Talk:Vorak of Kolnap

by Alan Vanneman (2014)

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«Mission Alpha: A World of Mung»

The explanation he’d given at the resulting court martial—“She sure looked eighteen to me”—had gone down as the worst defense in twenty thousand years of cockroach jurisprudence. The presiding bug laughed so hard he’d split his chitin three weeks prior to molting, which didn’t help Vorak’s case one bit.  ¶

--Faterson

ib.

Damn it, he had handled this all wrong! He had been too cavalier, too sure of himself! Vorak, the great roach hunter, the bug without fear! He should have done it by the book, with back-up, searchlights, the whole six legs. Instead he had charged in like a rookie, cocksure and shotcrazy, never thinking there might be a second tarantula. His stupidity had cost Orkan his life. He was responsible!  ¶

--Faterson

«Mission Beta: A Lighter Shade of Rouge»

¶  Vorak inspected his image carefully in the mirror. He hadn’t worn Full Dress since graduation from the Academy. Forty-five years had passed — forty in the freeze can and five at Kolnap itself.

--Faterson

ib.

Beneath all the fellowship in the room there was the ineffable scent—or was it an unhealthy stink?—of roach smugness and je-m’en-foutisme. Take them one at a time, each of the roaches were good bugs. You could match them against any insects in the galaxy. But put them in a room together, and they went a little stale. Life was too easy, too good, too fat. When he saw the tiger beetle strippers coming on, he knew it was time to leave. He thought of an old line of poetry from grammar school. “They little know of Nardan, who only Nardan know.” What the vart did that mean? he used to ask. Now he knew.  ¶

--Faterson

ib.

¶  Vorak kissed her on the cheek.

“Darling, you’re a genius.”

“Well, of course I am, darling, but why?”

“For discovering the solution.”

“The solution to what?”

“To the mystery. Well, half of it.”

“Half of what solution? Darling, don’t be elliptical. You know that’s my prerogative.”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” said Vorak, under his breath, nodding to a passing lady. “Too many bugs in the hall. [...]”  ¶

--Faterson

ib.

Nayluu was all too aware that single square inch of bare hopper shoulder at a Roach Rout would cause the pillars of the galaxy not to shake but to shatter. She stepped from the dressing screen and stood before Vorak.

“How do I look, darling?”

Vorak bit his mandibles. Nayluu seemed to shimmer before him like an incandescent flame, the figure and image of infinite promise, an invocation of all that was good in a roach, and of all that was bad. This was a gown to inspire devotion in the pure, and baseness in the corrupt. There was love there, and hunger, wisdom, and passion, knowledge, and desire.

“Thank Bob I’m armed,” he said, proffering an elbow. “Please remember to show a little mercy.”

“Darling, you take these things so seriously.”

--Faterson

«Mission Gamma: Ex-Duty»

A real commander has three responsibilities: prioritize, prioritize, and prioritize.

--Faterson

ib.

The sea, stiff with frozen slush and carrying thick cakes of frozen methane, broke in slow, heavy waves against the rear of the Morat.

--Faterson

Nayluu, ib.

¶  “Darling, I haven’t seen green for centuries.”  ¶

--Faterson

Vorak, ib.

¶  “If you’re in my outfit, you are expendable, because I’m expendable. That’s one of the burdens of command.”  ¶

--Faterson

«Mission Delta: Sphericity»

Vorak and Nayluu were the single spark of glamour for a trillion miles and more. Even at Splight 0.9555, the juvie baths and fashion shops of Nardan were a good ten-year freeze flight away. With each passing day, Boron’s superb wardrobe grew more hopelessly out of date. Without Vorak’s eager eye, and Nayluu’s knowing one, she may as well have been dressing in sackcloth.  ¶

--Faterson

ib.

¶  Vorak stared at her. So haughty, and yet so needy. What a combination!  ¶

--Faterson

«Mission Epsilon: Sphericity Redux»

[...] “native cuisine”—fermented fungus in ant saliva— [...]

--Faterson

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