Surefoot 68: Three... Two... One...

THREE HOURS, FOUR MINUTES, THIRTY SECONDS... TWENTY-NINE... TWENTY-EIGHT...

Classified Location, Planet Cait:

R'Taara Aris did her best to keep calm for her cub Srira. Her own mother had always seemed to make it easy, whenever the younger R'Taara had been upset over a storm or a missing pet or an unrequited love, offering soothing purrs and soothing words, and R'Taara had striven in the years since then to emulate her strength and composure.

Now, however, all of that had fled her, and all she could do is grasp Srira's paw and hold onto it.

She had received the notification that her eight-year-old son and she had been identified as infected with Metremia, and were due to be collected for treatment. Yes, she had heard the transmissions from Mi'Tree Shall that accused the Ferasans of lying, but she didn't believe him; he had always been a bit of an egocentric windbag, and she suspected it might even have been some publicity stunt for a new Vivid. So she had had no problem with packing a bag for herself and Srira, terrified about the disease. Still, some doubt lingered.

On the other paw, the Ferasans who appeared, though they looked intimidating with their height and sabreteeth, were courteous enough, seating them with everyone else in the Crescent district of Shanos Major who were similarly infected, taking them to the local park, where a large transport vehicle awaited them.

"Mama," Srira had mewled, picking up the scents of fear and uncertainty in the females and other cubs around them.

"It'll be okay," she had assured him.

The transport had been windowless, but they played soothing music in the background, and the front of the seats had entertainment centres, and Srira distracted himself with playing games. They travelled for some time; the Ferasans onboard offered water and snacks, but no clue as to where the treatment camp was, or how long it would take to get there, or how long they might be.

They arrived in a blinding light and hot, dry air that blasted through the opening doors of the transport, as the passengers filed out into an wide open clearing of many square tathes in area, surrounded by high wire fences topped in places with dark towers -- and weapons mounted on them. Buildings of various sizes sat within the area, and there was a bustle of activity, unchecked by the strong bright light of the sun in the cloudless blue sky.

R'Taara looked beyond, trying to find some clue as to where they were: southern Ujanaka Province, or even Pakui. Did they really have to be so far from home? And it felt more like a military camp than anything medical, but she supposed the scope of the emergency did not allow for niceties.

"Mama?" Srira called, over the strange sounds and scents, his tail twitching.

"It'll be okay," she assured him.

Then a Ferasan male in a decorated uniform approached, flanked by armed guards, and he smiled and held out his arms, raising his voice over the surrounding noises of activity. "Welcome, Cousins! Welcome one and all! I am Ubara-Tul, Commander of Camp Sunnyday! Here you'll receive all the care and attention and treatment required! I know it's all been very rushed and I'm sure you're all anxious and tired and hungry, but I promise you, we will take care of your every need here! Now, we have more transports due in shortly, so you need to be quick tailed and follow me to the Processing Centre!"

R'Taara took her son's paw and led him with the others towards the nearest building, a drab, windowless structure. Around her, the fellow new arrivals spoke to each other, some voicing the same thoughts she had, others anxious to finally get treated for the horrible disease inflicted upon them by the Starfleet terrorists.

In the distance, a smaller, black building rose up, with tall, narrow chimneys, belching smoke and ash high into the sky. What was the purpose of that?

Before she could ponder it further, they arrived at the entrance, where more Ferasans were running checks on their datapads as to the identities of the new arrivals, while Ubara-Tul caught their attention, smiling once more. "Well, Cousins, now here we'll begin! Some of you will be berthed here in the Main Medical Labs, others we have alternative arrangements. And for all those lovely cubs, we have a very special surprise! We have an Entertainment Centre, where you'll get to eat and play and have all sorts of fun! You'll even get to meet Faro the Ferasan and have a great time! But you need to be good and obedient and follow our instructions!"

Tension rose among the new arrivals, sparked by the cubs not wishing to be separated from their families, and vice versa -- she understood that feeling. When Ferasans came to collect the cubs, Caitians began protesting, asking to escort the cubs to the Entertainment Centre, or to bring them in the Labs to ensure that everything was going to be fine. Cubs began wailing.

"Please, Cousins!" Ubara-Tul called out, "You need to stay calm! All is as it is meant to be!"

A Ferasan swept up Srira, as he cried out, "MAMA!"

