servant removed the cover and what was presented indeed looked ham-like. It consisted of long sausages wrapped in ribbon-thin cold cuts, lightly breaded and cooked with oil. Mariner picked up the first one and chewed it with unusual slowness.

“Perfect. That’s exactly how a ham dancer should taste. Make sure whichever member of the kitchen staff came up with these goes down in the history books as a genius.” She shoveled the rest of it down her piehole, pausing only to take short sips of corpse reviver, then punctuated the gluttony with a reverberating burp.

“Okay, at least that’s taken the edge off,” Mariner said, not clarifying whether she meant her hangover or her hunger. “Now, grand vizier, go like, get the finest script writers to write me a good speech, and Boimler, you come up with some note cards with all the boring talking points on them.”

“On it, *your holy highness,*” Boimler said, pulling off a snappy-yet-sarcastic salute. Mariner rolled her eyes. “And maybe we could also go over the proposed liquor tax again? I’ve been taking feedback from local vendors and the minister of finance and I’ve reconsidered a few exemption clauses.”

“Please, I don’t even want to hear the word ‘liquor’ for a week,” Mariner groaned, while downing another mouthful of corpse reviver. “I’ll tackle that one when I’m good and ready. First I’ve got the speech and press interviews to get through.”

*One of the many constants that turned up in alcohol-consuming planets across the galaxy was the trend of having an alcohol-heavy hangover remedy called a “corpse reviver” in the native language, a development which has been of much interest to xeno-anthropologists and philosophers.
**Nothing akin to oysters had evolved on Bromothia, so there the planet had no pearls.

Chapter Text

“Even so, I have a hard time believing that the new god-queen goes ‘clubbing’ like some common buck,” Hranak, T’abagail’s brother said.

“No, really! I heard it on the royal news announcement, and if you can’t trust that, what can you trust?” T’abagail said.

Hranak remained silent, but meaningfully so, choosing to focus on his embroidery. It was going to depict a gryphon resting under the shade of a farafa fruit tree.

“Okay, so maybe sometimes the official line puts a bit of spin on it, but what benefit could they possibly have from portraying the new god-queen this way?” T’abagail said, grabbing one of the iced varnatham-root flavored cookies from the tray between them. “And you have to admit, it’s a bit more...on message than the previous announcement.”

Hranak snorted as he stabbed the textile on his lap with a deep purple thread.

“They’re probably trying to make her appear more relatable, but I guarantee you the whole thing is a great big PR stunt," he said.

T’abagail frowned and put down her cup of tisane, along with the cookie.

“Now look here. I’ve actually *met* the current god-queen, when she was pretending to be a humble mortal, and she was perfectly civil to me. She even politely steered the conversation away from sensitive topics whenever things got too close to the war. I think it’s well within the realm of possibility that she seems relatable to her subjects because she *is* a relatable, caring, and down-to-earth person, for all that she rules from a castle and wields the power to reshape the sky. You can doubt her divinity all you want in this house, I won’t object to that or rat you out, but when you say she’s just putting on a duplicitous performance, you are speaking about things you know *nothing* about.”

Hranak stared at her, his jaw hanging open. He closed it, and then rallied.

“You know the last god-queen--” he began.

“Yes, ate the village elder’s daughter, after she’d proposed to you. And then the new god-queen ate Her. So maybe you should stop putting the onus for your grief and pain on people who have nothing to do with it!”

Hranak recoiled as if slapped. He glared at her, purple eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t have the power to save her. None of us did. But it’s a new era, and it’s time to let go,” T’abagail said, as gently as she could.

“I’ll try,” Hranak said, bitterly, and he went back to stabbing his embroidery.

“I’ll be here, when you’re ready,” T’abagail said, before turning the radio on and tuning it to her favorite classical music station. Then she pulled out her favorite pocket handkerchief and handed it to Hranak before returning to her seat.

***

“Extra, extra, read all about it! So-called God-Queen of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy enacts tour of wicked debauchery, culminating in the unceremonious devouring of another innocent subject!” shouted a skinny little papergirl in Justice City, at the corner of Balvlab Street and Reason Avenue.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to read that rag,” Tothtot said to her friend, Volklov.

Volklov shrugged, blushing a little. “It’s not that bad. I mean, they do a pretty decent sports page and stock coverage.”

“They platformed a neo-Vulkist conspiracy theorist who blamed the Green Fever epidemics on Varkathian poisoners, and the entire article was about how ‘dapper’ she looked and how ‘relatable’ she was supposed to be!”

“Okay, so maybe they have a few bad op-eds and think pieces,” Volklov admitted. “That doesn’t mean the entire newspaper is completely worthless. The entire ‘Divine and Edacious Phagocracy’ is pretty decadent and corrupt, regardless of whether it’s Her or the new Mariner person.”

“Do you even know what the word ‘decadent’ means? Like, can you define it? Can you use it in a sentence you didn’t parrot from some gal you met in a pub?” Tothtot said archly as she kicked a soda can out of her path.

“You just like her because she’s pushing your radical abolitionist agenda,” Volklov muttered, glaring at a feral gryphon picking through the trash.

“You bet I like her because of that,” Tothtot. “Incrimentalism isn’t going to get the job done. You talk about giving slaves limited rights and laws to prevent abuses, but we wouldn’t even need any of that if we just got rid of the entire institution of slavery! It’s only important to the underpopulated southern regions anyway, and even there only a tiny fraction of the super-wealthy are slave owners.”

“Yeah well, your radical agenda has brought the entire parliamentary body to a standstill! They haven’t passed any new laws for days because they’re too caught up arguing over the civil liberties of non-citizens to actually run the government,” Volklov said, picking up her pack and squeezing the newspaper in her right hand.

“That sucks, but it’s still important, and it doesn’t change my mind about abolition or about the new god-queen. She hasn’t just pressured the government into an abolitionist direction. She’s declared a ceasefire, lifted some of the sanctions, started sharing magical medicine, and even changed the weather to be more favorable to staple crops! What more do you want from a foreign leader?” Tothtot demanded.

“Maybe she could stop, you know, eating innocent people?” Volklov said, scanning some of the text underneath the headline as they walked.

“Hardly innocent,” Tothtot said. “The woman drugged a man in a bar and tried to take him home to rape him!”

“Well that’s pretty convenient timing,” Volklov said.

“You’re just saying that because you don’t have a decent response,” Tothtot said. “Really, is it that hard to believe a rapist tried to assault a man at a bar? You’re the one who’s always telling men to dress conservatively and keep an eye on their drinks and you think that sounds unlikely?”

Volklov struggled to come up with a response. “I still don’t think she’s the new supreme god.”

“Do you have a better explanation for how she can control the weather, transport matter, and heal people, or do any of those other amazing things?”

“Just because I don’t have a rational explanation, doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist,” Volklov said firmly.

“Okay, fair. But I still think she’s got some decent policies,” Tothtot said. “Just as long as you’re not one of those fanatics who believe the god-queen is an evil spirit.”

***

The whistle blew. The factory workers pulled off their gloves and lined up for the canteen.

Boxob and W’ilma sat down next to each other at a table in the farthest corner. Nobody else approached them.

“What’d you get today?” Boxob asked.

“Egg noodles with purple sauce. How about you?” W’ilma asked.

“I brought in some ham and cheese sandwiches from home,” Boxob said. “Don’t really care much for the canteen selection.”

“Did your husband make those for you?” W’ilma asked, intrigued.

“Hon, I may not be a gourmet chef, but I still know how to make sandwiches, just like I know how to tie my shoes and wipe my ass. It’s just a thing that grown adults know how to do for themselves,” Boxob said.

“Okay, sheesh. I didn’t mean anything by it,” W’ilma said, winding up a forkful of noodles.

They both looked around to make sure nobody was within listening distance, especially the boss.

“So, what do you think of this new ‘god-queen’?” W’ilma said, before cramming the noodles into her mouth. She was a portly woman, and proud of the fat that concealed her worker’s muscles, so she always made sure to get big portions when she could afford it, even if it wasn’t the tastiest food available.

“Eh, one powerful evil spirit is very much like another,” Boxob said, taking a big bite of her sandwich. She was mannishly thin, and despite her best efforts never managed to put on any weight, so she just ate what she wanted.

“You really think Mariner is another evil spirit? I mean, she overthrew the evil god-queen, she enacted the universal food stamps, she declared ceasefire with the other nations, and she even made worship of the Three legal again! Does that seem like the actions of an evil spirit dedicated to overthrowing the true gods?”

“It is in the nature of evil to be deceptive and treacherous,” Boxob quoted piously. “Evil is also, ultimately, self-defeating. That is why the evil spirits will never truly overthrow the true gods. They outnumber them, but they fight amongst themselves rather than uniting under a single cause, because they are incapable of true harmony.”

“Okay, but Mariner’s actions seem pretty harmonious to me,” W’ilma said.

Boxob chewed on her sandwich and took a gulp of tisane from her thermos while she tried to think of a rebuttal to that.

“You don’t have to recognize her as a god to see that she’s doing good in this nation. And frankly, I know a lot of people who would do a much worse job as queen of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy.”

***
Maklkam knelt down with the rest of the congregation and began to pray silently. He had dark blue skin that almost verged on indigo, well-defined muscles from years of working on the docks, and reddish-purple eyes.

He prayed for those who hunger, for those facing famine in the Western subcontinent, for those outside of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner who could not afford food because they didn’t have access to the nation’s universal food stamp program.

He prayed for those who lived in poverty, who struggled to find work, for those who didn’t have a roof over their head.

He prayed for the soldiers and veterans of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner, that they might find peace within themselves when their outward battles were done, especially his aunt who had lost half her face in the southern campaign.

He prayed for all these things to Mariner, the new god-queen. He had prayed for the same things to the previous god-queen, as had his parents, and their parents before them.

That was the strange thing. The god-queen had been the center of their faith for generations, and now...now She was gone, eaten by a new god-queen. What did that mean for all the prayers She had answered, and left unanswered? What did that mean for the hymns they had sung? What did that mean for the sacrifices they had made, for his father who had gone to satisfy Her appetite?

In a way, of course, there was continuity. All those sacrifices had become part of the god-queen, and now, by extension, they were part of the new god-queen, Mariner.

This new “Mariner” was divine, just as surely as the previous god-queen had been divine. She could heal the sick, and control the weather, and transport matter across vast distances, just as She had done.

But what did that mean, theologically? Were there an entire race of gods amongst the heavens? Would another one of them come, someday, to usurp Mariner? After all, She had declared Herself supreme among the world, and then She had been overthrown and devoured. What did that mean for the prayers he was saying now? What would it mean for the prayers his descendants said then?

Maklkam wanted to ask the pastor for advice, but he suspected he already knew what answer she would give. Faith is what she would say. Faith was what sustains us, unlike the primitive superstitions that flourished before She arrived. While superstitious barbarism focused on orthopraxy and ritual, true religion focused on orthodoxy and belief. It was belief in the divinity of the god-queen, belief in her power over womankind and nature, belief in her goodness and righteousness. When all other lights went out, faith would sustain us.

Maklkam prayed for his faith to grow stronger, and his doubts to be eased.

He had to admit, it had been a bit easier to believe in the goodness and righteousness of the god-queen ever since Mariner became the supreme ruler of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy. The universal food stamps meant that Maklkam no longer had to send money to his unemployed sister to stop her from starving, and that his grandfather no longer had to choose between food and rent. Mariner had also lifted the restrictions on food stamps being used to buy hot food, and restaurants that had previously struggled were thriving, with new food stalls and eateries opening up. His cousin had just started a food stall selling fried beetles and ribs with minty sauce that had taken off. Truly, the benevolence of the god-queen rained down upon them all, lifting them up like a rising tide.

***

“Can you believe it?” Rodor said, as she filled up her mug with tisane from the pot. “The new god-queen went on a bender last night, beat up a horse, and stopped a rapist, all while trying every single item on the menu of every single bar she visited!” Rodor was fat enough to be conventionally attractive, but she had the curly hair and pointed teeth common to Varkathians, so most people didn’t think of her as dateable outside her own community.

“Okay, that sounds like an exaggeration,” Anamana said, adding some honey to her mug. Anamana, by contrast, had the wiry build of a runner, with large athletic wings, but she had managed to land a husband and a side-piece because of her family’s influence and her personal charms.

“It’s in the paper,” Rodor said, in the manner of one playing a winning card.

“Well, you know the official newspapers kind of…” Anamana looked around to make sure their boss wasn’t within earshot, or any of their nosier coworkers, “put a shine on the truth?”

“You know, I wondered about that, but,” Rodor also looked around and lowered her voice, “I read one of the underground newspapers. The accounts pretty much matched up. Drank and ate some of everything in each of the bars she visited, fucked like a scavenger bird on Rekva, got in a fight with a horse and won. Also I can personally vouch for Mariner stopping the rapist. That guy the woman tried to roofie was my brother’s best friend! Mariner even called him a taxi and rang him up at his house to make sure he got home safe.”

Anamana leaned back and whistled. “For real?”

“Would I joke about something like that?” Rodor said. “No, Mariner’s a true savior to her people. She could probably drink a pond full of liquor and just burp and ask for more. It’s like she stepped out of one of those pagan legends or folktales.”

“Well then, I guess she really must have won the fight with the horse,” Anamana said thoughtfully. “So, what do you think about those new policy statements?”

“Well, I’m a little worried about the liquor taxes. My mother has stock in a big distillery, and that’s going to hurt our vacation plans. I’m also not thrilled about the changes to food stamps. I mean, I don’t want my hard-earned tax dollars going to pay so some burger-flipper can eat caviar and grillnak steak at the Zhevoy.”

“Dude, you need to calm your tits about that,” Anamana said. “Anyone poor who spends their food stamps on a meal at the Zhevoy is going to be living on day-old bread and broth for the rest of the month. People don’t become indolent and lazy just because they aren’t threatened with death by starvation.”

“No, they become indolent and lazy because they’re gossiping on the job when they should be processing the quarterly accounts!” their boss said, manifesting is if she’d been beamed over by the god-queen. Anamana yelped and Rodor nearly spilled her tisane.

***

“Young man, you are *not* going out dressed like *that*!” Vorzrov said.

“But Mom, Minister Boimler wore it,” Sililis whined. “Anyway you’re letting my big sister go out with nothing but tape crosses over her tits.”

“That’s because I’m a grown woman who can take care of herself,” Acadaca said. “You’re barely old enough to drink. You could get, you know, taken advantage of. It’s dangerous in the city, especially if you’re a young unarmed man all alone.”

“I am twenty-two,” Sililis said archly. “And a long black outfit with tiny slits for my wings to come out of hardly qualifies me as stripper material. Anyway, you’re only three years older than me!”

“Sililis, why don’t you wear that nice dark green outfit I had made for you, with the gold-colored tie?” Vorzrov asked.

“Because it’s hideous, and it would be way too last-year even if it wasn’t,” Sililis pouted.

“Acadaca, see if you can talk some sense into him,” Vorzrov sighed.

“Whoa, okay, I’m not getting involved in that,” Acadaca said, flapping her wings and backing away. “I think I’m just going to spend the night with my friends actually.”

Acadaca bolted for the rear exit of the mansion.

Vorzrov stared her son down. “Sililis, if you don’t get out of that and change into something more suitable for the evening, I’m going to send you out with Jeeveej,” she said.

“You wouldn’t!” Sililis gasped.

“Jeeveej?” Vorzrov called.

“Yes, madam?” the butler said, appearing as if she had been beamed in by the god-queen herself.

“Alright, alright! Fine, I’ll change into something *you* like, if it’ll make you happy!” Sililis said, before storming off to his room.

Vorzrov sighed, secure in the knowledge that if somebody says “If it’ll make you happy,” the one thing their actions were guaranteed *not* to make you feel was happiness.

“Jeeveej, make sure you never become a mother,” Vorzrov said, rubbing her forehead.

“Very good, madam,” Jeeveej said, holding back a sigh. She was already a mother three times over, and it was thanks to the god-queen’s new food stamp programs that she didn’t need to give the bulk of her wages to finding food for her now-adult children anymore, who barely made enough to pay the rent on the slums they were forced to occupy. She’d also heard Madam Vorzrov complaining, not too loudly or in the company of her peers, that the god-queen’s new initiatives were making the lower classes indolent.

***

“So,” Erinire said, looking around before leaning in close, even though himself, Azaraza and Indodni were the only people in the room, “who do you think’s hotter, the current god-queen or the previous one?”

Azaraza dropped the nail polish and gasped, both hands flying to his face. Indodni burst into a peal of scandalized laughter.

“Oh my goddess, shut up!” Indodni squealed.

“What if somebody heard you?” Azaraza said, quickly picking up the nail polish, salvaging what he could, and trying furiously to wipe down the blanket with nail polish remover.

“Nobody’s going to hear us,” Erinire said. “We have the entire dorm room to ourselves and I’m pretty sure the god-queen isn’t omniscient.”

“Well for all you know, I could be a royal spy,” Azaraza said.

Indodni laughed at that. “I’m pretty sure a royal spy would have scored higher in Civics 202.”

“For all you know, I could be acting stupid just to maintain my cover,” Azaraza said loftily.

“Nobody’s that good of an actor,” Erinire teased. Azaraza threw a pillow at him.

“But seriously, what do you guys think?” Erinire said, after throwing the pillow back.

“Honestly?” Indodni said. “I think the old god-queen was sexier. I mean, She was terrifying, but that sense of danger was part of the appeal. I heard She sometimes devoured Her lovers just because it was easier than getting out of bed to get food.” He shuddered with a pleasant terror. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t try to become a concubine myself, but I can see the appeal as a remote fantasy.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Azaraza said. “I think Mariner’s hotter because she’s so kind and gentle it’s reassuring. I could imagine feeling so safe in her arms, and imagine her opening up to me even though she seems all tough and invincible to the rest of the world. Plus she’s got prettier hair, and those brown eyes are so strange and exotic.” Azaraza blushed. “Also she’s got a bigger bottom than the old god-queen did, so there’s that. I’ve always been an ass man.”

“I still can’t make up my mind,” Erinire said. “I mean, the old one’s very sexy as an unpredictable, force-of-nature kind of queen, and I can fantasize about what it would be like to be the only person She trusted and kept safe, but I can also see the appeal of Mariner, as this down-to-earth, warm, nurturing person. And I like the orange hair with all it’s ornaments, but I also like the plainly styled black hair. Gives her a MILF-y kind of quality to her, you know?” Erinire sighed.

***

“What do you think her plan is?” Hagogah asked the senior undersecretary. It went without saying that their god-queen had a coherent, well thought-out plan, both politically astute and infused with divine wisdom. To believe otherwise would be treason. Right?

“My guess is she wants to reassure the common people and create a good impression in the city,” the senior undersecretary of the state department said. “She’s barely been seen since she took office, so she has to establish a powerful presence. And she wants to show that she’s willing to invest in local small businesses and cares about the least of her constituents. She’s also, well, determined, yes, determined to show that she is a law unto herself, not beholden to mortal concepts of decorum and superficial appearances.” The undersecretary nodded as she spoke, more as if to reassure herself than to convince Hagogah.

“I’m just not too sure about the liquor tax. Vodka, Beetle Liqueur, and farafa fruit brandy are very important exports for the global economy, and if the economic disincentives are too strong, we might lose large portions of the those industries to overseas competition,” Hagogah said.

“Oh, I’m sure the god-queen can balance out those with import taxes without risking an outright trade war,” the undersecretary said dismissively. “No, I’m more concerned about the ripple effects of the universal food stamp program.”

“Oh come on, now! What’s wrong with making sure that nobody starves?” Hagogah said incredulously, with uncharacteristic frankness verging on the disrespectful. “Isn’t that what a benevolent god-queen should do, care for her flock, make sure nobody goes to bed hungry, uplift the poor and desperate? I mean, that’s how you reduce things like burglary and muggings. People will be less inclined to commit crimes of desperation if they have full bellies.”

“History needs its butchers as well as its shepherds,” the undersecretary said solemnly. “And I don’t have any problem with people who really need it, but giving free food stamps to everyone, regardless of income level? That’s a major drain on the national treasury.”

“Look, the poor need the food stamps, the rich won’t even bother signing up for them, and it’ll free up capital from the middle class to be spent on investments and entrepreneurship. People will take more economic risks if they have their basic needs met, and economic risk is necessary for economic growth. And since *you* bring up the subject of drains on the treasury, you’ll find that just giving people social safety nets costs less than the bureaucracy of administering means testing in the long run.”

The undersecretary gawked at Hagogah. “Have you...have you been putting something in your dunik fruit juice?”

“No, but I *have* grown a spine over the long years, and a voice,” Hagogah said, without actually raising his voice, but still managing to draw the attention of other people in the office floor.

“Are you challenging my position over you? Because I will not stand for such blatant disrespect towards--”

“Are *you* threatening *my* position, undersecretary?” Hagogah said, taking a step forward and unfurling his wings. “Because I could bring up the conditions you’ve put on my continued employment in the past, and if you’re doing it to me, you’re probably doing it to somebody else. I wonder what the god-queen would think of *that* policy.”

The undersecretary turned pale. “You wouldn’t dare. And even if you did, you’d never manage to reach her holy highness.”

“Are you sure of that?” Hagogah said, advancing on her, while her wings trembled like leaves in the wind. “One thing I’m sure about this new god-queen is that she’s very personable with the lower classes and even the least of her servants. If she went out clubbing with the cooking staff, I’m pretty sure she’d entertain a concerned statement from one of her junior secretaries in her state department. And you saw how she treated somebody who saw fit to try to...well, extort certain services from a less-than-consenting man. I wonder what she’d think of your behavior. Maybe she wouldn’t think it was quite as extreme as passing a drugged drink, but I certainly think it wouldn’t do your career aspirations any good,” Hagogah said, when the senior undersecretary was almost pinned up against the office wall.

“Look, if this is your way of asking for a raise,” the senior undersecretary began.

“No, that’s not what I’m asking for. I’m asking for something much simpler. I’m asking for you to stop, and not to treat any of the incoming young men the way you treated me. Do you comprehend?” Hagogah said.

The senior undersecretary swallowed nervously and forced her wings to be still with a great effort. Sweat was running down her brow.

“I...I hear what you are saying.” She pulled out a pocket hankerchief with a pattern of fall leaves and gourds on it to dab at the area under her horn. “I have no problem acquiescing to your terms and conditions.”

“Good,” Hagogah said, suddenly all smiles again, wings relaxed at his sides as he returned to his desk. “I’m glad we cleared that up, then.”

***

“Pork and beans today,” Mariram said as she sat down next to Boxixob in the mess hall of the 23rd Battalion of the Greater Peninsula Alliance.

“Mm-hm,” said Boxixob, eyes still on the pulp novel in his hand.

“Have you heard about the god-empress of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner?”

“The ceasefire? I mean, yeah, I know that. It’s why we’re back at training instead of out their risking our lives against floods, wildfires and lightning bolts while also trying to get the jump on forces that outnumber us three to one.”

“No, I know you already know about that,” Mariram laughed. “I mean, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Boxixob remained meaningfully silent.

“No, I mean she went out clubbing, just like a commoner!” Mariram said. “Can you believe it?”

Boxixob reluctantly put a bookmark into his pulp novel and set it down. “Yes, I can believe it. I mean, everyone likes to go out for dancing and drinks and music now and then, right?”

“Yeah, but she could have just invited bands over to the palace and thrown some orgies. Instead she went out to experience the world the way her subjects do. Between this, the declarations of ceasefire, lifting most of the trade embargos, and the relief efforts to the Western subcontinent, I really think the new ruler of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy wants to be a different kind of queen.”

“Hmm,” Boxixob said non-committally. “I’m still not sure. It might be a lot of well-coordinated PR stunts. She probably has her hands full trying to handle the changover of leadership and solidify her position of power as a new ruler. Sometimes ceasefire is just an excuse to recruit and reload.”

“Don’t you think that’s pretty cynical of you?” Mariram said. “I mean, what else is she supposed to do? Don’t those seem consistent with the actions of somebody acting in good faith and trying to create a better nation?”

“I *am* cynical, and that’s why I’m still alive after seven years in the force,” Boxixob said with a humorless grin. “I’m just saying a viper doesn’t change its venom.”

“But she’s literally a new god-queen, and she’s doing everything she should be to improve foreign relations while taking care of her subjects. What more do you want?” Mariram said. “I mean, look at us. We’re doing training drills none of us need at this point, getting in some R&R, the injured are getting the medical attention they need, our crops are growing again, draft members are returning to see their families, and she even summoned a rainstorm to put out that wildfire in our northeastern parish. We’re even getting these pork and beans instead of field purples because they sent a shipment of free food to our shores. I don’t know what more you want her to do to prove that she’s the real deal. I understand it’s easy to make grand proclamations, but this one is really putting her money where her mouth is.”

“Time will tell,” Boxixob said. “I don’t trust any powerful woman until I see the long-term ramifications of her actions.”

“Except for the generals, of course,” Mariram said.

“Except for the generals,” Boxixob said, while not looking her in the eye.

***

Axioixa’s stomach rumbled. It was always rumbling, of course. They were still in a state of famine. But now the aches in his joints had ceased, and his eyes had stopped failing. He was also strong enough to wait in line so he could pick up the miraculous nutrient pellets for his family, dense with much-needed protein and fat as well as vitamins that prevented the blindness and joint failure that had claimed a third of his village during the famine.

The line shifted forward, and he stepped ahead. He was glad he didn’t have to send his twelve-year-old daughter out to collect nutrient pellets for them anymore. She was finally able to play with her remaining friends and go to the school run by missionaries from the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner that was still operating. He would have preferred to keep sending her to one of the unofficial schools, but they had closed down because the teachers no longer could see well enough to read the student’s tests or the textbooks.

There was still food, of course. The blight had taken their grain, but there were fruits and tubers. All of those were grown on estate plantations, however, and sold for export. Those plantations sold the cash crops for export to the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy and other nations. Rebels had tried to take them over, of course, but the plantations had plenty of well-armed guards, and starving people didn’t fight very well. His wife had learned that lesson the hard way. Now he had two children to raise all on his own, and he didn’t want them to become orphans.

The line continued forward. In front of him, he recongized Zerwenski, the Varkathian blacksmith, and Orzhzro the mechanic. There were still plenty of people who were strangers to him, traveling from neighboring villages and towns to wait in line for nutrient pellets at one of the delivery stations. There were holy soldiers from the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy there, of course, but based on his experience they seemed to only be here to make sure people took no more than their fare share, and nobody tried to hoard or sell the bounty that was given freely. He heard in other provinces the soldiers went from house to house to distribute the goods, but the administration of famine relief had been somewhat irregular and haphazard. Still, he thought, better a clumsy relief effort than no relief at all. Before soldiers and pellets from the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner had come, the feral gryphons had nourished themselves on the skin and bones of the fallen. Now there were even food cubes for people’s pets and livestock, and everyone who picked up pellets was entered into the lottery for a chance to get normal food that would fill them up inside. There was a rumor that some provinces didn’t even need a lottery, because everyone got a small ration of normal food with their pellets.

All the help was appreciated, of course, but seemed to be something strange going on with the implementation of this plan at the administrative level.

The line shifted forward, and suddenly Axioixa was jolted out of his thoughts.

“Name?” the distributor asked.

“Axioixa of Shurnam Province,” Axioixa said.

“Hm...Shurnam Province you said? That’s odd. You don’t appear to be listed in here at that address.” The distributor frowned at him.

“Oh...oh, I’m so sorry,” he said with a sigh. He guessed he’d have to beg for a few pellets from his neighbors. His ex-wife still owed him a favor, after all.

“No, it’s okay,” the distributor said, waving her hands and flapping her wings. “I won’t let somebody go hungry over a silly little bureaucratic mix up. I’ll just leave a note here for the office of the registrar to look into it.”

“Oh, bless you, madam! Thank you so much!” Axioixa said, reaching across the table to vigorously shake her hand.

“I’m only doing my job, really,” she said, blushing nearly indigo. “It wouldn’t be right to let anyone starve due to a filing error. May the god-queen Mariner bless you and keep you.”

Axioixa left, still crying tears of relief. He was so happy at this unexpected mercy that he never did look into the question of why his name had been left off the list of parish residents.

***

“What do you think?” Rokitikor said to Jadox in the erotic art store.

“I mean, it’s not your best work, but it’s certainly good enough to sell,” Jadox replied, after giving a critical stare to the sketch that featured the god-queen Mariner dildoing herself in that alien orifice called a “cervix”.

“No, I mean, what do you think of it, you know, compared to my older work?” Rokitikor said, in a low tone of voice.

“Do you mean your legitimate, official works or...or the other kinds of drawings and prints?” Jadox said, leaning forward.

“Either one!” Rokitikor said, waving aside the mention of his censor-violating material. “What I’m referring to is the *subject*,” he whispered.

“Hmm. Well, from an artistic standpoint, they both have their merits. There’s the light and dark color pallettes, both of them rendered mesmerizing in a distant, alien way by their inbromothian beauty, of course. But then there’s the personalities behind them. One has the excitement of the unpredictable, like a huge summer storm or the tempestuous sea. One of them has the benefit of novelty and a touch of mystery to her, the unknown quantity from whom you cannot even necessarily expect the unexpected. The former has the allure of the forbidden, the unsafe, the untouchable, while the latter is more earthy, more approachable, desireable in a guy-next-door kind of way,” Jadox pontificated, stroking her long beard thoughtfully. (Jadox had never chosen to transition beyond her name change and coming out, considering such superficialities trivial in her sight. She was far more concerned about the appearance of the art she created. Luckily for her, she had the level of talent that could demand people either meet her where she stood or do without her services altogether. Rokitikor, by contrast, saw his own body as another canvas, and loved adorning it with piercings and tattoos).

“That sounds like a whole load of waffle,” Rokitikor said. “For me, it’s all about balance. This new god-queen, she is...intimidating, yet down-to-earth. Powerful, yet gentle. Full of desire, but tempered with restraint and discriminating tastes. This is a god-queen who loves truth and justice more than wealth and power, and somehow it shows in her face and flesh. She has the scars of a warrior as well as the stretch marks of a successful predator.”

Jadox shrugged. “As I said, I never denied the appeal of Mariner, and her charms certainly number many. I also cannot argue with what I’ve seen of her justice, so far.”

***

“Okay, okay, oh-kay, what do you think of the new god-queen so far?” Varbikon said, passing the joint and brushing back his curly green hair from his greenish-blue skin.

“I think she’s the bee’s knees,” Lorbrol said, after a big puff. “I mean, before she came along I was working for a few coins every hour, and most of that went to paying off my debt to society for stealing fruit from a stall. Now I’m actually able to send money home to grandpa!”

“And that’s not all she’s done,” Anewena said, eager to chime in. “I’m finally able to eat something besides watery soup and stale bread. Yesterday I had some nice skewers from a food stall for lunch without worrying about how I was going to pay for the bus fair home.”

“That’s a big improvement too,” Lorbrol agreed. “There’s a lot of families going to bed with full bellies thanks to her. Everyone with kids I’m hearing from is relieved that they don’t have to stretch recipes anymore.” He passed the joint on to Anewena.

“Hmm,” Varbiken said.

“What do you mean, ‘hmm’? I mean, she’s anti-starvation, anti-slavery, anti prison slavery, and she legalized sparkle again.”

“Honestly I don’t care about the sparkle one way or another,” Varbiken said, with a shrug. “Alcohol and weed are enough for me.” (The planet Bromothia had a plant very similar to marijuana, except that it was purple, it had a better flavor, and there was a higher CBD to THC ratio than most strains, but it was close enough to marijuana that we’ll describe it that way going forward after this explanation and use the terms interchangeably.) “No, I’m more concerned about crime and the economy.”

“Well, what’s so bad about that? Legalizing Sparkle cuts down on drug dealing and related gang warfare, the food stamps have lead to an increase in the restaurant sector, the church refittings are creating lots of jobs, especially for veterans.”

“Speaking of veterans, though, she declared a unilateral ceasefire. A lot of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner’s economy depends on wartime mobilization. What are all those soldiers gonna do now that we’ve stopped the wars?” Varbikon said.

“Um, get a civilian job like the rest of us?” Anewena pointed out. “And we don’t even know that the wars are stopped for good. It’s just a ceasefire so far.”

“I also don’t see what you’re worrying about crime-wise.” Lorbrol said.

“This woman I met in the bar told me organized crime is moving in from the Northern Archipelago,” Varbikon said.

“You’d believe anything if a fat woman told it to you while buying you a drink,” Anewena snorted. Lorbrol gave him a fist-bump of agreement. “Personally, I like her because, on top of being a powerful god, she gives me really decent vibes. Like she’s somebody I could sit down and share a pitcher of hard cider with. And crime’s no worse than it ever was.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a cousin dating somebody who runs numbers for The Old Firm, and things have been pretty quiet over there and with the gangsters from the Northern Archipelago.” Lorbrol said. “Plus she’s doing things personally to stop crime. I mean, she ate that would-be rapist.”

“I feel like she could maybe be doing a little more in that area,” Varbikon said, hesitantly. “I mean, the last god-queen had sacrifices for breakfast, lunch and dinner, in addition to special occasions and rituals.”

“Seriously?” Lorbrol said. “You want her to eat *more* people? As long as her divine hunger is sated enough for her to control the weather and perform other miracles, I’m happy.”

“I just mean...I liked the pomp and circumstance of it,” Varbikon explained awkwardly. “It made things...special.”

“So, you think I should eat more people, huh?” Mariner said, stepping out from a darkened pathway, a mischievous smile spreading across her chubby cheeks. “Well, I’ll take that under advisement.”

Anewena’s jaw hung upon, the joint hanging precariously on the very edge of his lip. Lorbrol let out a desperate little squeak and fluttered his wings while struggling for control of his bladder. Varbikon pressed his horn against the ground.

“Please forgive us, your holy highness! I promise, I’ll never smoke on the job again!” he cried out, and it really was a cry, because tears were already welling up in his eyes.

“Whoa, whoa, relax dude!” Mariner said, trying not to break into laughter. “It’s cool. If you can do your job stoned, you deserve to be allowed to do it stoned. Mind if I have a puff?”

She reached over and took the joint from the unresisting Anewena and inhaled deeply.

“And don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you,” Mariner said, ruffling Varbikon’s hair. “I’ve just had a very nice giant plate of seasoned ham rolls.”

“Thank you, oh beneficent goddess,” Varbikon said as he rose to his feet again. Mariner handed him the joint after her second puff.

“Don’t sweat it. And also, if you’re worried about the lack of sacrifices, I’ve got plans for that coming up. Don’t worry though, it’s nobody you know,” she said, with a grin she thought would be reassuring.

Chapter Text

“I was thinking of something along the lines of ‘be true to yourself but don’t be a dick’ but I worry that kinda leaves things open to interpretation a little too much,” Mariner said thoughtfully to the head pastor, as they both sat in her private chambers.

“Well, yes, your holy highness” the pastor said, cautiously. “Generally speaking, your congregation would prefer a bit more holy wisdom to guide their lives than a single sentence.”

Mariner guzzled her Dirty Weekend thoughtfully. She tried to recall what she could from her encounters with religious dignitaries in her youth, back when Mom and Dad dragged her along to boring official functions. The problem was, most of them didn’t talk much about their religions. Her encounters with alien religion mostly tended to be when somebody accidentally violated a taboo or when something sacred was in danger of being desecrated. She’d talked with Shax now and then, but aside from the odd exclamation, he didn’t talk much about the Prophets or what they meant to him and his fellow Bajorans. She wracked her brains for some frame of reference she could use. She also tried to dredge up relevant memories on the subject of ethics and philosophy from boring school courses. She’d always been more interested in history and pretty sure of her own moral compass. Of course, that was all before the war, when a lot of those lessons fell by the wayside and everything got a lot messier, all the black and white bleeding into shades of grey. No, those memories were something she would carefully sweep under the rug. Nothing about that time would be productive or useful here. Religions were supposed to be full of grand, aspirational ideals, not grim, ugly, practical realities.

“Why don’t you bring me the old holy book? Maybe I can use that as a sort of jumping off point. See what to stick with, what to clarify, and what to overturn,” she said thoughtfully.

“As you wish, your holy highness,” the pastor said with a bow. He dashed out of the room.

Mariner stared at the crisp white sheets of paper and the ballpoint pen before her. It was her old nemesis from the academy days, which felt like they had been a millenium ago but also felt a bit like yesterday, the Blank Page. She reached over to the food trolley next to her and shoved an entire quiche into her mouth. While she chewed it, she reached for the intangible threads of inspiration. What was the biggest problem she was trying to address? What was something that all religions, any religion, should do?

The thought clicked just as she clicked her pen.

*Slavery is evil*, she wrote. Then, realizing that if her predecessor was anything to go by, she’d need to spell out her definition, she added *Workers who aren’t slaves are free to leave their employer and seek out another one. Workers should be compensated for their labor fairly.* She could hash out the precise details of what constituted fair compensation later. That was one of the issues her Philosophy 101 course had brought up with some of the older pre-warp philosophers, that any ethical system which defended or justified slavery was built on a house of cards.

Mariner took another gulp of Dirty Weekend as she noodled over the puzzle. That was one obvious evil, but she couldn’t build a functioning religion by just putting down a list of taboos and prohibitions. A functioning moral system needed “yes” as well as “no”, positive values to give people something to organize their lives around.

Her stomach rumbled.

*Everyone deserves to eat*, Mariner wrote down. *Food is not a privilege reserved for the wealthy or the hard-working; it is a universal right.*

Mariner reached over to lift the dish cover over a particularly succulent-smelling Bromothian fowl. She tore off one of the four drumsticks, then pitched the rest of the roasted bird into her mouth, savored the flavor for a moment, and then swallowed it whole and unchewed. It splashed into her stomach acids like a single pebble thrown into a pond.

While she was still pondering the next item on the list, the head pastor hurried back with the Bromothian holy book in his arms.

“Here you are, your holy highness,” he said, bowing low and presenting the sacred text to her.

“Thanks,” Mariner said. She flipped it open and started reading.

*Once, Bromothia was a savage and godless world, ravaged by hurricanes, hunger, and heathens. The warring tribes fought amongst themselves. In the winter, ice storms destroyed the roads. In the summer, wildfires raged across the forests. Its people were at the mercy of spring floods and autumn tornados. Earthquakes split the world at random and volcanoes burst forth with lava like pus from a wound. The people lavished their pleas on mute idols, begging for a deliverance that their false gods could not bring them...*

“Man, how long does it go on like this?” Mariner thought out loud.

“Like what, your holy highness?” the pastor asked, with a pained expression on his face, as if she had just interrupted a speech at his mother’s memorial service by letting rip.

“The whole bit about how much everything sucked before She came to Bromothia,” Mariner said.

“That’s the book of Pre-Descencion,” the pastor said, trying to sound calm. “It stops at the fourteenth page.”

Mariner flipped over to page fifteen.

“Ugh, more stuff about how great and awesome She was. I think I’m gonna need some dunik fruit juice to stay awake through this,” Mariner sighed.

“I’ll go and fetch the servants at once,” the pastor said, bowing.

“No, it’s cool, I can go grab it myself,” Mariner said, waving him away. “Say, what time is it?”

“Almost half an hour past,” the pastor said.

“Right. Time for some light cardio,” Mariner said. She crammed the holy book in between two of her fat rolls. “Tell you what, you can go fetch the dunik fruit juice for me...if you can outrun me,” Mariner said, with a wicked grin.

“Your holy highness?” the pastor goggled. He had a good face for it, too, with those big bushy eyebrows and bright reddish-purple eyes.

“Hey, how hard could it be? I’m big and fat, so I should be easy to outrun, right?” Mariner said. “I’ll even give you a head start. Five.”

“Five what?” the pastor said.

“Four,” Mariner said, leaning over and stretching so her belly sagged almost to the ground.

The pastor bolted.

Mariner stretched in the other direction, then finished her countdown. Then she took off.

First, the pastor was aware of a vibration, ringing through the stone floors. Then he heard the pounding sound. He was running for all he was worth, determined to serve his god-queen.

The god-queen was gaining on him. He pumped it into high gear, moving until his joints screamed and his muscles burned. He pulled ahead.

He tried to keep it up. He tried to ignore the pain and rising fatigue. He tried to power through it. Eventually though, his strength deserted him. He wheezed. His body screamed at him to ease up. He slowed down, just a little bit.

Mariner pulled ahead of him, laughing as she pounded across the floor, her entire body jiggling like a sack of pudding during an earthquake. He felt the breeze of her passage as she left him behind, vanishing around the next corner, still thudding and setting the decoration rattling with the thunder of her footsteps.

When he finally caught up to her, she was nonchalantly operating the fruit juicer with one hand and draining her first glass with the other.

“Not bad, but you really could stand to fit in a little more cardio. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of exercise standing behind a pulpit,” Mariner chuckled.

The pastor wheezed. Sweat plastered his hair to his horn, and his wings hung limply at his sides. He tried to gather enough oxygen in his lungs to reply, but all he managed was to gasp out, “How?”

“Oh, I get the feeling the previous god-queen was a lot more sedentary. Don’t let the layers of flab fool you, I’ve got some pretty well-trained muscles under this protective blubber and the stamina to back them up. You could consider it part of my divine physiology,” she said, proudly, thumping her still-wobbling belly. “Plus, I never skip leg day.”

For a moment, Mariner thought about adding “thou shalt not skip leg day” to the holy book, but quickly dismissed the idea.

They walked back to the god-queen’s private quarters together, Mariner jiggling as she went and the pastor pausing now and then to rest after his heavy exertions.

“So, why is there all that junk about how much everything sucked before the god-queen came, anyway?” Mariner said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t possibly presume to judge the holy word, your holy highness” the pastor said, wings beating furiously and sweat running down his brow.

“Yeah, but I mean, why do you personally think it was written? Does it do anything for you, in your own subjective experience?”

“Well, of course it does, your holy highness!” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t have become a pastor if it didn’t.”

“So what about it works for you?” Mariner said. “Explain it to me like I’m a child.”

“Well, your holy highness, I suppose my interpretation of the text is that it’s there to show us the contrast, of the world before She came and after, and so we will be grateful and take notice of what the god-queen gives us.”

“Okay, I can get that,” Mariner said, nodding.

“It also explains why the god-queen came to us, what moved her heart and made her see fit to rule over this world, why she showers us with blessings and saved us from our suffering and ignobility, your holy highness,” the pastor said, his wing movements slowing down as he talked.

Mariner was silent for a while as they returned to her quarters. Then she pulled the notepad and pen out from her rolls and began jotting something down on a new page.

*Mariner looked out upon the world of Bromothia, and saw that the people were hungry. She saw them wasting away in factories living off bread and broth. She saw them starving on the streets. She saw there were few, who had more to feast upon than they could eat even if they tried their hardest, while their servants and neighbors begged for scraps on their doorsteps…*

*Huh, this holy wisdom is easier to write than I realized, once you get going. It’s sort of like writing a 3AM essay,* Mariner thought. She shifted her mental gears as she elaborated. It ended up being a lot more concise than fourteen repetitive, self-aggrandizing pages, but it had some oomph to it where it counted.

Mariner turned back to her earlier notes.

*Don’t rape people. I shouldn’t have to spell this out, but it’s right here, in the holy book, so you can’t try to wriggle out of it. Sex without consent is rape.*

Suddenly, her mind bounced back to something Rutherford had said earlier.

*Don’t persecute Varkathians. They’ve been through a lot.*

She thought, and added *If somebody prays to me in a different way, or even prays to other gods, leave them alone. That’s between me and them.*

She put down a few more common sense moral proclamations and went back to reading the original holy book. The prior god-queen had put down a lot of Her own do’s and don’ts, of course, but most of them were about obedience to Her ineffible power and the worship of “false gods”. There was also a lot of stuff about how controlling the weather and conjuring matter and healing the sick worked up a divine appetite.

Mariner frowned and took another swallow of dunik fruit juice, clicking and unclicking her pen as she thought.

*War is a waking nightmare for everyone involved. Seek peace when possible,* she added, once again trying not to remember how she’d lost her boyfriend. There was a good reason to stick to Bad Boys, Bad Girls, Bad Nonbinary Babes, and Bad Binars. They didn’t get emotionally invested. They didn’t get too close, even when they made breakfast for you in the morning. Sure, she had concubines now, but that was more of a function than a relationship. They weren’t really close to Mariner, psychologically speaking. They couldn’t haunt her dreams.

The pen moved by itself.

*Everybody is going through something, whether you know it or not. Think twice before being cruel to somebody.*

Okay, that had a nice ring to it, even if she wasn’t sure where it came from.

Maybe it would help if she wrote some short parables to illustrate the principles she’d figured out for the holy book. She’d bring in her friends and Castro to provide some editorial feedback, of course, but she felt that, more or less, this was in the bag now.

Chapter Text

“Okay, let’s make some porn!” Mariner said, before tearing a huge bite off a hunk of Bromothian ham.

“Your holy highness, may I just tell you what an honor it is to be working with you directly,” Rokitikor said, bowing low.

“Likewise,” Jadox said, with a cursory tilt of her head.

“So, how do we get this started?” Mariner asked. “Do you want me to start with my pussy spread wide open, or do we do something else?”

“Oh, I’m happy to work with any angle you’d like, your holy highness,” Rokitikor said, earnestly. “I mean, what kind of scenes do you prefer, your holy highness?”

“I mean, you’re the experts here,” Mariner laughed. “I’ve got a few ideas of my own, but I’d like to hear from you first.”

“Well, I did have a particular vision for a new piece,” Jadox said, stroking her beard. “It’s been sort of percolating for a while now, but it might require you to hold a somewhat awkward pose for a while.”

“Oh, I can do that, no problem,” Mariner said. She was no stranger to temporary discomfort, after all, and it couldn’t be as bad as the time Jennifer had managed to screw up the Shibari. (In the end they’d had to cut through the knots.)

“How good is your sense of balance, your holy highness?” Jadox asked, leaning back and examining the god-queen with a critical eye.

“Uh, as good as anyone’s I guess? Why do you ask?”

“Okay. How long you think you could hold your foot up, your holy highness?” Jadox inquired.

“Maybe a few seconds is the best I could do,” Mariner said.

“That’s all I need,” Jadox said. She whipped out a sketchpad and got down on the floor. “Just please act like you’re about to step on me, your holy highness.”

Mariner shrugged, then lifted her foot. The pen moved like lightning in Jadox’s hand. Mariner’s foot came crashing down with a heavy thud just as Jadox pulled herself back. Her gut and ass wobbled for several seconds before settling down again.

“Alright, I’ve got the seed,” Jadox said, purple eyes bright with excitement. “I’ll come back to you in a few hours with the finished sketches, and then we can see about doing the color versions.”

“Okay, cool,” Mariner said, a little nonplussed. She polished off the ham, bone and all, and turned to Rokitikor. “So, what ideas do you have for this commission?”

“Your holy highness, I didn’t think *you* were going to ask *me* for ideas,” he stammered. “Well, uh, obviously, I was ready to execute whatever ideas you suggested, so I didn’t have anything prepared, but I can come up with something quickly,” he said, bowing again, wings fluttering.

Mariner ate thirty pounds of diced farafa fruit with a little salt and significantly diminished the bottle of glorka berry brandy by the time the two artists had finished their respective projects.

Rokitikor brought his first. “Your holy highness, thank you for the honor of this commission. I hope you will consider this humble color sketch I have presented.”

Mariner surveyed it critically. Rokitikor held his wings perfectly still while he clasped his hands together.

The picture featured Mariner, nude save for some jewelry, in front of a field of grain, sitting on and devouring a bunch of Bromothian figures with allegorical labels, such as Ignorance, Greed, and Disobedience.

“Color balance is nice, and I like the way the light falls in the background. One question though, why does Greed have pointy teeth and a sort of sea-green skin tone?” Mariner said, pointing at the figure halfway into her illustrated mouth.

“Your holy highness, that’s just how I’ve seen Greed usually displayed in allegorical portrayals, or shifty characters in illustrations,” Rokitikor said, shrugging as his wings began to move again. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say those displays are kinda anti-Varkathian,” Mariner said, drawing back her lips from her teeth in an expression of concern.

“Oh, your holy highness, I wouldn’t want to perpetuate any anti-Varkathian stereotypes. One of my half-aunts is Varkathian,” Rokitikor said quickly, his wings fluttering.

“Maybe change that one then. Figure out a different way to portray Greed as a character. Also, um, maybe drop Disobedience out for something else. I mean, if it’s not too much trouble,” she added.

“Your holy highness, a thousand pardons! I will make the changes at once. Anything you require!” he bowed low and backed out of the room.

Jadox stepped forward with her sketch. “Your holy highness,” she said, nodding.

“Ooh, Mariner likey!” Mariner said.

It was, as she had said before, a point-of-view shot. Specifically it was a giant Beckett Mariner as seen from beneath by a normal-sized figure, her massive foot raised and ready to come crashing down on the viewer, who was futilely holding up a blue hand as if to protect themselves. The background was a beautifully rendered purple forest, with a path of broken trees left in her wake. Her entire body was completely naked, her pussy was moist and dripping, a huge puddle of sexual fluid under it with a fallen log for scale, and there was a broad grin on her face and a gleam in her seductive brown eyes.

“Yeah, the sense of scale, the perspective, the visual echoes going on here, this is excellent,” Mariner said to Jadox. She turned to the minister of culture. “Take whatever she’s getting paid for this and double it.”

“Yes, your holy highness,” the minister of culture said, bowing low. When Mariner had left the room, she turned to Rokitikor and said “Honestly, I liked your work better.”

Chapter Text

“You’re sure it needs to be color film?” the minister of finance asked.

The minister of culture raised her wings and her eyebrow. “This is the official, sacred, royal pornography of the god-queen herself! Of course, we must have the very best! And besides, we need color film to capture that beautiful brown color in her eyes during the closeups.”

Irvovri the director whipped off her asymmetrical green hat and bowed before Mariner. “Your holy highness, it truly is an honor to be working for you. I’ve done my humble best to put my craft forward, with such simple offerings as The Very Lucky Milkwoman and What the Butler Saw, but nothing approaches the opportunity that this represents. My reverence is only equaled by my desire to give satisfaction to your holy highness.” she said. She was a fairly-thin purple-eyed woman, wearing a long sea-green coat and a single emerald ring on her left hand, and her wings never completely stopped moving during the entire speech.

“Yeah, glad you’re honored,” Mariner said. “I wish I could say I’d seen them, but I’m pretty busy these days. Repealing legislation, approving new taxes, all that jazz. I’ve barely had time to crank one out, much less go to the adult theaters with my concubines or girlfriend,” she laughed. “But the minister of culture told me you’re pretty hot stuff and very popular these days.” Her exact words had been “just pick somebody cool, okay?” She quickly buried a memory of watching a Klingon quadruple-penetration video with her army boyfriend, alternately getting worked up by the visuals and laughing at the over-the-top dialogue together. He’d been so young.

“Your holy highness, you flatter me,” the woman said, bowing again and stretching her wings wide. “I’ve picked out just the perfect set designer. She’ll be sure to set up some backgrounds that will really show off that lovely skin-tone of yours and outfits that bring out your eyes.”

Mariner blushed. She knew she was being buttered up, but something about the tone of the Irvovri’s voice made it all so much easier to swallow. It managed to come off as flamboyant rather than sycophantic, contrasting nicely with the terrified reverence and oleaginous deference that was par for the course with her local advisors.

“Splendid. Do you want to review the script before we begin?” she said.

“Why not?” Mariner said with a shrug.

The director clapped her hands. “Script boy!”

A tiny teenage lad rushed over with the script in hand.

“Thanks,” Mariner said, leaning down to grab it. She started skimming the document as they walked towards the costuming and makeup departments.

“You’re welcome, your holy highness,” the script boy said, bowing low.

“Seriously, you guys don’t need to do that,” Mariner said over her shoulder.

“I hope you won’t mind some of the creative liberties I took, your holy highness,” Irvovri said, wings fluttering.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Mariner said, patting the director on the back.

“What I envisioned, your holy highness, was a sort of series of vignettes, a nice little tasting menu of sorts that shows off your range,” Irvovri said.

“Hey, Zovoz? Do you think I could get a refill on my Soft Butch?” Mariner asked.

Zovoz hurried over with her pitcher and poured it into a jade wine glass.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. If you need anything, like hot tisane, dunik fruit juice, or a refreshing cocktail, our interns can fetch that for you,” Irvovri laughed.

Mariner stopped with the glass raised halfway to her mouth.

“So uh, these interns, do they get paid?” Mariner said, her voice carefully neutral.

“Well, your holy highness, they get experience. It’s very hard to get into entry-level jobs in the film industry, even in pornography,” Irvovri explained.

“They’re doing a *job*,” Mariner said. “That means they’re getting paid. From now on. If you want to work with me, on this project or ever again, everyone on set gets paid for their work.”

“Even the script boys, your holy highness?” Irvovri said in a scandalized tone of voice, her wings flapping.

“*Especially* the script boys,” Mariner said. “If I find out that *anyone* on this set is getting paid in experience, you can kiss your big fat government contract goodbye.” Then she knocked back the cocktail in one gulp.
“Okay, I’m gonna go read over this script in my royal chambers. Once I’ve got it down I’ll come back and report to wardrobe and makeup,” Mariner said. “Zovoz, would you please top me off before I head back?”

***

“Your holy highness, it’s such an honor to work with you,” the make-up man said, carefully putting the wings on her eyeliner.

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot today,” Mariner chuckled.

“It’s such a delight to work with somebody with your hue, your holy highness. I’ve had to break out some very specialized makeup,” he explained. “Now, be prepared to sit still for a while. I’m afraid the makeup process can be quite time consuming, your holy highness.”

“Hey, I’m fine as long as you don’t have to put any weird prosthetics on my face,” Mariner said. “That stuff always ends up looking terrible.”

“Oh, your holy highness, I wouldn’t dream of it. We just need to get you camera-ready, and there’s still some features that don’t show up as well on film.”

“How much do you make, by the way?” Mariner asked him.

He told her.

Mariner frowned as he started touching up her cheeks.

“Per hour?” she asked.

“Per day, your holy highness” he explained.

“Okay, I need to change that,” Mariner said.

“Oh no, your holy highness, please don’t go to any bother on my account. I’m one of the better-paid makeup artists in the industry!” he cried out.

“Damn, you guys *really* need to unionize,” Mariner said.

***

Mariner’s captors jeered at her. Fat oozed out between tight ropes, turning her whole massive body into an elaborate topography. They dug cruelly into her thick thighs and round wrists. The team of Bromothians restraining her pulled on the ropes, hard. Mariner grunted.

“Not even the god-queen herself will be able to break free from these restraints!” their leader said, a tall, thin man with strong features, a single scar on one cheek, and an arrogant smile.

The camera woman pulled in for a close-up of the restraints squeezing her flab.

“Hah! No mortal strength can contain me!” Mariner cried out, with as much ham as she could muster. She flexed her muscles, jerking the ropes out of their hands so they whipped through the air. The camera crew zoomed in on the shocked faces of Mariner’s captors, similarly thin and attractive men, full of awe and terror.

Mariner untied the ropes with the expertise of long practice. She whipped them out, tripping up the captors as they fled, landed on padded mats just off-camera.

The camera cut to Mariner looming over the leader of her captors.

“You’re cute, so maybe I’ll let you live,” she said. She leaned in close and licked her lips, putting her hands on either side of her belly. “Maybe. I am feeling a bit hungry…”

“Please, I’ll do anything!” the leader begged, tears in his wide red eyes, wings flapping in desperation.

“Kneel before your god-queen,” Mariner said, reveling in the over-the-top theatricality of the role. She spread her thighs and lifted up her belly with both hands to expose her pussy.

The pretty young man shuffled forward on his knees. He sank his hands into the pillowy fat of Mariner’s thighs. He pressed his face into the moist darkness before him, tongue reaching out to lick her clit, tentatively at first, probing, then with increased confidence. Mariner’s expression of smug dominance turned more relaxed, then broke up into a sigh of delight.

His wings were no longer fluttering. His head bobbed up and down as he worked. Mariner tangled her fingers up in his long, curly yellow hair. She could feel his well-trained tongue working her sensitive spots, toes curling, nerves tingling.

“Farafa fruit!” he cried out, pulling his mouth free.

“Cut!” the director shouted. “What was that all about?”

“Sorry, my wings are cramping,” Jovrirvoj nay Slim Jov said, looking at Mariner rather than the director. He’d been named for the slenderness of his penises as well as his overall body type.

