The Sypher King

(Note: This is a shorter, unplanned story I’m fitting in here, prior to my leaving for a long-awaited, two-week holiday cruise, as I am nowhere near finishing the original. It’s a return to Cait, an update on many of the Caitians we haven’t seen since the Season of the Seven Hells arc, and it’s a character study of one of the lesser-depicted figures, but one I found intriguing and could not forget).

*

Thirty Years Ago – Bey Emporium, Deepmere, Hsova Province, Planet Cait:

“Cins shieste acolo mar?” 

“Nimeni.”

The cub, named Tarim Bey by his parents, had been dragging himself from the bed that was his prison over to the box of spare electronic parts in the corner of the storage room, when he heard the familiar refrain. It was spoken in Old Caitian, which was often used by merchants like the cub’s father to disguise their communications from the public, untrained in the ancient dialect.

The cub, however, was gifted, and had plenty of time being ignored by his family, shunning him for his Neurodystraxia, to learn the language himself... along with other skills. He had heard this exchange, or variations thereof, many times before:

“Who do you have hiding back there?”

“Nobody.”

The cub had the nous to recognise long ago that his disability alienated him from a family desperate not to be seen by their peers as The One With That Poor Cub, preferring to focus on his perfect younger sister Salamar. They didn’t abuse him… except in not providing him with the love, support and encouragement he might have needed to cope.

They just left him alone to learn to love, support and encourage himself. And Tarim Bey did. Though he was paralysed from the waist down, he had soon learned to wash, dress and toilet himself, and keep himself amused. The local education authority made visits and provided learning materials, offering to arrange transport to and from school, and a wheelchair, but his parents declined, accepting only the materials, though they believed his disability extended into his mental faculties, part of the general misconception about ‘Laggers’ like him.

It didn’t. While the Perfect Salamar received praise from their parents for achieving average grades, Tarim Bey met, and surpassed the levels of education expected of him, though he had learned to keep the strength of his abilities to himself. And today, as he found the parts he needed from the pile of his father’s unsaleable, discarded electronic goods, he dragged himself back to his makeshift workstation, using tools secretly borrowed from his father.

He fitted the power cell and the transtater coupling to the PADD, activated the computer, accessed the Cynet, and found the banking database, entering account numbers he had overheard during his father’s transaction,. Now he tested the Sypher Key he had devised to overcome the security, wondering if it would bear-

It worked.

IT WORKED!

Tarim Bey quickly shut down the program, not ready to take advantage of his achievement just yet, and risk the attention of the police. He just needed to know that his efforts were not in vain, some fantasy of his. It worked. He worked. He may have been a Lagger, a Cripple, a Nimeni to his parents, to the Perfect Salamar, something to be ashamed of and kept in the back room and denied an identity, a place in the world. But he knew better.

He would leave this miserable hovel and this miserable family.

He would make his own identity, his own place.

He would be a King.

*

Today – First Minister’s Office, Capitol Building, First City:

Ma’Sala Shall ignored the recurring ache in her back – she had to get back into a regular exercise again soon, current workload or not, and stop eating so much, she would end up as fat as her husband Mi’Tree – to lean back in her chair and look up at the screen again. “Esek wasn’t hurt?”

Her daughter shook her head. “His fur was singed by the plasma fire, and he pulled a few muscles I think he’d forgotten he’d had, but the Dragon fared worse. As did several of our people here.”

The black-furred felinoid frowned. “And he believes the attack was a diversion for intelligence gathering? By whom? Orions? Kzinti?”

Kami breathed in, anxiety crossing her features. “There is a Terran industrialist, Max Zorin, whose company was conducting illegal experiments in this sector while Starfleet was diverted to fight the War, until we uncovered it. Zorin sent a man to try and bribe Esek into dropping the investigation. Esek… pissed on the man’s jacket in response, and had him arrested.”

The older Caitian smirked in amusement; her bond-son certainly had style. “And Zorin himself?”

“Zorin made sure nothing criminal could be directly connected to him, feigning ignorance. But I’ve studied the man, through media records. He’s… dangerous, Mama. Psychotic. The type to seek bloody vengeance, on Esek. On all of us.”

Ma’Sala saw the fear in Kami’s expression; if they weren’t light years apart, she would probably pick up the same in her scent. “And what are Starfleet doing about it?”

“They’re sending an experienced Security and Intelligence officer here, a Commander James Somerset, to investigate the threat. I’m told he’s very proficient and reliable… but given our previous history with SI, Trenagen and the like-”

“I’ll make some discreet enquiries, though we’re still rebuilding our Intelligence infrastructure following the Occupation.” An alert flashed on her desktop, and she ignored it.

Kami didn’t, however. “Take it. You have a planet to command; you have better things to do than indulge your firstborn.”

Ma’sala hissed. “You’d be amazed at how little power a First Minister actually has around here – and a good thing, too. And I always have time for my firstborn… except when I don’t. I’ll see what I can dig up about this threat, and get back to you. Give my love to Esek and all the cubs… and be sure to keep enough for yourself.”

Kami smiled. “I will, Mama. I love you.”

As the screen went black, Ma’Sala set aside her Mother’s head and returned to the job at paw. Which was considerable: they were still recovering from the Occupation, cleaning up the environmental damage, dealing with the effects of the nuclear bombing of Shanos Minor, rebuilding their Militia and Planetary Navy, repairing their economy, their society, the minds and hearts of their people, seeing to the disposition of the Ferasan civilian refugees… one thing at a time, Old Cat. “What is it, Anjeles?”

Her personal assistant’s voice responded quickly and professionally. “Your meeting with the Shanos Minor Disaster Relief Committee is starting in ten minutes, Madame. Also, the authorisation for the Ferasan Colony Funds is still overdue, the Federation Commissioner’s Office is requesting a change of appointment to today to discuss the allocation of more property in First City, and I wanted to remind you again of the inaugural party-”

Ma’Sala rubbed the bridge of her muzzle, craving a plate of fried shuris pieces for herself. “All duly noted. Get me Commissioner Canri. Now.”

*

Port of Highsun, Mrestir Province:

At that time, in a crowded warehouse office in another part of the planet, a small viewscreen displayed a newscaster with an inane smile and various starship schematics behind him. “And tonight we will be broadcasting live from the Clanlands of the Mroara-Lnee, whose company has been the vanguard in the reconstruction of our Planetary Navy, where we will get our first look at the flagship-”

Nash C’Nosin entered the office, his black tail twitching in derision. “Turn that garbage off.” 

As the viewscreen went to black and the six occupants of the office turned to him, the most vocal of them, the ginger female Shurr, looked up with mild annoyance. “What’s wrong now?” 

