Surefoot 80: Heroes' Race

As for the senior Hrelles: my old friend looks like he was rolled down a mountain in a barrel full of rocks, but I know him, he'll live. His wife appears uninjured, but emotionally affected by her time in captivity. I know them both. They're survivors.

<BARK!>

Our Ship's Mascot Ajax agrees with me. Or wants another treat."

*

Once the Katana's medical staff were through with their work, they left Hrelle and Kami alone in the private recovery bay. He rolled his neck and arm and flicked his tail, feeling the residual twinges expected from recently-healed bones and restitched tissue, but otherwise he felt as good as new.

It let him focus on Kami, sitting at a nearby desk, running through text on a datascreen, her scent and expression disturbing him. "Beloved?"

She never looked up, never even acknowledged him.

He hopped off the biobed and approached. "What happened? Don't shut me out, please. Did Saga-Var's son hurt you?"

She made a derisive sound. "Is that the first thing that comes to your mind, Esek? That I'm sitting here all traumatised like some flimsy melodramatic female over being assaulted? That I was the victim today?"

He dropped down to one knee beside her, taking her furred paw in his. "No. I saw you. You did what you had to do to survive-"

Kami shook her head as she regarded him. "It's more than that. I wasn't using my teeth and claws and Starfleet self-defence training this time. I was using my gifts, my real gifts: my empathy, my perspicacity and patience. The gifts I use to heal the minds and bodies of those who have been hurt by life.

Instead, I used them to hurt someone. ThirdSon wasn't evil. He was an angry, bitter cub who just wanted the recognition, the respect, that his father gave his brothers. And I used him, manipulated him, into reacting the way I wanted him to react, into doing what I wanted him to do. And that feels a thousand times worse than if I had clawed out his throat." Her face tightened. "What will Saga-Var do to him? Will he kill him?"

Hrelle stared back, knowing he couldn't lie to her, or avoid the inevitable. "He could. Or he could just banish him. I've encountered Kzinti Renegades: males rejected by their Prides, their very society, banding together for mutual support, scraping a living on the outskirts of their Patriarchy.

Kami, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you were put in that position."

"But you're not sorry I did it."

"Kam-"

"That's not meant to be accusatory. I'm not sorry, either. That's the worst of it, for me. That I would do it again, a hundred times over. I know you understand that feeling."

He nodded sympathetically, purring and holding her tighter. "What can I do to help?"

She glanced back at the viewscreen. "When I learned from ThirdSon about the condition his father had, I had told half a truth about our having a similar disease.

As it turns out, there is one, or at least the closest thing to one: Forrester-Trent Syndrome. And there's a neuro-stabilisation regimen that has worked very well for felinoids reported to have contracted it."

"So?"

"The ships near the Border, will they still be able to track Saga-Var's ships?"

He nodded, though he felt a growing unease as to where her line of thought was leading. "You really want to transmit the data on the treatment to them? To help the male who had abducted and threatened us? Who had nearly killed me?"

She looked back at him. "And what did you take away from your time with Saga-Var?"

He grunted as he shifted his position on the floor. "Me? That I'm too old and fat to keep fighting like I used to." At her expression, he relented. "Yes, I related to him, on some level. And maybe he felt the same with me. That wasn't going to stop him from killing and eating me."

She said nothing in reply. She didn't need to.

Now he ground his teeth. "Have Dr Jiyajh put together the necessary data package, and ask Weynik to bounce it to the al-Razi."

She squeezed his paw back. "Thank you, Esek."

"But next time you want to get away from it all, we go no further than the Holodeck, is that clear?"

"Oh absolutely, Big Commode," she replied, offering him a mock salute.

He shook his head.

*

Ange Boladede sat at the desk in the common room of the guest quarters that Macbeth Squad shared on the Katana, focused on stripping and restoring a Security tricorder, listening to the activity around him without letting it distract him. His squadmates gave him much practice.

