The Cat and the Kahnari

1,912 Words

(This is an earlier short short story I wrote for my Facebook friends a while back, which is why it is not a follow up to the previous story, but hopefully it will sate my millions of readers until the next story is up...)

The signal came through loud and clear, certainly enough to betray the anxiety behind the woman’s voice. “Attention Orion vessels! This is Captain Naomi Li of the Independence of the Stars! I am ordering you to cease your attack on this vessel immediately! You are in violation of Federation Law!”

From his seat on the bridge of the slaver ship supervising the raid, Thasrurc stopped gnawing on the succulent roasted Saurian duck perched in his stubby green fingers long enough to croon, to no one in particular, “Ooooh, I'm sooo scared!”

Around him, his crew laughed – except for Uncle Vakkem, of course. The old Orion sat in a spare chair, alternating between drinking from a bottle of Altarian rum and making contemptuous noises at his nephew, his displeasure at nearly everything Thasrurc said or did evident.

Vakkem was a crotchety old bastard; drop a sack of gold-pressed latinum in his lap, and he’d complain about the weight of it. Since inheriting the title of Kahnari and the business from his father – with Vakkem being intentionally passed over – Thasrurc had sought to make a name for himself outside of his father’s shadow.

And this raid into Federation space was just what he needed. He watched with satisfaction as five smaller Orion raiders, all commanded by loyal cousins, continued to swarm around the Independence like angry wasps, firing their disruptors, slowly but surely wearing down the liner’s shields, after which Thasrurc's ship would sweep in, kill the crew, beam away as many young passengers as it could grab, and then return home again with a full hold.

And everyone was basking in the success – except Uncle Vakkem. “Don't be so cocky, boy. You're not home with the prize yet.”

“Sit there and get drunk in silence, old man. When I bring back a hold full of prime meat for the markets-”

“You won't. He won’t let you.”

“Who won’t?”

“The Fat Cat.”

And Thasrurc rolled his eyes: not him again. Starfleet Captains had a reputation for being civilised, honour bound... soft. But the Fat Cat was different, they warned. For years Thasrurc had heard horror stories about him, a Caitian who was once a slave in their very system and had somehow escaped, since then showing no mercy to businessmen like themselves. They said he was formidable, ruthless.

Then Thasrurc saw a picture of him, standing with some cadets he was training – and was not impressed. He looked like a clown, smiling inanely for the camera. He looked like a child's toy. He looked like a pet. This was no commander, no warrior. He was a joke! And all the talk from Vakkem and all the other sad old men about him was just piss and wind.

Certainly Thasrurc proved this, by easily diverting the Fat Cat to a neighbouring system with a false distress signal, leaving the Independence to their tender mercies.

“Orion vessels!” Captain Li continued over the open channel. “Cease your attack at once!”

Thasrurc wondered if the woman was pretty, and young; he liked them like that. Well, her ship’s shields were almost depleted, so he guessed he would know soon enough. He threw the remains of the duck to the floor and licked his fingers. “Cheer up, Uncle. I'll give you one of the human women to play with. You might be too old for her to raise your staff, but she might still put a smile on that ugly face of yours.” He chuckled.

But the gaunt, wrinkled old bastard just snarled, “The Fat Cat is going to chew you up and spit you out. Idiot.”

Thasrurc glared, aware that his crew could hear the open contempt. “Have a care, old one. You may be my uncle, but I’m still your Kahnari.”

Vakkem chuckled, raising his bottle in salute. “And you always will be. For the rest of our lives.”

Suddenly, Li’s voice returned, full of desperation, her prior attempt at remaining strong now eroded. “For pity’s sake, STOP! We have children onboard!”

Thasrurc smiled now, and finally opened a channel to respond to the woman. “That’s good to hear, Naomi, very good; children fetch a premium price in our markets. But I might keep you for myself. I like how you plead.” He closed the channel and laughed, declaring broadly, “We’re going home with a full hold, boys!”

The bridge crew cheered – except for Vakkem, of course – but then the voice of the Tactical Officer cut through. “Kahnari! There’s a vessel coming in at high warp on an intercept course! It has a Starfleet energy signature!”

Thasrurc started, but then spat, “Bah! A patrol runabout, some toothless scout that picked up the distress signal! A flyspeck, that’s all! With the Fat Cat and his Surefoot diverted to the Mintaka System, no other vessel can-”

“It is the Surefoot!”

The bridge went silent again.

Except for Vakkem, chuckling and muttering, “Idiot.” Then he began drinking faster.

Thasrurc rose to his feet. He could do this. He had been waiting for this his whole life. He could defeat this Starfleet vessel and still make it home with a full hold. On the screen, his cousins still continued to fire on the Independence, oblivious to the approaching vessel. “Alert our ships, get them to regroup and-”

“I can’t, Kahnari! The channels are flooded with- with-”

“With what?”

Unable to describe it, the Communications Officer simply piped it in over the speakers: a terrible drumbeat and assault of metallic musical instruments, and then a cry, followed by a man’s voice, proudly declaring:

“We come from the land of ice and snow / From the Midnight Sun, where the hot springs flow / The Hammer of the Gods / We’ll drive our ships to new lands / To fight the hordes, and sing and cry / VALHALLA, I AM COMING!” 