He set down his bag on an unoccupied chair. “It’s propaganda, designed to encourage reallocation of wealth and resources towards the military-industrial complex. Like the alleged radiation threat from Shanos Minor, an excuse to inject the population with mind-controlling Nanites!” 

The others around the table made sounds of agreement, bolstering their leader’s confidence that he had chosen wisely, among the many who had subscribed to his Cynet page espousing the Truth about what has happened to their planet and people this year. And he was glad that it was so obvious to the others here.

Only Shurr proved to be the most... challenging... among their newly-formed Inner Circle. “Maybe, Nash, but you have to admit, they’re putting on a good show. It’s on all the channels-” 

“Of course! Everybody loves shiny new starships, don’t they? Keep them looking up at the skies, and ignore what’s happening on the ground! And none of the networks are going to say No to Butcher Shall’s orders, are they?” When they agreed again, even Shurr, he smiled, reaching down and opening his bag, confident that he had them all under control. He smiled. “Still, if they’re looking up, they won’t see us coming, will they?”

He brought into view the detonators another Truthist supplied for the cause. “As the Mindless stay glued to the screens like the obedient little tail lickers that they are, there’ll have a real show to look forward to-” Then he saw their reactions, all of them acting now like they hadn’t been planning this all along. “What?”

Shurr swallowed, her breathing quickening and scent shifting. “C’Nosin... it’s one thing to try and take out Ma’Sala Shall for her war crimes. But this operation you’ve planned... her family are innocents-”

He slammed his open paw on the table, making the others start, as if afraid he might accidentally set off the adjacent detonators. He smiled inwardly at the notion – no, my friends, we’re not dealing with trilithium here – as he caught their attention once more, looking into all their eyes as he replied, “Have any of you forgotten that pivotal moment in your lives, when you finally recognised the lies they were feeding you? When you stopped being Mindless, and rose up and joined the ranks of the Truthists?”

He pointed in the general direction of First City, on the other side of Cait. “When you realised that everything that happened this year to the Motherworld – the so-called Invasion, the so-called Occupation, the so-called Camps – was all a conspiracy by Butcher Shall to seize control? She used, and then betrayed her Ferasan allies, and turned our planet, our people, into weapons of war on behalf of her paymasters in Starfleet, of which her children are a part? 

Butcher Shall will maintain absolute control, and will create a dynasty to pass onto her offspring! And we will never be free of their abominable authority, unless we take decisive action now! And if that means a few alleged innocents are also neutralised along the way, well... that’s a small price to pay to save a planet. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

They looked at each other warily, as if waiting for someone else to make an objection. But no one did. 

He took their silence as support. “Let’s get to work. We have to prepare the bomb and get it to the Butcher by nightfall.”

* 

Mroara-Lnee Clanlands, Mrestir Province:

A hundred tasks ahead of her, always ahead of her…

Ptera set aside the datapad, reminding herself once again that her new role in life following the Occupation, and the death of her mother, was really no more complicated than her work as a neurosurgeon: there may be a hundred tasks ahead of her, but each could only be done one at a time, whether it was suturing a new neural connection or approving a new company order.

She left her office and headed towards the kitchens, manoeuvring around the staff preparing for the ceremony tonight to sneak a freshly-baked pastry off a tray, before proceeding to the deck in the rear of the house, overlooking the Gardens, an expansive area now being filled with rows of chairs flanked by long tables, and bordering them, platforms for the Inauguration.

But then her attention turned to the right, where her infant daughter Jnill sat up on her colourful padded playmat. She was half supporting herself on a large pink ball, while an adult male lay on his belly opposite her, encouraging her to roll the ball his way. 

And for once, it wasn’t the cub’s father, or any of her many relatives. “Mr Bey?”

The male, the head of the company that was supplying the broadcasting and support equipment, looked up and smiled at her. “Good morning, Madame! I hope you don’t mind me partaking in a little game with your daughter?” 

Ptera glanced at her husband Mirow, a former rescue pilot who, following the Occupation and Ptera’s move into running her mother’s shipbuilding company, had also joined her, heading the Design and Testing Division. He was leaning against the railing of the deck, watching the work, and the play, while sipping from a steaming coffee mug in his paws. “I said it was okay. My back was killing me.”

She looked back at the other male on the floor… and his hoverchair sitting nearby, the only visible hint that he shared the same disability as Sreen Hrelle, her bond-mother Kami’s youngest cub, albeit with different symptoms and utilising different compensatory aids.

And unlike nearly all Caitians, Tarim Bey had no tail; she remembered him telling her he’d undergone a caudectomy to remove the useless appendage when he was a cub. "Of course it’s okay… but I think your tailor might have another opinion. Isn’t that Tholian silk? Rather expensive material to be rolling around the floor playing with cubs?” 

“Yes, to both questions; you have an obvious eye for the finer things in life, Madame. And perhaps you’re right… but what I’m getting here, the joy I see in your daughter’s eyes, can’t be bought for all the money in the world. Besides, I was bereft of playmates when I was young – they were too afraid of my condition – so I have some catching up to do. Come on, Cub! Roll it!” He mimed the actions. 

“Gabba Baw Go!” Jnill declared determinedly, pushing the ball towards Bey, nearly toppling over without the support. 

Bey laughed as he caught it. “Very good! Very good, Little One! Ready for it back? Here we go… now!” He rolled the ball back to her; she caught it, but then fell to one side like a tenpin, and began mewling in protest. 

Ptera drew up and scooped Jnill into her arms, purring to soothe her. Still on the mat, Bey rose to his elbows, looking remorseful. “I’m terribly sorry, Madame, I didn’t mean to be so rough!” 

She looked at the male, smiling. “You weren’t, Mr Bey. She has her grandmother’s impatience, and gets cross when her body doesn’t respond to what her brain demands.”

He grunted. “A sentiment I can readily understand.” He adjusted the devices wrapped around the base of his paws, the antigrav support beams from each lifting him up to a standing position like crutches, before he helped himself back into his hoverchair, graciously waving off Mirow’s attempts to approach and assist. He dusted himself off, smiling up at them. “Thank you for indulging me. I’m afraid I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality; I’m here to work, after all, not socialise.” 

“Your people are doing the work, Mr Bey,” she teased.

He adjusted his legs into the stirrups of the chair. “Perhaps, but I’ve never been one to just sit around… appearances to the contrary.” 

Ptera smiled at his joke. She had been fascinated to meet an adult with Neurodystraxia, and to speak with him about his experiences, and how they differed from Sreen’s. He was a charming male… though she sensed he had something to hide from the world. But she knew he and his company would have been thoroughly vetted by the government, given that the First Minister, her bond-grandmother Ma’Sala, would be coming here. “Mr Bey, will you be joining us tonight?”