That did it. R'Taara went to retrieve him, but another Ferasan roughly shoved her backwards. Horrified at being treated like that, driven by his cries, driven by her own fear and outrage, she turned to Ubara-Tul, striding up to him and demanding, "Give me my son back!"

The Camp Commander offered an open paw and a confident, mollifying tone. "Please, Ma'am, you need to stay calm... you need to follow instructions-"

"DAMN IT, I WANT MY CUB-"

The rest of her protest was lost as he drove his fist into her stomach. She doubled over, her pain blocking the sounds of horror from the other Caitians who witnessed it... but not the cries of Srira being taken away.

Or the growl of the Ferasan who now dropped to one knee beside R'Taara, grasping a pawful of her blonde mane and lifting up her head to face him, as he intoned, "You need to shut your bitch mouth, and do as you're told. Assuming you don't want to see any harm come to your whiny little cub." Louder now, he added, "Technicians! Get the Breeders inside and out of this heat! Take the rest to the Factory!"

R'Taara wanted to struggle, to protest, to cry out, to call for help from the other, equally-terrified Caitians. They couldn't do this. They had rights! THEY COULDN'T DO THIS!

She still thought this as she was lifted up and dragged inside.

*

THREE HOURS, TWO MINUTES, FIFTY-NINE SECONDS, FIFTY-EIGHT, FIFTY-SEVEN...

Ferasan Occupational Headquarters, Capitol, First City, M'Mirl Province:

When he was a cub, Nusum-Adu would stay in the background and study his father as he dealt with others: other Pride members, subordinates, potential allies and definite enemies. He may have been the quietest, most unassuming of his father's three sons, but he also knew that he had been the most intelligent, the most observant. And, as he was the only one to have survived the Caitian Campaign, that must have meant something. He learned his father's many moods, his many scents and expressions and tone of voice.

Today, as he conducted the latest Status meeting, Nusum-Adu kept studying his father, seeing a concealed expectation, an anticipation. He had something planned, and he was keeping it to himself. And Nusum-Adu didn't like being kept out of the proverbial loop; especially not as he was now shouldering the burden of administering to the occupation of an entire planet, while his father took the glory.

They sat on opposite ends of the conference table, with the Pridemasters serving in various capacities here sat on one side of the table, providing their respective reports. The other side of the table was occupied by only two figures: Welros, the Vorta representative of the Dominion, silently observing the proceedings, and the Caitian Renthri Lessade, a former minor Governor here, whom Melem-Adu elevated to the symbolic post of First Minister in order to act as a mouthpiece, but who had since proved to be about as useful as a glove for a snake.

Then Nusum-Adu commenced. "Before we begin, Pridemaster Lu-Shalim has demanded an audience with the Master Governor on what he claims is urgent business."

The elderly bone-furred male grunted. "There is no 'claim' about it, cub! I am here to protest the killing of my second born male, Warad-Elil, today, by the Hunter Prime. He came to the Shall Clanlands where my son led a Pack lying in wait for the return of the Hrelles, and callously murdered him! For no damn reason!"

Nusum-Adu tensed at the sound of the name; he had his own humiliating encounter with Valtiri, the newly-arrived Hunter Prime sent by the Patriarch to find and kill the Hrelles, though he had managed to recover and ensure no one learned about it. The gargantuan Ferasan was a low-born peasant as rough-hewn as a canvas game sack... but his strength, his savagery -- and his personal connections to the Patriarch -- were best not dismissed too easily.

"Indeed?" Melem-Adu answered simply, insouciantly, never looking up from his drink.

"Yes!" Lu-Shalim declared angrily, claws extending from his paws to rake the table. "It is an insult! Not just to my Pride, but to you as well! To all of us, working and sacrificing here for the good of our race! And I demand that something is done about it!"

Nusum-Adu tensed; you old fool, master of a minor Pride, demanding anything of my father will only ever earn you a scar or two at best...

But the Master Governor looked unoffended. "I concur wholeheartedly. You have my permission."

"Permission?"

"Yes, my permission: for you to challenge the Master Hunter in personal combat. You will then be able to avenge not only your second son's killing, but the insult to myself, to all of us. We thank you for your sacrifice."

