The Lion of Salem Sector

Eighteen Years Ago:

“USS Furyk, Captain’s Log, Stardate 36503.21, Captain Esek Hrelle, Recording: We have left the Miradorn freighter Morotec behind, having confiscated the Klingon contraband onboard and arrested its crew, and are returning to Station Salem One for the disposition of both. There was an… incident… involving the accidental release of toxic nerve agents on the freighter during our operation, and in compliance with environmental protocols the contaminated vessel has been sealed off and set with warning beacons.

Meanwhile, having been accidentally caught in the aforementioned incident, I am now being checked out by our Chief Medical Officer…”

*

 “Well, Doctor?”

The Tellarite focused his beady black eyes on the bioreadings panel. “Captain, you really need to put on weight. You’re too thin.”

Hrelle grunted. “Balls.”

“No, they’re of expected size. Probably need emptying more.”

The Caitian glared in his direction as he worked the ache from his broad shoulders. “Are you gonna put that in your official report on my condition, Doc?”

Dr Grunghrig cackled as he clacked his hooves. “I should! That’d wake up that golem Commodore Soldermann from his eternal slumbering state! But seriously, Esek, widen that waistline. It’s not healthy.”

Hrelle shook his mahogany mane up over his collar. “No one respects a fat Captain, Doctor.” He paused, cracking the knuckles in his furry paws, still feeling the aches in his muscles and joints, though he expected it was more imagined than real. “And the poison? You took care of it all?”

“Of course. You might need a bit more exercise than usual in the coming days to prevent muscle cramps… but then you can take care of that problem at the same time as your overfull gonads.”

“Always the charmer, Doc.”

“And maybe in future avoid theragen nerve agents? It’s not as much fun to die from as sex.”

“You’re obsessed.” Hrelle strode out into the narrow corridors of his ship, nodding to crewmembers as he passed by, replaying the events of the previous twenty-four hours: the interception of the Miradorn smugglers, the confiscation of their contraband, the faulty drum on one of the gas canisters…

Hrelle never thought he’d feel so close to death as when he breathed in some of that theragen, and felt himself burning from the inside. Mother’s Cubs…

“Captain? Are you okay? Do you need help?”

He found himself standing there, staring blankly at a concerned-looking Crewman Darnell, who was kneeling beside an opened Jefferies Tube hatch. Hrelle smiled. “Thank you, Emma, but no. A session with Doc Grunghrig is enough to leave anyone needing shore leave-”

The Red Alert Klaxon made his tail snap against the wall, and he forgot the exchange to charge forward, the crewmembers ahead of him knowing him well enough to step aside and let him get to the turbolift unimpeded, waiting until he was inside before smacking his combadge. “Report, Macready.”

His First Officer’s calm Creole patois was clear. “The Miradorns’ customers have come for their goods, Sir. Are you on your way, or has the Doctor got you tucked up in bed with ice cream-“

“-And cookies,” the human finished live as Hrelle strode onto the Bridge, stepping aside to indicate the starship on the viewscreen: a large, compact, emerald-green vessel with an ovoid primary hull, integrated nacelles and numerous weapons pods.

Hrelle took it in, his heart and tail racing with alertness as he glanced at the tactical readings from the corner of his eye, the data confirming the ship was Orion in origin, albeit a departure from their usual winged designs… and strangely similar in size and shape to the Furyk. “ID, Mac?”

Macready faced the viewscreen as well. “It’s designated the Green Death, one of the new Natahv-class blockade runners. Their shields are up, their disruptors are charged.”

Hrelle nodded and stepped down into the pit at the centre of the Bridge, standing beside his chair and resting his paws on his belt. “Well, let’s see which bastard is rich enough to afford one of those beauties. Ms O’Reilly?”

The green-hued Orion starship on the viewscreen vanished, replaced by the image of its equally green-hued Orion owner: a broad bald male with a nose broken and reset many times, his leather harnesses festooned with sparkly jewels, his exposed skin festooned with elaborate tattoos. He grinned, displaying more jewels in his teeth. “Hello again, Captain. You’re looking well.”

“Hello again, Darling- Sorry, I mean Daalan.”

The Orion twitched. “Really, Captain? Such childishness is ill-becoming.”

“I know you are, but what am I? Nice ship. Looks too good for you, Daalan Rul.”

“It’s Daalan Sur now, Captain.” He indicated the appropriate insignia of rank on his left shoulder pad, smiling proudly.

Hrelle raised a furred brow. “Congratulations. You’re moving up in Orion society… such as it is. Who’d you have to bend over and spread for to earn that?”

The Shipmaster’s triumphant expression dampened, but only a little. “That might be how you got where you are, you flea-bitten scarecrow. Me, I had a very successful season in the Markets. I even managed to corral a few Caitian cubs.” He grinned again. “The Imperial Family love exotic pets.”

Hrelle grunted; Daalan remained so predictable, always trying to get under his fur every time they encountered each other. “Good luck with them; one of our cubs could bring down any ten of you sickly kafirfirs. Return to Orion Space, before I forget this is Open Territory and arrest you. Or blow you to the Seven Hells.”

Daalan bared his teeth again. “You have something that belongs to me, Starfleet. Hand it over, and maybe we’ll let you hobble back to that shitty little station of yours rather than destroy you right here. Right now.”

Hrelle crossed his arms. “That’s very generous of you, Darling, but I’m going to have to decline. The Miradorn were caught with weapons stolen from a Klingon war surplus depot, and under the terms of the Khitomer Accords we’re obliged to return the goods to the owners, and the thieves to Klingon justice. You’re welcome to what remains of their ship; it’s contaminated with nerve agent, but that shouldn’t bother someone who lost his nerve long ago during that Nist heist. Remember, Darling?“

Daalan bristled, his ruby-red eyes flaring as he leaned forward, filling up more of the screen. “Things have changed since then, Caitian! Starfleet’s tyrannical hold over this sector will soon come to an end! You’ve met your match with the Green Death, you mangy grimalkin! You will give me what’s mine, or I will take it from your seared, shredded hull!”

Hrelle shrugged at that. “Well, now’s a good a time as any.”

Daalan blinked. “What?”

He uncrossed his arms, extending them, paws open, in seeming welcome. “To finally take me on. To revenge the spanking I gave you at Nist. To do more than just sit there and mewl your empty threats. You’ve talked about it enough times. So come on, let’s dance.”

The Orion leaned back in his chair. “Captain… you don’t want to do this-“

“Don’t I? Don’t you know me by now?” Hrelle stepped forward. “What do they call me here, Daalan Sur?”

“Captain-“

“WHAT DO THEY CALL ME?” Hrelle suddenly roared, spitting, eyes wide, teeth bared, claws extended, making the crew at the Helm and Ops posts in front of him jump.

Daalan paled as he saw that reaction as well. “The.. The Lion of Salem Sector...”

“That’s right!” Hrelle laughed deeply, boomingly, before pointing at the Orion on the screen. “Tell you what, Darling, let’s make it easy on you. Mr Ellerton: drop our shields.”

He almost heard the Bridge crew’s collective hearts skip.

Behind him, his Tactical Officer almost squeaked, “Sir?”

“I said drop the shields.”

To Hrelle’s right, Macready stepped forward. “Captain-“

Never taking his eyes off of Daalen’s wary face, Hrelle raised a paw to stop his First Officer, as he continued, growling, “Mr Ellerton, if I have to ask again, it will be to the one replacing you when I relieve you of duty.”

Seconds later, there was a chirp, and Ellerton reported, “Shields dropped, Sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Ellerton.” Now he raised a paw to the viewscreen. “See, Darling? There you go. Take your best shot.”

Then the paw closed into a fist. “Because I promise you… you won’t get another.

And I promise you this as well: if you don’t destroy us… I’m coming for you. I’ll beam onboard alone, and cut down all opposition foolish enough to impede me.

And then I’ll be on you like the stink on your hide.

And I’m going to feast on you.”

His voice dropped to a growl, his eyes aflame. “Yes, feast on you, Daalan Sur… while you remain alive, for as long as possible, and watch me do it. Watch me take more and more and more of you. My doctor’s just told me I need to put on some weight, so really, I’ll just be following orders.

I swear in the name of the Great Mother Herself, Daalan Sur, I’ll make it happen.”

Hrelle lowered his arm. “Or… you can return to your Bridge, make your excuses to your crew, and fly off to more profitable pastures.” He smiled mirthlessly now. “You have one minute. If you’re still within our sensor range… I will be coming for you anyway… because now I’m curious about what Orion flesh tastes like. Ms O’Reilly?”

His Communications Officer took the cue and ended the transmission before the intimidated-looking Orion could reply. Assuming he would.

The Bridge remained tense, as if holding its collective breath.

Hrelle shook his mane and turned to the Tactical station behind him. “Mr Ellerton, what’s the status of the Green Death?”

Miles Ellerton, a wide-faced, pale, bearded Terran with receding, swept-back pewter hair, glanced anxiously at his board. “They’re… powering up their warp engines…” Now he looked up, past Hrelle.

The Caitian looked to the viewscreen, in time to see the Orion vessel turn on its axis and slingshot into warp space, deepree into Open Territory.

Hrelle nodded, relaxing. “At ease, Mr Ellerton, you were never in any danger of being relieved of duty. But I want an analysis of our sensor readings on that ship; if we’re to face them in the future, I want to know their strengths and weaknesses. Mr Shekrev, let’s get back to Salem One and offload the prisoners and contraband.

And Ms O’Reilly, contact the station, inform them of our ETA, and that I want their Engineering Team ready to finally upgrade our EPS grids as soon as we arrive. And make sure they’re aware this is an Emergency Priority. I don’t like that the grids nearly overloaded when we chased the Miradorn through that dark matter nebula.“

He was moving to take his seat, when Macready approached. “Captain, may we speak privately, please?”

Hrelle breathed in, knowing exactly what it was all about, almost considering throwing a proverbial spanner in the works and refusing. Instead he gestured to the door to his Ready Room, leading the way inside… to the drinks cabinet. “The usual, Mac?”

“No.”

Hrelle’s tail swished behind him, picking up the human’s change of scent. He kept his back to his First Officer as he poured himself a shot of Spican flame whiskey. “It’s probably for the best, Caitians have a stronger tolerance for alcohol.”

“Are they also more prone to suicide?”

He turned, cradling his shotglass in his paw without drinking… and tempered his initial defiance as he saw the genuine concern on the other officer. Unlike most of the crew, Commander Michael Macready’s experience in Starfleet almost matched his own, and Hrelle couldn’t just coast on his rank and veteran status. “No. We’re not.”

“So what in the Blue Hell was that pissing contest out there with Daalan Rul?”

“Please, it’s Daalan Sur; he paid good money for that promotion, let’s be respectful.”

Macready’s face turned russet with anger. “Do you see me laughing, Esek?”

