Many years from now, many centuries from now in fact, a furred, tailed Teacher stood in a beautiful garden on Cait, holding a book. It was a heavy, ancient book, a book that had been carefully passed down from generation to generation. A book that was now open in one paw, as the Teacher taught her class.
“And thus the Truths of
the Great Mother remain, My Cubs, as clear and unignorable and eternal as the
sun that shines in our sky...”
Deep Space, A Thousand Years Ago:
“Well, Cub? Talk to me.”
“Great Mother... it’s so long and hard... it goes on
forever... I can’t get my arms around it...”
Still harnessed
in their explorer pod, idly raising the internal temperature of his pressure
suit, Prime Technician Hsuuras grunted. “S’Tow,
I’m already old and decrepit and can ill afford to be out here soaking up
ambient cosmic radiation while you spout cubbish innuendo. Something more
useful, please?”
Still, he
privately admitted that the alien Artefact that had drawn them out here into
the darkness of Deep Space was undeniably phallic: cylindrical, 200 ujars long
and 20 ujars in diameter, with a propulsion system on one end, its surface coated
in a dark green, impenetrable neutronium alloy, but with accessible portals
here and there.
One portal of
which was now opened, courtesy of his apprentice. First Technician S’Tow was
halfway inside, her pressure suit looking more flattering on her than his did
on himself, and moved in nil-grav with far more ease, her tail swishing about
in her pressure suit’s sheath. Not surprising, really; as one of the younger
generation in the Ark Fleet, she had spent more time in space than on any
planet.
And she was
brilliant, intuitive, hard-working, and professional. When she wanted to be. “Definitely an automated vessel, like a
probe or a communications relay. The neutronium exterior prevents an accurate analysis
of the age, but not so the iridium dust I found in the cracks of the portal I found. This thing hasn’t been opened up in at least ten thousand years.”
Hsuuras breathed
in sharply. Since fleeing the Motherworld over thirty years ago, the Pure
People had stumbled upon very little in the way of evidence of alien life or
technology. He supposed it was a blessing; in their quest to find a new home, there
was little desire for competition. “What
about the interior? Any computers, writings? Clues as to the builders of the
Artefact?”
From his vantage
point, he watched S’Tow’s sheathed tail swish with excitement. “No script, nothing but a symbol: six- no, seven
red concentric circles, embossed everywhere inside. There’s some sort of
computer unit, but its workings are fried, possibly from some security
mechanism to prevent outsiders from accessing data on the makers. But there are
active isomagnetic cages like our antimatter containment systems, employing a rather
ingenious self-replicating crystalline matrix to prevent degradation.”
“A fuel storage system that can last ten thousand
years?”
“Yeah, it’s strange. Actually, I don’t think it’s
protecting fuel, it- it-”
Hsuuras had been
idly scratching some dust off of his helmet’s visor, when he smirked at her
pause. “What is it, Cub? Are you stuck in
there, like when I had to rescue you out of that ventilation shaft on Ark 4
and-”
He stopped the
banter as he saw S’Tow propel herself off of the Artefact, twisting in space
and using her impellers to frantically return to the pod. “We have to get away. Now. Alert the Fleet Commander.”
“The Fleet Commander? Why? What is it, S’Tow?”
“DO IT, HSUURAS! PLEASE!”
Two minutes
later, on their way back to Ark 1, S’Tow had explained the reasons for her
panicked retreat.
*
Ninety-eight
minutes after that, Hsurras and S’Tol were onboard, and in the presence of
Fleet Commander Laaw, an ash-furred female who was among the oldest surviving members
of the tens of thousands of the Pure People who had fled from the Augmented on Ferasa. She stood there in the Conference Room, looking up at the recordings
the pair had made of the Artefact and its interior, focusing on the blood-red,
seven circle symbol. “What am I looking at here?”
Hsuuras glanced
at Laaw’s senior officers, remaining silent behind her but clearly critical
that a meeting like this could be called at such short notice by the likes of Technicians.
But Hsuuras had an advantage many of them didn’t: knowing the Fleet Commander
personally, from before the start of the Exodus. “A symbol adorning the
interior of the Artefact, which we believe is a warning sign regarding the
contents of the isomagnetic cages. We couldn’t locate any physical, magnetic or
crystalgraphic records about the builders.”
Laaw nodded
thoughtfully. “Reminds me of the art from the shrines back on Ferasa,
representing the gateway to the Seven Hells...” Now she focused on Hsuuras. “It’s
not a starship?”
“Not one meant
to be crewed, Siress: there was a
propulsion system capable of extraluminary speed, and a guidance system, but no
life support.”
“And what do the
cages contain? I’m assuming you’ve worked that
out?”
“Yes, Siress.”
He turned to a nervous-looking S’Tow. “Go on.”
The
auburn-furred female swallowed, her tail twitching behind her as she cleared
her throat. “Siress, the evidence suggests that the cages within the Artefact
contain... Primal Particles.”
The response
from the senior officers was alarm and derision. Hsuuras didn’t blame them. Primal
Particles had never been synthesised by the People, and their effects had only been observed at a
great distance. They were confirmed
to be the most powerful substance known, potentially the primal source of the
Birth of the Cosmos, with just a few molecules said to be able to provide the
energy needs of an entire planet.
Or destroy it,
because Primal Particles were also incredibly unstable. During the Exodus, cosmophysicists
within the Fleet had observed a distant sector of space that, centuries before,
had been the home of an advanced civilisation, to judge from the residual radio
transmissions, but then had been the victim of a massive explosion that
destroyed them, affecting both space and underspace, rendering it, and seemingly
everything in it... dead.
It had been
assumed that they had been victims of some terrible natural phenomenon
involving the Primal Particles. Now, however...
Laaw kept her
composure, looking at the schematics of the Artefact. “You’re certain of this?”
“Of course we
are!” S’Tow responded immediately, her ears and tail dipping in embarrassment
at her breach of protocol. “Sorry.”
Hsuuras reached
out and patted her shoulder reassuringly, looking to Laaw. “We are. The isomagnetic
cages generate a counter frequency matching what was originally detected in the
Dead Sector by our people years ago. The counter frequency is what keeps them
stable.”
“And how many
particles does it contain?”
“Several
million, Siress. Enough to wipe out a planet. Maybe even a planetary system.”
The elderly
female nodded gravely. “So it’s a weapon, a... Doomsday Weapon. Built by some
alien race long ago. Perhaps they’re long dead now, along with their opponents,
and this is all that remains of them. Some legacy.” She looked at the
Technicians. “Can it be safely moved?”
Hsuuras glanced
at S’Tow, before he replied, “Yes, Siress, it’s quite stable in itself. We
might even be able to fit it with a new propulsion and guidance system. But...
may I ask why?”
“We’ll be taking
it with us to the next system. Our new home.”
Hsuuras gasped.
“Our... Our new home?”
“Yes. Our scouts
have returned from a thorough and detailed scan of a planet in the system ahead
of us. It’s Arish-class: uninhabited, temperate, with a compatible biosphere,
ideal for us. We haven’t made an official Fleet-wide announcement yet, so keep
it to yourselves for now.” She allowed herself a smile, despite the
circumstances. “The planet will be designated ‘Cait’.”