The Pridemaster hesitated now... fear shining in his copper eyes. "M-Master Governor, I- I thought that- that you would-"

"-That I would stop you from claiming this privilege for yourself? No, Lu-Shalim. I could not be so cruel as to deny you this. Contact the Master Hunter and make the necessary arrangements. Give my regards to your successor." Now Melem-Adu met his gaze. "Now go, we have actual urgent business to attend to."

"B-But..." Lu-Shalim froze, looking around the table, seeking support, receiving none. Then he rose, turned and departed, tail drooping.

Melem-Adu looked to his son once more. "Continue."

Nusum-Adu nodded, indulging in a heartbeat of satisfaction at how Lu-Shalim had been dealt with, before returning to his duties. "Pridemaster Ubar-Sin, how is the progress on the construction of the transport ships?"

The older Ferasan glanced at Nusum-Adu with barely-contained disdain, clearly not happy with being prompted to speak by a subordinate. Or perhaps it was, as Nusum-Adu already knew, that he had less than positive news. Whichever the case, he looked to Melem-Adu to give the response. "Regrettably, Master Governor, it is falling behind.

It is due to a combination of equipment malfunctions, supply and personnel shortages. The Caitians depended much on parts and alloys imported from other worlds; now that we have cut them off from the rest of the Alpha Quadrant, they are having to improvise, manufacturing directly or taking from other vessels."

"Indeed?" Melem-Adu nodded in acknowledgement... but said nothing further.

That didn't stop Ishme-Dagan, Pridemaster of the Umber Tail Pride, sitting next to Ubar-Sin, to speak up. "You need to crack the whip, make them work!"

"Fool! This isn't some small group of prisoners we're trying to make dig a ditch! This is an operation being taken in over twenty-five locations around Cait, involving thousands of workers! We don't have the personnel to perform such an act!"

"Give me the chance and I'll-"

"You'll what? Fail, perhaps? You had one task, to find the Hrelles! One fat Caitian and his little human cub! And he ended up wiping out the Thousand Scars Pride singlepawedly! Because of you!"

"You miserable little-"

"Enough," Melem-Adu interrupted, looking to the second Ferasan. "Ishme-Dagan, have you made any progress in finding the Hrelles? Or their Rebel base? Or the source of the mysterious attack on the Jem'Hadar on the Free Seas?"

The other Ferasan blanched, his hackles rising as he stammered, "I- I- There have been difficulties with our scanning algorithms-"

"So, it's a No to all of that, then?"

"M-Master Governor-"

Melem-Adu raised a paw to silence him.

Then, out of nowhere, Lessade spoke up, albeit in a slurred fashion from heavy, frequent intoxication as he looked to Melem-Adu. "Perhaps I could speak with the workers? Offer an appeal to the Caitian sense of cooperation? I have been a most successful representative."

"Yes, as all the images I have seen of the Caitians burning you in effigy confirm. Stay quiet; if I want to hear your opinion, I'll beat it out of you."

Lessade's mouth opened as if to respond, but in a rare moment of common sense shut it again, leaving Nusum-Adu to continue the meeting. "Pridemaster Awil-Aya, you are in charge of security in Nashea Province in general... and Shanos Minor in particular."

The slate-furred Ferasan male, Master of the Shadow Muzzle Pride, with a broken sabretooth and a nicked left ear, bristled. "We are maintaining Lockdown on the city, and a communications blackout. We are controlling the food supply and distribution; the Caitians are mostly compliant as a result."

"Mostly," Nusum-Adu pointed out. "The cubs, the students there, are still holding public demonstrations... and they are somehow managing to smuggle out broadcasts of these to the rest of the planet. They are being very vocal."

"Yes," Awil-Aya admitted reluctantly. "And I confess that I have been lenient, as many of the students are females of childbearing age, who could in future be employed in the service of the salvation of our race."

Now he looked to Melem-Adu. "But I promise you, Master Governor, on my own cubs' lives, that will end today. The mewling Caitian brats will be marching again as they have done every day... but this time I have arranged a special reception for them. The Shadow Muzzle Pride has invited our cousin allies the Iron Whisper, Blood Brow and Grey Halfcrest Prides, to join us in Shanos Minor, and teach them a lesson they cannot learn in University."

"A Great Hunt?"

Awil-Aya nodded, smiling. "You are more than welcome to join us, Master Governor."

"Thank you, but affairs of state must take precedence; enjoy yourselves. Next?"

