Surefoot 61: Answer the Call

They followed him into the offices, an open and cool area that under other circumstances, but now one that felt bleak, Hrelle asking Mori, "Your database? It's encrypted, yes?"

The Lieutenant moved to a desk and sat down. "Yes, Sir, why?"

"Has there been any attempt to access it externally?"

Mori typed on his keyboard, calling up results. "There are repeated requests from the Caitian government since all this started, wanting an update on on-world Starfleet personnel-"

"You haven't responded, have you?" Tshal demanded.

"No." The younger male looked between the two older ones, appearing confused. "Why?"

"Make an emergency portable backup," Hrelle ordered. "Then wipe it. Wipe all data sources. Hurry!"

Mori reached for an isolinear card, as Tshal looked up at Hrelle. "You think they'll be coming for us?"

"It's possible. Especially with how they're painting us as the villains here. They'll be afraid of us stirring up trouble."

"Shouldn't we be?" the older male asked him.

Hrelle didn't answer. He didn't have to. It sickened him that, after little more than a century of their people joining Starfleet, that they would have to act like fugitives on their own planet.

"There," Mori announced, leaning back and picking up the card. "Our computers and backups are wiped, Sir, except for what I've saved here."

Hrelle accepted and pocketed the card. "This includes identities and locations of Active Duty and Retired Starfleet personnel?"

"Yes, Sir."

"What are we gonna do, Captain?" Tshal asked. "I'm ready to don my uniform again. So are a lot of others who have retired. We can still fight for the Motherworld."

Hrelle didn't answer. Not because he didn't agree with their sentiments. But because he didn't know where to begin.

Until he did. "Lieutenant, is there anything here, anything at all, that could trace you and your address?"

Mori glanced around. "I- I don't think so, Sir. Of course, Commander Phelps knows who I am and where I live."

Hrelle looked to him sympathetically. "Mr Mori, in all likelihood, Commander Phelps is dead. Does he have any family on Cait?"

The young cub swallowed, his expression appalled at the notion. "Uh, no, Sir. He- He was human- alone, no family or friends here but me, I guess- and now you say he's dead-"

Tshal drew up to him, resting a paw on Mori's shoulder. "There's no time to think about that, Son. You have to set a message for any subsequent calls or messages that the Starfleet Offices are shut down until further notice... after you do a final search of the place."

Mori looked to them both, before nodding and moving away. Tshal drew Hrelle over to the transparent walls, as if interested in viewing the Plaza beyond, his voice low. "Well?"

Hrelle's response was equally low. "This is going to be different from your service days, Aris. We're fighting on our home turf, not in space. And our families will almost certainly be targeted as well."

Tshal growled. "We can't just do nothing!"

"And we can't just leap into the darkness, either..." Hrelle's words trailed away as he frowned at something he saw outside, and stepped back out into the Plaza, blinking, Tshal following.

The heat of the day was swaddling, and there was only a slight breeze. But it was enough to lift up the cherry-red flag that was now being erected beside the Ferasan guests. It was a novelty for his people -- Cait had no flags or banners -- and it drew the attention of cubs and adults alike as it fluttered, its single symbol in the centre reminiscent of the right-side feline profile on many Caitian government and military buildings and vehicles, but looking leaner, sleeker, and certainly more ferocious, with an emphasis on the sabreteeth sported by Ferasans.

And no one seemed to understand what it meant to have the Ferasans flying their flag on Caitian soil.

"This is a nightmare," Tshal announced, staring with dread.

Hrelle couldn't argue that.

*

The Shall Clan Memorial Garden held no monuments, no markers, like many humanoid equivalents. There were clusters of colourful, fragrant flowers, and shade beneath the branches of old sablewood trees in full fruit.

The assembled clan gathered in a semi-circle around the perimeter, as Bneea stood at the centre. "We have gathered here to pay tribute to our Matriarch, Ma'Sala. It is a sad duty I hold as one of our Clan's Elders... but it is also an honoured one. Ma'Sala died in the performance of her duty, a duty she had embraced for over sixty years: the protection of the Motherworld.

She had come courting Mi'Tree and I long ago, longer than most of you have been alive... but it feels like yesterday." He adjusted his spectacles. "Give or take a few grey furs and kilos around the waist."

