Surefoot 57: Cloak and Dagger

He was certain Ma'Sala Shall talked about children. And grandchildren. He was certain she was most happy and content with her life, having long forgotten what she had done to him eight years ago.

He hadn't forgotten.

He turned and opened a series of communications, bounced through several false sources and identities. It took time, but he had plenty of that.

Finally a new image filled the screen: a bearded human male in a dark sober suit. The image frowned, and spoke with a cultured European accent. "Whoever you are... you have the advantage of me. May I ask who is behind the scramblers?"

"My name is irrelevant, Mr Giger," Trenagen replied, breathing in, a small part of him questioning this course of action. A part he quickly crushed. "What I have to offer you, on the other hand, is."

Giger leaned back in his seat. "I'm not in the mood for games. You clearly have no idea who you're dealing with-"

"I have every idea: you're Simon Giger, head of the criminal organisation Bel-Zon, currently based on the non-aligned planet of Skaros. And by 'based', I mean 'confined', with Starfleet vessels outside of the system preventing you from exporting the Vraxoin narcotics you are growing on one of Skaros' moons, or indeed conducting any business. Your coffers are slowly but steadily depleting, and many of your operatives not trapped on Skaros have deserted you to work on their own, or competitors like the Orion Syndicate or the Moonfleet."

Giger bristled. "You definitely have the advantage of me, Sir. And what have you to offer me besides an unnecessary recap of my organisation's status?"

Trenagen leaned forward. "A set of ten Klingon cloaking devices for your ships. Ones that will allow you to continue your transactions with impunity under Starfleet's proverbial noses. They can be delivered to Skaros and installed on your vessels. You can continue your business, and enjoy the benefits of Starfleet protection."

Giger reacted- and then did his best to hide his reaction. "A very generous offer."

"You haven't heard my price."

Giger leaned back, steepling his fingers in a manner reminiscent to Trenagen of himself. "I'm listening."

"I wish to facilitate a contract against a previous target of the Bel-Zon's: Starfleet Captain Esek Hrelle of the USS Surefoot. You had turned him over to the Orions, but he escaped. Only I want his family included as well: his wife, his children. Any Caitians onboard, in fact."

Giger stared hard from his end of the transmission, and for a moment, Trenagen almost checked to see if the signal had frozen. Then the man moved and responded, "There are some Skarosians here who would be ideal for the contract. However, there is still the problem of getting them out of the system, past the Starfleet blockade."

"I believe the Bel-Zon's logistics are still being managed by Bastien Dumont, operating from the New Paris Colonies in Omega Aurigae. Contact him, and inform him that we will make available one of our cloaked vessels, as a demonstration of our capabilities. After a successful completion of the contract, we will provide Mr Dumont with the cloaks."

Giger regarded him, as if he could see past the visual and audio scramblers, before replying, "And who should I tell Mr Dumont to expect to hear from?"

Trenagen reached for his whiskey. "Tiberius Claudius."

*

USS Imperator, Antares Maelstrom -- Present Day:

Ma'Sala dropped to a crouch as she and her Assault Team beamed into the curved, darkened corridor, raising their blasters at the movements in the shadows: lurching figures drawing towards them from either direction like creatures from a horror vivid. "Fire to stun!"

She and the others fired, the figures collapsing over each other. She sniffed the air as she drew closer, reaching out; they looked human, and she had no desire to raise collateral damage in her quest for vengeance against Trenagen- "Androids! They're androids!"

Her Chief of Security Commander H'Murin, a cream-furred, broad-shouldered, stub-muzzled male, crouched beside her, his tail and ears twitching. "Androids? I thought there was only one in Starfleet-"

"These aren't the same," she replied. "More primitive. They're being affected by the duonetic mines." She pulled one up by its jacket, noting how it was still semi-functioning. "You! Where's Trenagen? Where's he hiding?"

The android looked up at her with unblinking eyes. "I am not programmed to respond in that area."

Ma'Sala released him and rose. "He'll be on the Bridge. Watch out for traps, anyone living among the crew. Leave Trenagen to me."

They found the rest of this section of the Imperator in an identical state, up until they reached the Bridge, where Ma'Sala saw a familiar-looking figure stating next to the main viewscreen, staring out at the Mother's Fury and the remaining sections of Trenagen's ship. He stood with his hands folded behind him, never deigning to even look in her direction. "My compliments to you on the performance of your ship and crew, Madame."