“‘Cait’,” Hsuuras
repeated, recognising the word from the Old Language, meaning ‘Home’. Despite
himself, his heart raced and his tail swished like a cub in his first Season.
Unlike his apprentice, he was old enough to remember living on Ferasa, when the
Augmented had taken over and tried to convert or kill those who chose to remain
Pure. He was certain that he would spend the rest of his life in space, and
that it would be the likes of S’Tow, or even her cubs or grandcubs, who would
walk on the ground of their... Cait. Well, he would be happy to die on solid
ground, breathing pure air. “But then... why bring the Artefact along?”
“To study it – carefully – and then... ready it for our
own protection.”
“Protection? You
can’t do that! It’s a weapon of mass destruction!” He knew that he was committing
his own breach of protocol, but couldn’t control himself. “It goes against
everything we stand for! We fled our world because we wished to embrace peace!”
“Yes... but in
that time I have come to believe that those who wish to embrace peace must not
be blind to the danger.”
“The danger?”
She nodded. “The
greatest danger of all: that the danger is never over. That there are those who
do not embrace peace. The Augmented
back on Ferasa.” She pointed to the symbol. “The aliens who constructed this...
this Seven Hells. Their enemies. Even if both sides of the conflict that
prompted the creation of this superweapon are now dead, there will no doubt be
others; it’s a big universe.
While we build
our new life on Cait, the existence of the Seven Hells will remain classified, will
be passed down from generation to generation... our terrible hidden protector
and avenger.
And I hope to
the Great Mother that none of our descendants will ever seriously contemplate
using it...”
*
USS Triton,
Bridge, Outer Caitian System, Today:
“Sir? The
Ferasans are... retreating.”
Admiral Tattok
glanced up from his station. “Retreating? Back towards Cait? Without
attacking?”
“Aye, Sir! At
full impulse! They’re not responding to our hails to power down and surrender!”
The diminutive
Roylan looked to his advisors, wishing he had a Caitian here to advise him on
felinoids thinking. “Scan their intership traffic, use the algorithms provided
by Lieutenants Shall and Bellator from the Surefoot.”
“On it, Sir-
Sir! They seem to be under the impression that we’re... a sensor illusion. Not
real.”
Tattok grunted.
“Then send a message to the Surefoot. Tell them to give the Ferasans a
taste of harsh reality.”
*
On the Surefoot
Bridge, Captain T’Varik and Commander Murphy read the orders, looking to each
other, the latter asking, “He wants us to attack first? From behind, without
warning?”
Behind them, Petty
Officer C’Ria Ctuuri of the Caitian flagship Mother’s Fury, who had
risked his life to alert Starfleet, stood in the rear, growling, “It’s no less
than they deserve.”
“We’re not in
the business of vengeance, Mister,” Murphy informed him.
“It wasn’t your world that was invaded, Commander.”
“We have our orders,” T’Varik reminded
them, raising her voice above the rest. “Lieutenant Shall: First Blood is
ours.”
Behind her, her
partner and Chief of Security didn’t have to be told twice.
Outside, a
volley of photon torpedoes swept out from the Sabre-class starship to the
nearest Ferasan Slithus warship, ripping into the weapons pod and warp array,
sending it spinning towards several others before it blew apart.
*
“Direct hit!”
Tattok’s aide announced, unnecessarily.
Tattok nodded.
“No denying our reality now. Contact the rest of the Task Force, inform them to
engage when ready.
Except for the Ajax.
Send my son the following...”
*
On the Ajax
Bridge, Commander Kohanim looked up from his board. “Captain, Admiral Tattok
has sent a message for you, consisting of one word: ‘Skartarrak’.”
Captain Weynik
straightened up in his seat, black beady eyes shifting on eyestalks and his
pulse racing as he smiled. “Oh, yeah...”
“I’m not
familiar with that term, Sir,” the Zakdorn First Officer admitted. “Care to
explain?”
“Skartarraks are
pack predators on Royla, Mr Kohanim, renowned for their attack strategy: the
strongest, fastest Skartarrak leaps ahead of the rest, wounding as many prey as
they can and letting the rest of the pack finish them off.” Thank you, Dad; I’ve been waiting for this
ever since these Rat-tails invaded my Big Buddy’s planet. “Helm! Tactical!
Attack Pattern Alpha One! LET’S GO!”
*
The small but
massively-powerful Defiant-class vessel shot ahead of the Task Force, swooping
down fearlessly and letting loose its phaser pulse cannons on one Ferasan
vessel, crippling it and leaving it to the mercy of the others, while still
moving onto another, and then another, even as the Enemy began accepting the
situation and turning to regroup and fire back.
*
On the edge of
the system, deep within the bowels of the cold, dark, dead world of Kuburan,
the sentinel to Cait, and a warning to those who might seek to invade the
system, within an underground base, dozens of crewmembers of the Caitian
flagship Mother’s Fury scrambled to complete repairs on their vessel,
severely damaged months before when the Ferasans invaded the system.
Nearby, in
another section restricted for nearly everyone else, their commanding officer
trusted them to continue, while she focused on the Artefact that had been
awaiting them here. “Status?”
Chief Engineer
Hri Shyman, an older male with blue-black fur greying with age, stared with
tired eyes at the display. “Final systems check completed. Target coordinates
programmed, impulse and warp engine online and fully operational.”
She stared up at
the Seven Hells, sitting on the launch pad, the red seven-circle symbol
prominent on one side of the neutronium alloy hull. “In other words, it’s ready
to launch?”
“Yes.”
Fleet Captain
Ma’Sala Shall looked to him. “Do I detect a note of rebuke?”
He tensed,
hesitating.
“We’ve known
each other too long to hold back now, Hri,” she reminded him, more softly.
Shyman swallowed
and looked to her. “Ma’Sala, in all my decades of knowing about the existence
of this... thing... I never
envisioned that I would get this close to seeing it deployed in my time.”
“To be honest,
nor did I. And I haven’t decided... yet.”
“It can kill
hundreds of millions... billions... Can
you live with all those deaths on your conscience?”
She tensed, her
expression already looking harsh with her cybernetic eye, one of many makeshift
replacements she needed following her injuries during the initial attack months
before. “I already have almost as many deaths on my conscience, Hri: the
hundreds of thousands of Caitians in the Militia and the Planetary Navy when
the Ferasans invaded, our colonists in places like Azure Aura, and all of the Caitian
civilians on the Motherworld who have since died. All dead, because I was not
prepared enough for what happened.
And I am fully aware
that, should the Seven Hells be deployed, its victims will include many Ferasan
civilians who had never raised a paw against us. And even after a lifetime of
fighting them, I hold no particular bloodlust towards seeing more of them die.
But the Ferasans
chose the path they find themselves upon. We didn’t.
And I haven’t
launched it... yet.”
Her comlink
chirped. “Fleet Captain, the Starfleet
Task Force that has arrived has engaged in battle with the Ferasan Slithus warships.
