Mothers' Talk

Meeting Hall, Summer Palace, Cascaran Province, Planet Nekros:

As she watched the sequence of energy eruptions on the screen, blossoms of red and gold and white, Monarch Prime Nhlanha’s mind shot back to a similar resplendent scene: the fireworks that filled the Capitol’s sky the night her twins Isole and Odede finally emerged from her pouch, ready to face the world. She held those tiny mewling purple bundles in her arms as she walked out to the balcony overlooking the Palace Courtyard, to the thousands of well-wishers waiting for a glimpse of the future rulers of the Nekrosi Commonwealth.

Her senses were overwhelmed by the lights and sounds, and her hearts quickened with perfect, empyreal joy until they felt as if they would burst from her chest.

The scene on the screen before her tonight also involved her children, and it also overwhelmed her… but in a different way. “Hold.”

The image stilled on the final gasp of light, as the warp core of the starship that had taken her children to the Klingon Front to see the fighting surrendered to the relentless assault of disruptor fire from the ships pursuing it. Nhlanha stared at it, for far longer than was necessary or comfortable, as if locking eyes with the final image might somehow moor her babies to the Living Realm.

But of course she knew better, that her Firstborn had been turned to stardust almost a tenday ago. The entire planet had been ordered to be in mourning until further notice, and wore White, Nhlanha included of course.

But she had no time for mourning. Someone had to pay. “We thank you for providing us with this, Commissioner. The evidence against the criminal Starfleet Captain responsible for the murder of my children is incontestable.”

Twenty-four years ago, and two years into Nhlanha’s reign as Monarch Prime, the Nekrosi Commonwealth made formal contact with the United Federation of Planets, and trade and diplomatic relations were established. And in that time, she had encountered many different alien races, far more exotic than those conceived of in the science fiction kinecels favoured by the masses. But the dominant race among the Federation appeared to be the hummins: bipedal like Nekrosi, but short, squat, sheathed in every conceivable colour but a normal purple, and similarly covered with follicles, again of every colour.

High Commissioner Farrell favoured pale skin and copper-red follicles, though at least he was tall by his people’s standards, though certainly not as tall as a normal Nekrosi. “Excuse me, Your Grace, but with respect, this recording, and the data and witness statements we provided your Ministers, was to prove that Captain Hrelle, and by extension Starfleet, was not responsible for the tragic deaths of Prince Isole and Princess Odede. It was the Klingons, seeking revenge for the attempted assassination of one of their captains by Prince Isole.”

She approached him, feeling her long robes swish around her legs. “The evidence also proved that Captain Hrelle, the same criminal who assaulted and threatened my son days before, stood by and did nothing to stop the Klingons!”

Farrell’s face tightened almost imperceptibly; a part of Nhlanha could coolly admire his diplomatic facade. “Firstly, Your Grace, and again with respect, Captain Hrelle had been responding to actions instigated by your son against one of his younger crewmen, a cadet under his protection. Despite this, in the interests of amity, he agreed to apologise and allow the Prince and Princess to accompany him to a clandestine meeting with a Klingon vessel. And Prince Isole used this opportunity to try and murder a Klingon, for no other reason than the desire to do so.”

“And?” Nhlanha sneered. “Are they not your enemy? Enemies are to be crushed beneath your boots!”

“Your Grace, the Federation prefers not to crush. The Klingons had made an unprecedented offer to Starfleet, to hand over Starfleet Prisoners of War too wounded for them to properly manage, and it was an offer we couldn’t refuse. Your son’s actions jeopardised the ceasefire established, and threatened to escalate it and cause more casualties, and Captain Hrelle’s exigent priority was to retrieve the wounded and prevent more from being created.”

“This animal believed the lives of your minions, of insignificants, was of greater value than the lives of my babies!”

