Surefoot 73: The Longest Day

The other female made a dubious sound. "It might strengthen the confidence of the rest of the Council if you confirmed that the Captain of the Crooked Tail is aware of the restrictions. In my experience, those in the military are not exactly geniuses." She looked to Mrorr, who had bristled at the words. "Present company excluded, of course, Fleet Captain."

Ma'Sala ground her teeth. "Hail Captain Nrari."

Seconds later, a new screen popped up, and a snow-furred, middle-aged, uniformed male with a wicked-looking scar running down the left side of his head over his eye socket, the eye a gleaming ruby cybernetic replacement. He turned to the viewscreen. "Morning, Ma'Sala Darling. Are you putting on weight in your civilian life? You look as fat as a shuris up for slaughter."

She smirked, more amused by the reactions of those around her to Nol Nrari's greeting, than with the familiar banter from the warrior, with whom she had fought alongside on more than one occasion. "It's the civvies, they're a nightmare on the figure. Are you and your crew safe?"

He nodded. "Safe as a cub on the teat. Everyone's too busy with their dance partners to look for wallflowers like us." He glanced once to his left, before adding, "It's a hell of a sight, Ma'Sala. We're keeping an eye out for the Surefoot and the Ajax, the ships with your family onboard."

She raised her snout to the screen, feeling the reactions from her political opponents. "Captain, I didn't order you to the Cardassian Border for personal reasons. You are there to observe the battle, gather intelligence and relay it to us. Nothing more. And if you're spotted and attacked, you leave the area. We've lost enough ships already this year. Is that clear?"

Nrari tensed, his usual bombast suppressed for once, and Ma'Sala could see the unspoken conflict in his reaction to her orders. "If that's what you want, Madame First Minister."

We both know what I want, Old Friend. Mother Damn It, why did I give up the military for the labyrinthine ballache nightmare that is Politics? "It is. Observe. Nothing more."

*

On the other side of Cait, on the Shall Clanlands, Kami Hrelle knew she shouldn't have sat down to watch the news. As thorough as the Federation and Caitian Media Services were, there would be nothing of specific significance to her and the family about Esek and Sasha and C'Rash and T'Varik and all the others she knew and loved, out there at the battlefront, hundreds of light years away.

Besides, Mama was in a better position than anyone else on the planet to get relevant intelligence. And Kami had too much to do today, even beyond her morning appointments.

And her mood was affecting the cubs... at least her older one, who was trying to hide behind the open doorway to the main living room. "Happy Landing Day, Cub of Mine."

Misha poked his head fully around the corner, the youngster staring at the viewscreen. "What's going on? You, Grampa and Grumpy, all you smell scared. Is it Papa? Is he okay?"

Kami debated for a moment lying to him, giving him an opportunity to spend one more day without the spectre of a terrible end to what was supposed to be a celebration. But that was more for her selfish needs than for his sake.

She switched off the Cynet broadcast, rose to her feet and walked up to him, determined to tell him the truth, but in a controlled, measured fashion. "There's a big battle in space. Starfleet, the Klingons and the Romulans are all working together, fighting the Dominion."

Misha's eyes lit up enthusiastically. "Papa and Sasha and Godmama and Cousin C'Rash and Uncle Weynik fight good! They protect us!"

Kami swallowed, kneeling down and straightening out his school uniform. "Yes. Yes, they do. But we still worry for them, and hope that they stay safe, don't we?"

Misha nodded, letting his mother hug him tightly and breathe in his scent, until he started fidgeting. "Mama! Gotta go to school! Ms Praow needs my help! We go visit the First Day 'Morial in Stonebay! I help keep the little cubs in line!"

Kami fought back her tears as she nodded and pulled back, smiling as she pinched his cheeks. "Aww, I'm so proud of my helpful little baby!"

He growled and rubbed either side of his muzzle. "Mama! I'm not a baby!"

"Misha? What's wrong?" The large-framed, golden-furred figure of Kami's father Mi'Tree appeared and drew up to them, dressed in a resplendent green tunic and kilt, his tail swishing behind him. Then he saw the scene and chuckled. "Oh, Dear Grandcub, I fear your mother will be doing that to you for the rest of your life. But we should get moving if you're to get to school on time."

Kami rose to her feet, rubbing her muzzle against Mi'Tree's. "And if you're to give his friends a sneak preview of the next Taleteller story, too?"