Do you still wish to maintain communications silence?”
“What’s their
distance from Kuburan?”
“Half a light year within the Caitian system.”
“Maintain
silence, but be ready to launch the Mother’s Fury when I return. Shall
out.” She closed the channel. “Program the Seven Hells to launch for the
Ferasan system on my command. And maintain the cloak around the facility. I
don’t want Starfleet anywhere near if it becomes necessary.”
“But why,
Ma’Sala? Why the silence in the first place? They’re our allies!”
She looked back
up at the missile. “The exotic molecules within the weapon, the ones we call Primal
Particles, are better known – and feared – to Federation scientists as Omega.
There are classified orders buried in every Starfleet vessel’s computer, that
make themselves aware upon detection of said particles. Those orders are to
investigate and neutralise Omega to the exclusion of everything else, even
disregarding the Prime Directive and the sovereignty of Federation member
worlds. We need them to focus on dealing with the Ferasans here, not to try and
stop the Seven Hells from reaching Ferasa Prime.... should I choose to launch
it, that is.”
Shyman regarded
her. “And if worst comes to worst, and you choose to do so, Cait could end
being condemned by the Federation Council for genocide. You could even face
trial for war crimes.”
She stiffened. “Perhaps.
Perhaps not. Whichever the case, I answer to the Caitian people, not the
Federation. Now... finish up here. I want to get back into space, and get home
to my family. At least I can be content to know they’re safe on Kaijushima...”
*
Kaijushima Island,
Free Seas, Planet Cait:
A fire wave
rushed out over the trees shielding the lagoon, burning everything it touched.
Kami was shoved down by Papa Bneea, keeping Baby Sreen between them. Still she
felt the intense heat rush over them, the roar momentarily drowning out Sreen’s
wail.
The air was
thick and smoky, and the surrounding trees had caught fire from the Ferasans’
rocket attack. She gripped her father’s massive bicep. “Get- Get up- Under-
Underground-”
Bneea let her
take her infant back as he rose and helped her up, before frantically checking
on the others: Misha had been similarly shielded by his big brother Mirow, and
Ptera and Baby Jnill by Papa Mi’Tree. Kami clutched tightly onto a crying Sreen
with one paw as she drew out her phaser sidearm with the other, seeing and
hearing Ferasan shuttles rapidly descending, the island’s transporter
inhibitors preventing them from beaming directly. “Quickly! Everyone get to the
Lift!”
She kept looking
back over her shoulder as the family converged together, helping each other
through the winding, burning foliage, even as her command instincts took over,
planning for complications, contingencies... and she clutched Sreen tighter to
her. I’ll keep you safe, Daughter of
Mine. I’ll keep all of you safe, if it kills me.
They reached the
Lift Station – finding it damaged from rocket fire, inoperable.
“What are we
going to do?” Ptera cried, looking around in terror, her baby crying.
Kami immediately
handed Sreen over to Bneea and moved to the panel beside the lift, keying in
her security code. “There’s an auxiliary access shaft on the other side of the
airfield, three hundred metres away.” She opened the panel, drawing out phaser
pistols and rifles, handing them out to the males. “Misha, you know where that
is! Take Grandpa Mi’Tree and the others there!”
“I wanna
phaser!” Misha demanded.
She ignored him,
slipping the sling of a phaser rifle over one shoulder, looking to Bneea. “Give
Sreen over to Ptera! You and I will lead the Ferasans away!”
Mi’Tree stepped
forward. “What? No! We have to go together!”
“We won’t all
get down there before they catch up!” She pointed a finger at him. “Get your
cubs and grandcubs to safety below, and then seal up the shaft!”
“Mom, no!” Mirow
protested. “I’ll stay with you and Grandpa Bneea!”
“You have bigger
responsibilities! Get going!”
Mi’Tree stared,
horrified, looking to his husband for a moment, before grabbing Misha’s paw,
and clutching a phaser in the other. “Both of you had better damn well stay
alive!”
“Go!” Bneea
grasped a phaser rifle of his own now, pointing to the interior of the island.
“We’ll lead them this way!”
Kami nodded and
followed him, firing in the direction of the Ferasans and making sure the rest
of the family complied and departed quickly. All things being equal, she would
have led the Enemy away alone, but her training told her that she needed help,
and that Papa Bneea was the best choice: he remained fit, had weapons training
from his prior careers, and though he wasn’t in Starfleet or the Militia, he
was as committed to protecting the family – and the other Caitians down below –
as much as she was.
And maybe, just
maybe, they’d survive.
Come on, Esek, save us again...
*
Ferasan
Occupation Headquarters, Capitol Building, First City, M’Mirl Province:
Captain Hrelle paced
around the room, still looking back at the figure at the workstation.
“Anything?”
Agent Nenjo, her
holosuit to make her look like a Ferasan dropped, remained hunched over the
keyboard. “Sorry, Sir, I thought being within the facility might have given us
access, but with this new alert-”
“Keep trying.”
Now he looked to the third figure in the room. “Valtiri, can you reach the
Master Governor’s mind from here? Pinpoint him, learn what he’s thinking?”
The tall,
golden-furred Ferasan shook his head. “I am sorry, Captain, but my abilities
remain limited following the trauma I experienced at Shanos Minor. But the
thoughts of my people closer at paw are clear: they tell me the attacks
around your world have begun in earnest. Operation: Uproar is truly underway.”
“Inform me if
anyone approaches.” Hrelle continued to pace. They had to end this. The
longer it went on, the more of their people would die.
*
Many floors
below, in the Operations Centre, Har-User watched the trio from a monitor, and
had been confident enough to call out, “Sire! Master Governor! Come here!”
Melem-Adu
remained scarred and singed from the earlier attack on him and his last
remaining son, and the pain remained almost intolerable... but he let it
galvanise his limbs as he strode up to the station. “What is it?”
“Sire, I was
keeping track of the Hunter Prime bringing the Caitian prisoner down here, but
they’ve stopped in an auxiliary workstation- and Hrelle is free and armed and
walking around, conversing with him-”
Melem-Adu pushed
him aside and leaned in, glaring at the monitor. It was true... but why? Why would the Patriarch’s Chief Tracker and
Executioner be working with-
Ahhh... The Master Governor drew back. “It’s Hrelle’s wife’s doing.”
“His... wife,
Sire?” Har-User asked, sounding thoroughly confused.
Melem-Adu nodded
with confidence. “His wife. The females on this world are devious schemers,
seducers and manipulators; it’s what happens when you educate them to think they are the equals of males.
And what’s more,
Hrelle’s wife is a Starfleet interrogator and brainwasher. She would have
bewitched the Hunter Prime into turning traitor and joining Hrelle in
overthrowing me... to ultimately put her in
charge!” He looked to Har-User again. “Seal off that floor! Have all available
soldiers converge and slaughter them!”
*
In the
workstation, Valtiri froze in place, tilting his head and gnashing his teeth as
he growled.
Hrelle looked to
him. “What is it?”