“Me? I’m hardly going to be included on the guest list.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re talking to the one who made that list. Consider yourself included, Mr Bey.” 

Bey appeared touched by the gesture. “I will then graciously accept… if you call me Tarim. And I promise not to be crawling around on the floor again… at least, not without a few drinks in me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will go and ensure my people are not being enchanted by the smell of the firewheel blossoms.” He rotated his chair towards the ramp down to the rear gardens, but not before smiling and waving at Jnill. “Bye bye, Little One!” 

The infant waved back, her earlier distress gone. “Buh bye!”

 

Ptera chuckled and rubbed against her cub’s muzzle, as Mirow and she returned inside. “What a charming gentleman.”

“Baby Jnill took to him like the scent of shuris,” her father noted, smiling. “And how are you doing, Wife of Mine? With all this pomp and circumstance?” 

She stopped and sighed, adjusting her hold on her daughter in her arms. “I wish for the simplicity of an anterior cervical discectomy and fusion. Thankfully I have a team of actual qualified people around me to keep me from bankrupting my mother’s company.”

“Your company, now,” he corrected gently.

Ptera breathed out. “I need another pastry, or three.” 

*

Back at the gardens, Tarim glided down to the grass, taking a moment to admire a collection of freshly-planted fuschia and scarlet firewheels, catching one of the workers moving slowly around a holocamera and spotlight emplacement. “I want this completed within the hour, Mr Marno. No excuses.”

“Yes, Sir, Mr Bey.” The young technician quickened his pace, his tail twitching behind him, as the others picked up on the order.

Then he felt the buzz from his cranial implant, as a familiar female voice announced in his inner ear over a secure line, “Just to let you know, Tarim: C’Nosin’s group has assembled in Highsun, and are preparing the bomb.”

He turned back to the flowers. Aloud, as if to himself, he replied, “Thank you, Shona. Inform me when they’re on the road and on their way here.” 

* 

Fifteen Years Ago – Temple of T’Greirish Nein, Mrelle Province:

Tarim Bey struck out again, ignoring the repeated pain his paws received with each blow he struck on the wooden posts that struck out at him from the training module, seemingly at random, but striking relentlessly. He had locked his hoverchair in place on the stone temple floor so it wouldn’t pull him backwards in response to what its sensors would have assumed was a genuine threat. Sweat soaked his forehead, his mane, sweat from the exertion as well as the heat from the surrounding jungle, and the enclosed air within the temple.

Strike, Deflect, Block, Block, Strike, Strike, Deflect, Strike…

He had been at the Temple of the Kaetini for almost three months now, not training as one of the Order, but having been taken in as an adept, after offering them a large donation to the charity of their choice. And when they did accept him, he demanded that he be treated like anyone with working legs.

And they did just that… not bothering to warn him about the steps leading to the toilets, or the narrow corridors, or the thick walls disrupting his cybernetic connections to his chair and his antigrav crutches. He was expected to train on schedule, meditate on schedule, eat and sleep and do chores on schedule… and go hungry if he couldn’t keep up.

Strike, Block, Block, Defend, Defend, Strike, Strike, Deflect, Strike…

He had left his cubhood home long ago with no regrets, finished University with honours, set up several investment portfolios, and indulged himself in learning how to hone his body – or at the least the parts that worked – as finely as he had honed his mind.

Block, Block, Defend, Block, Block, BLOCK-

One pole struck him hard in the chest, sending him tipping backwards in his chair, the gyroscopes momentarily overcome. He twisted his upper half, wrapping his arms around his head to protect it as he landed on the stone floor, and he rolled out of his chair.

Tarim lay there, gasping, fighting to dispel the pain with an internal meditative mantra, as distantly he heard the training module withdraw… and soft footfalls replaced it.

Added by a soft, familiar female voice. “Did you mean to do that, Lagger?”

He looked up sharply, angrily, at the use of the slur, even from the head of the Order that ran this place. “Don’t call me that!”

Mistress Nvell stepped closer, the grey-furred female in simple purple robes making a slow orbit around Tarim and his chair. “You take on all the punishment you can from the Training Modules without complaint, but that one little name seems to hurt you.”

He followed her motions, even as he twisted around to right his chair and help himself back into it, expecting nor asking for assistance, and ignoring the continued pain in his paws and arms. “Are you surprised? Perhaps if you Kaetini left the solitude of this temple and went out into the real world, you’d understand the potency of that foul word-”

“The Kaetini are in the real world, Cub,” she reminded him. “Among our people, living their lives, setting examples… and standing ready for the day when the Enemy, whomever they might be, breach our defences and plant foot on the Motherworld. And that day will come, rest assured.

That is why the Order was founded, a millennium ago. We are the Warriors of the Great Mother. We are Her Eyes, and Her Ears. We are Her Teeth, and Her Claws. We are Her Purr, and Her Roar. We will defend the Living, and we will avenge the Dead. And we will give our lives to protect the Motherworld and Her people.”

Tarim touched a control panel on his chair and ran a diagnostic on the systems, his head still ringing. “Yes, yes, perhaps you should save all that Motherworld nonsense for the tourists- Owww!”

Nvell had smacked the back of his head. “That’s for disrespect. Or did you think your money bought you such liberty?” She walked around to stand before him. “This is not a resort, where you can be rude to the staff; you reside here at my sufferance. 

And while you have resided here, we have taught you more than just the fighting art of K’Gressir. We have taught you the history of our people, from before we found our new home here. We have taught you the value of this beautiful, precious little world of ours, of our need to protect it at all costs. And I’m certain that despite your young cosmopolitan cynicism – ooh, how edgy! – at least some of what you’ve learned has sunk in.”

She leaned in closer, capturing his attention fully, her expression sober, unignorable, though lacking any mocking tone. “I know how bitter you are at how others have treated you because of your condition, Cub; I can empathise with that. But blame ignorant little minds for such attitudes, not our people, or the Great Mother, or the Motherworld. We are all bound, by duty, by blood, to protect Her. With our lives, if need be.”

His expression went stony, as he indicated his chair. “I’m hardly in a position to be dropped on the front line, Madame. I’ll end up stuck in the trenches.”

She grunted. “When the Call is made, all will be needed: the abled and disabled. The honest… and the less than honest.” Her gaze narrowed. “I know that your financial success at such a young age has not been wrought with entirely clean paws. But I’m not a Prosecutor, and you’re still a Caitian, a cub of the Great Mother. If you take away anything from your time here, take that with you.”

Then she stepped back, shaking the loose sleeves of her robes as she raised her arms in a fighting stance. “So, if you’re done getting your ass kicked by the Training Modules, are you ready to take on a poor, frail old cat?” She beckoned to him, adding, “Come on, Cub. Show me what you’ve learned.”