Ma'Sala stood there, feeling her team spread out, checking the disabled androids around them, allowing her to focus on her prey. And now, now that she finally faced him, the oath she'd made days before to her daughter, the memories of seeing her grandcubs, her daughter and kin-son lying in the Surefoot's Arboretum, wounded, because of this man, flooded back to her.

She growled.

Now he turned to face her, his expression resolute. "No, Madame. Vengeance will not be yours today."

*

In the battlefield, the combatant vessels or vessel sections hung, as if licking their wounds following the engagement.

Then the primary hull of the Imperator erupted from within, its warp core breaching. Seconds later, the dorsal and ventral engineering hulls followed suit, three miniature novae whose remains would soon be swallowed up by the edges of the Maelstrom.

Lost in the aftermath of the explosion, a small cloaked runabout slipped away, heading away from the sector.

Onboard, a single occupant allowed the onboard holographic doctor to administer treatments, while the computer piloted and navigated and sent a coded message outward. Trenagen reclined in the chair, closed his eyes and allowed the drugs to work their way through him, stabilising his condition. He knew he was only prolonging the inevitable. But then, wasn't that what one could say about life in general?

"Nice try, Ian."

He opened his eyes, staring upwards. "You survived my feint. My compliments, Madame."

"It almost worked," she admitted. "The android duplicate of you was good. It even emitted a scent almost like yours."

He sat up slowly, weakly, glancing up through the cockpit window to see the Mother's Fury racing alongside the runabout, before turning to see the Caitian standing at the rear of the runabout, claws bared. "Almost? The organic replicators reproducing my pheromones should have been of sufficient fidelity to deceive you."

"It would have been," she admitted, stepping closer. "But the scent was pure, baseline. Your scent has changed in the last year with whatever illness is wracking your body now."

Trenagen took in her words, nodding as he rose to his feet and faced her, wincing but struggling to maintain his composure. "I have perhaps another year to live, and it will not be a year without pain. I am prepared to disappear, have no more involvement with Starfleet or Section 31."

"No."

"I will no longer threaten your family," he promised.

She drew closer. "Oh, I know you won't." She bared her teeth at him. "Sakuth tried to murder my grandcub! My family! WHY?"

He raised his chin to her. "Léon-"

"Léon was one of us!" she roared, "Part of the Shadow Game! He knew the risks! We all do! And he was willing to die, to save the lives on that planet, in that ship! Uncounted numbers threatened because of dangerous illegal experiments conducted in that system! Why have Sakuth target my family?"

He glared at her now. "'Mourn not for the Dead, for their pain is brief / Mourn for the Living, and their prison of grief.'" He paused, swallowed. "For thirteen years, I have lived in my prison. It seemed only fair that you should spend some time in one of your own before you died."

The Caitian narrowed her gaze. "Yours was a prison you chose to live in. You could have moved on. Léon would have wanted you to move on. But now it's too late for all that."

Trenagen stepped closer to her.

He was ready. "Well? How long must I wait-"

Her right fist shot out, striking him in the stomach, making him double over.

She roared as she grabbed him, lifting him up and flinging him against the nearest wall of the runabout cabin, and then again to the other side, hearing bones break, leaving blood stains on the bulkhead.

When he rolled onto the floor, she was crouching upon him, ripping into his belly through his uniform, tearing into the soft skin and digging deep into his entrails, his stomach and intestines and kidneys and liver, flinging the organs aside until her rage subsided and she was gasping for breath, eyes wide, staring down at Trenagen's body-

Trenagen opened his eyes, coughing and spitting up copious amounts of blood in the process. She watched blankly, astounded that he was still alive, as he looked up at her, his eyes wide, glaring, somehow still clinging onto life despite most of his insides now on the outside. "Ian..."

He lifted his head up, still spitting blood as he gurgled, "L-Let... Let all the p-poisons... that lurk in... in the m-mud... hatch out..."

His head dropped again.

Ma'Sala finally caught her breath, rising, her nostrils thick with the stench of her prey, her uniform caked in it, and wishing her heart would slow down. She looked down at the body of the human she had known longer than many others in her life. Wishing it hadn't ended this way.

