Surefoot 75: The Lion of Salem

(Author's Note: This is a prequel story, set in the same area where I will be taking the Surefoot stories, as you will have seen in the more recent stories, to set up a few locations and characters who will become prominent later)

Eighteen Years Ago:

"USS Furyk, Captain's Log, Stardate 36503.21, Captain Esek Hrelle, Recording: We have left the Miradorn freighter Morotec behind, having confiscated the Klingon contraband onboard and arrested its crew, and are returning to Station Salem One for the disposition of both. There was an... incident... involving the accidental release of toxic nerve agents on the freighter during our operation, and in compliance with environmental protocols the contaminated vessel has been sealed off and set with warning beacons.

Meanwhile, having been accidentally caught in the aforementioned incident, I am now being checked out by our Chief Medical Officer..."

*

"Well, Doctor?"

The Tellarite focused his beady black eyes on the bioreadings panel. "Captain, you really need to put on weight. You're too thin."

Hrelle grunted. "Balls."

"No, they're of expected size. Probably need emptying more."

The Caitian glared in his direction as he worked the ache from his broad shoulders. "Are you gonna put that in your official report on my condition, Doc?"

Dr Grunghrig cackled as he clacked his hooves. "I should! That'd wake up that golem Commodore Soldermann from his eternal slumbering state! But seriously, Esek, widen that waistline. It's not healthy."

Hrelle shook his mahogany mane up over his collar. "No one respects a fat Captain, Doctor." He paused, cracking the knuckles in his furry paws, still feeling the aches in his muscles and joints, though he expected it was more imagined than real. "And the poison? You took care of it all?"

"Of course. You might need a bit more exercise than usual in the coming days to prevent muscle cramps... but then you can take care of that problem at the same time as your overfull gonads."

"Always the charmer, Doc."

"And maybe in future avoid theragen nerve agents? It's not as much fun to die from as sex."

"You're obsessed." Hrelle strode out into the narrow corridors of his ship, nodding to crewmembers as he passed by, replaying the events of the previous twenty-four hours: the interception of the Miradorn smugglers, the confiscation of their contraband, the faulty drum on one of the gas canisters...

Hrelle never thought he'd feel so close to death as when he breathed in some of that theragen, and felt himself burning from the inside. Mother's Cubs...

"Captain? Are you okay? Do you need help?"

He found himself standing there, staring blankly at a concerned-looking Crewman Darnell, who was kneeling beside an opened Jefferies Tube hatch. Hrelle smiled. "Yes, Emma, thank you. A session with Doc Grunghrig is enough to leave anyone needing shore leave-"

The Red Alert Klaxon made his tail snap against the wall, and he forgot the exchange to charge forward, the crewmembers ahead of him knowing him well enough to step aside and let him get to the turbolift unimpeded, waiting until he was inside before smacking his combadge. "Report, Macready."

His First Officer's calm Creole patois was clear. "The Miradorns' customers have come for their goods, Sir. Are you on your way, or has the Doctor got you tucked up in bed with ice cream-"

"-And cookies," the human finished live as Hrelle strode onto the Bridge, stepping aside to indicate the starship on the viewscreen: a large, compact, emerald-green vessel with an ovoid primary hull, integrated nacelles and numerous weapons pods.

Hrelle took it in, his heart and tail racing with alertness as he glanced at the tactical readings from the corner of his eye, the data confirming the ship was Orion in origin, albeit a departure from their usual winged designs... and strangely similar in size and shape to the Furyk. "ID, Mac?"

Macready faced the viewscreen as well. "It's designated the Green Death, one of the new Natahv-class blockade runners. Their shields are up, their disruptors are charged."

Hrelle nodded and stepped down into the pit at the centre of the Bridge, standing beside his chair and resting his paws on his belt. "Well, let's see which bastard is rich enough to afford one of those beauties. Ms O'Reilly?"

The green-hued Orion starship on the viewscreen vanished, replaced by the image of its equally green-hued Orion owner: a broad bald male with a nose broken and reset many times, his leather harnesses festooned with sparkly jewels, his exposed skin festooned with elaborate tattoos. He grinned, displaying more jewels in his teeth. "Hello again, Captain. You're looking well."

"Hello again, Darling- Sorry, I mean Daalan."

The Orion twitched. "Really, Captain? Such childishness is ill-becoming."