“It’s okay. You can safeword at any time, for any reason,” Mariner said, taking her hands out of his hair. “Can we get some hot pads and concentrated Walkala Bark extract over here?”

Irvovri looked like she wanted to object, but she wisely held her tongue.

“By the way, Slim Jov, how much do you make working this gig?” Mariner asked.

Slim Jov told her a number.

“And how much is the director making?” Mariner inquired.

Slim Jov told her a much bigger number.

“Okay, from now on, everybody makes as much as the director,” Mariner said loudly.

Irvovri spit out her Dunik fruit juice.

“Even the fluffers?” the director gasped, coughing and sputtering.

“*Especially* the fluffers,” Mariner said. “They do hard work and deserve to be compensated! And what are you worried about? You make the same amount of money either way.”

“Yes, your holy highness,” Irvovri said, as if trying to maintain her composure while passing a kidney stone.

***

Mariner was able to step back for some refreshment, because the next scene was mainly focused on a same-sex Bonny-and-Clyde-style duo of tragic bank robbers taking turns sucking double-dicks on a pile of money.

Mariner’s role in this vignette was actually rather small. Here was a car playing the role of the robbers’ getaway vehicle, which she was supposed to squish. Then the bank robbers would be arrested but get their way out of trouble by seducing and then double-teaming the cop.

“So, it’s a prop, right?” Mariner said.

“Well, sort of,” Irvovri said. “It’s basically a skeleton. We took out the engine block and all the other hard-to-squash parts. But I’m sure your divine girth will be up to the task. You’re, what, over a thousand pounds now?”

“Probably?” Mariner said, blushing a little. “I mean it’s been a while since I last weighed myself.” *Man, Jennifer is gonna love this as soon as I get back,* Mariner thought.

It was a good-looking car too, deep red with chrome highlights and a tall radio antenna. Mariner’s outfit for this shot consisted of a short green skirt and a tight green top cut to show off her cleavage, both of them positively covered with emeralds, jade, and opals, set among electrum wire and backing.

Mariner swallowed a whole roasted Bromothian swine and washed it down with a pitcher of cider, then covered a raucous belch.

“Alright everyone, quiet on set!” Irvovri said.

Mariner raised her hand to shield her eyes, scanning the mark indicated by a stage-hand on the horizon.

“Well, looks like some ne’er-do-wells are trying to rob the first national bank. But they aren’t getting away under my watch!” Mariner said. The dialogue was a little stilted, but Mariner didn’t want to be one of those difficult actors who second-guessed everything the writer did, so she went along with it. Besides, the real focus here was on actions, not words.

Mariner got up a running start, the floor shuddering with each step before she jumped up and belly-flopped onto the car.

There was an enormous thump, the screeching of tortured metal and the whine of busted springs. It stung a little, but Mariner felt the metal give way under her superhuman girth. Her entire fat body rippled and shuddered with the impact, well after the movement should have died down. The force of the impact also squeezed another huge burp out of her. Mariner struggled upright again and thumped her belly fat proudly, staring down at the twisted heap of flattened metal.

She had to admit, it did give her a little bit of a thrill.

***

“Worm!” Mariner demanded. Her entire body strained against nearly an entire six-legged cow’s worth of shiny black leather. “I want this entire bedroom spotless within minutes!”

“Yes, your holy highness!” the male maid said, his wings fluttering urgently as he raised his feather-duster.

“If you do a good job, I have a special treat in store for you,” she said, rubbing the immense ass straining the gleaming leather to its very limits. “If on the other hand, you give me *any* cause for disappointment, you get the switch!” Mariner said, tapping a riding crop against her plump palm for emphasis. “And please, call me Mistress.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the maid said, hurrying off to begin dusting the shelves. Mariner leaned back in bed, watching his uniform lift up as he reached the high shelves, the camera cutting between upskirt shots of him and Mariner smugly occupying most of the bed with her black-clad girth.

Mariner got up from the creaking, groaning bed and walked over to observe the maid’s progress. She loomed over him as he worked, her belly and ass jiggling wildly with every step, leather creaking under pressure.

He stretched up his slender body to reach the high shelves, and he bent down to reach the low corners, always making sure to maximize his underwear exposure.

When he finished, he turned proudly to face Mariner.

“Did I do a good job, Mistress?” he asked, eyes wide and pleading.

“You did, Worm,” Mariner said. Then she lifted up her riding crop. “But...you missed a spot.”

The maid bent over obediently, folding his wings against the side of his body, and Mariner began striking him across his ass, the one sizeable concentration of fat in his otherwise slim body. He yelped in distress.

“Silence, Worm, or I’ll have to gag you,” Mariner hissed.

The maid covered his mouth and continued to endure the punishment, eyes watering from the pain as she hit him again and again, the sharp leather striking against thin, lacy white fabric.

Mariner sighed and ripped off the underpants, exposing her handywork, the livid angry purple bruise standing out against pale blue skin. She grabbed him by his horn, causing him to yelp again.

“I am a generous Mistress. I promised you a reward, didn’t I?”

Mariner threw him onto the gigantic bed, hard enough to make it squeak a little. With his underwear torn off, he was pitching a very visible double tent.

“Lift up your skirts, Worm,” Mariner said.

The maid peeled back his uniform to expose the twin penises, indigio-tipped and throbbing with need.

“Get ready,” Mariner said, wiggling her gigantic ass and causing it to ripple. She unzipped the crotch of the suit, exposing her pussy. It was already moist and dripping.

Mariner climbed onto the bed and engulfed him, sliding both of his dicks up inside her easily, her whole belly oozing over him, his thin, tall figure buried under her mountain of flab. She glared down at him contemptuously as she bucked her hips, setting the springs screaming and the whole mass of her girth shaking and rippling.

“Hold back, don’t cum,” Mariner commanded, hitting him across the face with the riding crop.

“Y-yes Mistress,” the maid stammered, as she clenched and jerked her body, riding away. The rising tension on his face was clear as he struggled to contain himself.

“It’s...it’s getting hard, I’m going to--” he whimpered.

“You do and I’m going to give you a thrashing you wouldn’t believe,” Mariner snarled.

“Yes, Mistress! I mean, n-no, I won’t...won’t…” he gasped out, closing his dark green eyes and biting his lip.

She grabbed hold of his horn to give herself better leverage, fingers wrapping around it, which the camera crew managed to get a close-up of.

“You like that, don’t you, Worm?” Mariner said. “You’re overwhelmed by my power, and all you want to do is just let go and feel the ecstasy of my divine presence wash over you. Well, I’m not going to let you. Not until I’m done.”

She thrusted and squeezed, flattening his wings against his sides with her powerful tree-trunk thighs, as his cheeks grew indigo and the sweat plastered his hair to his face. His breathing grew increasingly ragged. His nails dug into the sheets.

When it looked as if he was about to have a stroke, Mariner dismounted, towering over him and eclipsing the central light with her dark bulk.

She roughly shoved him off the bed and repositioned herself so that she was lying face-up on the bed, her head resting on the pillows.

“Worm, get back here and use your tongue to pleasure your Mistress,” Mariner demanded.

The maid rose up, still dripping precum, and carefully knelt down on the mattress. He used his hands to hold back the layers of fat, exposing the juicy treasure beneath them, then lowered his head, minding his horn, and began to lick.

The camera crew cut to Mariner’s face as she experienced the rising wave of pleasure, alternating her broadening grin and fluttering eyelids with the maid’s determined face and tongue. Finally, Mariner reached a gushing climax, squirting right into the middle of the maid’s face, staining his outfit and getting all in his perfectly brushed and braided hair.

Mariner stretched out and yawned. “Mm, that was fun. I must admit, I feel a little tired. Maybe I should take a nap,” she teased.

“Please, Mistress, may I cum?” the maid begged.

“Oh, right. You’re still here,” Mariner said with a sniff of contempt. “Yes, you may.”

She reached out at touched the tips of his penises. With a faint application of pressure, they went off like foamy volcanoes, white glop bubbling up and slipping down.

“Disgusting,” Mariner said with a sigh. She wiped her cummy hand off on his maid outfit.

“And, end scene,” Mariner said. “How are you babe? I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“No, your holy highness, it was perfect,” he said, shyly rubbing his behind.

“How about I make you some soup and we can read that new book of poetry together?” Mariner said, before leaning forward to kiss him on the side of his forehead, right next to the horn.

“That would be lovely, your holy highness,” he purred, yanking off the defiled maid outfit and tossing it into the hamper.

“Cut! That’s a wrap, people!” Irvovri said.

The porn star gratefully grabbed a hot towel from the cart and used it to wipe the sexual fluids from his face. “Thank you for this work opportunity, your holy highness. I don’t know what acting experience you have, but you were a very generous performer and had an easy energy to match.”

“I try my best,” Mariner said, blushing. *Take that, professor Wilkinson,* Mariner thought. *And so much for that anonymous intranet critic who said I couldn’t act my way out of a paper bag when I did that dramatic monologue from Medea.*

Chapter Text

“Joanne Musk has broken the ceasefire, your holy highness!” the head general informed Mariner.

“Well shit,” Mariner said.

This was it. This was the moment she had been afraid of as soon as she realized that her unwanted empire was at war. She would have to take young people with their whole futures ahead of them, people with friends and families, and send them off to die on some meaningless line on a map.

Again.

“So, what’s the tactical situation right now?” Mariner asked, carefully, while her mind filled with that stench. The stench of the starfleet uniform scorched by Jem Hadar’s disruptor fire. It was chemical and artificial and it always had the background smell of asteroids and recycled atmosphere and scorched flesh. When you gave the order, it was your fault. There hadn’t been any other commanding officers left alive, so the responsibility had fallen to her. She had needed to make the call, not about whether they lived or died, but about who lived or died, about whether to spend a dozen lives to save a hundred. Where would it end? Would she end up having to sacrifice 49 lives to save the remaining 51?

“Your holy highness, they had been holed up in the southern slopes, but since the ceasefire they’ve moved their camps out into the plains. They should be vulnerable to flooding and lightning-created wildfires as long as you don’t mind a little collateral damage.”

Collateral damage. That was what happened when the saucer section didn’t separate fast enough. That was what happened when colonists evacuated too slowly. “Collateral damage” meant tiny coffins.

“No. Divine power should be used like a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. If you think I’m going to accept civilian casualties in this conflict as the price of doing business, then I’m going to need a list of possible successors for you and you can kiss your fat government paycheck goodbye.”

She could still smell that stench. She could smell the coppery blood and the stress piss and the lingering smoke from explosives. She could feel the warmth of important fluids leaking out of a body that was growing colder by the second.

“Your holy highness, I apologize,” the general said, kneeling before her. “I only meant to provide you with all possible options.”

Mariner relaxed the grip on her glass before it cracked. She took a steadying swallow of dunik fruit juice. She breathed in and out, trying to clear the non-existent stink out of her nostrils.

He’d been one year younger than her. The funny thing was, the disruptor blast hadn’t been a lethal one. Maybe this particular batch of cloned soldiers hadn’t cooked long enough. Maybe the shooter was a little sadistic. Maybe the Jem Hadar had just honestly missed. After all, even bioengineered super-soldiers could still make mistakes. The shot had hit him in the foot, and he’d stumbled, and despite the relatively low gravity, the fall had been long enough to make sure he ended up impaled on a rock face. Mariner had run down as fast as she could, jumping from cliff to cliff in the low-G environment, desperate to be there in time even though some part of her knew that she was already too late.

“So, lemme hear some other options,” Mariner said, setting down her goblet on the armrest of her throne.

“Well, your holy highness, we could go for a frontal assault, but that would be risky. They know the territory very well and Musk has an extensive army made up of various mercenary forces. The good news is that, because of the ensuing civil war, the Western Free Lands will no longer be providing her with weapons and supplies for their proxy war against us. Losses on our side are likely to be high, however.”

“I think it won’t last long.” The remembered words rang in Mariner’s head. That was what he’d said, but the war had lasted long enough for him. For her, it was still lasting. Heavy losses on their side. Young men and women and nonbinary Bromothians lining up to get gunned down. There would be no stink of disruptor fire and burnt starfleet uniforms in this fight, but there would be gunpowder, and steel, and still the everpresent stench of blood and urine. There would be fires. There would be explosions. There would be people getting blown into gorey smears. There would be worse things, people only half blown up, still recognizable, still clinging to life for a few horrible moments, living long enough to see the color of their innards.

Mariner sipped the dunik-fruit juice and sniffed it, trying to chase the phantom stenches out of her nostrils.

“Hmm. Any ingenious plans? Clever strategies?”

“Well, your holy highness, we outnumber them, but it’s difficult terrain. The plains have a lot of rivers and break up into wetlands, and they can retreat back into the high ground at any time. There won’t be a lot of cover so casualties are likely to be high on both sides, plus they like to take entire villages hostage to use as bases. It’s going to be difficult to use any large artillery or directed weather without harm to civilians.”

“She mostly uses mercenary forces, right? Is there some way we can isolate her financially?” Mariner prompted.

“Most of her income comes from the book sales, and you said you were dead against any restriction of printed material, your holy highness,” the general said, almost keeping the reproachful note out of her voice. “Most of her funds travel through foreign banks, so we won’t be able to freeze many of her assets.”

Mariner drummed her fingers on the armrest in time with the disruptor fire and screaming in her head. He’d died too suddenly and senselessly. At the same time, it had taken him too long to die. Far, far too long, with a hole like that in him. She should have held his hand and tried to comfort him instead of wasting time with the field medicine kit on an injury like that. Dermal regenerators couldn’t knit together bone splinters or pull them out of adjacent organs, nor could they return blood once it had been lost. She should have given him words of false reassurance, or said something, anything, instead of mechanically trying to stitch up a hole she could have put her hand through while he twitched and coughed and shivered, begging her with eyes already misted over with shock. She’d been able to apply a hypo-spray for the pain at least, but somehow, here and now, that didn’t seem like enough.

Mariner would never be able to do enough. She was a human, not a god.

Were her principles worth the lives of these people who trusted, obeyed, and worshipped her? What did free speech and freedom of the press mean, next to literal armies of fanatical followers ready to lay down their lives for a false god? Maybe she should ban the stupid novels. That would cut down on her resources, help to starve her out. Maybe there was a way to end this without too much bloodshed.

But then, how much was too much? For parents, siblings, partners and friends, one person falling in battle could be like losing the world. Mariner hadn’t thought it was serious. She hadn’t been trying to get into anything serious. It hadn’t been serious, until suddenly it *was* serious, and then suddenly it had been Mariner’s world ending there, on an anonymous cave floor, defending a piece of rock against Jem Hadar fighters because it had a signal booster that *might* be important to *helping* another group of soldiers win the war.

Her orders. Her responsibility. Her subordinate.

But somebody had needed to give the order to charge. Somebody had needed to send them in to attack the Dominion forces. Anyone else who could have shouldered the burden of command had been killed in the crash landing or gunned down before they’d reached cover. The commander had died in the crash. The Lieutenant Commander had died in the second wave. That had left Lieutenant Beckett Mariner in charge of everyone’s lives.

“This Joanne Musk, what are her goals? What’s she trying to achieve in this conflict?”

“Your holy highness, she claims she wants to secure a future for her genetic legacy and her people’s children in their historic homeland, free from Varkathian pollution,” the general explained.

“Oh, okay. Ethnonationalist weirdo with ambitions for ethnic cleansing and all that shit.” Mariner sighed. “Not much chance of peaceful coexistence then.”

Because that was the thing. There were people on their side who said the Dominion War was a mistake, that it could have been avoided if the federation had just given into their demands. Those people were idiots. Some people were dangerous. Some nation-states were dangerous. Some enemies had to be met head-on, before they destroyed everything in their path, and people like Joanne Musk were among them.

Tendi cleared her throat, breaking into Mariner’s reveries.

“Tendi? What’s up?” Mariner asked.

“I may have a more indirect option, your holy highness” Tendi said, looking down as she stepped forward. “Though you might not like it.”

“I’m all ears,” Mariner said. Whatever it was, it had to be better than the options currently facing her.

“Most of Joanne Musk’s accounts require her personal signature to withdraw or transfer funds, and that wealth is what pays for her mercenaries, your holy highness.”

“What, are you suggesting we form an elite strike force to take her in the heart of enemy territory?” Mariner said eagerly.

“Not quite. Like I said, your holy highness, I was thinking of something with less direct government involvement. Like hiring bounty hunters to take her alive,” Tendi said, blushing and rubbing the back of her neck. “I’ve developed a pretty extensive list of underworld operatives and spotted some likely candidates for the job, your holy highness.”

Mariner drained her glass and handed it to Zovoz for a refill. She thoughtfully stroked her chin. If they were good enough, the bounty hunters might just be able to get in and out with zero loss of life. That was a pretty big “if”, though.

“Your holy highness, you can’t seriously be considering employing common criminals to resolve this matter instead of engaging the official government forces!” the grand vizier wailed.

“You know, it’s funny you should mention that,” Boimler said, tapping a pen against his clipboard. “Because I’ve been reviewing a lot of the official government finances, and it seems like in the past the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy has had a pretty cozy relationship with organized crime, only with money flowing in the opposite direction. Oh, it’s pretty well hidden, but I can see the funding and favors traveling back and forth between the ledgers and behind the official statements.”

This time, the finance minister looked straight at Boimler. Her jaw dropped.

Aside from her, every member of the royal advisory council’s old guard held completely still. Spiders stopped making their webs to listen.

“Fortunately, most of this appears to be low-level bribery and cronyism, far removed from the elevated ranks of this advisory council, and I’ve seen no financial evidence of corruption in the upper eschelons of this administration” Boimler said, with a broad grin.

The spiders wobbled on their webs at the collective sigh of relief disturbing the air.

“So far,” Boimler added, dropping the smile.

“So, looks like working with shady characters to get the job done isn’t totally unprecedented,” Mariner said, giving Boimler a thumbs up.

“I’m all for Advisor Tendi’s plan,” the minister of culture said eagerly, wings raised and hands pressed together.

“Nobody likes a suckup,” Mariner said with a sigh, knocking back another mouthful of dunik fruit juice. At some point, she was really going to need to learn that minister’s name. “How do the rest of you feel about it?”

There was some whispered discussion amongst the leaders of the aligned free powers, formerly known as the rebel leaders. It transpired that they were all in favor or neutral, except for one of the diplomats from the Western Free Lands, each of whom refused to recognize the legitimacy of the other.

“I’m always on board with Tendi’s plans,” Rutherford said.

“Are you really confident these career criminals can pull it off?” Lt Jr Grade Castro asked.

“I can personally vouch for their abilities,” Dvana said. “I’ve independently confirmed all the accounts of their successful jobs and seen the outcomes myself. The bounty hunters I’ve hand-picked are the best you will find in the Phagocracy.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll have to trust your judgment,” Castro said, still sounding unconvinced.

“I proclaim it shall be so!” Mariner said, setting down her drink and thumping her fist into her palm. “Now uh, once I finish this juice, could you get me something a little stronger? Like a Dirty Weekend.”

Chapter Text

“So you literally just ordered a force of bounty hunters to kidnap one of your powerful enemies, and now we’re going out for a dining tour of the city, your holy highness?” Boimler said, incredulously.

“Don’t you trust Tendi’s judgement?” Mariner said. If anyone knew her way around a criminal underground, it was the former Mistress of the Winter Constellations. This was the best plan. She wouldn’t have to tell the parents of young soldiers how their children had died. She wouldn’t have to deliver the bad news to anyone’s engaged partner. She wouldn’t have photographs of the victims of her decisions burned forever into the back of her eyes, haunting her in moments waking and sleeping.

“Well, yeah, I guess I do,” Boimler said awkwardly. “I just don’t see how you can be so relaxed about it. I’d be wearing a hole in the floor until I knew the mission was completed successfully, your holy highness.”

“And that’s why you’re an uptight dork and I’m a cool pro,” Mariner said, reaching over and giving him an affectionate noogie as the ground thudded under her footsteps. Guards parted before them as they moved along the castle grounds.

“Hey, cut that out!” Boimler protested, knowing full well he was physically unable to escape. “I mean, please cut that out, *your holy highness*.”

“Look, Tendi’s picked out the best of the best, hardened veterans of the street. They’ll capture her eventually and bring her back to me, and that’ll stop her army right in its tracks with a bare minimum of bloodshed,” Mariner explained. “That’s one part of preparing everything for the coronation ceremony, getting people like Joanne Musk and Henry Pissinger into custody and sentenced. This is another part of preparing for the coronation ceremony.”

“But isn’t it just a big festival? Doesn’t actual governance take precedence over that dog and pony show, your holy highness?” Boimler asked.

“It’s not a dog and pony show,” Castro said. “It’s a means for Mariner to cement her right to rule and position with the public. It’s the very means by which she draws legitimacy to her authority, and that legitimacy is necessary to stabilize her powerbase and prevent this nation from descending into chaos.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disparage your field of research,” Boimler said, looking down.

“That’s alright,” Castro said. “No offense taken.” She crossed her fingers behind her back.

“So, where are we going first?” Rutherford asked. “Fine hotel dining? Waterfront seafood restaurant? Fancy cafe?”

“Nah, man, we’re going to find out what the majority of the people are actually eating. Gotta get something that fits the public taste, you know?” Mariner said. “I’m starting out with the most popular franchise, then a twenty-one hour diner*, and then a bunch of hole-in-the-wall restaurants recommended by the castle servants and newspaper girls and immigrants and ex-cons. That reminds me, I need to go over those plans for prison reform again.”

“Your holy highness, I am pleased to hear it,” the grand vizier said.

Mariner scanned the sight lines for snipers, then hopped into the back of her tank-limo with Boimler, Tendi, Rutherford and Castro.

It was a short trip to the nearest Krotork’s Eatery franchise location. Mariner was treated to the usual assortment of bowing and scraping, groveling and supplicating. She made a show of being annoyed and telling everyone to get back off their hands and knees and return to their meals. Then she stepped up to the end of the line.

The owner of the facility hurried forward.

“Your holy highness, I must apologize. I will shoo out the other guests at once so we may devote the full resources of our kitchen staff to satisfying your godly appetite,” she said, clutching her hands together, her wings fluttering.

“Hey, dudette, no need for that,” Mariner laughed, raising her pudgy hands. “I’m just here for one of everything on the menu, and maybe some food for my friends. I’m totally okay with waiting my turn in line like everyone else.”

“Your holy highness, *you* want to *wait in line*?!” the store owner gasped, her wings fluttering even faster and her face going pale. “Oh, I...please excuse me for a moment, your holy highness.” She rushed into the bathroom, Mariner guessed either to ingest some drugs, drink from a flask, or have a good cry. Mariner tried not to giggle.

As she took her place, followed by her entourage, people tried to move out of her way, but she insisted they get back in line ahead of her. There were a lot of wings fluttering anxiously or held rigidly still. When she finally reached the front of the line, Mariner loomed over the cashier.

“Just one of everything, even the kids meals” Mariner said, grinning. “And you don’t have to go extra-fast or anything. I’m just here to relax.”

The cashier swallowed and nodded. “Y-yes, your h-holy highness,” he said.

Mariner handed over the cash and picked out a reinforced double-wide seat facing the window, although she still had considerable overflow approaching the seats at either side. She could smell the aroma of frying arthropods, toasted breads, and simmering sauces, all above the pervasive appetizing aroma of Bromothians. After ordering, Boimler squeezed in at her righthand side and Tendi at her left, with Rutherford sitting on Tendi’s other side and Castro sitting next to Boimler. The royal guards took up strategic positions around the restaurant after making their orders.

“So, what’d you guys get?” Mariner asked.

“I ordered the ham and cheese sandwich with a side of salted linga peas and a farafa fruit soda,” Boimler said.

“I got the fried red bugs with a purple side salad and this Dworkin Health Tonic drink,” Castro said.

“There wasn’t much vegetarian food on the menu. Even the entree salads have poultry or fish in them, so I’m just getting a side salad and a glorka berry flavored milkshake,” Tendi said. She frowned thoughtfully. “If vegetarianism hasn’t caught on here I might be having a lot of sides during this excursion.”

“I went for a Mixed Fry. It’s like, ground up meats and beetles flash-fried with breading. Probably the least appetizing bits but it comes with a spicy sauce and the linga peas,” Rutherford said. “And I’m getting the Zuburu Shake for dessert.”

“The Mixed Fry sounds cool. If it’s anything like scrapple, the cheapest, grossest ingredients make for some of the tastiest comfort foods,” Mariner said. Her prodigious stomach growled a little.

“Number seventy!” a worker called out, setting down a paper bag.

“That’s me!” Boimler said, getting up to grab his food. He got back and opened it up, between a stack of napkins and a vurkle sauce dispenser. “Oh, these peas are good and crispy.”

Mariner took a deep whiff of the savory smell coming from the bag. They must be fresh from the fryer.

As the other patrons went up to grab their bags, Mariner began to slowly realize her tactical error. She’d made sure that they didn’t give her any special consideration, but they didn’t come out with the orders until the whole order was complete. This wasn’t like a sit-down restaurant where food came out one item at a time. As fast as they worked, her order would take a long time to prepare.

Tendi grabbed her shake and salad. A big, burly, construction-worker type guy grabbed a few bags, probably for his work buddies or for a delivery run. He looked pretty juicy. Mariner clamped down on the thought. If she was going to eat anyone here, she’d want to start with the owner, after all. No, no eating restaurant owners either. This was a trip to sample the Bromothian cuisine, not the Bromothian population.

Tendi scanned Castro’s health tonic when it arrived, explaining that some of the most dangerous chemicals sapient beings had ever discovered had been promoted for their health properties at some point in history, such as radium toothpaste, mercury elixers, and old-world Ferenghi arsenic paste.

Pretty soon, everyone else had finished their meal, the hunger pangs were kicking in, and Mariner was digging her nails into the wooden counter top, trying to resist the growing urge to gobble up one of her constituents. Maybe she could just temporarily nom Tendi.

“Number sixty-nine!” the worker in the purple and yellow striped uniform called out.

It was a testament to Mariner’s appetite that she didn’t manage so much as a snicker, instead hurrying up to make the two trips needed to bring the bags of food over to her spot. She threw the first bag into her mouth without bothering to open it and swallowed.

“I think if you want to experience the different flavors of Bromothian popular cuisine, you’re going to need to taste and chew them,” Boimler said, playfully poking her in the side, his finger easily sinking into her flab.

“Bold talk from somebody in nomming range,” Mariner grumbled.

Boimler studiously ignored the comment, knowing that Mariner couldn’t stand his flavor without the addition of hot sauce and that her angry snark meant she just needed to catch up with her appetite and chill a little.

With the immediate edge of the hunger pangs taken off, Mariner took the time to open her bags of food and unwrap the contents, even chewing a few times while she explored the flavors. Most of the side dishes were linga peas, which she vacuumed up after taking the time to taste the first one. A lot of the entrees were variants on some kind of poultry sandwich with a minty-sweet sauce. She was right though; the Mixed Fry was delicious. The red bugs were just okay, but improved when doused in vurkle sauce. It took her several minutes to pack away all of it.

Mariner belched hugely and wiped the crumbs from her cleaveage. “Okay, time for the next spot.”

*Bromothia had a different rotation speed than Earth

Chapter Text

Mariner squeezed herself into one side of the booth, thankful that the table was moveable rather than fixed to the floor. Her predecessor had done a lot of bad things, but She had been a boon for accommodations for plus-sized women. She’d managed to get the staff and customers to stop groveling to her, and explained that she wasn’t going to clean out their stock completely, just take a tasting menu with one of everything. For his part, the jaded waiter with a cigarette-cracked voice treated Mariner with the same casual regard he probably showed everyone, including calling her “hon” instead of “your holy highness”.

“Aw, everything I want is on the breakfast menu,” Tendi lamented.

“We serve breakfast all day,” the jaded waiter said, who was Tonot according to the label on his tight purple halter top. His eyes had bags and his voice had the gravely tone of a long-term smoker.

“Oooh, then I want the silver-dollar Jonoj cakes, with my side eggs sunny-side up, and the chipped denthor root, plus a glass of dunik fruit juice” Tendi announced eagerly.

The waiter turned to Boimler, eyeing him up with an assessing glance that made him blush.

“And you?”

“I’ll have the meatloaf with a side of pork roll,” Boimler said. “Oh, and a farafa fruit soda.”

“I want the gryphon eggs with ham rolls, with a cup of hot tisane” Castro said.

“I’ll have seafood soup with extra crackers, just water to drink,” Rutherford said.

“Just send me everything as it comes out,” Mariner said to the aloof waiter.

“Sure thing, hon,” Tonot said, sketching notes on his pad and adjusting his uniform shorts. He didn’t bow or salute, but he gave her a smile that reached his laugh-line crinkled eyes.

“One thing I’ve been wondering about,” Mariner said, leaning in, “the previous god-queen ruled over these people for generations. Like, *generations*, and she didn’t look older than her mid-forties when I saw her. Either Bromothians are extremely short-lived, or something weird is going on here.”

“Well, I can tell you Bromothians don’t live substantially shorter than other humanoids, when you factor in the lifespan difference caused by things like differences in medical technology,” Tendi said, frowning. “Do you think she could have been a Lanthanite?”

“No, that wouldn’t make sense. Lanthanites can’t get Arnaud Syndrome,” Castro said, frowning.

“And they don’t have elastic body tissue and ribs like an Orion,” Tendi said, scratching her head.

“That *is* weird,” Rutherford said, frowning.

“Maybe she had access to some of that anti-aging stuff from the Ba’ku planet?” Boimler suggested.

“No, if that was true it would have entered into Mariner’s body when she digested her, and I haven’t picked up any trace of it in her medical scans,” Tendi said, regarding her medical tricorder.

“Then what *was* going on with her?” Mariner asked.

It was a good question. Nobody had come up with a good answer by the time their drinks arrived.

The soups arrived first. Mariner drained her steaming-hot bowls in two gulps each, pausing only to check the menu and figure out which one she was eating.

“This sweet-and-spicy vegetable soup is about as spicy as milk,” Mariner complained.

“Mariner, *your holy highness*, you feel that way about everything that’s low enough so you can actually taste individual flavors instead of just pure heat,” Boimler chided. “In between the temperature and the seasoning I don’t see how you manage to down that stuff without steam coming out of your ears.

“That’s not true. I just like my spicy food with a little more heat than you do,” Mariner said, pausing in her gluttony to stick out her tongue at Boimler.

“I’m with Boimler on this one,” Castro said. “You think the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion peppers are for wimps who like bland food.”

“I think you guys just hate flavor,” Mariner said defensively before finishing off the bowl of pork noodle soup.

Rutherford tapped his implant a few times, searching for the right mode, then gave up. “Honestly, M-I mean, your holy highness, I’m backing Boimler on this one too. The Carolina Reaper does not belong in mild chili,” Rutherford said.

“Yeah, I wasn’t ready to tell you at the time, but Orion Suicide Peppers were originally cultivated for torturing information out of captives, not for seasoning, and definitely not as ‘medium spicy’ pizza toppings, your holy highness” Tendi said.

Mariner thumped her gut, producing a ripple of fat, and burped up a spoon. “Whatever,” she grumbled.

Tendi and Castro’s food came out next, along with identical items for Mariner, plus a plate of various meaty bits and ends. Mariner sniffed and her eyes light up, her mouth watering for reasons other than the abundance of Bromothians in her viscinity.

“Oh man, this smells almost exactly like scrapple!”

“Your holy highness,” Castro said carefully, “you know that scrapple is--”

“Yeah, I know, all the parts they can’t use up otherwise. Doesn’t stop it from smelling and tasting delicious,” Mariner said, devouring the mess in three enormous bites.

Castro rolled her eyes and tucked into the green-yolked fried eggs while Tendi poured honey over something not entirely dissimilar to pancakes.

Next up, Mariner devoured a series of omelets, dousing each of them in hot sauce regardless of how much spicy ingredients they already had in them and then, once Tonot was out of hearing range, complaining about how weak the hot sauce was.

“Look, your holy highness, if nothing here is hot enough for you, why don’t you ask around about restaurants with million-Scoville scorchers that’ll better fit your discriminating palette?” Boimler suggested, half advising and half teasing.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Mariner said, through a mouthful of poultry-mushroom omelet. She followed it up by spearing an entire stack of Jonoj cakes with glorka berries in them, deep-throating them, and washing them down by drinking her bottle of honey.

Castro did her best to conceal her disgust, but a lot of men and women in the restaurant where giving Mariner longing looks of admiration when they thought she wasn’t looking. Seeing those heart-shaped eyes revolted Castro even more than Mariner’s shameless display. This wasn’t some sort of, of pie-eating contest or something. This was supposed to be the divine royal in front of her subjects, for goodness’ sake!

Mariner had worked her way through every different variant of Jonoj cakes, but there were still more to come, because some menu items came with tiny Jonoj cakes as a side, just as there were other menu items where the side was eggs and/or meat. One of her favorite items was a kind of dough-covered sausage that vaguely reminded her of a corn dog.

Mariner got all the way through the dessert course, consisting mainly of various fruit pies topped with ice cream, without making a visible impression on her stomach.

“So, let’s *urp* get to the next *belch* spot,” Mariner said, licking her lips and leaving a one-hundred percent tip.

“Are you sure you wanna leave that big a tip?” Castro asked. “I’m sure the workers are fairly compensated.”

“Actually, due to a loophole they make literally less than minimum wage, but they’re still taxed on the assumption that they make enough in tips to make up the difference,” Boimler whispered.

“Oh,” Castro said. “That’s messed up.”

“It really is,” Mariner agreed. “Which is why it’s *burp* going on my list of upcoming reforms.”

***

Mariner arrived at a little restaurant called Auntie Martram’s. They had hexagon-pattered purple tablecloths, incense burning by the cash register, and paintings depicting happy peasants from the neighboring country of Gho Shand working the fields, harvesting grain and the tomato-like fruit with a mild menthol flavor. There was a cute statuette of a gryphon by the door, and two taller gryphon statues flanked the cash register. It didn’t take many guards to cover every entrance and exit, as the restaurant only had one big glass window by the front.

The various occupants shot upright and turned to bow to her, except for one person in a wheelchair with the hairstyle Mariner had come to associate with they-them individuals in the local queer scene, who inclined their head from a seated position instead, and for the hostess, who simply smiled at her and greeted with the same enthusiasm that she presumably showed for every customer who came into the restaurant.

“Hey everyone! Could I get a table for five?” Mariner asked cheerily. “Also please, no bowing.”

The waiter set them up with waters, menus, and a plate of complimentary crispy fried noodles for the table. Mariner restrained herself and ate only half of the noodles.

“Are you *ever* full, your holy highness?” Castro said, washing down her handful of noodles with a drink of water.

“Well, I felt pretty full after I ate the previous god-queen,” Mariner said thoughtfully. “And I usually feel full for, like, an hour or so after major feasts.”

Castro shook her head but didn’t say anything. Boimler was engrossed in the menu.

“I wonder what the Rainbow Delight is?” he asked.

“Oh, I’ve heard some of our staff talking about it,” Mariner said eagerly. “They’re a kind of multi-colored dumplings with savory fillings.”

“Sounds good to me, then,” Boimler said.

“I wanna try some of the bean curd stir fry,” Tendi said.

“Oh, they’ve got different spice levels,” Mariner said. “Mild, medium, high, and Gho Shand Spicy.” This sounded promising.

Castro opened her mouth to say something sarcastic, but stopped when she saw an item on the menu. Deep fried spiders. This planet had spiders, and they were edible! Finally, she could get a proper taste of nostalgia in this backwater edge of an outer spiral arm.

Mariner finally allowed herself to wonder about the bounty hunters. What was their plan to infiltrate Joanne Musk’s headquarters?

Mariner’s stomach rumbled as she waited. Did they have families back home? Of course they had families. Everyone had a family, whether they were on good terms with them or not.

She tried to think about the Rainbow Delight, and the stir fried bean curd, and how spicy Gho Shand Spicy might be. She tried not to think about him, about how fast he had become fatally injured compared with how distressingly long it had taken him to actually die.

She tried not to wonder if the bounty hunters would make it back to their own families. Sure, they were signing up for money, but...did that really make it better? After all, in a capitalist society, everyone needs money to survive.

A steaming hot bowl of soup arrived, along with a small bowl of cooked orange grains.

“Finally,” Mariner sighed, tossing the contents of the bowl into her mouth. It was a little mealy and bitter, but she had to try the range of flavors. Anyway it was nice to have something else to focus on.

“That soup looks good,” Boimler said. “What’s it called?”

“It’s called Forofian Wild Mushroom Stew,” Mariner said, blowing on it before taking a sip. “Ooh, still hot.”

“Can I try some?” Boimler asked, nibbling the last of his fried noodles.

Mariner handed him a spoonful. He tentatively sipped it.

“Oh, this is good,” Boimler said, lighting up. “Maybe I’ll order a cup if they have small size portions.”

“Just get a whole bowl of it,” Mariner laughed. “I’m paying, remember?”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna waste it if I get full too fast,” Boimler said. “Not everyone has your appetite.”

“No worries. If you don’t want the rest of it I can always finish it off for you,” Mariner said.

Boimler’s eyes went wide suddenly and he covered his mouth.

“Too spicy?” Castro asked sympathetically.

“No, too minty!” Boimler gasped out. “It’s got some kind of delayed reaction.” He coughed and sputtered. “I swear I can feel frost forming in my mouth.”

“Oh, I guess it is a little bit minty,” Mariner said, downing the rest of it in a single throat-distending swallow.

“A little bit? Mariner, I can taste the Andes,” Boimler said.

“Hey, could we get some bread and yogurt here, or maybe another round of fried noodles?” Mariner said, flagging down a server who nodded and scurried off.

“I don’t see any alcoholic drinks on the menu,” Castro said, frowning. “Do you think this is a dry restaurant?”

“Oh, I know this one,” Rutherford said quickly. “In Gho Shand culture, cocktails are an after-dinner sort of thing, so we won’t see any drinks until we finish entrees and they bring out the dessert menu. It’s considered very rude among the Gho Shand communities to ask for drinks before dinner.”

“Thanks for the educational tidbid, Rutherford,” Tendi said with a smile. “It’s always neat to learn about intraplanetary cultural variations.”

“Yeah, since the ban on minority religions lifted, Big Ell has been doing some meetups and mutual aid organizing with other non-monotheists. There’s a very nice granny from Gho Shand who came here to get married because her parents didn’t approve of her dating a Varkathian, and she’s part of the group too. She told me all about things back home and brings home-made pastries to the group meetings.”

“Aw, that’s sweet of her,” Tendi said. “I’m glad to hear that you’re making new friends here.”

“I just tag along to keep her company,” Rutherford said dismissively. “But uh, it is nice, getting exposed to different customs and worldviews.”

Boimler was taking deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to adjust to the menthol level in the soup.

A waitress came out with two steaming plates of deep-fried spiders. Rutherford looked a little queasy.

“You okay, Rutherford?” Tendi asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He tapped his implant to shift into a lower-emotion mood. “Yeah, I just don’t get along well with spiders, deep fried or otherwise.”

“Good thing you weren’t on the landing party when we went to the Galar system then,” Boimler chuckled. “They had a spider-cow thing that could have thrown down with a woolly mammoth.”

“You know, you’ve come a long way from those days when you were a fresh-faced new ensign getting suckled on by domesticated livestock,” Mariner said, with a fond smile.

“I’d certainly like to think so,” Boimler said, though he audible sighed with relief when a server arrived with a bowl of yogurt for him.

Mariner started crunching up spiders by the fistfull, while Castro carefully speared them one at a time with the fork-like instrument provided, occasionally dabbing them with a salty brown sauce. She wasn’t even using a napkin, just licking her fingers clean instead!

These fried spiders were a little different from the ones Castro had eaten back home, but it was close enough to make her feel both happy and a little homesick. She was tired of being stuck on this backwater planet. She was tired of having to shower with water and ride around in non-hovering vehicles and get food made in a kitchen instead of instantly popped out of a replicator. When would Stafleet come and rescue them?

But then, what about when Starfleet did arrive? Would they understand their actions, picking the path of least cultural damage in the face of a difficult scenario? What if they got court-martialed? What if her pre-Cerritos record was brought up again? What if she got demoted, or a formal demerit, or something even worse?

They’d understand she’d done her best under the circumstances. They had to. She couldn’t afford anything bad on her record when she was so damn close to making Lieutenant.

She focused on the fried spiders. She focused on being present, here and now, in this primitive little world that still relied on internal combustion engines, where everything stank of smoke and diesel.

Castro tried to remind herself to be grateful. She was in a great position of power and privilege on this little world. She needed to steer Mariner as best as she could, reign in her more chaotic and destructive tendencies, and help guide these people forward while still giving them a reasonable amount of autonomy and control over their own destinies, keeping damage and interference to a minimum. Part of that revolved around keeping up the rituals and ceremonies they had established for themselves, and part of that revolved around the coronation ceremony, which they were technically still preparing for, even if Mariner was using it as an excuse to be a total pig.

Right on cue, Mariner belched and licked her fingers.

“My compliments to the chef,” Mariner said, thumping her belly and producing another eruption of gas.

The waiters came out with a series of seemingly identical noodle dishes, each of which had a different lengthy name. Mariner sucked them down, pausing to make notes on the varying flavor profiles. Her favorite was the Four Vegetable Noodle Special, which evidently had some sort of spicy sauce she described as “mild”.

The waiter came out with Tendi’s bean curd and the Rainbow Delight, along with a dish of each for Mariner. Mariner actually paused to pop each individual dumpling into her mouth, which must be a testament to how tasty she found it.

Then, Mariner’s Firebird Delight came out. It was technically a poultry dish, but it had Castro and Boimler coughing as soon as they smelled it, and even Rutherford and Tendi found their eyes watering a little.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Mariner said, rubbing her hands together. The food was bright green with the sauce that it had been absolutely drowned in. Castro didn’t know if Mariner would even be able to taste the original flavor of the four-legged poultry under all that seasoning.

Mariner took her first bite, eyes closed, and sighed.

“Ooh, this has a nice little kick to it,” Mariner said, after chewing. She tore off another drumstick and went to town on it.

That was the signal for the rest of them not to order it. Clearly, Gho Shand spicy was something at the very upper limits of humanoid tolerance.

By the time they finished with the restaurant, Mariner had ordered another dozen platters of Firebird Delight on top of one of everything and a few seconds, and her stomach was full enough to be visibly distended.

Chapter Text

Mariner settled reluctantly back into her throne. She always felt restless when these meetings rolled around, some part of her desperate to be *doing* something instead of just *talking* about things, and it reflected rather sadly on the state of affairs that she considered signing proclamations and laws while sitting on her impressively fat ass “doing something”. She tried to jog around the palace grounds but that got *boring* so quickly. Mariner wrestled with boredom at the best of times, and this time boredom was coming in with a folding chair. It had been over a fortnight since she’d last taken any of her ADHD medication.

“So, what’s the first item on the agenda?” Mariner asked, starting with a glass of dunik fruit juice so she was at least less likely to space out during the important meeting, and making a mental note to commission the creation of some gym equipment. She may not have her holodeck Cardassian prison breaks anymore, but that was no excuse to stop working out. Besides, she *needed* to be physical. Maybe she could add a gym to the palace and hold meetings in it while exercising. That could make at least one of the two activities less dull for her.

“Well, to begin with I have some good news, your holy highness” the grand vizier said. “The bounty hunters have successfully captured Joanne Musk!”

“Wow, I bet that made a pretty cool story!” Mariner said, slamming her fist into her palm.

“Doubtless, your holy highness” the grand vizier said. “So, we’ve put her in the dungeon. Would you like us to prepare her now or later?” she asked.

“Um, later, obviously!” Mariner said. “I mean, we need to do her trial first.”

The grand vizier and other advisors looked surprised.

“Yeah yeah, I know, technically I have the authority to do whatever I want. But I want to do this the right way. Justice has to be seen to be done,” Mariner said. Her friends nodded, along with several of the advisors from other nations.

“Speaking of which, how about Henry Pissinger?” Mariner said. “Is he in custody yet?”

“Yes, your holy highness,” the minister of justice said. “He’s also in the dungeon.”

“That reminds me, I need to set up a tour of the major jails, prisons, and dungeons in the Phagocracy. Gotta figure out where to start the justice system reform somehow, and I’m willing to bet there’s a few things about how people are treated that need to change. Like, apparently we still have cash bail? That’s messed up! People’s liberty before they’ve been convicted of a crime definitely shouldn’t depend on having a wad of cash to cough up. That’s essentially saying rich people are somehow more trustworthy and less guilty than poor people.”

“Your holy highness, I will draft up some forms for you to sign at once, and organize the guards to plan out some visits to carcerial facilities,” she said with a low bow.

“Good. Wrakoth, minister of agriculture, dudette, how is the fight against the famine going? Anything looking better in the Western subcontinent? Have we identified the underlying socioeconomic causes that let things get this bad?”

“Your holy highness, I’m sorry to say that we have not been able to uncover any underlying cause, beyond the initial blight affecting the staple crop,” the minister of agriculture said, her wings flapping a little. “B-but, the good news is that we have been able to successfully alleviate it. Distribution of food and nutrient pellets is going well, despite some administrative hiccups, your holy highness.”

“Hm,” Mariner said, draining her glass of juice. “I understand,” she said, while privately making mental plans to spearhead a more covert investigation into the causes of the famine. If the local authorities weren’t able to unravel this mystery, she trusted her friends to handle it.

“What’s the news on foreign affairs?” Mariner asked.

“The ceasefire seems to be holding with the other nations, your holy highness,” the minister of foreign affairs said. “The Western Free Lands are still engaged in the middle of a very bloody civil war.” The two representatives from the Western Free Lands glared at each other, their wings raised as if to make themselves look bigger, and their heads tilted as if they were about to lock horns. “The capital is under seige, much of the Tungala district is on fire, and diesel shortages are occuring throughout the major cities.”

“This wouldn’t be a problem if you could just give up on the institution of slavery!” the state representative said.

“This isn’t about slavery, this is about the rights of individual districts in the face of federal tyranny!” the rebel representative shouted.

“District rights to do what exactly?” Mariner asked, pointedly.

“Well, to continue our traditions and maintain the economic system that works for us,” the rebel representative said, wings fluttering as Mariner fixed her hungry gaze on her.

“Your holy highness, I would like to remind you that civil wars are purely internal matters, and it is of *prime* importance to take steps to preserve the ceasefire and avoid enmeshing our military forces in a prolonged quagmire that does not directly concern us,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Castro said, with careful emphasis.

Mariner frowned, drained her refilled glass, and rose from her throne. “Excuse me, I need a minute alone with my advisor,” Mariner said.

Mariner led Castro into her private chambers.

“Look, I know what you’re going to say, but the prime directive is crystal clear on this. Wading into a civil war is getting us involved in a purely internal measure, and there’s no way the action won’t be seen as naked aggression and opportunism by the other nations. Even if it wasn’t for the prime directive, which we are already technically breaking but trying to preserve the spirit of, it’s an enormously bad idea. We’d be getting into-”

“I know,” Mariner said, grimly.

“You what?” Castro gasped.

Mariner had her hands in fists so tight her nails were digging into her palm. “I said *I know*. I’ve read the reports on the situation. I know this looks like an absolute quagmire of a civil war, and I know it would violate the prime directive so hard it would be guaranteed to end my career, although let’s be real, I probably won’t have a career anyway after they rescue us from this planet.” Her arms trembled. “So spare me the big fucking Prime Directive speech. It’s one thing to get myself involved in an insurrection. It’s another thing to drag in an entire military that looks up to me as a leader and as a god.”

“Well, thank you,” Castro said, not without a hint of sarcasm. “Glad to hear I can spare myself some trouble.”

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to do nothing, though,” Mariner said, firmly. “I’m planning to put together a volunteer core of humanitarian aid workers.”

“Mariner, are you sure that’s--” Castro began.

“Bitch, please!” Mariner interrupted. “Even Picard rendered humanitarian aid to the Bajorans during their no-touchy internal conflict with the Cardassians, and he always kissed the Prime Directive’s metaphorical ass like it was peppermint candy.”

“Okay, fine,” Castro huffed, folding her arms.

“I just wanted to sort that out away from local ears, so I don’t have to explain any pushback from you,” Mariner said. “I’m keenly aware that I’m not allowed to be a rebel following my own moral compass anymore.” So this was what it had come to? Mariner asked herself. Apparently yes. Apparently she had to watch a nation tear itself apart trying to defend fucking *slavery*, because she had Responsibilities, because she had her own entire nation of people willing to fight and die at her command, and she had to be careful about spending those lives. If she’d been on her own, she would have dived straight in, guns blazing, to weigh in on the side of freedom against oppression, but she wasn’t just playing with her own life anymore. She couldn’t even weigh in as an individual agent of liberation. Now she represented a bit more than just herself, and she fucking *hated* it. Now she was going to send humanitarian aid packages to the right side of this conflict, getting food and water to besieged cities, withholding weather control from both sides of the fight in case it was seen as an act of aggression that provoked the pro-slavery fighters to attack her own country, because instead of a little squad of fighters or an away mission, she had an entire *country* to be responsible for now.

What she wanted to do, right now, was reach into somebody’s chest with her bare hands and squeeze whatever she found there. She’d learned a few things about Jem Hadar anatomy on the fly, and though there was some redundancy built in, there was only so much you could do with a gaping chest wound, especially when somebody was exploring it vigorously. No, what she really wanted to do was say fuck it all and charge into the civil war with a phaser and grenades and kill every bastard fighting for the “right” to own slaves she could find, then yank off her pants and take a steaming piss on the still-cooling corpses.

That was the problem though. *She* wanted to do that. Growing up, she’d learned that you don’t always get what you want, something her dad would sometimes sing at her, and it had made her want to punch him in the face when he did it. She couldn’t ask thousands upon thousands of soldiers to die in the soil of a strange country for *her* ideals. She could levy sanctions and provide humanitarian aid and apply political pressure, but she couldn’t get *her* country into another war. She couldn’t send off all those bright-eyed young Bromothians off to their untimely deaths.

The whispers ceased the second Mariner opened the door again, and by the time she settled back into her throne all the non-Starfleet advisors were wreathed in nervous smiles.

“Hey Zovoz, think you could get me something a little stronger than the dunik fruit juice for this meeting? Like maybe a Dirty Weekend or some glorka berry brandy? Your god-queen wants to liven up this meeting a little.”

“I will at once, your holy highness,” the cup bearer said as she hurried in the direction of the god-queen’s private bar.

Mariner pressed the intercom button. “Please get me a roasted livestock to devour and make it snappy. Anything other than horse will do.”

Chapter Text

“So, your holy highness, I’ve made some revisions to the list of sacrificial candidates,” Castro said, going over a sheet of paper in her hand.

“Yeah, about that, I want to start making some additions of my own,” Mariner said. “I want to catch some serial killers.”

“Your holy highness, would you like me to bring in the chief of police for the city?” the minister of justice asked.

Mariner laughed out loud. “What would she know about it? No, I want to *actually* catch serial killers and stop murders. I’m going to interview local sex workers.”

The royal chefs came in with a roasted winged swine. Mariner licked her lips and tore off a leg, biting into the juicy striped blue-and-purple ham.

“So, yeah, send over the cold cases if you must, but if there’s a serial killer operating at large, it’s usually because the law enforcement are apathetic and/or incompetent, if not actively complicit. I also want to gather information from local independent journalists and put together records from neighbors complaining about the smell of rotten meat.”

On that note, Mariner finished off the leg, bones and all, and washed it down with a glassful of brandy, then belched.

“It shall be done at once, your holy highness,” the minister of justice said, folding her wings as she bowed.

“D’vana?” Mariner said, turning to Tendi.

“Yes, your holy highness?” Tendi asked brightly.

“How is that special project I assigned you coming along?” Mariner asked, uncertainly.

Tendi drooped a little. “I’m sorry, your holy highness, but I still haven’t been able to find an adequate substitute for Methylphenidate. Though I’m sure we’re bound to come up with something sooner or later,” she said, her natural optimism reasserting itself. “Also, negotiations with mob leaders are going well. I think I’ve successfully managed to arrange a truce between the Old Firm and the various gangs from the Northern Archipelago.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mariner said, with a sigh. “But, I’d really appreciate it if you could amp up the search.” She tried to convey, nonverbally, that she was trying her hardest, but she was dealing with a lot of boring stuff completely unmedicated, and she *needed* some kind of alternative to the medication that helped her function. She tried to convey that she was holding on to her erratic attention span and need for direct action by the very tips of her fingernails. “Like, it’s okay if you need to head out into the wilderness for a while, go on some expeditions, stuff like that. The entire palace isn’t going to fall apart if you’re away for a few days.” She also tried to convey that, while she cared about Tendi very much, and of course valued both her friendship and their intimate relationship, she didn’t need that much protecting, and she would be okay for a while, too.

Tendi nodded, carefully. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do, your holy highness.”

Mariner sighed, hoping that her point had gotten across. She tore off the wings from her roasted swine and gulped them both down in a single swallow.

“So, Rutherford, how’s the STEM education initiative going?”

“Oh, pretty well, your holy highness,” Rutherford said quickly. “We’re getting a lot of scholarships approved for students out in underserved rural areas and working to reform the public school system, so it’s budgeted out evenly at the federal level instead of each school being funded by the local property taxes. We’re also handing out lots of scientific development grants, including a very large one for Wigiw to develop his experimental space travel engine.” Rutherford winked his cybernetic eye.

If Wigiw successfully invented a warp drive, then the Bromothian people could join the larger galaxy, and suddenly this whole affair would no longer be Mariner’s problem alone. Starfleet could make plans for first contact and she could focus on figuring out the most graceful way to extract herself from Bromothian civilization with a minimum of destabilization and collateral damage, instead of wrestling with the thorny problem of how to actually *rule* a community that regarded her as *the* goddess of the entire world.

Mariner took a large sip from her refilled glass.

“What is the state of space travel like in the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Me, by the way? I don’t think I’ve seen a lot of evidence of it in the infrastructure bills I signed,” Mariner said.

“Well, the nation has made some progress with propulsion rockets. The Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Her has planted its flag on all three of the planet’s moons, but there aren’t any serious plans in place for visiting the nearest neighbor planet. The prior, uh, incumbant, didn’t display a marked interest in most fields of technological advancement, although She didn’t outright ban it as such...your holy highness” Rutherford explained.

Mariner remembered that she wasn’t the only one who relied on medication. Depending on how long it took Starfleet to reach them on this isolated rock, Rutherford might be facing testosterone withdrawal eventually. Tendi hadn’t made any progress finding an artificial testosterone source that was safe for him to use. She hadn’t mapped it fully yet, but the Bromothians had a truly fascinating endocrine system according to her, and she should know.

“So, *your holy highness*, I was thinking of a comprehensive sex education program, starting with teaching very small children about consent and the names for their body parts, then working up to subjects like puberty changes and safe sex. The slogan is--” Boimler began.

“No,” Mariner said.

“But you haven’t even *heard it* yet, your holy highness!” Boimler whined.

“I said no! You’re always terrible at coming up with slogans,” Mariner said firmly, pulling another haunch off the roasted pig. “No slogans, no banners, no type of promotion whatsoever come up with by you. The general outline of the sex education program, yes, I’m fine with that. It’s a really good idea. But the idea of a sex ed campaign with a message to kids and teenagers written by you is already making me cringe so hard my skin is crawling.”

“Oh come on, I’m not that cringey, your holy highness. Back me up, guys,” Boimler said, turning to Tendi and Rutherford for reassurance.

They both looked uncomfortable, but Tendi managed to say “Well, I did like your Captain Freeman Day banner. It was very...energetic!”

“Fine then, your holy highness. But I think I had the basic concepts conveyed pretty well, with catchy lyrics,” Boimler said.

“Lyrics? Boimler, you may be my best friend, but I swear if you start singing sex education lessons I will lock you in the dungeon along with the sacrificial victims,” Mariner said, although she couldn’t stop a smile from flickering across her face for the briefest moment while she said it. Boimler folded his arms playfully and made an exaggerated sulky expression.

“Speaking of education, we should probably get some stuff done about anti-Varkathian prejudice. I mean, I set the hate crime laws into motion and put in the funding to enforce them, but we kinda need some kind of, I dunno, public awareness campaign. Fund more positive portrayals in the media, get better hiring practices, that uh, that kind of thing,” Mariner said, vaguely. “Like, do we even have any Varkathians on staff to talk to about how to do this right?”

“Er, actually, your holy highness, the laws laid down by your predecessor actively forbid Varkathians from working in government roles above certain levels,” the grand vizier explained.