Farrell paused before replying. “Your Grace, Captain Hrelle is not an animal. He is a highly experienced, highly decorated Starfleet officer, who has saved thousands of lives during his career. Those ‘insignificants’, as you label them, men and women serving, risking their lives to defend us, are no less deserving of life than your children.

The Federation offers its condolences to you on the loss of the Prince and Princess. But with respect, they were present in a war zone of their own free will. They directly involved themselves in the conflict between Starfleet and the Klingon Imperial Fleet, and unfortunately for them, they paid the price for that involvement. Captain Hrelle’s decision and actions were examined by Starfleet Command, and he was exonerated of any wrongdoing. We must refuse your… request… to extradite him to the Nekrosi Commonwealth.”

It was a simple refusal. But to Nhlanha, to hear it spoken aloud, and in the presence of her staff and subjects, it was as if the hummin had struck her. “You know I can withdraw the resources of the Commonwealth from maintaining security in this sector of space! I can close our borders to the Federation!”

Farrell nodded in agreement. “You can do both, Your Grace, that is true. For the former, it would certainly be an inconvenience for Starfleet… but it would not be an insurmountable one. For the latter, I fear that isolation now, after all these years of having your borders open to the wider Galaxy, would harm your people more than it would us. And so for their sake, I would strongly urge you to consider their welfare-”

“Leave.”

Farrell drew back; to his credit, he made no attempt to try and dissuade her, or explain further, or fawn or ingratiate himself with her. He bowed slightly, turned and departed. She watched his retreating figure, listened to the taps of his shoes on the polished stone floor, and waited until he was gone and the doors rolled shut, before she announced, “I wish to speak with my Synod. Alone.”

She stood motionless, not even questioning if her orders were being fulfilled and the servants were filing out, and waited until a familiar voice signified, “Your Synod awaits to serve, Your Grace.”

Now she turned in place to face her most trusted advisers. “Well… the Commissioner’s response was exactly as you had warned, and as I had feared. But have no illusions: This is not the end of the matter. This is the beginning. Nosipho? What have you learned?”

One of her older ministers bowed to her, before bringing up on the screen an image of an alien species she had never seen before: large frame, sporting dark fur, a short muzzle, pointed ears and a long tail, looking very much like a Brown Mountain Grubber, but walking upright and dressed in a Starfleet uniform. “This is Captain Esek Hrelle, born in 2320 on the planet Cait, in system 15 Lyncis in the Muratas Sector, as identified in the Federation Cartographic Records. Caitians are felinoids, as you can see, and one of the earliest member worlds of the Federation. They are a matriarchy, with a long recorded history of conflict with a cousin race known as the Ferasans.

Hrelle served as Chief of Security on the USS Republic and the al-Srour, where he earned the Christopher Pike Medal of Valour, the Grankite Order of Tactics, the Star Cross and the Starfleet Silver Palm with Cluster during conflicts with the Gorn and the Tholians. He assumed command of the frigate USS Furyk in 2350, earning the Legion of Honour and the Starfleet Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry for dealing with various pirates and terrorist organisations.

In 2357 he married Commander Hannah Eismann, a hummin Chief Engineer on Starfleet Station Salem Four-”

“What?” Nhlanha’s flat face creased with disgust. “They allow... breeding outside of their own species?”

“Yes, Your Grace; as you yourself have learned over the years, the Federation possesses many strange views. In 2362, the criminal organisation the Bel-Zon attacked the Furyk, killed the crew but captured Captain Hrelle, telepathically interrogating him for the security codes to Salem Four. The Bel-Zon then launched a raid on the station to steal stores of trilithium; the raid killed his wife, leaving behind a human daughter from a previous marriage, Sasha Hrelle. The general consensus of Starfleet at the time was that Captain Hrelle had betrayed Starfleet to the Bel-Zon, and was either living in exile, or betrayed and killed.