The Ferasan
telepath unslung the weapons he carried on his harness, handing them to Hrelle.
“Soldiers outside the door! Their thoughts are clear at this range! They have
orders to kill us, Captain!”
Hrelle accepted
his sword and plasma assault rifle. “Nenjo, plot us a way out of this area!” He
smacked his combadge. “Hrelle to Team Flipper: Now!”
*
Many, many
floors below, under the foundations of the Capitol Building, there sat a
submersible access dock and Subshuttle station, where classified personnel and
material could be transported into the building, either inland or from the Bay
of Saraya, without being witnessed above. Upon commencement of the Occupation,
the access to the Subshuttles was sealed off by the Ferasans, and the level
forgotten.
Nothing was done
about the dock. After all, what threat could come from the water?
A Starfleet
aquashuttle, the USS Ka’a Kauā, rose up quickly from the dock, splashing
water everywhere, even as the dorsal hatch slid open, and three Delphines
emerged, clad from beak to tail flukes in water-filled environmental suits
lined with antigravity nodes and propulsion units that responded to the same
muscle motions that the wearers used when swimming, along with various other
pieces of harnessed equipment.
Wheelie swam
through the air ahead of his wife and pup, nodding to each of them on either
side as he drew up to the nearest lift doors. “HaHa, access the fire control
systems, use them to override the security lockdowns. Wheeze, find the lift
maintenance diagnostics, I want to see where all the lift cars are right now.”
Then he floated
back, just enough so that his phaser could cut into the doors. “And let’s be
quick; our Leggie friends need us.”
*
Navron Prison
Camp, Ravath Province, Planet Cait:
The Tailless
banked once more under the fire of the Guns of Navron.
“Shields down to
twenty percent!” Ensign Osha shouted over the din.
Behind her,
Sasha struggled to remain upright while she worked on the Engineering panel.
“Theirs or ours- Never mind, stupid question!”
Beside Osha, Lt
Mru Mori clutched onto the Manual Steering Column, necessary for the tight manoeuvres
they need to survive. “We can’t get phasers or microtorpedoes through with
enough force to break the shields they’ve set up!”
Sasha ran a
final scan; this flyer, a gift from her late grandmother, was loaded with
goodies from the Caitian Secret Service. “We won’t have to! I’ve analysed the
shield cycling system, it resets every 4.5 minutes, with a window of a fiftieth
of a second between cycles! I’ve programmed the transporter to beam me through
that window! Once I’m gone, land and take on the camp guards! Liberate our
people!” She checked the chronometer. “I’m going n-”
A crimson
transporter beam enveloped her.
*
Outside, the
five Aerofighters of the 409th Aerobatics Squadron raced in low,
tight, layered formation towards the Ferasan airfield, as the Enemy scrambled
to launch their Slithus warships and shuttles.
In the lead
Aerofighter, Biggles opened the channel. “Alright, Skycats: Paint the Ground Red.”
The five
blossomed outwards, plasma cannons and rail guns opening up, raining firepower
onto the Ferasans scrambling on the ground, and their vehicles that had yet to
launch, all while leading the inevitable counterattack away from the camp and
the thousands of civilians there.
Behind them, a
half-dozen shuttles had risen, armed with disruptor beams, followed by the much
larger Slithus warships. None of the pilots or crew expected much of a fight
against such ancient-looking aircraft.
At least, until
the battle commenced.
“Alji, Bertti,”
Biggles radioed. “Lead one of the Slithuses east by south-east.”
“Give ’em a Sharmin Tailside?” Alji suggested.
“Whatever brushes
your fur best. Jinjer, Smithi, High-Eight and deal with the shuttles. I’ll lead
the other Slithus away.”
“Roger that, Biggles. Watch your tail.”
The Ferasan
craft, designed for spaceflight and space-based combat, was not at home in the
thick atmosphere near a planet’s surface, unable to make manoeuvres as tight as
the Skycats.
The Ferasan
craft, attuned to subspace channels, did not pick up the aetherwave
transmissions of the Skycats and anticipate their actions.
The Ferasan
craft, accustomed to locking onto the warp cores and advanced alloys and systems
of vessels like their own, could not target accurately against opponents
without such qualities.
And the Ferasan
crews lacked the almost two hundred years’ worth of collective experience of
atmospheric combat that the Squadron possessed.
As proved when
Jinjer and Smithi rolled and spun upwards, using a controlled stalling of their
engines to allow several shuttles to shoot ahead of them, while they fired at
the shuttles’ impulse engines, turning them into balls of fire
As proved when
Alji and Bertti led their pursuer upwards, before engaging in a mirrored loop
that the larger vessel couldn’t possibly match, doubling back to focus their
attack on the Slithus’ impulse guidance systems and weapons pods.
And as proved
when Biggles drew the second Slithus to fire again and again, the tiny
Aerofighter keeping a tight profile, banking sharply and unexpectedly, changing
its profile constantly, and releasing colourful smoke left over from a previous
show... thus distracting and tricking the Slithus into firing upon their own
people on the ground.
*
Caitian Assault Carrier
Deep Keep, Caitian Mesosphere:
Captain Mrorr
clutched the arms of her chair as they continued to ascend, her experience
allowing her to discern the many updates from the surrounding officers:
“Wildforest Team
reports victory, moving to secure Drychill Camp... Silkwater Team reports heavy
casualties but still holding the line... no response from Steelstorm and Stormcrest
Teams... no response from Turnday Team... no response from Silversky Team... Freyshade
Team reports victory, moving to join Moonscar Team to take Avalham Camp... ”
She listened to
the reports about the people on the ground: the teams she sent on Hrelle’s
orders to attack the major bases and camps in the Western Hemisphere. They
would be outnumbered, outgunned. She was frankly amazed that so many had not
only survived to date, but in some instances, had triumphed, perhaps catching
the Ferasans by surprise.
But as much as
she wanted to focus on those brave males and females on the ground, Mrorr had
to keep her senses on the threats coming-
“Ferasan
Prideships moving in, 113-Mark-7!”
She snapped to
attention. “Helm, Evasive Manoeuvres! Tactical, realign the transphasic cloak
nutations and prepare more sensor chaff! Weapons, I want another volley of
missiles!”
“That larder’s
almost empty, Captain!”
“I KNOW!”
There was only
of them, and far too many of the Rat-tails.
Mother Damn It!
*
Shanos Major, Mrestir
Province:
Mistress Nvell,
Leader of the Kaetini, raised her twin swords up and sliced into the Ferasan leaping
towards her, taking off his head and half of his right arm, the elderly female
dodging the body and the body parts as momentum carried them to the
already-bloodied pavement.
The air filled
with roars and screams and disruptor fire, and inside, her heart threatened to
burst through her chest. Still, she pressed forward, barking orders to her
fellow Kaetini who had joined her in assisting the rebel forces here in the
city, led by their mayor, Des P’Rarash, who wielded a disruptor rifle obtained
from one of the Ferasans he helped kill.
She remembered
seeing him on the Cynet news: a jovial, larger-than-life figure, a former opera
star who always seemed to smile and welcome visitors to his city with open arms
and immaculate tailored suits.