Mariner swallowed the haunch of meat, then sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Right. Okay. Well, we’ll start by repealing that law, and maybe set up some grants for work by Varkathian artists. Visual artists, musicians, film-makers, cover every medium. That’s bound to get some of their narratives out there in the public eye while also providing useful employment to members of a heavily oppressed ethnic minority,” Mariner said. “You know, something like that.”

“As you wish, your holy highness,” the grand vizier said.

“Alright. Once we have some Varkathian voices in here I’ll have a better idea of where to go in that direction.” Mariner then unhinged her jaw and swallowed the rest of the roast. She pressed the intercom. “Hey, could I please get some of that spirally orange pasta?”

Chapter Text

Mariner was listening to the latest citizen petition.

Correction, she was *trying* to listen to the latest citizen petition, as her grand vizier read it out. It involved a very long, very dull, very complicated point of income tax law. There were conditions. There were exemptions. There were precedents and interpretations of precedents. The previous god-queen had never bothered untangling the mess Herself, and at this point, Mariner could see why.

Her leg was jiggling. Her eyelids were drooping. A fly was buzzing around somewhere that she couldn’t see. Outside, two small gryphons were getting into a fight, or possibly trying to fuck.

“Sorry, could you go over that last bit again?” Mariner said, even as part of her screamed “no, do NOT go over the last bit again, it was tedious enough the first time!” She struggled to string the facts together. It was like trying to string a pearl necklace using only her nose.

“Of course, your holy highness. I was just saying that the payment of interest on past-due taxes is deductable, but only for individuals under the poverty line in urban districts, although a grandfather clause has allowed individuals in rural districts who are less than 20% above the poverty line to also be included in the exemption, although this only applies to accrued interest on past due taxes lower than their total…”

The gryphons squawked louder. The fly buzzed closer, while still staying out of sight.

Mariner idly wondered what the crew of the Cerritos were up to. Right now, she’d rather be scrubbing the plasma conduits. Right now, she’d rather be scraping carbon off of slightly harder carbon. She’d rather be getting shivved in a bar fight with Naussican mercenaries. She would give so much to be getting shivved in a bar fight right now. She would suck a Tal Shiar agent’s dick just for the *chance* to get shivved in a bar fight.

Mariner’s grand vizier was starting to look and smell pretty appetizing. She’d had two roasted pigs and thirty pounds of orange noodles, but there was always room for dessert, right?

No, Mariner. Focus. Focus on something other than how delicious she looks, how much she smells like an amazing delicacy, how much every Bromothian she’d ever eaten had a flavor that beat artisinal gagh, or replicated fois gras, or even freshly torched Martian crème brule.

Was she drooling? She was definitely drooling. Mariner wiped the saliva off her chins and tried to wrangle her brain cells together.

She would rather watch Bingston’s one-man play about the moons of Jupiter. She would rather listen to one of her mom’s lectures. She would rather read first contact regulations or proofread one of Sito’s essays about the prime directive. She would rather be doing almost anything right now than what she was doing.

Her grand vizier Gorog was going on about exemptions, and interest rates, and exceptions to exemptions, and exceptions to the exceptions. Mariner swore could feel Bromothia’s tectonic plates shifting under her. She could hear the moons circling overhead. She could sense her hair lengthening and threatening to go grey.

She was tapped into the weather control. She could make it rain with a snap of a finger. She could make lightning strike the palace.

She had eaten plenty today, but that didn’t help, because she wasn’t feeling stomach-hungry. She was feeling mouth-hungry. She was feeling “I’m bored” hungry. She was focusing on her appetite and the Bromothian flavor profile she remembered because it was easier than focusing on the limits of the latest tax law overturned or reinstated or whatever the fuck it was.

Boimler cleared his throat. The grand vizier looked up from her papers.

“Perhaps I could help clarify a point or two of that last item with the god-queen, in private?” Boimler said.

“Your holy highness?” grand vizier Gorog asked.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I think that would help,” Mariner mumbled.

She rose from her throne, muscles shifting over a thousand pounds of fat, and began wobbling after Boimler as if in a daze, following him into her private chambers.

“What did you want to explain to me again?” Mariner mumbled.

“I didn’t. You clearly needed a break,” Boimler said.

“Was I that obvious?” Mariner said, with an emotionless little chuckle.

“In between the jiggling leg, the drool, and the eyes so heavily glazed you could use them to frost donuts, yeah. I’m surprised nobody else was noticing it.”

“They were just too polite to comment,” Mariner said, rubbing her closed eyes and swaying on her feet. “Dear fuck, I have *got* to find a replacement ADHD medicine.”

“Well, until then, let’s give you a break. Get some fresh air in your lungs, maybe get active. I mean, you haven’t left the castle all day and I know you get worse when you don’t exercise.”

“But I don’t have a holodeck to run Cardassian prison breaks on. I need to exercise but I also need to not get bored!” she sighed. “Just plain running around is boring. I mean, we don’t have the technology for audiobooks or casts here, and it’s not like I can have a whole band jogging along with me.”

Boimler frowned and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, maybe there’s some way you can, like, motivate yourself. Like when I want to get through a particularly annoying chore I promise myself I’m going to reread a captain Sulu public log after I’m done with it,” Boimler said.

“I’ve tried that, I just go ahead and do the reward thing anyway,” Mariner sighed. “Besides, I’m the frigging god-queen of this empire. Anything I want is literally at my fingertips.”

“Well, not *literally* at your fingertips. For that you’d need to have really long fingers, and a lot more of them, and be able to touch intangible things,” Boimler began.

“Oh stop being pendantic, you know what I mean,” Mariner grumbled.

“Yeah, I get what you’re saying. And you can’t just order your subordinates to withhold things from you, because then you could just order them to stop. Hmm,” Boimler said, tapping his foot. “Hey, I have an idea! Maybe Tendi can help out with this.”

***

The ground shuddered with every pounding footfall. Mariner’s fat jiggled and sloshed like a jello mould

“I’m gonna get you!” Mariner shouted.

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Tendi giggled.

Tendi jumped over the pit filled with straw, and Mariner leapt after her, hitting the ground with a loud thump.

“I’m gaining ground!” Tendi shouted over her shoulder.

“Not for long!” Mariner shouted, licking her lips and picking up the pace.

Tendi jumped through a flaming hoop, landed with a tumbling roll, and got herself upright and running again without losing momentum. Of course, it was a very large flaming hoop, because Mariner had to be able to get through it too. She landed with another earth-trumbling whump, still running and still jiggling all over.

Tendi ran into the hedge maze, shouting, “I bet you can’t find me!”

“Oh, I can smell you, Tendi,” Mariner said, wiping away drool as she turned a corner. “Besides, I can tell you’re slowing down!”

“Am not!” Tendi panted.

Mariner’s whole body was soaked in sweat by this point, her skin glistening where it poked out from between the jade buttons on her tight green shirt, a broad swatch of belly bulging out from her enormous black velvety pants, her silver-colored cape fluttering behind her. She dove into the hedge maze, heedless of the scratches and scuffs on the side of her skin and tearing at her luxurious outfit.

Mariner followed her nose. She could smell the sweat on Tendi’s skin, feel the heat of her body drawing closer, sense the intoxicating aroma of prey.

“Gotcha!” Mariner said, turning a corner and diving after Tendi. Tendi tried to run, but she was too slow. Mariner pinned her to the ground, squishing her under over a thousand pounds of irresistible girth.

“Well, now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?” Tendi said, flirtatiously, but Mariner wasn’t listening. Her brown eyes gleamed with evil pleasure. Her hot drool splattered onto Tendi’s face. She grabbed her by both shoulders, rose up, and flung Tendi into the air, unhinging her jaw and catching her in one big gulp on the way down.

“BUURAAWP,” Mariner let loose, sighing and smacking her lips. “Ooh, that’s good. Not as tasty as Bromothian, but still delicious.”

“Hey!” a muffled cry came from Mariner’s midsection as the shifting inside dislodged one of the opulent buttons. “Um, rude. I’m literally right here!”

“Oh, sorry, did I say that out loud?” Mariner said, blushing. “Also like, are you okay in there? I didn’t hit you too hard when I pinned you to the ground, did I?”

“Mm, I’m fine, really,” Tendi said. “Nothing’s bruised except my ego.”

Mariner rubbed her tummy.

“You know, I’ve missed having you in there,” Mariner said, trying to restore Tendi’s feelings. “Kinda gets me in the mood.”

“Well, we’re all alone here in this hedge maze,” Tendi said, slyly. “And I’m certainly enjoying myself,” she said, ending her sentence with a cute little whimper.

Mariner had a pretty good idea of what she was doing in there.

“Okay. Just let me know when you want out.”

“I think I’m, oh, yeah, going to be a little while,” Tendi said, ending her statement with a prolonged moan.

Tendi enjoyed the hot, wet, feeling around her, being immersed inside Mariner’s guts. It was a familiar comfort, listening to her heartbeat so close and her digestive gurgles. She fingered herself gently and slowly. She’d learned by now how to time Mariner’s gastronomic processes, and with the slurry of broken-down food that immersed her there was still plenty of time to relax and enjoy herself.

Mariner belched happily and unzipped her own pants, touching the wetness on her boxers.

The indigo-faced gardener snuck away as quickly and quietly as she could.

Chapter Text

“You know, these pickled glorka berries aren’t half bad,” Boimler said, shifting on his edge of the massive bed.

“Really? They don’t taste weird to you?” Rutherford asked. He was resting on the mattress face-down, chin in hands.

“Every planet has it’s own distinct flavors, but glorka berries are pretty good. Anyway, at least their not sun-dried,” he said with a shudder.

Boimler stabbed another berry in the jar with the fork-like implement, then turned to the pile of documents next to him.

“Any progress on the BUUURP famine research, Boims?” Mariner asked, before taking another bite out of a turducken-like combination of Bromothian roasts on a massive trolley next to her bed, this one being a fowl crammed inside of a domesticated Bromothian “goat” which was in turn crammed inside of a six-legged deer-like animal, each one coated with a different type of spiced glaze to create contrasting flavor profiles. She wiped her mouth, licking her fingers to taste every last bit of it, before she went back to brushing her hair. Tendi was sprawled out on the massive sea of flesh that was Mariner’s belly, careful to keep away from her belly button but tracing her finger over the other places where her girlfriend’s inhuman blubber poked out between straining buttons.

“Progress is slow,” Boimler said, popping another pickled glorka berry into his mouth. “There’s definitely *something* going on. I can smell it behind all the numbers. There’s little irregularities going on with the famine relief efforts, too. Things I wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t missing them. Funds being allocated unevenly, relief workers going out with conflicting orders, problems with transportation and distribution, all well within the margin of error for managing a large bureaucracy on their own, but taken together...somebody is trying to stall the relief efforts,” Boimler said, clicking his pen furiously. “Somebody with significant power wants the western subcontinent to starve.” He speared some more berries and sipped a little of the brine. “You know, these would make a great cocktail garnish.”

“Maybe we could come up with a new drink and name it after Mariner!” Tendi said, as she shifted position on the abundant rolls.

“Nah, I’ve already got a drink named after me,” Mariner said, frowning as she tugged against a particularly stubborn snarl, causing her arm fat to wobble.

“You really do get around,” Boimler said, with just a hint of envy.

“It’s only served at one bar in Deep Space 25,” Mariner said, with unusual modesty. “It’s not a galaxy-wide standard like the Margarita or the Deepest Blue or the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster. Anyway, it needs one of those special syrups that’s a real pain to make,” she said, with just a hint of regret. “So, there’s definitely something shady going on with the famine, but you don’t know what it is yet.”

“That’s the size of it. I’d like to ask for a favor though,” Boimler said.

“Name it,” Mariner said, without hesitation.

“I’m hoping you could assign some of the castle bureaucrats to work with me on this. Minor secretaries, administrative assistants, people like that. I figure the entire castle can’t be corrupt, and if I could just get somebody with a little more inside knowledge of the situation.”

“No problem dude! I can even hire new positions if you need.”

“Oh, there’s no need for a permanent staff increase,” Boimler said, popping the forkful of pickled berries into his mouth. “I should be able to get through this in a reasonable amount of time. Sure, I don’t have all the details nailed down, but I can definitely sense the shape of it.”

Castro was sitting at Mariner’s desk, her lithe body practically lost within Mariner’s comparatively huge reinforced chair. Her pen scribbled furiously. “That’s good to hear,” she said.

“Hey, how’s the next draft of my coronation speech coming along?” Mariner asked.

“Not too bad,” Castro said. She thanked her lucky stars that Mariner had agreed to let her “edit” it before it ever saw the light of day. She had to admit, Mariner could be a little...impressive, in the battlefield, but she was no Captain Picard when it came to speeches. (To be fair though, at least she wasn’t as bad as Captain Archer, but that was damning with faint praise.) “Speaking of the coronation though, how are *your* preparations coming?”

“Oh yeah,” Mariner said, guiltily setting down the nested roast and picking up a book of Bromothian law. “Well, the trials are gonna be a pretty big deal, so we have to make sure they’re fair. The last thing we need to do is end up with a biased judge or something that needs to be overturned. I want to make sure these bastards having nobody to blame but themselves.”

“Well, that should be pretty easy with Henry Pissinger, Joanne Musk, and Klatalk the Flayer,” Tendi said with a brittle cheerfulness. “I mean, especially with the first one. He’s got a list of war crimes longer than a Rhybonian slime worm around mating season.”

Boimler frowned at his paperwork. Tendi grinned nervously. Castro looked up from her speech edits. Rutherford shivered.

“I’ve uh...I haven’t read any of the official reports yet, but I heard things,” Rutherford said.

“Well I *have* read the reports,” Boimler said, gripping the pen very tightly in his hand. “I don’t know what’s worse, all the things that he did, or how proud he feels of it. He wasn’t so much confessing as bragging about the...the atrocities.”

Castro furiously crossed out a line. “I read the reports too. Even with a ruler this corrupt, I can’t believe the man was allowed to get away with it all. What’s more, he managed to win an International Peace Prize after all of that!”

“He wasn’t the first award-winning war criminal, and he probably won’t be the last,” Rutherford said gloomily. “I read up on prewarp Earth history a while ago, and uh, it isn’t pretty. The things he did were unimaginably evil, but sadly they weren’t very original.”

“Sometimes, covergent evolution really sucks,” Tendi said, regarding Rutherford with a sympathetic gaze as she sat up. “I remember our early explorers came across a planet that just happened to be an entire civilization, genetically identical to Orions, who had built up their whole world around a recreation of Empress Mangara the Merciless’s decades of institutionalized sadism.” She hugged her knees a little and rocked gently on top of Mariner’s belly fat. “That was one of three times in Orion’s history when all the assassin guilds banded together to form a unified front.”

Mariner ran the brush through her hair thoughtfully.

“So, one thing that’s coming up is, in order to have a fair trial, we’ll need somebody who can defend him with a straight face,” Mariner said.

Everyone turned and looked at her.

“It should be somebody who can see the good in everyone, somebody who can at least try to put on a case in good faith.”

Mariner rose like a breaching whale, causing Tendi to gently slide without actually falling all the way off her generous rolls. She looked Tendi dead in the eye.

“D’vana Tendi, I’m going to need to ask you to serve as Henry Pissinger’s defense attorney.”

Everyone gasped. Tendi looked back at her and bit her lip.

“I’m not...not enthusiastic about the idea, but if you really think it’s necessary for justice to be carried out, then yes, I’ll do it,” Tendi said.

Rutherford glared at Mariner and dialed his input into Serious Mode.

“Mariner, you can’t possibly ask your girlfriend to...to do that!”

Mariner kept her eyes on Tendi, her face sad and solemn, a lot older than her thirty-something years should be. Then she broke into a wide grin.

“Oh man, I totally got you there!” she laughed. “I really had you all going!”

Rutherford’s jaw dropped. Tendi blew out a huge sigh of relief.

“Oh thank the stars,” Tendi said. Then she frowned. “Hey! Mariner, what the hell?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” Mariner said, not sounding sorry at all.

“Mariner!” Tendi said, scrambling off her layers of fat and onto the bed so she could grab a pillow and throw it at Mariner.

“Mariner, that wasn’t funny!” Rutherford said, crossing his arms and glaring.

“It was a little funny,” Boimler said, relieved not to be the butt of the joke for once.

“Thank you, Boimler,” Mariner said gratefully. She couldn’t stand seeing everyone all bummed out like that. Now Tendi was annoyed with her, but she had lightened the mood in the room. “So, uh, before we go full speed ahead with the war crime trials, I want to hold some trial-run trials with more low stakes. Make sure my reforms to the legal system have taken hold, tweak whatever needs a bit of tweaking, that kind of thing.”

“That sounds like a reasonable proposal,” Castro said. Maybe Mariner was finally starting to mature into the role.

Mariner ruined the effect by belching and cramming the rest of the roast down her throat.

Chapter Text

“Judge Zysekesyz has entered the court,” a short-haired thin woman in a black dress said, before striking a match and lighting an ornate brazier. She did not ask people to rise or be upstanding or make any other concession to the judge’s entrance.

The bench creaked as Mariner sat down, her thighs, ass, and back oozing out to either side. There was a special seat, reinforced to accommodate royal girth, with a good view and a table for snacks and drinks, but Mariner had opted to sit in the public gallery with interested attendants and reporters. (She had made sure to eat a couple of roasted swine before coming here, just so she wouldn’t get too hungry though.) Several participants gently stood up and found other seats before they were pushed onto the ground by the sideways pressure of Mariner’s bulk. Her royal guards were stationed at every entrance and exit.

The judge had a tall chair and an expensive-looking desk. She was a short plump woman wearing a simple moss-green dress and large spectacles. She had no scales, no bell, no wig or robes, and no other symbol of her office that Mariner could recognize.

Between two burly guards, there was a very skinny-looking young woman with greenish-blue skin, long straight hair and protruding fangs. Her bright orange eyes darted between Judge Zysekesyz and Mariner. Her hands lay flat on the table in front of her, pressed down firm, with the long nails of somebody who really needs to trim them rather than the long nails of somebody deliberately growing her nails out. Mariner guessed that she was the defendant.

The short-haired thin woman broke the seal on a scroll and unrolled it.

“Varmanoth of Royal City stands accused of being a receiver of stolen goods. How does the defendant plead?”

A tired-looking young woman with close-cropped green bangs and a black dress conferred briefly with the defendant.

“Your honor, the defendant pleads guilty. We wish to throw ourselves on the mercy of the court and seek a minimum sentence of six years,” the defense lawyer said, while reading off a sheet of paper.

“Does the prosecution agree?” the judge asked.

“No, your honor, we do not. We intend to seek the maximum sentence of fifteen years for this heinous crime and will fight for it,” a purple-haired woman in a black suit with blue lipstick said, picking up her briefcase.

“Let the trial proceed,” the judge said, and the bailiff waved a fan over the brazier of charcoal.

Mariner watched the proceedings in fascinated horror.

“Call the first witness,” Judge Zysekesyz said, coldly.

“Calling Olgaglo of Royal City!” the skinny bailiff called out.

A plump, older woman with her hair in a tight orange bun stepped up to the judge’s desk.

“Vow to speak truthfully, by the royal laws of this land and by the power of the god-queen,” the judge commanded.

“I vow to speak truthfully, under royal law and within the power of the god-queen,” Olgaglo said.

“When did you first see the defendant committing a crime?” the prosecutor asked.

Mariner thought that was a rather leading question, but she tried to sit still. It wasn’t easy. She found herself anxiously massaging her rolls of fat while her foot tapped away like a woodpecker. She’d have to get Boimler to look into the law to see if there was anything about leading questions in trials, or if that was considered perfectly acceptable by legal standards in the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner right now.

“I saw her sneaking around the back alleys, talking with a shady character,” Olgaglo said, glaring at the defendant.

Mariner looked to the defense attorney. Surely, she would point out how vague this was, or at least ask for further and better particulars.

The defense attorney was rubbing sleep out of her eyes. Varmanoth looked alarmed and annoyed in equal measure by Olgaglo.

“And when was this?” the prosecutor asked, patiently.

“The night of the nineteenth,” Olgaglo said, proudly.

“No further questions, your honor,” the prosecutor said.

The judge turned to the defendant with a bored expression, as of somebody going through an unnecessary formality. “Do you wish to cross examine the witness?”

“No, your honor,” the defense lawyer said, without looking up from her stack of papers.

Mariner looked at the defense lawyer with the same shocked horror that her client did.

“Next witness,” the judge called out.

The trial went downhill from there for Varmanoth. There was a young man who had noticed that she was showing more cash than usual and driving an expensive car. There was somebody else who noticed her receiving “suspicious packages” at odd hours of the night. There were somebody else who had seen a woman with a “disgusting greenish complexion” and “gross protruding fangs” in an area where people had been heard to fence stolen goods. With a little prompting, the defense lawyer brought out a character witness, an elderly man who spoke highly of the defendant but whom the prosecutor absolutely destroyed in cross-examination.

The entire sorry affair took less than an hour. Mariner was supposed to just observe. She wasn’t supposed to actually interfere with these lower level trials. It was a learning process.

When the defense attorney began reading a lackluster closing speech directly from a piece of paper, Mariner couldn’t stop herself.

“Hold it! Time out!” Mariner said, rising to her feet so fast she set all her flab jiggling. “Are you serious? *This* is a trial? I’m not even trained in law and I could have put on a better defense than that. And you, Zysekesyz, seem to be suffering from a severe case of premature ajudication.”

Everyone looked at Mariner. Mariner looked back at everyone. At least the defense lawyer had fully woken up. She looked terrified and guilty. The judge looked terrified and affronted.

“Your holy highness, did I do something wrong too?” the prosecutor asked nervously.

“No. *You* did your job just fine, aside from maybe pushing a little too hard on the sentence. I’m sure you’re very well-paid for doing it that way. However, you wouldn’t have had nearly such an easy time of it if she’d been willing and able to do hers,” Mariner said, pointing at the defense lawyer. “I mean, seriously, how recently did you graduate from law school?”

The defense lawyer held up her papers like a shield, wings beating frantically, eyes on her sensible shoes. She mumbled an answer.

Mariner headed towards the defense attorney’s table. “What did you say?” Mariner asked.

“Your holy highness, I said I haven’t graduated yet,” the defense lawyer said. “In certain city-level cases, the pool of state-mandated defense attorneys draws on the pool of more promising law students that have shown a certain aptitude.”

“But I’m guessing you don’t get paid as much as the prosecutor,” Mariner said.

“We uh, we get paid in class credit. Most students who qualify end up doing a little defense work to complete their degree with minor crimes,” she said, still unwilling to look Mariner in the eye.

Mariner groaned as if in physical pain and covered her eyes with her hands.

“Let me guess, the state-provided defense lawyers who aren’t students already have very demanding caseloads and make so little money on this they have to just cram in as much as they can,” she said with a sigh.

“Pretty much, your holy highness,” the defense lawyer admitted. Her wings were still flapping, even as she tried to physically restrain them with her hands.

“It’s alright, I’m not going to eat you for doing your job badly,” Mariner said, with a sigh. “But I clearly have a *lot* of work to do here before the court is ready to handle war criminal trials.”

“First off, that minimum sentence is overturned, effective as soon as I can dress it up in fancy language and get my hands on a royal seal. This particular trial is officially on hold, with the defendant to be released from jail until then.”

Varmanoth let out a gasp of relief. She ran over and knelt down before Mariner, hands clasped in supplication.

“Your holy highness, I will not betray your trust. I promise, your holy highness” she said.

“I know you won’t, because that would be a really stupid move for you,” Mariner said, trying her best to keep the edge of hunger out of her voice as she looked around the room, and almost succeeding. Her stomach gurgled, spoiling the effect.

Of course, she wouldn’t eat somebody just for fleeing a trial for receiving stolen goods, but her loyal subjects didn’t need to know that. Better to keep them a little afraid and a little in awe of her. Just like, for now, while she had to be in charge, before they finally got in touch with Starfleet.

That would probably help, right? It wasn’t like she was overstepping any boundaries or crossing any serious lines. She wasn’t going to become a tyrant. It wasn’t like poisoning the ketracel white supply, watching the results, and enjoying them so much they became a nostalgic memory for years to come.

Boimler! If there was anyone who would keep her on the straight and narrow, it was Bradward Boimler. She could rely on her best friend to keep things from fading into shades of grey, and that grey growing darker and darker the longer she lived with it, until she could barely even remember what it was like to be a fresh-faced, bright-eyed, hopeful student at the academy with Sito.

She could trust all of her friends with her life. That was a given. But Boimler? She’d trust Boimler with the custody of her very soul, assuming she still had one.

Chapter Text

“So, *your holy highness* we’ve repealed most of the minimum sentencing laws, we’ve changed the law so that defense lawyers have to be actual qualified lawyers, and there’s an entirely new initiative to pay the public defenders at competitive rates, attracting greater numbers of competent people to the field and reducing the workload on the existing defense lawyers so they can put a little more care into their cases and won’t just plead guilty to resolve the trial quicker,” Boimler said.

“Right. No more overworked barely-competent sleep-deprived defenders rolling over for the prosecutor. That’s the easy part, though. I mean of course more people will sign up for the position once it offers competitive pay instead of largely relying on goodwill,” Mariner said. “And I’ve told you, you don’t have to call me ‘your holy highness’ when we’re away from prying Bromothian ears.”

“Whatever you say, your holy highness,” Boimler teased.

Mariner frowned and swallowed a roasted fowl with a dunik fruit glaze. “You’re talking real brave for somebody within squishing distance.”

Boimler laughed, but he did edge a little further away from her on the bed.

“Anyway, the tricky part is going to be getting decent judges. People who won’t hop into bed with the prosecution or come down with a serious case of premature adjudication,” Mariner said, waving her arms around vaguely, causing much juggling in her ham-shaped upper arms.

“I’m sure we can help out with that,” Tendi said. “Right, Rutherford?”

“I dunno, I don’t really have much experience with trials or alien justice systems,” Rutherford said. “I mean, there was that time we thought we were in a trial, but it turned out to be a party.”

“I know a little bit about Orion judicial practices, but I uh, don’t think they’d be very relevant here,” Tendi said.

“Well, I’ve researched history and theory of justice in a wide range of cultures, from Idolan and Federation to Naussican and Bajoran. I’ve also looked into the minutia of the Klingon justice system ever since we started playing that TTRPG. There’s a lot of special rituals involved and trial by combat type stuff, but they have a surprisingly progressive tax system that--”

“Please, Boims, I’m begging you, no more tax stuff tonight,” Mariner groaned. “The legislation for taxation on Sparkle production and distribution nearly killed me.”

“Hey, I just figured making the taxes local instead of federal would provide a lot of civic revenue to--” Boimler said, before Mariner covered his mouth with her hand.

“No. More. Tax. Stuff. Tonight,” Mariner said, quietly. “Now, I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth, and if you say another word about taxes I’ll sit on you and fart. And I’ve had a lot of curried beans today so think very carefully before you open your mouth again.”

Mariner removed her hand.

“Anyway, I can definitely help out with reviewing trials and sorting out which judges are or aren’t corrupt,” Boimler said carefully.

“That’s good,” Mariner said. “I could certainly use the help.” She sighed. “There’s so much we need to get done and there are so few people to trust to do them. I’m starting to understand what my mom meant when she complained about it being so hard to delegate properly,” Mariner mused.

Everyone turned and looked at her. Mariner’s eyes went wide.

“Okay, time for more liquor while I repress that memory,” Mariner said, setting the bedsprings screaming as she rose from the mattress and waddled over to the liquor cabinet. She pulled out a bottle of grain alcohol and took a swig straight from the fifth, then shuddered. “Who else wants some? Or maybe some berry brandy? Beetle liqueur?” She laughed loudly and nervously.

“Maybe just a little bit of berry brandy, to sip,” Rutherford said.

Mariner expertly splashed a small amount of brandy into a tall glass that would allow him to savor the bouquet and handed it to her cyborg buddy.

“Mind you, one case where the scales of justice might actually be weighted against the prosecutor is with rape cases,” Mariner said. “I mean, I know there’s a law on the books, but there can be a lot of difference between what’s down on paper and what’s actually enforced. A lot of cultures with sex-based hegemonies have a tiny fraction of actual rape cases reported, and of those only a small fraction go to trial, and of those only a few result in a conviction. I know that was a big problem on old Earth, the first Mars colony, on the 19th century Bolian homeworld, and is still an issue in a lot of colony worlds of Ferenghinar and on Angel One.”

“Yeah, that was a big problem on Orion too, before the major reforms of the twenty-second century,” Tendi admitted.

“You can change the enforcement of the laws, but the cultural context it happens in matters a lot too,” Boimler said. “And changing people’s minds like that takes a lot of time and education.”

“Well, we’ve got your sex ed program rolling out now,” Tendi said brightly. “That should help with some hearts and minds, right?”

“It should help to have young people grow up with something other than porno mags as a guide to how sex and relationships should work,” Mariner said.

“That reminds me, I’ve been talking with some of the administrative staff during tisane breaks, like this really friendly and efficient guy named Hagogah, and we might want to implement some laws and education about sexual harassment in the workplace,” Boimler said. “At the very least, we need some big seminars and codified grievance processes that don’t involve reporting to the superiors who frequently are the causes of the sexual harassment.

“Ugh, why didn’t I think of that?” Mariner groaned. “Of course there’s going to be sexual harassment in the workplaces of a heavily sexist society. Sex education doesn’t do much good if consent culture stops as soon as you reach adulthood.”

“Because you can’t think of everything, babe,” Tendi said, leaning over to hug a small portion of her belly. “You’re dealing with a lot right now. You might be worshipped as the god-queen of these people, but you’re only human.”

“Yeah, cut yourself some slack,” Boimler said. “We’re dealing with decades of precedent and unjust legal frameworks here. The Federation wasn’t formed in a day.”

“The STEM education initiatives are going well,” Rutherford said, hoping to encourage his friend. “We’ve already got some grants exploring alternative energy sources and improving battery storage getting made. Plus Wigiw says they’re making major progress in their experimental prototype. It only exploded twice last week!” He finished off the statement by raising his glass, sniffing it, and then taking a small swallow. “This is pretty good, by the way.”

“It better be, given what it costs,” Mariner said. Everyone looked at her again.

“What? Just because I tip well doesn’t mean I don’t know the value of money. I still make a stab at the palace expense accounts.”

“Could I have some of that berry brandy too?” Castro asked, leaning back from her pile of paperwork.

“All you had to do was ask,” Mariner said, pouring her a shot from the decanter.

“Now, after these trials I need to meet with the Minister of Justice about serial killers,” Mariner said. “I’ve got half the secretaries combing through accounts of neighborhood complaints about the smell of rotten meat and missing person cases.”

Chapter Text

The trial of Henri Pissinger was a very well-attended one. The public galleries were packed. Newsreel teams and reporters clustered to record this event for posterity and share it with the masses, including a few select international reporters that Mariner had personally invited to the trial.

Normally, Mariner would have preferred to be in the public gallery, but there simply wasn’t enough space for her to fit there without forcing out several Bromothians, including the ambassador from Gho Shand, who Mariner knew had every right to be there. So instead, Mariner rested herself on the God’s Seat, a special Opera Booth type position built into every courthouse in the unlikely event that the god-queen Herself turned up to watch the proceedings. For once, Mariner didn’t bring any snacks or alcohol with her. She’d filled up before coming, but she needed to watch this trial stone cold sober. She owed her people that much, on this occasion.

She looked down at the defendant. He was an elderly man with medium-sized wings and a short horn. His exposed skin was pale blue with just a hint of green. His hair was black and curly. His modest paunch bulged out between the pants and upper wrap that constituted Bromothian formal wear, partially obscured by a black tie. He looked around the courtroom with amused blue eyes, as if this whole thing was just a big, silly misunderstanding that would soon be sorted out. He looked like somebody’s great uncle, the kind that sent cards for Christmas and Birthdays but otherwise didn’t have much of a presence in your life until you went to his funeral. He didn’t exactly *look* like a horrifying war criminal responsible for over three million deaths, but then, what was a war criminal supposed to look like?

“Judge Ziveleviz has entered the courtroom,” the bailiff said, lighting three ornate dark green braziers with abstract designs laid out in electrum.

The judge was a tall, thin, elderly woman with fraying black hair and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Mariner wondered if men were even allowed to be judges on this planet and in this nation. She’d have to look up the laws on that and take action accordingly. The jury was composed of all women, too. There were young women and old women, fat women, thin women, and muscular women, and at least a couple of women who looked vaguely Varkathian, although Mariner hadn’t really learned the nuances of identifying that particular sub-group of Bromothians yet. She would need to look into the jury selection process after this. Dammit, why hadn’t she paid more attention to that? She’d forgotten to make sure there were no clauses to exclude jurors based on gender. It was too late now. She’d been so busy with so many things,.

The prosecution lawyer, however, was a man. His curly hair was bright blue with flecks of black. His physique was the comfortable blend of fat and muscle from a former laborer who had settled into a more relaxed lifestyle. His suit was black on black, unrelieved by any white shirt or glint of collar studs. His overall complexion hovered on the edge between blue and green. On the other side of the courtroom was a busty mature woman with dyed-green hair (still black at the roots), a confident expression, and a severe black dress, adorned with a green tie and an electrum broach.

The bailiff broke the seal on the traditional scroll. It unrolled, and kept unrolling.

“Henri Pissinger of Morwolia Heights stands accused of attempted genocide, perversion of the course of justice, attacking a non-hostile country without declaration of war, instigating a coup without royal permission, instigating a coup in secret, unauthorized torture, unauthorized kidnapping, the mass killing of civilians in a neutral country, unlawful mass executions, unlawful providing of military hardware to a third party in a time of war, and other high crimes and misdemeanors to be outlined in greater detail during this trial. How does the defendant plead?”

Henri Pissinger nodded at his defense lawyer, who stepped up towards the judge.

“The defend pleads Not Guilty, Judge Ziveleviz,” she said, with a confident smile.

“Then let the prosecution begin with their opening statement,” Ziveleviz said.

“Women of the jury, you may know this man as many things. You may know him as a respected statesman. You may know him as a recipient of an international peace prize for his negotiation of the end of fighting in the Greater Peninsula Alliance. You may even know him as a respected advisor to the former god-queen. I am here to tell you that none of that is relevant. What matters today are the governments he overthrew, the sheer volume of third-party civilians he had killed, and the other atrocities he committed, aided, and encouraged. That is all.”

The judge turned to the defense lawyer. “The defense may now make their opening statement.”

“Women of the jury, you may here a lot of things alleged about my client. You will hear a lot of statements designed to appeal to your emotions and get you worked up. I want to remind you that the courtroom is a place for facts, not feelings. Furthermore, everything my client did was done with the approval of the previous god-queen and for the good of Her nation.”

For their first witness, the prosecution called Mariner’s head general.

“Tell us, were you at war with one of the entities that later became the Greater Peninsula Alliance at any time during your tenure as a general?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes, the Eastern Peninsular Collective,” the general said solemnly.

“And, during that time, were you at war with the nation known as Gho Shand?” the prosecutor asked.

“No, we were not. Gho Shand was considered a neutral party at that time,” the general said, shaking her head.

“Did the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Her, at any point, declare war on Gho Shand?”

“No, we did not,” the general said calmly.

“Thank you. No further questions,” the prosecutor said.

The judge adjusted her glasses and turned to the defense attorney.

“Do you wish to cross-examine the witness?”

“Yes, Judge Ziveleviz,” the defense attorney said. “General, you said that Gho Shand was a neutral party during the war. Are you aware that leading intelligence operatives had concerns that Gho Shand might be sympathetic to the Eastern Peninsular Collective’s cause?”

“I read the intelligence reports myself. I saw no merit in them, and we did not declare war on Gho Shand,” the general said, icily.

“Yet, you cannot rule out the possibility that Gho Shand may have been sympathetic to the Eastern Peninsular Collective?”

“They were a neutral party,” the general said, firmly.

The defense attorney sighed and looked sympathetically to the jury, as if to say “See? See what I have to deal with?”

“No further questions, judge,” the defense attorney said.

Mariner shifted in her seat. So far, she had no idea where this line of questioning was going. She really should have read up on the notes more, but they were so long and boring and it was so hard to pay attention to them!

The next witness was Adephpeda, the Grand High Royal Quartermaster.

“During the war with the Eastern Peninsular Collective, did the defendant request a large quantity of bombs and bomber planes without an explanation as to what purpose they would be put?”

The judge leaned over.
“Please specify your timespan. The war with the Eastern Peninsular Collective lasted eight years.”

“I apologize, Judge Ziveleviz. In the Year of Our Lady 102, did the defendant put forward a request for a large quantity of bombs and bomber planes?”

“That is correct,” Adephpeda said.

“What purpose were those bombs requisitioned for?” the prosecutor asked.

“I do not know,” Adephpeda admitted.

The prosecutor frowned, raised her eyebrows, and glanced at the jury.

“Indeed? And what quantity of bombs did the defendant ask for? A few dozen?”

“Much more than a few dozen,” the witness further admitted, squirming in her seat.

“Well, perhaps you can give me a better estimation, in a different measurement. Say, by the ton,” the prosecutor said, carefully.

Adephpeda looked at the floor when she answered. “Over 540,000 tons.”

Some of the audience and jury members gasped. Mariner was no longer bored.

“Really? And did this request come from the god-queen Herself?” the prosecutor asked.

“Well, Mr. Pissinger was a highly ranked member of the god-queen’s inner circle, so I thought it was alright,” Adephpeda said, still looking anywhere but at the prosecutor.

The prosecutor frowned at her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“To clarify, Adephpeda, did the defendant’s request for several hundred thousand tons of bombs come with a royal seal, indicating it’s provenance as an order from Her, or was it made simply by him personally?”

“The latter,” the quartermaster said. “But he--”

“No further questions,” the prosecutor said, cutting off the witness.

Mariner’s mind reeled. Of course, a single photon torpedo could cause destruction on a massive scale that no mere chemical weapon could match, but what was the exact scale? How many chemical bombs would it take to match the destructive force of one? Or two? More than that, what kind of violent determination did it take to unleash that many explosive weapons, one after the other? How long would it have taken to deploy them all? And why did the quartermaster hand them over to Henri Pissinger without question?

“Does the defense wish to cross-examine the witness?” the judge asked.

The defense attorney briefly looked at her client. “No, Judge Ziveleviz.”

It was at this point that the defense brought out a character witness, Henri Pissinger’s senior secretary, who spoke volumes about his loyalty, patriotism, and “zeal for fighting the communist menace at home and abroad.” As a citizen of a post-capitalist society, this did little to endear him to Beckett Mariner, but it seemed to go down well with the jury. It was just another reminder that, as much as she wanted to fix everything at once, she had to be cautious and delicate with her implementation of social change. Sometimes it was important to use a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer, even if using the sledgehammer was both easier and more fun.

The next character witness was a member of the international peace prize committee. When she stepped forward, the prosecutor leaned in, a gleam in his goat-like blue eyes. He kept his wings tightly folded against his side rolls, his hands clasped in front of him, as if trying to contain some powerful emotion.

The character witness rambled at length about dull-sounding peace treaties that Henri Pissinger had negotiated. Through it all, the prosecutor held almost perfectly still. His hands clenched and unclenched at two seperate points, and his deep blue eyes followed the exchange between the defense lawyer and the character witness.

“Does the prosecutor wish to cross examine the witness?” the judge asked.

“Yes,” the prosecutor said, showing his fangs. “Yes I would.”

He stepped up to face the woman.

“Have you read the defendant’s memoir, or any of the classified documents relating to the war with the Eastern Peninsular Collective?”

“Well, no, I haven’t,” she admitted.

“Do you know that, in them, the defendant admits to sabotaging peace talks with the EPC resistance fighters, ensuring the war would continue for three more years, with massive casualties on both sides?” the prosecutor said, his voice carefully controlled but his wings spreading behind his back.

“No, I was not aware,” she said in a small voice.

“Would you have awarded him the prize, if you knew that about his attempts to frustrate the very peace he was later congratulated for bringing about?” the prosecutor asked.

“Objection! Calls for speculation,” the defense lawyer said.

“Judge, I withdraw the question and have no further questions for this witness,” the prosecutor said, demurely.

Some of the members of the jury were looking thoughtful, at least. One young woman surreptitiously wiped a booger off her finger against the nearest available surface.

The prosecution’s next witness was a member of the Royal Air Force.

“Lieutenant Ezrirze, what can you tell me about Operation Menu?”

For some reason, rather than focusing on the witness or the defense lawyer or the jury, Mariner’s eyes were drawn to the defendant. His face was still calm, still full of good-natured bemusement, and his hands were still politely folded in front of him, bar-shaped pupil focused on the prosecutor behind those silver-rimmed glasses. His wings, though? They had fluttered, just for a moment, when the word “menu” was mentioned. Now he was completely calm again, all reassuring grandfatherly charm, with no evidence for the moment of fear other than Mariner’s dead certainty that it had happened.

“Operation Menu was a prolonged series of bombings targeting Gho Shand,” the Lieutenant said, with real regret in her voice.

“Just for the record, was the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Her in a state of war with Gho Shand at that time?” the prosecutor said, more in sorrow than in anger.

“No,” the Lieutenant admitted.

“Did you participate in Operation Menu?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes. I participated in the phase known as Brunch,” Ezrirze said. Her goat-shaped eyes were blood-orange colored and focused on the patterns of smoke rising from the ceremonial braziers. Her wings drooped as she spoke. She traced a single finger across the wood of the witness stand.

“Please describe the purpose of Operation Menu as you understand it,” the prosecutor prompted.

“The purpose was to bomb the shi—to extensively bomb the Gho Shand state. Specifically we were told to bomb ‘anything that flies, on anything that moves’.” The Lieutenant looked one of the jury members dead in the eye while repeating the quote.

“Did that order come from the god-queen?” the prosecutor said, in the manner of somebody probing a sensitive area.

“No. It came from the defendant,” Lieutenant Ezrirze said, staring into the distance.

“Thank you. No further questions, judge,” the prosecutor said, turning away.

“Does the defense attorney wish to cross examine?” the judge asked.

“Yes. I would like to begin by asking, are you aware that the defendant was a trusted member of Her inner circle of advisors?”

“Objection. The question is irrelevant,” the prosecutor said.

“If the judge and my learned friend will allow me, I intend to demonstrate it’s relevance,” the defense attorney said, folding her arms.

“You may proceed,” the judge said.

“Did you not think that the order could have come through from the god-queen indirectly?” the defense lawyer asked, frowning at the witness.

“No, because if it had been a royal order it would have been accompanied by a royal seal, or even something as simple as Henri saying ‘this is a a royal order’,” the Lieutenant said, glaring at the defense lawyer.

“But could it not have--” the defense lawyer said.

“The witness has answered the question,” the judge said. “If you wish to ask another question, you may, but you have reached the end of this line of questioning.”

The defense lawyer sighed. “No further questions.”

The defendant smiled, in a bemused way, at the jury, and tried to keep his wings loose at his sides. The jury did not smile back.

The defense brought out another character witness, Henri Pissinger’s sister, Alguloth Pissinger. She talked about how the defendant and she had fled an attempted ethnic cleansing in the Western Free Lands. She went on about how he rose to his exalted government position through great intellect, love of his newfound home, and excellent statecraft, despite the massive amount of anti-Varkathian prejudices he had to overcome. Some of the jury looked interested, and somebody in the audience actually brought out a pocket handkerchief to wipe away tears. During the speech, the prosecuting attorney frowned in a manner that exposed the tips of his fangs.

“I have two questions for you, Alguloth Pissinger. First, can you identify this document?” he asked, holding up a slim purple book.

“It appears to be a copy of my brother’s memoir,” she said, looking puzzled.

“Now would you just read this section for me,” the prosecutor said, pointing out a passage.

Alguloth read it out loud, the hope in her voice shriveling up and dying as she spoke.

“Had it not been for the accident of my birth, I would have been an anti-Varkathian. Any people who have been so heavily persecuted over the course of history must have done something to deserve it.”

“No further questions,” the prosecutor said.

The defendant continued his bemused expression, but the look from the jury member that Mariner had learned to identify as Varkathian could have been used to cut through carbon nanofilaments.

The prosecution then decided to call Mr. Pissinger himself to the stand. He approached with the same friendly, confused, grandfatherly air, his wings folded back.

“Henri Pissinger, did you, in fact, order the carrying out of Operation Menu, up to and including the series of carpet bombings involved in the Brunch phase?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes,” Henri Pissinger said. He didn’t say it loudly, or defiantly, or nervously. He just stated it, as if confirming that a dropped piece of paper belonged to him.

“Did you, in fact, have the official royal divine sanction for such a military action, despite the scope of declaring war on another country being strictly limited to the divine authority of the god-queen?”

Henri Pissinger pulled down his glasses and cleaned them with his tie while he answered the question.

“I think you’ll find, when you’ve worked as long as I have in service to the crown, that divine intentions become easy to fathom. She was concerned that another party interfering in the war would lead to unacceptable setback, and we made sure to target sparsely populated areas.”

Mariner wondered how many sparsely populated areas there were in Gho Shand. Humanoids tended to spread to anywhere remotely habitable within their dominion before they left homeworld and found that there were entire planets waiting to be populated. She wondered, even if they were to give Henri Pissinger the benefit of the doubt and believe his obvious propaganda line, how many bombs it would take before they were left with only populated areas to bomb. Probably less than 540,000 tons worth of bombs.

“Mr. Pissinger, that is not an answer to the question I asked. Did you or did you not have explicit royal orders to attack Gho Shand?”

“Well, not exactly,” the defendant said, with an awkward little laugh.

Mariner expected that he didn’t. He was Her bloody hand at arm’s reach, Her cat’s paw, a shadow agent who could act with impunity because She had never said anything outright or wrote anything down. She’d just have said things like “the Gho Shand situation is quite inconvenient” and let him sort out all the details himself. If the covert ops came to light and public backlash became so powerful that it threatened even Her apparently divine position, She could always disavow him. Clearly, that’s what she had been ready to do.

“Then, Mr. Pissinger, do you realize that what you have done is confessed to having committed war crimes under the law as established by the previous god-queen herself? That, regardless of how you interpreted Her wishes, what you did was done without royal authority, and therefor a direct violation of this nation’s laws and ordinances?” the prosecutor asked.

“No, that can’t be true,” the defendant said, with the mildly peeved tone of somebody dealing with a rather slow-witted cashier at the head of a long line. “Everything I did was done for the god-queen Herself and in the service of this fine nation’s interests.”

“Well, that is something for the women of the jury to decide,” the prosecutor said solemnly. “I would like to ask, did you ever enact any coups in the service of Her?”

“Of course. Destabilizing enemy governments is an essential part of preventing costly wars, both in terms of finances and lives,” he said, with just a touch of pride.

“Did you overthrow the government of the Western Subcontinent?” he asked, leaning in.

“What, all by myself?” the defendant said.

“Allow me to rephrase my question. What role did you have in the overthrow of the Western Subcontinent’s government, in the Year of Our Lady 97?”

“Oh, I contributed significantly to the incoming of Teh’conip regime. What we needed was a staunchly anti-communist strongman who would break up unlawful labor unions and defend the financial and political interests of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy.”

Mariner had read a little about the Western Subcontinent. Apparently, before the coming of Teh’conip, they had democratically elected a leader who supported labor rights and nationalized a few utility companies. This did not go over well with capitalist neighbors, and when a military Junta overthrew the civilian government, Teh’conip had put an end to elections for two decades of bloody suppression, until he was killed by one of his own body guards.

“Are you aware that Teh’conip had political prisoners thrown out of airplanes, stole children from parents to give to loyal party members who suffered from fertility issues, and assassinated prominent protest leaders?” the prosecutor asked, still in a calm, level voice.

“I don’t recall,” the defendant said.

“Well then, allow me to refresh your memory. You received regular updates on the progress of the Teh’conip regime, and in response to a laundry list of these and other atrocities, you responded with five words. Do you remember that at least?” the prosecutor asked, finally allowing a note of exasperation to enter his voice.

Henri Pissinger shook his head.

“The words you responded with, which are a part of public record, were, ‘keep up the good work’,” the prosecutor said.

The trial continued from there without any major twists or surprises, just additional clinical unloading of the horrors that the defendant had committed, approved, or enabled. The prosecutor brought in such witnesses as historians, political scientists, and refugees. The defense made a spirited speech about how he had done everything in service to the god-queen and for the good of the nation, but at no point was he able to produce a scrap of evidence that anything he did received her direct and knowing approval.

In the end, the Jury came back with all but one juror ruling the defendant guilty on all counts. (Juries in the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy only required a two-thirds majority to convict.) The judge sentenced Henri Pissinger to 413 years in prison, seven consecutive life sentences, and two death sentences. Mariner left the courtroom, relieved to see the justice system more or less in working order, with one thought in her mind.

*I really need to eat that guy.*

Chapter Text

Recharahcer was starting to have second thoughts about this date. To be perfectly truthful, he’d had second thoughts since Arnanra approached him and asked him out, but she seemed like a nice woman and she’d helped him find his missing umbrella at the library, so she at least deserved a chance. He was already in his late twenties and he didn’t want to end up an old maid like his uncle. Truth be told, he didn’t have many opportunities to meet women.

Still, there was something about the way Arnanra watched him sip his farafa fruit soda that unsettled him.

“So, what do you think of my watercolors?” Arnanra asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about art,” Recharahcer admitted, while looking out the window at the setting sun. He’d gone over them when he entered and they looked, well, like watercolors of a shallow cove on a wet morning. They were also next to a taxidermied wild florrix. They were more skilled than anything he could create, but he’d moved back in and taken on another job when his father passed and his mother’s illness took a turn for the worse, and he really didn’t have much time or energy for creative pursuits.

“Would you like something a little stronger?” Arnanra inquired, with an expression she clearly meant to be a seductive smile.

“Not yet, thank you,” Recharahcer said. He liked a nip of brandy or glass of hard Farafa fruit cider when he could afford it, which wasn’t often, and he’d been brought up to be polite to a fault. He’d also been brought up to be cautious, however, and right now he felt a strange reluctance to drink anything Arnanra handed to him that wasn’t in a pre-sealed container.

“Oh, don’t be boring,” Arnanra said, finally letting a bit of sulk into her tone as she went to the liquor cabinet. “Look, I’m going to have some glorka berry brandy whether you want some or not.”

“That’s fine! I didn’t say you couldn’t have any, just that I wasn’t ready yet,” Recharahcer said hastily.

Recharahcer continued looking out the window as Arnanra headed for the liquor cabinet, trying to think of a reasonable excuse he could make to leave. Maybe something about his mother? She would need checking up on eventually.

“You know, I’m starting to worry a little about my mother,” Recharahcer said. “She doesn’t know where I am right now, and she can get rather anxious.”

“That’s okay, you can use my phone,” Arnanra said, coming up behind him.

He felt a sudden prick in his side. He tried to pull out the offending implement, but Arnanra held it there, depressing the plunger of the syringe.

“What is-what are you doing to me?” Recharahcer gasped. “Help! Help!” he cried out.

“Oh, nobody’s going to hear you here,” Arnanra said. “I’ve done a good job with insulation, and I make a habit of trying out amateur dramatics here, plays with a lot of shouting, so the police have stopped coming to investigate the noise complaints after enough the girl who cried wild boar moments.”

He darted past her to the door and began fumbling with it.

“It auto-locks, and I’ve got the key,” she added, as Recharahcer hammered on it, but he was already growing weaker.

Recharahcer turned around and started groping around Arnanra’s pockets, but she just laughed at him.

“My my, aren’t you a forward one, you little slut,” she cackled, already turning faint and blurry. Recharahcer swung a blow at her that she easily sidestepped before falling over. The last thing he felt before darkness consumed him was the woman grabbing him by the hair.

***
Arnanra answered the knock at the door. There were two police women, one of them tall and manly and thin, the other short and round and fat.

“Good evening, officers,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

“May we come in?” the plump one asked. “I’m afraid your neighbors are concerned. They heard shouting coming from the upper window.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that. I must have turned the volume up too high on my favorite radio serial,” Arnanra said. She wasn’t worried. She must have had clowns like these around at least once a month by now. She pulled out her wallet. “I believe I’m familiar with the amount of the fine by now, so why don’t I just pay you up front?”

“But we haven’t mentioned a fine yet--” the tall thin one began, and the short one stepped her on her foot. “Ouch! What did you do that for?”

“We’re glad to meet such a civic-spirited citizen,” the fat one said with a cheeky grin. “I’m sure we don’t need to trouble you any longer. If you could just turn down the radio and be more mindful of your neighbors, we won’t have to have this conversation again, now will we?”

The fool didn’t even bother looking for a radio in the room. Arnanra hated the wretched contraptions. All they played were horrible trashy music and government propaganda and adventure serials for idiots. Truly, radio was the opiate of the masses. Anyway, her father had loved radio, and it brought back bad memories for her.

But look at her now! She had a showing at the local gallery and was on her way up in the office of the Margagram Distilling Company. She was making five figures a year, and of course she had her...other hobbies, to keep her entertained. In a way, she had someone to keep her company. A lot of someones, in fact, as long as you didn’t mind that they were quiet. She liked her men to be quiet and demure, but they always turned out so slutty and ungrateful. But now? She had just about everything she wanted in life.

That would show Daddy if he was still alive. But that didn’t matter, after all, because his opinion didn’t matter to her.

She was just about to suggest making a cup of hot tisane for the friendly officers, maybe even with a splash of glorka berry brandy to keep out the cold on this long night, when she heard the loud squawk of a domesticated gryphon.

“What’s that?” she asked, only now noticing the animal crouching behind the tall officer. It was a dull purple one, with tufts of pink behind its ears.

“Oh, just a little formality,” the short officer said. “Somebody had the bright idea of requiring we go around with trained corpse-sniffing gryphons on this run. Probably trying to earn some credit with their superiors for being keen.”

“Get out! Seriously?” Arnanra said, with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, strange as it may sound, but orders are orders,” the fat one said with a laugh of her own. “More than our job’s worth to question them, right?”

“I suppose so,” Arnanra said. “Listen, was there anything else, only I’ve got a roast in the oven and I don’t want to let it burn?” She hadn’t even turned the oven on. If they bothered to probe any further, she’d be screwed. Stupid, stupid, stupid! What would her father say if he was around? Such sloppy thinking. No excuses. No failures. No mistakes. “Maybe I could get a bit of meat for your little gryphon?” she added, inventing desperately.

“Thank you, but no,” the tall thin officer said, while the gryphon squawked furiously. “Stop making so much noise, you stupid little beast,” she said, raising her fist as if to hit the gryphon. It whimpered and folded its wings in submission.

*Thank the god-queen for that*, Arnanra thought. She didn’t really believe in the god-queen’s divinity, especially after the latest change of tenancy, but the language of the dominant religion crept in everywhere. It took a very stubborn atheist to say “Oh, random and meaningless coincidences!” when you stubbed your toe. What exactly the divine rulers were was a question that didn’t bother Arnanra that much, because regardless of their nature, they clearly weren’t omniscient. If they were, there would be no need for the Royal Intelligence Agency, or for detectives and the like. No, as long as the god-queen got her taxes and sacrifices, she was pretty happy to keep the weather running properly and provide miracles, just like the last one.

“There’s a good boy, or girl, or whatever,” Arnanra said, drunk with relief now that the danger had passed. She reached over to pet the animal, but it snapped at her fingers and she drew back. It squawked louder, beady little round-pupiled eyes focused on her.

She couldn’t stop herself. She aimed a kick at the impudent creature, and it took to the air, yanking the leash out of the tall policewoman’s hand.

“Shit! Go after it! If that thing gets away we’ll have to pay for it!” the fat officer shouted.

“I’ll help!” Arnanra said desperately.

By the time they caught up with it, it was digging in her backyard.

“No! Bad gryphon! Don’t you dig up those flowers!” the tall police officer snapped.

The gryphon turned to them and squawked entreatingly, even as it furiously burrowed. The tall police officer caught hold of its lead and tried to pull it away from the dirt, but the animal was extremely stubborn.

Desperately, Arnanra tried to remember how deep she had buried this particular set of bones. Luckily, the officer was able to pull back the wretched animal before it exposed anything.
She was just relaxing, congratulating herself for being so clever, when the cries for help started up again.

“Shit,” Arnanra said. She’d really thought it would have taken longer for the sedative to wear off. Why hadn’t she taken the time to gag him when she was tying him to the dissecting table?
The police turned to look at her.

