#chabbit

He slumped forward in the pilot’s seat, elbows on the control panel, and rested his forehead on the palms of his hand. Maybe he could just keep ignoring the stench. Maybe all he needed was a snack. Sitting up, he reached for the gear box, which, in addition to containing the usual tools for emergency repairs, contained his stash of garlic knots. Made by his mom and shipped to Mars, they were now a little on the hard-tack side of stale, but comfort food was comfort food, even if it took a jaw-breaking amount of chewing.

With a tap to the glowing purple lock switch—like everything on the Blade of Marmora ship, the cockpit was a dreary shade of gray with bright motes of purple lighting—and the box’s main drawer slid open.

“Holy crow!” His hand, already reaching into the box, jerked back in surprise. A small pair of yellow eyes stared back at him. “Shit!” Lance stared at the chabbit, the source of the reek. “Shit, shit, shit.”

This one was tiny and fortunately alone. A baby.

“Shit.” The expletive was also a descriptor as the infant varmint had done just that; shit prolifically in the box, with the added insult of piss. It had also devoured the garlic knots.

Blade of Marmora policy was clear: “Any chabbit found on board a Blade vessel shall be eliminated by any means necessary.” Chabbits, native to the Galra homeworld of Daibazaal, were warm-blood reptilian rodents. Fully grown, they were the size of a very small cat, had two short tusks that delivered a mildly venomous bits, ate absolutely anything and had opposable thumbs. In just a few short years since the restoration of the Galra homeland, they had managed to spread throughout the universe and were a reviled pest species.

The Blade of Marmora flight manual also included instructions for the most efficient and safe ways to dispatch of the creatures. Lance, however, had always made himself scarce when his parents slaughtered a chicken or some other livestock on the farm. Though he’d done more than his share of killing as a Paladin of Voltron, chucking a helpless living thing out of an airlock (Option A) or snapping its neck (Option B) was more than he could bear.

Lance stared at the little animal. It stared back.

He shut the drawer.

Long minutes passed. Through the cockpit window, the faint cyan glow of the approaching teleduv facility grew larger, a spot of color in the otherwise black with a net of stars, chiaroscuro expanse of space.

Lance’s stomach rumbled.

He stabbed angrily at the purple door latch and as the drawer opened, snarled, “Why’d you have to eat my garlic knots? Why?”

The chabbit cocked its tiny rectangular head and chirped.

“Yeah, well, I’m hungry too. And I’m the one flying this boat. If the captain ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” He glared at the creature. “I have to kill you. It’s nothing personal. Well, yes, it is. You ate my garlic knots.”

The chabbit, who’d been huddled against the back of the drawer, chirped again and hopped toward the front of the rectangular space. With another hopeful chirp, it rose, wobbly on rabbit-like haunches, and grasped the edge of the drawer with its four fingered hands.

Lance leaned back, eyed the creature for a second and then closed his eyes. “You’ve got two seconds to escape. I didn’t see you. Shoo.”

The sound of claws scrabbling on metal and bits and bobs of tools followed, then silence. Lance opened his eyes expecting to find the varmint gone. Instead, it was cleaning itself, purple tongue lapping at a foreleg. And it was still in the drawer.

Steeling himself, he reached out his (fortunately gloved) hand and grabbed it firmly behind the neck and yanked it from the box. This was supposed to be the safe way to catch a chabbit as it prevented the animal from biting. It didn’t stop it from frantically clawing at his hand and arm with sharp little claws. His armor protected him from that, but it did nothing to shut out the piteous noise coming from the baby. Although this chabbit was no bigger than his hand, its wails were filling the cockpit.

Desperate to end the heartrending racket, he dropped the thing. It fell in his lap, and Lance made no move to catch it, hoping it would flee.

Falling onto its side, it slid between his thighs, wiggled about and righted itself. With an indignant chirp, the tiny chabbit turned a baleful eye on him.

“Do you have a death-wish? Go!” He waved at it. “Otherwise, it’s lights out.” He drew a finger across his throat for emphasis.

The chirp turned sad, and yellow eyes filled with reproach.

Lance lifted his gaze at the teleduv. According to the instrument panel, they would reach it in thirty doboshes, a little over thirty minutes, Earth time.

At the next chabbity chirp, Lance scooped the beastie off his lap, this time gently. The chabbit didn’t resist and nestled happily in the palm of his hand.

Lance’s heart melted. Not the most unlikely event as his heart was probably composed of something like wax and he was a notorious softy. But this was a chabbit, an illegal alien species on Mars and elsewhere. Not the mention, he was breaking Blade of Marmora regs by not killing it. (Though on that count, he had an out as he was extra cozy with one of the Blade’s head honchos.) He grimaced. “Keith’s not gonna like this.” Pidge probably wouldn’t be amused either. Their other roomie, Kosmo, Keith’s cosmic wolf would probably eat this little critter.

As though sensing his indecision, the chabbit chirped. Lance grasped it carefully, flipping it over to study its underbelly. It was hard to tell, but it seemed to be male. “You look like a Rogelio.”

Upright and back on Lance’s palm, Rogelio eyed Lance worriedly.

“Shit,” said Lance as he stroked a finger over Rogelio’s bony eyes ridges.

Rogelio purred and rubbed his snout on Lance’s finger.

“It’s okay, buddy. We’ll work this out.” Just the act of petting the little chabbit made him feel calm inside. “It’s okay. You’re with me now. Safe and sound.”