In fact, Captain Hrelle had been sold into slavery, serving chiefly as a gladiator on the Orion homeworld. He escaped captivity in 2368, returning to Starfleet and clearing his name. He has since assumed command of two vessels, both named USS Surefoot. He has also remarried a Caitian female, a Kami Shall, in 2369, and they have conceived a son, Misha, in 2370. Both wife and son live with him on the Surefoot, and his stepdaughter serves in Starfleet on another starship in the Thirteenth Fleet.”

“He has a wife and child?” she asked, though she had listened carefully to her advisor’s words, seeking to learn what she could about the murderer of her children.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“How old is his son?”

“Ah... three, Your Grace. More recently Captain Hrelle has earned the Starfleet Medal of Commendation for saving the crew of the USS Tsukuba from a Klingon task force-”

“Yes, yes, I’m certain he is the darling hero of Starfleet.” Her eyes burned into the image on the screen. I remember when MY children were three, you murdering bastard… She turned to her military advisor Sithinjwe. “The warships upgrades I demanded? Where are they?”

His colour darkened to a deep violet. “Your Grace, the Commonwealth War Fleet already possesses engines capable of Warp 2, as well as neutrino cannons, rail guns, missiles and electrokinetic shields. They are a more than adequate defence... here in the Commonwealth and the surrounding systems.

But it would prove to be too daunting for us to upgrade our vessels to a degree that would match Starfleet specifications.”

She couldn’t believe her earducts, and her face tightened in response. “Are you implying that Starfleet technology and ingenuity is superior to the Nekrosi?”

Sithinjwe’s long throat fluttered with repressed emotion. “Your Grace, your War Fleet will live and die at your command; their loyalty and bravery is second to none. But Starfleet has been out there in the Galaxy for centuries. Their ships can reach Warp Nine and greater. They have access to alien technology, weapons, resources, expertise. It would take our ships months just to reach this Hrelle, and even when they arrived, their armament simply would not match theirs.”

“That is… disappointing to hear, Minister.”

“Yes,” agreed Mrithinja, stepping forward unbidden. “Which is why my efforts might be received more favourably.” He was the youngest member of the Synod, and unlike the others was too young to remember a time before the existence of aliens infesting the rest of the Galaxy was known. He was also the most ambitious, and the most willing to curry favour with the Monarch Prime.

He was definitely a bootlicker – but she knew that even bootlickers had their uses. “Our Quadrant of the galaxy is not as regulated and controlled as the Federation propagandists would have us believe. There is a large community of criminal organisations out there – the Orion Syndicate, the Eclipse, the Iotian Mob, the Bel-Zon – all willing to do anything… for a price. 

A price we can easily pay, through latinum, pergium, topaline, numerous other resources from our system. And, as an added bonus, we can structure the transaction so that it remains untraceable to us, thus avoiding Federation censure and retribution.” He smiled. “Assuming, of course, we even care what the aliens think, Your Grace.”

“We should, youngster,” came a new, unbidden voice to the proceedings.

Nhlanha turned to her oldest Minister, and her closest confidante. “Arunthelse, I know what your opinion is on this matter.”

The male figure leaned on a cane, his aged, elongated face showing sharp vertical wrinkles accentuated by obvious concern. “But you will still indulge an old and faithful servant who already has one foot in the World-To-Be. Your Grace, we grieve with you. The loss of Isole and Odede – to you, our world and people – is ineffable, and cannot be adequately measured.

But the actions you wish to take against this Starfleet Captain – and his family – will not assuage our grief. It will only add to it. And should word get out to the Federation – and it will, for I believe we have only glimpsed at their potential – they will not take kindly to our actions. Trade and security agreements will be annulled. Economic embargoes will be enforced. And, as Commissioner Farrell had warned, it will be our people who suffer.”

She expected this from him. And yet her anger still rose at his words. “You forget yourself, Arunthelse.”