“Um, I mean, shit, I must have left the radio on again,” she said, desperately, but even as she spoke, she knew that her luck had run out.

The fat one slammed her up against the wall and handcuffed her behind her back.

“Well, maybe our superiors really did know what they were doing with that new initiative,” the tall one said. “I mean, the cross-referenced index of noise complaints, smells of rotting meat, and missing hookers turned out not to be a complete waste of time after all. This should be a feather in our caps!”

Of course, when they wrote up the report, the police women would be a lot more clever and insightful, and Arnanra would be a criminal mastermind who almost got away with it because of evil cunning, instead of being foiled by a simple gryphon and everyday incompetence.

It was just a shame for them that Recharahcer spoke up later about how the police had nearly walked away from the whole affair.

Chapter Text

“How do I look?” Tendi asked anxiously, putting the finishing touches on her winged eyeliner.

“You look perfect, babe,” Mariner said, with an encouraging thumbs up. She’d always found makeup a bit too femme for her own tastes, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire the artistry of another person using it. Tendi was absolutely killing it with the Glorka Berry Purple lipstick, perfectly balanced eyeliner, and some glittery moss-green blush. She’d gone for a dark blue top, and a seafoam-colored skirt underneath it, accessorized by a silver bracelet in the shape of a gryphon and an amber-beaded necklace. She didn’t need a purse, because unlike some pre-warp civilizations, on Bromothia it was standard for skirts and dresses to come with pockets. “Don’t worry so much.”

“I just really want to make a good impression,” D’vana said, spraying on some light perfume. “You don’t think the lilac-colored lace panties were too, you know, ambitious?”

“You’ve already made a good impression on them at the bar! Seriously. These two gals are not going to be disappointed by your good looks no matter what you put on, and they’ve already gotten a decent taste of your winning personality.”

“Aw, thank you,” Tendi said, beaming at Mariner. “I don’t have, like, anything stuck between my teeth or anything?”

“Oh, looks like you’ve got a spot right there,” Mariner said, leaning her leviathan bulk forward as she stared at Tendi’s Navy Blue top.

“What? A spot? Where?”

Mariner flicked her nose.

“Just teasing you. And babe? It’ll go fine. If you really can’t chill I’ve got some Greater Peninsula Alliance weed you could smoke, or I could pour you a tot of brandy or two.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” D’vana said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I just want to make sure I’ve got everything just right, you know? How does my hair look?” She desperately reassessed her hairstyle in the mirror, raising a comb like a switchblade.

“It looks just as good as it always does,” Mariner said. “Now stop freaking yourself out before I’m tempted to mess it up by giving you a noogie.”

“And you don’t mind me going on a date when I should be researching possible ADHD treatments?” Tendi asked again.

“Babe, you’ve been searching late nights and early mornings for over a week now. Bromothia will keep spinning on its axis without your personal attention,” Mariner said, pulling her into a big squishy hug.

“Now go out there and get some sweet, sweet blue ass.” She licked her lips, fantasizing briefly about performing analingus on a Bromothian. Unfortunately, any oral sex was out of the question on regular humanoids, nevermind the inhumanly delicious natives of this planet.

D’vana hugged a few armfuls of fat and kissed Mariner on the cheek. “Okay babe. I’ll try to relax.”

Mariner gave her a friendly smack on the ass as she headed out for her double date.

***

“Knock knock,” Mariner said, walking up to the open door of Boimler’s suite.

“Oh, hey Mariner,” Boimler said. It had taken him a while to get used to sleeping alone. It had taken him months to get used to Mariner’s snores, Rutherford getting up to pee every five minutes, and Tendi’s occasional night terrors. Now it had taken him a while to get used to their absence. Sometimes the quiet at night in the royal palace was like a weight pressing down on his ear drums.

“How’s the research coming along?”

“Well, the good news is I’m getting somewhere,” Boimler said. “I’ve identified some minor officials who are definitely making things harder on the famine relief efforts, either through corruption or sheer incompetence, and I can tell somebody keeps putting them in strategic locations. I’m also looking into major agricultural institutions in the famine-struck region.” He sighed. “I’m really tempted to ask you to nationalize them, but I’ve talked about it with Castro and we just don’t have the political clout in this administration to pull that off without a massive farmer’s revolt, and civil war with the people who grow food is not exactly a winning strategy during a food shortage.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it eventually,” Mariner said.

“Eventually isn’t good enough!” Boimler said, thumping his desk so that the glass of dunik fruit juice tottered dangerously and the pens rattled in their mug. “I need to figure out the architect of all this suffering. I need to stop it from happening again. I need to--”

Mariner put a hand on his shoulder. “Boimler, chill. You’re doing your best, okay? And you’re not alone in this. I’ve just passed a new law called the Corporate Murder Bill. It’s going to make sure the bastards who poison water supplies or let workers fall into machinery or any of that kind of stuff actually face consequences for their actions, instead of paying little fines and going on with whatever massive exploitation they were pulling before.”

“That’s good to hear, but—” Boimler began.

“No butts, okay? Why don’t you take a little time off. Relax,” Mariner said.

“How can I relax at a time like this?” Boimler said.

“Dude, it’s *always* going to be a time Like This. We’re running a whole country while helping out other countries around the planet. There’s always going to be famine, or an economic crisis, or an assassination attempt. Why don’t you...I dunno, hang out with Rutherford or something? Play some games?”

“I didn’t bring any games with me,” Boimler said, looking over a stack of papers with tidy little notes in the margins instead of meeting her eyes.

“Well then, maybe you should check out the local game shops. Pick up a pack of cards, find out if these guys have invented TTRPGs, and if they haven’t then you should introduce the concept to them. Ask one of the locals to teach you the rules. Make some friends. Hell, go get a few drinks and hook up with somebody if you think it will help.” Mariner said. She considered telling him that Castro was carrying a torch for him, but he had enough going on right now. “I swear I can feel the tension in your shoulders when I pat you on the back.”

“I don’t really have time for that,” Boimler said, taking a sip of dunik fruit juice.

“Boimler, I’m going to take a short walk around the palace grounds, and if you’re still here pulling your hair out and wearing a hole in the carpet I’m going to sit on you. Okay?”

Boimler sighed. “Fine. I’ll try to get outside and do something other than wracking my brains on this problem. Happy?”

“Very,” Mariner said, with a smug grin.

After she left, Boimler sighed, put all his papers in order, and smiled without even noticing it.

***

Mariner knocked at Rutherford’s door, only to find that he wasn’t in the palace, and he hadn’t let anyone know where he was going.

Mariner thought about that for a few minutes before grabbing the night-shift chauffeur. (Traditionally, there had only been one royal chauffeur at a time, and she slept with a bell above her bed so she could be woken up at any time of the day or night when required. Mariner had been quick to implement a three-shift schedule when she learned about that). She also called out a few royal guards to come with her, albeit reluctantly.

“Take me to Big Ell’s Maintenance and Repairs,” she said.

As the vehicle rumbled along, Mariner surveyed what she was starting to think of as Her Domain through the bullet-proof glass. There were street food stalls, partiers, office workers and factory workers heading for home, and the odd stray gryphon or small purple four-winged bird. A cute red-haired girl in a wheelchair navigated the ramps she had installed at every crosswalk as part of her Royal Disability Act reforms. An elderly couple cuddled together in a touristy-looking carriage drawn by a pair of six-legged horses. A couple of young men in heavy makeup and minimal clothing strolled the streets looking for clients. Newly planted trees stuck out of the ground, their dark blue wood and purple leaves providing some relief from the grey and brown colors that dominated the city.
What she did not see were lots of homeless veterans and starving street urchins. She saw more new storefronts than she did derelict buildings crumbling into ruin. Of course, she knew that what you saw on the surface only covered so much, that there was a lot of rot beneath to take care of, but she could take a moment to savor and enjoy the fruits her reformation had borne.
The CLOSED sign hung in the window, but light still streamed out of Big Ell’s Maintenance and Repairs. Mariner waddled up to the front door and rang the bell.

“Can’t you read the-oh! Your h-highness, how may I be of service?” Big Ell asked, flipping a switch on her prosthetic leg before bending down into a low bow while her enormous wings fluttered.

“Please get up again, that can’t be comfortable,” Mariner said.

Big Ell rose to her impressive full height. Damn, she was pretty good looking. Sex wasn’t what Mariner had come here for, but she might have to pay this place a visit another time to find out Ellerite’s orientation and availability level.

“Yes, your highness!” Big Ell said. “Let me just say, how incredibly thankful I am to you for legalizing the old religions. Also your small business loan package has really helped me out.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mariner said, taking Ell’s proffered hand and pumping it. She observed three statues in a corner of the shop, with a book and incense burner on a small table before them. Two of the slots in the incense burner had sticks smoking, producing a sharp but not unpleasant aroma. She supposed she had her recent reforms to thank for that, too. “I’m actually looking for Rutherford though.”
Big Ell turned around. “Hey, Rutherford, the god-queen is here to see you!” she shouted, in a voice that dislodged some of the cobwebs from the ceiling.

There was a metallic clang and a loud yelp. There was some muttering and another clank. A door in the back of the shop opened and Rutherford emerged, a grease-stained apron over his cutoff green top and midnight purple work pants.

“Hey Mar-I mean, greetings, your holy highness. What brings you here?” Rutherford asked, rubbing a bump on his head.

“Hey, Big Ell, could you give us a moment?” Mariner asked.

“No problem. I’ve got a motorcycle that needs refitting,” Ellerite said.

“I’m just here to meet up with my friend, see what you’re getting up to, that kinda thing,” Mariner said.

“But you could have just called me on the phone for that,” Rutherford said. “This place is in the phone book after all, under Repair Shops.”

“I wasn’t sure that you’d be here if I rang up, since you didn’t tell anyone where you were headed, and I wanted to go for the more personal touch,” Mariner said.

“Right. Yeah, I probably should have let somebody know about that,” Rutherford mumbled, looking at the ceiling. “I hope Tendi won’t be mad about that.”

“You know Tendi wouldn’t get mad about something like that, but she might get a little concerned,” Mariner said. She took a nip from her flask, then offered it to Rutherford. “Glorka berry brandy?”

“Nah, I’m still not used to the flavor,” Rutherford said. “Did you really come all the way out here just to see me?” he asked, glancing at the assembled guards hovering around her.

“Of course I did” Mariner said. “We’ve known each other for a while and we’ve been stra--, well, we’ve been here for a while now. We don’t talk a lot outside of official functions, and you’ve been given a lot more responsibility than you’re used to as a royal advisor. I wanted to let you know that I’ve put together a list of Royal Science Minister candidates. Also I just...wanted to see you. I want to talk with you. I want to see what you’re doing.”

“Well, come on in,” Rutherford gestured. Mariner had to turn sideways to squeeze through the backroom door, and once she was in there, she occupied a sizable portion of it.

“It’s coming along pretty well. I had to order out for the parts, but, you know, it was worth the money and we’ve got plenty of it.” The steel instrument had some glowing coils and a long antenna ending in a round point.

“What is it?” Mariner asked.

“It’s a retro-Tellerite style signal amplifier!” Rutherford said excitedly. “It’s almost done.”

Mariner looked Rutherford up and down. She took in not just the stains on his apron, but the dead skin on his face, the small burns and bruises on his fingers, and the dark circles around his eyes.
“But don’t those things only amplify a signal by, like, 0.032% beyond the solar noise of a system? And they’re affected a lot by solar winds and Trintinium particles.”

“I know, but that’s why I need to keep making more of them!” Rutherford said. “If you connect them all in a series, the effect is cumulative.”

“Rutherford, buddy, when was the last time you slept?” Mariner asked.

“What day of the month is this?” Rutherford asked.

“The seventeenth,” Mariner said.

Rutherford looked at his fingers. “Oh, that’s fine then. I’m pretty sure I got some sleep a couple days ago.”

“How much sleep, Rutherford?” Mariner asked, carefully.

“I mean, I got in a solid four hours,” he said, covering a yawn. “Three at least.”

Mariner frowned. Tendi would know what to do here. Tendi would get Rutherford to calm down and find out what was really bothering him. Sure, she’d known Rutherford a lot longer than Tendi or Boimler, but how well did she really understand him? Quality over quantity was a thing, after all.

Well, she wasn’t Tendi, but she would do her best. She leaned in close, grabbed him by both shoulders, and whispered.

“You do realize that there’s, like, an upper limit to how many signal boosters you can hook up together? And even if you do that, it’s not going to make the signal travel any *faster* even though it may travel *farther*. No matter how good of an engineer you are, you can’t make a subspace transponder out of the available materials on this planet. We’re talking strictly speed-of-light limits.” Mariner looked deep into Rutherford’s eyes, channeling sheer willpower to shut down some of the avenues of thought that had been opened up by this knowledge. Focus on the now. Worry about it later. Don’t worry about how far we are from popular lanes of space travel. Don’t think about how unlikely another ship is to pass within communications range of this bumblefuck planet. Don’t think in terms of months, or years, or decades.

Rutherford slumped. “I know, but...but I have to do something! I can’t just do nothing!”

“Then do something else,” Mariner said, resisting the urge to shake him. “Tendi’s going out to dinner with her Bromothian girlfriends. I even got Boimler to leave his work desk and look for something fun to do. Maybe you can go catch up to him, or maybe you can just go back to your bedroom at the palace and get some sleep.”

Rutherford yawned hugely and leaned against her. “Sleep...does sound kind of nice.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard to say, was it? I’ll ring up the palace and have them prepare you a nightcap or a glass of warm milk or whatever.”

“Okie d-dokey,” Rutherford said, fighting another yawn. “I guess my next signal amplifier can wait.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mariner said, thumping him on the back. She opened up her flask and took a few big gulps from it, but she’d need more booze than that puny flask contained to completely stop the word “years” from bouncing around inside her skull like a dangerous isotope.

***

“Hey Castro! What’ve you been up to?” Mariner asked.

She didn’t really want to check in on Castro. She didn’t particularly like Castro. To be honest, checking in on people in general was more of a Tendi thing, but between researching a local ADHD treatment, managing affairs with the underworld connections, keeping palace security primed against assassins, and her new relationships, Tendi had her plate full.

“Working on your speech, helping out Boimler with some economic logistics, reviewing the plethora of on-the-books laws so I can look ahead for things to reform,” Castro said, in a voice that was just a little chilly.

Mariner sighed. She didn’t particularly *want* to do this, but lately she’d been doing a lot of things she didn’t want to do. She didn’t really like Castro. She’d even go so far to say that she mildly disliked her. But Castro was one of four federation humans, stranded on a primitive backwater planet for weeks, with no idea when she’d be rescued and able to reunite with everyone she cared about or continue her career. Heck, Castro might not even have a career after this whole debacle was found out.

Mariner tried to repress that particular line of thinking. That was a problem to sort out if...to sort out *when* they got rescued.

“Can I, uh, get you anything? Something to drink maybe? I’ve been taking lessons in Bromothian mixology from Zovoz and there’s this cool layered drink I’m trying to get right. It’s blue, purple, and green.”

“No thanks. I can get anything I want from the palace servants,” Castro said, without looking up from her paperwork.

Mariner sighed. Okay. She had tried being nice. She had tried to reach out. She had tried to offer some genuine human connection in a difficult situation, and had it thrown back in her face.
“I’m not going to eat you, you know,” Mariner said, in a voice that was tired rather than angry.

“I know that,” Castro said, turning reluctantly to face her. “Kinda figured if you were planning to, you would have done it by now, given that you have all the power of an absolute monarch at your disposal.”
“You’re too kind,” Mariner said, archly. She could feel the rejection-sensitive dysphoria flaring up.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Castro said, gripping a pen and forcing herself to look Mariner in the eye.

“I hope not,” Mariner said, biting back bile. “Look, I know we’re all under a lot of strain. We’re all stranded here, far away from everything we know and love. We’re also four ensigns and an Lt. Junior Grade trying to manage an entire imperialistic nation-state. You’re probably missing home and all your friends.”

“That’s just it, though,” Castro said. “You got stranded here with your friends. *I* got stranded here with coworkers.” She was surprised at how bitter her voice sounded. “And you are right. We *do* have a country to run, so I’m going to do my very best to actually run it. At least it’s something useful I can do to take my mind off things.”

Mariner bit back the first response that came to her tongue, which was that she’d been stranded far away from friends before for long periods of time, and she somehow managed to do it without being a colossal prick.

But that wasn’t true, was it? Because some of her behavior in the past had been...less than stellar. She’d been the first one to break on AR-662. She’d been...not a good coworker to Boimler on multiple occasions. All Castro was doing was retreating into herself and balling up, which was...understandable.

“Alright. I can see how this situation is more difficult for you than the rest of us. But like...we’re still a bunch of space-faring Starfleet members stranded on one planet. I just wanted to check in on you, okay?” Mariner said.

“Well, thank you,” Castro said, and this time she managed to keep it free of sarcasm or icicles. “Maybe I’ll take you up on it sometime. Just, right now I want to tackle the minimum sentencing and penal codes laid out. There’s a lot of them.”

“Okay,” Mariner said. She was a little tempted to remind Castro that taking a break can lead to better productivity, or that all work and no play made Jill a dull girl, but another thing that Mariner had learned, with difficulty, over time, and after lots of trial and error, was when to stop prodding people to get out of their comfort zones. After all, she’d gone clubbing with them, so it wasn’t like she was completely incapable of relaxing. Give her a little more time and maybe she’d open up a bit. Or she could leave it to Tendi. Tendi was good at getting people to open up.

After she closed the door, Castro spent several minutes marking down laws to politely suggest that Mariner repeal. She did feel a little stupid for missing the part in jury selection about only women being eligible for it, and she thought she’d gone over that with a fine-toothed comb. They’d overturned the restrictions on property ownership, nation of origin, Varkathian and other minority ethnicities, all that other stuff, but they’d overlooked the one big one about gender. The trial had turned out alright after all, but still, it really got sand in her urethra to miss something so obvious. This *was* a sexist planet as far as she could tell, with lots of different sexist cultural norms, so she should really make sure to dig deep for that kind of thing in entrenched legislation both subtle and gross.

She eventually realized she’d been rereading the same landlord legislation five times without taking in a word of it.

Maybe...maybe Mariner was right about one thing. Maybe she needed a break from this. She was only one woman, after all. And how long had it been since she’d gotten her ass eaten? Too long. Maybe she’d have more luck at a bar just by herself, without the whole circus show that was Mariner and her entourage.

Chapter Text

Zavaz eagerly waved at D’vana Tendi from a table at The Purple Platter, while Adina acknowledged her with a wink and a smile. Zavaz was wearing a formal buttoned-up white top with a blue tie and long midnight purple skirt. She had restyled her purple hair into a ponytail, and her freckles were covered up by a layer of foundation. Adina was wearing a tight blood-red leather top and a was squeezed into a pair of maroon leather pants. Her goat-like eyes were framed by deep blue eyeshadow, and she wore matte black lipstick.

“Hey girls! Identified any new fern species recently?” Tendi asked as she bounded over to her seat, pausing to kiss each of her Bromothian girlfriends on the lips.

“No, I’m focusing on mosses these days,” Zavaz admitted, “but thank you for taking an interest.”

“I’m sure you’ll like this place,” Adina said. “It’s got some of Royal City’s best vegetarian cuisine, and Royal City is the second-hottest spot for eating out in the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner according to True Urbanite magazine.”

“Aw, that’s so thoughtful of you,” Tendi said, clasping her hands together. “Wait, I didn’t mention being a vegetarian to you two, so how did you know?”

“I asked around,” Adina said. “After all, there’s not that many wingless, hornless, royal advisors from space and people tend to pay attention to the ones that we do have.”

“Wow, I guess I’m a matter of public record again,” Tendi said, with a little laugh.

“Again? What where you well-known for back where you came form?” Zavaz innocently inquired.

“Oh, it’s pretty dull, you don’t want to hear about that,” Tendi laughed as she picked up her menu. “Ooh, they have vegan ham dancers! You really weren’t kidding about this place being cutting edge.”

“I told you she’d love it,” Adina said, gently nudging Zavaz in the ribs. “So, do you want to bring it up the proposition, or should I?”

Zavaz blushed a little. “No, it’s okay. I was the one who first voiced the idea, so I should be the one to explain it to her.” She giggled nervously and fiddled with her spoon. “See, me and Adina have both been getting to know each other better during our time off, and had a little two-person date or two when you were too busy with affairs of state or biomedical research to see us, plus we’ve had lots of long phone calls, and anyway, we figured out that, um, you see, we determined we both...we kinda like...look, how much do you know about feedism?” she stammered, her wings fluttering and her goat-like eyes locked on the menu before her instead of Tendi’s own gaze.

“Oh, feedism? I’ve heard about it. Isn’t it like, big fat women lounging around being fed fruit and delicacies by men?” Tendi said, drawing on her memory of the more niche kink clubs back on Orion and its spaceports.

“Sort of. Although feedees aren’t always female and feeders aren’t necessarily male,” Zavaz said. “But uh, yeah, the basic thing is about eating a lot and getting fatter. And I uh, well, Adina’s into it in a broader sense, but I really, especially have a thing for, well, kind of a fixation on, no offense meant, but taking skinny women and making them fat,” Zavaz forced the words out in a nervous torrent, her wings buffeting the menu and disturbing napkins with the speed of their movement.

“Oh,” Tendi said. She had seen it of course. She was aware of the kink, and she knew that Jennifer tried it out with Mariner, but she’d never really imagined applying it to herself in that way.

“So, you’re not a Skinny Admirer after all?” Tendi asked, gently.

“Well, it’s complicated. I think you have a good...well, starter body. But not in a beauty trainer way! In a transformative kink way. Plus I really love seeing women eat a lot and bulging bellies, and listening to stomach gurgles,” she ran on, as if pushed by some outside force, cheeks deep indigo while her wings threatened to levitate her out of her seat, physics be damned. “To be honest, a lot of my girlfriends have been transitional feedees who lose interest in me after they reach their ideal weight.”

“Oh, I see,” Tendi said, blushing a little. “And you’re into this too, Adina?”

“I go both ways,” Adina said, smiling wickedly. “I enjoy getting stuffed, but I love to take skinny people and fatten them up.” She rubbed her tummy. “Speaking of which, I hope the waiter gets here soon. I’m starving.” Her stomach growled as if to highlight the point, and Zavaz blushed even harder, possibly threatening the integrity of the blood vessels in her cheeks.

“So, are you proposing a feeder-feedee relationship with me?” Tendi asked, smiling while she stroked her chin thoughtfully. It was a kink she hadn’t really tried before. Sure, it might mean a substantial physical change, but then what was a little extra poundage compared to, say, turning into a giant scorpion or swapping bodies with a friend? She’d been through stranger transformative experiences after all. But then, those hadn’t been things she deliberately sought out for sexual gratification.

“It’s totally okay if you don’t want to do it,” Zavaz said quickly. “I mean, I’d love it if you did, but I’d still really be into you if you didn’t, and I could just practice the feedism stuff with Adina and leave you out of it. But, uh, I just kinda wanted to, you know, put that out there, since we plan on being intimate, and it’s probably my biggest kink.”

“Well, if it’s bulging bellies and tummy girls you like, I’m your gal!” Tendi said, smiling slyly. “I can really pack away the food when I put my mind to it.” She licked her lips and toyed with her amber beads. “In fact, I’m willing to bet I can eat more food than you,” she said, gently poking Adina in her exposed blue belly.

“Is that a challenge?” Adina asked haughtily.

“Maybe,” Tendi said, rubbing her hands together and licking her lips. She did always have fun at the pie-eating contests after all, and she took a dark glee in getting Zavaz so worked up she looked like she was at a risk of passing out.

“An eating contest?” Zavaz gasped. She pulled out an ornate green fan and tried to cool herself down. “I uh...I have to admit, I thought this kind of thing only happened in specialist magazines. I never imagined I’d actually be sitting between two gorgeous women, watching them each try to eat more than the other,” she said.

“Well, today you’re dream is going to come true!” Tendi said brightly, before once again locking eyes with Adina. Oh, she could eat all right. Wouldn’t they be surprised if they knew what she could fit down her gullet? But she wouldn’t let them know that quite yet. That was a card Mariner wanted her to keep in reserve, just in case, and Tendi could see the logic in that.

The waiter finally arrived, a thin, handsome man with broad shoulders and freckles. “I am so sorry for the wait, this is an unusually busy night for us and we’re a bit short-staffed.”

“It’s no problem,” Zavaz said, dreamily looking from Tendi to a Adina, and then back to Tendi again.

“Think nothing of it,” Adina said, even as her stomach growled again.

“Yeah, it’s not your fault this place is popular. I’m glad you showed up tonight,” Tendi said sweetly.

“Thank you, you’re too kind,” he said, inclining his head in a nervous little half-bow. “Now what can I get for you ladies?”

“I’ll have some vegan hot wings and a glass of Twin Rivers cider,” Zavaz said, forcing herself to tear her eyes away from her dining companions and fix them on the menu. “And maybe some fried winter root for a side?”

The waiter nodded and turned.

“I’ll have the soup of the day, glorka berry Jonoj cakes with mycoprotein bacon and seasonal fruit on the side, and a spicy bean curd sub sandwich,” Adina said, with her eyes on Tendi’s face, full of challenge.

“I’ll have the vegan ham dancer, the soup of the day, the Jonoj cakes with fried eggs and spiced vegan sausages, a shareable platter of vegan cheese babies, fried noodles with zinden berry dipping sauce, vegan wings, and the vegetarian scrapple. Also the vegetarian Rainbow Delight. Plus a glass of Twin Rivers cider and some of your finest farafa fruit wine,” Tendi said, with a steely grin and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. The dangerous smile was quickly replaced by a bright and earnest look when she turned to Zavaz, whose eyes were wide and mouth was hanging open. “So, have you been here before?”

“N-no, this is my first time here,” Zavaz said, trying to string her words together. “It’s a little outside my usual price range, and I’m not a vegetarian. Can you really eat all of that by yourself?”

“Yep!” Tendi said cheerily.

“That remains to be seen,” Adina said loftily.

***
Castro frowned into her vodka tonic and picked at her Bromothian fowl salad with dried zinden berries and vinagrette sauce. She’d been drinking at the Three Moons Tavern for over an hour and nobody had hit on her, not even the older married men. What was she doing wrong?

She finished off the drink with two gulps and wiped her mouth moodily.

“Same again?” the bartender said, her goat-like orange eyes warm with sympathy, wings folded against her side. Her straight green hair was flecked with black and tied back in a ponytail, and she was somewhat heavyset but not grotesquely fat.

“Yeah, and go light on the tonic,” Castro mumbled, punctuating her statement with a burp. “Excuse me,” she added, blushing a little. She’d barely touched her salad, so her stomach was pretty empty. Was this her third drink, or her fourth? Surely it couldn’t be the fifth glass, right?

The bartender served Castro. She ate one mouthful of salad, then drained her glass in three gulps. This time she was able to cover her mouth in time to muffle the belch.

“Same again,” she said, not looking the bartender in her bar-shaped pupils.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you so much?” the bartender asked. “I mean, you’re still young, you’ve got an esteemed position in the royal court, and you’re out here at a nice bar on a weekend night. What’s got you down?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Castro mumbled, still ignoring her food.

“Come on, you can open up to me. I’ve heard it all,” the bartender encouraged, pulling down a bottle of grain alcohol from the top shelf.

“How could you? You don’t know what it’s like to be far away from familiar planets,” Castro said, watching impatiently as she speared a zinden berry on a cocktail umbrella.

“Maybe not,” the bartender admitted, as she added far too much tonic water to the beverage. “It’s true I’ve never set foot on another world. But I’ve been stationed abroad during the long war with the Eastern Peninsular Collective.” She tapped one of her legs, which made a clanking sound. “That’s where I got this. I know a thing or two about homesickness.”

“Oh. I’ve never been a soldier,” Castro admitted, suddenly feeling a little embarassed. “I mean, I’ve been in dangerous situations before, but I’ve never signed up outright to kill or be killed.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a shitty job, cut out for the stupid or the desperate,” the bartender said. “But perhaps I shouldn’t talk trash, seeing as the profession is how I made the startup money for this bar. That and one of the old god-queen’s small business loans,” she said, clutching a little electrum necklace. “But then, we’ve all got different experiences don’t we? You’ve never been a soldier and I’ve never traveled to another planet. I’m a Bromothian and you’re a, ‘human’ I think it’s called?”

Castro nodded her confirmation.

“Right. We’ve got different problems and different challenges in our lives, but people are always people, wherever you go. We make friends, we get our hearts broken, we have our triumphs and defeats, we try to be good people and manage to screw it up. All I’m saying is, don’t assume that because I’ve spent all my life on the same planet I can’t guess what you’re going through.” She finally set down the next drink.

Castro forced down a few forkfuls of salad before taking a gulp. She tried to think of how much she could safely tell, how much she could open up to this friendly barkeep without exposing any sensitive information about Mariner’s administration.

“There’s a couple of other humans here, and obviously there’s the god-queen, but she’s, well, the god-queen. It’s not like I really know any of them that well. All my friends and family are up there,” Castro said, pointing to the unseen night sky.

“And that’s what’s getting to you?” the bartender questioned.

“I mean, yeah, that’s certainly part of it, but also, I dunno, I just really want to get laid tonight,” Castro said sulkily. “Nobody’s shown any interest in me, and I’m considered quite a catch back where I come from,” she said. “I’m not used to thin women being a niche fetish.”

The bartender tried to cover up a laugh. “Is that all? Honey, if you want to get laid, you usually have to buy somebody a drink first. You’re a woman, remember?”

Castro blinked. Sure, sometimes she made the first move, but she was also pretty accustomed to just sitting in a bar and waiting for somebody to approach her. But this *was* a planet with pretty prominent gender roles and sexual heirarchy. Of course she’d normally need to make the first move, just like on Ferenghinar it was mainly men who initiated sexual contact.

But...making the first move meant putting herself out there, making herself vulnerable to rejection. That wasn’t normally something that scared her, but her normally heroic sexual confidence had been shrinking the longer she stayed on this topsy-turvey planet where disgusting gluttony was considered attractive in a woman and healthy bodies were seen as a weird kink.

“Look, I can point out a few likely candidates for you,” the bartender whispered. “For example, Jonoj of Fendolina Port over there has been making eyes at you since you walked in. He’s a decent enough guy, reads a lot of pulp magazines and he loves science fiction. I bet he’d fall over himself for a chance to hear about your exploits among the stars.”

“You think so?” Castro said, sizing him up. He had a white button-up top and tight black leather pants. Aside from a bubble-butt, his body was pleasingly lean, and he had some descent arm muscles.

“Trust me. Even if you’re a little on the skinny side, that’s no reason to be shy,” the bartender said, carefully pouring a layered drink for somebody else. “Everyone knows men care more about personality and money than looks anyway.”

“What does he like to drink?” Castro asked, trying not to be offended by this fat woman.

“Glorka berry brandy, on the rocks,” the bartender said.

“Well, give me a glass of that,” Castro said, slapping down enough currency to cover the drink as well as a healthy tip. After all, insulting or not, the bartender was being extremely helpful.

She carried the drink over to the young man, who was currently absorbed in issue 23 of Astounding Yarns.

“Care for a drink?” she said, setting it down at his table.

He looked up quickly. “From you?” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Were you expecting somebody else?” Castro laughed.

“Um, no, of course not. Please, take a seat!” the boy said, pulling out a chair for her.

“I’m Castro. What’s your name?” Castro said brightly.

“Jonoj,” Jonoj said.

“That’s a pretty name,” Castro said, with her warmest smile.

“Th-thanks,” he said, blushing and taking a sip of brandy to cover his embarassment.

Castro combed through her memory, trying to think of a mission that didn’t contain any compromising information about the nature of advanced technology. There was that biological survey of indigenous archea. “Wanna hear about the time I visited the planet Altair Four?”

Jonoj’s red eyes went wide, his black slit pupils rotating. “You’ve been to other planets?”

Castro smiled. This was going to be easy.

“Well, yeah. After all, I’m an alien,” she said. It was strange to put it that way, but then again, everyone was an alien species to other species.

“I’ve always wanted to meet an alien,” Jonoj admitted. “Is it true you have...I mean, are you...like, the god-queen has a...um,” he stammered.

“Yeah, I’ve got a vagina,” Castro said. “Play your cards right and you might get to see it.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean...I uh…” Jonoj mumbled, now looking into his drink and turning indigo. Dammit, he was cute after all. He might be shy, but Castro had a feeling that she’d be able to get him to do almost anything. “Do all humans have vaginas?” he blurted out.

“About half of them do,” Castro said, enjoying his discomfort.

“What’s it like, not having wings or a horn?” he asked, stupidly.

“Well, for me that’s normal. What’s it like having two dicks?” Castro asked.

“I guess I never thought of it that way,” Jonoj said, tugging on his collar and taking another sip of brandy.

“What are you reading?” Castro asked, looking at the magazine. The cover had a Bromothian man in a space-suit, clutched tenderly in the arms of a very fat, scarlet-skinned, three-eyed female alien. The three-eyed alien was aiming her raygun at a ridiculous-looking, pale orange, scaly, bug-eyed space monster.

“Oh, it’s part of a serial about Captain Joannaoj’s adventures amongst the savage but beautiful men on a parallel planet on the far side of the suns.”

Castro opened her mouth to tell him that Bromothia was the only planet in this solar system capable of supporting multicellular life, but stopped herself. Telling him that might qualify as a breach of the prime directive, and anyway he looked so excited about it right now. The last thing she wanted was to squash a handsome young man’s imagination. Explorations in science fiction could motivate people to go on to explore science facts, after all.

Castro finished her vodka tonic and covered another belch. She should probably get things moving before she was too drunk to stand up.

“Are you any good at eating ass?” she asked.

Chapter Text

“ *Belch!* Excuse me!” Tendi said, raising a hand to her blushing cheeks.

“Hah, you call that a BRAAAWP burp?” Adina said, leaning over and burping in Tendi’s face seductively.

“Hey now, I thought this was an eating competition, not a burping competition,” Tendi said, thumping her swollen belly. It stuck out a few inches more than it normally did.

“I am URP completely stuffed to the gills. You win,” Adina admitted, massaging her tightened stomach tenderly.

“Well, I’m ready to order dessert!” Tendi said.

“Oh shit, count me in,” Adina said, perking up again.

‘I thought you said you were full?” Tendi said.

“I’ve always got room for dessert,” Adina said, going over the back of the menu. “The glorka berry pie sounds good. And the vardenara ice cream. Actually make that three slices of pie, each with a scoop of ice cream on top of them. And some of that tawny ten-year-old zinden sweet wine.”

Zavaz looked like she was about to melt.

“Well, I’ll try a glass of the semi-sweet farafa fruit wine, the glorka berry pie, one of each ice cream flavor, the candied winter root, the pink pastries, and the honey cakes.” Tendi hesitated, turning to look at Zavaz heart-shaped eyes and Adina’s openly lustful admiration. “You know what? Just get me one of everything.”

Adina whistled. The slit black bar pupils of Zavaz’s eyes widened as she gasped.

As soon as the waiter had left, Tendi smiled innocently. Still smiling, she took hold of Zavaz’s hand and pressed it against her gurgling belly, carefully placing the index finger on the navel.

“Feel that?” Tendi said, still looking innocent and pure.

“Mm-hm,” Zavaz said. Higher brain functions had clearly been shut down, with the blood flow mostly redirected to another area. Zavaz was pitching a tent in her purple skirt under the table, and Tendi was not making matters any easier by her current conduct.

“Give me a belly rub,” Adina demanded, taking Zavaz’s hand and pressing it against her own gurgling stomach. “It hurts right now.”

“Mm, okay, yeah,” Zavaz murmured, her cheeks nearly as purple as her skirt, moving over her other hand, deftly massaging the gut with experienced, nimble fingers. Unthinkingly, she played with her index finger on the other hand, tracing it in and out of Tendi’s belly button. The alien anatomical feature fascinated Zavaz, and she began to notice, while Tendi’s smile didn’t change, a darker green crept into her cheeks as the teasing went on.

Adina burped loudly, then followed it up with a moan, then another belch.

“I can feel the churning of your digestion,” Zavaz whispered, as if thinking out loud, unaware that they could hear her.

Tendi covered a small burp after one of Zavaz’s gentle explorations of her navel.

Suddenly, she snatched back her hands and placed them flat on the menu. The waiter was on his way back.

“How are you ladies finding the food here?” their waiter asked.

“Great! Great! Everything is great, especially the food!” Tendi said with a nervous little laugh.

“We’re having a lovely time,” Adina said, in a sultry voice.

“Great time! What they said,” Zavaz stammered.

“Always happy to hear that,” the waiter said, setting down their drinks and one entire glorka berry pie plus three more slices.

“I really shouldn’t eat this,” Adina moaned, “but I think I’ve got the room now.” She forced down the first slice of pie in under a minute.

Tendi’s conditioning took over. She leaned down and plunged facefirst into the pie, sucking and lapping it up. Her face went a deeper shade of green when she realized almost everyone in the restaurant was now staring at her.

“Heheh,” Tendi said, picking up a napkin and trying to wipe her face and hands clean. Zavaz and Adina wordlessly handed over their napkins. Adina seemed to be struggling with her second slice of pie.

“It’s *BURP* starting to hurt again,” Adina whined, washing down a reluctant bite of pie with some rather good sweet zinden berry wine.

“I uh, don’t think I’m going to do anything about that until we get to our hotel room. Sorry,” Zavaz said, dipping her head.

“Why don’t you eat my third slice of pie for me?” Adina said, pushing one of the plates over to Zavaz.

“Oh, I’m not really hungry for dessert,” Zavaz insisted.

“Well, if you don’t want it, I do!” Tendi said, snatching up the plate. She quickly dug in, but managed to restrain her muscle memory enough to use kitchen utensils instead of her bare hands and face.

“Sorry about that earlier,” she murmured. “I uh, used to participate in pie-eating contests back home, so my training sort of took over.”

“Well, I think it’s cute,” Zavaz said proudly. “Don’t you, Adina?”

“She certainly has her alien charms,” Adina said.

“Thanks, I think,” Tendi said, playing with her hair and licking the sauce and melted ice cream from her lips. Her stomach gave a particularly loud gurgle. It stuck out another inch or two further than before.

***

“Hey, Hagogah, I got you some dunik fruit juice. What’s going on?” Boimler asked.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Hagogah sighed, gripping the dunik fruit juice and downing it in three desperate gulps. “I’m very busy tonight.”

“What are you busy with?” Boimler asked. “Only I just picked up a really cool strategy board game and I wanted to try it out with somebody.”

“Filing,” Hagogah said, shaking his head mournfully. “It’s boring but important.”

If he’d been somebody else, Boimler reflected, he might have asked how important it really was, or tried to tell Hagogah that the work would still be there tomorrow. Instead, because he was Bradward Boimler, he said “I bet I can cut your workload in half if you just take five minutes to explain it to me.”

Hagogah stared at him. “Are you serious? You’re already a royal adviser, and you’re offering to do half of my work for me, for free?”

“What can I say? I like a well-organized filing system,” Boimler said.

“That would be a gift from the heavens,” Hagogah sighed.

“Just as long as you agree to try out The Campaign for the Third Moon with me after you get off work for the day,” Boimler said, grinning.

In the end, Boimler didn’t simply halve the secretary’s workload, he reduced it by four fifths. While the secretary muddled along at his usual pace, Boimler shot through the paper folders, reveling in the unusual tactile experience and the sheer hedonism of checking for misfiled documents in a massive (for the technology level anyway) set of data.

“You’re really good at this,” Hagogah said. “Either that or I got this job on looks alone.”

“I just really like to keep things efficient, and checking for misfilings is an important part of that,” Boimler said, with a modest shrug. “So, you promised me a game?”

Hagogah smiled. “I suppose I could give it a try. I have been working pretty hard lately.”

Boimler explained the rules as they walked down to his private quarters.

“So how do you win?” Hagogah asked.

“Either by controlling at least sixty-seven percent of the board, or meeting three of the five possible victory conditions,” Boimler said.

“And one of those is fully controlling both poles so you can manipulate the moon’s magnetic core?” Hagogah said.

“Yeah,” Boimler said, holding back a laugh. It did go to show, nothing aged like science fiction. There was so much nonsense science in there, they achieved faster-than-light travel through something called hyperspace, and they randomly put words like “quantum” and “multispectral” in front of everything without any evidence that they really understood what those words meant.

“God-queen, how long has it been since I’ve sat down to a game, or went to a concert, or shared a drink at a bar or cafe?” Hagogah shook his head. “I’ve just been losing myself in my work. I thought I was really getting somewhere, but then, well, I had to stand up for myself, and although that went okay, I don’t know, the work wasn’t the same anymore. I didn’t want to rise any higher, but I also didn’t want to slow down and let my feelings catch up with me.”

“Hey man, I get it,” Boimler said, patting him on the back. “But most people aren’t built to function that way. You need to take time off to really feel and let yourself live.” He felt strange, giving this advice to somebody instead of getting it, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad kind of strange.

“Alright, so who goes first?” Hagogah asked.

Chapter Text

Tendi did not merely look nine months pregnant. Her middle was distended far more than that. Maybe pregnant with triplets and ready to go into labor would have been a decent approximation. Her straining stomach hung between her knees.

“You know, you already *belch* won the eating contest. You *urp* don’t need to keep going,” Adina said, sounding both impressed and concerned.

Tendi reminded herself not to unhinge her jaw as she worked through another serving of ice cream. “Yeah, but this place does really good *BURP* desserts, and Zavaz seems to like it.”

That was something of an understatement. Tendi could feel the heat rising off of Zavaz’s cheeks, and her hand gently stroking her distended belly.

“Well, you sure can eat a lot for a thin girl,” Adina said.

“Aw, thank you,” Tendi said, punctuating the statement with another belch that blew back Zavaz’s hair. “Excuse me.”

Zavaz was drooling and nearly swooning in her seat.

“How about we pay up and get this gal back to our hotel room?” Adina suggested.

That was when the waiter came out with the bill. Zavaz broke out of her eurphoric haze when she saw how many zeros were in it. Her dreamy goat-like eyes focused on the figure at the bottom and stopped being so dreamy, pupils shrinking and sweat breaking out all over her face.

“Oh, uh...wow. You really did eat a lot,” she said, biting her lip.

“Oh, I’m sorry guys. Why don’t I--” Tendi began.

“I’ve got it,” Adina said, firmly putting her hand over Tendi’s hand.

“Are you sure? We could--” Zavaz began.

“I said I’ve got it,” Adina said, her voice as firm as her grip.

“You know, you never did tell us how you make your money,” Tendi said.

“I’m the heir to the second-largest distillery in the Phagocracy,” Adina said, for the first time showing a hint of shyness or embarrassment.

“Erstwhile Liquors? That’s you?” Zavaz said, looking Adina up and down as if there was something that she had missed.

“Well, technically that’s my mom, but yeah, I get a share of the family fortune,” Adina admitted. “I mean, I’ve also got a part-time job with an advertising firm, but that’s more to keep from getting bored. That’s not where most of my money comes from. Anyway I don’t think I would have gotten it if it wasn’t for my mother’s connections. I try to be philanthropically active and volunteer in my spare time and stuff, to make up for it.” She rubbed the short scarlet fuzz on her head. “I hope you don’t, well, think less of me for that. I just wanted to get to know some people as plain old Adina, not Adina, daughter of Ramalthia, one of the top ten richest Gorbolites in the nation and the heir to the family fortune.”

“Trust me, I can *urp* relate,” Tendi said, offering a smile and leaning across Zavaz to kiss Adina on the cheek, brushing Zavaz’s pudge with her own tight tummy in the process.

Adina blushed. “Aw, thank you. What about you, Zavaz? I mean, how do you feel about it?” she asked nervously.

“I mean, I’m not going to complain,” Zavaz said, her cheeks still flushed and hot, but fully returned from her happy daze. “And like, for what it’s worth, I’ve never bought into anti-Gorbolite conspiracy theories or stuff like that.”

“Um, thanks?” Adina said awkwardly.

“I don’t even know what Gorbolite means,” Tendi admitted. “Guess I’m still learning new things about this planet.”

“Gorbolite is sort of an ethno-religious minority, although you won’t find many practicing Gorbolites inside the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner, even now that the blasphemy laws have been overturned,” Adina explained. “And, to be honest, I kind of forgot that you were from another planet.”

“Yeah, what’s your planet like?” Zavaz asked brightly.

Tendi turned to look out the window. How could you possibly sum up an entire planet?

“Well, it’s not as different from this one as you might expect. I mean, we’ve got different animals, and the plants have green *BURP* leaves instead of purple ones. It’s pretty similar, in a bad way. The people don’t have horns or wings, *BELCH* and most of us are green instead of blue, but it’s got a lot of the same problems. There’s lots of desperate people doing what they can to get by, and a few people who have a lot and want *EAURP* even more. Lots of high expectations, roles to fill, boxes that people will try to force you into instead of letting you choose your own.” Tendi softly sighed, just audible over the churning gurgles of her own digestive tract.

Adina pulled out her wallet, counted out a large number of high-value bills, and slapped them onto the table.

“Okay, that should be enough to cover the bill and a twenty-five percent tip,” Adina said. “Enough with this mushy stuff. Let’s get to our hotel room.”

“But, ever since the god-queen’s new Real Minimum Wage Law, you don’t have to tip, because waiters and waitresses make a living wage without tips,” Zavaz said.

“I know, but I like to be generous,” Adina said.

***

It hadn’t been bad, Castro thought, as she lay awake on her side of the bed. Jonoj had taken a bit of seducing, more than most human males, but his clothes had practically fallen off as soon as she’d told him about her space adventures. She supposed in a matriarchal society, men were raised to be more sexually reticent. Sure, she’d had to teach Jonoj a lot of things, especially since he’d never even seen a pussy outside of religious erotic art, but he was a quick learner and eager to please. At the very least, he’d been willing to indulge a few of her fetishes, although he drew the line at stuff involving a car battery. Plus, the twin penises were a plus, even if they were only four inches each.

No, it hadn’t been bad at all. So why was she lying awake here on her side of the bed while he peacefully snoozed away?

The clouds shifted. One of the moons was now shining in her face, so she turned over to regard Jonoj’s relaxed expression with a twinge of envy. Of course, for him, having sex with a member of an alien species was a big deal, maybe even a life-changing event. It was something he would probably brag about for years to come. For her, it was Tuesday.

She had worried a little bit about regaling him with mildly embellished stories of her exploits in starfleet, with regards to the prime directive. Then again, the previous god-queen had already spilled the beans about the existence of intelligent life on other planets, so the damage there was done. As long as she kept any technological details vague, which wasn’t hard, Castro was probably in the clear. Heck, a little indiscretion between sexual partners was the least of their worries, as far as any prime directive violations were concerned. No, they had a whole separate laundry list of things to be concerned about when starfleet finally heard about this.

Of course, that was assuming starfleet did eventually reach them. She had to believe that, though. Captain Freeman would see to that. She wouldn’t forget about her stranded crew members, and so neither would starfleet. Except for that one time they’d left Mariner and her friends behind on a satellite for eight hours, of course, but they’d come back in the end.

The problem was that the Cerritos had been sucked down an unstable wormhole, and who knew where that had landed them? Maybe they were lost in the Delta Quadrant. Maybe they were somewhere even farther. There had been that one time the Enterprise had nearly ended up stranded in a remote galaxy.

Castro shifted on the mattress again, seeking elusive comfort. The springs squeaked. She missed the synthetic materials of the starfleet standard mattress of her room. She missed her little collection of physical books, the holo-image of her family on her nightstand, and the gentle hum of the warp core. She really missed the familiar smell, texture and taste of replicated chicken caesar salad, identical from one bowl to the next. She missed the smell of industrial cleaning solutions and the feel of carpet under her feet. She missed discussing new works and old works with her book club, and Cerritos talent night, and her various long-term sexual partners and friends across the Alpha quadrant. She missed Jennifer, with her sharp wit, playful manner, and insightful poetry feedback. (She’d considered going out with Jennifer when they first met, but Jennifer had been in an exclusive relationship at the time, and after it ended Castro saw how badly Jennifer got along with her ex and decided that she never wanted to risk becoming the Andorian’s ex-girlfriend herself.)

How long was it going to be before she set foot on a starship again? How long before she tasted her stepfather’s home-cooked fried tarantulas? How long before she sat down for a game of stratagema with her bio dad?

How long before she could even speak with a human who wasn’t Boimler, Rutherford, or Mariner?

Castro pondered the question of whether to do the right thing and cook breakfast for this young man in the morning, or to just steal some of his underwear as a trophy and sneak off before he woke up. Some spiteful whim urged her towards the latter course of action. He did seem to be sleeping pretty soundly.

Castro got up to go pee, and he murmured her name in his sleep.

She would probably hang around to make breakfast. Sure, she was on a topsy-turvy world where fat women were normal and thin women were weird, and there was so much outside of her control, but she could still have standards, even if nobody else seemed to. That meant saying good morning, cooking some breakfast (or at least brewing some of the tisane they had instead of tea or coffee), and making polite conversation, even if she had no long-term ambitions for a relationship with this local boy.

After she relieved herself, thankful that this primitive planet at least had indoor plumbing, Castro carefully settled into bed without disturbing her one-night-stand. As she tried to drift off to sleep, she couldn’t help wondering what Boimler was up to tonight.

Chapter Text

“So, how do we want to do this?” Adina asked, when they were all seated on the hotel bed. “I mean, obviously the conga line is not going to be a viable position, but that still leaves us with lots of options.”

“I think Tendi should decide,” Zavaz said, with a shy smile. “If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

“I’m more than cool with that,” Adina said, kissing Zavaz on the cheek and making her blush again.

“Hmm,” Tendi said, stroking her chin thoughtfully as she drank in the full figures of her Bromothian girlfriends. Various possibilities flashed through her inquiring mind as she pulled off her blue top. “I think I’d like to be in the middle, at least to start with. And maybe we could start with a little breast fondling and topless makeouts,” she said, as the two plus-sized women leaned in to kiss her on each cheek.

“I’m game,” Adina said, placing Tendi’s left hand on her ample bosom as she stretched her wings languidly.

“Sounds like a plan,” Zavaz said, undoing her tie and unbuttoning her top, exposing two D-cup powder blue breasts with pert indigo nipples.

Tendi kissed Zavaz full on the mouth, their tongues eagerly intertwining, the purple lipstick smearing all over Zavaz’s face as they sucked. Unlike Mariner, Tendi needed a little bit of time and effort to unhinge her jaw, and she didn’t feel the same relentless craving for humanoid protein, but she had to admit that Mariner was right. Bromothians *did* taste incredibly good. Still, she managed to keep herself mindful of the here and now, sliding her fingers into Adina’s cleavage.

Adina moaned. The frantic motion of their makeout and fondling stirred something in Tendi’s digestive juices, and she ended up burping directly into Zavaz’s mouth. When they broke off to come up for air, Tendi opened her mouth to apologize.

“That was incredibly hot,” Zavaz said, her rectangular-pupiled eyes bright with lust.

“Aw, thank you,” Tendi said, blushing under her makeup, sliding her hand further into Adina’s tight red leather top and giving one of her nipples a flick with her thumb.

Zavaz nuzzled Tendi’s neck and put a hand on her churning belly, using the other hand to grab Tendi’s breast. Tendi smiled, reaching up with her right hand to tickle Zavaz’s chin while she turned and kissed Adina on the neck.

Tendi couldn’t help noticing that both her girlfriends had raging boners right now. Zavaz’s skirt was lifting considerably with nine inches and Adina’s leather pants were threatening to rip open with the tent-pitching ten-inch pressure. She was pleased to see she’d made an impression, but she resisted the temptation to reach out and grab them. She had other things to do first, and other plans for those appendages.

Zavaz moved her mouth downwards, kissing all the way. She withdrew her hands and moved down until she reached Tendi’s dark green nipple and locked onto it. The woman’s lips formed a firm suction while she ran across the tip with her tongue. Tendi moaned and squeezed Adina’s breast a little harder as the pleasure escalated, noting that while Zavaz suckled quite hard, she refrained from using her teeth at all.

After a while, Adina also let go of Tendi’s breasts and affixed her mouth to the other one. Tendi stroked the back of their heads, pulling on Zavaz’s ponytail just a little. After a few minutes of this, Zavaz came free with a sucking sound.

“Is everything okay?” Zavaz asked.

Tendi frowned. “Um, yes? Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I just...you don’t seem to be in the mood,” Zavaz said, uncertainly.

Tendi tilted her head. Sure, she didn’t have a big throbbing ovipositor to show off, but she was moaning and blushing and breathing hard.

“Of course I’m in the mood. What do you mean?” Tendi said.

“Well, you aren’t...I mean, you’re not really…” Zavaz said, fumbling for words. Tendi stared at her, uncomprehending.

Adina detached herself.

“You’re not lactating, honey,” she said.

“Oh, is that all?” Tendi said. “I forgot about that. You see, my species only lactate shortly after giving birth. We can’t do it on command.”

“Your species gives live birth?” Adina gasped.

“Well, yeah,” Tendi chuckled. “Kinda come with the having-a-vagina territory.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize that,’ Adina said. “Sorry. I hope that wasn’t offensive of me.”

“It’s fine,” Tendi reassured her. There were some species that gave live birth, some species that laid eggs, some species that budded, and some species that grew their offspring in vats. “My feelings aren’t hurt by a little curiousity.”

“That’s good to hear,” Zavaz said.

“Speaking of curiosity though, there is something I’m a little curious about. Just, in the spirit of scientific inquiry, what does *your* breast milk taste like?” Tendi asked, innocently.

“You’ve *still* got room for more?” Adina said, tentatively poking Tendi’s swollen belly.

Tendi burped softly. “For you two? Yes,” she said.

“We’re uh, both used to receiving rather than giving when it comes to lactation, but uh, sure, I can nurse you,” Zavaz said.

“Also, how do you feel about wing stuff?” Tendi said, her mild blush hidden behind the makeup. “I don’t know whether it’s really intimate, or casual, or even if it’s an erogenous zone or not. I just think you both have pretty wings and I’d like to experiment with them.”

“Really?” Adina said, blushing a little herself. “You think my wings are pretty? They’re not too scraggly?”

“Of course not,” Tendi and Zavaz said at the same time. They looked at each other and giggled.

Tendi smacked her lips. “Alright then. Time for some nursing,” she said. Zavaz and Adina unfolded their wings for her, and she reached out to stroke them before latching onto one of Zavaz’s nipples, since she had the larger breasts of the two. She began to suckle, careful not to bite or suck too hard.

The hot fluid rushed into Tendi’s mouth. It was sweeter than she expected, almost like oat milk in its flavor, but richer and creamier, with a faint aftertaste that she couldn’t match up to anything she’d ever tried before. Zavaz leaned back and closed her eyes while Tendi drank. Adina reached over and tenderly fondled Tendi’s belly, which expanded ever-so-slowly as she ingested the bountiful milk.

***

Mariner woke up with her bladder full and her stomach empty. She rolled out of bed, waddled to the restroom, and settled the former issue before heading down in search of the palace kitchens to address the latter.

The long hallways and vast rooms, with their high vaulted ceilings, made Mariner feel small and lonely, even though she was bigger than she’d ever been before. It was a bit like roaming through the caverns of that lifeless rogue planet in the Dominion War, when both sides had needed to wear space suits to keep out the cold. Even if her predecessor was an absolute monster, Mariner still had some pretty big shoes to fill, and a lot of responsibility resting on her shoulders. She shivered.

Two of the moons were visible through the massive skylight, one orange and one palest pink. She walked up to one of the guards, a tall man with broad wings and blue eyes. Her stomach gurgled as his smell entered her nostrils, and she fought down the urge to strip the armor from him and gulp him down. She tried to ignore the hunger pangs and bring up her mental records of the palace staff she employed.

“Hey, it’s Trevorovert, right?” she asked.

The guard nodded. “Yes, your holy highness. Thank you for remembering, your holy highness.”

“Do you remember which way it is to the royal kitchens?”

“Down the hallway to the left, then you go down the stairs or the elevator to the first floor, pass the administrative offices and take the second door on the right.”

“Thank you, Trevorovert,” Mariner said, patting him on his armored back.

Everything looked different at night. Sure, they had electric lights here, but they were tiny, tame things compared to the continuous and steady illumination of a starship’s corridors. You could really feel the absence of the twin suns of Bromothia. Real gravity seemed to weigh on her more heavily than artificial gravity ever had, even though she knew they were basically the same. She just had a lot more weight to pull at now. Was she still in the low thousands, or had she passed the one-thousand-and-one-hundred mark already? She’d need to weigh herself at some point.