Hrelle studied him, raising the glass to his muzzle without actually drinking anything. “No, Mac. But we were never in any real danger.”

“Oh? And did your much-vaunted Caitian senses tell you that?”

“No. My experience with Daalan Sur told me that. He had contacted us privately, from the equivalent of his Ready Room, rather than publicly on the Bridge… and risk losing his nerve in front of his crew. He’s a disgusting slave trafficking pig, but he’s smart enough to know how lucky he was to get away from me the last time we danced. He thought he could find some resolve with his shiny new ship.” He shrugged. “He was wrong.”

“And do you like representing Starfleet as a force whose senior officers deliver threats of cannibalism?”

Hrelle smiled. “Cannibalism is eating members of one’s own species, otherwise I could call you a cannibal every time you tuck into one of your fresh Louisiana lobsters.”

“You know what I mean, Esek.”

“Yes, I do. And as it happens I like representing Starfleet as a force whose senior officers prefer to make empty verbal threats to hostile powers, rather than engage in actual battle.”

Macready’s gaze narrowed. “You swore on the name of your Great Mother. Isn’t that blasphemy to your people?”

He carried his drink over to his desk, setting it down and taking his chair, feeding his tail through the hole in the back. “The Great Mother isn’t a deity, she’s a mythical figure who personifies the best qualities of Caitians: compassion, mercy, generosity, parenthood. But it sounds pretty dramatic if I invoke Her name in threats.” He paused. “Anything else, Commander?”

“Yes: I filed a formal protest in my logs to your taking the lead on the Miradorn ship. You should never have gone over there; the fact that you almost died is proof of that. What a stupid way to almost kick the bucket!”

“But I didn’t. That’s the important part.” He raised the glass to his muzzle but then stopped. “‘Kick the bucket’? Where does that come from?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a damn entomologist!”

“That’s insects. You mean etymologist-”

“Oh, shut up, you damn bag of fleas!”

Hrelle carried his drink over to his desk, setting the glass down and taking his chair, instinctively feeding his tail through the gap in the back as he watched the human pace before him. “Mac, why are you like this? It’s not the first time I’ve got into trouble in the performance of my duty. Like Jim Kirk himself said, ‘Risk is Our Business’.”

“Screw Jim Kirk!”

Hrelle wagged a finger in mock scolding. “Now that’s blasphemy. Or maybe a fantasy of yours-”

“Acceptable risk is our business!” He stopped and faced his commanding officer and friend, the concern bleeding through the ire. “You didn’t have to go over there. You’re too valuable.”

“I can’t stay locked up in here, Mac. And Chen, Johannes, Lixx – they were with me, too. Would you rather have one of them exposed to that agent? Someone without the constitution to survive? They have families, cubs. I don’t.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“What’s to fault? I’m not really interested in cubs of my own. What would I do with them? Can’t have them scurrying about onboard my ship, getting into mischief.”

The human drew closer and leaned against the desk, offering that judgemental gaze that Hrelle found both endearing and annoying. “Sounds like a crock of shit to me. But what about just companionship? Someone waiting for you in your quarters besides your right hand?”

Hrelle grunted, correcting, “Right paw. And the nearest Caitian female is a hundred light years away.”

“Why does she have to be Caitian?” Macready smiled a little. “I know you dabbled with other races in your Academy days – we all did – and there had to have been some humans in there.”

“Sure, you tailless apes are everywhere, like fleas on a wild shuris.” Hrelle picked up his glass once more… but still didn’t drink. “Are you trying to set me up with your sister again? I keep telling you, I barely notice human females now as anything, let alone attractive.”

Macready smiled, relaxing a little as he shook his head. “My sister’s allergic to cats… and a-holes. No, I was thinking of that blonde Station Engineer on Salem One.”

Now the Caitian frowned. “You’re joking.”

“Why not her?”

“Because Commander Hannah Eismann is an almighty pain in my furry ass! Ever since she showed up on Salem One, every single attempt to get a decent repair or retrofit from her and her team is like digging ticks out from under my fur! She has no respect for rank or urgency, argues over the tiniest request for use of the industrial fabricators, and responds to any reasonable requests on my part with a lift of that dimpled chin and a thrust of her chest and a flare of those challenging aquamarine eyes practically daring me to swipe at her with my claws, before she insults me in that obscure Terran Radish dialect!”

Macready stared at him.

“What?”

His First Officer shrugged. “Oh nothing, I was just seeing you demonstrate how you barely notice human females as anything, let alone attractive. Oh, and I think it’s Yiddish, not Radish.”

Then his expression softened into something more sympathetic, sober. “I probably know you better than anyone else in this neck of the woods, Esek. I know what you had to go through to get to where you are now: back on Cait, in the Academy, rising up through the ranks. You crafted your entire life to get your ass into the Captain’s seat, and that’s a hell of an achievement.

But it doesn’t have to be your last achievement. The romantic Jim Kirk image of the Captain with no room in their heart for anything but their ship and duty is tired… and as you enter middle age, I think you deserve to have someone else in your life worrying about you besides me.”

Now he straightened up and departed.

Hrelle reached for his glass, stared into it… and set it down again, looking at the painting on the wall opposite his desk, the painting he had commissioned a few years ago of the R’Trerah Archipelago, the part of Cait where he had grown up, among fisherfolk. His Papa had expected him to follow in his footsteps and take over the business, but Hrelle chose Starfleet… and was disowned by what remained of their clan for his decision.

It hadn’t been easy, nor had the subsequent years in Starfleet Academy, being harassed by the Arringtons, a trio of privileged human siblings, the children of the former Superintendent there who had worked hard to try and get him to resign, for reasons known only to them. Only his friendship with Weynik, the little Roylan Admiral’s son, had alleviated his time.

But even without that support, all of that pushed him even harder to succeed, if only to spite them all. And now here he was, less than twenty years later, commanding his own starship, in charge of security for an entire sector of space. Saving lives, worlds, protecting the Federation’s interests. Mac was right; that was a hell of an achievement.

But was he also right about it not having to be Hrelle’s last achievement?

He finally drank. A human female? They were bizarre looking to be sure – no tails, no fur or claws, the flat faces and strange scents – but they weren’t without their charms. And despite his protests, he admired Commander Hannah Eismann’s spirit.

It had been a long time since he last had sex. With someone else. He certainly couldn’t indulge with anyone onboard his current command, that would cause all sorts of problems. But one of the Salem One crew?

Maybe.

*

“Captain?” Macready prompted.

In his chair on the Bridge, Hrelle made a sound and turned to look at the closest thing he had to a home now: Station Salem One, sitting in the black space between systems at the heart of the sector, looking like a giant industrial spinning toy, fitted with a sensor and communications tower on top and a configurable drydock mesh on bottom – a mesh now surrounding the long, modular shape of an ore freighter. “Who’s that?”

Macready checked his station. “Designated the Disuk, Vulcan registry, originally bound for Scesity for the latest mineral consignment.” After a pause and more checking, he elaborated, “They were apparently attacked by an unidentified group of raiders outside of the Scesity system, and managed to escape, damaged.”

“When did this happen?”

Hrelle caught the slight change in his friend’s scent as he checked again, looking over at the Ops station. “The Disuk reported to Salem One over six hours ago. The intel was forwarded to us at that time.”

Hrelle rose to his feet, eyes fixed on Ensign Lucas Dacosta at Ops. “Ensign, you were on duty when this came through. Why didn’t you flag this up immediately?”

The shockingly young-looking Brazilian man, with smooth coffee-skinned cheeks and guileless hazel eyes, turned in his chair, clearly feeling the attention of everyone on the Bridge on him, as he swallowed. “Sir, I- I didn’t think it was that urgent-“

“Not that urgent?” Macready straightened up and stepped forward. “And how did you arrive at that decision?”

Now the junior officer began to sweat. “I- S-Sir- The attack had already happened, and- and we were on our way here anyway- we- we couldn’t have helped-“

“You’re relieved,” Hrelle responded simply.

Dacosta swallowed, glancing at Macready, as if the other man might intervene. But the XO’s response was simply, “Report to your quarters. I’ll be along presently.”

Dacosta nodded and rose, looking shaky on his feet as he faced Hrelle. “S-Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

“I said you were relieved, Ensign,” Hrelle growled, his glare unwavering and his teeth bared.

The young human almost stumbled over his own feet as he made a wide path around the senior officers and moved to the doors leading off the Bridge. Hrelle ignored Macready’s approach as he looked to another officer. “Mr Barrymore, take over at Ops, contact Salem One, forward my apologies for the lack of response until now and request a full Security report on the raid.” Now he faced Macready, who was practically in his face. “What, Commander?”

The human’s face was sympathetic, his voice confidential. “Dacosta’s a Squab, fresh out of the Academy, he only joined us two weeks ago, and his decision would have been acceptable on many other ships. We’ve all screwed up at his age. Remember what you told me about that incident on the Charleston when you stopped at Argelius-”

“Yes,” he interrupted quickly, feeling embarrassed at the memory Macready dredged up. He still felt anger at such a stupid mistake from Dacosta… but acknowledged, at least to himself, that it was a mistake. And not the worst thing to happen.

“I’ll be in my Ready Room awaiting the report,” he finally decided, “And arranging a meeting with the Commissioner and Station Chief. Give the crew shore leave, but tell them to enjoy themselves while they can, we might need to leave again at short notice. You deal with Dacosta; I’m not interested in running a training vessel.” As he turned away, he ordered over his shoulder, “And make sure that Station Engineer, whatever her name is, doesn’t put our needs on the back burner.”

Macready never bothered to hide the amusement in his voice. “‘Whatever her name is’, Sir? You knew it well enough only yesterday.”

Hrelle left him with a growl.

*

The images of the attack on the Disuk from the freighter’s sensor logs replayed on the viewscreen in the conference room on Salem One, no longer watched by the Station Master. Captain Ruth Sternhagen was a large-framed, middle-aged Terran woman with dark truculent hair peppering with grey, and a hangdog expression that Hrelle appreciated. And in the absence of Commodore Soldermann, currently at a conference on Marcos XII, Sternhagen was the nearest high-ranking peer. “Opinion, Hrelle?”

Hrelle leaned back in his chair, looking up at the small, sleek cuneiform-shaped raiders. “They’re new to the Sector, but the designs are reminiscent of older Tholian models.”

“But they’re definitely not Tholians themselves?” asked Federation Commissioner Xaden Rorx, a squat Bolian male who acted like he carried the weight of the station on his blue shoulders despite only having arrived there. “Making an incursion into our space?”

“No, Commissioner; we’re far too distant from the Tholian Assembly to be included in even one of their arbitrary border adjustments. And the weapons and attack patterns displayed by these Raiders against the Disuk aren’t Tholian. Nor are they Kzinti, Paserak, Nist…” He frowned.

Sternhagen noticed. “What is it, Captain?”

He raised his paw to the screen. “The Disuk was on its way to Scesity when it was attacked, not away from it.”