Now he acted
like a Militia commander, his suit torn and stained with blood... as was
his muzzle, as he leapt onto the rubble of a park fountain to be seen and heard
above the surrounding crowd. “Shast, get those wounded out of here! Take them
down into the subway! Josa, pick up those disruptor grenades, but carefully!”
Even as he had
begun speaking, Nvell was sheathing her swords and racing towards him, shoving aside people in her way until she
reached P’Rarash and pulled him down roughly from his perch- just as a
disruptor bolt shot past the area where he had stood milliseconds before.
Breathlessly she hissed at him, “Don’t make yourself a target, fool! You’re not
on the stage now!”
He gasped,
realising how close he had come to getting himself killed, and looked at her
with wide eyes. “You’re- You’re right- sorry-”
Nvell glanced
around; she had wanted to wait until she knew the Ferasan Transporter and
Communication Networks were downed before launching any attack on the existing
troops, but P’Rarash and the locals had a Bloodlust going for hours now. “Get the people off the streets, take up defensive positions in those buildings at
the edge of the Business District, before-”
Even as she
spoke, she saw the bodies of the dead and wounded Ferasans beam away... and
fresh, fully-armed and ready Ferasans beamed in from elsewhere to take their
place.
*
Winterwane,
Kaigi Province:
The townhouse
sat in one of the older, more affluent districts, an elevated position famed
for its unrestricted views of the rest of the city, and the harbour beyond. In
better times, the owner of the property – a quiet, broad-shouldered, ink-furred
male with a carefully-cultivated mane and an expensive suit – could sit on the
veranda in the rear and look out on the pacific metropolis as the sun rose over
Saraya Bay.
These were not
better times.
He peered out at
the chaos below as mobs of Caitians using confiscated and improvised weaponry
battled Ferasan packs looting banks, museums and private homes of everything
they could carry – and burning or blowing up everything they couldn’t.
Occasionally an explosion would rock the night; he saw one building fall.
And the chaos
was moving in this direction.
He guided his
hoverchair to the edge of the veranda and peered out into his gardens,
enshrouded in darkness to all – except himself. “Liru? Is that you?”
In the
shrubbery, a figure rose, the young voice quiet and cautious. “Mr Nimeni? How
did you know it was me?”
The male in the hoverchair peered into the darkness, his cybereyes secretly augmenting the ambient light to see the
young guard as easily as in broad daylight. “A gift. Shouldn’t you be out
front?”
“Uh, yes, Sir. I
was just investigating some noises.”
“And stopping
for a quick snuff break, too.”
“Uh... Sir...”
“On your own
time, Liru, not mine.”
“Uh, yes, Sir.”
As the guard
departed, Nimeni turned to face the chair, mentally accessing the Cynet through
his eyes: nothing yet from the forces at Navron. It was interminable, being so
dependent on others to get things done.
It was a feeling
he had never entirely lost. Decades before, when he lived in another part of the
Motherworld under his given name of Tarim Bey, he had been born with a
particularly severe form of Neurodystraxia, leaving him with paraplegia and visual
impairment.
Left to his own
devices by a family that, frankly, were ill-equipped to support him, he
developed a talent for computer systems... and an insouciance about using his
talent for criminal purposes, allowing him to amass a considerable fortune, and
purchase devices and cybernetic implants to more than compensate for his physical
disabilities. Known to most of his associates and outside parties with the code
name ‘Nimeni’ – ‘Nobody’ in Old Caitian – he built an organisation, and a
strength and security he could not otherwise have obtained by strictly
legitimate means-
“Nimeni, you have
to- Mother’s Cubs...”
He turned to
face his personal assistant, who had obviously come out to speak with him, but
was now distracted by the proximity of the urban conflict. “Yes, Shona?”
Shona was a
petite, plum-furred female with a datapad seemingly always in one paw, and a
tail that twitched from anxiety so hard it could knock one of the potted plants
over. “I- I didn’t know they were this
close- maybe Khimpaq’s right-”
“Our Security
can handle things until we’re ready to leave. And what is this about Khimpaq?”
“What? Shit,
yes- he’s demanding we go now, and has convinced the rest of the Syphers to down
tools until we do.”
He checked the
Cynet again, confirmed the activity inside had ceased. “Mother’s Cubs...” He
turned his hoverchair and aimed it for the doors, barely giving them a chance
to slide open, fully expecting Shona to follow. “Where in the Seven Hells were you when he was stirring the pot again?
Grooming yourself?”
She kept up with
him, her heels clacking on the floor. “No, I was only organising the convoy to
evacuate us, making sure the house staff and their families made it to your
yacht and out of the harbour, securing the house paintings and other valuables
in the vault, and a hundred other things you’ll never be aware of, you ungrateful
kussik!” She paused and added, more contritely, “Sorry, Sir.”
Despite the
circumstances, he allowed himself a slight smile. “Apologies are unnecessary...
except from me. I appreciate candour in our relationship; at least with you I
know where I stand... so to speak.” His smile dropped. “I should have remained inside
and kept a presence. If Khimpaq wasn’t so good with Imperial codes, I’d have
dismissed him long ago for his disruptiveness.”
“He’s not disruptive
– well, not much – he’s afraid, even if his Klingon pride won’t admit it.
They’re all afraid.”
“They’re being
paid handsomely.”
“Money means
nothing if you think you could be killed at any time. I know that feeling
firstpaw.”
Nimeni went
silent, understanding. Five years before, when he was offworld expanding his
interstellar investments, he had encountered Shona on Farius Prime, when she
was in the employ of Hagath, a charming but ruthless human arms dealer who
ended up trying to have her killed following the collapse of a deal he blamed
on her.
But Nimeni saved
her, offering Shona a new identity and a better future... and neither regretted
it.
They entered
their own Operations Room, once the townhouse’s main dining room, now taken
over by a labyrinth of computers and computer operators: his Syphers, gifted
operators from many worlds, previously accustomed to accessing business,
military and government systems or hiding assets, but now maintaining
Resistance communications and running cybercountermeasures.
Except now, the
Syphers were away from their stations, hiding behind Khimpaq, the young Klingon
standing there, arms crossed like he thought he ruled the playground.
Nimeni glided up
to him. “You all look like a set of sixpins waiting to get knocked down. Return
to work, all of you. You need-”
“We need to get
away from here!” Khimpaq declared, baring stained, jagged teeth as he leaned
in, trying to be intimidating. “The Ferasans are almost upon us!”
Nimeni rested
his paws on his lap; he had a lifetime’s experience of others looking down on
him, literally, because he went about in this chair, and he wasn’t prepared to
be intimidated now. “We can’t leave, not yet. We’ll be getting the Link to
upload the Chaos Codes into the Ferasan network at any time, but not if we’re
in transit to the new safe house in the mountains. But I promise you, as soon
as our part in the Operation is done, we will
go and reach the safe house. In the meantime, Mr Hrun and his people are
outside, protecting us-”
“They will not
be enough! There is an army out
there!”