She sighed. Weighing herself wouldn’t be as fun without Jennifer there to clap excitedly and shout encouragement, sizing up every new pound with her eyes and exploring every inch with her hands. Sure, she had Tendi, and her concubines, and the occasional hookup, but they weren’t interested in her weight the way Jennifer was. I mean, yeah, she was considered the gold standard for beauty on this planet, but they weren’t, well, they weren’t invested in her gains the way Jennifer was. Maybe she should try to find a feeder. Was feedism even a thing on this planet? Could that kind of kink develop in a society where fat women were the norm? Maybe it was only considered a kink with male or nonbinary feedees.

Mariner passed the buzzing electric lights and ceremonial torches. She’d gone over some of the palace expense sheets with Boimler, and apparently there were some old men whose sole job was to go from room to room making sure all the torches and candles were still lit, replacing them as necessary. It seemed a bit silly to her when they had perfectly good electric lighting, but maybe the tradition dated from before Her founding of the central monarchy. What kind of government had ruled this land before She came down to the planet anyway? Mariner would have to look into that later. Her stomach growled, reminding her of the purpose of her errand.

At some point, Mariner took a wrong turning, and found herself in one of the many archive rooms. She was about to back out again when she noticed two figures slumped in opposite chairs on a desk.

There was a secretary or clerk, whose name she couldn’t quite remember because she’d barely seen him more than three times, and in the other chair was Boimler, a trail of drool running down his chin. Between them was an unfolded board set with game pieces of pewter and wood along with an array of cards.

Mariner didn’t need to look in the filing cabinets to know they would all be perfectly organized and sorted. If Boimler had played a game with this government employee, that meant they had stopped working, and if Boimler had stopped working it must have been because the work was done. She made a mental note of the office’s location and then waddled her way into the kitchen.

“Hey Jeffej, Tarinirat. How’s it going?”

The night cooks jumped up from their game of cards and saluted her.

“Easy, guys. I’m just here for a midnight snack. What’s cooking?”

“Just some winter root stew, fried red bugs, and sweet rolls,” Jeffej said, trying and failing to cover a cough.

“Dude, I can smell the weed. You don’t have to hide it,” Mariner said.

“Would you like some?” Tarinirat asked.

“I’m hungry enough as it is,” she said, her statement punctuated by another of her stomach’s loud gurgles. “But thanks.” She picked up the tray of sweet rolls and emptied them into her mouth. Then she drained the cauldron of still-steaming stew and sighed. “That’s *burp* better. You guys can make more for the night staff, right?” They nodded. “Cool. Do you know where I can get some blankets?”

The cooks pointed Mariner in the direction of the nearest linen cupboard. Mariner took out some fine purple sheets, then silently crept into the archive office. She carefully tucked the blankets over Boimler and the office worker. Boimler shifted in his sleep and mumbled something about Lois and Jimmy, but returned quickly to soft, regular breathing.

Mariner headed back up to bed, nodding and waving to the guards along the way. She’d have to set up some kind of snack stations around the place and a private stash in her bedroom so she didn’t have to wander off in search of the kitchens for a midnight snack next time this happened. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and being hungry around Bromothians was dangerous.

When she went back to sleep, she didn’t remember any of her dreams, thankfully.

Chapter Text

Tendi lay back, both her girlfriends’ breasts completely sucked dry, and gave her even-larger stomach a gentle patting with both hands. She followed this immediately with a raucous belch.

“Excuse me,” she said. Her Bromothian girlfriends both leaned in to kiss her on each cheek and gave her tummy a gentle squeeze, causing her to burp again. She giggled and blushed. Then she smiled a wicked smile. She unzipped Adina’s pants and slid her panties to the side as she lifted Zavaz’s skirt with the other hand. The ovipositors were at full mast, their tips glistening with pre-egg lubricating juices.

Adina looked at the carpeted floor. “It’s not...it’s not too big, is it?” she asked, anxiously.

For an answer, Tendi leaned down and kissed the ten-inch appendage right on its indigo tip. The pre-egg fluid was sharp and salty. Zavaz smiled at Adina as well, and reached her finger over to gently trace it from its tip to the bottom of its shaft, then pressed her hand against the thigh.

“So, how do you want to do this?” Zavaz asked.

Tendi pulled each of their faces close to hers, and whispered, pouring her hot breath into their ears.

“Oh my,” Adina said. “I’d...I mean, I’ve done anal, but I’d never even conceived of doing it *that* way.”

“It sounds like fun!” Zavaz said eagerly.

Tendi pulled both of the fat women further onto the bed, then guided them into place on either side of her. She lay down so that she was facing Zavaz, with Adina tenderly cradling her from behind.

“Shoot! I forgot to bring lube,” Adina said, cursing herself. “I’ll just watch and touch myself while you two go at it. Sorry.”

“Lube’s in the nightstand drawer,” Zavaz said over Tendi’s shoulder.

“Thank the god-queen,” Adina said. “You think of everything, sweetie.”

“I’m really glad you two are getting along so well,” Tendi said warmly. “And now, time for the main event,” she purred, narrowing her eyes and reaching down to her skirt. She was already wetter than a monsoon on Ferenghinar.

“I can’t...wait...to just...oh by the light of Orion’s sun, why now?!” Tendi cried out.

“What’s wrong?” each of Tendi’s Bromothian girlfriends said almost in unison.

“The zipper’s stuck!” Tendi said. “Screw this, I’ll just try to pull the whole thing down,” Tendi said, and proceeded to wriggle out of the outfit, shaking and jostling her distended belly in the process. When she finally got the garment kicked onto the hotel room floor, she unleashed another belch before she could raise her hand to cover her mouth.

“Whoops! Heheh, sorry guys,” Tendi said.

Zavaz grabbed her face by its green glittery cheeks. “Don’t ever apologize for burping, you gorgeous alien woman,” she said, their faces almost touching.

The dark of Tendi’s cheeks, where the sweat and kisses had taken off the makeup, grew a little darker. “Oh, okay. Shall we get started then?” She pulled down her lacy lilac panties, exposing her sopping bush and her round little behind.

Adina dipped her fingers into the pale substance, smelling ever so faintly of farafa fruit, and smeared a big glob of it between Tendi’s butt cheeks. She plunged a deft finger into Tendi’s dark green asshole, and the Orion moaned and rolled her eyes back.

“Wowie, you’re good at this,” Tendi gasped. Adina bit her matte black lip, trying not to laugh, while Zavaz looked into her eyes full of love. After some gentle massaging with the cool gel, Adina squeezed the bulging dark-indigo head of her ovipositor inside Tendi’s anus. Tendi gasped again, and then she giggled.

“Sorry! Sorry, I really don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, it’s just that tingles” she said.

“That’s okay,” Adina said, kissing her on the back of the neck. “It’ll warm up to body temperature eventually, although you seem to run pretty hot.”

“Not sure if that’s a compliment or simply an observation on the biological differences between us,” Tendi said. “Either way, I’m into it.”

“Would you pass the lube over here?” Zavaz asked Adina. “I’d like to make this, you know, as close to simultaneous as we can manage.”

“Oh, you don’t, heehee, need that, hahaha, oh, yeah,” Tendi moaned. “Vulvas are self-luuuubricaating.”

“Oh right. That’s amazing,” Zavaz said, plunging her own ovipositor into Tendi’s body. Both women found they were able to go in deep, deeper, right up to the hilt, as Tendi’s body stretched out to happily accommodate them. As she thrust, Adina grabbed the sides of Tendi’s bloated belly from behind. Zavaz pressed one hand into Tendi’s tummy, a single index finger tapping on the belly button, and used the other hand to cup Tendi’s chin as she moved in for a kiss, her own soft tummy pressing against Tendi’s hard and distended one.

The frantic activity and pressure caused a pain to build in Tendi’s middle. She couldn’t help herself. Once again, she broke off the kiss by belching too hard.

“By the god-queen, you’re sooo...fucking...hot!” Zavaz cried out as she plunged in and out of Tendi’s pussy.

“Aw...you’re just being kind...to me. But thanks *oh* anyway!” Tendi answered.

“I think she *oh yeah* really means it, sweetheart,” Adina gasped.

“Well then, *BUUURP*, oh, thank you for the, yeah, compliment,” Tendi replied, intertwining her fingers with those of Adina and grasping Zavaz by her ponytail. She yanked back her head and planted a kiss on the teal skin of her neck.

“I...I think...I can’t quite hold back anymore,” Adina whined. “Get ready, Tendi.”

“You don’t oh, oh, need to hold back, babe. We’ll, oh yeah, both get there iiin, the eeend,” Tendi said.

After one particularly hard thrust, Adina screamed with delight as a bulge ran up her ovipositor. Tendi felt the soft, gelatinous eggs slide up inside her ass with a soft, wet, popping sound.

“That feels good,” Tendi whimpered, finishing of the sentence with a wet belch. Zavaz dug both hands into her hair and kissed her savagely.

“I’m not far behind,” Zavaz said, when she finally came up for air, still plunging in deep and almost-but-not-quite pulling out again, Tendi’s body eagerly accommodating her girth and length. Zavaz stiffened, then kicked out and arched her back. Her groin shuddered, and the swell of eggs shot up her member like water from a hose, sliding up inside Tendi’s pussy, far, far past the lips and deep inside, driven in by the sheer force of hydrolic pressure and helped along by Tendi’s well-lubricated and stretchy canal.

“Happy now, girls?” Tendi asked. Both of her lovers nodded and started to cuddle her.

“Not so fast. Now it’s my turn to finish off,” she said, with a wicked grin. “Zavaz, I’m going to show you something called a clitoris, and how to suck it.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’ll suck my eggs back out and swallow them,” Adina said, blushing.

“Kinky,” Tendi said, in an approving tone. She wiggled her eyebrows. Then, as the two women scootched down the bed and lowered their faces to groin height, and Adina spread her ass cheeks apart, Tendi’s expression melted into one of flush-faced bliss. Before long, every thought of anything but pleasure was driven out of her mind, annihilated by the ensuing pink fog. As she bucked and moaned, she couldn’t even have told you what human scientist had discovered that the universe was mostly made of Hydrogen. She felt the eager tongue, lapping at her unusually large clit, and the lips slowly sucking the soft egg out of her asshole. It was only a short time before her green pussy went from self-lubricating to squirting all over Zavaz’s face.

Chapter Text

The head chef frowned at the clock. The suns had risen and were well approaching high noon. The god-queen had not requested breakfast, nor had she requested any hangover cures. This was...unsettling.

Technically, the intercom system did have a button on her end, in case they needed to request clarification on an item or give her updates about a cooking delay, but it was strange to actually think of using it, just to make sure everything was okay. After all, Mariner was the new god-queen.

Still...the head chef felt her duties went somewhere beyond cooking and baking. Hadn't this god-queen taken them all out to a couple of bars, where she'd started a series of hookups that were threatening to turn into a really good third date? Hadn't she mentioned that she was more than open to hearing from her members of royal staff? Hadn't she taken an unusual interest in everyone's well-being, all the way down to the janitors?

Against her better judgment, the head chef pressed the intercom button.

The system crackled into life. There was a terrible moment before the head chef managed to gather the courage necessary to speak.

"Your holy highness, what would you like for breakfast?"

"Breakfast?" came the confused reply. There was a loud rumble. "Oh, right, I haven't had breakfast yet. Yeah, let's go with eggs."

"Do you mean an omelette, or fried eggs, or scrambled, or--" the head chef asked.

"Just a cheese and mushroom omelette," Mariner answered.

"Is that all?" the head chef asked, surprised. Usually she wanted a wide variety of meat and non-meat dishes, topped off with a morning cocktail or dunik fruit juice.

"Yeah. Just like, make it a big omelette," Mariner said. "Really big," she added.

"Yes, your holy highness. I will see to it immediately," the head chef said.

The kitchen staff all stared at her. "Well? You heard them. We've got the skillet all heated up. Crack some eggs, slice some cheese and mushrooms, and start beating!" she snapped.

The head chef considered taking a morning nip from her secret stash, but no, this was too early for that, and an omelette this big would require coordination to keep it from burning anywhere. Still...she wondered, should she maybe reach out to somebody about this? Not one of the secretaries, or the inner circle, but then, who? The grand vizier? Surely not. But maybe she could send a note to the head Pastor.

***

"Sorry I'm running late, your holy highness!" the non-divine alien named Tendi called out, as she swung open the doors and pounded down the hallway. Her usually-impeccible hair was just a touch messier than usual, and she was still wearing the same dark blue top and seafoam-colored skirt, although they looked just a little bit less loose-fitting. She also hadn't bothered with makeup today, which was understandable.

She wasn't the only one running late, Pastor Vikovokiv observed. The alien Rutherford had showed up late, still yawning with bedhead and a tall glass of dunik fruit juice. The alien named Boimler had showed up on time as usual, but he kept yawning, stretching, and rubbing his neck. Aliens had such strange names, but then, Vikovokiv reflected, it made sense for aliens to be strange in most respects. It made less sense for Wrakoth, the Minister of Agriculture, to have such a funny name. Vikovokiv had heard at some otherwise uneventful state function that Wrakoth's mother had named her firstborn after some Gorbolite folk hero, even though neither she nor Wrakoth were Gorbolites themselves, just because she liked the sound of it. The pastor privately wondered if the minister had risen to such an ambitious post just to prove she could succeed in spite of being handicapped with such a ridiculous monacre.

"That's okay, advisor Tendi," Mariner said, through a mouthful of the omelette that was wider than she was tall. "How'd your date go?"

Tendi blushed dark green and smiled. "It was lovely, your holy highness" she said.

The pastor didn't presume to fathom the mind of the divine, and he certainly didn't consider such a thin woman physically attractive, but he knew that if he had concubines *and* a girlfriend he wouldn't be okay with them dating other people. Certainly, the last queen had come up with some more inventive forms of capital punishment for any concubine found guilty of straying from the royal bedroom. That was the old god-queen, however, and the god-queen Mariner seemed nothing if not determined to establish a clear breakaway from the regime of the god she had unceremoniously devoured.

There was much about the new god-queen that surprised and confused him. He supposed that it only made sense for such a numinous being to be somewhat unfathomable and unpredictable. For one thing, he'd never expected there would be a "new" god-queen. The old god-queen had been an ageless figure, as beautiful and terrible that last day at court as she had been the first time little Vikovokiv had seen a photograph of her in his father's devotional corner, which took up considerable space in the humble Silver City tenament room that Vikovokiv had grown up in.

It had been a long, winding road to get from there to his position in the palace. It was hard enough for a man to become a pastor to begin with. There was no actual rule against it, of course, not as such. It was just that most of the pastors were women, and most pious men were assumed to be interested in becoming members of the church advisory board or becoming a pastor's husband.

"So, Pastor Vikovokiv, how are the church updates coming along?" the god-queen asked.

Vikovokiv jolted out of his memories and stood to attention.

"Your holy highness, the renovations and installation of new stained glass and iconography goes well. We have updated most of the churches throughout major population centers, and the Veteran Employment Division goes well, as my colleagues in the Ministry of Veteran's Affairs can attest."

"That's good," Mariner the god-queen sighed, and she looked a little distracted. "Anything else to report?"

"Well, we've distributed your new holy literature to all the churches successfully by now, and pastors are already composing new sermons based on it," Vikovokiv said.

"That's good," Mariner repeated. She turned to the minister of finance. "How are the new liquor taxes?"

The minister of finance cleared her throat, and began a lengthy recitation. Vikovokiv relaxed again.

Getting here hadn't been easy, and he'd done some things he wasn't proud of. It helped that he had a slender boyish figure, with comely wings and genitals that were just small enough without being too small. His skin was true blue, without any hint of Varkathian green. He'd made as many connections and advancements by sucking on ovipositors and swallowing eggs as he had by coming up with creative but doctrinally orthodox sermons. The previous god-queen had made it clear she was more impressed by his looks and tongue than his piety.

While the minister of finance continued her report, the god-queen seemed a little more bored and distracted than usual. The doors opened, and some palace servant in the royal green uniform ran up to him, handed him a folded peice of paper, bowed to the god-queen, and then hovered nervously by him.

Pastor Vikovokiv carefully opened the piece of paper.

*The god-queen didn't ask for breakfast this morning. Should we be worried? Please reply on back of paper.*

Should they be worried? He watched her listening to the tedious details of taxation. She didn't *seem* to be any more bored than usual. But maybe there was just a hint of tension in her face, an edge of stress, right around the corners of her mouth and those lovely brown eyes.

He wasn't sure if his god was upset about something or not. His job was to interpret divine wisdom and cultivate the worship of the god-queen, not to assess her emotional wellbeing. He didn't really know what signs to look for, what tells to check.

These thoughts troubled him for the rest of the meeting, and he hardly touched his own breakfast.

***

Alicila batted her eyelashes in her best attempt at a flirty expression, a blush creeping across her chubby cheeks before she deep-throated Raithia's ovipositor.

"Y-your sure you're ready?" Modom asked, while Alicila gripped the shaft with both hands.

"Yeff, now fuck me uff dee aff aready!" Alicila snarled around her mouthful.

She shivered as Modom spread her generously proportioned cheeks, applied the warming lube with his finger, and plunged his girths inside her. As she bobbed her head up and down, her cheek bulging with the tip of the ovipositor and her long, thin, pointed tongue wrapping around the shaft down to the hilt. (Alicila was one of the few Bromothians gifted with such a tongue, and while her four-hundred pound bottom-heavy form was one of her better features, she suspected it was the main reason she'd been chosen as a concubine. After all, there had been some women in the lineup who were even heavier than her.) Her big ass and belly jiggled with every one of Modom's enthusiastic thrusts.

Mariner the god-queen liked it when they made eye contact during orgies, so Alicila tilted her head, as much as the mouth-filling ovipositor would allow, to look into the deep pools of her wonderful brown eyes.

Those eyes were distant, and it wasn't the distance of pleasure or arousal. It was the distance of distraction. She had one hand full with Aga's penises and the other with Jakaj's. Virmriv was busy sucking the unfertilized eggs out of the god-queen's asshole while Wanterak furiously tongue-fucked her vulva and Exetexe filled her belly button with jizz from his three penises (another anatomical feature that was rare but not unheard of). Other concubines were matched up in couples or triads, furiously fucking as they observed the others around them. The god-queen's eyes should be rolling back in her head or glazed over with pleasure, but instead they were pointed at nowhere in particular, her face threatening to break into a frown.

Jakaj moaned his deep, throaty moan, and suddenly Mariner seemed to realize that Alicila was looking at her, and she was all sultry smiles and fluttering eyelashes. It was as if that distant, distracted moment of unhappiness had never existed.

It was then that Modom let loose inside Alicila, filling her ass with hot foam, just as Raithia fired off a rapid series of unfertilized eggs down her throat. She lost herself in the pleasure, almost forgetting the god-queen's moment of unhappiness. Alicila clung to the memory, even as her own arousal rose, the pressure building up inside her own ovipositor as the heat traveled from her groin to her cheeks. She'd have to ask the other concubines if they'd noticed anything when she was done.

As much as she enjoyed getting spitroasted by a couple of fellow concubines, her first duty was to Mariner the god-queen. If something was upsetting her god, somebody needed to know. She didn't want the weather to run amok, or a wave of mass executions, or the crops to fail.

Chapter Text

Tendi waved her tricorder over the small purple plant, from its exposed blood orange roots to the pale yellow flower bud at its apex. There was a moment while it processed the information. Hope fluttered like a live moth trapped inside a gently but firmly closed fist.

*NEGATIVE*, the tricorder read. Tendi sighed. Another specimen, taken from the farthest reaches of the Northern Archipelago's deepest forests, that was *not* the key to creating a local treatment for ADHD. It was, in fact, the last specimine from this sampling of Bromothian flora.

Tendi remained hopeful. She reminded herself that science was a gradual process of trial and error, and that could still be plenty of medically useful plant species on Bromothia as of yet undiscovered, even by the native population. Sure, humans had managed to expand into practically every nook and cranny of their own planet before leaving for the stars, surviving everywhere it was even marginally possible to survive, but not every species of humanoid was quite that adventurous and adaptable. Orions, for example, had begun seeking out new M-class planets to colonize before they even considered exploring their homeworld's south pole.

She crossed off the item on her To Do list. It was still strange, having a physical, hard copy To Do List, that she wrote with a pen on paper. It was also satisfying, in a weird way. She might try replicating a pen and notebook when she got back to the Cerritos, just for funzies. It was also a handy way to keep classified documents. Nobody could hack a peice of paper, after all.

The next item was reviewing security arrangements for the coronation ceremony. It was still in the early planning stages, of course, but it was never too early to get started on that sort of thing. If she was being perfectly honest, the lack of assasination attempts was starting to make her nervous. It wasn't so much that she wanted there to be assassination attempts. It was that Tendi knew such attempts were an inevitability, and the longer they went without one, the more patient and careful it suggested Mariner's enemies were. The item after that was going to be a meeting with some of the leading representatives from Northern Archipelago organized crime, but that would be easy to handle. None of them were particularly unpredictable or ambitious, and if she threw them a few bones they would keep the truce, aside from the Jade Arrowheads. That particular group wasn't very far-reaching or powerful, but they could be trouble because their leader was a dangerous fool. Part of her wanted to find that woman and kill her now to save trouble, but that was an outdated part of Tendi, the part that was everything her family wanted her to be and nothing she wanted to be herself. She would try reason. If reason failed, she would lay a trap and get the fool arrested.

But which part was really her? How much of Tendi was Ensign Tendi, and how much was the Mistress of the Winter Constellations, the Tip of the Moonlit Blade? Was Mom right? Was this really just a late rebellious phase or an early mid-life crisis? She had tried to change, to grow as a person, to turn away from the path that she had--

A knock at the door startled Tendi out of her revery and the pen skidded across the paper, leaving an ugly gash of ink on the clean white.

"Coming!" Tendi said, carefully folding up the To Do List and tucking it into her pocket. She hurried over to the door, made sure there was a weapon within grabbing range, then unlocked and opened it.

Jakaj stood before her.

"Advisor Tendi? I don't know how busy you are, I mean, I can come back later if need be, but could I have a word with you? It might be important." He stood six feet and seven inches tall, not counting the nine-inch horn, with his carefully braided orange beard sticking out and a tattoo of a spiral on his eight-pack, but he hunched down like somebody trying not to be noticed and kept his enormous wings folded tightly against his sides. Tendi had spent a little time getting to know him before the threesome with Mariner, learning about his background growing up on a distant farmland before hearing about the beauty contest opening up to muscular men, instead of the usual twink build that was favorable in mainstream Bromothian society.

"Of course," Tendi said, ushering him in. "Have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"No, I'm good," he said, waving away the offer while settling into a chair made with rare wood and deep purple upholstery. His purple slit-pupil eyes darted around the room nervously. "You're the god-queen, I mean, Mistress Mariner's girlfriend, right?"

"Yup, that's me," Tendi said brightly. She wondered where this conversation was going. Did he want to transition from being a concubine into more of a romantically involved relationship?

"Have you noticed anything different about her lately?" he asked, forcing himself to look her in the eyes.

Tendi cocked her head. "Different how?" To be completely honest with herself, she hadn't seen much of Mariner outside of official advisory meetings. In between her search for ADHD treatment, managing security affairs, negotiating the balance of power between different street gangs and mafias, catching up with Rutherford now that he was sleeping properly, and her Bromothian girlfriends, she hadn't found much time for her friend and partner.

"Distracted," Jakaj said, cautiously. "Like she's got something on her mind."

"Well, she does have a lot going on right now," Tendi said, trying to reassure him. *And she's always distracted. She doesn't have her meds,* Tendi thought.

"I know, but she, well, she seemed particularly distracted earlier. During the orgy," Jakaj explained, blushing a little. "Several of us noticed she didn't seem to be having as good of a time as she usually does."

"Oh," Tendi said, blushing a little herself. Sure, Mariner was distractable, but she usually threw her whole self into something like fighting or sex or away missions. "I see."

"You'll talk to her, won't you?" Jakaj asked, hopefully.

"Of course," Tendi said, and she meant it. She fully intended to reach to Mariner and try to find out what was bothering her so much. The problem was, would Mariner be willing to open up about it?

***

Mariner finished off the complimentary crispy noodles at Magical Meals, an upscale Gho Shand restaurant that Tendi had read about in one of Adina's magazines. It also had some gryphon statues and purple hexagonal-patterned tableclothes, but the paintings on the wall were abstract things, consisting of all one hue in various tints and shades with a single dot of contrasting color. A live band played flute and drum music just above the buzz of background conversations.

"Have you settled on an entree yet, your holy highness?" Tendi asked.

"Hm?" Mariner said for a moment. Then she looked up and blinked. "Oh, an entree. Yeah, I'm gonna get a few of the Firebird Delights probably. How about you?"

"Oh, probably the bean curd southeast style, and the churwick pasta salad, your holy highness" Dvana said.

"Two entrees at once? That's not usual for you," Mariner said, with an amused smile.

"Well, your holy highness, we both know I've got enough room for it," Tendi said shyly. "And, uh, I may have kind of gotten myself into a feeder-feedee relationship," she admitted, blushing.

"Oh, that's cool," Mariner said. "I didn't know you were even into that."

"Neither did I?" Tendi whispered. "But then, I didn't know I was really into oviposition either, and that seems to have worked out pretty well for me."

"Sounds like your'e learning a lot about yourself down here," Mariner said encouragingly, her eyes back on the menu. "Maybe I'll also get some of the pork and winter root soup."

"I guess I am," Dvana said, smiling. "Your holy highness," she added.

They both listened to the slow, gentle music for a few minutes.

"Mariner, I mean your holy highness, is everything okay?" Tendi asked, point blank.

"I mean, pretty much? Why wouldn't it be?" Mariner asked, all innocence.

"I don't know. I was wondering if there was anything that was bothering you. I mean, we are stuck on a pre-warp alien planet, cut off from everything we know" Tendi whispered.

"Getting stranded on alien planets is all part of working in Starfleet" Mariner whispered back, then continued in a normal tone of voice. "I mean, we're all getting ready for the coronation ceremony, but I've made a lot of improvements. I don't see anyone out on the street begging for food since my universal food stamp initiative. The wars have stopped, aside from the Western Free Lands' Civil War, which I'm mostly keeping out of." She ticked off the items on her fingers. "The palace staff have gone from prison slaves to regular employees, and we've started employing Varkathian secretaries. The veteran employment program is working out just fine. We've got new holy books. I'd call all of those things results."

"Right, your holy highness, and I'm not arguing with any of that," Dvana said quickly. "I just wanted to know if there was anything going wrong for you, personally."

"Nothing's wrong for me," Mariner lied.

At that point, the waiter appeared to take their orders. Mariner got ten of the Firebird Delights and two bowls of soup. Tendi realized she wasn't going to get any further now, but resolved to talk to Boimler about it.

Chapter Text

Boimler finished rinsing his freshly re-dyed hair. He reflected that it was a good thing they'd ended up on a planet with plenty of purple hair dye. If Mariner found out his natural hair color, she'd spread it all over, and then he'd never hear the end of it.

He wrapped his hair in a towel, made sure there were no drips, and walked over to the physical To Do list, picking up the pen and drawing a clean, straight line through "Make Sure Roots Are Purple". Other items on the list included "Finish amendments to liquor tax", "review items 27 through 233 of Penal Code, except for item 45", "talk with the secretaries about setting up a palace Board Game Night", "eat a nutritious, filling breakfast", and "Figure out what's bothering Mariner".

He'd already gotten up to number 216 on the penal code, and he could just grab breakfast from the kitchen, but this item would prove difficult. Mariner had more defenses than a Cardassian POW camp. This would require careful handling. In fact, what it really called for was a sub-list.

***

"-and right here, to approve the sub-committee funding appropriations bill on Sparkle licensing," Boimler said, holding another paper in front of Mariner. She nodded and signed it, not even bothering to complain about the volume of the paperwork.

"Okay, what's next on the agenda?" Mariner asked, addressing the room at large with a sigh.

"Well, *your holy highness*, we need to get together some musical acts for the coronation ceremony, so let's go visit a concert or two," Boimler said cheerily.

Mariner perked up. "Really? You don't have another tax law we need to reform or another blasphemy law to overturn or a new funding initiative to pass?"

"Nothing that can't wait, your holy highness," Boimler said quickly.

"Sweet!" Mariner said. She seemed to suddenly remember that she had a full goblet in her hand and downed it before standing upright. There was a loud ripping sound. "Not again," she groaned, blushing as she reached back to survey the damage on her pants. "Yep. Can we get a seamstress in here or something before I leave to stitch this thing up? And maybe get started on a new set of pants with more room to grow?"

***

The royal truck rumbled along towards the underground music venue. Boimler had reviewed the bands on offer and decided that the kind of bands who played barely visible to sold-out stadiums would not be to Mariner's taste. No, she would go for the kind of bands that played in a series at an indoor venue with moderately overpriced bar drinks rather rather than criminally overpriced ones and standing room for people in the hundreds rather than seating for people in the thousands. Outside, two gryphons fought over a scrap of meat. Maybe now that they were improving the living conditions for humanoids on this planet, they could start a few initiatives to benefit neglected animals, although he recognized that they still had a long way to go.

"So, what have you been up to?" Boimler asked, turning away from the window. It was a more cautious and restrained opening query than "How are you?" Boimler knew from experience that such a direct opener would only encourage her to get her guard up and deflect.

"Well, you've seen most of it. Lots of meetings, reforms, discussions and signatures. I've been going over my big coronation speech with Castro, and I think we're getting it into shape, although she's always got a *lot* of notes. Plus I'm getting laid almost as much as I do at spaceports," Mariner said, with a little laugh. She grinned at him, as if expecting him to wriggle with discomfort.

"That's good," Boimler said. "I've been doing lots of document review and prepping a lot of legislative suggestions, of course, but I've found a little room for relaxation. You were right. It turns out they *do* have a pretty vigorous board game scene on Bromothia, and Hagogah's a pretty good player. We even stayed up so late playing something called the Campaign for the Third Moon that both of us fell asleep in our chairs."

"Well, I'm glad you're learning to unwind and have a little fun here and there," Mariner said, with a knowing smile. "How is it compared to Diplomath?"

"It's not quite as fun as Diplomath, but it's pretty close," Boimler said. They hit a pothole, and Mariner's entire body jiggled like a bowl of custard during an earthquake. "Dang, that was a rough one."

"Yeah, I need to put out some infrastructure bills," Mariner said, rubbing the back of her head. "So what's the place we're checking out again?"

"It's called Grim Ghosts," Boimler said. "Hagogah's sister goes there all the time. It's a good place to spot up and coming talent in the, well, I guess you'd call it the punk scene here. Some kind of counterculture music anyway."

The truck pulled up in a parking lot with a jolt. Once again Mariner jiggled violently and Boimler bonked his head against the window.

"We need to invest research money in better breaks and suspension systems as well," Mariner grumbled, as she shifted her bulk and one of the attendants opened the door for her to step out.

The entrance was set in an unremarkable, large industrial building with dark grey walls. There was only one bouncer outside, standing nearly seven feet tall, but she quickly stepped aside and readied the hand stamp for Mariner and Boimler.

The music consisted mainly of a flute, backed up by a string instrument and drums, all playing enthusiasticaly in minor chords. The singer was androgynous by Bromothian standards, with a huge poof of dyed-purple hair, a purple wrap around their chest, and a purple kilt-like garment. By now, Boimler was getting used to the reactions Mariner got, the whole crowd drawing back from her in awe, some of them attempting to bow down only to be pulled upright again by their comrades. The band, to their credit, hardly missed a beat.

Mariner waved to everyone, then bellied up to the bar, trying not to knock anyone over in her progress through the crowd. She looked up at the chalked menu.

"I'll have three cans of farafa fruit cider and a bottle of glorka berry brandy," Mariner said, just loud enough to be clearly heard over the music but no louder. Clearly, she was used to this kind of venue. "Before we go to the next concert, remind me to invent the tallboy," Mariner added.

"Will do, your holy highness," Boimler said. "I'll have one cider, please."

They both got their drinks. Mariner's stomach rumbled.

"Uh, do you guys serve food in here?" Mariner said, almost keeping any trace of anxiousness out of her voice.

The bartender handed her a single page menu. There were poultry wings, beef wings, pork wings, and bean curd "wings".

"How many wings come with each order?" Mariner asked.

"About twelve, your holy highness" the bartender said.

"I'll take five orders, no, maybe ten orders..in fact, why don't you just keep bringing out plates of wings and I'll tell you when to stop?" Mariner said.

"As you wish, your holy highness," the bartender said, handing them their bevereages, nodding, and heading through a set of swinging doors.

Boimler sipped his drink. He knew Mariner would be more likely to let her guard down if he drank with her.

They drank in silence until the opener band finished their set, by which point the tide had gone down considerably in Mariner's bottle of brandy. Boimler had put away four farafa fruit ciders while Mariner had drunk five of them. Boimler had finished one platter of pork wings to Mariner's twelve, and at least Boimler had a plate with clean bones on it, whereas at some point Mariner had forgotten she wasn't supposed to swallow the bone along with the meat. (In her defense, like most wings, they were about 90% bone anyway).

"So, what did you *burp* think of them?" Boimler said, aware of a slight slurring in his voice. Well, he had drunk the cider on a nearly empty stomach, and Mariner wouldn't open up if he was still sober. She could definitely tell the difference between somebody who was drunk and somebody merely pretending to be drunk.

"They weren't bad," Mariner said, with a shrug. She belched up a few bones, then eagerly seized another plate of wings.

Boimler watched the band pack away their instruments and leave the stage.

"Anything up with you, your holy highness?" Boimler asked.

Mariner waited just a little too long to say "No, not really."

"Well, your holy highness, do you want to tell me what the 'not really' actually is?" Boimler asked.

She lifted the brandy bottle to her lips and glugged. Then she coughed and burped again. "No, not really," she said, after a long silence.

"You know you're going to have to tell me eventually," Boimler whispered.

"I think you'll find that I don't have to, actually," Mariner said. "I'm an absolute monarch and object of worship, remember?"

"Yeah, but I'm your friend," Boimler whispered. "I'll figure out what's bugging you eventually."

"You're welcome to try," Mariner said, moodily.

The main band took the stage and tuned up their instruments. Mariner refused to talk to Boimler for the rest of the show.

***

"Well, I thought the opening band was pretty good, but the Cracked Eggs were something else!" Boimler said enthusiastically.

Mariner grunted in response.

"Oh come on. Tell me you're not still sore about me trying to find out what's on your mind," Boimler said.

"Drop dead," Mariner said, although she didn't sound like she really meant it.

Boimler reviewed the gathered information in his mind. Everyone said she'd been fine throughout yesterday and last night, including the night shift cooks. People had started noticing something wrong, however, when she didn't order breakfast. That meant whatever was bothering her had happened early in the morning.

"Oh, man, those ciders went straight through me," Boimler said, jumping from foot to foot. "I'll be right back."

He dove into Mariner's private bathroom. It had a jewel-encrusted tub, an electrum-plated toilet and sink fixtures, and elaborate bas reliefs on the walls depicting various pastoral scenes. However, it had another feature common to bathrooms. There was a small stack of newspapers and magazines in a basket next to the toilet. Boimler sat down and started flipping through them. He noticed the magazines had certain dog-eared pages and the newspapers were open to certain articles.

"Ah-hah!" he said. One of these must be the culprit behind Mariner's recent unhappiness, he thought.

Chapter Text

LOCAL REVIEWS:

Wrath of the New God is a bold piece of art, examining its subject from an unusual perspective, in all meanings of the word. While the general opinion, more murmured in ascent than spoken out loud, is that this is an especially merciful administration, the artist asks us to consider another aspect of the divine, as one would turn an opal to show what colors it turns in a different light. The sense of righteous wrath, as compared with mere divine hunger, is palpable, unusual in displays of divine force not directly involving the weather. This is somebody who understands that our current god-queen is to be feared, even if she is to be loved first. -The Royal Press

Holy Hunger: A New Quintet has many things in its favor. The lighting is beyond reproach, showing up rich hues of sweat-soaked skin. The close-ups are implored with both a sense of restraint and good timing. The cinematography of the work is only what one would expect from an artist of Irvovri's caliber. The middle film had a rather subtle satirical jab at The Grand Escapade's simplistic jingoism that this critic particularly appreciated. To be perfectly honest, my biggest issue is the uninspired name, which in such a contemporary setting almost flirts with hubris. But then, Irvovri always has displayed a high self-opinion, yet she rarely lets it get in the way of telling a good story. -Capital City Items

The One True God Consumes the Enemies of Bromothia is an excellent demonstration of form and style. Its atmospherically illuminated background draws the eye to the figure at the center, wherein is concentrated the most important subject for upwardly aspiring art. The figures of Ignorance and Cruelty are masterfully rendered. As for their alleged resemblance to certain public figures in the Western Free Lands political scene, I can only say that for those who understand this painting, no explanation is necessary, and for those who do not understand this painting, no explanation is possible. -True Urbanite

FOREIGN REVIEWS:

Everyone knows that the so-called god-queen of the backwards and barbaric phagocracy craves Bromothian flesh. Well, I'm here to tell you that she did not get impossibly fat on Bromothian sacrifices, but rather on scenery. Whether she's breaking free from unconvicing ropes or domming in an unimaginative domestication fetish scene, in Holy Hunger: A New Quintet Mariner is a large ham better kept off the table. I have to admit that the energy of her brief cameo was the only thing to liven up a rather pedestrian cops and robbers short, while her over-the-top energy distracted from what seemed like a genuine attempt by the hack Ivrorvi at subtext. -the Freedom Times

Dear readers, you all know me. I'm both a film snob and a horny bitch, and I've never pretended to be otherwise. So why did I "cum" away from Holy Hunger: A New Quintet feeling both culturally enriched and with an exhausted ovipositor? Each scene was as hot as the last one. While I feel that director Ivrorvi took some risks here, they were calculated ones, and she never descended into showing off cinematic tricks for their own sake. Regardless of her politics, the queen of the Divine and Adacious Phagocracy of Mariner made a delightful debut as a dedicated actor. Certainly you won't find the subtext levels or visual effects we enjoyed in Six Years of Green Fever, but Mariner knows when to lay it on thick and when to dial it down, and Ivrorvi knows which type of performance to ask her to give. It was also great to see Slim Jov stretching himself in a more dynamic role where he gets to show off both those trademark slender penises and expressive eyebrows, and accusations of him being a nepotism hire are completely unfounded. All in all, I could have fapped to most of these performers reading the telephone book, and for all I know that's a new kink, but none of them banked on their looks or phoned in their performances. Overall, I give it five cumstained eggs out of seven. -The Rough Rider

Holy Hunger: A New Quintet is a groundbreaking cinematic experience. I can't remember having this much fun at the theaters since the final Ipwiziwpi the Sorcerer film came out! The camera angles were inventive, the makeup was perfect, and the acting was top-notch. Slim Jov's performance in the oral sex scene reminded me a lot of the energy brought by Walglaw the Magical Elixers Class teacher. His initial dastardly appearance and the vulnerability he later displayed running his tongue over the alien "clit" (short for clitoris) was very much like the personality of the outwardly cruel and harsh teacher who hated Ipwiziwpi for the action's of her mother but had a compelling tragic backstory involving her father. The car chase scene was almost as exciting as the flying scenes in the first Ipwiziwpi the Sorcerer book, except that obviously the protagonists in that book weren't on the run from the law and didn't suck any ovipositors. Also I thought the short-lived alternating penetration experience between Mariner and Rawar the plumber was an intriguing parallel to the somewhat controversial first kiss between Ipwiziwpi and her fellow sorcerer Varkathiany McVarkathian in the fourth book, though of course Varkathiany McVarkathian is a boy instead of another girl, but there was still a lot of affirming subtext present in the work with her nemesis and rival Malfoyoflam. I think that Mariner and the actor had a great deal of onscreen chemistry and would love to see a sequel of them running a tisane shop together after the anal action. I also appreciated the verisimilitude of the magnificent buffet in the orgy scene, because as we all know orgies always have the best snacks. Lots of love to all my readers, except for the mean ones! PS: I am aware Joanne Musk has done and said a lot of unpleasant things, and that her spaceships keep exploding on the launch pad, but I trust my readers to be able to seperate the art from the artist. -Mad Movie Mistress, Film Lovers Anonymous

Chapter Text

"Mariner, why didn't you tell me what had you bummed out?" Boimler asked.

"What?" Mariner said, remaining outwardly calm while a red alert went off in her head. What had he found out? They were far from Federation technology and the subspace net, so there was no way he could have accessed her service records. What then?

"You know what I'm talking about," Boimler said.

Mariner's panic increased, but she turned around to face him with a carefully blank expression. "Boims, I have no idea what you're talking about." She then remembered that no signals was itself a signal, and turned her expression from blank to mildly annoyed.

Boimler presented the copy of the Freedom Times to Mariner. "I'm talking about this. Come on, you could have just told me this was getting to you instead of worrying everyone."

"Why would I be upset about fuel tariffs?" Mariner said, her face creasing up.

Boimler rolled his eyes, then tapped a different part of the page. "I mean the review, Mariner. I know how smart you are so quit playing dumb."

"Well, it's nice to hear you finally admit it," Mariner said, leaning over and grinning.

Boimler frowned and folded his arms. "Mariner, I'm trying to be serious here. You could have just let your friends know that the review bothered you."

"Oh, that?" Mariner said, squinting at the review. "I'm not bothered by *that* review. Maybe I was a little hammy, but I've heard worse." She waved it aside. "Besides, it's pretty clear the Freedom Times is a worthless rag that will publish anything if it fits their reactionary and nationalistic agenda. I just browse it to keep abreast of foreign propaganda about me." Mariner reached into the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bulb-shaped glass and a bottle of Glorka berry brandy. "Care for a drink?"

"No thanks, I'm still buzzed and it's not even dark out yet," Boimler said. Something was still definitely bugging Mariner, though. She was trying to distract him again. Mentally, he ran over the recent events, all the way up to their current conversation. His instincts told him she was holding *something* back, upset about something and trying to avoid it.

"You're really not bothered by the review that called you a bad actor?" Boimler said, scanning her body language for any hint of insincerity.

"Of course not," Mariner said. "The author had an opinion, but it's pretty clear she'd slag anything that cast me in a good light because she's a reactionary nationalist." Mariner's eyes were on the brandy bottle, a minor work of art in and of itself, with pale pink glass crystal shaped like a standing Bromothian man with his wings folded at the side. The bottle's label displayed a tiny but elegant farm scene. She wasn't looking him in the eye, but that suggested she was actually being honest. When she was trying hard to conceal the truth, she usually made a point of displaying lots of calm, neurotypical-type body language.

"Well, alright then," Boimler said, hesitating. He was so sure there was *something* bugging her though. Then he played back the conversation in his head.

"You said that article wasn't bugging you. So which review *is* getting under your skin?" Boimler asked.

Mariner winced. It was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, and she immediately followed it with a flawless poker face. He'd hit paydirt.

"Mariner, *which* review is it?"

Mariner sighed, poured herself a generous measure, and drained the glass.

"Okay, fine! It's the review in Film Lovers Anonymous," she groaned.

"Oh," Boimler said, frowning. He thought back to the series of publications. "But, I thought that reviewer liked it. Why are you upset?"

"I'm not upset, I'm just a little...irritated," Mariner said carefully. "Man, this stuff is really good, but it's not really an everyday kind of drink. I need to order some of that Farmer's Son stuff we tried at the straight bar."

"You're avoiding the question," Boimler said.

"I'm irritated because they liked it for all the wrong reasons!" Mariner said, setting down her drink and thumping one chubby fist against the wall. "I don't know everything there is to know about Bromothian books and movies, but I'm pretty sure a children's fantasy literature series was *not* what Irvovri had in mind. I mean dear fuck, read another book! At this rate I might have to read the friggin warlord's stupid books just to understand what all the fuss is about and better understand how *wrong* this reviewer is!"

"Whoa. Okay, I didn't realize you felt so strongly about this," Boimler said. "But, Mariner, why didn't you just come out and tell me this is what was bothering you?" He walked over and sat on the side of the massive royal bed.

"Because it's silly, okay?" Mariner said, with uncharacteristic shyness. "I don't want people to think of me as somebody who gets easily riled up. I'm Beckett Mariner, unflappable badass, not some oversensitive little wet noodle who gets pissy about stupid reviews."

"Well, you might have to put on a god-queen act around the rest of your royal subjects, but you can be emotionally honest with me, Mariner. I'm your best friend. I'd never take something like that and use it against you," Boimler said, putting a hand into the soft fat of her shoulder.

"I know that," Mariner said with a sigh. "It's just...well, kind of hard for me to, you know."

"I know. That's why I put in the effort," Boimler said. "*Your holy highness.*"

Mariner groaned and rolled her eyes at him.

Chapter Text

"So, what's going on with the civil war?" Mariner asked.

"Well, your holy highness, so far we've been successful in our medical supply and food airdrops, but the war rages on," the Minister of International Relations said. (The ambassadors from neighboring nations had been kept out of this meeting, as they had for ones that discussed more sensitive and internal matters of government.) "Overall, though, the Federalists have been taking a lot of hits from the Rebel forces along the Slarbard Coast. In the last battle they got beaten harder than Police Chief Tusagigasut's husband," she said, with a little smile.

Boimler stared at her, mouth open. Tendi glared. Rutherford's implant blipped as he locked both eyes on her. The pastor laughed nervously. Other advisors grinned uncomfortably or became very interested in their papers.

Mariner stared at her Minister of International Relations, her face suddenly completely blank.

"Would you like a refill, your holy highness?" Mariner's cup-bearer asked, trying to fill the awkward silence.

Mariner shook her head and put her hand over her empty solid-jade goblet.

"I want you to run that by me one more time and explain why it's funny," Mariner said, in a dangerous calm.

"Well, your holy highness, I was just saying that our airdrop aid has been successful, but that the Federal Government forces have been taking a pounding from the Rebel forces," the Minister of International Relations said, toying with an opal bracelette as she met Mariner's steely gaze.

"No, I totally got that part," Mariner said. "I mean the other part. Is that, like, some classical history reference or something?"

"Well, your holy highness, no," the Minister said. "It's just, something of a colloquialism," she explained, suddenly aware of the lowering temperature in the room. "Because, well, it's an open secret that the police chief of this city smacks her husband around when she's in a bad mood."

Mariner's stomach rumbled ominously.

"And...at what point there do I laugh?" Mariner asked. "Like, where is the actual joke here?"

All eyes were on the Minister of Foreign Relations. "Um...your holy highness, I...I suppose it's not ha-ha funny, more of a..." the words dwindled out and died in the Minister's throat.

"Okay, here's the deal. Comedy is subjective, and it looks like I haven't been clear enough about my intentions." Mariner said, pinching the bridge of her nose and baring her teeth. "If there's any more open secrets like this, then I'd like to hear about them. Apparently my daily intelligence reports miss out on a lot of basic assumptions and don't include the things everyone thinks I already know."

"But, your holy highness, nobody wanted to bother you with minor details about a public servant's domestic affairs," the Minister of Foreign Relations said, turning to the grand vizier for reassurance. "I mean, your holy highness, had I known this was something that concerned you, of course I would have brought it to your attention more directly and in a more polite manner."

"I don't care if you fold it into a paper airplane, then tie it up in a ribbon and send it flying over to my throne," Mariner said, and suddenly she was out of her throne and looming over the Minister's desk and unfinished breakfast. "If there's somebody working for me who likes to unwind by smacking the shit out of their spouse, kids, or other dependent relations, I'd like to know about it ! And, before you say something like 'but she's still a good chief of police' or 'everybody does it', I want you to take a good look around this room and ask yourself how many people are willing to back you up on that."

Mariner then turned and looked around the room. "So, just for the record, domestic violence is *not* something I approve of, and if there's somebody you know who is doing it, *especially* if that person is high-ranking and powerful, I'd like to know about it." She licked her lips and rubbed her prodigious sagging belly.

"Grand Vizier Gorog, have we established rule of law as far the right to privacy and freedom from unreasonable search and seizures?" Mariner asked.

"No, your holy highness," Gorog said timidly.

"Right. Get on drafting some legislation that would mean we need to get a warrant for this kind of thing first. Meanwhile, I'm going to pay a visit to the Chief of Police." Her stomach gurgled. "Though I should probably finished breakfast first first. I gotta pace myself," she mumbled, wiping away a trail of drool. "I mean, we still need something for the coronation ceremony, right?" She picked up a roasted swine with one arm and ingested it with one neck-distending swallow.

***

Tusagigasut looked at her husband, more in sadness than in anger.

"Well, how do you think the dinner party went?" he said, with that stupid little smile of his. She'd found his smile so charming, back when they'd started dating, but after she was tied down to him by the bonds of matrimony it had gotten more pathetic and annoying. It was a tight, irritating little smile, one that came and went like a faulty electric bulb.

Tusagigasut sighed and tried to be patient. Really though, he was so slow on the uptake. Did he think she hadn't noticed?

"I mean, we had a pretty good cocktail selection and array of fruit wines," her husband babbled on. "I tried to do a good job slicing Farafa fruit and got some pretty nice pickled glorka berries for the garnishes. And I think the mocktails went down well with the non-drinkers. You said you liked them, after all," he said, with an annoying little laugh.

They had been decent drinks. Tusagigasut was proud of her sobriety. Unlike some people, she didn't piss away her paycheck in the bar every night. No, she invested it in real estate and small business loans, and that was why she was successful and other people struggled to get by. Being poor was hard. Making smart financial decisions was hard. You chose your hard.

"Faruraf certainly liked the drinks," Tusagigasut said, mentioning her old school friend in a casual manner.

"Yes, I supose she did," her husband said brightly. There was a little nervous swallow, but that was it. He didn't rise to the bait. He was committed to playing dumb, and apparently the stage had missed a major talent.

Tusagigasut looked out the window. This was a city of over a million souls. Shadowy shapes moved in the streets, probably some late-night revelers on their way home or thieves looking to break in to a house. Either way, it wasn't her problem now. She was off-shift.

"Honey? Is everything okay?" her husband asked, still acting as if he was as innocent as the day was long. There were people, she knew, who got along without "wedded bliss". There were women who had their whole days off to themselves, without some nagging shrew making demands on their time and money. She genuinely envied lesbians and bisexual women, as they managed to get a household running without having to put up with men and their endless bitching, but she simply wasn't inclined that way.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" the chief of police said.

"What? No, of course I don't think you're stupid," the old ball and chain said, already backing away, motivated by a guilty conscience.

"You were flirting with her the entire time," the chief of police said to her husband.

"Flirting with wh--" he started, and the first blow to the stomach wiped that stupid, innocent-looking smile right off his bastard face.

"*You were practically hanging off Faruraf's arm all night,*" Tusagigasut said, backing up each word with a blow for instruction and emphasis.

"I was just...trying...to be nice...to your...friends," her husband wheezed out.

There was a loud knock at the door. Tusagigasut sighed and looked at her watch. It was well past ten! What could possibly be going on that needed the chief of police and couldn't wait till morning? Truly, a policewoman's job was never done.

"This isn't over," she said, waving a finger at her husband before heading downstairs, cursing herself for sending the butler home for the night now that the party was done. She shouldn't have to answer her own door. She was the chief of police, for crying out loud!

"How can I help--" Tusagigasut began, and frowned. Two of her officers were standing at the door.

"Tusagigasut of Royal City?"

"Walkiklaw, it's me. You *know* it's me," Tusagigasut said. "What is this all about?"

"I'm afraid you're under arrest for Battery and Assault," the officer said, face tight, green hair plastered dark against her forehead with sweat.

"Walkiklaw, I trained you up from when you first joined the force, and this piece of piss is barely out of the academy. This is no time for jokes."

"No joke, Madam," Wlkiklaw said, staring at a point just a few inches above her head. "We're here to arrest you."

"For what?" Tusagigasut said, laughing out loud. "For keeping my domestic affairs in order?"

The younger officer shook her head and made some furious gestures.

"Oh come on. I'm sure nobody important has a serious issue with me keeping my household in ship-shape," she said. It was true. Pretty much everybody did it, and if they didn't they approved of it in others. "I mean, I mostly hit where it doesn't show. That's not an issue, right?"

"In the god-queen's name, please shut up!" the junior officer whimpered.

Tusagigasut balled up a fist, then relaxed it.

"Listen here, squirt. You'll need to work a lot more shifts and investigate a lot of domestic disturbances before you can tell me who should or should not shut up," Tusagigasut said.

That was when another figure stepped out of the shadows. It was a very large figure, familiar in general outline, full of feminine grace and imposing levels of virtuous flab. It was, in point of fact, the god-queen.

"So, you both heard her confession, right?" Mariner said, stepping into the light.

Tusagigasut bent the knee and lowered her eyes. "Your holy highness, forgive me! I was not expecting such an--"

Mariner the new god-queen grabbed Tusagigasut by the throat and lifted her into the air.

"Can the sucking up. This is an arrest, not a casting call for concubines," she said, and Tusagigasut tried to swallow nervously. This wasn't going as expected. The old god-queen had always given her an advance notice before calling on her household.

"Yes, your holy highness?" Tusagigasut squeaked out. She didn't understand. What had she done wrong?

"Hey, Xamemax, come on down!" the god-queen shouted. There was the sound of frantic pounding feet, and Tusagigasut's husband appeared.

"Oh, your holy highness, forgive me, we are not--" Xamemax began.

"Yeah, yeah, place is a mess, sorry for the inconvenience, we are not worthy, all that jazz," Mariner said dismissively. "I know this is a long shot, but you two weren't by any chance engaged in some kinky foreplay when I saw you through the window, were you?"

"No, your holy highness! I uh...we...I failed to live up to my wife's expectations," Tusagigasut's husband explained. Tusagigasut was already flush with embarassment. Sure, the butler had cleaned up afterwards, but if they'd known there was a divine guest coming they would have at least fixed up the place, opened their best bottle of Farafa fruit wine, and put on some makeup to cover Xamemax's bruises. There was such a thing as good manners and public decorum, after all.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I expected," the god-queen said. She began, as if yawning, then stretched her mouth open even wider. Her tongue lolled. Drool spilled onto the recently-waxed floor. Mariner's eyes were full of hunger and devoid of mercy. Suddenly, Tusagigasut had a horrifying window into what her future held, and how short it was.

"No, please, don't--" Tusagigasut said, before she was plunged into hot, slippery wetness. She felt the cheeks and neck bulge to accomidate her, then felt another push as she was forced further down into the god-queen's digestive tract.

She was surrounded by bones, flesh, and half-melted slime. She could hear the pounding heartbeat of her god-queen and feel the hot air compressing around her.

***

"BWOOORP! Ah, that hit the spot," Mariner said, thumping her layers of belly fat and savoring the rich, precious taste of raw Bromothian.

Xamemax backed up, hands raised, eyes closed.

"I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!"

Mariner reached out and grasped his arm.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. You didn't *BUUURP* do anything wrong," Mariner said, in a soothing tone. "You're name's Xamemax, right?"

"Y-yes, your holy highness," Xamemax said, still pressed up against the wall.

Mariner stepped back and he slumped down gracefully. Her meal was still kicking, but settled into her stomach nicely. She had enough flab layered around her that she couldn't make more than a few muffled noises, and the gastric eruptions brought abought by the wild flailing.

"Are you, uh, you gonna be okay? I mean, I ate your wife, but that seemed like a net positive for you in the grand *BELCH* scheme of things," Mariner explained hurridly.

"I'm alright, your holy highness," Xamemax said, his eyes filling up with tears.

"Oh man. Do you, uh, I mean, should I cough her back up?" Mariner said, unsure that she could even do such a thing with a species as delicious as the Bromothians.

"N-no, no thank you, your holy highness," Xamemax said, staring at the decreasing motions from the god-queen Mariner's prodigious belly. "I am...I am better, now."

Mariner thumped her gut and let loose with another burp. "Well, that's good then. Do you have somewhere safe you can stay for the night? Like, a friend or a *urp* relative?"

Xamemax looked up at her, blankly, numbly, while the two police officers turned to their god-queen for further instructions.

"No?" Xamemax muttered. "I mean, Tusagigasut, the chief of police, she didn't like me having friends because I might cheat on her with them. And she didn't like me seeing too much of my relatives, because I was a part of her family, now," Xamemax mumbled.

