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For billions of years, twin blue jewels have blazed in the blackness of the void, slowly dancing around one another in an endless whirl against the stars. Small rocky worlds spin in their light, brown and green and blue, rich in life yet poor in unsynthesizable minerals, they have gained little notice from those in the Federation looking to expand business or mining operations, their scientific worth carefully catalogued as a curiosity only, with no life form more socially complex than a Terran crab inhabiting their surfaces.
This is no longer the case.
On the surface of the fifth planet from the suns, the vast Shontine-K'da colony ships have made their landing under emerald skies, scattered to twelve locations meticulously chosen from long-term sustainability, each one accompanied by a handful of Starfleet's Corps of Engineers. It's been three days, and already the prefab shelters are beginning to look small against the bulk of larger structures constructed from local timbers: administrative and scientific hubs, private dwellings, community buildings that can house thousands. And outside the planned communities, the ground is being cleared and tilled, preparing for crops to be planted once spring makes its arrival.
Faris and Chanath leave a single set of pawprints in the soft disturbed dirt as they head to the new pavilion in the settlement's center, where hundreds of thousands are gathered to partake in the evening meal, their first as an established land-side town, rather than in the mess halls of Tearsinger. The tables stretch, long and twisting across the open floor, a wave of Shontine and K'da curling like a tail beneath a single roof in a rainbow of colors and patterns, and the murmur of so many voices forms a shifting low chorus of joy. The meal itself is nothing special, just the typical ship-grown vegetables and protein, but it tastes all the sweeter for the fresh air that has never known a carbon scrubber.
Even the Starfleet officers are not immune to the spirit, nestled here and there among the new colonists, laughing and chatting with those around them. At Chanath's elbow, one ensign scarcely has time for breath between food and conversation. "This is some party, huh?"
"Indeed," Chanath agrees, pacing herself far more slowly, and feeding choice morsels to Faris, whose head rises up from its position on her shoulder. "It has been long overdue, yet our patience has borne fruit at last."
"Right on," the ensign answers, baring her teeth in a human smile. "A lotta folks are pretty happy for you. Any idea what you're going to call the place? Delta Serpentis Minor is a pretty dull name for a colony."
"Yes," Faris answers, his tail curling up his host's side and ears flicking forward in pride. "The Council has chosen the name Kenteuk'ai, the seedling which sprouts in new soil."
The ensign abruptly chokes, and slams her curled paw into her chest a few times, alarming them both. "Are you all right?" Chanath asks, concerned.
"Fine," the human squeaks out, her voice strangely higher in pitch. "You're naming it Kentucky?"
She does not pronounce it correctly, but it is close enough. "Is this offensive?" Chanath wonders, suddenly worried that perhaps this name bears too close a resemblance to an insult. It would be a terrible way to repay the Federation's kindness.
"Oh no, not at all," the ensign hastens to say, but her mouth is curved upward at the corners and her shoulders shake a little. "It's a great name. Very noble. I like it." And with that, she begins quickly eating even faster, as if it requires her full attention.
Chanath watches her for a long moment, head tilted in puzzlement.
Humans can be so strange.
This is no longer the case.
On the surface of the fifth planet from the suns, the vast Shontine-K'da colony ships have made their landing under emerald skies, scattered to twelve locations meticulously chosen from long-term sustainability, each one accompanied by a handful of Starfleet's Corps of Engineers. It's been three days, and already the prefab shelters are beginning to look small against the bulk of larger structures constructed from local timbers: administrative and scientific hubs, private dwellings, community buildings that can house thousands. And outside the planned communities, the ground is being cleared and tilled, preparing for crops to be planted once spring makes its arrival.
Faris and Chanath leave a single set of pawprints in the soft disturbed dirt as they head to the new pavilion in the settlement's center, where hundreds of thousands are gathered to partake in the evening meal, their first as an established land-side town, rather than in the mess halls of Tearsinger. The tables stretch, long and twisting across the open floor, a wave of Shontine and K'da curling like a tail beneath a single roof in a rainbow of colors and patterns, and the murmur of so many voices forms a shifting low chorus of joy. The meal itself is nothing special, just the typical ship-grown vegetables and protein, but it tastes all the sweeter for the fresh air that has never known a carbon scrubber.
Even the Starfleet officers are not immune to the spirit, nestled here and there among the new colonists, laughing and chatting with those around them. At Chanath's elbow, one ensign scarcely has time for breath between food and conversation. "This is some party, huh?"
"Indeed," Chanath agrees, pacing herself far more slowly, and feeding choice morsels to Faris, whose head rises up from its position on her shoulder. "It has been long overdue, yet our patience has borne fruit at last."
"Right on," the ensign answers, baring her teeth in a human smile. "A lotta folks are pretty happy for you. Any idea what you're going to call the place? Delta Serpentis Minor is a pretty dull name for a colony."
"Yes," Faris answers, his tail curling up his host's side and ears flicking forward in pride. "The Council has chosen the name Kenteuk'ai, the seedling which sprouts in new soil."
The ensign abruptly chokes, and slams her curled paw into her chest a few times, alarming them both. "Are you all right?" Chanath asks, concerned.
"Fine," the human squeaks out, her voice strangely higher in pitch. "You're naming it Kentucky?"
She does not pronounce it correctly, but it is close enough. "Is this offensive?" Chanath wonders, suddenly worried that perhaps this name bears too close a resemblance to an insult. It would be a terrible way to repay the Federation's kindness.
"Oh no, not at all," the ensign hastens to say, but her mouth is curved upward at the corners and her shoulders shake a little. "It's a great name. Very noble. I like it." And with that, she begins quickly eating even faster, as if it requires her full attention.
Chanath watches her for a long moment, head tilted in puzzlement.
Humans can be so strange.
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