“I didn’t
realise Klingons were such cowards,” Shona informed him archly.
He sneered back
at her. “We are not. We are not fools
either, and only a fool fights in a burning house!” He looked back at Nimeni.
“We are leaving, Cripple!”
Nimeni’s muzzle
tightened as he regarded him. “Don’t use that word in my presence again. And we
will not be leaving yet. My planet is in jeopardy. I have pledged to help free
it. All of you are employed by me, and all of you have always been paid very
well for the risks – only now the risk just happens to be more... profound...
than mere arrest. Those who do not wish to remain, can go now... but without
pay, without protection. You’ll be on your own.”
That provoked a
response of hesitation... at least from the others. Khimpaq, however, bared his
teeth further and leaned in. “You are bluffing. You need us more than we need
you. I say we leave... NOW.”
The Caitian
arched an eyebrow. “You say?”
The Klingon
grinned humourlessly, leaning in closer now. “I say... Cripple-”
Nimeni reached
out quickly, grasped Khimpaq by his left wrist, applying pressure in a
particular nerve cluster, while twisting his grip slightly.
Khimpaq dropped
to his knees with a pained, near-paralysed gasp.
Still holding
onto him, Ninemi expertly reached for a small secret panel in the left arm of
his hoverchair, popping out from it a compact thermal disruptor, pressing the
business end against the Klingon’s forehead, making him cease his struggles as
Nimeni replied, growling, “And I say
you say nothing. I say you lie there and listen to me for a change.”
Now he looked up
to the rest, who looked stunned by the sudden turnaround between the two males.
“And I say you return to your work, and let me worry about our security...
which I can assure you is the best money can buy. The Ferasans have little
regard for people with disabilities; rest assured that I have no desire to be
taken by them.”
He released the
Klingon, who glared up at him with wide, angry, pained eyes. “And Mr Khimpaq:
if you employ that slur again, anywhere, to anyone, I will know, and I will
leave you in such a state that you will spend the rest of your existence
envying my level of mobility.”
He rested his
weapon in his lap. “I have been fighting all my life.
I am not a Cripple.
I’m a Warrior.
Never forget
that.”
Nimeni glided
his chair backwards and looked at them all again. “Well?”
The Syphers
returned to their stations. Khimpaq followed, without looking back at him. Now
he turned to Shona, even as his eyes accessed the Cynet again for an update on
the current situation – nothing, yet – and told her, “Are you armed?”
She blinked. “Me?
You know I hate weapons.”
“And yet you
were happy selling them. Get a phaser from my study. Now.”
*
Kuburan:
The surface of
the far side of the planetoid erupted outward from pre-programmed tricobalt
charges, sending debris into space, before the massive sword-shaped figure of
the Mother’s Fury, the last surviving vessel of the Caitian Planetary
Navy, flew upwards, banking sharply and moving in the direction of Cait, and
the battle between Starfleet and the Ferasans.
*
In the heart of
the battle, T’Varik gripped the arms of her chair as the Surefoot banked
sharply to starboard under another disruptor volley. Beside her, Murphy checked
his readings. “Port shields down to 15%! Attempting to compensate!”
She nodded at
that. “Helm, keep our port profile away from the enemy vessels as and when
feasible.”
Sitting ahead of
her, Lt Arrington never took his eyes off of the proverbial road as he replied,
“Aye, Ma’am, I’m doing my best!”
“I have faith in
you, Mr Arrington. Lt Shall, weapons status?”
Behind her,
C’Rash hissed as she reported, “Torpedo capacity at 20%, forward phaser banks
at 40%, rerouting power from aft banks!”
“Conserve
torpedo use for defensive measures, plan subsequent attack strategies for
phaser deployment only.” T’Varik frowned to herself as she viewed the battle:
their Task Force was potent, but the Ferasans outnumbered them by more than ten
to one, and though they had managed to make significant strikes against those
numbers, the proverbial tide was beginning to turn against them. And the Surefoot,
though it packed a punch, suffered from having served primarily as a support
vessel in past battles.
Or perhaps it was the quality of her leadership? she asked herself, setting aside such thoughts
immediately as illogical and pointless.
Beside C’Rash,
Bellator leaned into her station in response to an alert. “Captain! A ship is
joining us from the edge of the system! It’s identified as the Caitian Assault
Vessel Mother’s Fury!”
*
The flagship
barrelled into battle, launching a volley of missiles and firing its port and
starboard wave motion guns, mercilessly cutting into the overwhelming forces
ahead of her.
Onboard the Triton,
Admiral Tattok looked up at the incoming transmission, seeing the image of an
injured but still alive Ma’Sala Shall. “Fleet Captain, it’s good to see you’re
still in the land of the living.”
She nodded
curtly. “And it’s good to see Starfleet
finally here.”
“Our absence was
not by choice, Madame, I can assure you-”
“Save it for later, Admiral. Let’s mop up the
Rat-Tails and get to Cait to finish off the rest. It’s been under the wrong
flag for far too long.”
*
Capitol
Building:
“Master
Governor! We’re receiving a priority transmission from Ferasa Prime! It’s the
Patriarch!”
Melem-Adu turned
to the lackey who had addressed him. No, no, there was no time for this! The
Caitians were revolting around the planet, Starfleet was finally coming, and
even that fat bastard Hrelle was here! “End the transmission! I have no time to
speak with that withered old fossil!”
“No, Melem-Adu?”
He spun in
place; the image of the Patriarch filled the main viewscreen, looking down on
him. Oh fuck... “Patriarch? I- I
didn’t know they had opened the channel!”
The grey-furred
male sneered. “Clearly not, otherwise you
would not have insulted me brazenly. But then from what I have gathered, this
is not your only error. I gave you the opportunity to claim Cait and its people
for our purposes. You have failed miserably at this.”
Melem-Adu’s
heart raced. “N-No- I have not-”
“Do not spout lies! You have not delivered one Caitian
female or cub to us to help our race survive. You have not quelled rebellion
there. And you have not kept Starfleet from becoming involved! Indeed, I
understand our forces are under attack, and now Starfleet has arrived in the
system to cause trouble!” He leaned in closer to the camera. “Yes,
I have had my agents there keep a surreptitious watch upon your progress... or
rather, lack of it.”
Melem-Adu raised
a paw to the image. “Patriarch, it is not like that, you have been
misinformed-”
“Liar. I am, however, prepared to help salvage
something of this debacle, given the enormous investment we have already made.
I have recalled all remaining Prideships and warships in the Quadrant back to
the Fatherworld, to amass into a Second Fleet. One who will soon launch and
join you there, providing the Occupation with the necessary troops, firepower
and resources to fulfil what you have so miserably failed to deliver.”
The announcement
allowed Melem-Adu to indulge in a glimmer of hope. “You- You are? Patriarch,
that would be most welcome! Thank you!”
The Patriarch
nodded. “They will also deliver your replacement:
Pridemaster Puzrish-Dag, of the Grey Storm Pride.”
His heart
skipped a beat. “M-My... replacement?”