Tarim looked up at her with renewed respect. She was right; despite himself, he had learned more than just self-defence. He had learned to appreciate the rich heritage their people had cultivated here, a world they may not have originated from, but one which had welcomed and embraced them. It was an enticing vision.

He smiled, raising his own arms. “Gladly, Madame.”

*

Today – Port of Highsun, Mrestir Province:

C’Nosin rechecked the explosives a third time as they were loaded into the truck, keeping his people busy so they didn’t have time to think too much about what they had to do. Then he rose, stepping out to regard them, how they handled the guns. He saw the doubts creeping back into them, as the reality became more concrete.

“Cr’erow,” he began, looking to him first. “You lost your sister to Butcher Shall’s Ferasan mercenaries. And you, Srall, you lost your mother and your aunt. R’Teia, your brother was stationed at Mrel when Butcher Shall destroyed it. 

And S’Groia… M’Telar… Shurr… we’ve all lost people because of her. 

We suffer… our people suffer…” Then he pointed in what he guessed was the direction of First City – though it didn’t really matter. “While she sits in the Capitol, having murdered any opposition, having moved her allies into positions of power, and ensuring her family is reaping the benefits of her crimes through the starship construction contracts!” 

Now he pointed at each of them, using his elevated position on the back of the truck to his advantage. “And if we don’t strike tonight… then we’ll be betraying the memories of all those we’ve lost… 

And those still with us, who have sponsored and supported our cause.”

He hopped down, his tail swishing confidently behind him. “Like I’ve explained, if we can get the truck close enough, the explosives will take out most of them; you can mop up any survivors attempting to escape. I’ll take the responsibility of triggering the bomb… from a distance.” He nodded to them. “Now, time to use the facilities before we go, as the route I’ve planned won’t be taking us past any towns or rest stops.” 

The group was motivated once more into action, as C’Nosin returned to the cab of the truck. Unlike his subordinates, he had no doubts, no fears. 

After tonight, there would be true freedom on Cait once more.

*

Ten Years Ago - Shanos Minor University Campus:

Mril Lrash couldn’t stop tapping his tail against the leg of his chair, trying to will the program he had created to do what he wanted, before it could be traced back to him. Come on, come on, COME ON-

The program signalled success. He smiled, whooped with delight, spun in his chair… and then quickly shut down his computer, rising to his feet and doing a Victory Dance, his tail wagging to the beat of his own jubilation. He’d done it! He’d done it! He was the Sypher Supreme!

He couldn’t stay in his dorm room. He had to go out and see!

The golden-furred male grabbed his jacket and rushed out onto the campus grounds, joining others who were looking up in wonder and confusion and amusement at the holographic alert hovering over the city, its brightness eclipsing the meagre illumination from the moons above: NEWSFLASH – SHELLIS DSUNE CHASES HER OWN TAIL!

Mril reached the campus fountain and sat down, unable to keep moving, overcome was he with joyous laughter at his own achievement. He had half-doubted his own abilities to break into the City Alert network! But he had! And the results were Supernova!

“Impressive.”

The student calmed down at the approach of a well-dressed older male floating along in a hoverchair, flanked by two burly-looking males in dark suits walking behind him. The male in the chair regarded him, then the hologram in the sky, repeating, “Impressive. Your achievement is redoubtable… even if the end result is hardly worthy of the effort.” He indicated the illumination reprovingly. “Really? Puerile insults against the First Minister? As Sypher activity goes, it’s rather disappointingly childish.”

Mril rose nervously to his feet. The man, his associates- they must have been from the Constabulary! Maybe even the Ministry! They somehow knew how to track him down! “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

The male in the chair smiled. “I believe you do, Mr Lrash; I have been keeping track of your Sypher antics for some time.” His expression focused. “You’re about to give in to your fear and attempt to run. I would advise not to. My associates Mr Brek and Mr Nalo are faster and stronger than you, and they may be rough when they drag you back here to continue this conversation.” He paused and amended, “Actually, I am very certain that they will be rough.”

The student glanced at them again – they looked like they were 98% muscle and claw! – and he swallowed as he focused on their apparent commander. “You have to read me my rights if you’re arresting me.”

The male smiled. “Who says I’m arresting you? I am not with either the Shanos Minor Constabulary or the Ministry of Communications. I’m a Sypher, much like yourself… far more adept, of course, otherwise I would have been located and identified as easily as I located and identified you, and others like you. You have potential, far greater potential than you have demonstrated to date.

Mr Mril, your life can now go in one of three ways: you can reform and settle into a tedious job where you will surely be underappreciated and bored out of your mind. Or you can strike out on your own as a Sypher and inevitably be caught and imprisoned.

Or… you can join my little band of like-minded individuals. You might know some of them already, albeit by reputation alone: Razirclaw, Cryptonik, Phreaky Deaky, the Artificial Cubz, Curr Avon. We have interesting work, rewarding challenges, to overcome… admittedly not all legal, but that doesn’t seem to bother you. And you will have our support and protection.

Well, Mr Mril?”

The younger male regarded him, considering his sudden and unexpected change of circumstances. A minute or two before, he had been content to coast through the University cybernetic courses, get drunk and pull the odd prank to amuse himself. He looked away, into the darkness, as if he could find answers in the night.

He looked back at the male in the chair. “Who are you?”

He smiled back. “Nobody… to the rest of the world.

To Syphers like yourself… I am the King.”

*

Today – Security Commissioner’s Office, Capitol Building, First City:

Nenjo Canri stared out of the tinted windows at the sprawling surrounding cityscape, remembering all the times she kept her superiors waiting, making the lamest of excuses and flirting with their personal assistants along the way, enjoying the romantic fantasy of the life of a spy. Little of the actual real work that she did resembled the high-action vivids that the likes of Mi’Tree Shall or Raja Moor produced, but they could pretend, even laugh about it.

She couldn’t remember when she last laughed. Fatigue suffused her bones, and anxiety galvanised her muscles. Having been one of the last survivors of the Caitian Secret Service, the Mother’s Claws, following the Occupation meant becoming the architect of a new version of the Service, almost from the ground up. Ma’Sala, the former Commissioner as well as the former Fleet Captain, had done her best to guide her… but she was too busy grasping her own new responsibilities. They all seemed to be grasping, like infants reaching clumsily for toys.

She thought again of her twin, Naras, an Agent like herself, who had been killed collecting evidence of the Ferasan’s plans in the early days of the Occupation. Oh Brother, I so very much wish you were here. You’d have looked good sitting behind the big sablewood desk. Sometimes, she would reactivate her old cranial communicator, which allowed her to contact him when they were on missions together. She did it again now-

-And jumped when her intercom buzzed for attention. Nenjo turned and faced the door, steeling herself. “Enter.”