“So?”

“It was empty. They would have realised it, it was obvious. Why attack it beforehand? Wouldn’t it have been more profitable for them to wait until they picked up the ore shipment, and then steal a full ship? And why let it escape damaged, and not simply destroy it?” He looked to Sternhagen. “What have we heard from the Scesity colony?”

“They acknowledged our report about the attack on the Disuk, but that was it.”

Hrelle frowned further.

Now it was Rorx’s turn to ask, “What, Captain?”

He turned to the Bolian. “The mining colony’s contracts, their bonuses, are based on delivering their goods, on time. And they didn’t kick up a fuss about when the freighter would be repaired, or when a replacement might be on its way?” He shook his head. “I’m heading over there, to investigate the area… and the colony.”

Rorx nodded. “And I’ll be accompanying you, Captain.”

“That won’t be necessary, Commissioner.”

“As the newly-appointed Federation Representative for this sector, I must disagree. I was planning on visiting Scesity and other industrial colonies anyway to greet the Governors and Administrators.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I don’t need the Presidential Suite.”

Hrelle hesitated, glancing at Sternhagen, who offered a wry look of sympathy, though her own role meant she spent far more time in the company of the bureaucrat than Hrelle ever did.

And Hrelle could hardly refuse the Commissioner; Starfleet worked on behalf of the Federation, after all, not the reverse, and it wasn’t exactly an emergency situation where he could override the civilian authority. “Good, Commissioner, because we don’t have a Presidential Suite. But we should leave right away.” He tapped his combadge. “Hrelle to Furyk: recall the crew from shore leave, prepare for immediate departure.”

There was a pause, and Macready’s voice responded, “Sorry, Captain, no can do. The Station Engineering Team have already begun removing the EPS grids for the upgrade, as per your orders; it’ll take a minimum of eight hours for them to degauss the systems and reinstall the replacements.”

Hrelle grit his teeth. “That’s not good enough, Commander!”

“I understand, Sir, but you might have to explain that to the Station Engineer.”

He glanced at Sternhagen again, who just shrugged, clearly not getting involved in this. “Where is she?”

*

 “Commander!”

Hannah Eismann had her back to Hrelle as he approached. She was standing near the airlock leading to the Furyk, checking her PADD and conversing with several of her crew. They noticed the Caitian’s approach, and backed away a little, but their superior chose not to react, until he was almost upon her.

Then she turned, the petite, shapely, pale-skinned woman with dirty-blonde hair looking up at him. “You’re Welcome, Captain.”

He stopped in his tracks, reining in the tirade he had about to launch on her. “Excuse me?”

She never lost a beat, handing the PADD back to one of her people and dismissing them. “I said You’re Welcome, Captain. I’m assuming you were coming here to thank me for the rush job we’re doing to get those EPS grids replaced for you. ‘Emergency Priority’, I believe was in the communications from your ship.”

Hrelle swallowed… momentarily distracted by her scent, a pleasing musk, something he was certain he never noticed from her in prior interactions. “Yes, well, we need to leave now, so you can put the old grids back on, we’ll make do with them until we return.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He reared up instinctively. “I beg your pardon, Commander?”

Eismann remained deadpan as she replied, “Oh, forgive me, I forgot myself: No, Sir. You see-”

He couldn’t believe the attitude he was getting from her, and he was leaning in, baring his teeth as he cut her off. “And what if I went to your superior and informed her of your insubordinate attitude?”

She looked up at him, crossing her arms, completely unintimidated. “Then I would explain to Captain Sternhagen, as I’m trying to explain to you now, that the T-113 EPS Grids have safety deadlocks that neutralise their conductive linings once they’ve been removed from the housings, to prevent outdated ones from ever being reused. The moment we removed the old grids from the Furyk, they became as useful as a hairbrush for a Bolian.

We will install the new grids as quickly as possible, Captain, Sir… within safety guidelines. But unless you’re gonna tell me that the Galactic Core is exploding and the only one who can stop it is you and your scraggly mane, I’m not going to put my people or your people at risk by recklessly rushing things. And if that’s still a problem for you, Captain, Sir, then I respectfully invite you to kush meyn toches.”

Hrelle drew back, feeling like he had been belted by a Gorn on cordrazine. And the more he took in the truth of her words, the more he realised how much he deserved her attitude. And though he had reservations about what might be happening at Scesity with those Raiders, he also accepted that there was no obvious emergency requiring others to take needless risks, He stepped back, swallowing. “My apologies, Commander. Of course, maintain all the safety guidelines necess-” Then he stopped and frowned. “‘Scraggly’?”

Now she smiled, with genuine amity, as she unfolded her arms and indicated his mane. “Yes, scraggly. Did you go backwards through a hedge to get it looking like that?”

“Hmph. I’ll have you know this look inspires terror in pirates and smugglers.”

“And hairstylists too, I’ll bet. What are you doing for dinner?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Dinner. Supper. The Evening Meal. The After Hours Feedbag. Caitians do eat, don’t they?”

Hrelle smiled. “Food is one of our chief pleasures.” Then he frowned again. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You’re the Caitian, you should know your own people-“

“No, I mean why are you asking me out?”

Eismann regarded him, before smirking. “I hope you don’t think this is a date or something, Captain, Sir. In fact, I might even bring a chaperone with me. No, I just realise we’ve been butting heads since I came here, and I just wanted to stop… rubbing your fur the wrong way.”

He blinked, seeing her skin flush a little as she realised where her words took her. But she still continued.

He smiled back. “I’d like that. Know any good places to eat?”

“Oh, we have an embarrassment of riches on Salem One: hobnobbing in the Executive Lounge on Deck 3, or slumming with the plebs in the Starjammers Café on 4.”

“Oh, it has to be the Starjammers; I always feel like I have to be on my best behaviour in the Lounge.”

The human’s smirk blossomed into a smile. And a damned enticing one too. “Well, in that case I’ll definitely have to bring a chaperone with me. I’ll meet you there at 1800 Hours; I’ll make sure you can depart by midnight. You make sure you run a brush through that rat’s nest on your head.”

Then she turned and departed down the airlock to his ship to join her crew.

He watched her leave, admiring her figure from the rear, before he realised he was drawing attention to himself. Then he turned, tapping his combadge. “Hrelle to Macready: we’ll be leaving again at 0000 Hours, so inform the crew we’ll have to cut shore leave short this time. Also, inform Commissioner Rorx’s office. Prepare our guest quarters for him.”

Macready’s voice responded. “Aye, Sir. And have you sorted out that lazy, good-for-nothing Commander Eismann and reminded her of who’s the Lion of Salem Sector?”

Hrelle frowned. “Mr Macready, I’ll remind you that Commander Eismann is a respected and talented Station Engineer, and we should be immensely grateful for all the hard work that she and her crew do on our behalf, so I won’t have you-” He paused. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m at the other side of the airlock,” he replied cheerfully. “With Commander Eismann.”

Hrelle looked out through the observation window at his ship, connected to Salem One by the secured tunnel, and saw Macready and Eismann. Eismann waved to him. “Can she hear-”

“Every word, Captain,” Eismann finished over the combadge link helpfully.

The Caitian ground his teeth. “Carry on. Hrelle out.” He closed the channel, and then turned and ventured to the station’s Commissary to get some new brushes for his mane, and give Macready and Eismann a chance to move on and not be around at the airlock when he returned for a shower and change of uniform.

*

As it turned out, Eismann – dressed in casual clothes now, making him feel a little too formal – meant her threat to bring a chaperone.  “Captain Hrelle, I’d like you to meet my daughter Sasha.”

She stepped aside, revealing a child of about six or seven years, dressed in something similar to a burgundy Starfleet utility jumpsuit, with a bob of honey-blonde hair, pixie nose, narrow chin… and a piercing, challenging glare from her icy blue eyes.

Hrelle controlled his initial reaction. He hadn’t lied to his First Officer; he was different from most Caitians in not being particularly comfortable around cubs of any race, and was secretly pleased that his ship wasn’t one of those new ones that were big enough to allow families. But there was something about this particular cub that was different from the others, though he couldn’t work out why.

He bent down slightly and held out his paw. “Delighted to meet you, Sasha.”

The girl stood there, crossing her arms and scowling.

“Sash,” Eismann intoned warningly.

Sasha unfolded her arms and accepted his paw, her own hand so small in comparison with his, and then quickly withdrew it like Hrelle’s had been on fire.

Hrelle straightened up again, looking to the girl’s mother. “I hope I’m not intimidating her.”

Eismann made an amused sound. “What, my daughter? No, nothing intimidates her… except the idea that I might be out enjoying myself, because apparently I’m not allowed a life after her father passed.” Now she glanced down at her. “And if she keeps acting this way, she can stay home and I’ll call for a babysitter.”

“Not a baby,” the cub declared, still glowering with suspicion at Hrelle.

Hrelle studied her, seeing the same defiant strength and spirit in her that he saw in her mother.

He was utterly charmed.

They were quickly seated, Sasha sitting opposite Hrelle, Eismann sitting between them on Hrelle’s left, noting her daughter’s continued attitude. “Do I need to contact Ms Connolly?”

Sasha made an exaggerated show of releasing the tension in her face and arms, but still stared at Hrelle.

Hrelle smiled back at her… remembering himself at that age, more or less, reacting the same way to the females his Papa would meet with after Mama died, being very territorial to these strange interlopers.

“Sasha is usually much more chatty than this,” Eismann informed him, attempting the break the silence at the table. “She’s quite gifted in Engineering. She wants to join Starfleet when she grows up.”

“Is that right?” The Caitian smiled at the girl. “And are you going to be an Engineer like your mother?”

“I’m gonna be a Commander!” she snapped, looking insulted by his question. “Like my Dad!”

Hrelle nodded again. “Excellent! I’m sure he’d be very proud of you! And it’d be good to have a working knowledge of other fields like Engineering, so you can appreciate how hard your crew works.”

Sasha rolled her eyes and looked away.

Hrelle glanced at Eismann, who gave him an apologetic look as the waiter brought over the menu PADDs. “Sasha’s very interested in other races, too; she’s never met a Caitian before.” She looked at the child again. “Don’t you have any questions for Captain Hrelle about his people?”

Sasha hid behind her menu, unresponsive.

Until her mother reached up and gently pushed down the menu to reveal the girl again. “I’m sure if you start behaving politely, the Captain will answer anything you ask.”

Sasha eyed him. “Anything?”

“Certainly,” Hrelle promised her, still smiling.

Sasha set down her menu and focused on him, seeming to consider what to ask. “Okay then… are you furry all over?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

She breathed in… and then, in a voice deliberately loud enough to carry across the whole of the restaurant, asked, “EVEN YOUR PENIS?”

Eismann almost dropped her own menu, turning scarlet as she tried to ignore the looks they received from the surrounding tables. “Sasha! Apologise to Captain Hrelle, right now!”