“I expect you will fully brief him on the state of affairs there, before killing yourself for your appalling performance. Assuming you don’t scurry away in cowardice. Which seems more likely.”
“Patriarch, no!
The task has proven far more difficult than anyone could possibly anticipate-”
“They are a pack of weak-willed, women-cowed
weaklings! You destroyed their military infrastructure! And yet you stand on
the brink of defeat! I’m... embarrassed for you, Melem-Adu. Truly embarrassed.
You will be informed when the Second Fleet launches.”
“Patriarch-”
The transmission
ended.
Melem-Adu stood
there, feeling the eyes of everyone there fixed on him now... or deliberately
turning way, not wanting to be caught looking.
And that was it.
It was all but over for him, his Pride, his ambitions.
“Well,” the
Vorta Welros bluntly cut through the tension in the room. “What an awkward time
to announce our departure.”
Melem-Adu turned
to face him and his Jem’Hadar soldiers. “Where are you going? To join our forces
against Starfleet?”
The soft,
oatmeal-skinned humanoid stood there and smiled in simpering fashion. “No. We
are leaving permanently. We will be joining the occupying forces in Archanis.”
The response
stunned the Master Governor. “Vorta... if you are leaving because of what you
heard from the Patriarch, I assure you, I will
be remaining in charge. The Alliance between our people and the Dominion could
still go ahead!”
Now a pretence
at regret dabbed at Welros’ mien. “Ahhh, that.
I must confess to a small deception regarding that. You see, the Dominion never
had any intention of allying ourselves with the Ferasan Patriarchy.”
“You... You didn’t?”
“No. Your
people’s genetic issues and chaotic internal political structure never made you
worthy additions to the Dominion. It would have been more trouble than it would
be worth to support you.”
Melem-Adu
blinked, his jaw dropping. “B-But- why the pretence?”
The Vorta
shrugged, holding out his hands apologetically. “We had initially hoped that
our presence here might divert Starfleet forces away from their efforts to
retake Betazed, thus further securing our hold on that more strategically
valuable location... but this did not actually occur.
Starfleet is here now, of course, but the tactical
situation in both sectors has significantly changed, and so we must take our
leave. It’s been such a pleasure, Master Governor. Victory is Life.”
And then he and
his Jem’Hadar transported away.
The room went
quiet, the crisis momentarily forgotten.
Then Har-User
crept up to him. “Sire... what... what are we going to do now?”
Melem-Adu
breathed in. It was all unravelling. Everything around him was falling apart.
He should flee.
Take his son and whatever appropriated Caitian wealth and females they could carry,
and leave in their Prideship for new territory. They could live comfortably,
secretly.
Without honour.
A Pride without pride.
No.
He turned to
face the subordinate. “We continue as we have. We deal with the threats within
the building. We destroy the last remaining Caitian insurgents. We annihilate a
dozen more of their cities in nuclear fire as punishment... and make many more
bombs, and secure them everywhere else.
And when the
Second Fleet arrives, they will either defy the Patriarch and bow to my authority, and thus have any chance
at having cubs of their own... or we will turn this planet into a lifeless radioactive
rock.
That is what we are going to do now.
Now get back to
work.”
*
Navron Base,
Ravath Province:
As he banked low
to the ground, feeling the disruptor fire from the Enemy strike the steppes,
kicking up blossoms of dirt and stone and grass, Biggles recalled the many
lessons he had studied on air combat in the past, when his ancestors flew in
craft identical to this, and fought their own opponents. There was a point in
every battle, called the Crest, when it became obvious that the outcome had
been reached, for one side or the other.
His side had
reached the Crest. And the outcome wasn’t in their favour.
He looped up
sharply, the engines protesting as he arced upside down, his rail guns empty
but his plasma cannons recharged, and he fired on the nearest Ferasan shuttle,
strafing the dorsal side and sending it spiralling down in smoke and flames.
Others took its
place.
Elsewhere, Jinjer
struggled with his controls, watching as his wings shredded under disruptor
fire from the Slithus warship Smithi and he had been fighting. “I could do with
some assistance here, old chap, if you don’t mind!”
“I see you, you mangy moggie, I’m coming in on your
upp-”
Static.
Jinjer
swallowed. Bloody Hell.
He looked up to
see several Ferasans swooping down from above, the sun behind them, blinding
him.
He banked
sharply, feeling the fuselage protest as he managed to get off a few more shots
on the Slithus, before sailing past.
Towards the
ground. Unable to pull up.
Oh dear.
Well, it was fun
while it lasted-
*
Alji and Bertti
kept in tight formation, kept each other visible, alternating attacks to give
each other’s plasma weapons a chance to recharge, returning to the Ferasan
airfield to prevent more vessels from joining the fight, Alji quipping, “Having
fun yet, old girl?”
“Enough of the Old Girl guff, you pissy old
grimalkin.”
Alji laughed.
Despite himself, despite the situation... he was having the time of his life.
“What say we head back to the warship and finish this off, so you can finally
marry me?”
“I’d... yes, okay.”
He blinked,
checking his ammunition swooping upwards. “What was that?”
“I’ll marry you, Alji.”
They moved
around each other in as perfect a formation as they could, with their damaged
Aerofighters, brought down two more shuttles, leaving the much larger Slithus.
“Their impulse engine is venting... focus our fire there.”
“Roger that.” A pause, and then, “We won’t make it to that wedding, you know.”
Alji breathed
out. “I hate formal occasions anyway.”
She began firing
on the aft of the Slithus. “All those
boring speeches.”
He followed
suit, watching the orange-red glow of the impulse events erupt. “The terrible
music. And the fattening cake.”
“Yeah, all that...”
They kept at it,
until the Slithus’ engines exploded, exhaust and fuel geysering out as the huge
vessel spun and spiralled down, the showers of debris from it catching shuttle
and Aerofighter alike, until everything rained down upon the steppes, the
thunder of the crashes filling the air with the smoke, leaving nothing
remaining in the air in that part of the sky.
*
From his
cockpit, Biggles saw the Active Lights on his board, the confirmation about his
friends’ status, blink away, one by one, until none remained. He was the last.
The remaining
Slithus was ahead of him. He was out of ammunition.
He set a course
for it, ignoring the shuttles pursuing him from the rear, ignoring the fire
from the Slithus.
He’d been wrong
before. They hadn’t reached the Crest of the battle... because what happened up
in the skies wasn’t the whole of the battle, only part of it. And nothing had
been decided yet. They had played their part of it up here.
And they had
played it valiantly.
As he pushed the
engines to their limit, he opened a radio channel, deliberately attuning it to
the Enemy frequencies. “This is Captain Majes Biggleshen of the 409th
Aerobatics Squadron... and it’s been an absolute pleasure to send you bastards
screaming to the Seven Hells...”
He struck the
upper decks of the Slithus, the most vulnerable part of the ship. The Bridge
was wiped out instantly, the much larger vessel spinning into a death roll and
detonating on impact into a barren slope.
*
From the camp,
Ferasans, captives and Starfleet alike turned as one and stared at the smoke
from the explosion of the second Slithus rising upwards into the cloudless blue
sky.