The door slid open, and Tarim Bey glided in on his hoverchair, smiling affably as he approached the desk. “Commissioner, what an unexpected surprise to hear you asked to meet with me again-”

“This isn’t a social call, Mr Bey. An urgent matter has arisen that requires me to accelerate this interview to today.”

The male’s expression shifted to an attempt at mild amusement. “‘Interview’? Should I have brought a media agent, or a lawyer?”

She studied him, her suspicions of his true nature, and potential threat, having been submerged, set aside, for expediency’s sake. Until now. “Do you believe you might need either? Or that we would allow you either… Nimeni?”

Bey’s mask dropped. A little. “That’s Old Caitian, isn’t it? It means… ‘Nobody’, doesn’t it? My knowledge of our Mother Tongue is admittedly somewhat rusty.”

“Really?” She moved to her drinks cabinet, selecting an elaborately-carved crystal decanter filled with tranya, a strong intoxicant exported from the First Federation, the last remaining asset of a once-mighty galactic power. She poured herself some. “You seemed adept enough when you called yourself that, during your communications with Hrelle and the rest of us in the Resistance, in your capacity as the leader, the King, of the Syphers.”

“Syphers?” He smiled. “I’m a respected businessman! Supreme Electronics is noted throughout…”

She stared back.

He stopped.

Nenjo continued, facing him again. “For the past decade, while you have maintained the public persona of the founder and manager of Supreme Electronics, you have also led the Syphers: a cybercriminal organisation whose influence has stretched beyond Cait to interstellar targets and criminal allies. You have engaged, both directly and indirectly, in acts of terrorism, assassination, theft, trafficking, espionage.”

He didn’t respond.

“We’ve known for some time,” she resumed, her voice cool. “Though you’ve been very thorough in making sure nothing concrete could be pinned to you, or your organisation.”

He still didn’t respond.

“Mercenary, criminal, ruthless, entirely self-serving,” she accused. “What I don’t understand is… what changed you”?

Bey still didn’t respond… until he did. “Sittaday, the Eighth of Rainmoot.”

And she understood. Every Caitian knew that date.

*

The Day of Infamy – A Hidden Location:

“Mr Bey, something’s happened.”

Tarim had been in his study, admiring his latest acquisition: an original John Eaves oil, Far Beyond the Stars, a payment for providing stolen Federation Science Council data on polaric ion generation to the Ferengi, when he was interrupted. He allowed mild annoyance to creep into his response. “Mr Mril, I have made my disdain for nebulous, cryptic announcements abundantly clear long before now. What precisely has happened?”

The younger male was standing at the doorway, looking nervous. “I was attempting to make the adjustments to our back door into the system perimeter network as you ordered… when I found someone’s locked us out of it already.”

Tarim looked over at him now. “The Planetary Navy’s Communications Bureau-”

“No, Sir, not them. The signal came from outside our system.”

“Fleet Captain Shall- her flagship, the Mother’s Fury-”

“They’ve dropped off of our tracking systems near Kuburan. No trace.”

Tarim frowned, accessing the data himself directly through his cybernetic implant, one of many enhancements he had bought for himself, including visual enhancers to correct his poor eyesight; perhaps next year you could finally work up the courage to invest in cybernetic legs as well, Tarim? 

Then he pushed aside such useless musings and followed Mril into their Operations Room… his Throne Room, as he himself called it, a place where his Syphers worked, with him as their King. He had done well, gathering not only Caitian Syphers, but Humans, Bolians, even a Klingon, and their fortunes had multiplied in recent years. 

Now, however, there was tension from his people, matched by the activity on the overhead screens. He glided in and stopped. “Report.”

Shona, a petite, plum-furred female with a datapad seemingly always in one paw, and a tail that twitched from anxiety so hard it could knock one of the chairs over, turned to him. “Interstellar communications are locked down, even military- and government-level. Planetary Navy vessels – assault vessels, patrol ships, outposts, security satellites – are gone.”

“Access our contacts in First City, the Capitol- it may be a surprise drill, or a catastrophic network failure… or a terrorist act.”

“We’re already on it: no response. Whatever it is, I don’t think even the Ministry is aware of what’s happened! Should we let them know?”

“Let them know what? We don’t know. Yet.” He turned to the other Syphers around him. “Suspend all current tasks! Focus on identifying the source of the interference!”

Time crept, as he listened, sometimes offering guidance, sometimes offering threats.

“Explosions!” That was from Vixin, one of his Bolian Syphers, the woman’s bald blue bisected head sweating caustic perspiration. “Isoton-level, all over the planet! Militia bases! Dozens! Powerful enough to set off the Seismic Alert Network!”

Tarim’s heart triphammered. “Khursaq! Trinity! Access the weather satellites!”

Multiple images of the Motherworld, of smoke and fire rising on every continent. Everywhere, like a body riddled with ballistic wounds.

“Ch-Ch-Checking,” Mril stammered, his paws shaking. “Confirmed. It’s all our major defences. Gone.”

Tarim swallowed, gripping the arms of his hoverchair. “Adjust the satellites. What else is in orbit?”

Time continued to creep along at its own pace.

Then the images on the screen changed, from the assaulted planet’s surface, to the space above.

Starships. Hundreds of them, of all shapes and sizes.

But all from the same source.

“Ferasan,” he growled.

“Who?” Khursaq demanded, the Klingon’s normal arrogance dampened by the sight of the fleet surrounding Cait.

“Augmented cousins to the Caitians,” Shona explained, fear making her words brittle. “We fled our former world centuries ago to come here. They found us, tried to attack us before. We’ve always.. we’ve always beat them before.”

Tarim stared up in abject horror. It was true; that old Kaetini Mistress Nvell had been right, years ago. The Enemy did come. Somehow they defeated the Navy and Militia defences. “Check all available subspace frequencies. We have to contact Starfleet, the Federation.”

Time tormented him further. If his legs ever worked, he would be kicking himself. He had been complacent, residing here, not considering an escape plan. Yes, the Dominion War was in full swing, but that was in other parts of the Federation, less strategic sectors than Cait’s. Obviously their ancient enemies were taking advantage of the situation… and Tarim, in his complacency and arrogance, did not allow for this possibility.

Then VIxin announced, “All outgoing frequencies are being blocked! But there’s a Global Transmission, coming from First City!”

He didn’t have to ask for it to be broadcast to them.

A Ferasan male, like a Caitian but larger, meaner, uglier. He dominated the screen. “To the people of Cait... to my cousins... I greet you. I am Pridemaster Melem-Adu, of the Ferasan Patriarchy. I am your humble servant.

