Whales of the Plains

*a historical note- the year is 48.89. The Ki-Imperial Coalition, Cappaniata and Adria defeated Apexia in a six year long war just over two years ago. Most of Zurgelle, the continent Apexia sits upon, has been possessed by Imperia. Imperial control is not yet absolute in the Interior Territories of Zurgelle, where combat still continues.*


  Whipping over the endless plains of Zurgelle, swollen helium-beasts vacuumed the tall grass consuming wildlife while humming deep and ancient songs across the continent.
  "Come! See the Whales of the Plains!" the tourism bureau had said. "Boundless in their elegance!"
  One of the creatures farted, propelling it out of a doze in the midmorning sun.
  Howard was nonplussed.
  A dull boom in the distance reminded the tourist from Imperia that a war was still going on. The news had declared an Alexian surrender two years ago and the breadbasket of that nation fell under firm Imperial control. Not all the Apexian legions had given in; The garrison on Sol Island held out until last month and an Armoured Regiment was still wreaking havoc in the Interior Territories.
  Howard was disgruntled, too.
  Paying three thousand dollars to see a few big farting buggers and a field? He had been expecting culture.
  At the moment, Zurgelle was lacking culture. It did have land mines, though. Lots of those.
  In fact, Zurgelle had more land mines per capita then most nations had televisions. The tourism bureau had conveniently not been told this.
  Howard shouted up ahead to his companions, a flaking and venerable Kappat from Imperial Adria named Massira-14 and another human, a colonialist with a bad limp and a rediculious hat.
  "Let's go, there's nothing to see here."
  The colonialist stared perplexedly at Howard, who had no buisness ordering him about. He straightened his hat and coughed.
  "Sorry," said Howard.
  "You damn well better be, good-" He paused to inject extra venom into his next word- "sir."
  The oddly-hatted man made an amusing sight hobbling through waist-high grass, thought Massira-14. His dozens of eyes and low-shelled build were close to the earth, but even he could see that the only other tourists on the continent would soon be up to fisticuffs. The heat hadn't been that fun for the travellers.
  Massira-14 sighed. Growing up in a predominantly Laurat community in Adriatic Massira had led to frequent bullying for the young Kappat.  While "Tinhead!" "Scallop!" and "Four-to-the-power-of-four-eyes!" had not been particularly biting insults, the endless mild racism had mellowed out the boy. He rolled with the punches and laughed along and observed other tormentings of minorities.
  The colonialist, Mikah, was shouting.
  "Scoundrel!"
  Howard returned the serve.
  "Hooligan!"
  "Brute!"
  "Rapscallion!"
  Their scrumming was stopped when a stream of ragtag Apexian tanks poured over a small embankment a few hundred metres off to the east, the chatter of small arms fire and clanging riccochets following them. Howard sceeched and abandoned his argument. Mikah followed suit, diving off into the grass. Massira-14 scampered into the grass a bit further off, and watched the tiny force disappear into the plains.
Some culture.