Showing no genuine remorse whatsoever, the girl looked to Hrelle again. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m very, very sorry.”

Eismann looked ready to scold her further, when a high-ranking officer Hrelle didn’t recognise approached the table. “Hannah, excuse the interruption while you’re off-duty, but can I grab you for a moment to have a word with the Vulcan freighter captain about the repair work your people are doing?”

She made a sound, but nodded and set aside her menu. “Of course, Phil.” She scowled at her daughter. “Behave yourself, or Captain Hrelle will let me know. Understood?”

Sasha hid behind her menu again in reply.

Eismann harrumphed, saying to Hrelle, “I’ll be right back.”

He waved her off and lifted up his menu once more, not sure what amused him more: Sasha’s outburst, or her mother’s reaction.

“Pssst.”

He peered at her over his own menu. “Hmm?”

Sasha glanced over to where her mother was standing with the officer and the Vulcan Captain, before confiding to him, “I’m not really sorry.”

He struggled to keep a straight face, but nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.”

She hid again.

Until he added, “Yes, it is.”

Sasha popped up and frowned at him again, confused.

He pointed down to his lap under the table. “It’s furry too. It’s like a little furry sausage.”

That made her laugh until she snorted… then she caught herself, retreating once more behind her menu, but still declaring petulantly, “I don’t like you.”

Hrelle smiled to himself as he began perusing his own menu. “That’s too bad… because I really like you.”

*

Sasha remained quiet for the rest of the dinner, but Eismann decided to let her stay quiet while she conversed with Hrelle… who found himself engaged with the human mother, as she talked about her life before arriving at Salem One, and Hrelle offered his own story, as well as tales about Cait and its history…. While Sasha pretended not to be listening closely.

On Eismann’s insistence, he returned with them to their quarters, and she shooed a very reluctant but very tired Sasha to bed, returning to him in the living room. “Would you care for a coffee? Or something stronger?”

He stood with his back to her, admiring a painting on her living room wall. “I’m easy.”

“That’s good to know, but what would you like to drink?”

He looked over his shoulder and smiled; she had removed her jacket, revealing a snug white top that did justice to her figure. “Coffee, please, Commander.”

“Call me Hannah.”

“Okay, Hannah: black, no sugar. I will forgoe any alcohol; I’m still planning on shipping out at Midnight.”

She nodded and moved to the replicator unit. “A man of action, huh? Off to kick ass and keep us safe from the Terrible Whatsits out there?”

“I see you’ve read my Mission Profile.” He accepted the mug from her and sat down on the couch with her, adjusting his rear to accommodate his tail. “Actually, it’s almost never that exciting… thankfully. Just moving around a lot, flying the proverbial flags, keeping peace between the Paserak and the colonists, and snarling at the Kzinti.”

She nodded, cradling her own mug as she tucked her legs under her as she regarded him. “Does that ever bother you? Having to face down other felinoids like the Kzinti?”

“What, like I feel like I’m betraying my own kind?” He shook his head. “No more than a Terran Captain might have a problem dealing with Iotians or Alpha Centaurians. And as far as I’m concerned, comparing Caitians to Kzinti is like comparing Terrans to gorillas. Only gorillas are more civilised.” He drank from his mug, appreciating the smell and taste. “May I ask a personal question, Hannah?”

“Go ahead, Sport.”

“How long ago did Sasha’s father die?”

Hrelle had debated getting on the subject, worrying about her reaction, but she seemed to handle it well. “When she was still in the womb. We were posted on the Okinawa during the Tzenkethi War, and was caught in a raid. I kept Jake’s images, his memories around us as Sasha grew up, so she would have some link to him, even a second-hand link…”

Hannah’s expression sobered. “But maybe that was the wrong thing to do. She grew up with an idealised version of him, and no one could measure up to that.”

“No,” he conceded, “But at least she has that to hold onto. My mother died when I was very young. My Papa… burned so many of her things. He couldn’t bear to have her scent around the cottage any longer, knowing she was gone.”

“Her scent?”

Hrelle nodded. “Scent is paramount to Caitians, our neural pathways as strong with them as they are with hearing and sight. We often have Olfactaquaries, items of clothing of our departed loved ones, hermetically sealed and opened on special occasions to trigger our scent memories. But he destroyed Mama’s. Destroyed the images and erased the recordings. The pain for him was too much to bear.” He stared down into his mug. “I can barely recall her now.”

Hannah’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

He looked up again, amazed that he had opened up about that part of his life, so readily… and partly worried about how she might react. “I think you can call me Esek by this stage. And I’m sorry I dampened the atmosphere. I- I haven’t talked about her to anyone in years, not since the Academy Counseling sessions.”

She shook her head. “I don’t suppose it’s easy for a starship Captain to open up to anyone under their command, even their closest shipmates. On the Okinawa, Captain Leyton always seemed so… isolated. I felt sorry for him. It has to skew your perspective.” Then she offered a sly smile. “Let’s move onto lighter subjects. So… is it true?”

“Is what true?”

She nodded towards him… or rather, his lap.

Hrelle felt himself bluish under his fur, but still answered, “Yes, as a matter of fact. Well, somewhat. More or less, I mean-” He shook his head, chuckling. “When my First Officer badgered me into breaking my self-imposed monastic existence and getting social, he never warned me I’d be fielding questions about my genitalia.”

“Them’s the breaks, Sport,” she teased, eyeing him deeply. “And how long has it been?”

“How long has what been?”

Her grin broadened in reply, peppered with, “Since you got… social with someone else?”

“Ahh…” He frowned in thought. “When did we phase out the old burgundy double-breasted jackets with the belts-“

Hannah affected a look of mock horror. “Too long ago! And I thought my last six years had been a celibacy marathon! Can you even remember where everything goes?”

He narrowed his gaze. “Careful, or I might be inclined to prove I do.”

She met his expression. “No, you be careful, or I might take you up on that.”

They sat in silence, staring at each other.

“There is something going on here between us, isn’t there?” he asked softly.

“Seems like it,” she agreed, her voice low. “And just for the record, Esek: whatever happens, there’s no commitment attached, for either of us.” She paused and confessed, “But I’m overdue for a good shtup.”

He caught the change in her scent, matching her raw words. It had been a long, long time, but he did remember what that change meant.

He reached out with his free paw, taking her hand and letting a purr run through him into her. He saw the visible, positive reaction from the human, and he smiled inwardly, glad he hadn’t lost his touch.

“I have four hours and twenty-three minutes until my ship departs,” he reminded her, setting aside his coffee.

“My bedroom is just behind me,” she offered, discarding her own. “Can you be quiet?”

“Me? Certainly.” He drew closer, leaning in to her side. She looked ready to receive a kiss, before realising his snout couldn’t do that, but instead began squirming beneath him as he purred directly against the nape of her neck. “Can’t guarantee you’ll be, though.”

*

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 36508.47, Captain Esek Hrelle, Recording: The Furyk is proceeding towards Scesity, to examine the area for evidence of the mysterious raiders, and to check up on the colony. It is a world rich in resources, to those willing to work to get at them, and is one of the prime targets for scavengers in the Sector. It has some considerable defences in place, but they’re not untouchable-”

Hrelle paused his Logbook as he caught the familiar scent on the Bridge, and looked up. “Mr Dacosta?”

The young officer was on his way to assume his position at Ops, when he stopped, straightening up like a first-year cadet on parade. “Sir!”

Hrelle glanced at Macready, the pair of them already having discussed Dacosta since they left Salem One the night before… and Hrelle’s best response. He rose to his feet, relaxing his stance. “At ease, Ensign. I just wanted to publicly offer my regrets at my reaction to your understandable error yesterday.”

Dacosta glanced nervously at Macready, and then back again. “No, Sir! It was my fault, I should have been more careful-“

He raised a paw to stop the junior officer. “Please, Mr Dacosta, your CO is admitting he was in the wrong; there are crew onboard willing to give up a limb to witness this. I just wanted to get that off my furry chest, and to hope that we can proceed with a clean slate. Agreed?”

Dacosta beamed now, nodding. “Yes! Yes, Sir! Absolutely, Sir!”

Hrelle waved him down. “Then relieve Ensign O’Reilly already, she has a plate of salt and pepper ribs waiting for her in the Mess Hall.” At the petite, redheaded woman’s reaction, he added to her, “Don’t pretend you don’t have a Friday Night routine, Brigid.” He sat down again, lifting up his Logbook and reading the transcription of what he had already recorded.

Macready sat down beside him, his voice low. “Nicely done, Captain. Amazing what a dinner with an Engineer can do to soften one’s disposition.”

Hrelle never looked at him; he had said nothing about his time with Hannah to Mac since returning to the ship, just before Midnight… but it was as if the human had telepathy, with those looks he kept shooting. “As you were, Commander.”

“Not that everything needs softening. Quite the opposite, in fact-“

“I said As You Were, Commander.”

Then both men looked up at an alert chime from Ops, as Dacosta examined the data. “Captain, there’s a message, Text Only, directed at us- no, for you specifically.”

Hrelle glanced at Macready before setting aside his Logbook again. “Source?”

“An unidentified ship, 2.7 light years away, coordinates 212-Mark-32.”

The Caitian felt his tail twitch behind him. “And the message?”

Dacosta looked thoroughly confused now. “‘I have a fire’.”

The Caitian nodded. “Helm, plot a course, 212-Mark-32, Warp Nine, engage when ready.”

As Ensign Shekrev moved to comply beside Dacosta, Macready checked his figures. “2.7 light years at Warp 9, we’ll be there in 15.6 hours.”

Hrelle nodded. “Mr Shekrev, make that Warp 9.5.”

“Sir,” Dacosta interjected. “Shall I alert Security and Medical teams-”

“No need.”

“Sir?”

“The message is from a Paserak ship.”

The human’s bemusement only increased. “Sir, sorry but- I was briefed that the Paserak avoided contacting established authorities- even if they have a fire onboard-”

“The message is not a call for help, Lucas,” Macready informed him. “It’s an invitation for a meeting, made without appearing as an invitation and thus breaking with the Paserak tradition of neutrality. It’s not your fault, you weren’t onboard when the  last invitation came in. Maintain Yellow Alert.” He looked to Hrelle with some concern. “This will delay our arrival at Scesity.”

Hrelle nodded in concession, but added, “Benjo wouldn’t make contact without good reason. I’m going to have a read through the Intel on the Raiders, and then catch some sleep before meeting with the Paserak.”

Macready nodded. “Good idea, recharge your batteries after that exhausting dinner with Commander Eismann.”

Hrelle was rising from his seat, but stopped halfway to look at him. “You really should see Dr Grunghrig about that cut under your monkey nose.”

But as he continued to his Ready Room, sat down and called up the accrued data, he found himself thinking about Hannah. It had been a remarkable experience for him, even beyond the obvious exotic novelty of sex with an alien. He felt… comfortable with her. No, not comfortable, that sounded bad. Natural? He hadn’t really felt that way since Mama-

No, let’s definitely not go down that line of thinking.