And I am honoured to finally be allowed to walk upon your world, to breathe your air and drink in your scents and hear your voices, after being denied for so long. And more: to free you from the terrible, secret oppression you have lived under for far too long. An oppression of lies and fear…”

He continued, confident that everyone on the Motherworld was watching and listening, as he spoke about a massive conspiracy by the Government and Militia, in alliance with the Federation, to attack Fersan Prime, before being destroyed by their own weapons.

“Could it-” Shona whispered. “Could it be true?”

“No,” Tarim confirmed resolutely. They had enough clandestine contacts within the government infrastructure to have spotted such an undertaking long ago. “They’ve massacred the military, and the government; the truth is just another victim.”

The Ferasan Pridemaster continued. “A Provisional Government is being put in place even as I speak, and our Peacekeeping Forces will remain in orbit and in the major metropolitan areas, providing security and stability in the absence of any trustworthy authority. And I will remain here, acting in a custodial capacity as Governor.” He raised a paw to his unseen audience, open and inviting. “There has been too much violence. Too much blood. Too much pain. And we have been separated for far too long. But the healing begins today. Our future is together. Let us lead you there.”

The transmission ended, leaving the Ferasan insignia onscreen.

Silence returned to the room.

“Maybe,” Vixen ventured cautiously. “Maybe they’re being sincere. They might not be as bad as you think.”

“No,” Tarim agreed. “They will be much worse. They are corrupt, lacking honour, mercy. They practise eugenics. Anyone not meeting their standards, whether they be disabled individuals like myself, or off-worlders like most of the rest of you, will be lucky to face a quick ending.”

“We have to get off this planet,” Trinity announced.

Others agreed vocally, until Tarim turned back to them. “We can’t. Any vessel we might acquire will not be strong or fast enough to escape the fleet in orbit.”

They looked around at each other, before Khursaq snarled at him, “You have left us trapped on this miserable rock! Cut off from the rest of the Galaxy! Defenceless!” 

Tarim stared back, refusing to be intimidated by the Klingon. “Be careful how you refer to my world, Mr Khursaq. And while we might be cut off, we are not defenceless.” He indicated the workstations around them. “We have tools, weapons at our disposal greater than any gun or bomb!”

“Oh?” Shona responded. “And what do you intend us to do with these ‘weapons’?”

He looked around him. They were all Syphers, criminals for the most part, used to working surreptitiously on the Caitian and Interstellar Cynet to steal information, alter schedules, produce false identities, conceal thefts and a hundred other misdeeds.

When the Call is made, all will be needed: the abled and disabled. The honest… and the less than honest…

“We will do what we do best,” he concluded, girding himself for what was to come. “Shona, speak with our staff here; if they wish to remain, and have us move their families to safety, we can arrange that. Mril, access the Planetary Registry, I want to find any Starfleet, Caitian Militia or Planetary Navy personnel on Cait who survived the attack on the bases and ships. I want them found… and their residency statuses wiped from the Registry. The Ferasans will be rounding them up and imprisoning or executing them, and we’ll need them alive to raise a Resistance.

Trinity, Khursaq, Cryptonik: add redundant back doors to all government and military networks still active, in case the existing ones are compromised. Hale, ready the transports at the docks, in case we need to evacuate to our secondary base. The rest of you: use the satellite networks to analyse the Ferasan ships for crew complements, weapons, and the like. Clawfinger, collate that data, it could be useful.”

His jaw tightened as no one moved.

“Your King has spoken,” he ended.

They moved.

He spun away, moving to the nearest unattended workstation, accessing their public company bank accounts, diverting monies to the staff who were legitimate employees; they would need it in the coming-

What? Days? Weeks? Years?

He didn’t know. And hated not knowing.

*

“And so that’s it?” Nenjo asked suspiciously. “That’s why you joined the Resistance? You’re a patriot? Nothing self-serving in your motives?”

Bey sighed. “Every motive is self-serving, Commissioner. Everyone ultimately works for their own interests, for how they want the world around them to be.”

“Really? A cynical attitude to take, Mr Bey.”

“Not from where I sit, Commissioner. Am I under investigation?”

The female sipped her drink. “Let’s say you’re under observation. Yes, that’s a much more civilised word, isn’t it?”

He rested his hands in his lap. “Can a male under observation be allowed to share in some of your potent potable? And in the meantime, may I understand better the nature of your scrutiny?”

Nenjo pretended to consider the request, before returning to the decanter, where she had a coupe ready. “You know I am rebuilding the Caitian Secret Services. Your participation, with your existing infrastructure, would assist in that considerably… but not if I believe you will use it strictly as a cover to continue your criminal activities.”

She returned with a drink for him. “In that eventuality, no amount of gratitude over your part in liberating us from the Occupation will shield you.”

He accepted the glass, rolled the liquid gently within the shallow, wide-bowled saucer. “And how will I be able to prove myself to you, Commissioner?”

She held her own glass raised slightly. “For now, I have a task for you, and your people. I need all the intelligence you can gather about the Terran businessman Max Zorin, and what appears to be a new incarnation of the Bel-Zon organisation, their connections to the Salem Sector… and their potential threat.”

His gaze narrowed. “A threat? To the Motherworld?”

“To Commodore Hrelle and his family. Including his cubs.”

She saw him react to that, knowing that he had met Hrelle’s family several times, as Tarim Bey, before they returned to Starfleet, and knowing that their youngest daughter was afflicted with Neurodystraxia, like himself. No doubt he suspected it was a deliberate ploy on her part, but wouldn’t come out and say anything. But that would be the game they play.

He raised his glass in salute. “I thank you for the opportunity to prove myself to you, Commissioner.”

*

He waited until he was gliding outside, into the dying light of late afternoon and towards his waiting vehicle, before activating his cranial communicator. “Status, Shona?”

“C’Nosin and his team have left Highsun, and are heading in the target direction, keeping a steady pace so as not to attract attention. Are you still going there as well?”

He rose to his feet at the door, using his antigravity crutches to help himself inside while his driver stored his hoverchair in the rear. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to miss the outcome. It should be most gratifying…”

*

“THERE SHE IS!”

Baby Jnill’s eyes lit up at the sight of her great-grandfather, and held out her arms with an excited squeal.

Mi’Tree Shall rushed up to the infant, lifting her up high from her chair and swinging her in circles, making her squeal more.

Bringing up the rear, his husband Bneea grunted. “Stop that, you’ll make her spew all over your new suit!” As he was ignored, he hugged Mirow. “And how are you, my boy?”

The younger male hugged back. “Nervous as the Seven Hells, Grandpa Bneea… but Ptera is feeling twice that. I sent her up for a nap, but I can hear her on her comm, taking calls. This will be her first big public engagement since taking over the business, and with Ma’Sala here, the whole world will be watching.”