"Oh, uh, well then, do you wanna come over to the palace a while for some company?" Mariner said, awkwardly. "I mean, unless you'd rather *burp* stay here."

Xamemax looked up and dried his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. "Oh, your holy highness, I would be honored."

Chapter Text

Rutherford heard a fist rapping on the door to Big Al's garage.

"Come on in," Rutherford said, setting down a wrench.

The door creaked open and Tendi popped her head in.

"Hey, Rutherford. How are you doing?" she said.

"Oh, I'm doing a lot better, now that I've started catching up on my sleep," Rutherford said.

"Big Al said that you haven't eaten dinner yet, so I got you some fried noodles with vardenara-flavored dipping sauce and a hot cup of tisane."

"Oh, I guess I must have lost track of time," Rutherford said, looking up at the clock. "I'm still kind of adjusting to this planet's shorter day and getting back on a regular sleep schedule."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Tendi said, rubbing the back of her head. "Rutherford, I heard you went without sleep and food for a really long time. Like, you just got completely lost in your work."

"Yeah, but that's over now," Rutherford said with a dismissive little wave of his grease rag. "Mariner checked in on me and got me out of my rut."

Tendi said down the platter of noodles and the hot mug. "Yeah, but...it shouldn't have gotten that bad in the first place."

"What do you mean?" Rutherford asked, picking up a handful of the noodles.

Tend said down on his workbench. "Come on, Rutherford. Isn't it obvious? *I* should have been the one checking up on you."

"But I'm fine now. No harm, no foul," Rutherford said, honestly puzzled.

"Rutherford, our friendship means a lot to me, and I neglected it. Doesn't that upset you?" Tendi said, almost pleading.

"But you were really busy with government administration and your new girlfriends. Besides, Mariner brought me around in the end, so that's okay."

"Well, it's not okay to me!" Tendi said, thumping the table with her fist and disturbing a stack of gears. "Oh, I'm sorry Rutherford."

"Don't worry," Rutherford said, scooping up the fallen parts.

"Seriously, I'm your close friend. I should be keeping an eye on you."

"I just don't want anyone to worry about me," Rutherford said, trying to laugh it off.

"But I *want* to be worried when you're not doing okay. Rutherford, you should have come to me when you had a problem!"

"I guess I just wanted to handle the science stuff by myself," Rutherford said, feeling a little guilty now.

"Rutherford, I'm a science nerd too. I'm always ready to help you with a science project. You know that!"

"Sorry. I really got caught up in the project, and everyone else seemed pretty busy, so I just...well, I didn't want to be a bother."

Tendi reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Rutherford, you're never a bother to me. And I don't ever want to let my relationships with my girlfriends get in the way of supporting my friends, especially not you." She leaned over and pulled him into a tight, soft hug. Rutherford returned the embrace.

"Shoot, I got grease all over your top," Rutherford said, surveying the damage on Tendi's pale blue halter-top.

"Don't worry about it," Tendi giggled, belatedly thinking of a joke she could have made about Mariner, Zavaz and/or Adina. "I just...I want to make sure you to come to me if you need help, okay?"

"Okie dokey," Rutherford said.

***

Mariner's stomach rumbled. That chief of police had been tasty, but not particularly filling, and she'd gone through this pile of roasted Bromothian fowls like it was nothing.

Boimler was going over the details of a new non-discrimination law for tenants.

"--coloration, parental status, sexual orientation or lack thereof, gender identity and gender presentation, or religious affiliation." Boimler finished.

"Oh, make sure the law also says they can't charge rent for pets," Mariner said, remembering one of the unnecessary and nasty features of Earth's late capitalism.

"But, your holy highness, what if the pets do damage to the housing? After all, gryphon guano can do a lot of damage to flooring," one of the advisors pointed out.

"That's what the security deposit is for," Mariner explained with strained patience. "If they do damage, then take it out of that. Otherwise, no landlord deserves an extra cut just because their tenant has a furry, feathery, or scaly little buddy. Rent is for people, not pets." Of course, she was going to figure out some plan to do away with for-profit housing altogether, but they didn't need to know that right now.

Her stomach grumbled again, and her thoughts naturally drifted to the upcoming coronation's main event. The poultry was well-prepared and sufficiently seasoned, but they didn't compare to the flavor of Bromothians. She didn't think she'd ever get tired of eating these guys. They were surprisingly varied in taste profile, but still so consistently delicious.

"So, hey, what's the prison menu for the sacrificial candidates?" Mariner asked. "Cuz I'd really prefer we give them rich, fattening foods if at all possible."

"Oh, your holy highness, I can certainly look into it. As far as I know, though, they're just getting the same food as everyone else." Gorog the grand vizier said.

"Huh. You know what? Maybe I should check it out myself," Mariner said, scratching her chin. "I mean, I've been updating, passing, and repealing a lot of laws, but I haven't seen how we treat the law-breakers down here." Given they were essentially turning some of them into slave labor, it would be worth looking into what the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy did with people who weren't being "employed" for peanuts in the palace.

"Your holy highness, I should hardly think it's necessary to trouble yourself with the minutia of prison life," the minister of Justice said with a nervous little laugh. "After all, you've passed such sweeping reforms to the criminal justice system. I think it's safe to say that anyone put behind bars now really deserves to be there."

"Well, whether they deserve it or not, I still need to know what happens to them on the inside," Mariner said, thinking back to the time she'd had to fend off a yeti to protect her shoes, or the Klingon gulag she'd been in when one of the dominion war grey ops missions went sour. There was a reason she kept nurtient pellets, a few strips of latinum, and a duranium cutting implement stitched into the lining of her starfleet uniform. You never knew when you were going to end up stranded somewhere with nothing but the clothes on your back, and people inside prison systems were easy to forget about on a lot of worlds.

Besides, information was like a condom. The more somebody tried to convince her she didn't need it, the more she was sure that she did.

"So yeah, I'm formally demanding we set up the sacrifices with tasty meals packed full of macronutrients and scheduling a tour to the prison they're being held in, effective immediately," Mariner said, rubbing her hands together.

"But, your holy highness, surely the wardens and guards will want time to prepare for a visit from such an elevated and divine personage as yourself," Gorog stammered.

"Exactly why we aren't going to give it to them," Mariner said. "If I let them prepare, they'll spruce everything up, sweep stuff under the rug, all that jazz. Table all the agenda items for now and fire up my royal caravan. We're checking out the penal system!" Mariner rose to her feet and began a high-speed waddle, just short of a run, towards the palace doors.

As soon as she had left the viscinity, there was a scramble for the nearest telephone. Several of the more prudent advisors wanted to be the first ones to ring up the stock market and sell their shares in carcerial companies before the new legal reforms hit.

Chapter Text

Zilemeliz heard the thudding footsteps before she saw anything unusual. She was watching the prisoners grab their slop, keeping her eyes peeled for any hint of unruliness, defiance, or disrespect, and fighting a losing battle with boredom.

The footsteps rose above the general background noise that came from a large crowded room with very bad acoustics. Something stirred inside Zilemeliz then, some instinctual sense of wrongness. It took a few seconds to percolate through to her conscious mind. The footsteps were too fast and too heavy. Nobody here was *that* big, after all.

The double doors swung open, and Zilemeliz was frozen by shock and awe.

There were certain people you expected to see in prison, after all. You expected to see junkies. You expected to see low-level mobsters and petty thieves. You expected to see homeless people. You expected to see the other guards and the warden and the commissary workers and the rest of the staff. You expected to see some visiting relatives. You expected a fairly steady trickle of lawyers into and out of the building.

Who Zilemeliz did not expect to see was the god-queen herself. At first, she thought of the last cup of tisane she'd had, and wondered whether anyone could have slipped some Sparkle into it. But no, the flavor of Sparkle was too distinctive not to notice, especially in the weak, lukewarm tisane they served here.

She wasn't tripping. The new god-queen Mariner had actually walked into her place of work, while she was on shift. Zilemeliz fell to her knees. The other guards fell to their knees. Most of the prisoners fell to their knees.

"Your holy highness, I assure you, if you are hungry we can fetch something for you from the staff cafeteria," the panicked warden called after her, and it had been a long time indeed since Zilemeliz had seen anything resembling panic on the warden's face. The warden was unflappable, impossible to intimidate, somebody who refused to be moved by threats or violent displays, somebody who let everyone know where they stood in the prison heirarchy. Unfortunately for the warden, this was somebody who would barely be able to spot the prison heirarchy with the aid of a magnifying glass from her exalted position.

"Oh, don't worry about that," Mariner the god-queen said, with a light-hearted laugh. "I'm sure if it's good enough for the prisoners in your care it's good enough for me. Also, everyone can get up again or sit down again. All that bowing and scraping stuff isn't really my style."

The warden's skin turned pale blue, paler than the shell of an uncooked Northwestern Ghost Crab. For the first time Zilemeliz realized her green hair was going black at the roots. There was not a single trace of indigo left in her wrinkled face.

For the first time since she started her job, Zilemeliz wondered what the food the prisoners ate was like. She'd seen it served, occasionally had it thrown at her back, and she'd force-fed it to prisoners who tried to subvert her authority with a stupid "hunger strike", but she'd never dreamed of *tasting* it.

Mariner, god-queen of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy, stepped into the cafeteria line, to the warden's absolute shock and horror. When prisoners tried to part before her she motioned for them to stay in line.

Zilemeliz was very surprised to see the god-queen doing this. After all, her diet consisted of the finest delicacies and live Bromothians. What could she possibly want from a prison cafeteria?

The god-queen's stomach rumbled audibly. Zilemeliz pressed her back against the wall and tried not to look too edible.

"Sorry. I guess it's been a while since I finished brunch," Mariner the god-queen said, in an incongruously light and cheerful tone. "Hope it's something good and filling today!"

It was no exagerration to say all eyes in the room were on Mariner. For her part, she seemed to be surveying the food items on offer with genuine interest, watching attentively as each prisoner was served at different stations, most of them skipping the poultry stew. Finally, the god-queen drew near the front of the line.

"Ooh, I think I'll have some of that purple stuff, and the poultry stew, and the noodles, and the bread. Does that come with butter?" Mariner asked, sounding innocent as the day was long. "Oh, no? Well, that's too bad."

"I assure you, your holy highness, I can provide any condiments or toppings you require from--"

"Yeah yeah, from the staff dining hall. I get it. Right now though, I'm going for the full prison cafeteria experience, so that means if they don't have butter, I don't have butter," Mariner said, giving the warden a friendly little pat on the head.

"Hey guys, how's it hangin?" Mariner said, as she sat down at the only table with enough room for her, producing an impact that shook every piece of specially-made prison cutlery at that table.

There were some murmured replies that Zilemeliz didn't catch. The god-queen appeared to nod politely.

"Huh. I see. Well, time to dig in!" Mariner said, rubbing her hands, then picking up a spoon, filling it with stew, and raising it to her mouth.

The whole room held it's breath while she chewed and swallowed. The god-queen picked up the slice of bread, tried a bite of it straight, then dipped it in the stew. She tasted a spoonful of mashed winter root, hesitantly, as if she was one of those professional appraisers judging the value of an antique somebody wanted to sell, rather than the ruler of an entire nation, who could sway the heavens with a snap of her fingers, sampling prison slops. The food the staff got wasn't much to write home about. That was why Zimelemiz's husband made lunch for her to take into work. She couldn't imagine that the offerings in the prison cafeteria were any better, and they certainly were likely to be worse. Despite that, Mariner the god-queen didn't spit anything out.

"Say, I notice you just have the bread and noodles," Mariner said to an inmate, as she mopped up the last of the stew with a crust of bread. "Any particular reason for that?"

"Well, I'm a practicing Gorbolite," the prisoner sitting across from her said, nervously, "so I don't know if the meat is prepared according to the standards of my dietary restrictions. So I just...don't get the meat," she said. It was in a soft, meek voice, but in the normally cacophonous lunch room you could have heard a gryphon hatchling hiccup. "Anyway, a lot of people don't trust it, even if they eat regular meats."

"And they don't have any alternative protein available, for people who can't or won't eat poultry stew? That seems kind of unfair," Mariner said, cocking her head and frowning, her voice sounding innocent and confused.

"Why would we cater the preferences of prisoners? I mean, they're in here for a reason!" one of Zilemeliz's coworkers blurted out.

Mariner turned her puzzled face to the guard in question. "Why? Hm, why don't you ask yourself that question?" Mariner said. She polished off the final bits of the meal. "On the whole, I'd say I've had better, but I've also had worse."

It was starting to dawn on Zilemeliz that, while the god-queen was smiling a lot and saying very gentle, friendly things, her brightness was somehow...artificial. There was something very rigid about it, the sense you get right before the tune changes in a song, the sense of a string pulled very tight and just about to break at the slightest pressure. She let out a breath that she didn't realize she'd been holding.

"Yeah, I'd say that was not *entirely* unfit for humanoid consumption," Mariner said, and suddenly her voice was solid steel. "See, back at the palace, Boimler went over some very dull expense accounts for this high-security prison. It was incredibly fucking boring to read, but I did manage to hold onto a few figures here and there that looked...weird." Suddenly, the god-queen was upright and still-wobbling, her hand resting on the warden's shoulder, her lips peeled back from her teeth.

"The funny thing is, the food invoices from this particular top security prison are very, very high. Just going by the expense budget and my estimations, the prisoners here should be averaging at least four-hundred pounds and eating top quality food, but that meal didn't taste very *expensive*, now did it?"

"I'm...sorry it wasn't to your liking, your holy highness," the warden said, swallowing nervously.

"See, I want some special, gourmet, and above-all-else fattening meals delivered to my top-priority prisoners, but the rest of this joint should at least be up to fast food quality. The good news is, I'm going to give you a few days to adjust to this more hands-on management style. Next time I swing by here, I expect the staff and the prisoners to be eating out of the same cafeteria, and my priority prisoners to be a little thicker around the middle, because I still plan to visit your little mess hall for a bite to eat, and if it's not at least decent food, you know, something you'd personally eat, well then I'll have to find *other ways* to satisfy my appetite."

Her stomach gurgled again, and she licked her lips clean, all without breaking eye contact. The warden nodded solemnly.

"Great. So, does anyone have any suggestions for where I should visit after this? I wanna get the full prison experience!" Mariner said, with a malicious gleam in her eye.

Zimelemiz had a sudden premonition that, whatever changes the god-queen Mariner decided to make, they would probably make things a little less comfortable and convenient for the prison guards like her.

Chapter Text

"So, this is the good ol' prison commissary, huh?" Mariner asked. "And what kind of things do we buy here?"

"Oh, your holy highness, all sorts of things," the warden said, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. It made sense the god-queen had been a little put off by the cafeteria. After all, she would want nice, juicy sacrifices, so she wanted all of her prisoners to be well fed. There was nothing wrong with the little shop selling basic goods and supplies to prisoners, right? "Candies, snacks, books, personalized clothing, soap and other hygene supplies, stamps, newspapers, stationary, and various sundries and over-the-counter medication. They're even allowed to buy tisane once a week."

"I'm confused, why do they need to buy hygene supplies?" Mariner said, tilting her head. "Or medicine, for that matter?"

"Well, your holy highness, they're considered better quality than what the prison provides," the warden said. "And the prison provides major hospital care but doesn't address minor things like rashes, headaches, and the like."

"Well, maybe they should just have all the hygene supplies and medicine they need," Mariner said. "I mean, fuck, I was kidnapped by pirates a couple of times and even the pirates gave me basic hygene supplies. We aren't animals, right?"

"I see, your holy highness. If you want I can adjust that," the warden said. Sure, it would eat into her budget a little, but nobody wanted to eat dirty food.

"Ah, I see you sell Joanne Musk books here," Mariner said, with a little sigh.

"Well, your holy highness, would you like me to remove them from the shelves? I mean, the prison commissary items are technically done through a third party but I have a lot of pull with--" the warden began.

"No, it's fine. Honestly I haven't even read them," Mariner said. "By the way, why only once a week?"

"I'm sorry, your holy highness?" the warden asked, wrong-footed by the sudden shift in topic.

"Tisane. I mean, what's the point? If it was dangerous, you'd just ban it altogether, right?" Mariner asked, still looking at the book selection.

"Your holy highness...uh...I don't know," she admitted. "It was just the policy in place left when I started this job."

"Well, I think we can change it," Mariner said. "Seems kinda silly. Hm, okay, some kid lit, some bodice-rippers, lots of mainstream religious literature, royal pornography, a few academic titles."

"Well, your holy highness, obviously there are certain subjects we don't allow. There's no Crime Fiction or Horror, only work with inoffensive or uplifting themes, and any dangerous knowledge is not permitted. After all, we don't want somebody building a pipe bomb or anything," she said, laughing.

"Yeah, I don't think anyone's going to build a pipe bomb out of instant noodles and paper," Mariner said dryly. "Why would they need stamps, by the way?"

"To send letters to the outside world, your holy highness," the warden said.

Mariner rubbed her forehead. The prisoners had to *pay money* to communicate with the outside world. She really had her work cut out for her.

"What do you think of Joanne Musk's writing, by the way?" Mariner asked, with an odd sort of hesitancy.

"Oh, your holy highness, it's...popular?" the warden said, carefully. She definitely didn't want to say anything that might offend the god-queen, but if she just wanted it to be disparaged, surely she'd say something about it. Right? The previous god-queen hadn't bothered about this. She had never showed up to the prison at all, and the warden hadn't even seen Her outside of newsreels, church iconography, and rare public appearances. Having the new god-queen, here in the flesh, was, well, unsettling. The warden felt as if she was being given a pop quiz she hadn't studied for. "And uh...it seems to have been very popular with young people and adults. Not a lot of adults read children's fiction,"

Mariner gave the warden a look she was unable to decipher. "But uh, you haven't personally read any of the books?"

"Not really, your holy highness" the warden said with a shrug. "I do know that she's not really a Gorbolite though. Joanne Musk is just a pen name. Her real name is Joannennaoj. But uh, you probably knew that already."

"Don't worry about it," Mariner said. "Now that I've scoped this out, I'd like to visit some of the prisoners in solitary confinement."

An outdated part of the warden's brain said "But they're not allowed to have visitors. That's the whole point of solitary confinement." However, the rest of the warden's underutilized brain realized that it might need to do some real work to not end up in dissolving as peptic acid flooded into its skull, and came up with the response "Of course, your holy highness. Who would you like to see?"

***

Cabinibac still had two days left in solitary. Her sentence still had eight years, five months, and three days on it. Her ribs were aching and her lip was swollen, but it was a dull pain. She'd gotten used to it. What she was still struggling with was the soul-crushing boredom of it all.

Cabinibac was tired of doing pushups, especially because they were so rough on her bruised ribs. She could try giving the old egg-tube a squeeze, but the skin of her ovipositor was already rubbed raw, and she'd grown sick of the taste of her own eggs. (The guards would beat her if she got the room messy so she always had to clean up by catching them in her hand and eating them.) She'd heard that some people passed the time in solitary by praying, but she wasn't really the praying type. After all, what was the point? The god-queen was going to do whatever she was going to do, and some random asshole screaming into the void wasn't going to change that. Still, it might make her marginally less bored. If anything, it was better than just staring at the clock, thinking about how bored she was.

She fumbled with her memory for a moment, but once she got down on her knees, wincing a little as she drew breath, the familiar pattern her father had taught her came back to her.

"I thank the god-queen, she who descended from the heavens to have mercy upon our world and save us from destruction. I thank the good-queen for--"

She heard footsteps in the corridor, but it wasn't time for dinner yet. They would just go past her, and she would still be stuck here, slowly but steadily losing her mind. Still, it was the most interesting thing that had happened all hour.

Then the impossible happened. The steps kept drawing nearer. They stopped outside her door. The lock drew back.

The god-queen appeared before her.

"Holy shit!" Cabinibac said. "I mean, your holy highness! Forgive me! I had no idea you were--"

The warden stepped out from behind the god-queen's prodigious bulk and glared at Cabinibac.

"Me and Cabinibac will be speaking one-on-one. You can just back out for now," Mariner said, putting a hand on the warden's shoulder.

The warden gave Cabinibac a look that went a fair way beyond hatred, but bowed out with all the dignity she could muster.

The box was not a big room, and Mariner the god-queen took up a lot of it. She settled her bulk onto Cabinibac's bed, which creaked slightly.

"So, why'd they throw you in here?" the god-queen asked, in a surprisingly conversational tone of voice.

"Well, your holy highness, you probably know I got arrested for breaking and entering and assault. I uh, tried to steal some candlesticks from a church, only the pastor was still there and I got into a bit of a fight with her," Cabinibac mumbled. It certainly wasn't her proudest moment, and she didn't think hurting a woman of the cloth would endear her any to the god-queen.

"No, I mean why did they throw you in solitary?" the god-queen clarified, seemingly unphased by Cabinibac's crimes against the clergy.

"Um, your holy highness, I did some unauthorized cooking," Cabinibac admitted.

"Unauthorized cooking?" Mariner repeated.

"Yes, your holy highness. We're supposed to just get food in the cafeteria or buy it from the commissary, but I've figured out how to make a kind of dumpling using crushed dry noodles, sink water, and a few other ingredients I could smuggle back to my cell from the cafeteria or scrape up from snacks," she explained. Cabinibac didn't explain why she'd risked psychological torture just for the sake of sharing a few dumplings with her prison friends once every few weeks. That was because she didn't quite understand why she'd risked it herself. If she'd been more self-aware and introspective, she might have realized it was because, for the briefest moments, the taste brought her freedom within herself, that just for a few moments it felt like she was home again, away from all the drudgery and suffering.

"That's messed up!" Mariner said, thumping her fist into her palm.

"I know, it's against the prison rules, and I--" Cabinibac said, hoping the god-queen wasn't angry enough to eat her. Sure, she'd thought about killing herself a few times since she'd been incarcerated, but she'd never got as serious as figuring out a plan.

"No, I mean it's messed up what they did to you!" the god-queen said, with fire in her deep brown eyes. "You didn't do anything wrong. If you figure out a way to make dumplings out of scraps from the prison slop and commissary snacks, you *deserve* that food. Honestly, I'm impressed you were willing to risk it all just for a taste of dumplings."

Cabinibac's jaw dropped. She was a violent criminal. She didn't even have a sob story about paying for her kid's healthcare or making the rent or getting food for an elderly relative. She'd just tried to rob a church because she was sick and tired of being so poor, and gotten into a fight and broken a pastor's bones because somebody had caught her. She'd wound up in solitary for breaking the rules, and because she wasn't part of a gang and didn't have any influential friends or relatives on the outside to protect her. And the god-queen, the actual *god-queen*, who had the power to shift the heavens, to heal mortal wounds, to send matter anywhere in the world in the blink of an eye, this...this being was *not* going to eat her, *not* disgusted by her or filled with contempt, but actually *impressed* with something Cabinibac had done...

"So yeah, first thing, as of now, your solitary confinement is over," the god-queen said. She leaned down, grasped Cabinibac's hand, and pulled her upright. "Come on. Let's go to your cell, or the exercise yard, or whatever. Somewhere you won't have to be bored out of your brains enduring psychological torture for making dumplings."

From then on, Cabinibac decided to pray every day and attend every service at the prison chapel.

Chapter Text

Edinide was trying to balance the budget. She was sure she'd gotten every major item, but there were still over a thousand units of currency unaccounted for. Her pen skritched as she added the figures up, over and over. The warden hadn't directly delegated this task to her, sure, but she hadn't balanced the budget for months now, and it was important to have things evened up and accounted for so the minister of justice's senior secretary didn't get on their asses. Truth be told, Edinide was already a little uneasy about the cafeteria budgets. Those figures made no sense at all.

Footsteps approached down the hall. Did the warden need her to interrogate a new prisoner?

"--understand that I may have made some, well, missteps, in my management of the facility, but I assure you my heart is in the right place."

The door swung open. Edinide saw the familiar figure of the warden. Behind her loomed the leviathan girth of the new god-queen. Her stomach rumbled as she looked Edinide up and down, and Edinide swallowed nervously and saluted. She couldn't bow sitting down, but somehow she worried that this may have been the wrong response.

"Your holy highness, this is Edinide, my trusted second-in-command."

"Your holy highness, um, how do you do?" Edinide stammered out, still holding the salute because she didn't know what else to do.

"I'm fine, thanks," Mariner the god-queen said. "So, what do you do around here?"

"M-me, your holy highness? Oh, I do a lot of the paperwork, provide a second opinion, watch the office when the warden is busy elsewhere, and I have backup sets of all the warden's keys," Edinide said.

Mariner nodded, then frowned, as if suddenly remembering something.

"By the way, I heard something odd. This is a women's prison, right?" Mariner asked.

"Yes, your holy highness" both Edinide and the warden said, almost at once.

"But in the cafteria and when I was talking with Cabinibac, I heard them talking about friends on the inside that were men."

"Oh, your holy highness, is that the problem?" the warden laughed. "I can see where you've gotten the wrong impression."

"So, you don't have any men here?" the god-queen asked, her beautiful face wrinkling up with honest puzzlement.

"Your holy highness, we have a few trans-identified females, but no actual men are in this prison. You see, we have a little informal procedure called V-coding."

"Oh. What's V-coding?" Mariner asked, with a slight edge to her voice and a coldness in her eyes.

Something about the god-queen's expression made Edinide scoot back in her seat little. She tried to keep her wings from fluttering. As some sixth sense told her that the god-queen might not have a positive view of the V-coding policy, she tried to think of a way to warn the warden of this without alerting the god-queen. She tried to make eye contact with the warden, maybe alert her with some discreet little looks and small wing movements, but the warden was completely focused on the god-queen.

"Well, your holy highness, this is a high-security prison, so we have some very violent individuals locked up here. We find having somebody they can turn to for comfort has a pacifying effect, and it's good to have a way to reward them when they behave properly. To that end, we let women who want to be men fill that role, providing companionship and support to the more dangerous prisoners. It keeps them behaving well, and prevents the trans-identified females from getting out of line. Really it's a good solution all around."

The warden smiled proudly, wings outstretched, smoothing back her hair with one hand and resting the other against the wall. The god-queen rubbed her stomach and licked her lips.

"And, did you come up with this policy?" the god-queen said, in a voice of dangerous calm. Edinide scooted back until her chair was up against the wall. Mariner didn't take her eyes off of the warden, but the warden completely failed to register or pay any head to Edinide's motions.

"Oh, your holy highness, I can't quite take credit for that, although I'd like to. It's pretty standard throughout the prison system, even in the low-security prisons. I just implement it. But, I assure you, I'd never subject a real man to that kind of treatment."

Mariner shot forward, moving far, far faster than anything that huge should be able to move. The warden barely had time to flap her wings as the god-queen grabbed her by the shoulders and gulped her down, headfirst. Her cheeks swelled up with the warden's shoulders, her throat bulged further, and the warden's pendulous breasts disappeared. Another swallow and down went the thick stomach, wide ass, and beautiful thighs. With a final slurp, the warden's shins and feet disappeared into the god-queen's flabby enormity.

Mariner sucked her fingers, licked her lips, and let loose with a belch that echoed throughout the building. There was so much fat in the way that you couldn't even see the warden kicking and struggling inside her.

"You know, I *urp* tried to be patient. I tried to be forgiving. I tried not to *belch* jump to any conclusions, but some *people* just don't friggin put in the effort," Mariner said, rubbing her soft belly beneath the green buttoned "shirt" that fully covered it. "That warden was not exactly the quickest on the uptake, and she *burp* couldn't notice the prevailing political wind if you fitted her with sails. Also, her heart definitely was *not* in the right *belch* place."

Edinide couldn't help it. Her wings fluttered. Her seat grew damp and warm.

"I c-can notice the prevailing political winds, your holy highness! Y-you don't need to f-fit me with sails! I promise, no more V-coding in this prison!" She shot up and stood to attention, hoping the desk was high enough to hide the damp spot on her skirt.

"Congratulations on your promotion to warden of this prison, Edinide," Mariner said, giving a friendly pat on the back that left her staggering. "I like a Bromothian who's quick to draw connections and fit new ideas into her head." She leaned back, thumped her gut, and belched up the warden's badge. It still smelled of digestive juices as she pinned it just above Edinide's hammering heart. "Now, let's play a little guessing game. What do you think my next orders are going to be?"

Edinide had always known she wasn't the sharpest bulb in the drawer. She'd scraped through basic school with a little help from an ugly guy she'd strung along until graduation, and she hadn't even bothered trying to apply to any higher institution of learning. She'd joined the police force at street level, gotten promoted by not rocking the boat or making powerful enemies, and then transferred into the prison system when a bad chest cold rendered her unable to carry out street-level duties.

Despite her limited scope and ability, Edinide did everything to engage the underused portions of her brain and try to unravel the god-queen's ineffible intentions.

"I'm uh...w-well, your holy highness, I think I should move the current trans-identified fe-I mean, the trans men out of their current living situations and into their own seperate cells. And maybe see if I can get them transferred to a men's prison?" Edinide said nervously.

Mariner the god-queen smiled. "Good move. Also, I have good news for the inmates who used them and put them through that living hell. They're going on new and improved high-carb, high-fat diets." She rubbed her belly and licked her lips.

"Is there anything else you require, your holy highness?" Edinide asked.

"Nah, you're good. I think this prison visit is over for now. I have to draft some legislation," she said, with a sigh.

Chapter Text

"So, let's go over that official Declaration of Prisoner's Rights," Mariner said, sipping dunik fruit juice from the solid amethyst chalice. "Right to decent food, freedom from extortionate prices, the right not to work, the right when working to wages equal to non-prisoners, right to freedom of speech and freedom of communication, freedom from cruel and unusual punishment including solitary confinement...anything I missed?"

"Your holy highness, it sounds like a fairly comprehensive list," the grand vizier Gorog said.

"Oh right! The right to prison facilities congruent with the prisoner's gender identity and the right to major and minor medical care!" Mariner said, smacking her forehead. "Anyway, Boims can give it a once-over and put it in legalese for us," Mariner said.

"As you wish, *your holy highness*," Boimler said with a grin.

"Of course, on top of the basic rights and reforms, we might wanna throw some more stuff in to make prison less miserable. Skill-building workshops, drama clubs, educational facilities, something to reduce recidivism and give prisoners skills they can use on the outside." Mariner mused. "And of course a prison library."

"Why would we need a prison library? I mean, prisoners can purchase books from the prison commissaries," asked the minister of agriculture.

"Well, obviously I'm going to lift the restrictions and expand the commisary's reading selection to include horror, crime, and all sorts of nonfiction considered 'dangerous' by previous wardens. Also I'm adding booze, weed, and Sparkle to the prison commisary. No more toilet-wine."

Some of the advisors audibly gasped, but they thought better of making a comment.

"I know, some of you probably think it's going to just encourage worse behavior, but I've seen the conditions they're under and if I was in there I might want to get drunk too. Besides, if they have some lesser vices to rely on that'll choke out operations that smuggle hard drugs into prisons and reduce the power of gangs. Less bringing in minor offenders and turning them into hardened criminals." Mariner beamed. "Oh yeah, and one more thing. I should add in prison therapy. Non-mandatory, of course, but they're going through a lot and a lot of people there could probably use a little help to make better choices in the future. But a prison library should be a basic resource. I mean, people outside of the prisons have public libraries, right?"

One of the braver advisors raised a hand.

"Your holy highness, what is a 'public library'?"

Mariner groaned and rubbed her temples. "For crying out loud, there aren't any public libraries here? Okay, new action item. Public library is a great big building full of books. Members of the public get a Library Card with their name on it that lets them borrow any book in the facility for a while. If they fail to return a book, they either have to replace it or they can't take out new books, but nobody gets charged for the books they borrow. It acts as a community hub, it helps ensure an educated populace, all that good stuff."

"But, your holy highness, what if--" the minister of finance began.

Mariner raised a hand. "Look, I know you're gonna be all 'but we can't give free books to poors, they might sell them for drug money' or 'what if they learn dangerous ideas' but I'm set on this. Next agenda item, please."

"Actually, your holy highness, I wanted to go over some action items for the coronation ceremony," Castro said.

Gorog the grand vizier nodded in agreement, pleased that somebody was getting things on track.

"Yes, your holy highness. It's important to cement the status of your rulership and put on a spectacle to engage your public."

"Okay, yeah, I can get behind that," Mariner said thoughtfully. She picked up the last of the roasted Bromothian fowl and swallowed it whole. Her stomach gurgled, sounding far from full.

Mariner pressed the intercom button. "Hey guys, could I get some more of those crispy noodles with dipping sauce? Fifty pounds should be enough. Thanks." She idly thumped her belly, causing ripples in outlying regions.

"Oh, your holy highness, there's so much we still have to do," Gorog said, wringing her hands. "First, we'll need a public awareness campaign, to make sure news of the event reaches every far-flung corner of the empire. All the citizens should be aware of the event far enough in advance to make plans for it."

Castro nodded along with the Grand Vizier's words.

"Okay, that makes sense," Mariner said. "I'll rubber stamp that."

"We also need to invite foreign dignitaries from friendly and neutral nations," Gorog continued. "And important figures from within the empire will be called to attend. Also, a key part of the coronation, as outlined by advisor Castro, is a ceremony where all the advisors and other interior ministerial officials publicly swear and affirm their allegiance to you."

"I can certainly get behind that," Mariner said with a grin. She liked being the center of attention anyway, and while she wasn't a big fan of suck-ups the ceremony had a certain appeal to it. Too bad it would all be boring bigwigs instead of regular people. That line of reasoning started a new thought brewing in her head.

"So, just how many people are we expecting to attend the coronation?" Mariner asked.

"Well, your holy highness, the full event will be expected to reach somewhere in the low nine thousands for the city itself. Of course, it's going to live broadcast on radio and television throughout the nation."

"No, I mean how many people will be in the VIP section," Mariner explained. "Like, how many faces are showing up for the meet and mingle?"

"Well, the procession will entail about 350 people, your holy highness," Casto said.

"Hmm. I think there's a little bit of room in there. See, I want to better understand my subjects. So, what if we do, like, a lottery? So a few random citizens get front-row seats at the shindig? It'd give me a better chance to understand my people, and it'd give them something to tell all their friends about and cement my status a little further as somebody who cares about her subjects. Right?"

The minister of finance turned to look at Boimler, but Boimler was nodding his head. Tendi nodded with approval. Rutherford gave her a thumbs-up.

"I think that sounds like a decent idea. Don't you, Gorog?" Castro said, turning to the grand vizier.

"Oh...yes. I suppose it does," Gorog said, as if entertaining the idea for the first time. "Yes. We have the population census in place. We could use that as a basis for the lottery."

"And make the tickets non-transferable," Mariner said. "Oh, and they should be golden tickets. No wait, electrum tickets. That sounds cooler." Mariner rubbed her chubby hands together. "But yeah. I want to make sure they go to the people who win them, not get sold off to some rich bastard. We'll have enough of those at the event already."

"Right, your holy highness," the minister of finance said. "I suppose that sounds like a good idea. But we need to address other aspects of the coronation. I mean, we're going to need entertainment, food and drink vendors, performers..."

"Oh right!" Mariner said. "Tendi? You're in charge of picking the bands for the coronation ceremony musical performance."

"Me?" Tendi squeaked. "Your holy highness?" she added belatedly.

"Yeah. You and me share musical tastes. I mean, we're both into Klingon Acid Punk, so you can go to the auditions or record stores or whatever and pick out some good stuff."

"Yes, your holy highness! I'll do my best!" Tendi said. Honestly, she was more focused on the security arrangements for the event, but she could take that on too, she thought.

"So, yeah, you bring up some good points. Good on you," Mariner said, giving the minister of finance a thumbs up. "Obviously we'll want a lot of stuff for the entertainment side. Tendi's got music, but we should have fire dancers, jugglers, that kinda thing. And beyond food and drink, we'll want some Sparkle vendors and weed distributors for the big day. But uh, I was thinking, to endear ourselves to the general populace, we should have free booze. Not just cheap booze, free stuff."

The minister of finance goggled. "Free, your holy highness?" she asked, for confirmation.

"Yeah. I mean, paid for by the government. Free, gratis, no pay money. The coronation is supposed to set a tone for administration, and what's a better way to show my divine benevolence than drinks on the house?" Mariner said, beaming.

The minister of finance turned to the other advisors as if seeking support, but was shocked to find them all nodding.

"Come on. It's a minor expense in the grand scheme of things, and it'll get a lot of people on our side. Besides, this is a coronation! It doesn't even come along every generation. This is a big deal and we should give people something to remember."

"Your holy highness, I suppose so," the minister of finance admitted.

"So, really, the important thing to figure out is, who gets this fat government contract?" Castro asked.

"Excellent question. I mean, there's going to be lots of rich, powerful, liquor, wine, and cider magnates angling for this, right?" Mariner asked.

Everyone nodded.

"So let's have their CEOs fight it out! Trial by combat!" Mariner said. "I mean obviously we'll put in some rules and safeguards so that nobody actually dies, but wouldn't it be funny to see the bigwigs actually have to fight for something for a change?"

The minister of agriculture spit out her drink and had a choking fit. The grand vizier swayed a little on her feet. Pastor Vikovokiv punched the air, then quickly tried to pretend that he hadn't done anything so undignified. Tendi stared. Boimler gasped. Rutherford scanned for a better mode to fix his implant into, then just gave up.

"Why not? I mean, it's fun, it's fresh, and it'll give the ruling class a real shake-up. Let the strongest prevail!"

Castro took a long gulp of her dunik fruit juice. "That's certainly...an idea. Are you concerned that it might affect your popularity though?"

Gorog sighed with relief that somebody else had said it before she had to bring it up.

"I'd like to think they'd appreciate a chance to do an honest day's work for a change. I mean, they must get bored with all that trust fund shuffling and tax evasion, right? Let's really see how they do under Survival of the Fittest. Let's replace social Darwinism with an actual blood sport." Mariner grinned. "Plus, can you honestly tell me you aren't at least a little bit curious to see who has the toughest big boss?"

The minister of finance leaned back and considered. Whatever they did, this was going to be expensive. After all, why not have a little fun while they were at it?

Boimler frowned. "But, your holy highness, are we sure the distiller with the most physically adept leader deserves this contract?"

"Please. This whole thing is one big show, and again, as Castro told me, the coronation should set the tone for the incumbancy. It's going to be entertaining if nothing else, watching those head honchoes fight for their contracts."

"And, your holy highness, we'll set up the rules so nobody actually dies, right?" Tendi said.

"Yeah, sure. I know a thing or two about ritual combat. I can set up a non-lethal but bloody competition with no problem," Mariner scoffed.

"So, do we want seperate contests for liquor, wine, and cider, or is it just one big free-for-all?" Rutherford asked.

"Good question. I'll sort out the fine details after I get a little drink in me," Mariner said. She turned to her cup-bearer. "Be a dear and get me some glorka berry brandy, okay? I'll figure out the precise details once I've got a good evening buzz going on."

"Yes, your holy highness," Mariner's cup-bearer said, holding back a fit of laughter driven by the obvious discomfort of some of Mariner's more senior advisors and the god-queen's capricious nature.

"Another thing," Castro said, trying to steer the conversation back to affairs of state, although she realized that it was a bit like trying to navigate icebergs on the Titanic, "we should do a practice run for the main sacrifice."

Chapter Text

"But we could so easily provide you with actual sacrifices for this round, your holy highness," grand vizier Gorog said.

"Yes, but we're saving those for the actual main event," Castro said testily. "We've been over this. The Bromothian sacrifices are to be part of a public spectacle, affirming the connection between the monarch and her people, a symbolic compact, and a means to intimidate heads of state from foreign powers. This practice run is going to be just that, a test of the god-queen's appetite and ability."

"I don't know why you two are so worked up about this," Mariner scoffed. "I'm a big girl. I've got a big appettite. I can handle whatever meals y'all send my way."

"Yes, your holy highness, but we want to do a trial run before the main event," Casto hissed. "Your stomach capacity may have been increased since you, er, absorbed the previous god-queen, but it's not infinite, and the sacrifices are to be consumed with ritual and ceremony. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask your divine self to do a little practice and rehearsal before the main event."

"Whatever," Mariner said, yawning and stretching. Her belly gurgled. "I'm in the mood for a big meal anyway."

"I should hope so, your holy highness" Castro muttered.

"Your holy highness, the kitchen staff has assured me that these meat replicas should be up to the highest standards as culinary simulacra," Gorog said.

"They better be. I've been fucking starving myself all night," Mariner said, punctuating the statement with a loud growl of her stomach. Both Gorog and Castro regarded her sagging belly nervously. That belly button was deep enough for an arm to go up to the elbow in, as her concubines had proved during various sexual exploits. Mariner's flab extended more than a body's length ahead of her and overflowed to both sides, left and right. She'd proven in the past that there was enough room down there to lose somebody without even making a noticeable impression.

They walked through the doorway into the courtyard. The palace chefs had outdown themselves. The simulacra were a combination of fowl and pork ground into sausages, then stitched together into vaguely humanoid shapes with edible plant fibers.

Mariner reached out and grabbed one, then hoisted it into the air. She unhinged her jaw and swallowed it in one throat-expanding bite, the huge bulge passing down her neck and vanishing without a trace. Then she let loose with a long, crass belch.

"Okay, see, your holy highness, that's one of the reasons we're doing a rehearsal," Castro said carefully, still alarmed by the speed with which Mariner could gulp people down despite her prodigious girth. "Before the first sacrifice, we want a pastor out here to administer the rites and consecrate the...the food, in your name, invoking your holy hunger and speaking of your divine powers. We also want to anoint the sacrifices both for purposes of ritual and flavor."

"Okay, yeah, sounds *burp* good to me. Though I gotta say, Bromothians already taste really good," Mariner said, smacking her lips and rubbing her belly. "Can I eat the rest of the meat dummies now?"

"Well, your holy highness, I'd prefer to run over the other parts of the ceremony to work out the kinks. We will run over the script, rehearse the procession, stop at a few points to cover what you will be doing with your divine powers," and Castro almost managed to avoid a slight ironic emphasis on those two words, "and then we'll circle back for the full sacrifice at the end."

"The plan is to have one sacrifice as an amuse bouche of sorts, both to wet your appetite and to provide an initial spectacle for the crowd. Spreading out the sacrifices a little will also make sure that, with the split shifts, some people who can't attend the final sacrifice will be able to see the first one, so even citizenry working essential jobs during the day get to take part in the revelry and the shared affirmation of values."

"By the way, who will I be eating first?" Mariner asked. "Because that one green-haired prisoner, name started with a J, who was raping her cellmate, she looks particularly big and juicy," Mariner said, licking her lips. A loud rumble from her stomach made it apparent that, despite consuming an entire person's worth of meat, she was still quite hungry. Castro unconciously took a step away from her.

"Actually, I was thinking the serial killer we caught would make the best opening sacrifice. Eating a notorious murderer would be a great way to both endear yourself to the general popualtion and to affirm your supremacy as the most dangerous and powerful being on this planet," Castro said.

"Ooh, good choice," Mariner said. "She looks delicious." She rubbed her chubby hands together while Castro suppressed a shudder.

She shouldn't be unsettled by this. After all, the public Bromothian sacrifices were her idea. It was just the way Ensign Mariner talked about eating people made her skin crawl, and her gluttonous appetite and crass approach to food certainly didn't help. The whole experience was equal parts disturbing and disgusting. Nevertheless, it *was* a good way to consolidate Mariner's royal power and cement the allegiance of the populace. Keeping Mariner on the throne was the best way to provide a measure of stability for the people of Bromothia, and implementing her more progressive policies was the best way to undo damage dealt by the infamous She to this pre-warp civilization.

For that reason, Castro steeled her nerves and walked Mariner through the plan. This was about this planet's people, their safety and well-being. It was about trying to make life better for people who had been exploited by one cruel and ruthless human using federation tech to prop herself up as a god to a less-advanced civilization.

She really, really hoped that Starfleet would see it that way when they finally got rescued and could got off this forsaken rock. Non-theistic moral principles, she ached for a nice sonic shower and a plate of chicken caeser salad. She missed her real friends, like Jennifer and Wendy. She missed her family. She missed the chance to talk to people who didn't think that eating somebody was in any way sane or normal. She missed being in societies that treated obesity as a character flaw instead of something to be glorified and celebrated. She missed the holodeck. Holy fuck, did she miss the holodeck, from being passed around by holographic Orion pirates to pretending to be a successful murderer having her way with a hogtied Miss Marple, or the program with one of her best friend's bodies and a famous starfleet captain's head. Heck, she'd give her left arm even to just run a PG-rated holographic adventure. Let her fight zombies with a warhammer on the high seas or have a picnic with Toby the Targ, Winnie the Pooh, and the Little Prince. Why hadn't she done more crossover holodeck programs when she had the chance, dammit? It was something she'd taken for granted, just like Jennifer's poetry feedback and sonic showers and instant communication with her family and paramores across the galaxy.

"Hey, everything okay there?" Mariner asked, waving her pudgy hand in front of Castro's face.

"Sorry, your holy highness. Just thinking about the coronation arrangements. We'll need a lot of advance time to close off the streets, and we'll need to prepare additional emergency service workers. Oh, we also need to design your new holy symbol. Obviously that's something you'll collaborate with the royal pastor on."

"Oh yeah, that old one just won't do. I mean it kind of works in a paleo art way, but it's not really my thing," Mariner said, hefting up her massive belly and letting it slam back down in an idle-minded way. "I was thinking, like, sort of a toothy mouth emoticon with eyes? Something like that. We can work out the details later."

"Oh, your holy highness, we could have vendors selling the new holy symbols!" Grand Vizier Gorog said. "I know a balanced budget isn't strictly necessary according to principles of real economics, but it might help the Minister of Finance's blood pressure a little to have some official revenue streams flowing into the government."

"Yeah, that woman needs to learn how to relax," Mariner snorted. "I suppose it's a good opportunity, although we should also have some free ones. Oh, and maybe Boimler could organize some kind of commemorative plate and tisane mugs and stuff. He seems to like that kind of thing."

Castro filed that away as useful information. Maybe it could help her finally get into that adorable purple-haired twink's pants.

They ran through the next steps, hopping into the carriage to ride the royal procession route.

"Shitballs, can we get some shocks installed on this thing?" Mariner yelped. "I'm getting jostled around here like a porn star's tits during an earthquake."

"I'll see what we can do," Castro said, her own voice wobbling as they jolted over another bump in the pavement. She certainly didn't appreciate being squished against the carriage door by Mariner's flab either, her lithe body almost smothered in the bigger woman's fat. "I'm inclined to agree with you though."

After they circled back, they had Mariner rehearse her coronation speech and other steps of the ceremony. There were still a few lines her delivery needed to improve on, but Castro couched her feedback as carefully as she could, careful not to undermine her royal authority or threaten her divine image, while also working to make sure Gorog felt included and listened to. She felt the grand vizier was a highly competent and adaptable woman, and she appreciated that she was going through a lot of very dramatic changes she'd never expected to encounter in her lifetime.

Then again, weren't they all, even Mariner?

Castro was surprised to find a pang of sympathy for the ensign awakening in her heart. Sure, being in charge came with a lot of perks, but it also came with the weight of genuine responsibilities, the kind Mariner usually didn't have to deal with. Sure, she was command division, but that was a far cry from having an entire nation survive or perish based on your actions, with consequences far-reaching enough to affect the majority of an inhabited world and control over a plurality of its people. Sure, they had signed up for action with the potential to shape a civilization, but that was expected be more of a stop-the-asteroid or cure-a-plague variety, a binary success or failure, not carefully navigating and shaping the politics of a nation-state, awkwardly trying to undo societal damage that had already been inflicted on a massive scale by one unscrupulous human with a collection of tech.

Maybe Mariner had a better support system here than Castro, sure, but she also had a lot on her shoulders. Also, Castro suspected that if anyone was going to get the blame for prime directive violations on this front, the bulk of Starfleet's wrath would fall on the one who actually ate some of the planet's local inhabitants.

They stopped back at the palace, right in front of the meat dummies. They quickly ran over the prayers the pastors were going to say and Gorog's recitation of the sacrificial victim's crimes. Then came the rehearsal for the sacrifice.

The first two "victims" vanished down Mariner's gullet at the speed of unrepentant gluttony. They still didn't have a noticeable impact on her size or appetite. No, it wasn't until she gobbled up the fourth one that her belly began to noticeably expand. With the fifth one she bulged out even further, and finally showed some signs of slowing down. The once soft fat had become tight with distention. Mariner devoured the sixth dummy and one more huge bulge transferred from her neck to her gut. She acrtually put both of her hands on her gut, started rubbing it, and moaned. Castro turned away from the disgusting display, but still heard the resultant belch echoing off the distant hills.

"Ah, now *that* really hit the spot. It feels good to *buuurp* feel properly full again." She smacked her belly and sucked the meat juices from her fingers. It was tight as a drum, although her rolls of fat still sagged to the sides, along with her massive ass. Even her arms were huge. She dominated the scene, swollen as a tick.

Castro sighed. She could have some sympathy, even empathy, for Mariner's situation, but she didn't think she'd ever grow to respect the woman.

Chapter Text

Mariner closed the book and carefully set it down. Then she spent a few minutes staring at the marble wall, processing what she'd just read.

She turned to the nearest person in the room, which happened to be her cup-bearer, Zovoz.

"So...that's it? That's the book series that Joanne Musk funded her private army with? That's the international cultural phenomenon that people waited for hours in line at the midnight release bookstore events for? That's the whole deal that delighted children and adults alike?" Mariner asked, frowining at the book.

"Yes, your holy highness," Zovoz said.

She fumbled around for the right words.

"I mean, it wasn't the worst thing I ever read, but it certainly was no Toby the Targ or The Little Prince. Hell, it didn't even rise to the level of some of a lot of middle-of-the-road middle grade series I've read. That wasn't even the best book I've read about a child who learns how to become a spellcaster." Mariner frowned. "I mean, sure, there was some whimsy and a few likeable characters, but the main was pretty bland and the worldbuilding has enough holes to use it to strain pasta. She kept introducing world-changing powerful magical artifacts and then had no idea what to do with them. And that's before I get into the really shady parts of the work."

"Like, the gnomes all being bankers who happen to share physical characteristics with Varkathians? Eesh. And then there's the whole species that are enslaved, and at first you're rightly horrified by that, and it's portrayed as a bad thing, only later in the series she goes 'actually, trying to stop chattle slavery is lame and embarassing, it's okay because they are happy to be slaves' and nobody bats an eye except for the granola boy character? The smart one who helps out the main characters with their schoolwork all the time because they don't seem to care about studying and this is somehow portrayed as a win for male representation? Also, everyone in the entire magical world is apparently cishet, and there's a lot of hostility towards men who are too masculine or not masculine enough. I mean, there's one character she apparently claimed after-the-fact was a lesbian because the fandom latched onto it, but uh, she didn't actually *write* it. I mean, there's barely even subtext there. The closest we get is some subtextual stuff about the shapeshifters, that starts off like an allegory for some kind of oppressed group, but then she brings in the evil shapeshifters and it reads as something-phobic. Also the characters who seem remotely like asexual are all described as either animalistic or robotic, and definitely evil."

Mariner let out a long sigh, stared at her empty solid amethyst goblet, and handed it to Zavaz to refill.

"Do you feel...angry about it, your holy highness?" Zavaz probed.

"Maybe? Actually, I'm kind of offended, but I'm mostly just sad. It makes me think about all the less-popular but probably better-written works in the children's fantasy genre this thing probably squeezed out of existence with the sheer volume of the market this mediocre crap took up." She sipped her Dirty Weekend thoughtfully. "You know what? I should probably create some literary endowments. Especially ones by Varkathian, transgender, and/or asexual authors."

"That's a good idea, your holy highness," Zavaz said. "A lot of major publishers are worried to take risks on more, how shall I say, controversial authors."

"Well, good literature needs controversy," Mariner said, swishing her glass thoughtfully before swallowing a honey-glazed Bromothian fowl. "I don't want my reign to be stifled by homogeneity, yannow?"

Zavaz thought about the reign of the previous god-queen, about the official publications and the illegal pulp novels, and nodded. A lot of the more exciting, bold, and engaging stuff she'd read had been bought in the black market and from underground publishers.

The god-queen stared out the window for a while, not eating or even drinking.

"Do you want to attend the coronation, Zavaz? I mean, like, no pressure."

"Of course, your holy highness! It's something I'm going to tell my grandchildren about!" Zavaz said, and she meant it too.

"Do you think we're doing a decent job with the promotional materials?" Mariner asked, still looking out the window.

"Your holy highness, that's a bit hard for me to tell. I mean, I'm present at most of the official meetings." Zavaz enjoyed following along with policy making and government meetings, even if she couldn't directly participate. The privilege of watching the royal administration at work was one of the reasons she'd taken this job, after all. "I'm a little too close to the action, as it were, to tell if the information is really getting out there."

"I think the word will probably get out," Mariner said. "I mean, we put the word out on the official government radio stations, newsreels, television, posters, mass mailings. Even if somebody managed to avoid all that they'll probably hear by word of mouth. Anyone who's interested will know about it, and we put a lot into the logistics for the big day. Hiring extra train conductors and bringing in extra buses, shuttle service, traffic redirection, all that jazz."

"Your holy highness, I'm sure it will be a success," Zavaz said loyally.

"I still have to ask Boims about the commemorate plates and other junk like that," the god-queen added, as if talking to herself. "And talk to Tendi about security details I guess." After saying that, she swallowed another fowl and washed it down with what was left in her glass, then burped.

"It's gonna be a day to remember alright," Mariner said. "We'll make sure of that."

"Yes, your holy highness," Zavaz affirmed.

***

"So, we definitely need a new flag design for the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner, your holy highness," the grand vizier Gorog said.

"Yeah, this old one won't do. I mean, the colors are good, but I don't wanna have the old god-queen's holy symbol on it. Also that suns and moon stuff is boring," Mariner said.

Some of the advisors, including Castro, winced.

The old flag was equal parts purple and green, with a stylized feminine form in the center as its holy symbol, three cresent moons on one side and the two suns on the other.

"Your holy highness, it is, it was intended to convey the god-queen's mastery over the forces of nature. Suns and moons for a sky cleared of dangerous storms, and for her descent from the heavens above."

"Midnight purple and forest green is a good color combo. That can stay," Mariner said. "We'll replace Her holy symbol with mine, of course. I've been workshopping it with the royal pastor and I think it's got a certain charming minimalism." Mariner pulled out a cocktail napkin with her holy symbol sketched on it in marker. It had a narrow angle representing a minimalist mouth, with triangular rows of teeth and two dots above it representing eyes.

"So, *your holy highness*, what do you want to replace the suns and moons?" Boimler asked. "Like, are we going for a more abstract motif?Maybe stylized stars?"

"Nah, that's boring Ooh, you know what? We should put a fucking dragon on it!" Mariner said excitedly.

"Your holy highness, what would be the symbolism intended with that?" Gorog inquired.

"Well, dragons are cool! They're big, powerful, and sexy. It's all element forces and power and appetite, right?" Mariner said, inventing on the fly. "I mean, I *am* an apex predator, so it only makes sense to have another apex predator on my flag."

The court nodded.

"Right, let's get that worked out. Workshop a few different dragon designs until we get something I like. Maybe silver-colored. Yeah, silver's cool. Then we can replace the flags around the palace, send out the new design so people can replace their flags and get little ones and flag merchandise out in time for the coronation."

Chapter Text

"Junk, junk, bill, junk," W'ilma sighed, as she rifled through her mailbox in the apartment lobby. There were lots of new restaurants and grocery stores opening up thanks to the increased spending power from the universal food stamps, and that was well and good, but it also meant a lot of promotional fliers and coupons from said eateries clogging up her mail.

W'ilma found a hand-written letter in the mess of junk mail and typewritten envelopes. She perked up, hoping it might be from her estranged brother or one of her pen pals, but the return address confirmed it was just another missive from her ex-husband. That she tucked into her pocket. She wasn't so callous as to throw it out unread, but she also wanted to engage with it when she had the emotional space to process it all, rather than when she had just come off of a long and difficult shift, and preferably with a tall glass of hard cider to soften the blow.