He shook his head. “With respect, Your Grace, I have not. This is who I am, who I have been since I served your father, and I would be remiss in my duties if I did not offer you the same clarity as I did him, a truth unadulterated by supplication… or ambition.” He glanced at his fellow Ministers at this. “Your Grace, when we were still mastering travel through the air, the Federation had already been mapping – and conquering – our sector of space. They may have left us a section of neighbouring systems for our eventual exploitation, but they have still surrounded us.”

“They need us!” she reminded him sharply. “We help patrol this sector of space, ensure their communication buoys remain intact!”

The old Minister breathed in, his open nostrils fluttering. “Given the Federation Commissioner’s response today to your threat to withdraw our support, Your Grace, I strongly suspect that our current arrangement is not as necessary to them as it is to us, to establish a working relationship between our governments, and give us a sense of… relevancy.”

The Monarch Prime stared at him, as the realisation dawned on her. “Grand Errands.”

“Your Grace?”

She glanced down at the black polished floor, her tone soft and searching. “Arunthelse, do you remember the summer of the Twins’ ninth birthday, when they were underfoot in this very hall, and I had you devise a series of Grand Errands to keep them distracted?”

The Minister nodded, smiling wistfully. “Yes, Your Grace. I had them count all the windows in the Palace, from top to bottom. Then they had to measure the growth of the tearflowers in your Gardens, and then secretly follow their aunt around to see how often she ordered sugarbuns from the kitchens, and then ensure all the banners were aligned with the pelmets-”

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice low… and angry, an anger that made Arunthelse’s smile evaporate. “Grand Errands. Silly, meaningless work to keep the children out of the way of the adults. That is how the Federation sees the Commonwealth.

They will learn differently.”

He stepped forward, leaning hard on his cane. “Your Grace, forgive me, but there are pressing issues of state to face, as execrable as they are.”

She drew swords at him with her eyes. “What is more important than delivering justice to my murdered children?”

“Dealing with the crisis of succession that has resulted from their tragic, untimely loss. At present, your sister and her children are next in line for the Throne, but both your younger brothers will almost certainly contest this, given your sister’s pro-Federation leanings… unless, of course, you decide to sire more children-”

She hissed. “My babies are not dead a tenday, and already you talk of my refilling my pouch like it was a purse? NO!” She looked to the rest of the Synod, raising her voice to them. “My siblings can argue and scheme and bargain until they’re grey in the face! It will be a long, long time before any of them will ever even approach the Throne! I have too much to do! My beloved children are dead… and someone has to pay!”

She grabbed the hem of her robes and raised them as high as she could to depart quickly, decorum be damned. “Mrithinja! Find me assassins! I will not eat or drink or sleep until Hrelle and his family are sent to the World-To-Be!”

*

She did not speak the truth – not completely. She didn’t eat or sleep. But she did drink, with some heavy enthusiasm, from the collection of fermented wine from the Royal vineyards she had sent to her private quarters, leaving orders not to be disturbed for the rest of the evening.

She had divested herself of her outer robes, and sat at her table in her quarters in a simple but comfortable sleeveless knee-length dress. She forwent the glass left for her, to drink directly from one of the bottles, like some wretched slattern, her eyes glazed and in the direction of the diaphanous balcony curtains rustling to the evening breeze. The same balcony where she had first presented the Twins to their adoring people. It should have been the place where they would bring their children when they found consorts and married. And now that would never come to pass.

This palace… there were too many memories here… she would have it torn down, have every brick smashed into dust.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to weep oceans of tears. But she felt utterly, irrevocably dessicated, as if her rage at her loss had boiled away all moisture within her. And no amount of liquid poured into her could alleviate that. Not that she wouldn’t keep trying-

“Good evening, Your Grace.”

Nhlanha ground her teeth, ready to chastise the servant for disturbing her contemplation – until she saw the figure step from the shadows, and she nearly fell from her chair as she rose to her feet, her hearts skipping beats. “What are you? What are you doing here?”