And she seemed to enjoy herself, too. The intensity they shared was profound.

She had promised him that nothing had to go further between them, if they weren’t so inclined.

He was inclined. And he believed Hannah was, too.

Now, if only he could get Sasha to start liking him…

*

Commissioner Rorx was awaiting Hrelle on the Bridge when he returned, the Bolian looking bizarre out of his usual formal suits in favour of much more casual outdoor gear and boots, as if he was ready to go down the mines of Scesity. “Captain, would you care to explain this diversion? None of your crew are very forthcoming about details.”

Hrelle glanced past him to the viewscreen, seeing the asteroid sitting out there in the void, visible only with computer enhancement, and showing no other vessels around. “Please follow me, Sir.” Once alone with him in his Ready Room, he faced Rorx again. “Commissioner, I received a personal message from a Paserak tribal chief called Maquadan Benjo.”

The Bolian frowned. “I was under the impression that the Paserak were anarchists, and had a policy of total neutrality, avoiding any official contact with any government agency?”

“They do, Sir. This is not an official contact, more… an exchange. A private trade. They are traders, after all.”

“And given the situation with Scesity and the Vulcan freighter attack, you thought it was worth a diversion of nearly a day?”

Hrelle straightened up further. “Commissioner, the Paserak move more or less freely throughout this Sector and beyond, their neutrality affording them freedom… and an opportunity to gather information. I have met Benjo on numerous occasions. We have an understanding; if he contacts me, it’s to impart news he thinks is vital for the stability of the Sector and his own race, neutrality and anti-government feeling be damned. He might even have information useful to our current mission.”

Rorx nodded in apparent agreement. “You’ve met this Benjo before, but I’ve not heard him mentioned in any of your reports to Commodore Soldermann.”

“Nor will you, Sir. I gave Benjo my word that our meetings will always stay Behind the Eyes.” At the reaction from the Bolian, he clarified, “The Paserak version of Off the Record.”

Rorx nodded again, not looking very convinced by the explanation, but also not prepared to argue the point. “Will this take long?”

“No. Benjo’s tribe will have left him in a pocket in the asteroid, and then departed on our approach, so they can put their hands on their hearts and truthfully swear they did not see their chief converse with Minions of Statist Orthodoxy like us.” He glanced outside his window. “But it’s best not to tarry. I have to get some… takeaway.”

*

The air was thin in the asteroid pocket, the gravity uneven, and despite his natural agility and balance, as he beamed in he nearly toppled over and dropped the tray of freshly-cooked, highly-spiced meat and vegetable chunks, sauces and bread pieces. But at least his Caitian eyes allowed him to navigate in the near-darkness, and his ears and nose led him down the tunnel to the familiar Grotto.

The small gas-powered fire in the centre of the chamber crackled as it cast shadows and light on the surrounding walls, the life support unit sitting quietly in the far corner… and the two Paserak sitting at the fire.

The smaller of the two was about Sasha’s size, a male, and crouched fearfully behind the larger one, who sat cross-legged beside the fire. He was a sage-coloured reptoid, with features more Gorn than Saurian, rows of studded bones along the outline of his muzzle and brow, darker wattles around his throat, and eyes with sharp vertical pupils. He wore crimson cloaks… and a large-hilted sword slung over his left shoulder. He looked up at Hrelle, his voice a sound like a brush over a leather hide. “I Have a Fire.”

Hrelle indicated his tray, following the ritual. “I Have Food.”

Maquadan Benjo reached up, unbuckled his sword and cast it beside him. “Let Us Share Both, In Peace.”

“Yes.” Hrelle reached down with one paw and unbuckled his own Kaetini sword and scabbard, a weapon granted to him when he was recruited into the Caitian Kaetini Order, and he set his aside as well.

Behind the larger Paserak, the smaller Paserak peered up at Hrelle, his pupils clouded as he hissed, displaying rows of sharp pearly teeth.

Benjo turned and hissed back. “Manners, or I’ll put you back in your egg! Sit!” He pointed to a patch of ground with a clawed finger. “I brought you here to learn, not to embarrass your tribe!” As the offspring complied, he looked back at Hrelle with a mix of chagrin and pride. “Forgive him. Turikana has just learned to cloak his eyes. Now he thinks he can grapple with the All Father.”

Hrelle dropped to a cross-legged position and set the tray down between them, before regarding the young Paserak, seeing his clouded inner eyelids. “He is both handsome and fierce, Maquadan. You should be proud.”

Benjo hissed with pleasure, a thin forked tongue dipping out quickly. “You must get a son of your own, Friend. Yours and mine can bond as we have.”

Hrelle shrugged. “Someday, maybe. My duty keeps me busy.”

“Duty rarely warms the heart… or the bed.”

The Caitian nodded. “I’m… starting to realise that. What have you got for me, Maquadan?”

The Paserak made a sound. “We eat first.”

Hrelle resisted the urge to insist on talking, aware of the need to proceed to Scesity. But he dredged up his patience and indicated the tray. “Help yourselves, Friends.”

And they did, Hrelle joining in, enjoying the repast despite himself and despite having eaten shortly before they arrived at the rendezvous point. Benjo’s son Turikana even relaxed enough to show Hrelle, a stranger, his eyes. Hrelle made sounds and gestures he had learned from his times with Benjo and other Paserak he knew would be recognised and reassuring to Turikana.

When they approached the end of the meal, Benjo wiped his muzzle with his sleeve, and did the same to his son. “Lovely food as always, Captain. I called you here to warn you of a new presence in the Sector.”

Hrelle nodded. “One of our ore freighters was attacked by a group of unidentified ships on the way to Scesity.”

“That was them. They are a new criminal organisation.”

“From what planet?”

“None. They do not appear dominated by any one race, like the Orion Syndicate or the Rigellian Kaeneiv Cartel; this one comprises Humans, Bolians, Tellarites, Andorians. Many others. Like your Federation… no offence.”

“None taken. How did you encounter them?”

“Near the Bandera system. They had bartered with us for plasma converters for their ships.”

Hrelle’s ears twitched. “Plasma converters?”

Beside him, Turikana made groaning sounds as he rocked in place, and his father reached out and drew the child closer, settling him onto Benjo’s lap and stroking him. “That will teach you to be gluttonous, child. Yes, Captain. Their ships are Tholian, though the occupants are not. Tholian ships have enormous plasma generator networks to produce the high internal temperatures their people prefer.”

Hrelle stroked his own muzzle in thought “They’re looking to use the excess plasma in weaponry?”

“My tribe’s technicians helped install the converters… and noted the connecting systems, as well as the modifications for humanoid use.”

“Anything else?”

“They sought detonators, high-grade. Apparently they were expecting some from an Orion who never showed up to complete the transaction. We could not assist them.”

Hrelle’s ears twitched at that. An Orion? Daalan Sur? He had been in the Sector to obtain the Klingon arms from the Miradorns Hrelle had apprehended – which included high-grade warhead detonators with isolytic charges, banned under the Second Khitomer Accords signed just a few years ago and awaiting safe dismantling when they were stolen. “Did you learn anything about their plans? Why they wanted those?”

The Paserak shook his head. “Only that I received the impression that they were working on behalf of another party.”

The Caitian made a sound, rising to his feet. “I must leave now. Thank you, Friend.”

“For what?” Benjo asked. “This was but a simple exchange: a share of my fire, for a share of your food. A transaction older than the stars around us. Safe Journey to You.”

“Safe Journey to You.” He raised his paw to tap his combadge for a beam-out, but stopped and asked, “Does this new criminal organisation have a name?”

Benjo was stroking his son, but looked up and replied, “They called themselves the Bel-Zon.”

*

“Captain’s Log, Supplemental: We are continuing to Scesity at top speed, while we examine the accumulated data and match it with what Maquadan has told me. There was nothing in any Starfleet Intelligence reports about a group called the Bel-Zon. But the Raiders vessels have been identified by our tactical experts as Tholian in origin, the old Arasene-class webspinners from the pre-Federation Age, most likely upgraded with more modern sensors and weapons, to judge from the sensor data from the freighter.

I’ve decided not to contact Scesity ahead of our arrival, in case our communications are monitored. Commissioner Rorx keeps reminding me of the importance of the mining colony as a significant industrial base for the Federation in this sector, with the only other viable source of kemocite, pergium and dilithium in the sector being from the Kzinti. I keep reminding him that Scesity possesses sufficient planetside defences for that very reason, and that if they were under attack, they could get a distress signal out.

On the other paw, there’s too questions not yet answered.”

*

Scesity hung on the viewscreen, one corner of the screen showing a magnified portion of the planet where the colony sat… and the deflector screen dome raised around the community, with a ring of phaser cannons charged and ready.

Hrelle stood in front of his chair. “Well?”

Behind him, Ellerton closed his scans. “There is residual evidence of disruptor fire in the vicinity of the colony, perhaps in the last 72 hours, damage to the surrounding surface.”

“But they never sent out a distress signal,” Macready noted. “Hail them.”

Seconds later, an audio message filled the air. “Leave! Unless you want another taste of phaser fire!”

Hrelle raised his muzzle, recognising the voice as the Governor of the colony. “Mr Vanderberg, this is Captain Esek Hrelle of the Furyk. We’re here to help, lower your shields and power down your weapons. We’re transmitting the appropriate security codes to you.”

After a few seconds, Vanderberg’s voice returned, his sneer thick. “You think I came down on the last drop of rain, you murdering bastards? You almost caught us off-guard with that trick already!”

Hrelle glanced at Macready before continuing. “Mr Vanderberg… Wilson… the last time we visited, we used the Furyk’s tractors to help move one of the phaser cannons to a new position because of a recent landslide. The raiders who attacked you before wouldn’t know that.”

“Mr Vanderberg,” Rorx interjected. “This is Commissioner Rorx from Salem One. I can assure you that we are the genuine article.”

There was another pause, and then O’Reilly at Ops announced, “We’re getting a visual transmission now, Sir.”

Hrelle nodded. “Onscreen.”

The image of the grey-green planet from orbit was replaced by a haggard-looking, snow-haired human male with a craggy hangdog face and dishevelled utility jumpsuit. “Captain Hrelle… apologies for that… it’s been hard going here the last two weeks...”

“Two weeks? What happened? Why haven’t you called for assistance?”

He wiped his hand over his sweaty brow. “The colony has been hit by Terrellian Plague. Half of our people are incapacitated, on life support, we’re struggling but we’ll manage if we can survive the isolation period.”

Hrelle’s heart raced at the news, and he glanced at Rorx and Macready before he responded, “Mr Vanderberg, how did you manage to contract Terrellian Plague out here?”

“We were infected! Deliberately infected by some Paserak who landed to trade, just before the first signs of the Plague appeared among our people!”

