José Gómez: Super Extra Grande

The Cetians, as dramatic as the Olduvailan-Mvambese, though I admit rather less bloodthirsty, passed an irrevocable sentence on the Assimilation master in their new colony on Urgh-Yhaly-Mhan, my old secretary-assistant An-Mhaly: banishment from their culture for life. And the hunt for scapegoats to answer for the “affront to the honor of the Goddess’s own People” did not stop there. An-Mhaly’s milk cousin, Gardf, lost her position on the Galactic Community Coordinating Committee, and along with Conflictmaster Jhun-Likha was condemned to “ritual death”: returning to the same Cetian sea from which they had once emerged as shivering eel-like spawn, entering it dressed in the full garb and regalia of their offices, and emerging without insignia or clothes, and with new names.

But still alive, at least.

I pity them for their political ambitions. I really do. I had come to feel… a kind of affection for them. And their downfall doesn’t make me happy.

Actually, given that they both had enough inner strength not to commit suicide when their reputations were ruined, I’m fairly confident they’ll win back prestige and responsibility. Though it may take some time.

As for me, the agent of their race’s discredit, I was forbidden to set foot ever again in any Cetian colony or ship anywhere in the galaxy, under penalty of death. And all the lovely six-breasted humanoids were informed that it was taboo to even think of contacting me.

That really did hurt. Cetians used to be my best clients.

Admiral Hurtado and General Kurchatov were likewise immediately demoted. I think Juni Tacho went back to Anima Mundi to resume his studies of veterinarian biology, but I haven’t confirmed it.

I suspect he’s really trying with all his might to get a PhD in oceanography. Bar to bar, dive to dive…

The Army and Space Force of Earth tried to sue me over my “unauthorized utilization of classified military materiel,” based on the episode of the seventeen bunker busters, and they demanded I return the “material incentive received for disinterested assistance” to pay for “moral damages”…

But I’m not Enti or An. I stopped them dead in their tracks; if they kept pressing their ridiculous claim, I’d divulge every detail about the ultrasecret design of Beagle …

They gulped and dropped the matter.

In fact—in order to save face, I suppose—they actually gave me a medal.

We’ll consider ourselves even, then.

Though if I look at the whole balance sheet, I came out ahead. Pretty far ahead.

My parents aren’t ashamed of me anymore; they proudly tell everyone they’re the parents of the famous “Veterinarian to the Giants.” My client list, though now deprived of six-breasted Cetians seeking my services, is almost twice as long as before. The Brobdingnag incident was great publicity for me. It sure didn’t hurt when that rascal Narbuk updated my holonet site with images of my daring rescue of the victims trapped inside the second largest laketon in the universe.

Don’t ask me how he got the pictures… I actually think most of them are fakes.

Life goes on.

I recently heard that the Governor Tarkon was unexpectedly deposed on Nerea. A scandal involving the illegal trafficking of (why am I not surprised?) tsunami fecal pearls. With the Amphorians.

His whereabouts are currently unknown. And will remain so for quite a while, I expect. He faces corruption charges that could keep him behind bars for the rest of his life.

They say his worthy spouse has disowned him and is now in a torrid relationship with one of her former bodyguards. That’s the latest scandal on the Nerean holonews. Seems it’s the same guard who harpooned the tsunami so skillfully with the radio tag that allowed me to identify the bracelet eater.

To think there are still people who say women are ungrateful.

I don’t bear the lady any ill will. After all, you only live once. But I hope, for her own good, she isn’t dumb enough to give her damned Aldebaran topaz-inlaid platinum wedding bracelet to her muscular new love interest—assuming Tarkon let her keep it, of course.

By the way, I’ve changed my advertising slogan. Now the sign on my office door simply says:

I can barely keep up with all the clients demanding my services. That’s why I’m not worried about the Laggoru’s threats to start his own business. The waiting list for my service calls is months long, in spite of all the juggling my three secretary-assistants do to streamline things.

That’s right, three. For now, I’ve still got Narbuk-Alr-Quamal-Tahlir-Norgai on my payroll. After his distinguished service on Abyssalia, it’s the least he deserves. Though he constantly reminds me that he wants to fly solo. One of these days.

But he still hasn’t done it. For the record.

Oh—and I found out he’s not exactly a member of the male sex. A week ago, without really bothering to explain it to me at all, he gave me notice he’d be having cubs in a few months.

After he’s had them and they’ve grown big enough, I guess he’ll leave me. We’ll figure things out at that point.

As for my two other assistants…

Could I really have slammed the door in the faces of Enti and An, when neither of them had anywhere else to go?

I’m not stonyhearted. Not in the least. So, considering how prosperous I’ve become, I called them back to my side.

I’ve made so much money lately, in fact, that I even allowed myself the luxury of acquiring a hissing dragon of Siddhartha. It’s still a little thing, barely twenty-five meters long, which is why I’m sure I’ll be able to domesticate it before it reaches full size. It already recognizes me and everything. Every time it sees me come in, it excretes especially thick clouds of sulfurous vapor. Lovely.

Concholants are still missing from my résumé, but maybe one of these days I’ll have the tremendous pleasure of flying off into space to visit one, even if I don’t get paid for it. At least I now have the ideal vehicle for making the trip: I just bought a surplus ship off the Juhungans. It’s a twin of the one Enti and An were flying when the laketon captured them.

Don’t even ask how much it cost me. Those hydrogen breathers are a bunch of incorrigible skinflints.

Of course, it isn’t the same ship, and it isn’t Beagle , but it serves my needs perfectly, in addition to motivating me and reminding me of the strange case that changed my life.

Until I have an adequate hangar built, it also serves as a den for my two dozen cuddly marbusses from Mizar. I’ve got it parked in the backyard of the house I share with Enti Kmusa and An-Mhaly…

Yes, I’m living in a peculiar relationship… with both ladies.

Hence the marbusses. They really do love them. All women do.

And since I love making them happy…

Long live threesomes, if they bring happiness. And the hell with all my prudish old intolerant ideas about exotic women, together with my equally misogynistic prejudices towards non- Homo sapiens females, humanoids or gynecoids, with yellow pupil-less eyes, cephalic crests, violet skin, six breasts, three-forked tongues, cartilaginous chewing plates—and oral sex as the main dish on their limited but sincere erotic menu.

Maybe it’s my professional success, but now we’re the main topic of gossip on all the holonews programs out of Gea. There’s also the fact that none of us is exactly tiny, so we three are hard to miss when we’re out walking around town, hand in hand.

But I don’t care. Let them talk, if that’s what they want.

We don’t care.

Now I can say I’ve tried everything.