Then she reached for her communicator. "Ksara, prepare to destroy this shuttle... preferably after you beam me back. And then set a course for home.

This Mother's War is over."

*

"USS Surefoot-A, Captain's Log, Stardate 52507.81, Captain Esek Hrelle, Recording: Captain Weynik and the Ajax has successfully escorted us back to the Thirteenth Fleet. The survivors have been moved to the Samaritan for further medical checks and disposition, I and my senior officers have been debriefed and we have submitted our reports, repairs are being scheduled and shore leave is being planned.

Admiral Tattok has informed me that I'll be receiving the Legion of Honour for my actions at Khavak... an award I have tried to decline, unsuccessfully. Apparently I have a responsibility to inspire others. Because there will be many other opportunities in this War for us all to face death.

Before that happens, I have another, more personal duty to attend to with my crew... my family. Which I think has become one and the same."

*

Deck 3 Fore -- Arboretum:

The crew stood in a line facing one corner of the room, where a thick, vibrant collection of deep red poppies carpeted the area, hiding projectors that conjured a steady, unwavering ball of white light hanging a metre overhead.

Next to it, Hrelle stood, clad in his dress uniform, looking out as he spoke.

"'They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old / Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn / At the going down of the sun and in the morning / We will remember them.' These are words from a Terran poem, to commemorate those who had fallen in battle, in a war almost 500 years ago.

And these flowers, this memorial, is here now to commemorate those who have fallen in battle, in war this year. Not just the members of our crew -- Chief Glaason Grev, Ensign Nancy Yeager, Ensign Brian Gorman, Ensign Glenqom Orogg -- but those we sought to save and bring home safely, but couldn't.

On Earth, these flowers symbolise not just the casualties of war, but also sleep, and peace, and the hope that those we have lost can rest. And the light that shines over them symbolises the eternal spirit that keeps them alive in our hearts and minds.

This corner of the Arboretum will always be set aside for this purpose, for those of us who live on, to remember them, and the sacrifice they made. Keep the dead in your hearts and minds... but even more importantly, keep the living in there too. Treasure and cherish those around us, while they're still with us. Crew: Attention!"

The crew, including Kami, cradling Sreen, Misha and Sasha on one side, and Jhess, T'Varik, C'Rash and the rest, came to attention, as the boatswain's whistle played overhead.

Then he dismissed them, drawing up to his family and taking Sreen from his wife. "I hope that was okay."

Kami smiled, rubbing her muzzle against his. "It was lovely, Esek. And the Memorial was a lovely idea, too."

"Well spoken, Esek," Jhess added, smiling. "And it's good that this will always be here."

"Indeed, Sir," T'Varik agreed. "It was most moving. When do you intend to commence shore leave?"

"There's a few more things to take care of with Tattok... and what do you mean, 'you'? What about your shore leave, Commander?"

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "I intend to remain with the ship and monitor the repairs and see about crew replace-"

He pointed a finger at her. "No. You're taking shore leave too. With the rest of your family."

C'Rash slipped an arm around her partner's. "You hear that, Marmalade? Captain's Orders."

Then Kami started at a chirp on her combadge. "Counselor, there is a Priority Holocommunicator signal for you from Fleet Captain Shall."

Kami looked to her husband, her tail swishing rapidly with excitement as she responded, "Patch it through to the Captain's Ready Room." She looked to her husband.

He shooed her off, cuddling Sreen. "Go! Give her our love!"

"I wanna go!" Misha protested. "I wanna see Gramma!"

"Another time, Cube of Mine," his father told him as Kami departed. "Your Mama needs some Private Time with her Mama..."

*

Kami dodged and swerved around the people in the corridor to get to the Ready Room, having hardly ate or slept since her fight with Ma'Sala. She had hated herself ever since she'd given her mother that ultimatum. What the Seven Hells was she thinking? Emotionally blackmailing Ma'Sala into punishing Trenagen, killing him, risking her own life? She could have been killed, needlessly! And it had only truly struck her as she listened to Esek's speech about those they had lost...

She was barely inside the Ready Room when she barked, "Computer: Open Awaiting Channel!"