Mi’Tree rested Baby Jnill against his shoulder, patting her diapered rear gently as he offered, “Just tell her if she gets flustered, to give me the nod and I’ll be happy to-”

“-To what?” Bneea countered. “Get up to an audience waiting to hear about the new flagship and talk about your new gig?”

“New gig?” Mirow echoed, smiling. “Aren’t you still doing the Taleteller show for all the cubs?”

“Oh, of course I am, dear boy, of course I am, they would never dare let me go,” Mi’Tree cooed, his baritone voice deep and soothing. “But when it goes into hiatus in Winterwane I’ll be back on the legitimate stage, an adaptation of the Terran writer Hemingway’s The Old Cat and the Sea. It will be a solo performance that will no doubt earn awards and rave reviews.”

“No doubt,” Bneea agreed dryly, sniffing. “Now go change your great-grandcub, she’s provided you with an early award.”

Mi’Tree made a show of sniffing the air. He put the cub down and tucked his paws in his pockets. “I think you’re mistaken there, Husband of Mine. Old age and senility has inevitably crept up on you, sadly. Now, how about I scout around and look for some excellent photo opportunities out here?”

Bneea shot him a dirty look. “You’re not that good an actor that you can fake not catching the mephitic odour that only an infant can produce. How about you pick up that cub and go change her? You can practise your anecdotes.”

“Oooh, excellent idea!” Mi’Tree bent down, picked up Baby Jnill, rested her against his shoulder again, patting her several times, and then turned to depart… unwittingly displaying a thin stream of spew running down the back of his new jacket.

*

Six Months Ago - Navron Camp, Ravath Province:

Tarim Bey sat outside the Weather Modification Station at the heart of the former concentration camp, seeing the dust swirl up around him in whorls… and knowing that at least some of it was the remains of those who died here.

Died from disease, from starvation, from torture, from experimentation to help them breed with the Enemy.

Died, and were broken down into dust by the transkinetic chambers built by the Ferasans and tossed out here to have the evidence literally blown away.

He sat there, trapped in his own horror. All of the data he had collected and collated about the atrocities did not do justice to actually being here, in the fur, and knowing what had happened.

Many talked about having everything, all the camps, all evidence of the Occupation torn down, erasing this horrifying chapter in their people’s history from memory. He understood that feeling, moreso now than ever.

But they couldn’t. People needed to remember, not just for those who died, but for those who survived… and for those who needed to keep guard and ensure this atrocity does not happen again on the Motherworld.

Over his implant, Shona announced, “I’ve found the records, Tarim. Shall I… Shall I transmit them to you?”

“No, I’ll join you inside.”

He glided in. Wanting and not wanting to confirm what he already knew.

Shona and several of their team were hunched over workstations, assigned to retrieve data that the Ferasans had made a hasty attempt to erase, once they realised that the Master Race faced imminent defeat. Shona straightened up and eyed him – her expression told him that she had already divined the reason for his intense curiosity… but she knew better than to voice it aloud, especially in front of subordinates. She indicated a separate workstation. “You can inspect the quality of the files over there, Mr Bey.”

“Thank you, Shona.” He drew up to it, accessed the files, quickly finding what he wanted.

He stared at the names, the dates. The image.

He tried to let it all sink in, absorb it like he would any other data.

But he couldn’t. “Trinity, Vixen, take a break, you’ve earned it.”

He kept staring, only distantly hearing his people heed his suggestion, hearing Shona approach, standing a respectful distance, before finally asking, “Who is it?”

He breathed out, indicating the image of a sepia-furred female. “That is Salamar Bey, my sister. The Perfect Salamar, as I always called her mockingly when we were young. When I was relegated to the back rooms with the rest of the unwanted items in our household, she took their attention, their affection… at least, that was how I felt.

I lost track of them after I left to forge my own life- no, that’s not true. I chose not to keep contact with them, keep track of them, their lives, made a deliberate choice to put them out of my mind. I had nothing but contempt for them.

Then the Ferasans came, and through the course of the Occupation I finally sought out my family, to offer them safety… only to find I was too late. Mother died in her sleep eight years ago from cardiac arrest. Father was killed resisting the Ferasans when they came to collect Salamar… and her cub.”

“She had a cub?”

He nodded soberly. “An infant, only weeks old. Arista was his name, and he had been born with Neurodystraxia, like myself. The Perfect Salamar and her cub had been taken by the Ferasans to this çamp.”

“There's no image of him.”

His jaw tightened. “They didn't bother to record him. Once they confirmed he was disabled, he was summarily thrown alive into the transkinetic chamber and disintegrated. She died weeks later.”

He heard Shona gasp. “Seven Hells… I'm so sorry, Tarim.”

He reached out, almost touching the screen that held the image of a face he barely remembered. “I cut them out of my life because of how they treated me. A better man would not have. A better man would have been there to save them, protect them. They would be alive today, and have anything they could want: a home, security, treatment for Arista… my love. Anything.”

He kept staring, thinking back to the time just after the Occupation, when in his civilian identity he met Commodore Hrelle and his wife, and their cub Sreen, one born with his disability. He immediately saw the difference between his upbringing and hers, the open, unashamed and unconditional love and patience and support they gave her. And he knew that because of that, she would go on to move worlds.

Under different circumstances, he could have had Sreen’s life, and he blamed his parents for that. But under different circumstances, Arista’s life could have been hers too. And he had no one to blame for that... but himself.

Shona drew closer, resting a tentative paw on his shoulder, the most intimate they had ever been. “You didn't know.” 

And he allowed it, welcomed it. Though he knew he didn’t deserve it. “Because I chose not to. Because I chose to remain bitter and contemptuous and self-centred. Because I chose not to care about anyone but myself and my own interests.

And I don’t care.

Not as much as I should.”

*

Tonight – Mroara-Lnee Clanlands:

All eyes and recorded were fixed on First Minister Shall at the podium, speaking clearly and confidently for one of her youth to the audience, and the world beyond. “...We have been wounded, as a planet, and as a people. We still heal, and will go on healing for some years to come. 

But we have also grown. We still stand together. We remain strong, and defiant against death, and any threats that might come to the Motherworld in the future had best heed this, for the sake of their own hides.”

The crowd, scores of guests and even the media crew, cheered and applauded. Seemingly bolstered by this, Ma’Sala continued, more loudly, knowing the holographic teams remained on standby for their cue. “The first of the New Planetary Navy has been completed, hangs in orbit directly overhead, ready to undergo a shakedown cruise in a matter of days. She is the flagship, the vanguard, first in battle, last to depart, and never before victory has been achieved.