Now Hrelle frowned. “How can you be certain it was a deliberate act?”

“Because immediately after the Paserak departed, we were attacked by these new Raiders! It can’t be a coincidence! They were obviously working together, weakening us on the ground! They’ve attacked us twice already!”

Hrelle stiffened now, feeling the eyes of Rorx, Macready and others on him. He knew that the Paserak had a contentious reputation among his people: nomadic, anarchic, uncaring about boundaries or regulations or authority, often dealing with peoples whose hostility to the Federation was clear. And they knew of his own dealings with the likes of Maqauadan Benjo, who would have been the most likely Pasarak to visit Scesity.

Hrelle couldn’t accept Vanderberg’s accusation. But now he needed more evidence to support his own gut instinct. “We’ll prepare a medical team to assist you. Drop your shields and we’ll beam them down-“

Vanderberg shook his head. “No! We’re maintaining Priority One Quarantine Protocols for another two weeks! You want to help, get after those bastards! I’m sending you our collected tactical data on the ships, their weapons and attack patterns! Last we saw they were heading in the direction of Sauron!”

As if in punctuation, the Ops board announced an incoming data feed from the colony.

“Thanks, Mr Vanderberg. We’ll examine what you sent and be on our way to deal with them with all due speed. If there’s anything we can supply you with and leave it outside of your quarantine field to collect-“

“Just do your job and deal with them, Hrelle! We have enough on our plate here with this damn disease! Scesity out!”

The viewscreen returned to the orbital image.

Hrelle continued to stare ahead, his mind racing.

“I’m transferring the data to Tactical stations, Sir,” O’Reilly reported.

Hrelle didn’t respond, leaving Macready to answer, “Thank you, Brigid. Mr Shekrev, plot a course to Sauron, ahead full impulse when ready-“

“Belay that,” Hrelle interrupted. “Helm: Plot a course, but do not depart until I say so. Mr Ellerton, take us to Yellow Alert, examine the data from Scesity, compare it with our existing Intel.”

“What are you doing, Captain?” Rorx asked, frowning.

Hrelle ignored him, looking to his Science Officer. “Ms Rabin, you have the Bridge. Mr Macready, you’re with me.”

He was on his way to his Ready Room with Mac, when Rorx raised his voice. “Captain Hrelle! I am a representative of the Federation, and the senior ranking authority onboard, and I will not be ignored! You will tell me what you’re doing!”

Hrelle stared back at him, aware that the attention of everyone else on the Bridge was on the confrontation, even as they made a show of appearing focused on their stations. “Very well, Commissioner. With the outbreak on Scesity and the subsequent attack on it reported to us, I am declaring a State of Emergency, and as per Regulations I am assuming senior ranking authority until further notice. I’ll respectfully ask you to wait here, or in your quarters, and not interfere until I’m ready to brief you. Please excuse me, Sir.”

He left the Bolian to harrumph to himself as he entered his Ready Room, calling up the data on his desktop computer, as Macready approached. “Esek, what the Hell are you doing, antagonising the new Commissioner like that?”

Hrelle made a distracted sound as he scanned the data. “Yes… definitely.”

Macready leaned in. “What’s going on? Your tail is going like it’s being attacked by wasps!”

The Caitian leaned back in his chair, still staring at the screen. “Vanderberg was lying. The Paserak didn’t infect them with any diseases, intentionally or accidentally.”

“Oh? You’re basing that on anything more substantial than your instinct?”

Hrelle pointed to the screen. “The damage to the area around the colony is staged. And the data they sent us presents a weaker picture of the Raiders than what we obtained from the Vulcan freighter.” He leaned forward, calling up sensor data from his own ship. “Half of their people supposedly on life support, and they’re still running the mining operations down there?”

“It’s mostly automated-“

“But still needs supervision, especially with the inherent instability of kemocite.” He rose to his feet again. “They’re sending us away, to be attacked, maybe destroyed. Why?” Now he looked at Macready. “We have to head towards Sauron, let them think we’re falling for their trap. Mac, I need you to go down there and find out what’s going on.”

Macready frowned. “Their force field is still up.”

Hrelle nodded. “They use a high-energy sensor system, which cycles every 5.5 minutes, with a window of a fiftieth of a second. An Away Team can use that window to get in on the sly. Make it a party of five, including a Medical and Engineering Specialist- Take Second Engineer Patel! She worked in the mining operations on Janus VI before she signed up with Starfleet-“

“Captain,” Macready interrupted, his expression thick with concern. “Are you sure about this? There’s no cure for Terrellian Plague, just a matter of staying alive until the disease burns itself out. If they are infected down there-“

“Exosuits: they also have commpacks with greater range and secure frequencies. Get moving, Mac, I want you and your team down there in fifteen minutes.” He blinked. “Unless you want me to lead the Away Team? I’ll be happy to disregard Starfleet protocols and risk my valuable rear end by following in Jim Kirk’s boots-“

Macready raised a hand. “Enough; you’re worse than my wife trying to get me to clean out the attic. Just get back safe and sound.”

Hrelle was about to argue, but then promised, “You get back safe and sound yourself; I don’t want to have to write to that wife of yours.”

*

“Captain’s Log, Supplemental: We were successful in beaming Commander Macready and his Away Team into the main facilities on Scesity, and are proceeding towards Sauron, the system’s main Gas Giant, whose proximity to Scesity made its eternal storm appear as an eye, inspiring its name from some reference to ancient Terran literature. I have sent a coded message back to Salem One with our logs to date, should the situation… sour.”

*

Rorx kept making sounds. Hrelle hadn’t noticed it before, being preoccupied with analysing the tactical data and listening to Commander Macready’s initial reports. Now, however, while they proceeded to Sauron and awaited another update from the Away Team, Hrelle couldn’t help but pick up the Bolian Commissioner’s sounds of anxiety. Every. Single. Sound. The clicking of his tongue. The three-tap drum of the fingers on his right hand as he sat there in Commander Macready’s chair beside Hrelle. The Hmph whenever Hrelle ordered another scan ahead of them. It almost made Hrelle want to rescind his earlier acquiescence and order Rorx off the Bridge.

Except that he also scented the genuine fear from the Bolian. A quick perusal of the man’s record told Hrelle that he had never been in any dangerous situation before this posting, and he was certain Rorx would have been quite content to have led a peaceful, boring career helping to develop one of the newer, more underdeveloped sections of the  Federation, without any thought as to what had to be done to aid in that development.

“Away Team to Furyk…”

*

“Away Team to Furyk…”

On Scesity, Macready crouched down, trying to compensate for wearing his exosuit so as not to be seen, as he motioned – rather needlessly, he knew – for the rest of his Team to ensure they stayed hidden as well.

“Furyk here,” Hrelle’s voice replied. “Report.”

Macready raised his tricorders to continue recording the site below. They were in an upper level of a vast industrial complex, an Escher design of vertical and horizontal conveyers, sifters, purifiers, compactors and refiners, the noise covering any potential noise the interlopers might make from this high up. “We’ve run extensive scans on the atmosphere: no trace of Terrellian Plague. But there are uniformed strangers here: armed, directing the Scesity colonists to work. We caught a glimpse of the residential complex; hostages are being held there to ensure the colonist’s compliance. I suspect they arrived here, infiltrated the compound and took it over from within.”

“Are there any identifying marks to the strangers?”

“No, Sir, they’re a mix of Human, Tellarite, Andorian, Nausicaan-“

“The Bel-Zon that Benjo warned me about. And no doubt they forced Vanderberg to lie to us, and send us that false data to lead us into a trap. What are they doing down there?”

Macready watched as automated carriers rolled away with more containers of kemocite, pergium, magnesite. “They’ve been… mining, adding heavily to the contents of the storehouses above that was meant to be collected by the Vulcans. But there’s more to it than that, according to Crewman Patel.”

“Rina?” Hrelle prompted.

Near Macready, Rina Patel rechecked the data on her own tricorders. “Captain, we’ve tapped into the automated worklogs in the facility. The Bel-Zon, whoever they are, have been here for the last four weeks, ignoring the veins of duranium and adamantine found below to focus on finding and collecting pergium, kemocite, magnesite – all high-yield sources of energy that have been used in generators and impellers for over a hundred years.”

“That makes sense, Crewman, it’s valuable-“

“Excuse me, Sir, but there’s more to it than that.”

“So I was afraid of. Excuse the interruption, carry on.”

The young Human looked up again, seeing the endless line of conveyers moving down tunnels towards the storehouses. “Scesity, like all mining facilities, have their own refinery, in order to produce their own sources of fuel from what they mine, and not have to rely on importing refined product. But the Bel-Zon are taking and refining all the kemocite they’re extracting, and storing it with the unrefined material. Thousands of kilotons of it!”

“Why refine it here when it could be done elsewhere? And they already had enough to fill a freighter, why continue to stockpile it? We’ve not detected any other freighters coming to collect it.  None of this makes any sense.”

“It’s more than nonsensical, Captain, it’s dangerous! Kemocite is inherently unstable and volatile when refined and kept in large quantities! Didn’t these people learn anything from Praxis?”

*

On the Furyk’s Bridge, Hrelle frowned at the mention of Praxis, his mind going back to the Galactic History classes at the Academy. Praxis was a natural moon of the Klingon homeworld, Qo'noS, used as the Empire's key energy-production facility in the 23rd Century, until 2293, when there was a huge explosion caused by over-mining and insufficient safety precautions in how they stored their more volatile minerals. The explosion caused a powerful subspace shock wave and tore the moon to pieces, eventually forming a ring around Qo'noS' while also polluting its atmosphere.

It was a terrible catastrophe, even if they did manage to eventually clear up the environmental damage, and it did help the Empire and the Federation take the first steps towards what eventually became an alliance. But Praxis remained a warning against any future catastrophes brought about by short-sightedness and carelessness. But why risk that on Scesity? It was almost-

He growled, getting the attention of Rorx and the others on the Bridge.

As well as on the comlink, Macready asking, “Captain?”

“It’s intentional,” Hrelle declared, his pulse racing with the realisation. “The Bel-Zon are not looking to steal any of the kemocite or other ores. They’re looking to recreate the disaster on Praxis.”

Rorx rose to his feet, his blue skin darkening to a plum shade. “Why? What’s the point? Isn’t it more profitable for them to just steal what they have there?”

Hrelle faced him, his tail smacking against the side of his chair. “That’s not what they were hired for! They were hired to take over Scesity and destroy it! It’ll certainly be a smaller cataclysm than Praxis, but it’ll be enough to kill everyone there, and completely destroy the operation and all the equipment! It’d take years to rebuild, assuming it’s even judged worthwhile by the Federation Council!”

He began pacing, his thoughts racing ahead of his words, but he was desperate to get it all out and on record. “And that’s why they needed the Klingon warhead detonators from Daalan Sur, the ones that we took first from the Miradorn! And why they attacked the freighter before it entered the Scesity system, to keep them from finding out what was happening down there, or take away any of the subcritical mass needed for another Praxis-type explosion!”