The holocommunicator cameras on the floor conjured up the image of Ma'Sala, as Kami rushed up to it, almost entering the projection field in an instinctive urge to embrace her. "Mama! I'm sorry! Are you okay? You weren't hurt, were you? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I treated you like that! I didn't mean it, I didn't, I swear, please forgive me, don't be angry-"

Ma'Sala's image held up a gentle furred hand to cut her daughter off. "Calm down, Daughter of Mine, calm down. It's okay, I'm not hurt, I'm not angry, I understand. Everything you said to me was true and honest, and I would have said worse to my mother under the same circumstances." She breathed out and lowered her hand. "I'm the one who's sorry, for letting all of you get into danger."

"No, it wasn't your fault, you're not here to police all of the potential dangers to us in the Universe!" She swallowed, looking deep into Ma'Sala's eyes. "Are you okay?"

The older Caitian nodded. "Yes, Kami. I am. And the problem has been dealt with."

Kami stared at her, wanting to know more, not wanting to know more, settling for asking, "Why? What went on between you two?"

Ma'Sala's shoulders and tail drooped. "At first? Nothing more than two people who just didn't like each other, and never really would. Then there was an incident, years ago, where he lost someone he loved, and blamed me for it. And he let that fester and grow in him like a cancer. And in later years, he was dying. And his bitterness grew worse. And... he had no one else to turn to."

Kami breathed in. "He's dead?"

Ma'Sala breathed in. "Esek, my grandcubs, are they alright? Have they recovered?"

Kami regarded the evasion, before replying, "Yes... and I'm sorry I drove you away before you spent any time with them. But we're hoping to get back to Cait for our shore leave, once Esek and T'Varik finish up all their duties."

Ma'Sala nodded, before brightening up again, smiling. "Mother's Cubs, I forgot the news!"

"News?"

"Yes! Before the attack in your Arboretum, I was going to give you the good news! Mirow and Ptera are expecting!"

Kami's eyes widened at the mention of her firstborn son and his wife. "Expecting? When?"

"Around the end of Coldwane. And it's going to be a female."

Kami's smile blossomed into a grin. "This is wonderful news! Oh, I can't wait to see them! Thank you, Mama!"

Ma'Sala smiled back. "Welcome to the Grandmother's Club..."

*

Four hundred and some light years distant, at an outpost near the borders of the Ferasan Patriarchy, a nameless ash-furred Ferasan male sat at a console, bored out of his mind. He was designated ThirdSon of Svaavow of the Pride of the Heralds of the Night, and he was the runt of his litter, never able to match the physical achievements of his brothers.

So instead, he focused on his other talents. He proved adept at computers, communications, at signal interpretation, decryption. No, it would not be as loudly lauded as the accomplishments of his brothers in their raids against the Klingons and especially their hated cousins the Caitians, but he enjoyed the challenge and mystery of deciphering messages and relaying the information to his Pride's ships.

Still, despite his assistance, the Pridemaster, the entire Pride, barely acknowledged him, leaving him out here floating around in this metal can, isolated. Sometimes he thought he would pull out his own sabreteeth from madness. He would die out here. He would die without a name, without a mate and offspring and probably his Pride will even forget to come and collect his remains.

And maybe a thousand, thousand years from now, some alien archaeologists would find his mummified remains, and maybe build up a mythology around who he was. Maybe they'll even give him a name. Which is more than his Pride ever will-

A signal on his board made his ears twitch and make him sit up straight, his thin, hairless tail swishing behind him through the hole in the back of his seat as he examined the data. It wasn't a detected transmission between Starfleet or other vessels, but rather one directed towards the Ferasans' space... a huge data package, gigaquads of it... what in the Patriarch's name?

His fingers moved quickly over his keyboard, isolating the data, scanning for viruses and other traps, before opening it up and breaking it all down...

Maps. Vessel specifications. Shield and weapons details. Patrol assignments.

Numbers.

Strengths.

Weaknesses.

And all about the Caitian Planetary Navy.

ThirdSon's jaw dropped open.

It was all classified military data on their ancient adversaries, the ones who had somehow beaten them back time and again over the generations.

It couldn't be real. It couldn't be.

Could it?

He ran audit checks, collating it with existing information already gathered about the Caitians' defences. He saw matches, time and again. By the Patriarch... this was like a gift from the Gods...they could swarm in and overrun the Caitians in a day!