“My apologies for interrupting you at this time, Your Grace.” It was an alien, not a servant, dressed in a red-black uniform not unlike those worn by the higher officials of the Commonwealth Space Fleet, but topped with a red cloak. Its translated voice came across as feminine, as did the bulky-looking mammary glands that many aliens out there seemed to sport. But the creature’s black-grey fur, muzzle, tail and pointed ears was familiar enough. “My name is Ma’Sala Shall, Fleet Captain to the Caitian Planetary Navy.”

Caitian… Shall… the names fought through her wine-addled brain-

And then panic made her turn and race to her door, but it didn’t roll away, even when she pounded on it with her fists. “GUARDS! GUARDS! INTRUDER! HELP ME!”

“No one is coming,” the Caitian informed her softly. “No one knows I’m here. And the door won’t open until I’m ready to let it open.”

Now Nhlanha rushed to her bedside, trying to activate the intercom, and failing, before she looked around for something to use as a weapon. “I will have you scourged for this!”

“No,” the alien replied simply. “You won’t. We’ll talk, though. We’ll talk, and then I’ll leave.” She moved to the table where Nhlanha had sat, and lifted up the opened wine bottle, sniffing its contents through the narrow neck. “If I came here just to harm you, Your Grace, I promise you... you would never had seen me coming.”

Nhlanha regarded her.

And believed her.

The Caitian held herself with an authority, a power and confidence that the Monarch Prime recognised in herself. Steeling herself, Nhlanha approached, crossing her arms as she demanded, “What do you want of me?”

Ma’Sala poured some of the contents of the bottle into an unused glass. “I think you suspect why already, given your reaction to my name and race. Your Ministers made requests to certain Federation data sources for information on Captain Esek Hrelle and his family. As he and his family are part of my clan, any such requests are flagged to my organisation.”

“Your… Navy?”

Ma’Sala looked up. “I hold another, unofficial leadership position. Its colloquial name is the Mother’s Claws.”

“Oh?” Nhlanha tried to affect an air of insouciance, an air she didn’t feel. “And what do these ‘Mother’s Claws’ do?”

“We watch for threats to our people and our planet… and we deal with them. Once I was alerted to your request for information, and I learned of the incident involving the Surefoot and your children, I arranged to be beamed here from Cait so I can address the matter personally, rather than through one of my operatives.” She pushed the filled glass towards the Monarch Prime.

Nhlanha ignored it. “‘Beamed’? I have heard that term before. That is the matter teleportation device your Federation possesses; we have tried to purchase the rights to it, but have been refused. I was told its reach was limited from ship to planet, or ship to ship. Was that a lie?”

“No, not a lie, Your Grace… not strictly. Most transporters do possess a limited range. But there are a select few hidden, secure networks, employing restricted, risky technologies, that are available to a handful of us who need to travel across sectors of space in a hurry.” She lifted up the bottle. “Do Nekrosi toast?”

“Toast?”

“A salutation with a drink, to honour or commemorate others.”

“We do.”

“Good.” Ma’Sala stood up again, lifting the bottle up higher. “Then let’s have a toast… to our children. The moment they are conceived, so are we. We might have existed before, but only as people, not as parents. And we can never go back to what we were… or would want to. With that conception comes a covenant between parent and child, a covenant not even Death can break.”

Nhlanha stared, as if expecting some trick. And then she lifted up her own glass in salute, and drank quickly.

Ma’Sala set the bottle down, licking the sides of her muzzle with a long tongue. “Very tart, that. It would be more palatable chilled-”

“You said Hrelle and his family is part of your... clan?”

She nodded. “I am its Matriarch. Esek married my kin-daughter. I… was not enamoured of him, at first. I had a notion that he had become a coward, following his experiences in slavery. I learned better. And when I discovered that his own clan had disowned him for joining Starfleet, I amended our Clan Registry to make him my kin-son, as if I had birthed him myself. And in that time, my pride for him has only grown.”