“Again, I must ask why?” Rorx exclaimed. “Who would profit from that?”

“You said it yourself to me, Commissioner: the only other viable source of kemocite, pergium, dilithium and other minerals in the sector are located in Kzinti territory! Their power base and influence in this sector would increase exponentially! They’re the ones who hired the Bel-Zon!” He turned away, as if Macready and the others were standing behind him. “Rina, they won’t have the Klingon detonators that we confiscated, but could they still rig a means of triggering a Praxis-style explosion?”

“Yes, Sir – there’s enough conventional demolitions material here to do so, maybe not create as refined a yield as warhead-grade detonators, but yes!”

“Mac, you need to stop them, at all costs!”

There was a pause, and then, “Aye, Sir. But I’m definitely going home to Baton Rouge for extended shore leave after this.”

“Fine, just bring back some more homemade gumbo when you do! Now get moving, we’ve got a Raider Fleet to face! Keep us posted, Furyk out!”

Now he faced forward, where the gas giant Sauron loomed ahead, filling up more and more of the viewscreen, its bands of ochre and tangerine and salmon disrupted by the large, angry, crimson storm, an eternal storm bigger than a hundred Class-M worlds, glaring down at them as they approached. Hrelle had never read the original works from which the planet was named, nor had he any mind to, at this stage in his life. “ETA to the last reported position of the Raiders?”

“32 minutes at current speed, Sir,” Shekrev reported.

Hrelle nodded. “Increase speed to Full Impulse, shorten that time. Aim straight for the storm on Sauron: the centre of the sensor interference. That’s where they’ll be hiding. Let them think we’ve spotted them.”

“Aye, Sir: new ETA, 14 minutes.”

“Captain,” Rorx began. As Hrelle faced him again, the Bolian swallowed. “Captain, forgive me for asking, but are you sure this is the right course to take? You’re facing an unknown foe, their forces could overwhelm you, leaving the entire Sector defenceless! Would it not be more prudent to call for backup first?”

Hrelle regarded him, before inviting, “Would you follow me please, Commissioner?”

Rorx nodded, as Hrelle took him to the rear of the Bridge, to where the brass dedication plate was mounted beside the turbolift. Hrelle indicated the Starfleet emblem, the name of the ship, shipyard of origin and names of those officers involved in its design and construction. “Do you know the origin of the name of this ship, Commissioner?”

The Bolian frowned. “I’m- I’m afraid I’m at a loss- I just assumed it was of human origin.”

“It is. The Furyk is named after a Terran poet, a Konstantin Furyk, from a nation called the Ukraine. In 2022, the Ukraine was invaded by a larger neighbouring power, the Russian Federation, at the behest of its ruler: just another one of those petty, power-mad bastards that Earth seemed to produce in great numbers at that time. The Russians believed that it would be a quick and easy operation; they had vastly superior numbers and firepower.

It was neither quick nor easy. The Ukrainians resisted them valiantly, if at great and terrible cost. And they were in part led by people like Furyk, an ordinary man who took up what arms he could find to join his people in the fight against these invaders.” He pointed to the bottom of the plaque. “This quote was attributed to him: ‘We are few. But we will face the bullets bravely, for lions sleep in our hearts’.”

He stepped back from it. “They didn’t get to choose who they fought, or what they would have to fight with, or have any guarantees of success. Neither do we. Too much is at stake for us to run off and call for help that will almost certainly not get here in time to do any good. That’s part and parcel of life in Starfleet.”

Rorx swallowed nervously. “I’m… I’m not in Starfleet.”

“No,” Hrelle conceded, “You’re not. And I can’t guarantee that you’ll survive this, any more than the rest of us. But you’ll have to trust that we know what we’re doing. You’re free to return to your quarters, or remain here. If you remain, I won’t have either the time or the energy to devote to answering questions or justifying decisions. Is that clear, Sir?”

The Bolian visibly took it all in, breathing in sharply and gathering his resolves. “As a representative of the Federation, it’s my duty to remain and observe the proceedings.” He offered a self-deprecating smile. “And stop being so annoying.”

Hrelle smiled and nodded back, his mind already jumping ahead to the inevitable battle. He wouldn’t have Mac at his side as usual, but he knew the operation on Scesity would be in good paws. “Red Alert!”

*

The Away Team entered the unoccupied control station overlooking the junction between the refinery and the conveyer network moving ore around. Macready removed his exosuit helmet. “Abedi, Glinch, take the point, cover both doors in case things get tasty. Patel, Odenberg, access the computers, find me something to scupper the Bel-Zon’s plans.”

As his people went to work, Macready resisted the urge to pace around, even as he considered alternative options: sneak down, take the place of one of the Bel-Zon, free some of the captive colonists, shut down the force field… the Bel-Zon outnumbered them, but surprise might work in their favour. “Report.”

Patel frowned. “The features are limited in this station, Commander: the main control networks are locked out, Operations Room only, presumably controlled by the Bel-Zon to prevent any actions taken by the colonists.”

“Can we access them remotely?”

“No, Sir, and we’d only end up calling attention to ourselves.”

But then Medical Crewman Svante Odenberg looked up from the station he occupied, his young, pale round features brightening. “Commander, we do have access to the Environmental Safety Network!”

Macready nodded, and then had to ask, “And…?”

He indicated the station controls. “In the event of acute radiation syndrome from a reactor malfunction or fissionable material, the ESN can flood the facility with anti-radiation arithrazine gas to minimise cellular damage until medical aid can be applied!”

Macready nodded again. “And…?”

“And arithrazine is a compound of other gases, including anesthezine! We can alter the mixture released to make it almost entirely anesthezine-“

“-Which will knock out everyone out there!” Macready grinned. “How long will it take?”

Odenberg glanced at Patel, before responding more soberly, “They may be alerted in Operations, Commander. The safety protocols will prevent them from stopping us remotely, but not from coming down here.”

“Acknowledged. Get to work, let me know when you’re ready.” He reached for his helmet again. “Mr Glinch, you’ll remain in here and take all steps necessary to protect the interior. Mr Abedi, there are one or two vantage points on the catwalks outside that will make good strategic positions, let’s go check them out.”

He rechecked his phaser. Okay, Esek, you’d better keep yourself alive out there. I’m not going to have to break the bad news to Hannah.

*

“Five minutes to the outer atmosphere of Sauron,” Shekrev reported. Rather needlessly; the storm dominated the screen.

“Anything on sensors?” Hrelle asked, eyes fixed.

Behind him, Ellerton replied, “Just ionic interference from the storm, Captain.”

Beside Hrelle, Rorx made a sound, but otherwise kept his promise and didn’t interfere. Hrelle leaned back, his mind working at warp. “Helm: bring us to a full stop. Keep our stern planetside, no reason we can’t take advantage of the sensor interference as well, but be ready for combat manoeuvres.

Engineering: We’re gonna need all the power you can muster, no interruptions. Tactical: keep all torpedoes primed but ready for short range manual targeting. Do the same for all phaser banks, ensure the resonance frequencies stay in the high narrow band; the old Arasene-class webspinner ships were vulnerable to that range. Maintain the same tactic with our shield frequencies.”

He paused and looked directly at Ellerton, capturing the younger man’s attention. “Miles, you can do this. You just need to listen to me, do exactly as I say. I have full faith in you.”

Ellerton swallowed, but clearly looked bolstered by the words. “Thank you, Sir. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, given the alternatives-”

He paused and looked back at the viewscreen. Starboard side- facing the system’s star, adding to the interference- “STARBOARD SHIELDS TO MAXIMUM-”

The ship lurched hard to port as a volley of plasma fire struck.

Hrelle was prepared – no jokes about cats keeping their balance, please – but had to catch Rorx as he tumbled forward out of his seat, slamming him back into it as he ordered, “Helm! Evasive Pattern Alpha-Nine! Port torpedoes, target and fire! Ops, let’s see them!”

The Furyk twisted and corkscrewed to port, as the viewscreen shifted to an image of nine spearhead-shaped vessels moving with uncanny precision, like birds, their size and shape offering sharp manoeuvrability as they evaded the trio of photon torpedoes in hot pursuit… before a series of pulses emerged from the aft sections of the Raiders, joining together at a point behind all the ships and striking the torpedoes, detonating them.

Well, that was a cute trick. “Keep us facing them, Shekrev! Ellerton, fire forward phasers!”

Twin phaser beams shot forward, as the swarm of Raiders drew closer… and generated a collective shield bubble, deflecting the phaser beams, before they repeated their trick from forward arrays, a single, sustained plasma beam striking the Furyk.

The ship lurched once more, Ellerton reporting, “Shields down to seventy percent! Minor damage to outer systems!”

Hrelle bared his teeth as he struggled to stay upright. “Reroute damaged systems! Focus on getting our shields back to maximum! Rabin, analyse that beam, it’s not just a simple plasma spit! Helm, pursue them!”

He watched as the Furyk roared forward, and he ordered another volley of torpedoes… not so much to strike, but to see how they react. And they did, the nine of them splitting up, again in almost-perfect formation, though the torpedoes did lock onto one of the Raiders. It fired at them, but it was too close, and the torpedoes detonated, taking out the Raider.

The others regrouped, reminding Hrelle of some sea creatures, as they drew in together and fired another combined plasma beam, the collective power piercing the shields and sending the Furyk spiralling away, and the Bridge crew struggled to remain in their positions.

“Status!” Hrelle roared over the klaxon and the fires around him.

“Shields down to 40%!” O’Reilly reported, bleeding from her forehead where it had struck her panel. “Damage on Decks 2 and 3 Starboard, Damage Control Parties ordered!”

Hrelle moved up to the Auxiliary Tactical station, calling up analysis data on the last blast. The Raiders were using the networked facilities of the Tholian ships, normally employed to construct their energy webs, linking momentarily to perform their tight manoeuvres, or to deliver powerful collective plasma punches.  You’re as strong as your collective… but still as weak as your individuals.

“They’re coming in again!” Ellerton cried.

“Evasive!” Hrelle responded, the ship banking sharply again but still taking a glancing blow from the Raiders again.

“Shields down to 20%!” O’Reilly updated. “We have hull breaches on Decks 3 and 4 Starboard! Force fields in place!”

Hrelle didn’t acknowledge, distracted by calling up a new set of frequencies for the phasers. “Helm, meet them head on again!”

Onscreen, the Raiders regrouped and returned.

“Sir?” Ellerton started, but then shut up as he saw the expression on the Captain’s face.

Hrelle focused on the Raiders, a pack whose strength was also its weakness, if he timed it right. The sensors saw the harmonics shift between the ships, the bridging of their systems, transfer of power from shields-

He aimed at one ship and fired everything.

It struck, the beams travelling across the lattice to the rest of the Raiders, and one Raider blossoming into energy became eight.