"I know you are, but what am I? Nice ship. Looks too good for you, Daalan Rul."

"It's Daalan Sur now, Captain." He indicated the appropriate insignia of rank on his left shoulder pad, smiling proudly.

Hrelle raised a furred brow. "Congratulations. You're moving up in Orion society... such as it is. Who'd you have to bend over and spread for to earn that?"

The Shipmaster's triumphant expression dampened, but only a little. "That might be how you got where you are, you flea-bitten scarecrow. Me, I had a very successful season in the Markets. I even managed to corral a few Caitian cubs." He grinned again. "The Imperial Family love exotic pets."

Hrelle grunted; Daalan remained so predictable, always trying to get under his fur every time they encountered each other. "Good luck with them; one of our cubs could bring down any ten of you sickly kafirfirs. Return to Orion Space, before I forget this is Open Territory and arrest you. Or blow you to the Seven Hells."

Daalan bared his teeth again. "You have something that belongs to me, Starfleet. Hand it over, and maybe we'll let you hobble back to that shitty little station of yours rather than destroy you right here. Right now."

Hrelle crossed his arms. "That's very generous of you, Darling, but I'm going to have to decline. The Miradorn were caught with weapons stolen from a Klingon war surplus depot, and under the terms of the Khitomer Accords we're obliged to return the goods to the owners, and the thieves to Klingon justice. You're welcome to what remains of their ship; it's contaminated with nerve agent, but that shouldn't bother someone who lost his nerve long ago during that Nist heist. Remember, Darling?"

Daalan bristled, his ruby-red eyes flaring as he leaned forward, filling up more of the screen. "Things have changed since then, Caitian! Starfleet's tyrannical hold over this sector will soon come to an end! You've met your match with the Green Death, you mangy grimalkin! You will give me what's mine, or I will take it from your seared, shredded hull!"

Hrelle shrugged at that. "Well, now's a good a time as any."

Daalan blinked. "What?"

He uncrossed his arms, extending them, paws open, in seeming welcome. "To finally take me on. To revenge the spanking I gave you at Nist. To do more than just sit there and mewl your empty threats. You've talked about it enough times. So come on, let's dance."

The Orion leaned back in his chair. "Captain... you don't want to do this-"

"Don't I? Don't you know me by now?" Hrelle stepped forward. "What do they call me here, Daalan Sur?"

"Captain-"

"WHAT DO THEY CALL ME?" Hrelle suddenly roared, spitting, eyes wide, teeth bared, claws extended, making the crew at the Helm and Ops posts in front of him jump.

Daalan paled as he saw that reaction as well. "The.. The Lion of Salem Sector..."

"That's right!" Hrelle laughed deeply, boomingly, before pointing at the Orion on the screen. "Tell you what, Darling, let's make it easy on you. Mr Ellerton: drop our shields."

He almost heard the Bridge crew's collective hearts skip.

Behind him, his Tactical Officer almost squeaked, "Sir?"

"I said drop the shields."

To Hrelle's right, Macready stepped forward. "Captain-"

Never taking his eyes off of Daalen's wary face, Hrelle raised a paw to stop his First Officer, as he continued, growling, "Mr Ellerton, if I have to ask again, it will be to the one replacing you when I relieve you of duty."

Seconds later, there was a chirp, and Ellerton reported, "Shields dropped, Sir."

"Thank you, Mr Ellerton." Now he raised a paw to the viewscreen. "See, Darling? There you go. Take your best shot."

Then the paw closed into a fist. "Because I promise you... you won't get another.

And I promise you this as well: if you don't destroy us... I'm coming for you. I'll beam onboard alone, and cut down all opposition foolish enough to impede me.

And then I'll be on you like the stink on your hide.

And I'm going to feast on you."

His voice dropped to a growl, his eyes aflame. "Yes, feast on you, Daalan Sur... while you remain alive, for as long as possible, and watch me do it. Watch me take more and more and more of you. My doctor's just told me I need to put on some weight, so really, I'll just be following orders.

I swear in the name of the Great Mother Herself, Daalan Sur, I'll make it happen."

Hrelle lowered his arm. "Or... you can return to your Bridge, make your excuses to your crew, and fly off to more profitable pastures." He smiled mirthlessly now. "You have one minute. If you're still within our sensor range... I will be coming for you anyway... because now I'm curious about what Orion flesh tastes like. Ms O'Reilly?"