Near the landed Tailless,
Mori took the opportunity to listen, not hearing any more aircraft, either the
Enemy or the Skycats – Live Fast, Fight
Well, and Have a Beautiful Ending – before taking the advantage by moving
to a more advantageous position, before raising his phaser rifle and firing
again, as Ensign Osha watched his tail. All the while he kept glancing back at
the huge temple-like structure of the Weather Modification Array, which the
Ferasans had taken over to use for their Transporter and Communications
Networks.
Sasha was alone
in there, trying to shut it all down. Damn
it, you beautiful, tailless, furless ape, you’d better survive today. I might
possibly love you.
*
Dad, how do you win a fight?
As Sasha beamed
into an alcove in the Weather Modification Array station, phaser drawn, weapons
harness strapped tight around her torso as she scanned the immediate surroundings,
she remembered asking her Dad that question years ago.
The air was
thick with the musk of Ferasans; the Pride that ran this camp probably also billeted in here, a secure facility.
She checked her
tricorder, scanned for lifeforms, usable computer terminals, before moving
cautiously, her boots making far more noise than she would have preferred, or
so she imagined. She had to move, had to get the Link open. People had died,
were dying, were going to die. So many. Too many. All depending on her.
Oh God, she couldn’t do this couldn’t go through with
this it was too much too much too much too much-
Breathe.
Sasha focused on
the task. The equipment in this station was generating a lot of power and
interference, but she had learned a few tricks from Dad about using her natural
senses as well as the tricorder... and her own experience with Ferasans, going
back to the incident when she was on the old Surefoot... and then there
was later, the ones who attacked her on the Ajax-
They clawed at her flesh her scalp oh God peeling it
like an orange oh God-
Breathe.
Her pulse slowed
once more. After that second incident, where she nearly died, she had learned
techniques on controlling her reaction to the trauma memories, from Kami... and
Dad.
She always heard
her father’s voice whenever she calmed herself down.
Sasha found an
unoccupied Auxiliary station, detached the Lockpick Unit from her harness and
fitted it onto the console, letting it do the work of breaking into the system
and establishing the Link to the Syphers. Wow. She didn’t think it would be
this easy-
“THERE!”
She turned and
fired her phaser instinctively, bringing down the Ferasan stupid enough to call
out instead of just firing. Another came around the corner, and managed to get
a wild shot in her direction before falling too.
She couldn’t
stay here; they would get her, and discover what she was doing, and shutting
down her efforts.
She holstered
her phaser, unslung her phaser rifle and charged, holding fire until it was
needed. She had more powerful weapons, but didn’t want to take the chance of
using them, of damaging the network and rendering the Link useless.
She entered a
larger circular area, a global monitoring section with raised daises and transparent
datascreens that provided temporary cover for herself and her opponents, as
phaser and disruptor bolts flew about, striking screens and walls. Sasha
crouched down, listening to them barking orders to each other.
They were
concentrating their fire on the screen she now crouched behind, making it crack
and melt and char.
She pulled
another toy from her harness, a thick black cylinder she activated and flung
from her position behind one screen. Try
this on for size, you snaggletoothed pishers-
A teeth-rattling
pulse from her sonic bomb filled the air – painful to her ears at this
proximity, but excruciating to felinoids.
She rose,
gripped her rifle tighter and stormed through the rest of the room, striking
down the temporarily-disabled Ferasans, one by one, leaving them unconscious
for the next several hours. Sweat poured down her forehead and coated the
inside of her uniform, and she wondered how long she would have to keep this
up, or even if her efforts were doing any good-
More Ferasans
charged in as one, the fastest of them slamming into her with a roar. She lost
her grip on her rifle and nearly lost the air in her lungs as a huge furry
weight landed on top of her, hot stinking breath on her face, sabreteeth
pressing down at her throat, seeking to pierce her flesh-
They clawed at her flesh her scalp oh God peeling it
like an orange-
She drove her
knee up into the Ferasan’s groin, before activating the Pummel bars that
dropped down from her gloves to her fingers, letting her deliver neuroleptic
shocks with her punches.
She sent her
attacker to one side, twisting and kicking out as his friends came at her. Her
sword was still attached to the back of her harness, but they didn’t give her
time or space to draw it out. She snarled back as she danced around the two
Ferasans still standing, neither giving her a chance to go for any other
weapons, but then neither of them were going for their own, either, probably
thinking they didn’t need it to deal with a mere human female.
Whatever you say, boys, you’re the Master Race. Sasha charged at the nearest one, trying to connect,
keeping them off guard as much as possible and not let their superior numbers
and strength and speed get the better of her.
Dad, how do you win a fight?
She connected
with the first, disabling him with a neuroleptic-driven punch, then feinting
and dodging the other, letting him swing out with his clawed paws, snarling and
gnashing those big ugly sabreteeth at her.
They clawed at her flesh her scalp oh God-
It felt like
hours were passing instead of seconds.
She managed a
hard kick to her opponent’s kneecap, shattering it and making him howl, before
she despatched him with a punch to the jaw, sending teeth flying.
And still more
came.
Not seeing her
phaser rifle around, she drew her pistol again and began running and firing,
leaving her free hand to reach up for the hilt of her sword as she did the most
unexpected, most insane thing anyone could imagine, and charge straight into
the Ferasans practically falling on top of each other to get into the room.
Only now she had
her sword drawn, cutting through armour and flesh and bone like water.
Blood filled the
air.
Screams filled
the air.
Some of both
were her own.
They were either
falling back, or falling down, as Sasha found herself in another open area,
some sort of meeting or dining area to judge from the tables and chairs.
Another Ferasan
tackled her, and they rolled together, making her drop her sword to keep from
accidentally cutting or even impaling herself. She used a classic K’Gressir
move mixed with some Vulcan Suus Mahna taught her by T’Varik, but her latest
opponent, a big bastard of a Ferasan, was fresh for the fight, catching her
across the right side of her face with a rake of his claws, and roared in her
face.
She spat out a dislodged
tooth and some blood and laughed hoarsely, beckoning to him.
He charged
again, the pair of them going over a table.
Dad, how do you win a fight?
A fight? Well, Sash, a fight can be won by any number
of factors: size, strength, speed, skill, savagery, superior weapons, sheer
dumb luck...
He tried to
clamp his teeth around her throat, but she jammed her forearm into his mouth,
while repeatedly punching him in the side of his head, ignoring the claws he
dug into her exposed skin, ignoring the pain and fatigue and fear.
But more often than not, a fight is won by the one who
can take the most punishment. The one who can fall nineteen times and get up
twenty. The one who doesn’t give up. Ever.
She reached
between them with her free hand and activated her other sonic bomb, feeling her
eardrums rupture this close, but knowing far worse happened to her opponent, at
least until she finished him off with a phaser stun, shoving him aside.
She struggled
back to her feet, falling over twice from the vertigo and injuries and
exhaustion, barely able to hold up her phaser arm to make sure there were no
others coming for her, before retrieving her bloodstained black sword.
She wouldn’t
give up.