Momentum carried the energy and debris forward, striking the Starfleet vessel and making it rock, but not to the degree of the attacks. Hrelle moved around the Bridge, checking his crew for injuries and ensuring they could continue functioning, before announcing, “Stand down from Battle Stations, maintain Yellow Alert. Damage report.”

O’Reilly coughed several times, before recovering enough to announce, “Breaches remain on Decks 3 and 4 Starboard, force fields still in place, Damage Control teams repairing now. Warp drive down, shields down, Sickbay reporting injuries, none serious.”

Hrelle nodded. “And you? Will you live to devour another plate of salt and pepper ribs?”

The redhead smiled and nodded back. “Count on it, Sir.”

Hrelle smiled and moved to Rorx. “Commissioner?”

The Bolian was trembling, and he had turned a deep dark indigo, his eyes wide as he looked up, his voice breaking a little as he asked, “Have… have the bullets stopped flying?”

Hrelle nodded and patted the man on the shoulder as he moved on. “Well done, Mr Ellerton. Sorry if I stole your thunder to deliver the killing blow, but it would have taken longer to explain it than to administer it.”

Ellerton waved off his apology with a weary but relieved expression. “S’Okay, Sir, I’ll try not to hold it against you while I’m busy remaining alive with everyone else.”

“Much obliged. Mr Shekrev, take us back to Scesity, Full Impulse. Brigid, see if you can hail the Away Team. Hopefully they will have been successful in their own efforts.”

They proceeded back to the planet. The Away Team didn’t answer.

Not until they were ten minutes away. “Crewman Patel to Furyk.”

Hrelle frowned at the unexpected response. “Crewman, this is Captain Hrelle: Report.”

The woman’s voice was cracking from something more than interference on the comlink. “Sir… we sedated the whole facility… brought the force field down, disarmed the Bel-Zon… are you close?”

Hrelle rose to his feet, feeling the furs rise on the back of his neck. “We’ll be there in under ten minutes. Where’s Commander Macready?”

“Sir… there was- was resistance… he… Commander Macready was killed.”

*

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 36519.11, Captain Esek Hrelle, Recording: The mining colony of Scesity has been liberated, the Bel-Zon operatives have been taken into custody, and the makeshift explosive devices they set up to recreate the Praxis disaster has been dismantled, and none of the Raider ships survived.

But I am not celebrating. We have lost one of our own: a good, brave, resourceful and intrepid officer, a husband and father… and a good, true friend of mine. Michael Macready may be succeeded, but he will never be replaced.”

*

The polished, ebon-black torpedo casing sat in the centre of the small, cold room, draped in the blue and white flag of the Federation.

Hrelle stood alone at the far end of the room.

Until the doors slid open. He expected more crewmembers coming to pay their respects to their fallen comrade; he had encountered more than a few since he took on the vigil.

He didn’t expect who appeared. “Hannah?”

She entered, clad in a dress uniform, her expression sober as she walked around the casing, stopping at the side and bowing her head for a moment, eyes closed. Then she approached. “Captain, please accept my condolences for the loss of Commander Macready.”

“Thank you. I wasn’t aware that we had arrived at Salem One.”

“You haven’t, not yet; I hitched a ride with the Vulcan freighter once they were ready to finally make it to Scesity.”

He faced her. “Why?”

Hannah flushed. “I… I was gonna make an excuse about coming to assist your Engineering crew with the damage you received. But the truth is I wanted to be here for you, before you arrived at Salem One and get caught up with all the necessary duties.”

“Thank you,” he replied, with genuine gratitude. “Who’s minding Sasha?”

“She’s staying with friends. I told her I was on a repair mission. I didn’t mention you were involved, otherwise I would have gotten an award-winning performance of the worst tummy ache in the Galaxy to get me to stay.”

Hrelle nodded. “I’m sorry to put you through so much trouble.”

Hannah made a sound. “You don’t have to apologise for anything. Especially not at this time.” She moved to stand beside him, facing the coffin. “Is this a Caitian ritual? Standing watch over a body?”

He shook his head. “Caitians cremate their dead, then scatter the ashes over the gardens of their home, or somewhere that was significant to them. This is an Irish wake, in keeping with Mac’s heritage. But with less drinking.”

Hannah breathed in. “My people have something similar: a shemira. Prayers and psalms would be read, and the body watched over, protecting it, until it was buried.” She looked up. “Alev Ha-shalom: Peace Be Upon Him.”

“I arrived at Salem five years ago with the Furyk,” he began. “New ship, new design, straight from the shipyards, the paint on the hull was practically fresh. And the crew they gave me seemed just as young. And here we were, assigned to keep the peace in an entire sector singlehandedly. It was my first real command. And… I was daunted.

I couldn’t have done it without Mac. He kept me steady, on course. I could open up to him. Not just as a First Officer, a second in command who had my back, but as a friend.”

As they stood together, she offered, “He was always so charming, grinning, putting on that Creole charm, even when he was trying to pass on the latest demands of his tyrannical Captain.” Now she smiled. “He played matchmaker between us, you know.”

He turned to face her. “What?”

“At first, when he started asking me about my personal life, I thought he was hitting on me. Then he was telling me all about you, building you up so much I thought maybe he had a thing for you. Eventually he came clean about his true intentions.” She approximated his drawl in demonstration, “‘Look past the Lion of Salem Sector and all the growling and posturing he does, and y’all see a kind, gentle, funny, lonely soul. He deserves to have someone waiting for him when he comes home. And they deserve him too’.”

Hrelle smiled… but then sobered again, his expression tightening. “Mac was a damn fool.”

“Esek?”

He turned, feeling his tail slap against her legs as he began a walk around the coffin, his anguish and anger welling up since hearing the news, since retrieving Mac’s disruptor-burned body from Scesity and preparing a spare torpedo casing as per Starfleet tradition. “He was a damn fool. A Motherdamned idiot!

‘They deserve him.’. Do they also deserve the dread that’ll grip them on the day they hear their loved one has died, a hundred light years or more away in some nameless firefight on an anonymous planet? Does Mac’s wife, his son, deserve the bottomless pain and sorrow they’ll be feeling at knowing this time he’s coming home in a coffin? Knowing that they’ll never hold him again, except as a memory? 

This is what Mac wanted for me? For the people I’d love? It’s selfish! Selfish and cruel beyond belief! Who in the Seven Hells would willingly go through something like that?”

She caught his attention. “I would. In fact, I did.”

He stopped, turned and faced her, suddenly appalled and ashamed at giving vent to his own grief to her. “Hannah, I’m sorry-”

She raised a hand to cut him off. “I don’t need your apology. I need you to listen to me.

You’re right. Mac’s wife and son will feel all those things now. As I did, when Jake died. Knowing that my life with him had ended, just like that. That we’d never again eat together, never make love together, never argue over stupid little things or plan where we were going to retire and spoil Sasha’s children when they come round to visit.

I went through all the stages of grief, and then came back round again for another go at a couple of favourites.

And yet, for all that pain I suffered because Jake had been a part of my life, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not a damn thing. Because without Jake, I never would have had Sasha. Never would have had all those wonderful times, those wonderful memories. My life was made ineffably richer for having someone like him as such an integral part of it.”

She drew closer to him. “And if anything, it would make me treasure all the more the time that I would have with someone new.

If there was someone new.”

She reached out and took his paw in her hand. “Esek, our time in this life is precious and short and can end at any time, for any reason. But keeping out all the things that can make life worthwhile because they could cause us or others pain will only diminish us, for what we’ll never have.” 

And now she reached up with both hands and touched the sides of his muzzle. “What I said back in my quarters still stands: nothing is set in stone about us, no commitment, no promises or expectations. But if you do feel the same way about me that I do about you, I-”

She never finished her declaration, as he pulled her into an embrace, clinging to her tightly, his huge strong arms around her, and not wanting to let go.

Ever.

*

He visited his ship’s Brig only once, prior to the transfer of the prisoners to the larger facilities on Salem Once. The fourteen prisoners from Scesity, spread out unevenly across the six cells, were a mix of races, in plain black combat outfits thoroughly scanned for contraband or devices. And according to the reports, none of them have spoken or made any acknowledgement to their captors since being collected.

And their silence continued as he spoke aloud. “You’re about to be transferred to the facilities on Salem One. From there, a ship will come and take you to the nearest Federation courts on Marcos XII for your trials for murder, attempted murder, terrorism, assault, piracy and theft. You’ll be given access to legal counsel there… though no doubt you could manage some sort of plea bargain if you cooperate and tell the authorities all about your employers in the Bel-Zon.”

Mention of the name made some of them react, but otherwise they remained silent.

“Whether or not you do, though,” he continued, feeling his hackles rise, “If any of you ever do manage to earn your freedom, I’d advise all of you – very strongly – not to come back here. As far as I’m concerned, your time in this sector is over.”

He turned to leave.

But as he reached the door, he heard one of them call out, “No, Captain. As far as the Bel-Zon is concerned, this is all far from over..”

Hrelle considered turning back and confronting the speaker, before thinking better of it, and departing. He was just talking big for his friends.

*

“Sasha!”

The young girl rushed in at the sound of her mother’s voice… the grin on her face vanishing as if beamed away as she saw Hrelle standing there beside Hannah at the entrance to their quarters on Salem One, replaced by a scowl. “What’s he doing here?”

“Now that’s quite enough!” her mother scolded. “I won’t tolerate any more attitude from you! Now let me get something straight: I will be seeing Captain Hrelle on a regular basis from now on. Most times he and I will go out on our own, and you’ll either have a babysitter or stay with your friends. Sometimes all three of us will go out together. And sometimes he might even stay overnight.”

Sasha screwed up her face in disgust.

Hannah dropped to one knee to face Sasha straight on. “But regardless, I expect you to be on your best behaviour from now on, because Captain Hrelle will be a part of both our lives, whether you like it or not.

And you know, it may not be as horrible as you think. In fact, if you’re good... really good... maybe Captain Hrelle will take you onboard the Furyk… and let you sit in the Captain’s Chair?”

Sasha’s eyes widened with the possibility… but then pulled back, truculently scowling again.

Hannah sighed and straightened up, looking to Hrelle. “I’m gonna get changed, and then we’ll all go to the Starjammers, and maybe even make the 8:00 show at the Theatre.” She frowned now as she regarded him. “I might have to trim back that mane of yours. I’m not having that in my face all the time.”

He shrugged. “You’re the Boss.”

Hannah smirked, looking to Sasha. “See? He understands who the real Lion of Salem Sector is.”

As the woman departed for her bedroom, Hrelle and Sasha looked to each other, the child crossing her arms and looking up at him defiantly, declaring, “I’ll sit in the Captain’s Chair… but you’ll never get me to like you.”

He smiled back. “Challenge Accepted…”

 

 

THE ADVENTURES OF THE SUREFOOT WILL CONTINUE…