The elderly male harrumphed. "All Misha's friends want these days is stories about his sister Sasha, the Tailless Cub Kaetini, who apparently saved the Motherworld single-pawedly." He grunted, straightening out the lapels of his tunic and the gold bands on his furry forearms. "Nothing said about my contribution to our liberation."

Kami smirked, despite her underlying anxieties for her absent loved ones. "You will pass on my invitation to Ms Praow and her cub to join us for First Landing celebrations, won't you?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Then he frowned. "But are you still sure we should go on with it? They're still working on the house, and with all the terrible news from the Cardassian Front-"

"Terrible?" Misha echoed.

"No, Misha, not terrible, just unknown. Your grandfather is exaggerating." Kami fixed a reproving stare on her father. "Esek and the others would expect us to continue to live as normally as possible... and we could all do with the distraction today, until we hear the outcome. Now, go take your grandcub to school, then get back here and help me with the party preparations. And I expect a First Landing speech from you tonight worthy of a S'Ralcha Award."

Mi'Tree quickly warmed to the idea, his voice taking on the confident soothing tone she needed. "Rest assured, my sweet cub, I will deliver an inspirational piece worthy of the Giants... of which I am most assuredly one."

"Grumpy!" Misha growled, tugging at his paw. "You take me to school now!"

"Be good!" Kami waved them off, as she turned away, her stomach beginning to protest at the lack of attention from her. But instead she walked past the kitchen -- after stopping inside for a freshly-baked pastry -- and proceeded to the deck in the rear of the house, overlooking what was once the Remembrance Gardens, and the path to the Clan's beach, fishing dock, and various sailboats.

There was still work ongoing on the house... or rather, on the emergency shelter beneath the house, to judge from the technicians lifting and shifting equipment and optronic networks down through the open shelter doors. The builders and decorators had been successful in duplicating the look of the Clanhouse, but the shelter was a new addition demanded by Mama: a self-sufficient facility that could accommodate and protect the family, and even activate hidden weapons and security devices in and around the house.

Kami hated the idea of militarising her home... but then she remembered the terror, the vulnerability, of when that Ferasan Pride had invaded this same home, killed her aunt S'Graow and nearly killed Papa Mi'Tree, before blowing up the house itself. And had it really been only a few months ago?

But then her attention turned to the right, where her infant daughter Sreen sat up in her playpen, the exoframe compensating for her Neurodystraxia visible on the exposed furred parts of her body. She was looking out at the workers, babbling instructions to them in imitation of what she had seen their supervisor doing.

Nearby, her father Bneea leaned against the railing of the deck, watching the work while sipping from a steaming coffee mug in his paws. "Good morning, Daughter of Mine." He frowned at the pastry in her paw. "That's all you're having for breakfast?"

"It's all I think I can manage right now, Papa." She nodded to the workmen. "Aren't they done yet?"

"I'm told they'll clean up and be gone by midday." He indicated Sreen. "Or they'll answer to our Warrior Princess."

As if in illustration, Sreen poked her stubby paw out of her playpen at one of them. "Gabba Gaw Go! No mo!"

Kami chuckled, finished the pastry and lifted up her cub. "That's quite enough, My Princess. I want you rested up today for the party tonight."

Bneea followed them indoors. "And how are you doing? With the news from the Frontlines?"

"You mean, with the lack of it?" She stopped and side, adjusting her hold on Sreen in her arms. "I'm not used to being on this end; I'm usually out there with Esek and the others, not in the sidelines. Not that I'm not glad to be safe here with Misha and Sreen, but..." She shook her head, breathed out and looked to him. "I have a Cynet meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes with the new Commissioner on Ferasan Affairs, offering guidance on helping Valtiri and the other Refugees at the Hope Community. But if Mama calls from the Capitol with any news-"

"I'll let you know." He peered at her over his spectacles, before moving in and rubbing the side of his muzzle against hers. "They'll be fine. Esek is a survivor. They all are. They always survive."

"Yes." She turned and moved towards the nursery, to settle Sreen down for her morning nap before Kami went to the office for her call. Yes, they always survive.

Until the day they don't.