His Communications Officer took the cue and ended the transmission before the intimidated-looking Orion could reply. Assuming he would.

The Bridge remained tense, as if holding its collective breath.

Hrelle shook his mane and turned to the Tactical station behind him. "Mr Ellerton, what's the status of the Green Death?"

Miles Ellerton, a wide-faced, pale, bearded Terran with receding, swept-back pewter hair, glanced anxiously at his board. "They're... powering up their warp engines..." Now he looked up, past Hrelle.

The Caitian looked to the viewscreen, in time to see the Orion vessel turn on its axis and slingshot into warp space, deepree into Open Territory.

Hrelle nodded, relaxing. "At ease, Mr Ellerton, you were never in any danger of being relieved of duty. But I want an analysis of our sensor readings on that ship; if we're to face them in the future, I want to know their strengths and weaknesses. Mr Shekrev, let's get back to Salem One and offload the prisoners and contraband.

And Ms O'Reilly, contact the station, inform them of our ETA, and that I want their Engineering Team ready to finally upgrade our EPS grids as soon as we arrive. And make sure they're aware this is an Emergency Priority. I don't like that the grids nearly overloaded when we chased the Miradorn through that dark matter nebula."

He was moving to take his seat, when Macready approached. "Captain, may we speak privately, please?"

Hrelle breathed in, knowing exactly what it was all about, almost considering throwing a proverbial spanner in the works and refusing. Instead he gestured to the door to his Ready Room, leading the way inside... to the drinks cabinet. "The usual, Mac?"

"No."

Hrelle's tail swished behind him, picking up the human's change of scent. He kept his back to his First Officer as he poured himself a shot of Spican flame whiskey. "It's probably for the best, Caitians have a stronger tolerance for alcohol."

"Are they also more prone to suicide?"

He turned, cradling his shotglass in his paw without drinking... and tempered his initial defiance as he saw the genuine concern on the other officer. Unlike most of the crew, Commander Michael Macready's experience in Starfleet almost matched his own, and Hrelle couldn't just coast on his rank and veteran status. "No. We're not."

"So what in the Blue Hell was that pissing contest out there with Daalan Rul?"

"Please, it's Daalan Sur; he paid good money for that promotion, let's be respectful."

Macready's face turned russet with anger. "Do you see me laughing, Esek?"

Hrelle studied him, raising the glass to his muzzle without actually drinking anything. "No, Mac. But we were never in any real danger."

"Oh? And did your much-vaunted Caitian senses tell you that?"

"No. My experience with Daalan Sur told me that. He had contacted us privately, from the equivalent of his Ready Room, rather than publicly on the Bridge... and risk losing his nerve in front of his crew. He's a disgusting slave trafficking pig, but he's smart enough to know how lucky he was to get away from me the last time we danced. He thought he could find some resolve with his shiny new ship." He shrugged. "He was wrong."

"And do you like representing Starfleet as a force whose senior officers deliver threats of cannibalism?"

Hrelle smiled. "Cannibalism is eating members of one's own species, otherwise I could call you a cannibal every time you tuck into one of your fresh Louisiana lobsters."

"You know what I mean, Esek."

"Yes, I do. And as it happens I like representing Starfleet as a force whose senior officers prefer to make empty verbal threats to hostile powers, rather than engage in actual battle."

Macready's gaze narrowed. "You swore on the name of your Great Mother. Isn't that blasphemy to your people?"

He carried his drink over to his desk, setting it down and taking his chair, feeding his tail through the hole in the back. "The Great Mother isn't a deity, she's a mythical figure who personifies the best qualities of Caitians: compassion, mercy, generosity, parenthood. But it sounds pretty dramatic if I invoke Her name in threats." He paused. "Anything else, Commander?"

"Yes: I filed a formal protest in my logs to your taking the lead on the Miradorn ship. You should never have gone over there; the fact that you almost died is proof of that. What a stupid way to almost kick the bucket!"

"But I didn't. That's the important part." He raised the glass to his muzzle but then stopped. "'Kick the bucket'? Where does that come from?"

"I don't know, I'm not a damn entomologist!"

"That's insects. You mean etymologist-"

"Oh, shut up, you damn bag of fleas!"

Hrelle carried his drink over to his desk, setting the glass down and taking his chair, instinctively feeding his tail through the gap in the back as he watched the human pace before him. "Mac, why are you like this? It's not the first time I've got into trouble in the performance of my duty. Like Jim Kirk himself said, 'Risk is Our Business'."