Gentlebeings, I am proud to present to you: the Caitian Assault Vessel Mother’s Star!”

And with a collective gasp from the crowd, including squeals of delight from the cubs of the attending guests, in the air above them, a holographic projection of the actual starship, too high to be seen directly by the naked eye, but represented only a few hundred metres above. And still it filled the indigo, starlit sky: long and sleek like a sword, bristling with gun, missile and torpedo ports, but still elegant, almost graceful-looking, its blue-purple in colour enhanced with computer-generated illumination to make it stand out more for the eyes and the recorders fixed upon it.

*

The hologram was visible to the neighbouring clanlands for many kelleks. But not yet for a truck driving along a darkened road.

Inside, C’Nosin fought to keep his pulse from racing out of control, almost certain he had gotten them lost. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the road the navigation system had guided them onto led them along unmarked, unlit roads between vast orchards of tavaberry trees and Alash olive bushes. 

“Nash,” Shurr, sitting beside him, said for the third time in ten minutes. 

“Shut up.” They should have been there by now. Where in the Seven Hells were they? He had planned this down to the most minute detail! They should have been there by now! 

“Nash!” Shurr repeated, pointing ahead of them, at what appeared to be an intersection, sheltered by tall, overhanging tavaberry trees… and a figure sitting in the centre of it all. 

He peered ahead of them, just beyond the range of the truck’s lights, before quickly skidding to a halt, the tyres protesting as he frowned. “Seven Hells…?” 

In the trailer behind them, the curious sounds of their group mingled, Tosha’s voice carrying above the rest. “What’s happening, C’Nosin? Are we there?” 

C’Nosin continued to stare ahead, before glancing around. “No. But get out with me, I might need you.” To Shurr, he added, “You too. Have your gun ready. Stay alert.” 

He emerged from the cab of the truck and stepped down, staring in bemusement at the black-furred male awaiting them, and C’Nosin could now see the male was in a hoverchair, and spoke slowly to him. “Excuse me, are you lost? Do you need help getting home? Do you have a carer you want us to call?” 

“No, to all your questions,” the male replied curtly, “Especially that last, rather patronising one.” 

C’Nosin looked to Shurr, and then the others, before taking a few steps closer. “Well, then, Sir, maybe you tell us how close we are to the Mrora-Lnee Clanlands? We’re due to attend the Inauguration Ceremony.” 

“Nowhere close, I’m afraid, Mr C’Nosin. We co-opted your navigation system and led you here, away from any innocents who might be harmed by your bomb.” 

C’Nosin’s group stirred at the revelation, and their leader swallowed, reacting to the use of his name, and desperate to keep control of the situation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister…” 

“To many, I’m Nimeni, Nobody. To others, I’m the Sypher King. And let’s not waste each other’s time any further with pointless denials from you. My organisation has been monitoring yours for some time: your clandestine communications, the procurement of detonators from the construction company in Highsun, the theft of captured Ferasan weapons from the liberated camp at Navath, your assembly of your bomb, and your drive here. 

All with one ultimate goal: to assassinate First Minister Shall, her family and as many others as you can take down.”

The group’s anxiety increased, Shurr looked to C’Nosin. “Nash-“

He raised a paw to silence her, his tail twitching like it was on fire. He glanced around, but saw, heard and smelled no one else nearby. “You’re not with the Security Services!” 

“No,” the male in the chair admitted. “Not fully, not yet, though that may change in the near future. To be honest, my own organisation’s activities tend to lean towards the, shall we say, shadier side of the legal fence. But I still make it my business to keep an eye and ear peeled on what’s happening around me. Even when it involves a pack of idiots.” 

C’Nosin bristled. “We’re patriots-“ 

“You’re idiots,” the male in the chair insisted. “Sad, sub-literate idiots who see connections and conspiracies where none exist. Idiots who, out of some pathetic effort to elevate themselves from their more deserved levels of obscurity, spin self-deluded fantasies… and are willing to kill to edify them.”

C’Nosin looked to the others, before drawing closer to the stranger, taking out his plasma pistol and raising it towards the male in the hoverchair. “You can’t deny that Butcher Shall has secrets-“ 

“Of course she has! Everyone has secrets! But the only real conspiracies in place are those that will never be detected. Certainly not by a pack of ignorant tail chasers hiding behind false names on the Cynet posting their drivel to each other-” 

“Shut up!” C’Nosin tightened his grip on his weapon as he aimed it at Bey’s head. “Look, King Nobody, whoever you are, if you think we’re just going to surrender and stop our just cause-” 

“‘Surrender’?” The male in the chair, acting as if the weapon pointed at him didn’t even exist, echoed. And then he laughed softly, mirthlessly, letting a cold smile linger. “No, no, no, Mr C’Nosin. I’m not here to convince you to surrender. 

I’m here to see you—all of you – die.” 

He continued, ignoring their taut reactions to his proclamation. “Previously, I wouldn’t have interfered in politics… even the politics of the gun. To me, one government was more or less the same as any other, when an entrepreneur with my moral flexibility is involved. I wallowed in self-interest… but it seems even I have standards.

You are all prepared to take that bomb to the Mroara-Lnee Clanlands and detonate it, and kill any survivors. Not just First Minister Shall and the members of her government, and the media, and the guests, but also civilians. Cubs. Infants.”

His smile dropped, the ice in his eyes reflecting the headlights from the truck. “The moment all of you agreed that cubs, that infants, were legitimate targets… you killed yourselves.

Your bodies are just waiting to catch up.” 

He held out his arms, as if encompass them. “I just didn’t want any of you to die in ignorance.” 

C’Nosin stared in disbelief, frozen, not knowing how to respond.

The male in the chair responded for him, announcing loudly, “I’m done with them.”

C’Nosin, and the rest of the Truthists, never saw the black light phaser beams that struck them simultaneously from either side of the road, or felt the energy suffuse their atoms, neutralising the bonds that held them together, disintegrating them entirely, leaving only their truck. 

Bey sat there for a moment, as his mercenaries emerged, clad in all-black suppressor suits that hid them from senses and sensors, wielding various weapons as they secured the area.

Bey coughed – even disintegrating bodies left a residue in the air that never failed to tickle his throat – as he focused on one mercenary. “Take the truck to our facility in Narrowbay, carefully, have the bomb defused… but keep the components, we might be able to use them at a future date.” On his cyberlink, he added, “Shona, track the Truthists who did not accompany this motley crew; I fear they will be the victims of some tragic incidents in the coming days.

Meanwhile, I have a party to attend…”

He turned and glided back to his car, looking forward to the rest of the evening.

It’s good to be the King...

THE ADVENTURES OF THE SUREFOOT WILL CONTINUE…