He paused for their laughter. "We shared our lives over many decades, working together to keep our Clan intact. She was thoughtful, hard-working, indomitable. And she loved as fiercely as she fought. Loved us. Loved her cub Kami. Loved her grandcubs, and all of you." He paused again as he met S'Groaw's gaze.

Then he looked away. "And because she would demand a balanced assessment of her if she were here, I would also say that she was loud, brash, aggressive, obnoxious, opinionated, stubborn, infuriating-" As the group began to laugh again, he looked to Mi'Tree, who stood with Kami, Sasha and the cubs. "Have I left anything out?"

Mi'Tree held onto his daughter in comfort, but, caught up in the moment, offered, "Ooh, how about cross, impatient, foul-mouthed, flatulent-"

Kami laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. "Stop it, you two!"

Standing beside his mother, Misha looked around in confusion. "Why you all laughing at Gramma? It's rude!"

Kami looked to Sasha, who was holding Sreen, before kneeling down beside her son, stroking him. "Because as sad as we want to feel now, your Grandma would also want us to laugh, and smile, and remember all the happy times we had with her. Because those happy times will keep her with us."

"And we will need those happy times inside us," Bneea added, as much to those around them as to his grandcub. "Especially in the coming days. So, all of you, share with each other." He held out his arms in invitation.

"Bneea."

He turned, fighting to keep his instinctive reaction in check. "Yes, S'Groaw?"

The older female approached. "May I speak with you alone, please?"

"Who she?" Misha demanded. "She smell like Gramma!"

Mi'Tree indulged in a low growl, before patting the cub on the shoulder. "Never you mind about her, lad. Come, let me introduce you to your second cousin Hnarl, his tail is so long he can touch his own snout with it..."

Bneea gave Kami and Sasha a look, before walking away with S'Groaw to a quieter part of the Gardens, determined to maintain decorum with the female. "What is it?"

She stopped at the edge of the gardens, looking beyond to Sasha's ship. "That was a good speech. I think my sister would have approved."

"Hmph. More than likely she would have complained it didn't have enough dirty jokes in it."

S'Groaw chuckled. "You're probably right. Well, I just wanted you to know that I will greatly appreciate your help in the coming weeks. I will of course also include your partner in my gratitude... though I am well aware who has really been maintaining the Clan's holdings while Ma'Sala has been off-world-"

He raised a paw to cut her off, his hackles rising. "Excuse me, S'Groaw, but what help do you need from me?"

She blinked. "Your help with my succession to Clan Matriarch, of course."

Bneea tensed, feeling like he'd been slapped across the snout. He stepped back. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

S'Groaw reacted, noting how Kami, Mi'Tree and the rest of the clan were looking in their direction as a result of his outburst. "I don't understand- As Ma'Sala's sister, I'm naturally the next to succeed her as Matriarch-"

"The Seven Hells, you are!" He almost bared his teeth. "Ma'Sala confirmed long ago in her will that Kami would succeed her! Her daughter! Not the sister who spun lies about her!"

Then his bronze eyes widened with blossoming realisation. "Of course... that's why you showed up now, full of false regrets about not having mended the bridges you burned with her years ago before she died." He bared his teeth. "What a fool I was, to think there might have been something other than mercenary motives behind your appearance today."

The female breathed in sharply, indignantly. "You are... sadly mistaken, Bneea. I did make the assumption that I would assume the Matriarchy, and now in retrospect I see how foolish that was... but it certainly isn't something I desired.

In the years since I've last been here, my fortunes have changed... as has my outlook, on life, on family. I wanted to make amends with my sister, so many times. But I lacked the courage. Now, all I have is regret."

She looked to the rest of the group, who had turned to witness the argument. "I'm sorry to have disturbed all of you at this time. I'll take my leave." She started away, towards the path to the gates.

"Wait."

Kami drew up to the older Caitian, regarding S'Groaw as she approached her. "You don't have to go. If I am meant to be our Clan's Matriarch, then I can use that authority to put the past behind us." She reached out and took S'Groaw's paws in her own. "You are welcome to remain, to consider yourself a part of this family. If you want, that is."

The other female stared back, with open appreciation and relief. "Thank you, Niece. I- I would be honoured."

Then Kami drew her into a hug.