*

USS Ajax, the Front - Stardate Armageddon:

Captain Weynik gripped the arms of his chair a little more tightly than usual, not wanting to fly out of it at the next sharp bank and look like a rag doll in a tornado. It was bad enough trying to maintain respect in a Galaxy of giants... "Watch the Scarabs on our left!"

Behind him, Sasha was doubling as his Tactical Officer, having the most practical experience among the senior crew, apart from himself. "Quantum torpedo launched at lead Scarab!"

Beside her, Weynik's First Officer, the Zakdorn Kohanim, looked to her, his flabby oatmeal-coloured face looking paler with stress. "One? Why only one-"

But his question was answered as the torpedo struck the lead Scarab ship, the Jem'Hadar vessel exploding in a blossom that fed debris backwards towards the following Scarabs, damaging or making them scatter. It's gonna be a long day, Mr Kohanim, and we only have so many torpedoes. "Good work, Lieutenant, keep our aft covered, they'll be following us in. Mr Lirik, get us to our target, we're burning daylight."

"Aye, Sir." Sitting ahead of Weynik, his new Vulcan Flight Officer carried on as if the greatest battle in Galactic History wasn't happening around them.

How about spreading some of that unflappability around to the rest of us? Weynik thought. "Where are our partners in crime?"

Kohanim glanced at his panel. "The December, Surefoot, and Grappler are converging on the target, ETA 30 seconds."

"Nothing from Papa Cat yet?" His black Roylan eyestalks drooped; he thought he could see the target for the makeshift squadron up ahead: a Breen warship, a massive asymmetrical vessel that seemed to resemble nothing more than a collection of broken bat'leth blades welded back together in a random stack by some drunken demigod. How anyone can find their way around inside one of those, let alone operate it...

And the orders indicated Captain Hrelle would be in command of the impromptu task force. It was the only way a battle this size could be fought, by parcelling up the sections of it rather than awaiting orders from a central source. And Weynik had no problem with that; his Brother in Arms had a gift for this sort of thing, especially at short notice, and Weynik preferred to focus on bringing the noise.

But still, this was not the time for Hefty to leave them in the dark until the last second. "Contact the Surefoot-"

"Wait!" Sasha shouted over the din. "They've sent us our orders! Take us under the ventral side! To their belly!"

Weynik nodded, guessing their part in it. "You heard the lady, Linik!" Meanwhile he took the moment to check out the other ships, seeing the Sabre-class Surefoot and Nova-class December dodge around the Breen warship's disruptor fire to focus on the support struts holding the curved sections of the vessel together, while the Grappler, a Bulldog-class salvage tug -- a tug? Really? It has clamps and phaser cutters, not real weapons! What good is that gonna be in a fight? Why not give us a garbage scow while we're at it? -- dove in closer.

Then the Ajax was underneath, Sasha letting loose a volley from the phaser pulse cannons, the bolts making the larger ship's shields flare in protest, even as ventral disruptor cannons fired back, making the Ajax shudder and Weynik grip his seat more fiercely. "What next, Sash?"

"Up and around! We're targeting their weapons pods! Buying time for the others!"

Buying time for what? Weynik wondered- then shook it aside, knowing he would have his answers soon enough. He watched as they arced sharply upwards, twisting and diving down from above in a stomach-churning manoeuvre.

And then he saw what good a salvage tug could be in battle, as the vessel -- small and box-shaped, but with mechanical clamps, phaser cutters and engines as powerful as a Defiant-class ship like the Ajax -- had secured itself onto the Bridge module of the Breen warship, too close for the Enemy's own weapons, leaving the Grappler free to cut away efficiently, relentlessly-

And then rip the entire Bridge module from the rest of the enemy vessel, like a Roylan spider decapitating its prey, as Weynik saw Breen bodies and other debris haemorrhage into space from the warship's fatal wound. Bloody Hemra... it was one thing to see ships blow each other from a distance with phasers and torpedoes...

The Breen warship, bereft of control, began drifting away from the momentum of its own beheading, towards some nearby Cardassian ships, who now had to separate from each other to avoid collision. Meanwhile the Grappler released its prize to the void.

"One down, a thousand more to go," he muttered, more loudly ordering, "Who's next?"

*

ShiKar City, Planet Vulcan:

It was winter, the overall temperature having dropped to a frosty thirty-six degrees Centigrade, but the season wasn't what sent a chill through the twelve-year-old Vulcan boy standing before the viewscreen, watching the broadcast about the battle. It was not logical, he knew, to have such a reaction to events over which he was not directly involved in, had no control over, and no doubt he would receive a reprimand from his school masters for such unseemly displays.