She produced a small black disc from a pocket in her uniform jacket, set it on the table and drew back her hand, producing a small but substantial hologram of Hrelle, alongside a female Caitian with lighter brown fur… and a tiny male cub climbing from one parent to another, laughing. “They have given me a most loving and wonderful grandcub… and another is on the way, a female-”

Nhlanha reached across and shoved the disc back in Ma’Sala’s direction, the Caitian catching it and shutting off the images as the Monarch Prime declared, “You have wasted your time coming here, Fleet Captain.”

Ma’Sala smiled, seemingly oblivious to the response. “I still remember the day I birthed Kami. She had been a stubborn little bitch from the start, always kicking and shifting inside me and giving me months of sleepless nights, and even when my waters broke, she refused to leave until she was good and ready. I cursed her for every shard of pain she gave me… and then she was at my breast, taking my scent and purring in contentment. And just like that, the pain... meant nothing...”

Nhlanha rested her hands on the table and leaned forward, black eyes fixed on the intruder. “No amount of cute holograms or cute stories will dissuade me from my course of action!”

Ma’Sala remained unintimidated. “Then perhaps I can compensate you instead?” The Caitian indicated the open balcony, where the stars twinkled in the indigo sky. “The Galaxy awaits the Commonwealth. You want the designs for that transporter the Federation denied you? Higher warp drives? Tri-cobalt torpedoes? I can provide schematics, technical expertise. You can become a real power in the Galaxy-”

“SOMEONE HAS TO PAY!” Nhlanha bellowed.

Now something like – pity? Was that pity? – softened her features. “That may be what your exalted station in Nekrosi society has accustomed you to believe. I wish it were so. But my own experience has taught me that it’s rarely as simple as that, as much as we’d like it to be.

And sometimes, we refuse to see who it is who should really pay.”

“What are you blathering about?”

Ma’Sala drank from the bottle again before continuing. “I fear for my cubs and grandcubs. They live on a starship in the midst of war. But I accept it, because the threat of death hangs over all of us no matter who we are or where we are – something I suspect you forget, cloistered here in your palace – and because my cubs and grandcubs are surrounded by kith and kin of many races, but all possessing great courage and honour and skill.

But still, the threat remains. I understand that threat all too well.

I returned to duty quickly after Kami was born. And I brought her with me into space, while we were in the midst of our latest conflict with the Ferasans. I couldn’t bear to think of her crying if I left her to be raised by her fathers… and I was simply delighted at the idea that mother and daughter could go out there and fight the bad guys together, and that she would sit with me at the head of the table in the Mess Hall and be fawned over by my officers and crew.

Then a Ferasan terrorist group breached our ship, injecting poison gas into our hull. Her lungs… were completely burned away. She almost died.

My doctors cloned her new lungs, replaced every blood cell in her body, cleaned every atom of poison from her.” Her eyes welled with tears, and despite herself, Nhlanha couldn’t help but feel empathy for her fellow mother’s pain, obviously still strong after all these years. “And as I looked down at that tiny, fierce little cub fighting to survive, all I could think about was… someone had to pay for this.”

Ma’Sala’s face hardened. “I caught up with the Ferasan terrorists who nearly killed my beautiful little daughter.

I made sure it took them a year to die.”

Nhlanha nodded at that. “I understand.”

But Ma’Sala held up a furred hand. “No. You don’t. Not all those responsible for Kami’s injuries, her pain, were punished as they deserved.

There was still… myself.

I didn’t think about the danger I had put her in, bringing an infant with me into space, into combat.

Parents aren’t perfect. Far from it. We can be selfish, unthinking, oblivious to what our young really need from us, whether it’s attention, consideration… or discipline.”

The Monarch Prime straightened up, finally seeing where this is going. “How… dare… you? You’re blaming me for your kin-son murdering my children?”

“No. I’m blaming you for indulging in your children’s desire to do something so foolish as to go to an actual war zone as if it were an adventure park.”