And whispered to her, "I've been a Counselor for almost thirty years. I know when someone's lying... like you've just done with my Papa. You lie to him, to me, to anyone here again, and you'll regret it."

S'Groaw pulled back... a little of her true feelings showing.

But Kami slipped an arm around hers and guided her back, looking to Bneea as they returned to the group. "Papa, do you remember when we have the service for Great Grandma Shashon, and I went into my first Season, and Mama had to take me out for a suppressant while everyone was laughing...?"

*

Central Hospital, Pinnacle City, M'Restir Province:

Mirow slipped out of his pilot's helmet as he walked down the corridor, having brought in a couple of injured passengers from a crashed omnibus on the Eastward Viaduct, his neck aching. It had been a stressful couple of days since the Occupation began, and there had been an increase in accidents and suicides, and he'd had to pull double shifts in his Rescue Flyer.

But now, his focus was on his wife; she was nearing giving birth, but she insisted on continuing her work, despite his insistence, and she assured him that the Head of the Neurosurgery Department was accommodating-

He caught her scent mingled with many others, and followed the scents and sounds to a large common room on the Surgical Floor, where dozens of hospital staff, patients and visitors were crowded around the wallscreen, where a Caitian male he didn't recognise was speaking, and the audience was muttering and commenting to each other.

He saw Ptera near the doorway, and she looked to him, catching his scent as he approached and they rubbed muzzles, Mirow catching the apprehension in her scent and asking, "Who's that? What's going on?"

She nodded to the screen. "That's the new Provisional First Minister, Lessade, a former Governor up north. He's claiming the Militia Weapons of Mass Destruction that detonated around the world released huge amounts of metreonic particles into the atmosphere."

"Metreonic particles? Never heard of them."

"They're highly-radioactive and dangerous isotopes that can cause a terrible blood disorder called Metremia. Its mortality rate is very high, but thankfully it's also very rare." She looked to the viewscreen. "Or it was."

Onscreen, Lessade continued. "-uation is far more dire than our initial reports had hoped. The metreonic particles released by the Starfleet weapons of mass destruction on the complicit Militia bases have permeated the atmosphere of every part of this beautiful planet. We have been in intense consultation with the finest oncologists on Cait, who have confirmed that..."

He swallowed. "Left untreated, between ten and fourteen million Caitians will die slowly and in pain from Primary Metremia in the following six months... with another eight to ten million who will contract Secondary Metremia-induced sterility from exposure to those with Primary Metremia."

A horrified sound ran through the group, though several in the back loudly spoke up. "What consultation? We have the best Oncology Department in this hemisphere, and this is the first I've heard of any Metremia Crisis!"

"That'll be the Eliminati," another said, semi-seriously, "Hiding the truth from us."

"However," Lessade promised, "Our Ferasan cousins here are already assisting towards establishing medical centres throughout Cait, where they will transport those identified as infected by metreonic particles, or at risk to them. They have sworn to do everything they can for us, and they ask from us nothing more than our trust."

He took on a grave expression now. "And our vigilance. The Militia has been devastated, but rogue agents exist out there, among us, threatening further acts of sedition, and you are urged to report them to your local authorities.

But we face an even greater danger, from those who have chosen to pledge allegiance to an alien ideal: Starfleet." Beside Lessade, the Starfleet stylised delta insignia appeared. "This imperialist, Earth-dominated band of brigands, whose symbol, that of a spearhead to pierce the hearts of innocent worlds throughout the Galaxy, was behind the attempted genocide of our innocent Ferasan cousins, a crime that we will now suffer for.

With this is mind, I am implementing the Protection Act, a series of emergency directives to ensure our safety and security. The details will be made available to all news media outlets and on the appropriate Cynet channels.

Thank you, and good night."

Some among the hospital crowd made dismissive remarks about that. But not many.

Mirow looked to Ptera, saying nothing, having no need to. His mother, his bond-father and sister were in Starfleet... and some of their colleagues knew it.

*

Mroara-Lnee Industries, M'Restir Province:

Jnill slammed her paw down on her desk. "Seven Hells, Hrulish! There must be something you can do! This is chaos!" She waved at the now-darkened monitor before her. "Cut off from our off-world customers! Contracts suspended, maybe lost entirely! And you're standing there doing nothing about it!"