Thasrurc looked to his uncle. “That sounds Klingon! I thought he was Caitian!”

The old man wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “That is the battle song of an ancient band of Terran warriors called The Led Zeppelin.”

“What does it mean?”

Vakkem grinned cruelly at him. “It means he’s not interested in talking, in ordering us away or negotiating for our surrender. It means he’s keeping you from contacting your ships and organising a counter-attack. It means you should have planned for this, and listened to my warnings about him, instead of filling your head with visions of gold pressed latinum and slaves at your feet.

It mostly means you’re an idiot.”

On the speakers, the singer declared, “WE ARE YOUR OVERLORDS!”

“Turn that off!” Once it was quiet again, Thasrurc looked back at his uncle. “Have you anything useful to suggest, old man?”

“Yes: leave your cousins to keep him busy while we escape. Our ship does not have the firepower to match him.” He sneered as he added, “Or the leadership.”

Onscreen, his cousins had stopped the attack on the liner, and were obviously trying to swarm around and improvise a defence against the Surefoot as it warped out into real space, bypassing Thasrurc’s ship to go after the raiders.

Vakkem had a point. They could go, and leave them to keep the Starfleet vessel busy long enough to-

No. Thasrurc was a Kahnari! He would not skulk away and become a laughing stock! There was no way that the Fat Cat was that dangerous, no matter how many old men bleated on about him! There were five Orion raiders out there! Five-

Four: Cousin Jaire’s ship erupted into a blossom of flame.

“Withdraw,” Vakkem urged.

Thasrurc ignored him, focusing on the battle, trying to come up with something. He watched the Surefoot dive and swoop and pounce. But there were times when its phasers missed their targets, or when its movements seemed clumsy. This was the fierce, formidable foe his father and uncle spoke of? “Bah! Look at him! He is an amateur, not a warrior! Stumbling about like a drunkard...”

Vakkem looked up again with open contempt. “You. Are. An. IDIOT.” He indicated the movements on the screen. “Don’t you understand? He’s not fighting, he’s teaching! He’s teaching his cubs how to fight! WE’RE NOT A THREAT TO HIM! WE’RE A LESSON! GET US OUT OF HERE! NOW!”

Onscreen, Cousin Raassel’s ship was sliced in two. Then Cousin Laikkor’s ship was grabbed by a tractor beam… and flung into Cousin Gessir’s ship like a rejected toy, destroying them both without firing a single shot.

“Ooh,” Vakkem cooed. “The cadet who pulled that off will get top marks...”

Only Cousin Taycuz’s ship remained.

Screw Cousin Taycuz. “Helm! Withdraw back to our space! Maximum warp!”

Their ship lurched hard to starboard, protesting as the helmsman took her into warp space, away from the battle site. Thasrurc sank back into his chair. He had lost five ships, five crews, five cousins – but Vakkem was right, at least he was coming back alive and with his main ship. That had to count for something… hadn’t it?

“Kahnari!” his Tactical Officer barked. “The Surefoot is on fast approach from astern, at Warp 9.5!”

“Increase our speed!”

“We’re at Maximum already, Kahnari!”

“Then take evasive action, fool!”

“It won’t be enough,” Vakkem informed him needlessly.

The viewscreen switched to the rear view, as the Saber-class starship drew up steadily from the dilated lens of warp space. It looked angry. It looked hungry. Thasrurc's ship lurched, once, then twice... but their ship was built for hauling slaves, not for manoeuvres or combat, and their efforts only allowed the Surefoot to catch up quicker.

“We could- we could offer him a share in the profits?” Thasrurc muttered to himself.

Vakkem snorted. “Yes, let’s do that! Offer the man we enslaved and tortured for years a chance to be part of it all! He’ll lap that up like a bowl of cream!”

Thasrurc rose and approached him, looking ready to break the old man's neck. Instead he leaned in and whispered, “What can I do? There must be something...”

His uncle regarded him with glassy eyes. Then he suggested softly, “Apologise. Be humble. Ask him to spare your crew. Grovel. Kiss his tail. Swallow your pride, O Great and Mighty Kahnari, and spend the rest of your life in a comfy Federation prison.”

Thasrurc backed away. Was he serious? Wanting an Orion Kahnari to grovel? It was unthinkable!

On the screen, the Surefoot was moving past them, their aft torpedo bay lighting up.

The unthinkable became very, very thinkable. He opened a channel. “Attention, Surefoot! This is Kahnari Thasrurc! I…” He couldn’t look at his crew as he continued. “I regret the error which resulted in the accidental attack on the Independence of the Stars. And... I promise we won’t return to Federation space.”

The channel cut off. Thasrurc smiled to himself at how well he handled that.

“That was what you call grovelling?” Vakkem snorted in disbelief.

Thasrurc ignored him. It would get a response from the Fat Cat.

And it did: a deep, damning growl of a voice. “Yeah, Bubulah. I can promise you won’t return to Federation space, too.”

As they watched the volley of torpedoes shoot from the Surefoot, the bridge went silent.

Except of course for Vakkem. “Idiot...”