Nhlanha shook as if struck. The gall, the naked gall of the woman! “Get out.”

But Ma’Sala didn’t. “You probably didn’t think twice about it. Maybe not even once. You want to give your children everything they desire. I understand that feeling. Every parent does. But no parent should do that. Not even a parent who’s a Fleet Captain… or a Monarch Prime-”

It wasn’t true… “Get out!”

“But I’m not telling you anything you haven’t already worked out yourself. But it’s easier to deny it, to direct your wrath outward than inward-”

“GET OUT!” She lied! The woman twisted the truth, to save her miserable, murderous brood! Nhlanha wouldn’t ever harm her own children, not even accidentally! “GET OUT! GET OUT!”

“You know I’m telling the truth.”

It wasn’t true… “NO!”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t true… “I- I- DIDN’T- I-”

Nhlanha broke.

It was true…

She dropped to her knees, sobbing. “I’m- I’m- I’m s-s-sorry...”

Yes.

Yes, she did it.

It had sounded like a grand adventure for them, no different than camping in the Northern Mountains or yachting in the Caspian Quay. She never thought of the dangers... she never thought at all. She expected the rest of the Galaxy to do that, give her children the same regard, the same deference and protection they received on Nekros. But in truth, the rest of the Galaxy couldn’t care less about two members of royalty on a tiny planet. In the grand scheme of things, they were... insignificant.

Not to her. But she had failed them.

She sobbed.

She felt large strong arms around her, holding her, as her own mother once held her, a lifetime ago, murmuring sounds of comfort and reassurance whenever she had awakened from a nightmare. This nightmare was one she knew she couldn’t escape. But what she received from this alien now was still welcome.

As Nhlanha finally recovered, her breath and heartsbeat resuming their normal pace, Ma’Sala continued to hold onto her neck, murmuring in the Nekrosi’s earduct, “Your Grace… I beg you. From one mother to another... I beg you. Please, please… spare my family. Killing them will not bring back your children. It will not ease your suffering, your guilt. It will do no good to anyone. There has been too much death already.

Please.”

Nhlanha listened to the Caitian mother – not a diplomat, not a soldier, just a mother like herself – and she almost said Yes.

But she knew that, because of her own revelation, her own realisation, someone still had to pay.

“No.”

And, more swiftly than Nhlanha expected, the Caitian tightened her hold and broke the Monarch Prime’s neck.

There had been a sharp, single bolt of pain, and a sickening sound, and Nhlanha fell to her side, her head striking the cold, hard floor. She thought she felt suffused with a strong, steady electric charge, but in truth she didn’t think she was feeling anything. She certainly couldn’t move or speak.

She could still see and hear, though, observing Ma’Sala rising and moving about, pouring wine on the floor around Nhlanha’s feet, wiping the surface of the bottle before letting it drop and shatter into tiny black shards.

Of course, Nhlanha understood distantly. It would look like a tragic, drunken accident by the time her body was discovered, with no suspicions pointed towards the Federation. Ma’Sala was obviously experienced at this.

Nhlanha should have been terrified. By all rights, she should have been. But it seemed as if her fear was as cut off from her as her motor functions, as Ma’Sala returned, shifting the Monarch Prime onto her back, opening her mouth enough to extend two fingers down her throat, just enough, just enough to-

Her body convulsed with a gag reflex, and the contents of her stomach rose up violently, seeking escape. An escape Ma’Sala would not allow, blocking Nhlanha’s mouth and nostrils.

Their eyes met. Ma’Sala would be with her to the end.

An undignified end, Nhlanha accepted, choking on her own vomit like some drunken tavern whore. But a deserved one, she knew.

And it didn’t matter.

She would soon be holding her babies in her arms once more...



THE ADVENTURES OF THE SUREFOOT WILL CONTINUE IN… BAPTISM OF FIRE