Her brother Hrulish stood by the window overlooking the expansive grounds of their complex, all of the factories, the hangers, the testing fields and storehouses... but seemingly more impressed with the short but generous tumbler of whiskey and ice in one paw. "I'm not 'doing nothing'. I'm drinking. I'm exceptionally good at it. Watch." He brought the drink to his muzzle and downed half of it, letting his tongue lick out and around. "See? You should join me, Big Sister. A little liquor might ease your stress and loosen your kussik."

She bolted to her feet, kicking back her chair. "Miserable sot!" She had little time or regard for her brother even in the best of times. She had let him run the Clan industry in her name for years, until an act of cowardice and dishonesty on his part while onboard the Starfleet vessel Surefoot years ago forced her to demote him in order to maintain clan honour.

And he had somehow grown even more insufferable since then, which was probably the most accomplished act he had achieved in his misbegotten lifetime. "We are at crisis! The Occupation will ruin our business!"

Now he sighed and turned away from the window. "I have made an interminable number of calls in the last two days to our government contacts... those that are still around. The answers I have received are all the same: there's no contact with the rest of the Quadrant, no leaving the world. No nothing, except entreaties for us to Please Stand By."

"So now you sink into another bottle of spirits?"

He raised the glass to her in mock salute. "It's imported. We're not likely to see any more shipments in the near future, under our new masters. Best finish it off before it spoils." He drank again. "Why don't you call your Starfleet in-laws for help? The mighty Captain Hrelle and Wife, and his detestable little human bitch daughter? I'm certain the three of them alone could drive off the invading hordes single-pawedly. Then you can find some other means of humiliating me?"

"What a wretched, self-pitying cur you are," she sneered. "You don't need my help with humiliation, you're expert at it. In case you've forgotten, our business is under threat! Most of our capital is tied into off-world investments! Cut off from the rest of the Galaxy, we face financial ruin!"

Hrulish shrugged and moved back to the drinks cabinet. "'We', Big Sister? You're the one in charge. I'm just a lackey now."

"You pathetic little-"

Then she stopped and turned, her fur rising as she felt an ionised sizzle in the air, which experience told her was a quantum wave from-

-The transporter beams filling up the centre of the room. Jnill's heart raced, and her tail smacked against the legs of her chair. Beaming unannounced into an office was the height of impropriety! Who would dare...

Then she saw the three tall slate-furred Ferasan males, two of them armed with large black energy weapons behind a third, who was unarmed but sporting brightly-coloured insignia on his furs and armour-plated uniforms, and striped warpaint on his muzzle.

Jnill felt her brother move... to stand behind her, the scent of his fear wafting the air. Yes, my daughter was right about you, you coward... She braced herself, lifting up her muzzle to the intruders, determined to show them how a High-Born acts in the presence of their inferiors. "Who are you? How dare you appear uninvited! Do you know where you are?"

The lead Ferasan regarded her... and for a cold, terrible moment, Jnill feared for her life.

But then he relaxed again, nodding in her direction. "Forgive me, Madame; your protocols are still unfamiliar to us. Do I have the honour of addressing Jnill Mroara-Lnee, the Head of this august corporation?"

Jnill reacted; the Ferasans's voice was sibilant, almost silky, not at all what she expected from such coarse creatures. She played with the lapels of her jacket. "You have the advantage of me, Sir."

He bowed slightly. "Forgive me once more, Madame. I am Pridemaster Ubar-Sin, of the Evercrest Fur Pride. I am one of Master Governor Melem-Adu's Seconds, assisting him, and your people, in the repair of the damage caused by the terrorist actions of Starfleet and the Caitian Military. My responsibility towards that laudable goal is the construction of the Medical Camps your people will require, and the transport network that will carry the poor afflicted souls to said Camps."

Jnill frowned, crossing her arms. "And what has that to do with me? With my company?"

"Hopefully much from both of you, Madame." He strolled around in an air of insouciance, looking at the various framed images on the walls, of the company's many successful lines of flyers, patrol ships, starships. "We are aware that you have earned a strong reputation for fulfilling large construction and distribution contracts in record time.

You, and a select number of other robust local industries, are being offered the opportunity to contribute. If the work on the camp transports is successful, we may invite you to undertake contracts for passenger ships from here to Ferasa Prime."