I wish my Grandmothers had kept a better log of the wildlife on Buber. They were far too busy terraforming to worry about what insects were buzzing about. Since then her laissez-faire attitude to arrival checks means the natural world of our little planet must be a constant battle for survival.
We still get new species all the time. Take last night.
The closest reference animal to the thing on the woman’s shoulder is a monkey. Only the fur on its body, head and tail were a mossy green, and thick and curly like a fleece. The woman drank rum and ginger beer all night, and snacked on peanuts. The monkey did little but sniff the air.
It took some free drinks to tell me how she found her pet. Her name was Diana. This is her story.
D: ‘My job was to study the different animals. Learn about their life cycle. It was a funding grant designed to expand our knowledge about the universe. These critters were everywhere on the planet I worked on. They mixed into each tree with such ease predators marched within six inches of their tails without taking a bite. All they need in terms of sustenance are some nuts similar to the ones you serve in this bar. They slept eighteen hours a day, and hid the other six. Easy peasy.
After the Haircut a mining ship went down, and three hundred of those rotting bastards spilled into the forest. With all those trees there...bloody hell, it was their perfect habitat. A perfect bloody feeding ground.
My mission was solo, so extermination was not an option. I was not worried about getting bitten of course, but I kept a yellow hat on all the same. Holes and drool started appearing in the foliage. Paths once thick with hedges became a compost heap.
Then the bodies appeared.
Corpses like those of my pal here. Chewed in half, or with a head missing. This wasn’t genocide. The parsnipheads wanted that crumbly, mossy bark ubiquitous to that world. But these creatures must have lacked a natural predator for thousands of years. Until that damned mining ship appeared, it was advantageous to be lazy.
I had devoted years of my life to them. I couldn’t sit around and write notes. Even if that was my job. They had social structures, intelligence matching the top primates back on Earth. And all this death was all so pointless.
Look at my arms. You think these can massacre a three figure sum of parnsipheads? I managed to mulch the brains of twenty seven of them, but that took over a month. I’ve spoken to numerous Butter Mice squads, sent them message and bought them drinks. They say they’ll get there eventually.
My mission finished early. This fella on my shoulder breaks all the rules and guidelines about quarantine and leaving native species alone. His brothers and sisters don’t make my legal situation any better. But I’ll keep working to save them. It’s our fault after all.’