"Screw Jim Kirk!"

Hrelle wagged a finger in mock scolding. "Now that's blasphemy. Or maybe a fantasy of yours-"

"Acceptable risk is our business!" He stopped and faced his commanding officer and friend, the concern bleeding through the ire. "You didn't have to go over there. You're too valuable."

"I can't stay locked up in here, Mac. And Chen, Johannes, Lixx -- they were with me, too. Would you rather have one of them exposed to that agent? Someone without the constitution to survive? They have families, cubs. I don't."

"And whose fault is that?"

"What's to fault? I'm not really interested in cubs of my own. What would I do with them? Can't have them scurrying about onboard my ship, getting into mischief."

The human drew closer and leaned against the desk, offering that judgemental gaze that Hrelle found both endearing and annoying. "Sounds like a crock of shit to me. But what about just companionship? Someone waiting for you in your quarters besides your right hand?"

Hrelle grunted, correcting, "Right paw. And the nearest Caitian female is a hundred light years away."

"Why does she have to be Caitian?" Macready smiled a little. "I know you dabbled with other races in your Academy days -- we all did -- and there had to have been some humans in there."

"Sure, you tailless apes are everywhere, like fleas on a wild shuris." Hrelle picked up his glass once more... but still didn't drink. "Are you trying to set me up with your sister again? I keep telling you, I barely notice human females now as anything, let alone attractive."

Macready smiled, relaxing a little as he shook his head. "My sister's allergic to cats... and a-holes. No, I was thinking of that blonde Station Engineer on Salem One."

Now the Caitian frowned. "You're joking."

"Why not her?"

"Because Commander Hannah Eismann is an almighty pain in my furry ass! Ever since she showed up on Salem One, every single attempt to get a decent repair or retrofit from her and her team is like digging ticks out from under my fur! She has no respect for rank or urgency, argues over the tiniest request for use of the industrial fabricators, and responds to any reasonable requests on my part with a lift of that dimpled chin and a thrust of her chest and a flare of those challenging aquamarine eyes practically daring me to swipe at her with my claws, before she insults me in that obscure Terran Radish dialect!"

Macready stared at him.

"What?"

His First Officer shrugged. "Oh nothing, I was just seeing you demonstrate how you barely notice human females as anything, let alone attractive. Oh, and I think it's Yiddish, not Radish."

Then his expression softened into something more sympathetic, sober. "I probably know you better than anyone else in this neck of the woods, Esek. I know what you had to go through to get to where you are now: back on Cait, in the Academy, rising up through the ranks. You crafted your entire life to get your ass into the Captain's seat, and that's a hell of an achievement.

But it doesn't have to be your last achievement. The romantic Jim Kirk image of the Captain with no room in their heart for anything but their ship and duty is tired... and as you enter middle age, I think you deserve to have someone else in your life worrying about you besides me."

Now he straightened up and departed.

Hrelle reached for his glass, stared into it... and set it down again, looking at the painting on the wall opposite his desk, the painting he had commissioned a few years ago of the R'Trerah Archipelago, the part of Cait where he had grown up, among fisherfolk. His Papa had expected him to follow in his footsteps and take over the business, but Hrelle chose Starfleet... and was disowned by what remained of their clan for his decision.

It hadn't been easy, nor had the subsequent years in Starfleet Academy, being harassed by the Arringtons, a trio of privileged human siblings, the children of the former Superintendent there who had worked hard to try and get him to resign, for reasons known only to them. Only his friendship with Weynik, the little Roylan Admiral's son, had alleviated his time.

But even without that support, all of that pushed him even harder to succeed, if only to spite them all. And now here he was, less than twenty years later, commanding his own starship, in charge of security for an entire sector of space. Saving lives, worlds, protecting the Federation's interests. Mac was right; that was a hell of an achievement.

But was he also right about it not having to be Hrelle's last achievement?

He finally drank. A human female? They were bizarre looking to be sure -- no tails, no fur or claws, the flat faces and strange scents -- but they weren't without their charms. And despite his protests, he admired Commander Hannah Eismann's spirit.

It had been a long time since he last had sex. With someone else. He certainly couldn't indulge with anyone onboard his current command, that would cause all sorts of problems. But one of the Salem One crew?