But he continued to feel. To deny our emotions, his aunt had taught him, Is to deny reality. Emotions are as much a part of us as our blood. But, like our blood, it is best to not allow either to flow from oneself unchecked.

The Vulcan newscaster offered the probability of victory for the Alpha Quadrant Armada. The probability... was formidable.

"Srithik!"

The boy gathered his reserve, turned and left the room, knowing she awaited him in the study. He mentally calculated a 94% probability that the reason for her summons would be punitive in nature, with an equivalent likelihood of the cause. "Mother?"

Nivor stood, clad in the formal burgundy robes awarded to City Councillors, in preparation for her forthcoming interview to discuss her plans following her recent success in the elections. "You were watching the news again."

He straightened up, folding his hands behind his back. "It is logical to remain knowledgeable about current events."

"You are being deceptive. You are interested because she is undoubtedly involved in that disgraceful affair."

Srithik noted the subtle shift in his mother's tone as she made an obvious reference. "Aunt T'Varik did mention her participation in actions against the Dominion; it is logical to assume that she would be among those engaged in the current battle."

Nivor faced him fully, as if the display of her robes of office might lend weight to her authority with him. "I know you have been secretly communicating with her, and with your uncle."

The twelve-year-old boy raised a broad chin. "The communication has not been secret, Mother. You have simply displayed no interest in my activities until now."

She glared at him. "I will not tolerate insolence!"

Then do not inspire it, he told himself, instead responding vocally with, "Forgive me, Mother, but as far as I was aware, you wished to cultivate a public image espousing traditional Vulcan values such as family. It is, after all, the only reason you produced me, as a figure to include in publicity as and when appropriate."

"That much is true."

"Then surely a further connection with Uncle Pedalk and Aunt T'Varik could only assist towards that?"

She crossed her arms. "You have no perspicacity regarding politics. Admittedly Pedalk has improved himself marginally by abandoning his ambitions to be a writer and focusing on being a menial. T'Varik, however, is a fascist lackey of the human-dominated Starfleet war machine. She is a war criminal, a disgrace to our race. I will not allow my reputation to be tarnished by your continued association with the likes of her, and the sooner she ends up a casualty of this War, the better."

He stiffened, unable to disguise his shock at her words. "Mother... I accept your politics are irreconcilable with Aunt T'Varik's, but do you truly wish her dead? She remains your sister."

Nivor sneered. "And you remain a disappointment, a weak, pitiful, emotional source of embarrassment for me. You will cease further discussion on this subject, and further contact with her... and you will cease further enquiries about applying for Starfleet Academy; yes, I have been monitoring your computer activities. You will go to the Vulcan Civil Service Academy following graduation, and pursue a career in the Diplomatic Corps, as I have planned. And as long as you remain under my roof, you will obey me. Is that clear?"

Srithik stared at her mother, debating arguing further, before acceding to himself the pointlessness of it all. Formally he replied, "It is clear. May I go to my room?"

"You may go anywhere; it is of no concern to me, I have wasted more than enough of my valuable time managing you."

He departed, returning to his bedroom, regarding the telescope set up on his balcony, the telescope given to him by Aunt T'Varik, to enlighten him, not just on the things outside of his normal vision, but the possibilities beyond the here and now.

He rechecked the news for any updates on the battle at Cardassia, finding none. Wishes are illogical things, he acknowledged to himself. But still, I wish that you survive today, Aunt T'Varik. You and your Caitian partner. And that we meet again.

Then, he put his contingency plan into action, and began packing a bag. His mother, after all, technically did confirm to him that he could go anywhere.

*

USS Triton, Holodeck 4, the Front:

Professor Tallus tried to stay focused on not staying focused, as the older Roylan female moved about the huge, wide pit around the ship's children, supervising their digging. "That's it! Let's see how many gold coins you can find!"

The Holodeck had recreated an excavation site of an ancient Orion settlement she had worked on Nelsak III... but altered to fill the dirt with easily-found treasures, to keep her grandchildren, Naida and Jaxan, and the young children of the crew of the Triton, distracted and out of danger within the secured room, while the battle raged beyond.