Chapter Text
General Squeal ground his molars together, a mistake that sent a jolt of electric pain through his jaw. Lock-jaw. Again. He reached for a pressurized oil-can and sprayed a mist of lubricant into his mouth, grimacing at the metallic tang.
Mars was a dying rust-bucket. To the Rats, the horizon was a jagged, orange nightmare of oxidized iron and tetanus-laden dust. For centuries, they had survived by scavenging the remains of their own crumbling civilizations, but the population was booming, and the hunger was worse than the infection.
"Sir, the telescopic feed is live," a scout squeaked, his voice cracking from a dry throat.
Squeal turned to the monitor. There it was: The Moon. It hung in the blackness like a giant, orb-shaped block of aged cheddar. Through the high-resolution lenses, they could see the "craters"—not scars from rocks, but the glorious, gaping mouths of tunnels leading to a core of pure, soft dairy.
"It looks... breathable," the scout whispered.
"It looks delicious," Squeal corrected. "No more crunching on iron filings. No more orange fur. We will feast until our coats turn white and our joints move like silk."
The General pressed a button on his console, opening a secure line to the Blue Planet. A figure appeared on the screen, silhouetted by the bright lights of a California sunset. The figure adjusted his large, round, synthetic ears and smoothed out his white gloves.
"Grand Squeak Maximus," Squeal saluted. "Report."
"The humans are oblivious, General," Mickey—or Maximus—replied in that high-pitched, cheerful facade the Earthlings loved. "They think I am a symbol of joy. They do not realize I am mapping their satellite orbits and intercepting their lunar communications. The Moon-folk are peaceful and soft. They spend their days 'replenishing the rind' with giant cheese-extruders. They have no standing army. Only... snacks."
Squeal felt a rare glimmer of hope. "Prepare the Rust-Fleet. We launch at the next perigee."