Nusum-Adu looked to the next Ferasan. "Pridemaster Bikku-Dam, your report on the Breeding Program?"

An ink-furred, broad-framed Ferasan leaned forward, clutching a datapad in his paws like a talisman against evil. "At the risk of sounding like an echo here, there have been complications. Of the thousands of female Caitians we have taken to the various camps around the planet, 62% of their ova has proven 100% resistant to enforced fertilisation by Ferasan sperm.

Of the remaining 38%, half fail at the blastocyst development stage, even with external biochemical and nanotechnological assistance. The other half... well, no embryo has survived past the development of amnion at 26 days, when the Ferasan introns appear to code themselves into various types of malignant sequencing. Then the embryo becomes something more akin to a tumour, attacking the mother until either her body successfully rejects it... or it kills her.

At the latest count, despite our best efforts, we've lost 8,400 Caitian females to Embryonic Malignancy, and almost as many have been damaged and rendered useless to our needs."

"Why is it so difficult?" Ubar-Sin demanded. "All over the Quadrant, Terrans are breeding with Vulcans, Klingons with Romulans, Bajorans with Cardassians, all running about! Caitians and Ferasans are from the same stock! Why are you failing us?"

Bikku-Dam turned to him. "I, and my fellow scientists, are not failing us. Our ancestors did. Their efforts to Augment our race were primitive by our standards, and focused on making significant changes to our very natures in a relatively short time, favouring strength and swiftness over surety.

In the generations since, further Augmentations were attempted, to produce continued increased strength, speed, endurance and resistance to disease, with no thought as to the long-term consequences. In some instances, certain Prides have attempted secret, selective Augmentation of their own lines, in their ambition to gain power and wealth, and these variant strains and mutagenic elements have spread into and polluted our genome.

Those other races you mentioned having hybrids share a confirmed genetic commonality dating back to the humanoid species code-named The Ancients; in some cases, members of those different races can successfully breed even without medical intervention. We, and the Caitians, are not part of that commonality.

As it stands now, our people's actions over the last millennium has left our genome in a state of degradation, while also treating any foreign elements introduced, such as Caitian genes, as potential threats and attacking them."

He set down his datapad and fixed his gaze on Melem-Adu. "Master Governor, what little progress we have made has been with the assistance of the Caitian geneticists, obstetricians and reproductive endocrinologists we have collected and press-ganged into serving us. They have benefitted from a historical association with other specialists like them throughout the Federation, an association we have never possessed.

If we... if we declare a cessation of hostilities now, relinquish our claim and our hold on Cait, and explain the reasons behind our actions to the Federation, given their philanthropic nature, perhaps they would be willing-"

"Pridemaster," Melem-Adu interrupted evenly. "In recognition of your service to date to our cause, I am going to give you the opportunity to not finish your treasonous suggestion, and thus save yourself from being eviscerated on this table."

Bikku-Dam... and everyone else... froze. Except for Welros, who simpered with some amusement, as Melem-Adu turned in place, set down his cup and addressed them. "All of you: I am well aware that our operations here have not gone as smoothly as planned... mostly because of the Caitians, who are proving to be more rebellious than expected. One can't blame them, I suppose; we certainly would not just lie back and show our belly to invaders.

But neither can we allow this to continue.

But soon, soon they'll understand. And then I expect everything else will fall into place."

Nusum-Adu blinked, waiting for more, but was left nonplussed... and judging from the scents and expressions of the other Ferasans present, he was not singular with such a reaction. But his position left him with the unenviable task of responding. "May one ask what you have planned that will make everything else... fall into place?"

His father lifted up his cup again and raise it in salute. "One may ask." Then he drank again.

Still no one reacted -- until Welros clapped his small, pale, oatmeal-hued hands in applause and smiled. "Lovely! How very dramatic! I do hope that whatever you have planned will live up to our expectations, Master Governor!"

Melem-Adu drained his cup and threw it away, seemingly pausing to listen to it bounce with a clang on the polished marble floor and roll away. "I'm still working out the details, Vorta, but... I don't think you, or your Dominion masters, will be disappointed."

Nusum-Adu managed to catch his father's eyeline, hold it as long as he could, silently entreating him to let his son in on what he had planned. But nothing was forthcoming.

"Well," Lessade announced with a slur. "This has been most productive. Shall we have some drinks to celebrate?"