Now here was something. A type-written envelope from the palace? She knew she was up to speed on all her taxes, so it couldn't be a demand for past-due money. Of course there'd been those promotional missives hyping up the big coronation, but she'd just tossed those in with the rest of the junk mail. She wasn't going to spend loads of her hard-earned money to schlep all the way out to the capital city, squeeze her way into a massive noisy crowd, and get a distant glimpse of the queen doing some mumbo-jumbo with pastors to solidify her status as the new ruling monarch over the one she'd eaten. Sure, Mariner had seemed a lot more decent than the last so-called god-queen, and her improvements to the system had genuinely made W'ilma's life easier, but that didn't mean she was going to go out all out for a ceremony to celebrate the monarch's greatness. The food and drinks would probably be expensive, she'd have to stay somewhere overnight and all the accomidations would be packed to bursting. No, if W'ilma really felt moved to see the first new monarch in living memory being crowned to formally rule over the nation, she would just watch it on her neighbor's television or listen to it on the radio. To be honest, she'd rather spend the money and time on a few rounds of drinks at the local watering hole. That was her idea of a good time.

W'ilma tucked the mail from the capital into her pocket, next to the letter from her ex-husband and the gas bill, nodded to the woman working the front desk of her apartment building, and headed up the three flights of stairs, then past a few more rooms, to her own unadorned front door. Some followers of the old ways had taken to putting up the crest of the three as a public proclamation of their faith, but she wasn't that confident yet. The whims of monarchs were unpredictable, and even if the religion had been made legal again, that didn't mean that all of the faithful were completely in line with the new policy. One of her neighbors was a cop, and that man definitely had a chip on his shoulder.

W'ilma regarded her humble home. Her main room had a couch, a radio, a liquor cabinet, a tisane table, and a window overlooking an empty back-alley. Beyond that was the kitchenette that doubled as a dining room, a bathroom, and her bedroom, as well as a closet where she kept all her articles of worship away from prying eyes. She opened up the closet, took out her statuettes and incense burners, and lit a stick each before the Father, the Protector, and the Benefactor.

"I give thanks for my life in this world, for the protection you provide, and for the abundance that sustains us all," she said.

That duty done, she headed for the kitchen, with its two-burner stove and humble table that could seat three people in a pinch, and pulled out a can of hard cider from the fridge. She sat down on the couch, opened up the cider, and turned on the radio to her favorite station. An old favorite by Seven Green Hearts was playing, and she took the first long gulp of cider after a hard day

On an impulse, she opened the one from the palace first.

Light shined off a ticket made of electrum foil. There was an explanatory note accompanying it, about how it required any public transport to honor it for the the day leading up to and after the coronation, but W'ilma's eyes were focused on the main text.

"This ticket, randomly selected, entitles the bearer to attend the VIP section of the royal coronation ceremony. Food and beverages will be provided, along with entertainment. You will have an opportunity to mix and mingle with other VIPs, including the god-queen herself. This ticket is non-transferable."

W'ilma seriously thought about throwing the thing into the trash, electrum and all. She was a follower of the old ways and the true gods. What did she care for the ritual elevation of the new so-called god-queen?

No. That was old thoughts and old bitterness driving her. Look at it this way. Even in the worst case scenario, this was an opportunity for free drinks and grub at a very big party. There would be music. There would be jugglers and fire dancers and who knew what else. She'd seen the information on the PSAs and flyers even as she'd tossed them into the bin.

And she wouldn't be squinting at tiny figures in the distance or trying to watch from a giant screen, would she? She'd be right there, in the heart of the action. She didn't have a great interest in Bromothian sacrifices, sure, but there would be a lot going on.

Would it be worth going, if only to see what all the fuss was about? If she was able to sell this to another party, maybe she would have, but she couldn't do that. It said so on the ticket. No, this opportunity was for her, and for her alone.

Maybe she would go after all. When the Benefactor spread Its arms open, it was wise to recieve the gift, as the saying went.

Anyway, according to the promotional material, Seven Green Hearts was coming out of retirement just to perform. She didn't want to miss that, did she?

***

Mariner gasped as she jolted out of a dream of Sito being surrounded by Jem Hadar. The memories lost coherence almost immediately as she rubbed her eyes and shifted her leviathan girth.

It was undeniable that Mariner had put on some pounds after eating the god-queen, but even then she seemed to have grown a little. It didn't help that it took two or three people worth of food to even keep her sated now, with her stomach so stretched out, and that Bromothia had a lot of people who were both extremely villainous and terribly delicious. Part of her worried that if she kept running into rapists and their enablers she was going to have trouble fitting through even doublewide doors. Her ass was thick and wide enough that it sagged behind her, and deep enough that it took more than a few seconds of work for her concubines to find, lube, and penetrate the hole. It was not uncommon for two others to hold each cheek spread out so the third had an easier time diving in with mouth, penises, or ovipositor. On the plus side, she weas so girthy that two lovers could easily penetrate her behind side by side without much difficulty.

Still, she had to admit, growth wasn't without it's perks. She lifted up her belly with her prodigious strength, then let it slam back down. She had something of a double-belly looking forward, and the upper half alone was easily big enough to lose somebody in. Her breasts, never her largest feature, where at least as big as watermelons, and her upper arms were at least the size of ham hocks. She wasn't sure, but it looked like she'd definitely put on a little weight recently. Maybe that was the previous warden's work. She'd been nice and plump herself, after all, Mariner thought, licking her lips and reliving the delicious memory.

She took in her layered side-rolls in the mirror. Jennifer would practically cum in her pants if she saw Mariner now, she thought. She sighed a little at that thought. How long would she have to go without reuniting with the spunky Andorian, her lustful feeder with endless inventiveness and such impressive stamina that a second orgasm was taken for granted and a third usually followed? She imagined her skinny little blue girlfriend drowning in a mass of fat and absolutely loving every minute of it.

Before Mariner realized what she was doing, her chubby little fingers were pushing aside massive rolls and delving in search of her clitoris. She indulged in a nostalgic wank then and there in her sprawling bed, fantasizing about her beautiful Jennifer exploring every inch of her thousand-plus pounds with tongue, fingers, and strap. The daydream was enough to get her off in just a few minutes, and she gasped as sweat pooled in her rolls and the toe-curling pleasure shuddered through her.

The afterglow was interrupted by a loud rumble. Mariner was about to reach out to the intercom when she remembered, she was saving her appetite today for a very special feast. She licked her lips and patted her massive gut. Today would be a testament to her newly-honed self restraint, right up until she reached the point she could finally let go and fully indulge. She'd been wanting to stuff her gut full of Bromothians ever since she got her first whiff of their bodies on this planet, and now she had an opportunity to do so.

She just hoped she could hold back until the big moment came. It wouldn't do to unceremoniously devour some of the VIPs.

***

"By the grace of the god-queen are our skies kept clear, from rain to shine upon us," T'abagail sang along with the old familiar hymn. The collective voices of the other men and women from the church rang out as the packed bus rattled along the backwoods road, leading into the main highway. Special arrangements and shuttle services had been set up so that even the most remote corners of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner would be able to attend the coronation. The handful of hymns that did not refer to the god-queen as "She" had been seeing a lot of increased circulation. She supposed that there was a lot of work in order among songwriters and pastors, but for the time being these standbyes would serve.

T'abagail had risen before the sun to make her breakfast and prepare a boxed lunch of fried noodles with beetle meatballs and sauteed gunip, a thermos of honeyed tisane, and a few farafa fruit tarts for dessert.

"The hurricane and tornado we shall not fear, the god-queen's rule protects us!"

T'abagail had never seeen a tornado or hurricane herself, of course, but she'd heard news reports from foreign countries of the harm that those disasters wrought upon those who were not sheltered by divine power. They destroyed entire buildings, wiped out whole streets and had sometimes even laid ruin to cities. Of course, there were some conspiracy theorists who didn't believe in such natural disasters and claimed they were just a bogeyman used to keep the populace compliant, but that didn't make much sense to her given that reports of tornados, floods, wildfires and hurricanes came from foreign powers who would have the least to gain from perpetuating such a belief.

Under the new god-queen's rule, those foreign reports of destructive weather had ceased. Evidently the divine Mariner considered that even those outside her sphere of influence deserved protection from baleful skies.

"As long as the god-queen's hunger is appeased, we shall not want. Prosperity and safety shall be ours!"

T'abagail had been checking up on her brother, and while he was still somewhat quiet and sullen, she really did get the impression that he was really moving forward with his grieving process. That was good. He didn't seem as bitter anymore, and he'd even started looking for a new job.

"Our faith in the god-queen is a sword and shield, it lifts us up towards the heavens,"

T'abagail had always done her best to believe, of course. Faith and the community of the church had sustained her when her wife had gone off to war and never come back. But she had to admit, her faith had gotten stronger recently. She didn't pretend to understand the theology of how one god could absorb the power and dominion of another god. The important thing was that she knew there was a god on the throne, with power to move heavens and earth, nourished by Bromothian flesh and the power of prayer. What mattered was that there was somebody there, a power that would endure through good and ill, sorrow and joy, good times and bad.

And now she was going to see the new god-queen formally claim her crown and throne. It wasn't something that happened every day. Generations of Bromothians had hatched, grown, and died without ever seeing a change in tenancy or witnessing a royal coronation. The previous god-queen's rule had covered the entirity of living memory. It was like being around to watch the birth of a new sun in the heavens, or seeing a moon go crashing down. It was at once thrilling and terrifying. Some of the congregation members had brought flasks or bottles to share around, but T'abagail was already drunk with religious ecstacy and giddy with anticipation.

Finally, the bus got off the backroads and merged onto the main highway. It was not alone. The street was filled with buses, cars, and motorcycles.

As the hymn finished, T'abagail clutched her new silver holy symbol on a necklace. It was rather minimalist, a simple angle for a mouth lined with sharp teeth and two dots for eyes above it. It put the emphasis on divine hunger rather than the royal figure. Both were important, of course, and judging the aesthetic choices of a god was still above her.

Still, this new symbol brought her comfort. A new god-queen meant the dawning of a new age, with a new holy symbol, new flag, new hopes and possibilities.

T'abagail had been dealing the loss of her wife for some time, but recently she'd also started reading the personals in the newspaper. There weren't many ads in her area, but there were still a few women of her age seeking female companionship. Maybe it was time to put herself out there again, after all. Isn't that what her wife would have wanted?

***

"Holy symbols! Flags! Commemorative plates! Get your coronation day memerobilia right here!" Tvanavt called out, cupping his hands as he cried out from his booth.

The event still hadn't even started. The sky was overcast, the dew was moist, and the crowds were enormous. People had camped out before dawn to get good spots to view the procession. Tvanavt was starting to think he had understocked, as he watched fleet upon fleet of shuttle buses pulling in to disgorge their loads of people.

A plump, older woman with a slender man wrapped around her arm approached the booth.

"Buy a holy symbol for your pretty young man, madam?" Tvanavt suggested.

"Oh, please, honey?" the young man said. "I still haven't gotten one of the new ones."

"Would you like wood, stainless steel, or electrum?" Tvanavt said, trying to suggest with subtle intonations that if she really cared about her arm candy she would by him the electrum one.

"We'll take two electrum holy symbols and two flags," the older woman said, handing over some bills and a few coins.

"Thank you ma'am," Tvanavt said, nodding respectfully while also recognizing that this was not somebody he could upsell on a commemorative plate.

He didn't know if the holy symbols actually did anything. Of course, they were a way to openly display piety, and they were appealing decorations. If he was completely honest, he liked the quirky look of them a bit better than the old ones. He was glad that he hadn't had a lot of the old ones in stock, given that they would now be impossible to shift. The metal ones would have to be all melted down for the metal and the wooden ones would be used as kindling or turned into packing sawdust. Diversification was the key to success and profit. Never put all your eggs in one basket, even if it seemed a safe and reliable one. After all, who could have possibly planned for Her to be dethroned?

Tvanavt had grown up with Her presence as a taken-for-granted part of the environment, like the moons in the sky. He didn't know if She'd been truly divine any more than he knew if the new god-queen was an actual god, nor did he really care that much, if he was being completely honest with himself. What mattered was that most people believed in the supremacy of the god-queen, and that, mortal or not, the god-queen had the power to save or destroy lives on a massive scale with a nod of her head. Save the actual theology of the matter for clerics and philosophers.

No, what mattered to Tvanavt was that lots of people were coming out to celebrate today, and many of them would want to buy things to join in on the fun and remember the occasion. As long as he turned a profit, he would be happy, and he didn't think there was any harm in that. Plenty of people wanted to see the coronation, complete with ritual Bromothian sacrifices, up close and in person, but what would they really see? A snatch of a parade and little figures in the distance, maybe magnified on the big screens that had been attached to buildings to live broadcast the occasion. Tvanavt didn't plan on having any grandchildren he'd want to tell about the big day. Parenting seemed like more trouble than it was worth to him, especially for men, and if he was being totally honest with himself, he didn't feel a strong attraction to women or even men that he might share a life with. He could always catch the broadcast later in the newsreels if he really felt like he was missing out. For him, it was enough that there were people here who would want jewelry to wear, flags to waves, and knicknacks to take home.

A busload of giggling schoolchildren approached his stand, shepherded by a handful of equally excited adult chaperones.

"Holy symbols! Flags! Commemorative plates!"

Chapter Text

Hagogah stood on the still dew-damp grass with his big sister and little brother, nursing his free hard cider. Normally he didn't day-drink, but this was a special occasion, and free alcohol always tasted better. Besides, if ever there was an occasion to indulge, this was it.

He regarded the thick cover of clouds overhead. Overcast skies that weren't actively raining were a rarity in the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner, as they had been in the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of She. Either the skies were thick with stormclouds, providing life-giving rain, or they remained clear and sunny to be enjoyed by all.

The family had staked out a good spot for watching the event, up reasonably close to the action. Sure they'd had to camp out in the night's chill, but it had been worth it. They were close enough to watch the VIPs scrambling around like beetles, an incredibly wide royal seat at the center of the action, with the opal-studded electrum crown, the scepter of divine power, and the green fur-lined robe all being held by different pastors.

The big day had finally come, and Hagogah would have something to tell his grandchildren about, assuming he ever settled down and managed to find a woman willing to respect him and share in the housework and child-rearing. So far all he'd found were older women in bars who wanted a quick hookup or women who expected him to give up his career so he could mind a family. He liked his work at the palace and the sense of independence it gave him. If he were married, of course, his income would be pooled with that of his wife, and he wanted to make sure he really trusted somebody before making that kind of commitment. Until then, any eggs produced during sex went straight into the frying pan or the compost bin, depending on his partner's culinary preference.

The crowd was buzzing with excitement, and Hagogah couldn't blame them. This kind of event was rarer than once in a lifetime. This was something nobody had expected or planned for. Succession was not really a major concern for an unaging deity that ruled over an entire planet with justice in one hand and mercy in the other.

Maybe they could make some changes to the marriage laws and banking regulations to be allow men a little more breathing room. That seemed like something the new god-queen would consider, if he managed to get the question put to her. For all that he worked in the palace, he rarely caught a glimpse of the Mariner the divine ruler herself. That privilege was reserved for the royal advisors and royal servants, not for number-crunchers and bean-counters over in the administrative departments. Still, he had access to Boimler's ear, and he was one of her advisors. It shouldn't be too hard to broach the subject over a game of Spiral Stones or the Campaign for the Third Moon.

It went without saying that Hagogah had served the previous god-queen faithfully in his work, just as he dutifully served the god-queen now. Still, he had to admit, he found himself a little more strongly motivated under this ruler. He was driven by more than just piety, patriotism, and pride in his work. He genuinely felt grateful for all the god-queen had done to change their lives from the better, from the sexual harassment laws to the new restaurants and food stalls opening up. With his salary, he'd never struggled to keep his belly full, but it was one less expense to worry about now. It also meant fewer beggars on the street, which was an improvement on a large number of levels. He'd also heard that things were a lot easier for his sister's Varkathian boyfriend now.

A gust of wind ruffled his hair like a fond parent. An amplified trumpet fanfare rang out, and the background chatter was replaced with a reverant hush.

A mass of pale blue light shimmered on the throne, solidifying into the glorious personage of Mariner the god-queen herself.

She was truly a sight to behold. Her flabby belly stuck out a good five feet in front of her. Each of her ass cheeks was bigger than a large man. Her side rolls hung down, oozing out at least three feet in either direction. Her upper arm had flab far bigger around than her head, and her chest had cleaveage you could hide a suckling pig in. At the very sight of her, Hagogah felt his pants tighten with reverant arousal. Truly, this blob of a goddess was the apex of feminine beauty. She was the fattest woman he had ever seen, and probably the fattest he ever would see, if "woman" was even the right word for a divine alien who descended from the skies above.

The grand vizier Gorog raised the microphone and spoke into it.

"The god-queen is devoured. Long live the god queen! May the great and good Mariner rule until the suns grow cold!"

Hagogah joined in with the burst of cheers and applause. The noise of the crowd was like a physical force, pressing against him, and he didn't even care. He was close enough to make out the flabby features of their god-queen without even looking up at the giant video screens, set up at strategic intervals so that those further back could see the details of the historic event.

Mariner's chubby cheeks were pushed back by a broad grin, and she waved to the assembled crowd with a plump hand.

A single ray of sunlight peirced the cloud cover, bathing the divine being in its glow. Slowly but surely, the light spread outwards, the clouds opening up to illuminate the assembled courtiers and attendants, glinting off opal and electrum.

Lightning shocked across the sky, not reaching down to the earth, but jumping from cloud to cloud. The crowd grew silent again, appreciating the spectacular display of divine power. This was a true miracle, he thought, as the sky opened up before them and sunlight warmed their chilly bodies. This enough was proof of the greatness and holy power of the god-queen, for any who dared to doubt. This was the kind of thing that bolstered his faith in hard times.

Of course, there were other kinds of miracles. Invoking the new god-queen had gotten the senior undersecretary to at least promise to shape up, and so far Hagogah's careful probing had revealed no hints of sexual extortion from the other men in the typing pool. In fact, he hadn't even heard her making sexist comments about anyone's appearance or even making chauvinistic jokes.

The wave of sunlight hit Hagogah as the clouds broke apart, until finally the sky was wide open and clear again.

***

Mariner waved to the assembled crowd. She tried to focus on the warmth of sun on her skin, the sound of cheers and royal fanfares, anything but the rumbling in her empty guts and the smell of delicious Bromothian subjects all around her. She reached up to pet one of the six-legged horses, and the beautiful orange animal knickered gently and leaned into her gesture.

In front of her, the assembled groups for the royal procession lined up and began to depart down the path that would circle most of the city. There was a marching band, of course, and floats with fire-dancers and jugglers and other performers. The minister of Culture, whose full title she'd learned was Minister of Porn, Arts, and Associated Cultural Affairs, had certainly pulled out all the stops for this performance. She tried to focus on how helpful that government minister was, and not the fact that her plump, hourglass-shaped body would feel so good sliding down her throat and settling into her gurgling stomach.

Right now, though, she had it under control. Her stomach was empty. She'd dealt with an empty stomach before. She'd had an empty stomach for days on that pathetic little asteroid, back during the Dominion war, until they'd had to draw lots to see who would give up a leg so they might survive until help reached them. Of course, that was before she'd developed Arnaud Syndrome and the rapacious appetite that came with it...

The parade finally began moving forward, and Mariner rose to her feet, waddled over to the carriage that the footman opened for her, and squeezed her rump into the plush seating. She'd definitely put on a little weight recently, just enough to be noticeable. The rapist at the bar, the spouse-beating chief of police, and the high security prison's warden were all to blame.

Still, as the carriage set off, Mariner recognized that she should be grateful for the extra padding on her posterior. The thing was still a horse-drawn carriage, and fond as she was of horses, that type of transportation did not include hoverdrive cushioning or shocks. She did her best to grin and bear it anyway, waving at the assembled populace and blowing a kiss now and then, which caused some men to faint.

There were the people whose lives she was responsible for: young and old, women and men and presumably nonbinary individuals, although she was still learning how to identify what this culture considered androgny. Her tits bounced against her belly and her belly bounced against her gooey tree-trunk thighs.

Her empty stomach rumbled as the carriage bounced and rattled. They'd done their best, but it was still fundamentally a box on wheels. She should have pushed for, like, a basic breakfast, like a little three-foot-wide omelette and a fried bromothian fowl. Nothing big or fancy, just a little something to line her stomach before she went out to meet her adoring-but-delicious subjects.

Mariner did wonder a little about that "adoring" part though. Sure, some people liked her and her policies, but how much of the populace was just cowed and terrified? She'd met some individuals who were overwhelmingly grateful to her, but did they represent the people at large? She really needed some better measures of public opinion in place, like anonymous surveys.

Mariner continued to smile and wave, confident in the knowledge that her body language gave no hint to the thoughts running through her head or the hunger cramping up her massive stomach.

Anyway, no matter how you governed, somebody was going to despise you. You couldn't please everyone, and the people she wanted to please the least were the oligarchs that clustered around central figures of authority in a capitalist society. The trick was making sure to keep the capitalist class in line while worked slowly to build social safety nets and eliminate the poverty and desperation that allowed them to exploit the working class.

The emptiness continued to gnaw at her stomach. Of course, she was up way earlier than she normally got up for the ceremony, but you couldn't tell how hungry you were when you were asleep. She'd needed more than a few glasses of dunik fruit juice to keep her going. All the preparations were in order. She was wearing a custom-made tuxedo that fit her voluminous form perfectly. It was almost a shame, because she fully intended to burst out of it by the end of the ceremony. Even though she wasn't much of a makeup girl, she'd allowed the team to apply some discreet touch-ups just so she looked good for the cameras, of which there were many.

She really hoped she wasn't going to break down and eat the sacrifices before the time came. Or anybody else, for that matter. Heck, at this point, even Tendi or Rutherford sounded pretty tasty.

She really hoped she wasn't going to screw any of this up.

***

B'arnaby lifted up his grandaughter Krakokark onto his shoulder so she could watch the approaching parade. She clapped and cheered along with the crowd as the assemblage marched forward.

These days, there weren't many things that made B'arnaby happy. He still went to church, of course, but that was more because of habit and the need for something to do than out of genuine religious devotion. He knew his faith was small, and he felt ashamed of it, but it was a reality he had to stare in the face. The familiarity of ritual brought some cold comfort to his heart, but it had been a long time since he'd truly Believed in the benificence of the god-queen.

All his family were Varkathian, but his son and daughter-in-law had made the decision to choose a more "normal sounding" name for their child, so she would have a better shot at getting good jobs and avoid being picked on in school. None of them had turned out looking particularly Varkathian, and his daughter-in-law had obsessed over how straight her daughter's hair was and how blue her skin was. They'd never gone to protests like he had. They were very good about not "rocking the boat" and toeing the party line.

B'arnaby had lost his wife in a war with the Western Free Lands, and his son had followed suit in a border skirmish. He wished they would have stayed at home, but they'd been proud to serve in the military right up until the end. He still kept the medals in the attic, although sometimes he'd thought about taking them into the display case where he kept his diploma, and sometimes he'd thought about just throwing them out. Still, either way, the widows and widower's pension money had come in handy when his daughter-in-law came down with brain cancer. Unlike other families, the cost of treatments hadn't driven them into debt. They'd been able to focus on the struggle with the disease, and then on putting her affairs in order. In that respect, at least, he had something to be grateful for.

"Look grandaddy!" Krakokark shouted, pointing at one of the fire dancers. It was an impressive display. The performer was spining two balls, one of ordinary yellow-blue flame, one royal green, each in the opposite direction, all while he danced on a rotating platform on the float, with a sequined bright green top and tight silver shorts. He was slender and conventionally attractive, and although B'arnaby himself was strictly heterosexual, he could appreciate the aesthetics of such a display.

"Yes, sweetpea, it's very pretty," he said, grasping her tiny hand.

He hadn't seen Krakokark smiling that much, either, but when she smiled, he smiled too. He'd also smiled when he learned that the new god-queen had declared a ceasefire with the other nations. That meant a stop to other people's spouses and children going off to die in a foreign land. He hoped and prayed that, under this new god-queen, more children would grow up with their parents to take care of them.

"New god-queen." Now there was a phrase he'd never thought he'd even find himself thinking. He hadn't thought of the god-queen as "bad" or "good" really. She was just there, ageless and eternal as the suns and the moons. His granddaughter was excited of course, but she didn't have the life experience to realize how monumental this paradigm shift was. As far as she knew, the god-queen was devoured by a new one every few generations and this was completely normal. All she knew was that there was a huge celebration, with fire dancers, jugglers, marching bands, and huge floats throwing out free vardenara candy.

Maybe she wouldn't grow up wanting to join the army. She'd hear stories of her parents and grandmother, but she would grow up in a nation at peace. Hopefuly. Peace rarely lasted, however. At least though, with the universal food stamps program, she would be sure to grow up with a full belly. She wouldn't have to enlist to make sure her family was fed. That was another thing to be thankful for, and he prayed that it would last, too.

"Grandaddy, are you okay?"

"Of course sweetie, why wouldn't I be?"

"You look like you're about to cry." she said.

"Sometimes people cry when they're happy," B'arnaby explained. "I'm just really enjoying the parade."

***

Zavaz caught some of the hard candy thrown from the float with trained dancing gryphons. So far, the parade was going really well. She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth, savoring the bittersweet flavor.

"Hey babe! I got us this new cocktail, made just for the coronation. It's called Mariner's Mixer." Adina said, giving her a kiss on the cheek and an affectiontae little poke in the tummy.

"What's in it?" Zavaz asked.

"Who cares? It's free booze, free calories, and it's commemorative!" Adina said, taking a big gulp, licking her lips, then trying and failing to cover a loud burp. "I may have had a few already."

"What do you need free stuff for?" Zavaz asked lightly. "I mean, aren't you rich enough to get drinks out ever day? And on top of that, your mom is a liquor magnate. You can get all the booze you want!"

"Maybe, but it's the prinshiple of the thing," Adina said, handing Zavaz the tall bright orange drink. "Anyway, by drinking this, I'm, like, helping out my mom, since she ended up winning the government contract by three *belch* submissions and a knockout. Sure, she ended up with a black eye, fat lip, and a dislocated shoulder, but you should see the other gals!"

Zavaz critically examined the Mariner's Mixer. It smelled fruity, but the resulting taste wasn't too cloying or syrup and had a minty note. It was also fairly booze-forward with its flavor, though again not overwhelmingly so. The bartender who had come up with this one certainly knew their business.

"Too bad Tendi couldn't come along," Adina said. She sniffed a little. "I mean, you're pretty hot stuff, but I mish her. She's a good girlfriend."

"I still can't believe we're dating the same gal as the god-queen herself," Zavaz said. "I mean, I heard the old god-queen would have her concubines publically flayed if she caught them sleeping with anyone else."

"She's so kind and generous. Mariner'sh really an aweshome god-queen," Adina said, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Are you...are you drunk already?" Zavaz said, mildly incredulous.

"Hey, don't harsh my buzz," Adina said, covering another burp. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime celebration! No, rarer than once-in-a-lifetime. It's like...hopefully once in ever. So I'm allowed to party hard and do a little day-drinking," she whined.

"I suppose so," Zavaz sighed, acquiesing but wishing she had Tendi here to weigh in on the dispute between them as a third party observer.

She had to admit though, her non-alien girlfriend had a point. When else would they have an excuse to party this hard? She took another sip of the Mariner's Mixer, less tentative this time. It was quite good, despite the boozy flavor.

Maybe she should lighten up a little. Tendi would probably encourage her to relax and have fun to the fullest extent if she was here. Of course, she was incredibly busy with her royal duties right now and needed to be by the god-queen's side. She was still learning about polyamory, but if she were in Tendi's place, she'd probably want to be there for her divine partner on such an important day, and it wasn't reasonable to ask to be included in the VIP section. That would look like naked favoritism after all.

The Mariner's Mixer really was very nice. Maybe she'd even find one of the dispensary stands and light up a little. This was a world-changing civic event in the nation's history, but it was also a celebration of everything that the new god-queen represented, and that included the idea that sharing was caring, and maybe you could have a girlfriend with two other girlfriend's on the side without removing her skin for doing so.

"I'll drink to that," Zavaz thought out loud.

"Me too!" Adina said, eagerly gulping down her cocktail.

"Let's also get some solid food in you too though," Zavaz said. "Can't have my chunky girlfriend waisting away," she said, giving her tummy an affectionate pat.

"I already *burp* had an omelette this morning," Adina said. "I don't wanna leave this hot spot before *belch* the parade stops. What if I miss the official procession of the god-queen?"

"Okay but at least let me flag down a food vendor," Zavaz insisted. "You need something more to line your stomach, and maybe some fruit juice or water. I don't want to end up holding your hair back while you lose your undigested calories in a back alley."

"Get your cheese babies! Cheese babies here!" a vendor shouted.

"Deep-fried vardenara cookies on a stick!" another one called out.

"Okay, I'll take two of both," Adina said, flagging them down, her stomach growling.

"I knew you still had your appetite," Zavaz said, leaning down to kiss Adina's rotund belly. "Let's get that bad girl packed tight."

"Just as long as you leave room for more booze," Adina said, blushing just a little.

"Promise," Zavaz said.

Eventually, Tendi would return to them, and she would take great delight in sculping her skinny little physique into a gorgeous fat mass.

She turned her attention back to the procession, where ceremonial guards accompanied a float consisting of a single stand with a pillow, on which rested the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner's electrum-and-opal crown.

***

Arkinikra had been assigned the position of Gho Shand ambassador to the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner after the overthrow of their previous "god-queen", and he still wasn't completely sure if this assignment was a promotion or a punishment. Alwawla the third, The Minister of Culture from the Western Free Lands, had been rather monopolizing the conversation, and while he did understand they were dealing with a lot of problems with the civil war, he would have liked to get a word in edgewise. He also couldn't decide if she was being overly casual or actively hitting on him, and the ambivalence was frustrating him. If she was hitting on him, he could politely decline and see how to proceed from there. If she wasn't, then he could put up with a little casual treatment, even at an event as important as this.

His tolerance of Alwawla's laments had been helped along by a wonderful twelve-year-old vintage of glorka berry wine and one of the new "Mariner's Mixer" cocktails created to commemorate the coronation. What gave the whole proceeding a rather brittle edge, and encouraged him to drink more than he normally did at important international events, was the presence of one of an involuntary "guest" at the event. That was the Arnanra the serial killer.

She didn't look particularly intimidating right now, gagged, hogtied and resting on an oversized silver serving dish. Arnanra was moderately fat, a little plumper now than the mugshot that had circulated when she was successfully arrested. She looked terrified and a little confused, as if she didn't understand why she was here. When you looked at those pleading blue eyes, you could almost forget the rest of the news article, the things she had done, what they had found in her basement and dug up in her backyard, all the families that would never see their sons again, and the agony and terror that must have filled up her victims terrified final moments, knowing that nobody else would ever hear their screams. Some of those experiences had lasted for weeks before she finally claimed their lives.

Arkinikra shivered and drained his glass of wine.

"Well, what do you think?" the Minister of Culture from the Western Free Lands asked him.

"Sorry, I was a little distracted," he said. "Could you repeat that for me?"

"What do you think of the new cocktail?" she asked, grinning broadly, while averting her eyes from the serial killer slated for public execution.

"Oh, it's quite tasty, but I can't pass up an opportunity for such a good vintage of glorka berry wine," Arkinikra said, relieved that she was talking about something other than her own nation's woes with the civil war. He was certainly sympathetic to the cause, and hoped the government triumphed over the slave-holding seperatist rebels, but Gho Shand had it's own problems right now with the southern raiders and the copper shortage. This seemed more like the time and place for light topics.

Then again, maybe the site of a public execution was a place for heavy discourse. He had trouble trying to gague the mood here, despite being rather socially adept in most situations. Sure, Gho Shand held public executions with snack vendors and gawking spectators, but it was really more of a gryphon and horse show, something to keep the common people entertained rather than an occasion for the good and great. Of course, those events didn't have the head of state as the executioner, especially in such an intimate fashion.

When the carriage pulled up, Mariner the so-called god-queen didn't emerge as much as she flowed out of it, rolls of flab cascading like a waterfall. She was gorgeously huge, bigger than the two fattest women he'd personally seen put together, and more beautiful than any of them as well. The strange garment called a "tuxedo" intriguingly covered her midsection, concealing the belly skin with minimalist black and white even as it suggestively hugged her overflowing curves. Her brown eyes gleamed with a hungry light, as intimidating as she was attractive. The photographs and newsreels truly didn't do justice to her titanic form that he was now witness in the flesh. For all his self-control, he felt his cocks stiffen at the very sight of her wobbling towards him, and his knees grew weak. Her lack of wings and horn added an uncanny edge to her corpulent beauty, like some kind of nature spirit in a classical painting.

"Allow me to introduce the god-queen Mariner, supreme ruler of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner, with the power to move the earth and sky, healer of mortal wounds, able to move matter living and inert with a nod, supreme legislative and executive authority, who descended from space in all her beneficence to guide and protect our people from the ravages of wicked Bromothians and the forces of nature itself!"

The advisors and other dignitaries of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy all bowed low. Arkinikra nodded and raised his empty glass to her. The prince of the Western Subcontinent actually bowed as well, his red eyes wet with emotion.

Mariner's hungry brown eyes ran over the assembled crowd of dignitaries, lingering a little longer on the bound and gagged sacrifice and one of the ordinary citizens who had won a chance to participate in the VIP section by lottery. There was just a little drool forming at the corner of her mouth.

"Er, it's a pleasure to meet you all! Thanks for coming," the queen said, with a big toothy grin and a little wave.

"Pleasure to meet you!" is what Arkinikra tried to say, amidst a chorus of replies.

Chapter Text

Hanokikonah couldn't believe her luck. First she'd gone out to the bar, when she really couldn't afford it, just because she'd felt miserable and lonely. Then the new god-queen had showed up and paid for all of their drinks. Then the god-queen had fucked her in the bathroom. That had been unbelievable. She wasn't fat the way women should be, and she wasn't a skinny butch either. She was muscular, like a common laborer, and still the god-queen had shown enough interest to fuck her in the bathroom! After that, she, of all people, had won one of the electrum tickets that offered her VIP access to the coronation ceremony.

Now she was here, in the thick of things, and Mariner the new god-queen had actually *noticed* her. She'd looked over the crowd of advisors and diplomats and spotted *her*, Hanokikonah the riveter, and she actually seemed happy to see her!

Hanokikonah downed the rest of her Mariner Mixer for courage. The god-queen was still truly a sight to behold, her magestic belly sagging in front of her, barely contained by that delightful new "tuxedo" outfit the royal taylors had conjured up. It was so inviting, begging to be rubbed up against, or lain on, or curled up inside even. Yes, "inviting" barely covered the description of Mariner the god-queen's massive gut. She was even fatter than the previous god-queen now, and that took some doing. She was the fattest woman that Hanokikonah had ever seen, and somehow she still had shown an interest in a muscle-head like Hanokikonah.

"Hey Varbibarv, Could I get a glass of gunip-root flavored vodka?" Mariner asked one of the servants sweetly.

"Of course, your holy highness," the young man said, bowing and dashing off. He was good-looking for a man, slim and slender, with an opal-studded collar and royal green top and pants. His wings fluttered a little as he hurried to oblige his divine ruler.

"So, Ermomre, how is the progress going in the fight against the famine?" Mariner asked the prince of the Western Subcontinent.

"Very well, your holy highness," the prince said, taking a glass of glorka berry wine from one of the servants hovering around them with wine and cocktails. "We are pleased to report that deaths from malnutrition have been virtually eliminated, thanks to the nutrient pellets you materialized and the shipments of food you've sent."

"Glad to hear. Now let's see if we can get that 'virtually' down to 'actually'," Mariner said, thumping him on the back. He staggered a little under the pressure.

Truly, their god-queen was a beneficent one. The last god-queen had erred a bit on the wrathful and strict side, but this one seemed determined to show goodwill and kindness to almost all of her subjects. Of course, in this case the word "almost" excluded irredeemable villains like rapists and serial killers. The previous god-queen had shown a bit less interest in those types of criminals, preferring to focus on individuals whose activities threatened Her divine authority and consisted of offenses against the crown.

Hanokikonah had not been a particularly pious woman, back in the day. Of course she still attended church daily, and masturbated to the royal pornography, but she hadn't really felt it in her heart of hearts. When she heard about the old god-queen's absorption by the new god-queen, she'd felt a mixture of grief, fear, and relief.

Mariner was talking with the prince of the Western Subcontinent about the famine relief efforts, but she spared another glance for Hanokikonah, and even paused to wink. She hadn't imagined it. It had really happened. The god-queen, she who moved the heavens, she who devoured, she who controlled matter and could determine life or death with a simple nod, had *winked* at Hanokikonah of all people.

Of course, Hanokikonah had done her best to class it up for the appearance. She'd put on her best matte black skirt and an embroidered maroon top. She'd restyled her hair from its usual spikes into a set of fetching braids. She'd even put on makeup for the occasion. She still felt woefully inadequate when she was rubbing shoulders with heads of state and royal advisors. Mostly, she'd hung back in the corner and nursed a couple of Mariner Mixers, because she felt that the vintage glorka berry wine was reserved for people who really belonged their, not silly little peasants who'd won a contest.

Varbibarv the servant returned with a glass of gunip-root vodka. Mariner took it, sniffed it, and sipped it. She then winced, set the drink down on a nearby table, and sneezed.

Hanokikonah's ovipositor sprang to life. That was her secret kink.

Mariner made eye contact with her and grinned wickedly.

"Sorry, I think I might *hechoo* be allergic to this, but it's s-so damn tasty," she raised a tissue in her hand and let loose with another sneeze. "I just can't resist it. I suppose even god-queens need to have s-some vices, am I *achoo* right?"

"I suppose so, your holy highness," Prince Ermomre said, politely sipping his wine.

Hanokikonah drained the rest of her glass. It was undeniable. Mariner, the god-queen, was trying to get *her* hot and bothered. This woman had an ass that four fat woman could be proud of, a gut that three women could fit in, breasts each bigger than two heads, a double-chin moistened with drool, and *she* was trying to get a rise out of Hanokikonah. She couldn't believe it. Her ovipositor stiffened as she listened to the divine sneezes. She occupied a unique juxtaposition of ecstasy and torment, horny as fuck and unable to act on it or acknowledge it in any way. She felt thankful that she had chosen a loose-fitting bottom today, one that would hide her embarassingly large boner in the folds.

Mariner smiled at her again. She also licked her lips and wiped away drool from the corners of her mouth. Hanokikonah reminded herself that Mariner still was the god-queen, and the god-queen was always hungry. A mild tinge of physical fear suffused her already heightened social anxiety.

Mariner turned and looked at the restrained serial killer. Of course, Hanokikonah had heard rumors about Arnanra's crimes, mainly from the male sex workers who'd noticed their friends and collegues disappearing. She'd not been threatened personally, as this murderer had a taste for single men, but she'd rejoiced at news of the Bromothian monster's capture, and she wasn't unmoved by the pathos of so many young men cut down in their prime, even though she was strictly interested by the pleasures of her own sex.

A loud rumble emitted from Mariner's prodigious belly.

***

Mariner was fucking starving. She'd tried to make small-talk with the bigwigs and diplomats, including the winner of the fight for contract rights to procure the liquors for the free booze for this shindig. She'd livened up a bit when she saw the hot butch who liked sneezes, and amused herself by tormenting the young woman with her favorite kink. Still, most of the affair was fairly boring, the kind of diplomatic small-talk that she despised at official starfleet events, back when she was old enough to be dragged along and too young to get her way out of them with a well-placed lie or beamed-in cherry bomb. Now though? She was still fucking starving, and all of these VIPs smelled absolutely delectable.

The ambassador from the Western Free Lands, minister of culture or something like that, was equal parts fuckable heavyset hourglass, delectably plump, and tedious to listen to. The Greater Peninsula Alliance had also provided a diplomat who had to be over four-hundred pounds, with an ass that refused to quit even when given two week's notice, a belly that two women could be proud of, and an amazing set of tits.

The hunger pangs were like knives stabbing into her midsection. She was drooling, she knew it, and she didn't really care. It wasn't her fault that this planet was full of incredibly delicious people. Fuck, she was more than half-tempted to gobble up Tendi, just to fill up the emptiness. After all, she could cough her up later, and she'd probably manage it before her girlfriend got digested.

Right?

Mariner knocked back another glass of gunip-root flavored vodka, trying to distract herself from her own appetite with sneezing and watching that hot butch squirm. The Minister of Porn was in a lively three-way conversation with the emmisary from the Northern Archipelago and some bigwig involved in complicated economic stuff she didn't really understand or care about. She wanted to ask Tendi if she could just have a little nibble, but Tendi was busy coordinating with some of the guards via an old-style communication technology called a walkie talkie. Boimler was sipping a glass of wine while going over tax breaks with the Minister of finance, who was laughing a lot and playing with her hair. As usual, he appeared to pick up on none of this. Mariner wasn't sure though whether he was actually as oblivious as he seemed to sexual advances, or if he was chose to ignore them when he was feeling more ace-y than bisexual.

Mariner turned to one of the electrum ticket winners.

"Hey, it's W'ilma, right?" Mariner said. W'ilma was a nice, plump, delectable Bromothian, short and stocky, at least three-hundred pounds. She smelled good and would probably taste even better. "How are you enjoying this little shindig?"

"Um, quite well, your holy highness," W'ilma said nervously, wings fluttering. Mariner couldn't tell if she was nervous because she was awkward around divine monarchs, or because Mariner couldn't stop little rivulets of drool from running down her cheeks to pool under her second chin. Heck, maybe she just wasn't used to big crowds.

"So how do you like to spend your spare time?" Mariner asked, giving her a friendly slap on the back.

"Well, uh, I don't have a lot of spare time, your holy highness, but I guess I do what most people do. I listen to the radio, sometimes I go out to the bar with friends when I've got the funds." W'ilma said, after she'd recovered from the blow.

Mariner's stomach rumbled. She was certain that everyone else had heard it by the way they all winced, and the sudden increase in space around her, despite the platform being rather crowded.

"Heheh, sorry," Mariner said. She waddled over to the grand vizier. "Hey, Gorog, uh, when exactly do we get on with the first sacrifice? Because, not gonna lie, the old divine hunger is really acting up and everyone around me is looking extremely delicious."

"Your holy highness, we were just about to start," Gorog said anxiously.

"Cool." Mariner said, She downed another glass of glorka berry wine and dinged a fork on it.

"Attention, everyone please get your eyes on the stage for the first big meal of the day!"

Gorog stepped up and pulled out an official-looking scroll.

" Arnanra, you stand guilty of multiple counts of murder, kidnapping, unlawful torture, unlawful disposal of Bromothian remains, and mailbox vandalism. You have been sentenced to death by digestion, at the hands of our divine queen. You have received your last meal and notification has been sent to your next of kin. Do you have any final words?"

"Mmmph!" Arnanra said.

"Uh, Gorog, I think you need to pull out the gag for that part," Mariner stage-whispered.

Gorog blushed indigo and removed the ball gag.

"Those sluts and shrews had it coming!" Arnanra shouted. "I just did what everyone else was thinking about but didn't have the guts or smarts to pull off!"

The pastor stepped up and anointed Arnanra with cooking oils, shook on some purifying salt and herbs, then read some holy text over the Bromothian sacrifice.

Mariner rubbed her pudgy little hands together and licked her lips. "Can I eat her now?"

The pastor nodded.

Mariner reached out and grabbed the serial killer, then downed her in a single gulp. She'd wanted to savor the delicious flavor, she really had, but the hunger pangs were too intense. She just slurped her up and swallowed her down. Relief instantly flooded through her as the bound woman splashed inside her belly.

"Ah, man, that really hit the spot." Mariner said, leaning back and rubbing her tuxedo-clad tummy and belching. "Excuse me, W'ilma, what were we talking about before?

W'ilma shuddered. "Uh, your h-holy highness, you were asking me what I liked to do in my downtime?"

Chapter Text

Mariner would have liked to say that she was full right now. She would liked to have even been satisfied. The truth, however, was that she was still very hungry.

The minister of finance was still fruitlessly flirting with Boimler, whether he was being oblivious by choice or by nature. The pastor was downing the free wine while chatting politely with the prince of the Western Subcontinent.

Mariner turned to focus on the opening band. Three Feet Beat was an up-and-coming middle-of-the-road pop band, not without a little edge. Their name came from the fact that their four members had three functional feet between them, as the group was made entirely of disabled performers, most of them amputees of one kind or another.

As Mariner tapped her foot to the music, she moved through the crowd to approach one of the wallflowers in the corner. This one was another ticket-winner, a muscular young man with close-cropped hair wearing the kind of silver-inlayed black top and slacks that were one expression of Bromothian formal wear. Mariner noticed that the uniform was a little the worse for wear and a bit tight on his bulky physique. Probably it was the only clothes he had that seemed dignified enough for the occassion.

"Hey there. I'm Mariner, but you probably already knew that. How are you liking the band?"

"Oh, your holy highness, I'm Corporal Zeninez, at your service, your holy highness!" the soldier said, swiftly saluting.

"Relax, dude, you're not on parade. This a party."

"As you wish, your holy highness," Zeninez said, saluting again and almost spilling his glass of wine.

"So, yeah, how do you like the band?" Mariner asked. His eyes were candy-red and full of vigor, and apparently Bromothians were among the humanoids, like Orions, that had developed enough abdominal musculature they could grow an eight-pack through a mixture of hard exercise and the right genes.

"Your holy highness, it's very nice. I uh, don't get out a lot, so I haven't heard them before, but your taste is excellent," he said stiffly.

"It's okay, dude. You don't have to like them to be a loyal citizen," Mariner said.

"Your holy highness, I do like it though. They have a very good lead singer."

Mariner turned to regard at the lead, a plump congenital amputee woman with curly green hair and pale blue eyes. Rather than straightforward mechanical replacements for her four missing limbs, she had a set of three robotic arms connected at the waist and a mechanical wheelchair. She did have a certain crooning elegance to her work, and a wicked smile that Mariner found intriguing. She'd have to go over and congratulate them after this performance.

"Your holy highness, is there anything I can do for you?" Zeninez asked nervously.

"Nah, I'm just making conversation," Mariner said. "How long have you been in the army?"

"Six years, your holy highness," Zeninez said, before draining his glass. Mariner grabbed him another one from a passing servant, then downed one herself.

Mariner had only served in the dominion war for two years. Two years had been enough for her. This man had seen three times that level of bloodshed and slaughter.

There were all sorts of questions Mariner had for him, and she asked none of them. That was the least she could do for him, one veteran to another. She'd certainly hated it when the therapists had tried to chip away at her, forcing her to relive those moments, trying to get her to "open up" about her "past trauma".

"Do you think she's cute?" Mariner asked, tilting her head in the direction of the singer. The band also had a string instrument player, a drummer, and somebody operating a complex pipe-based instrument.

"Uh, I'm afraid I wouldn't really know," Zeninez said. "I'm gay."

Mariner felt a tiny twinge of disappointment, although it still paled in comparison to her relentless hunger. She drained her glass, even though it was just a drop in the bucket. Booze helped with a lot of things, whether it was distracting her from her monstrous appetite or keeping the visions of Jem'Hadar at bay.

"That's cool. Are you seeing anyone right now?"

"Not really. I don't have much of a social life, and since the ceasefire I haven't been getting out much," Zeninez admitted.

"Oh, my bu-avisor Boimler is hosting a guy's game night at the palace. You should come! You might run into a potential boyfriend, and even if you don't it's a great chance to get out of the house and do some socializing."

"But, your holy highness, I'm not a member of the palace staff or advisory council," Zeninez said, and he was actually blushing when he said it.

"It'll be fine, trust me," Mariner said, patting him on the back and causing him to almost drop his glass. "And if you can't trust the god-queen, who can you trust, right?" she said, with a grin.

"Your holy highness, that would be very kind of you. Of course I put my full trust and faith in you!" the young soldier said solemnly.

*I'll try to earn it,* Mariner thought. Outwardly, she smiled and picked up a tall glass of Mariner's Mixer. She had to admit, the royal bartender had done a pretty good job with this one. Someday she'd have to do a tasting flight of the different drinks that had been named after her across the Alpha Quadrant with her friends.

She thought longingly of the rest of the Alpha Quadrant. She thought of replicators and sonic showers. Sure, she had delicious Bromothian flesh here, but there were still lots of treats she missed and craved. Chocolate was a big one, as was spiced-up replicated Boimler and good tequila. Dirty Weekends were similarly tangy, but they just weren't quite as good as a decent margarita.

Mariner drank deeper.

"Well, Mariner, this is quite a nice little party you've thrown," said the ambassador from the Greater Peninsula Alliance.

"Oh, thank you," Mariner said, surprised to realize she was smiling. None of the locals had the audacity to address her by her regular name, and the other foreign dignitaries at least called her "your highness". Mariner looked the dignitary up and down. Her dark purple top accentuated the line of her cleavage, while her long lilac skirt concealed her thighs and just let a little bit of ankle show. She also wore several medals of some kind, and a black cloak held together with an amethyst broach. Her orange eyes were full of fire, and her smile was unintimidated. Her wings were broad and held still. Her green hair was in a simple buzzcut, except for a single lock directly under her short broad horn.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, and sorry, but could you remind me what your name is? I didn't catch it in the first round of introductions," Mariner said.

"Averada Filitia," she said, with a tilt of her head. "Though I have to admit, I could do with some canapes."

"Yes, sorry about the food situation. Unfortunately, right now I have to save my appetite for the main course," Mariner said, watching for Averada's reaction.

Averada laughed, a high, musical laugh that sent a shiver down Mariner's spine.

"But of course you are. After all, that's the main event, isn't it? The performers, the drinks, the holy signifiers of office, all that's just a bit of a sideshow. You're the main event around here."

Mariner had been picking up a little here and there, but she hadn't learned enough about Bromothian subcultures to develop a decent gaydar on the planet. Right now though, she was surprised to find herself hoping the ambassador wasn't straight or taken.

Gorog was glaring daggers at Averada, but the ambassador either didn't care or didn't notice.

"What can I say? I've always enjoyed being the center of attention," Mariner said, rubbing her belly and smacking her lips.

"I suppose I can't fault you for that," Averada said, putting down her empty glass and flagging down a server to grab a new one. "Or for your taste in glorka berry wine."

"Well then, thank you for the compliment," Mariner said, knocking back the rest of her mixer. "Tell me, is there anything I can do to make the coronation more enjoyable for you?"

Averada cocked her head and frowned thoughtfully. "Aside from something to eat? Not really. As I said, I'm having a lovely time."

Mariner felt another little twinge of disappointment.

"Well, if you want food you could step out of the roped-off section. There's plenty of vendors around," Mariner suggested.

"Oh, I'd prefer not to leave your company just yet, Mariner," Averada said, leaning in close. "I'm having too much fun here."

On the other hand, maybe Mariner did have a shot with this gal.

Just then, her stomach interrupted with a gurgle. The serial killer was probably reduced to a lot of mush and bones by now.

"Pardon me," Mariner said sheepishly.

The minister of foreign affairs hurried over.

"Averada Filitia, I was wonder if I could talk with you a little bit about the proposed trade deal regarding grain exports," she said, only slurring her words a little.

"That can wait," Mariner said, putting a hand on the minister's shoulder.

"Yes, your holy highness," the minister said, wings sagging as she proceeded to get lost.

Mariner inhaled deeply. That may have been a mistake. Her mouth filled with saliva. Averada was a beautiful older woman, yes, but she also looked and smelled extremely delicious, and Mariner was suddenly having trouble keeping her attention on the former and ignoring the latter.

"You know, we do have a lot of grain to export," Averada admitted, with a small sigh. "The latest bumper crop has come up and the farmers can barely give it away. Of course we can ferment the excess, but really, the Greater Peninsula Alliance isn't known for the quality of its vodka the way, say, the Western Free Lands are."

Ah. Back to business.

"Well, maybe you could offload some of that stuff in the Western Subcontinent. They are going through a famine after all, and I'm sure the people would appreciate some bread and pasta to supplement their nutrient pellets."

Averada frowned. "Hm. Historically, our relations with the Western Subcontinent have been a little...chilly." She turned to regard the crowd before them and applied a napkin to the corner of her lips.

"All the more reason to defrost them with a nice gesture," Mariner said brightly. "I mean, starving people aren't too choosy about who provides relief."

"Possibly," Averada admitted. "I'd have to talk with the chancellor of course, but there's a few members of the high council who might be ready to pursue more friendly footing."

"Hey, when you have a round-shaped peg, it makes sense to look for a round-shaped hole," Mariner said, hoping her grin would come off as friendly or seductive rather than ravenous.

Averada almost choked on her drink.

*Gotcha*, Mariner thought. That line had definitely landed. She still had her good ol' Mariner game going on. She had to admit that, while she appreciated her concubines, and bar-room hookups were fun, she was a bit more interested in somebody who didn't worship her and fall under her leadership. There was a much greater appeal to the sexual conquest aspect.

"I'm so sorry, I seem to have sputtered all over your, 'tuxedo' I think it's called? Let me fetch you some seltzer and napkins," Averada said, still struggling not to laugh.

She dashed over to one of the side bars and acquired the necessary things for cleanup, moistening Mariner's cleaveage in the process. Mariner'sbar-room hookup looked as though she might be in danger of fainting, but Mariner just intensified the beam of sunlight they were standing under so the area dried out faster. (She knew she'd never catch the end of it from Castro if she went around on Coronation Day with wet clothes).

Averada was impressed, but trying not to look like it. Mariner wondered what the other nations thought of the god-queen's "divine powers". Obviously, they didn't consider her worthy of worship, but what was she to them? A demon? A supervillain? Some kind of evil god to be shunned and avoided? A powerful sorcerer? After all, directed lightning bolts and the like were hard to overlook.

"Tell me, Averada, how'd you like to develop some more friendly diplomatic relations with the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Me?" Mariner said, grabbing another glass for them both.

"That would depend on the terms of that diplomacy," Averada said evenly, although her cheeks flushed just a little.

"Well, I think I'd have to decide that during some private negotiations, preferably in a more intimate setting," Mariner whispered, gently pressing her protruding belly up against Averada. It growled again, and she glared at it. *Not now, girl. Some of the other organs have to get a say in this.*

"Give me some time to think it over," Averada said.

"Take all the time you need," Mariner said, lifting her glass and taking a deep swallow. She felt a bit of gas building up, but she didn't want to blow her chances by burping in this woman's face, although Jennifer absolutely loved it when she did that.

As Averada left her to talk with the prince of the Western Subcontinent, Mariner looked around nervously amongst the servants present. No, thankfully, Nimin was not here. She honestly didn't know what she'd do if he showed up again and tried to seduce her into gobbling him up. Just the thought of those broad shoulders, pecs, and abs covered with herbs and oil or whipped cream sent her stomach gurgling and her mouth filling up with drool.

Chapter Text

Ellerite, better known as Big El, was having a wonderful time out with her family. Her wife was getting happily sloshed on free government booze, her adopted son was clapping and gawking at all the entertainers, his fingers sticky from free candy, and she was sinking her teeth into a delicious stack of deep-fried cookies on a stick.

The opener band was just wrapping up in time for the shift change. Ellerite didn't really see the appeal of the newer pop music, but they'd been important enough to play at the coronation, so that probably meant they were going somewhere. Anyway, the main musical event most people were interested in was the post-retirement appearance of Seven Green Hearts. Love them or hate them, their influence on the underground music scene was undeniable, and yet they were so versatile they'd even had crossover and collabs with contemporary pop artists and classical musicians. If she was being perfectly honest with herself, attending the coronation was worth it just for the chance to see that band live, one more time.

Of course, she had other reasons for coming out here. For the first time in, well, over a century, she was wearing a pendant of the three, out in public, with royal guards and policemen all around her, and she felt safe. More than safe. She felt proud. She wouldn't have to take her family to any more mandatory sermons, and she could finally share the Old Ways with her beautiful son, without worrying that his chatty mouth would land them in a prison cell or torture chamber.

She knew what some of her fellows said, but Ellerite couldn't believe this nice young woman was an evil spirit in disguise. She'd done too much to change their lives for the better, and besides, Rutherford was a close companion of hers, and he seemed like a very good judge of character.

Ellerite might not worship Mariner as a god, but she could certainly appreciate her qualities as a queen. Ellerite's own mother had raised her to appreciate the persecution that Varkathians had been through, and how that persecution had many parallels with their own opppression as followers of the Old Ways, even though it still wasn't safe to open up to any old person unless you knew they were friendly to the secret faith. Now, queen Mariner had publicly come out against anti-Varkathian sentiments and started some arts grant for official Varkathian pornography and other forms of art, produced by and for Varkathians, rather than the denegrating stuff involving non-Varkathian actors with wigs, body paint, and false fangs.

"Look, mommy! There's a ring toss game. Can we play?" her son said.

Ellerite pulled out some notes from her wallet. Business had never been bad, but it had really taken off once people learned that one of the alien advisors worked there in his free time. She'd even considered applying for a royal seal of approval. After all, she had helped the aliens earn money when they'd first showed up on this planet, before their move to overthrow the existing queen. That had to count for something, right?

Her little boy enthusiastically flung seven rings at big prizes he couldn't even reach, getting frustrated and disappointed.

"Hey now, don't cry," her wife said. Ellerite drank in the woman's braided orange hair, her sparkling red eyes, her sweet black-painted lips, and her massive dark blue belly. She was still as beautiful as the day they'd first met. "Maybe mommy can win you a prize."

"I want the stuffed gryphon!" their son whined.

"Oh, sure, put all the pressure on me," Ellerite said, with a smile. She threw down another large bill, but she was confident she could figure out this rigged game's particular trick.

"Excuse me, but my shift's just ending," the young woman working the game said. "Would you mind waiting a few minutes for the replacement to come out?"

"Oh?" Ellerite said.

"Yeah. Our divine ruler set up split shifts for the coronation event, so even the people working the stands can have fun and watch a Bromothian sacrifice."

Ellerite shivered a little. It stood to reason that some people were too dangerous and cruel to be permitted within society, and that some crimes deserved lethal punishment, but this was one aspect of her ruler that she found a little less savory. Traditional orthodox practice of the Old Ways called for animal sacrifices to be drained of blood, the meat cooked and shared among the congregation, but that was, well, animals. She disliked the idea of a ruler who, if they ever met, would be wondering what she tasted like.

The new game operator showed up, a pimply teenage boy with curly green hair.

"You sure you wanna put down that much on this game?" he asked.

"I'll ask for my change once I get the prize," Ellerite said, confidently.

Ellerite figured out after a few throws that the trick was to bounce the ring off the back behind the prizes, and aimed for one of the stuffed animals on the middle of the board.

It was a disturbing aspect of the monarchy, but then, it was also a marked improvement over the leadership of Her. In the past, entire families had been sacrificed to the god-queen's appetite, under the threat of having their entire communities put to the torch. At least these weren't innocent souls, being forced to answer under the threat of having everying they know slaughtered.

"I'm gonna get some more free Dirty Weekends," her wife said, covering a belch, "and maybe some roasted fowl on a stick. You want anything?"

"Maybe some pork buns," Ellerite said. After all, she needed protein as well as carbs. "And I guess I'll try one of the Mariner's Mixers," she added, feeling oddly patriotic about it.

"Hey, hey," somebody shouted.

Ellerite ignored them and flung the ring. So close!

"Hey, you, big gal," the somebody shouted.

Ellerite turned and glared at the interloper, a tall woman with bloodshot blue eyes and short-cut black hair.

"My name isn't big gal," Ellerite said.

"Whatever. Why don't you take off that ugly thing, huh? Show some respect."

Ellerite frowned. She wasn't in her old work duds. Her wife had helped her pick out this fetching leaf-purple skirt and her emerald-green top.

"This is the *god-queen's* coronation, you fucking heathen," the woman spat.

Ellerite did the instant calculations. The drunken stranger didn't have a weapon in hand right now, but there was plenty of room in her outfit for a concealed knife, maybe even a small gun. Ellerite moved directly in front of her son. Her wings began fluttering.

"Yeah, you heard me," the drunk shouted. "She's wearing a heathen symbol, at the most holy day of all! Who do you think you are, huh, coming to our country and disrespecting our god-queen like that?"

"Just calm down," Ellerite said, wishing she had a wrench or a wooden plank to weild. There were cops nearby, but they'd be no help, assuming they didn't weigh in on the drunk's side.

"You want me to calm down?" the belligerent blue-eyed woman said, staggering forward and reaching for something in her pocket.

"Mommy? What's happening? Why is that lady so angry at you?" Ellerite's son said.

Ellerite grabbed him and half lowered, half-flung him inside the game booth.

"I'll explain later," she hissed, turning back to the drunken woman. Sure enough, she was pulling out a knife. She clearly didn't know what she was doing, as the blade wavered in front of her, but that was little comfort. Amatuers could get lucky.

"Put the knife down and we can talk about this," Ellerite said. "Come on. This is a Coronation party. Everyone's just here to have fun, right?"

The woman lunged. Ellerite stepped aside her first wild thrust, grabbed her wrist, and twisted her arm behind her back until she dropped it.

"Look, friend, we've clearly had a little misunderstanding, and you've clearly had more to drink than is good for you. But I'm an open-minded, tolerant person. So why don't you go leave me and my son alone, and as a bonus prize, you get to keep the your shoulder in it's socket," Ellerite said.

"I don't take orders from--aah! Okay! Okay! I'll piss off!" the woman whimpered, as Ellerite increased the pressure with mechanical precision.

"Next time you threaten somebody, don't do it in front of their family, got it?" Ellerite hissed, giving one last twist for good measure, stopping just short of the force it would need to dislocate the woman's shoulder. "I'll be keeping this," she said, taking the switchblade, closing it, and tucking it into her skirt pocket, next to her keys.

The drunk ran off, angry tears and snot streaming from her face.

"Mommy? What happened? Why did you put me in the game booth?" her son asked.

Ellerite ran forward, yanked him out, and swung him up into a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry. Mommy will explain it all when we get home."

Against all expectation, the kid behind the booth reached up and patted her on the shoulder.

"I'll tell them what happened if she comes back looking for you with the cops," the kid said. Ellerite had barely even been aware of his existence during the exchange. She realized that her wings were still flapping.

"Thank you," Ellerite said. Her wings were working up a dust storm but her body felt numb and frozen, the rest of her limbs all stupid and stiff.

"Honey? Honey what's wrong? Honestly, I just went off for a few minutes to grab some drinks and snacks." Ellerite's wife set the food and beverages down on the game counter and ran over to hug her.

Suddenly, Ellerite's legs were made of pudding. She slumped against her wife, tears running down her face, her entire body shaking while her wings continued to beat. She must be lashing her wife with every flap but she couldn't stop the movement, not for anything.

"Honey, what happened?"

Her son reached up and hugged her by the leg.

"It's okay, Mommy," he said. "We're all here."

"Yes, baby, it's going to be okay," Ellerite said, her voice trembling.

She tucked her pendant of the three in under her top.

Chapter Text

"I accept your fealty, Magnonam, head administrator of the palace staff, and give you my blessing to continue serving the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner" Mariner said, resting her hand on the woman's head.

Finally, the procession of advisors, ministers, and other bigwigs was complete.

"Hail her holy highness Mariner, she who moves the earth and the heavens, divine ruler of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy, supreme over all and questioned by none!"

"Hail!" the members of court who all had sworth the pledge shouted.

"Thank for your fealty," Mariner said, repeating the words that Castro and the pastor had drilled into her. "I will rule over you with justice and abundance. I will spare the nation from great disasters and deadly storms. As my hunger is satisfied, so too shall the nation prosper."

Her stomach growled and she felt another hunger pang stab through her. Her eyes strayed to the other bound sacrifices that had been assembled here. One thing was for sure, the new warden had not been starving these prisoners. Joanne Musk looked even more delectibly pudgey than she had in her About the Author photos. It was a little ironic, given how much her books were full of hatred for fat men, but then that seemed to be part and parcle of her transphobic attitudes. Mariner couldn't help rubbing her pudgy hands together and drooling. She was going to eat good today.

Another hunger pang shot through her. She really didn't want to wait for all the clerical mumbo jumbo, but this was a ceremony after all. This was the whole point of her starving herself for most of the day, listening to her gut rumble and fighting back the hunger pangs, overriding her carnivorous impulses minute to minute, putting up with these mostly boring diplomats and hob-nobbing with oligarchs when she couldn't manage pleasant conversation with the ticket winners.

"Your holy highness, it's such an honor to meet you," said a tall thin man with sad purple eyes and wavy green hair, wearing a shiny black dress with holes cut in it for his wings. Evidently, Boimler had set off something of a fashion trend for Bromothian men.

"Oh, hey there buddy. I don't believe we've been introduced yet," Mariner said, resisting the urge to swallow this twink whole.

"I'm Vericas, your holy highness. I'm a Gorbolite. Mostly non-practicing though. I mean, I go to church regularly and I'm a good and loyal subject, and--"

Mariner put a hand on his shoulder.

"Chill, dude. I'm here to relax, not to throw you out of the country if I think you're not a good enough citizen."

Her stomach growled like a mugato in heat, and Mariner blushed a little. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stand around all these savory looking Bromothians and not gulp any of them down.

"Th-thank you, your holy highness," Vericas said.

Mariner handed him a glass of wine.

"So, Vericas, why don't you tell me a little about yourself? It's gotta be more interesting than the crab market figures over in Gho Shand or pickled glorka berry rates."

"Oh, me, your holy highness? I'm nothing special," he mumbled. "I just do enough to get by, this and that. Currently I'm working at a strip club to put myself through higher education at one of the mixed universities. Your holy highness."

"That's cool," Mariner said. "But uh, what do you mean by mixed? Like, are there some universities that don't let Gorbolites in?"

"Oh no, at least, not officially, your holy highness," Vericas said. "Mixed as in they allow both male and female students."

Mariner sighed, downed her glass, then grabbed a plate of glasses and set it down on the small table before them. "Ugh. Let me guess, most universities only accept women, and the ones that do accept men only started taking them in recently, and there's still a lot of old fogies hemming and hawing about it?"

"Well, it's true that there are more universities for woman than for men, your holy highness, but there's also a long standing tradition of men's finishing schools," Vericas explained.

Mariner rubbed her forhead and sighed. "Right. That's another law I'll have to pass then. Can't have schools stopping people from learning just because of their gender."

"Oh, your holy highness, please don't go to any trouble on my account!" Vericas said quickly.

"Chill, dude. You've just made me aware of a problem, so I'm gonna clean it up. That's all," Mariner said. "Now why don't you loosen up and have another drink? The main band's about to start."

Sure enough, the players of Seven Green Hearts all assembled on stage, decked out in patched purple leather and with purple hair styled into improbable shapes. The musicians had a drum set, the stringed instrument, and some kind of horn instrument.

"Oh, these guys are great!" Vericas said, lighting up suddenly. "They play their hits on record at the club all the time."

"Good to know you work somewhere where the DJ has good taste," Mariner said.

They both hushed up and listened as the band started off with a familiar hit about a woman who kills her bitter enemy only to discover she instantly regrets it. Mariner found herself dancing to the beat, and knocked a few people over with the motions of her ass in the process. She picked them each up, dusted them off, and apologized, and then resigned herself to standing in place tapping her foot along with the rhythm of the music.

For a while, Mariner just focused on appreciating the music and knocking back drinks. However, she did wonder about one of the figures on the balcony. They were fiddling with some kind of contraption.

Mariner instinctively shoved the VIP's in front of her out of the way. Her instinct was to step forward, to protect her team, to make sure that whatever was happening had to go through her first. Her front brain hadn't quite figured out what was going on yet.

"Get down," Mariner shouted. Some of the people instinctively obeyed. A few set down their glasses and opened their mouths to argue or demand an explanation.

The hang-glider swung down from the adjoining rooftop. smoke bombs hurdled in front of it preventing the guards from firing back.

"For the one true god-queen! For She!" the plump woman in urban camo cried out, plunging to the ground in a tuck and roll then raising up a dagger.

Tendi moved fast. The royal guards not caught up in the smoke moved faster.

Mariner, however, moved the fastest.

In one fluid motion she disarmed the assailant. The knife clattered on the floor and her feet were flipped into Mariner's mouth. She sucked up to her waist, at which point the assailant put her arms out and dug them into Mariner's upper shoulder flab in an effort to keep from being sucked down. Another throat-swelling gulp from Mariner proved that the result was futile.

Mariner tried and failed to cover up a huge belch.

"Excuse me, heheh. Man, I really needed a snack." She smacked her lips and hugged her tummy, prompting another raucus burp. "Excuse me, again."

Tendi rushed forward and embraced her side rolls.

"Mariner! I'm so sorry! I should have put guards on the rooftops. I-"

Mariner pressed a finger against Tendi's lips.

"Shh, babe, it's okay. I got them, and even if I hadn't, you and the guards were about to stop her. It was a *urp* pathetic attempt."

"But what if--" Tendi said.

"Babe, even if she knew where to stab, it wouldn't have gotten past the first layer of blubber. See?" Mariner said, thumping her massive melons and the fat layer directly beneath them.

Castro stepped up.

"Her holy highness is correct. The guards were already on the point of stopping the assailant when the god-queen stepped forward. On that subject, though, your holy highness, with all due deferance, won't this risk spoiling your appetite? We did prepare an exact number of sacrificial offerings, your holy highness," Castro said. She almost seemed calm, if you didn't notice the way her eye was twitching.

"Don't get your britches in a bunch," Mariner said, patting Castro on the back and causing her to spill glorka berry wine on herself. "I promise, I'll find room for a little extra in their somewhere," she said, pulling up a sizeable grab of flab and jiggling it as if to demonstrate her capacity for eating.

"Yes, your holy highness," Castro said with a sigh. "Couldn't you have at least disabled her long enough for the pastor to perform the sacrificial rites though, your holy highness?" Castro whispered.

"Look, when I'm really hungry I act on instinct," Mariner grumbled. "I stopped the assassin, in front of all these onlookers, and that's the important part."

Castro yielded.

Mariner turned to the band, who had all stopped to stare.

"Well? Come on, guys, I know you're a little rusty but you're still here to play. Let's get those instruments started up again!" she said.

The band sprang to life again.

Mariner turned back to Tendi, only to see Vericas looking at her with absolute worship in his eyes. More than a few of the foreign dignitaries were looking impressed at the very least.

"So, Vericas, tell me, if you could have a wish granted, say your heart's desire, what would it be?" Mariner asked.

"Oh, your holy highness, that would be for my big sister to be alive and well," Vericas said, with a sad little smile. "We lost her during the first invasion of Gho Shand."

"I see," Mariner said. "And what would your next wish be? Not, like, ending world hunger or anything, but something personal."

"I guess then, I'd wish I had enough money to pay my father's bail. They don't have much evidence against him, but because we can't pay bail, he can't go to work, and that means I have to pay for momma's medical treatments all by myself, which doesn't leave us much left after expenses," Vericas blurted out.

"Alright then. Hey, Gorog? First meeting thingy after the coronation, remind me to outlaw cash bail." Mariner covered her mouth as another juicy belch surfaced.

"Your...your holy highness! I want to...words cannot describe...how..." Vericas stammered.

"No, thank you for bringing this to my attention. Cash bail is a pretty shitty system, so I'll have none of it in my Divine and Edacious Phagocracy." Mariner said graciously, as he lowered himself and embraced her gooey sagging thigh. "And uh, please, stop groveling. I'd be much more comfortable if you got up again."

"Whatever your holy highness wishes!" Vericas said, forcing himself to his feet, his violet goat-pupiled eyes brimming with tears.

"While I'm on it, I should also work out a rule that prohibts emloyers from firing people for time missed due to courtroom appearances. And the whole healthcare system needs a change to," Mariner said to herself. "Gorog? Put those in the notes for next session too."

"Yes, your holy highness."

"And Gorog? Try to lighten up. This is a coronation, not a state funeral," Mariner said.

Gorog sighed and took a glass of glorka berry wine. Castro offered her a symapthetic look, and Gorog's face remained carefully neutral.

Now that the hunger pangs weren't threatening to double her over, she found it was a lot easier to appreciate Vericas's jawline and amethyst eyes. Or maybe she was just feeling extra horny, the way she always got turned on when she ate somebody.

Mariner considered whether she wanted to fit Vericas into her busy schedule. He did have a certain charm to him, and it had been a while since she'd hooked up with a stripper.

"Hey, how'd you like a private tour of the palace later?" Mariner whispered into his ear.

He blushed indigo and covered his mouth with his hand. "Your...your holy highness! I would...of course, your highness! I'm flattered. It would be...that would be life-changing," he said, shyly.

"Cool," Mariner said, at her normal volume. "Now let's have some more drinks and enjoy the music for a while. Later I'll pencil you in somewhere. By the way, are you bisexual?"

"Sorry, I'm just straight," he said, rubbing his horn shyly. "But I'm still down for a good threesome if that's what you're wondering about."

Mariner thought back to her massive orgies. Maybe that would be a bit too much for this guy, though.

"Don't worry about it," Mariner said. "Here, have a Mariner's Mixer. You know this isn't the only drink in the galaxy named after me?"

"Really?" Vericas said, eyes wide, pupils shifting in them.

"Yeah, I'd tell you more, but then I'd have to eat you," Mariner said. She took in the shaking of his wings and the shock on his face and slapped him on the back, causing him to dump his drink.

"Relax, I'm just kidding," Mariner said.

"Oh, hahah," Vericas said.

Mariner grabbed him a replacement drink from the table, knocked back her own drink, and turned to watch the band.

Her stomach churned and gurgled, just audible above the music. The aspiring assassin certainly helped, but pretty soon she'd need a real meal to fill her up.

Chapter Text

Mariner stepped up to the podium. She looked out across her adoring populace. She tapped the microphone to make sure it was working, then cleared her throat and sipped from the glass of water. Water was probably a good idea, after all the Mariner's Mixers she'd had. She was pretty sure she'd accidentally swallowed some of the bright purple leaves used to garnish the drink along with the pierced marinated glorka berry, and even one the cocktail spears.

Mariner cleared her throat. She looked at the assembled masses again, all looking up to her for inspiration, hanging on her slightest movement, their lives able to be saved or destroyed with her tiniest action.

She'd run over the words, in the mirror, in her head, in front of a private audience of fellow starfleet members, and even in front of the grand vizier. She had this down pat. She could do this.

"Allow me to address my loyal subjects and foreign visitors."

It was helpful that this planet had animals that were analogous to sheep, albeit with wings too small to get truly airborn for more than a matter of seconds, and that Tendi had remembered something from her federation religious history course about some kind of Old Earth religion with a focus on sheperds, and a few of that religion's anologies, even though she couldn't remember much else about it. Apparently it had been a very popular one before lapsing into obscurity with the general trend towards secular humanism.

"A herder of beasts may sometimes eat of their flock, but the bad shepherd is greedy and cruel. A shepherd may feed on their animals from time to time, but a good shepherd will never hurt them just to hear them bleat. A good shepherd sees to the lambing, to the rams as well as the ewes, and keeps them all safe from outside predators. Above all, the sheperd must go out among the flock, to see that they are healthy and well."

"I have voyaged among the stars, just as She did. Now that I have inherited the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy, I intend to do some good for it. By that I mean to serve and aid the many, not just the few, and not only the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner but its friends and neighbors stand to benefit as well."

"To the visitors who have come here from afar, I ask you not to tell me what your leaders want, but what the people of your countries need from us. Allow me to serve them, as I have served the people of the Western Subcontinent in their time of need."

"I will eat well today. I want everybody to eat well, throughout Bromothia. Nobody deserves to starve."

Mariner cleared her throat and took a sip of water.

"Do not, however, mistake my kindness for weakness. I am determined to not just treat the symptoms of poverty and suffering, but to root out their causes. I will find out why people have starved and put and end to them. I will prosecute murderers, not just the serial killers who use guns, knives, and torture impliments, but the ones who use ledgers and paperwork to kill for profit. I will not tolerate the poisoning of food, water, or air. I will do what I have to in order to keep my people safe. The widower, the orphan and the homeless are my concern."

"So this coronation, let me say that I am honored to serve you. I thank you all for feeding me, and I will make sure to feed you well, in body, mind, and spirit."

Mariner stood back from the microphone and folded her flabby arms over her massive breasts.

The applause that followed her speech made her giddy with relief.

Of course, that was no big deal. They'd probably applaud if she read the phone book. But she'd spent so long revising and rehearsing, going back and forth with Castro, getting input from Gorog and the pastor, fine-tuning the language. It was just a bit of a relief to have it done and over with now.

She noticed, back in the crowd, that the prince of the Western Subcontinent was applauding as well, along with Averada. Mariner couldn't help it. She blushed a little.

Her stomach gurgled. She was getting hungry again. Thankfully, there was a delicious feast prepared for her. She turned back to the bound and gagged sacrificial candidates, and rubbed her chubby hands together, licking her lips.

Today, she was going to really enjoy herself on every possible level.

"Time to eat," she whispered.

Chapter Text

Gorog read out the various war crimes of Joanne Musk. Hot damn, she looked good. She was a very big hourglass shape, at least three-hundred prounds, with nice round pendulous breasts and a huge juicy ass.

"Any last words?" the grand vizier asked, taking out the gag.

"You can't do this to me. I'm a beloved children's literature icon and a genius inventor! You're all just jealous of my success! And I've succeeded in life by hatching many children! My only regret is losing my daughter to the politically correct mind virus."

"Your transgender son hates your ass, and so do most of the kids you spawned by coercing men under your legal and financial power," Mariner scoffed. "Hope you enjoyed your last meal."

By now, Mariner's would-be assassin was reduced to a thick digestive slurry. Just looking at the woman's physique, Mariner's mouth filled up with drool and her stomach roared to be full again. Not just abated from hunger pangs or sated, but truly, deliciously, *full*.

Mariner lifted Joanne Musk into her arms and shoved her down headfirst, her throat bulging unnaturally as she swallowed. The flavor was incredible as always, complimented by oil, salt, and just the right amount of herbs, so that she couldn't stop herself from eating even if she wanted to. The crowd cheered as she devoured the hack novelist, venture capitalist, and warlord, plunging her into moist darkness. Mariner's stomach gurgled with approval as it accepted the load.

Next up was Henri Pissinger. Reading out the list of his crimes took a very long time, long enough that Mariner could feel the struggles of Joanne Musk weakening inside her belly, and she tapped her foot impatiently as more drool ran down her chins. Her stomach was still roaring for more delicious food, and although the man wasn't unusually plump the way Joanne had been, he and the sauce he was being slathered with smelled delightful. He was about medium thick, with a little bit of an ass and a belly. The pastor reading out the holy text over him as the final garnish was applied was a test of endurance. Then, of course, they had to let me spout out his last words, which were a bunch of jingoistic drivel about only doing what was necessary to promote peace and freedom in the wider world and stop the rise of godless anticapitalistic states.

Mariner took a little more time with Henri, pausing to savor the delightful Bromothian flavor and the gunip root sauce that nicely paired with it. Honestly she should try this stuff more often; it would go great on the alien pork and other savory meat dishes. Her cheeks and throat expanded as she slowly let Henri Pissinger slide down her digestive track, to crowd in with his new roommate.

Mariner leaned back to rub her belly with both hands, greedily smacking her lips in gluttonous delight. No matter what else happened, this would be a day to remember, and there was plenty more where that came from.

Next up was one of the selected inmates, a woman who had beaten her husband to death in front of her kids, and one of the prisoners who had "used" a V-coded inmate. The judge had opted to give her prison time instead of the death sentence because she was sympathetic to jealous women and the defense attorney presented evidence that the deceased "was a bit of a whore". This woman was tall and broad-shouldered, with wide hips and large tits but an otherwise lean and muscular form. Her last words were a simple if ineligent string of profanities. Mariner decided to eat her feet-first, taking the time to suck down her form, slathered with melted cheese and a mild hot sauce. It was like going to town on the best bar food in the galaxy, Mariner thought, with Henri still kicking and wriggling inside her guts even as his new temporary roommate was squeezed in alongside him.

Mariner could feel herself growing wet, excited and aroused even as the flavors and satiation delighted her. She was definitely going to think about this a lot at her next orgy, which she wanted to have pretty much as soon as the pageantry was finished and the ceremony was over.

Mariner waddled over to the next sacrifice, a child-murderer with wide hips and a titanic ass compared with a relatively small waist. Her last words were "They should have been quieter". Mariner locked her lips around the woman's herb-covered head, sucking down easily past her breasts and belly, then paused as if stuck at her massive butt. The crowd gasped. Mariner turned to them, gave a wink, and swallowed the rest of her in one gulp.

It was at that point, as the bulge in her neck transfered to her belly, that Mariner burst out of her wonderful and probably expensive tuxedo, threads ripping and buttons flying as her majestic gut bulged out just a little bit further ahead of her. Now it rested proudly, far beyond the reaches of her knees, spreading her two legs apart as she reclined and happily patted the jiggling, struggling mass before her.

Mariner stretched out, then pointed to her mouth impatiently.

The grand vizier quickly read out the crimes of the next sacrifice, and the pastor read sacred words and anointed her with oil, salt, an seasonings. She was tall and thin, but still smelled delicious. Mariner decided to eat her headfirst.

Her belly swelled up even larger as she forced down the meal, expanding by a foot or so more in front of her. It churned and gurgled. Now Mariner felt something she hadn't felt since she'd eaten the previous god-queen.

She was full.

However, the next sacrifice was still waiting for her. She felt her meals shift and writh inside her, even as her digestive juices sluced in to make short work of them. She could feel the pressure already inside.

After the crimes had been read out, the final sacrifice was marked with whipped cream and glorka berry sryup. Mariner had to find the room inside her, somehow. This one was a delightfully rotund woman, with massive knockers, a two-seater ass, and a double belly that stuck out more than a foot in front of her.

Mariner felt full. More than that, she felt stuffed. But she had a role to play. She'd promised everyone she was up for this, and she didn't intend to let anyone down. Besides, there was always room for dessert.

The crowd cheered Mariner on as she licked at the tasty cream and syrup on the woman's body. Mariner unhinged her jaw and slid the woman into her mouth, after the serial rapist declined to say anything for her final words. The blend of sweet and savory was better than ice cream on waffles or salted caramel treats. Mariner forced her down, neck bulging, stomach expanding, the sheer force of gluttony fighting against protests of a digestive tract that was already overstuffed, and made her innards take the final, massive meal.

Mariner gulped and gulped. The woman's feet vanished behind her lips and she felt the full weight settle into her middle, all four-hundred pounds of it. She clutched her now-aching belly, leaned back, and found she couldn't stop herself from letting out a thirty-second-long belch.

The pastor and the grand vizier were knocked back by the force of the eruption. Everyone in the VIP section had their hair blown back and had to stagger against the resulting force. Windows cracked in nearby buildings. For once, the roar of the crowd was drowned out by an even louder sound, echoing off distant mountains.

"Ah, that feels *urp* better," Mariner said. "Oh, excuse me," she added, belately. Some of the foreign courtiers were regarding her with fascinated horror, others with a kind of admiration. Averada was blushing indigo, as was her bar room hookup and Vericas.

"Hey, Tendi? Could you *BELCH* come over here?" Mariner said, still feeling stuffed beyond her limits. She was overwhelmed with the sheer gastronomic load inside her, but she also felt incredibly blissful and content, even though she was still so full it hurt a little bit. That situation could be remedied, however. As the surviving meals writhed in her tightly packed innards, Mariner struggled not to cum, then and there.

"Yes, my holy highness?" Tendi said, hurrying to Mariner's side.

"Could I maybe get *BUWOORP* a little tummy rub? Just to make me *BRAAAWP* feel better," Mariner said, blushing a little.

"Of course, your holy highness," Tendi said, leaning over to kiss Mariner on her chubby cheek where she sat. She circled around to the front of Mariner's overflowing gut, where she could still see faint impressions from the stomach's reluctant denizens, and began making broad, slow, circular motions.

Mariner couldn't help it. She moaned with excitement and relief as Tendi's magic fingers did their work. As she moaned, another belch escaped, although this one didn't knock anybody to the floor.

After that, the pastor and grand vizier dressed Mariner in the ceremonial green fur-lined robes, presented her with her scepter, and placed the crown upon her head, with Mariner burping, moaning, and gurgling away the whole time. All she wanted to do at this moment was retreat to her bedroom so she could digest this incredible meal and get off with the help of her concubines aor Tendi, but she sat through the final reading of holy words and proclamation before the closing band started up. She also thought about her schedule for the rest of the day, and tried to figure out some good spots to fit in some time to get sweaty and freaky with Averada and Vericas. That would have to wait until she wasn't so stuffed she could barely move, though.

"All hail the divine queen Mariner, god of the Weather, god of Justice, god of Libido, god of Power, god of Healing, god of Plenty, the ruler of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner!" the pastor cried out.

"All hail the god-queen Mariner!" repeated her followers and the assembled crowd, their voices an almost-solid wave of sound.

Mariner, clad in robes, crowned, and holding her scepter, waddled over to her massive throne. This was a good day, she thought, as Tendi followed to continue massaging her immense royal gut.

Chapter Text

Once Mariner had eaten her fill of Bromothians, the servants arrived with canipes. The assemblage included frosted cookies shaped like the god-queen's holy symbol, fine meats and cheeses, a variety of fruits carved into elegant shapes, and tiny sandwiches with the holy symbol toasted onto the bread.

W'ilma filled up her plate, never one to turn down free food, and this was clearly the kind of food she couldn't afford at all before the advent of universal food stamps, and even then she'd be reluctant to dump such a large portion of food stamps on such a selection of tiny edibles. Based on the size of the snacks on offer, W'ilma loaded up her platter with as wide a variety of them as possible.

She stared at the god-queen's tightly packed belly, groaning and gurgling with it's captives. Of course, they all thoroughly deserved it, but it was a little disturbing nontheless. W'ilma had to admit, she felt a little more relaxed, now that the queen was well and truly stuffed silly.

"So, how's *EAUURP* everyone enjoying themselves?" Mariner asked.

"I'm having an absolutely splendid time," the ambassador from the Western Free Lands lied, carefully looking Mariner in the eye to avoid looking at her impossibly distended gut. Instead of sagging on the ground, it was lifted up by its tight-packed contents. There was at least one occupant still making some noises of distress, just barely audible among the gurgles and groans.

Most of W'ilma's fellow followers of the old ways said Mariner ate people because she was another evil spirit. The members of the new religion, of course, believed that Mariner ate people to sustain her divine powers.

W'ilma had her own ideas about the purpose of such a spectacle. The Western Free Lands ambassador, for one, had gotten a lot more polite after Mariner ate the first sacrifice. Maybe consumption of Bromothian victims served a civic and ceremonial function that the queen was happy to exploit.

On the other hand, maybe she just liked the taste.

W'ilma knew how to treat men with respect. She wasn't a rapist or a serial killer. she hadn't done anything to attract negative attention from law enforcement.

Nevertheless, she felt a lot more comfortable now that the queen was full.

"What about you?" Mariner asked, waddling up to her.

"Sorry, your highness," W'ilma said, moved by a mixture of alcohol and bravado to drop the "holy" description, even in front of all these high-ranking officials. "I was lost in thought. What were you talking about?"

"Just wondering if *BELCH* you're having a good time," Mariner said, tapping out a code with her fingers on her drum-tight stomach. If she felt offended by the lack of the honorific from one of her subjects, she gave no hint of it.

"Yes, your highness, I'm enjoying myself."

"Well, I'm *BRAAWP* glad you are. Unfortunately, I *urp* have to go and *BURP* digest for a while. So, enjoy the *BELCH* band, booze and bites," Mariner concluded, before waddling off, clutching her gut with both hands.

The prince of the Western Subcontinent sidled up to W'ilma in the open space left by Mariner's wake.

"So, er, what do you do for a living?" the prince asked, with an awkward little smile.

"Oh, I'm a textile factory worker, your highness" W'ilma said.

"I see. That's a good and useful trade," the prince said.

"I'm glad you approve," W'ilma said, only later realizing that her comment could have been taken ironically. "So, uh, how's your job going?"

"Well, we're still fighting the famine. Technically I don't have a lot of authority under the constitution, but I do what I can for national morale,"

"Oh. I see," W'ilma said. "That must be difficult."

"Well, I do what I can," the prince said solemnly.

***

Mariner had a slot in her schedule for Averada and Vericas. She also planned to throw another orgy or two with her concubines.

This wasn't that.

Mariner plopped down onto her bed, settling in with a Bromothia-shaking belch.

"Hey Tendi," Mariner said.

"Hey," said Tendi.

"You're not still worried about the *urp* assassination attempt, are you?" Mariner said anxiously.

"No, I've managed to keep a lid on my overprotectiveness," Tendi said with a self-depreciating little smile.

"You sure? Only, like, I appreciate you care about me, and that you worry about me. Really, it's sweet. I just want to make sure you know I'm a big girl who can take care of--" Mariner began.

Tendi stepped forward while Mariner was talking, climbed on top of Mariner's round belly, and silenced her with a kiss.

Mariner kissed her back, passionately. She opened up her mouth and let loose wtih a roudy belch, followed by a moan.

"Hey girl," Tendi said playfully.

"Hey," Mariner replied. She missed Jennifer. Sure, she had Tendi right here in front of her, but lovers weren't interchangeable. Tendi cared about Mariner, with every inch of her, but she didn't have the same enthusiasm for Mariner's extra inches that Jennifer did.

Mariner pushed the thoughts down. She was here and it was now. She'd be able to reunite with Jennifer eventually. For now she focused on making out with her beautiful Orion girlfriend splayed across her bloated belly. She was full to bursting and incredibly horny. She was even so bloated that she wondered if she might be able to go down on Tendi without being tempted to swallow her whole.

Tendi grabbed hold of Mariner's chubby cheeks as she kissed her. Normally, when Mariner kissed somebody, there was at least a mild temptation to unhinge her jaw and keep going. Right now, she was well and truly stuffed silly. She'd spent so much time living with ravenous hunger since developing Arnaud syndrome, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to actually be sated. The fullness she felt from all that mass, churning and swirling inside her, was only enhanced by the pressure of Dvana's body resting on top of her packed gut.

"What's on your mind?" Tendi asked when they paused kissing to come up for air.

"Honestly? I'm thinking *burp* about how good it feels *belch* to be full for a *urp* change," Mariner said. "I've spent so long being hungry, *HUWOORP*, I forgot how fun it was to really let loose and *burp* pig out."

"Well, you've got an entire empire to rule over now, so there shouldn't be any shortage of good food," Tendi said. She reached out and gave Mariner's massive melons a squeeze. Mariner giggled with delight and kissed Tendi on the forhead, then reached out with her chubby hands to fondle Tendi's own breasts.

"You really have a nice pair of *BUURP* tits," Mariner said, as she felt the arousal build. "Did anyone ever tell you that?"

"It has been remarked upon from time to time," Dvana said playfully. "You've got a pretty nice set of funbags yourself."

As Tendi's arousal grew, she started bucking and grinding on Mariner's bloated belly. Mariner reached up and ran her fingers through Tendi's hair, delighting in her partner's excitement.

Pressure built up, and Mariner blew back Tendi's hair with another tremendous belch.

"'Scuse me," Mariner said, with an unapologetic grin.

"You know, I actually find it cute when you do that," Dvana said with a playful smile. "It's part of your brash charms."

"Oh? And what else do you like about me?" Mariner probed, reaching out to grab hold of Tendi's nice thigh.

"Well, I like how brave you are, I like your appetite for life's pleasures, I like your massive mommy milkers," Tendi giggled. Mariner inched her hand further up Dvana's thigh with every compliment. "I like running my fingers between your rolls and kissing your stretch marks."

"Will you like me no matter how huge and fat I get?" Mariner cooed, knowing it was a safe question.

"I'd still like you if you got so fat I needed spelunking gear to get you off," Tendi said, squeezing her thighs together around Mariner's hand and leaning forward so she could nibble Mariner's ear.

Artfully, gently, Mariner slid her hand up under Dvana's skirt, pulling down her panties and plunging her fingers into her girlfriend's dark green sex. Tendi cried out with delight.

"That's what I was hoping you'd say," Mariner said, in a casual tone, while she penetrated Tendi with two curling fingers and deftly manipulated her clit with her thumb. "Now tell me something else you like about me or I'll stop."

"I...uh...like your big belly. I, oh yeah, like your devilish smile. I, yes, keep going, like the way you come up with crazy schemes even w-when we g-get in trouble," Tendi moaned.

Mariner raised her other hand to get a firm grip on Tendi's firm little ass. Tendi jerked and shuddered in her grip, absolute putty in her hands, sweat rolling down her pale green face as her eyes fluttered with delight.

All the motion on top of Mariner's swollen gut jarred loose some more gas, so their lovemaking was interrupted by a few more of Mariner's juicy belches. Tendi came within minutes, her slick gushing all over Mariner's hand and staining her nice new skirt. Mariner pulled her hand out and licked it clean.

"I may be totally full, but damn, Tendi, you're still delicious," Mariner teased.

Tendi gasped, still struggling to catch her breath. "Th-thank you."

Mariner was still horny as fuck, but she graciously allowed her friend to spend a few minutes recovering her energy and basking in afterglow while Mariner happily digested, feeling the heat between her legs.

"Hey, Mariner?" Tendi asked, after she caught her breath and came back from the pink haze of post-coital delight.

"Yeah?" Mariner asked.

"How do you feel about me gaining weight?" Dvana said, just a little shyly.

"I mean, it's your body, you don't need to ask my permission," Mariner said, kissing Tendi on the cheek.

"I wasn't asking for permission, Mariner. I asked how you feel," Tendi said, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice.

"Well, I like your hips, and your boobs, and your ass. I certainly wouldn't mind if there were more of them," Mariner said. "I mean, why wouldn't I like you at a bigger size?"

"Well, I didn't know if you maybe enjoyed the size contrast between us," Tendi said, blushing dark green.

"Babe, if I want size contrast I have plenty of skinny or muscular concubines here," Mariner said. "I like you a lot. A few hundred pounds isn't going to change that."

"Sorry for being silly," Dvana said, still blushing.

"Hey babe, you're not being silly," Mariner said, fumbling for the right words. "Like, if there's something you want to talk to me about, you can always just go ahead."

"Thanks," Tendi said.

"Now why don't I roll *urp* back and you can destroy my pussy?" Mariner said.

"It would be an honor, your holy highness," Dvana teased.

Mariner groaned as she shifted into position, her huge belly rising six feet above her at the apex, side rolls sagging, spreading her tree-trunk thighs as wide apart as they could go.

Tendi plunged in with her tongue and fingers and went to work. The arousal had been hovering around for a while now, and Mariner was already worked up from the experience of devouring her delicious sacrifices and feeling really, truly, stuffed, as well as the foreplay they'd indulged with and the fun of getting Tendi off. It only took a little suckling and finger play to bring Mariner to the boiling point, breath hitching, sweat pooling in her side rolls.

Mariner let loose with a flood of pussy juice, her cry of delight turning into a colossal prolonged burp even as she orgasmed.

"Nice one," Tendi said, after she lifted her mouth from her girlfriend's snatch, wiping her hands and face on the sheets.

Chapter Text

Mariner hefted herself out of bed, causing a loud thud and a lot of jiggling. She turned to admire herself in the massive mirror.

She had definitely put on a couple hundred pounds as a result of her coronation feast. She squeezed together her voluminous breasts, admiring the effect. They didn't look much bigger, but it was hard to tell with so much fat around her. Her upper belly stuck out a few feet, and her lower belly protruded a few feet more.

She spun around and regarded her huge shelf of an ass. It was big enough for a reasonably slender person to comfortably lay down on and feel well-supported. Her thighs were thicker than Rutherford's shoulders.

Her stomach roared.

Mariner considered waddling off to the kitchens, but she wasn't quite up to starting the day yet. Instead she moved over to her industrial fridge, pulled out an entire roasted boar, and slid it down her distended throat into her stomach with one gulp.

Mariner thought about the issues still facing her. Cash bail was a problem of course, but at least they were making headway on changes to the justice system.

Overall though, she felt good about the coronation. She'd survived it, hadn't she, despite the hunger and the tedious mingling, and she'd come out of the experience with a couple of nice hookups. It would have been even more boring without the assassination attempt. She hadn't embarassed herself or started any wars or done any of the things that Castro had been worried about.

There were still things to worry about, though. The civil war continued to burn through the Western Free Lands. It pained her to stay out of it, but she also had enough history and international politics learning to know a quagmire when she saw it. She really hoped the right side would come out on top, and she could at least provide humanitarian aid.

She really, really hoped the right side would come out on top. She preferred the Phagocracy to not be in an active state of warfare.

She could smell the sizzle of phasers and disruptors, hear the shouting of Jem Hadar, see the light leaving the eyes of her boyfriend as she desperately tried to apply first aid knowing full well that he was beyond saving.

Mariner rummaged around in the fridge for a bit and downed a whole wheel of cheese with another throat-distending gulp. It was good cheese, and it probably deserved to be tasted in small portions at a time.

The ground was dusty and dry, except when it was sticky and wet.

No, now that Mariner was in charge of an entire country, she was not going to try to get it into any wars, even wars where there was a clear bad guy side. Her citizens deserved the benefits of peace. They didn't need any more veterans like Zeninez. They definitely wanted the fund for widows, widowers, and orphans left behind by soldiers to become uncessary.

It was hard enough fighting in the trenches or commanding a few soldiers. She didn't want to be responsible for an entire army.

So she would keep things peaceful. She just...she just wouldn't let it get that bad again.

Mariner opened her drinks cabinet and grabbed some ice from the mini freezer to make a Dirty Weekend. Maybe she would make this a fun morning. After all, she had been drinking on an empty stomach yesterday but hadn't worked up more than a mild buzz. She had a lot of legislation to get through today, an entire healthcare system to overall, and it would help her to get the job done if she could loosen up a little.

She definitely wasn't trying to avoid thinking about something. Above all, she wasn't trying to avoid thinking about what would happen if she, ruler of an entire empire, an empire that had crushed and oppressed other nations, suddenly found itself on the receiving end of warfare. The possibility that she might suddenly find herself having to weigh her responsibility to the people she ruled over against the legitimate grievances of the past didn't even enter her mind.

Mariner was definitely just drinking a pitcher or two of Dirty Weekend because she had a lot of boring legislation to draft today. Also she was still coming down from the high of hearing Seven Green Hearts perform live. She had to admit, being an absolute monarch did come with its perks, and being able to convince an awesome band to come out of retirement was definitely something that ranked high. Not that she couldn't accomplish that sometimes, even without the position of being a divine monarch, but it certainly helped things along faster.

Mariner prepared another pitcher of Dirty Weekend. After all, it wasn't like she was drinking on an empty stomach this time.

***
Averada Filitia sighed longingly in her hotel room as she packed up her things.

If she was being honest, she'd expected the queen of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner to be something of a selfish lover, given her size and position. Instead she'd been surprisingly active and considerate, indulging Averada with inventive dirty talk and an excellent handjob that went on well past the moment where Averada had fired off her first load of eggs. Besides, that "vulva" of hers had been such a fascinating orifice to explore, the way it wept fluid and clenched, and she'd enjoyed the way Mariner's entire body jiggled and shudder from just a little playing with the tiny "clit". Averada felt her ovipositor stiffen from just the memory of it.

For once, it was nice to have a hookup on the job that had nothing to do with the complex internal power struggles of the Greater Peninsula Alliance. In the Alliance, even workplace sex was usually more about work, young women jockeying for position and trying to seduce her into granting them favors, powerful women dishing them out in exchange for sex, people trying to squeeze out rivals for affection. That was probably why Averada was fourty-seven and still single. A marriage meant an enduring alliance, or at least the pretense of one, and there was nobody within her station she really trusted that much. If she had any living relatives more senior in House Filitia they would have been nagging at her to settle down and pick a partner, even if she intended to have discreet lovers on the side, but she was her own mistress as the current head of the noble house.

On the subject of work, however, maybe she should look into talking with some of the other nobles about grain exports. To say their history with the Western Subcontinent was fraught and complicated would be the understatement of the year. After all, the Western Subcontinent had backed House Adistan's coup attempt, a bit of dirty dealing they'd only found out about thanks to the Alliance's extensive spy network and well-paid local informants. Of course, a lot of those informants and spies had fled the country when the famine started to become a serious problem.

Maybe it was time to consider the value of soft power in diplomacy. It wasn't like the individual starving citizens had all banded together to back the coup. And the whole business about the proxy war was ancient history as far as she was concerned. If the Greater Peninsula Alliance could be a savior in this time of need, maybe they'd think twice about interfering in the nation's power struggles next time.

Of course, House Riverix would be dead against any sort of humanitarian effort that made the current regime look good, but that was just how they were. Their allies were few and their position was shaky. She could maybe even put a discreet word into the ears of several of Riverix's fair-weather friends and offer them some lucrative real estate proposals. Her family certainly had property to spare, even if their overseas investments were threatening to dry up.

Averada was a good-looking enough woman, she knew that, but it somewhat puzzled her that Mariner had taken such an interest in her. Of all the fawning dignitaries and polite ambassadors, she was the one who showed the least amount of respect for the so-called God-Queen's elevated station. She certainly expected her dalliances to at least show token respect for the power of House Filitia, outside of big ovipositor humiliation scenes and dominatrix stuff, of course.

Mariner was a strange and fascinating anomoly on the political field. She had literally come out of the sky, if the rumors were true, an alien life-form determined to overthrow the prior ruler in as dramatic and graphic a way as possible, and then went about proceeding to dismantle so much of the carefully structured heirarchy her predecessor had put into place instead of sitting down to enjoy it. Of course, it made sense to cultivate popularity with one's underlings, because no ruler was truly absolute, regardless of any paranormal powers or claims to divinity, but then she went and did other things like the bar crawl suggesting she didn't give a gryphon's fart about what anyone thought of her, and what kind of ruler did that?

Averada shifted in her seat, gently stroking her ovipositor's length. Mariner was certainly a fascinating public figure, whatever you believed about her.

Chapter Text

"Oh great god-queen Mariner, thank you for descending from the heavens to rule over us. Thank you for commanding our weather, for filling the fields with grain and plenty, and for guiding us to be our own best selves," Varkrav prayed.

Varkrav didn't own a television, but he had a neighbor and fellow true believer who did, even out here in Gho Shand.

Of course, he could understand why the other people of Gho Shand regarded the worshippers of Mariner the god-queen with some hostility and suspicion. After all, the nations had been at war for years. They didn't see that the god-queen had only wanted to bring them into the fold, so She could care for them all.

Now, however, there was a new god-queen ruling the Phagocracy and answering prayers. That had caused Varkrav a bit of an existential crisis for a while, until he recognized that even the stars themselves were subject to the cycle of death and rebirth. The old god-queen was gone, but they had a new god-queen to rule over and care for them now, and his faith had never been stronger. This new god-queen extended her power over the skies even to Gho Shand, to create favorable conditions for growing staple food and weaveable fibers. Mariner the god-queen protected even foreigners from the ravages of dangerous storms and natural disasters. He thought that was very generous of her.

After his prayer, he took out the morning newspaper. It had photographs of Mariner the god-queen at the coronation, in all her voluptuous glory. It wasn't the most flattering picture, but it captured her massive curves, inviting rolls, and above all, her prey-stuffed gut. He thought back to the live footage of her devouring the unworthy sacrifices, one by one, bloating out her already impressively huge belly. It made him wonder what it felt like to be embraced by her ravenous, sacred appetite, sliding past those beautiful lips to be absorbed into the expanding girth.

As his penises stiffened, Varkrav sat down on his mattress, grabbed some tissues, and began to reverently masturbate to the image of his savior.

***

Abernreba looked around the building, empty save for his hollow iron statue of the snake-headed Father. He was nervous.

Of course, officially, the old ways were now legal again. That was why he had brought this property with the contributions of his followers and his two fellow priests, Intorotni who was a priest of the Protector and Expelepxe who was a priest of the Benefactor. A lot of people had put off improvements in their lives or cracked open nest eggs in order to make this happen. For the first time in over a century, they would have a temple to worship in.

Abernreba was nervous because, well, what if this was a trap? What if the religion had been "legalized" only to draw worshippers out into the open where they could be more efficiently persecuted? What if they set up their temple and began worship only for the royal guard to come tomorrow and raid them in the middle of the service?

He would ask Intorotni to pray for their protection from such malicious measures, but he worried that prayers might not be enough. Many followers of the old ways had been martyred, both when She first descended to rule over the nation and in waves of purges in the following century. Sometimes they hadn't even been true followers of the old ways, just people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time while police planted evidence on them. How did he know this god-queen was truly any different from the last one, deep down?

Then again, he'd heard encouraging things from one of his followers, a factory worker named W'ilma. She had actually spoken with the queen at the coronation, and she'd recieved a favorable impression of the woman. W'ilma was generally a pretty good judge of character. She was the one who'd spotted the spy amongst the new members of the congregation three years ago.

Besides, he'd perused a copy of the new holy book, and it *did* say that followers of other religions were to be granted the freedom to pray their own way and to their own divinities. That was right down in a message to all of Mariner's followers, whether said followers chose to act on it or not.

There was a knock at the door. Abernreba jumped into the air, wings fluttering. He only relaxed when he realized it was a polite, rhythmic knock, not the demanding banging of a cop. He went to answer the door, and there were his fellow clerics, armed with luggage cases full of supplies for worship.

"Welcome, fellow followers of the true gods," Abernreba said.

"I can't believe it's finally happening," Expelepxe said. "We're finally going to have a place to worship together openly. No more secret meetings in back rooms or deserted lots or woodland groves."

"I can believe it," Intorotni said. "We've kept the faith for generations, and now we are finally being rewarded. We prayed, we did the rituals, we made sacrifice of animals, and the three true gods have taken notice of our plight."

Abernreba smiled at Intorotni. Ey had the zealoutry of youth, and seemed not to consider the generations who had lived and died without such a deliverance, but Abernreba wasn't going to spoil the happy moment by pointing that out. They would connect with the Father, Protector, and Benefactor, whether they had to do that with a tiny bird in somebody's kitchen or slaughtering a hog in the grandest temple ever built, in secrecy or in the open.

That did leave the theological question of what exactly the queen of the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of Mariner *was*. The last queen, She, had clearly been an evil spirit, using the power of false miracles to seduce a deluded populace and oppress the followers of the true gods, but this one? This "Mariner" wielded the same power with generousity and kindness, content to recieve praise and adoration from a grateful populace without *demanding* it. Mariner was a complete enigma to Abernreba. Of course, there were some obscure passages in holy texts mentioning the presence of sorcerers, so perhaps Mariner was simply a very powerful sorcerer who had usurped the evil spirit and consumed Her. Those passages in question where not commonly accepted by the bulk of worshippers, but then again, there was always a grain of truth to be found in holy writ. Technically speaking, anyone calling herself a god-queen was blapshemous, but the holy script made it clear that there were sins far worse than blasphemy. The Father had endowed them all with the cognitive faculties to learn right from wrong, and most of the greatest sins were acts of cruelty and persecution, like the slaughter of children or heriditary slavery. Abernreba personally knew a few people who would act far worse if they had the kind of power to wield over the nation that Mariner did.

Intorotni set up eir statue of the cycloptic Protector, carved from a single massive hunk of solid soapstone. Abernreba mentally confirmed that he was using the correct pronouns for the priest of the protector. He was still unfamiliar with some of the nuances of eir identity, but apparently there were genders beyond the male-female spectrum even among mortals in the few surviving historical documents that predated the reign of She, and references to them in even some mainstream holy texts.

Expelepxe needed some help setting up her wooden statue of the Benefactor, so Abernreba assisted her. The three statues were arranged in the traditional order, complete with incense holders and altars to catch the blood of sacrificed livestock. This was the beginning. Soon, this building would ring with the sounds of prayer and worshippers would be sitting together on their prayer matts. They would finally be able to evoke their gods in peace and safety, without posting lookouts or testing the allegiance of potential new members to root out spies. They would pray for fertility, fortune, and freedom, instead of praying not to get caught at their worship.

"Do you think we should give thanks for the new ruler?" Expelepxe asked. "Or would that be flirting with blasphemy?"

Abernreba frowned. It was a good question. Aernreba wasn't sure that he had a theologically sound answer.

***

Azaraza finally had the dorm room to himself. Erinire was at the club tonight and he hadn't invited Indodni over.

He'd attended the coronation with his friends, of course. There had been lots to recommend it. The live music was great, the performances were entertaining, the royal procession was fun, the food was good, and he'd never turn his nose up at free booze. Of course, the main event was the sacrifices.

Azaraza had always considered himself a reasonably faithful man. He attended church faithfully, he said his prayers at morning and night, and he believed in the god-queen's divinity. That wasn't hard to do, of course, with such obvious displays of supernatural power. But there were more ways to express your faith and experience your religious devotion.

He pulled off his socks and thought back to that magical moment, when Mariner the god-queen, bloated beyond what seemed possible with the distention of her own sacred appetite, had let loose with the blast of gas. It was all he could manage to do not to whip it out and start beating away then and there. Even as it was, he'd had to go change his underpants later, stained with twin spots of precum.

Now, though? He was all alone, and he could relive that life-changing moment of religious ecstasy. He cast his mind back to the moment of that Bromothia-shaking belch, when the vibration had rattled in his ears and bounced off the distant mountains, when nearby glass had cracked.

It had been such an impressive noise, so bold and brash for a living god of such elevated station and dignity, so shocking and taboo. His left penis was full erect and his second one was fast following. He quickly shoved on the socks before he started dripping.

He thought about the sheer force of that unrivaled burp. He had definitely learned something about himself and the nature of faith that day. No mere mortal could produce a belch like she had.

Still, next time he went on a date with his girlfriend, he should ask her if she'd be willing to chug some Farafa Fruit Soda and belch in his face. It was only fair, after he'd almost gotten caught twice because of her semi-public sex kink, and done the threesome with that other guy.

"I believe in the power of the god-queen, Mariner," he said, beginning his prayer as he squeezed his seven-inch dicks, thinking back to the life-changing moment the god-queen had let loose with a blast of gas fueled by the Bromothians she'd devoured.

***

Granonarg was a self-made woman, like her mother and grandmother before her. She had taken hold of a small liquor business and, with a small family loan of a few million, turned it into an international enterprise. She had used the profits from that to buy up cheap real estate and flip it into rental properties, she had invested in the utility business, she had done everything that was innovative and wise to grow her business. She had provided job opportunities for prison laborers in her factories and fried fowl restaurants, as a way of giving back to the community. As the Divine and Edacious Phagocracy of She flourished, so did Granonarg, and as Granonarg's business empire prospered, so did the Phagocracy. She didn't really care about religion or politics so long as she did well out of the arrangement.

But then a new god-queen had come from the stars and ruined everything! Her prison workers were no longer willing to work for sub-minimum wages, and that had lead to increased costs for her business. What's more, workers were abandoning her factories and shops to get increased wages elsewhere, as the wage floor rose. The people were becoming lazy and indolent thanks to the universal food stamp program, no longer greatful for the benifecence of job-creators.

The final insult, of course, was the big "competition" for the government contract for the coronation. She had made generous contributions to regulatory officials, exercised her influence, and it was all for naught, because the selection process was some kind of barbaric ritual combat and that Gorbolite interloper had taken her out with just one punch. She must have cheated somehow. There was no way a well-bred, genetically superior woman like herself would be defeated by a member of the Gorbolite race.

But Granonarg hadn't lost her temper or her head. She'd fawned and showed fealty at the coronation and used some of her trophy husband's makeup to cover up the black eye. She'd bided her time and made her connections, drawing on old supporters and concerned citizens, pillars of the community who had a vested interest in the flow of commerce and the welfare of the nation.

If one god-queen could die, so could another, she'd reasoned.

So now Granonarg sat in her hooded robe, with her friends and followers, to commission the services of Death's Little Brothers. She had concerns about hiring a man for this kind of work; it seemed a lot like political correctness to her, but her collegues had all assured her that this organization, despite the gender of its workers, trained the very best assassins money could buy. Granonarg never settled for second best, after all, and they'd helped her business associates take out irritating rivals and union leaders before with flawless results.

"Where is your assassin?" one of her hooded associates asked.

"Yeah, assassination is a woman's job. I don't want any diversity hires," another one grumbled.

One of the hooded figures revealed his face. It was pretty but hard, with cold-blue eyes.

"Your mansion needs better security," Death's Little Brother said.

Granonarg smiled nervously. "See? I told you he wouldn't disappoint," she said, pretending not to be unsettled.

"Are you prepared to kill the god-queen Mariner?" Granonarg asked the young man. He was classically beautiful, lithe like a runner, with close-cropped green hair.

"I will kill her or die trying," he said, solemnly. "If I should die, my Brothers will avenge me and claim the life of your enemy." In that moment, for the first time in her life, Granonarg was convinced by the look in his eyes that, actually, there were some real jobs a man could do just as well as a woman, and this was one of them. That was a face devoid of fear or regret.

Granonarg was very grateful, suddenly, that she was the one hiring this contractor, instead of being the contract.