"Oh come on, Furball!" Gela was repeating in frustrated indignation. "Just own up already! It's an orgy, right?"

The Caitian sighed, standing before the full-length mirror checking out the loose, informal black and gold Caitian civilian tunic and tripartite kilt, tugging nervously at his sleeves and adjusting the gold armbands and tailbands. "I've said it a hundred times already, there's nothing sexual happening. It's... cultural, that's all."

"Orgies can be cultural," Gela continued, stroking his huge ears. "It's not fair, going on a Bumper Call and not bringing your best friend! I'm not fussy! I don't mind Sloppy Seconds!"

Nearby, Spychalski and Denek sat on either side of a kal-toh board, the human reaching out repeatedly as if to make the next move, before withdrawing pausing to comment, "You're a class act, Ferengi."

"Indeed," Denek agreed, her Vulcan patience visibly tested by her opponent's continued delays. "You are not helping to alleviate the popular perception of your people as being salacious." She reached across the uneven stack of holographic bars to indicate one section near Spychalski's side. "Perhaps if you chose that piece, we might conclude this game before tomorrow?"

"Don't rush me, matches like this aren't won quickly."

"They are if you are one of the players, and do not delay the inevitable."

Gela ignored them, drawing closer to C'Riir. "Five slips of latinum if you bring me along?" He rubbed his hands together with delight. "Or maybe just bring back some of the delectable Hellcat's underwear as a souvenir?"

Suddenly Boladede bolted to his feet, turning to Gela, his hands baked into fists. "Stop talking about her in that manner, you miserable wretch!"

The rest of the occupants of the room looked over at him in shock, just as Squad Leader Nash entered from the bathroom, clad in scruffy off-duty wear, her scarlet hair frazzled from the sonic shower, and with a bemused look on her face. "What's going on?"

Before anyone else could respond, Boladede turned to her now, while pointing at Gela. "This fool continues to speak in disrespectful terms about a decorated, superior officer! He brings disgrace to our Squad!"

Nash was nonplussed by the unexpected outburst, but quickly regained her composure, turning to Gela. "Enough of this crap! There'll be no more disrespectful talk, and no more pestering C'Riir! Whatever he's doing is his business! Is that understood?"

C'Riir turned to her, looking grateful. "Thank you, Squad Leader. If you'll excuse me?"

As he departed, Gela threw up his hands in mock defeat, before moving to the couch beside Spychalski and Denek, studying the match. "I lay odds of 500 to 1 that Janusz wins this match."

"Hey!" Spychalski protested.

"Mr Gela is overestimating your skills," Denek informed him.

Boladede quickly put away the tricorder pieces and rose to move to the sleeping quarters- only to be intercepted by Nash, appearing concerned, her voice lowered to a confidential whisper. "Ange, are you okay? I'd heard that it had been rough fighting over on the Kzinti ship. I know they patched you up, and you'll have official Counseling sessions, but if you ever want to have a private, informal talk, I'm always available."

He focused on regaining his composure. "Thank you, but I believe I will go to bed early. If you'll excuse me?"

"What? Oh yes, yes, of course." She stepped aside, allowing him to enter the darkened room, dominated by the three bunk beds with individual lighting strips and privacy screens.

He undressed briskly, carefully folded and stored away his uniform and slid into one of the lower bunks, drawing the privacy screens shut. He lay there, staring up at the low ceiling of the upper bunk. The darkness and solitude helped him recover from the lengthy proximity he had to endure with the collection of idle, weak fools that comprised his squad. That comprised most of Starfleet, it seemed.

It had been a gnawing realisation since he had gone against his family's wishes and joined this organisation. He had taken the oath with the best of intentions: to help support Starfleet following the losses it had suffered during the War. There had been so much.

And, looking at his fellow cadets, and more than a few officers and enlisted personnel, he could understand why. So very few were ready to face threats like the Kzinti.

He reached under his pillow and drew out his PADD, unlocking the multiple encryption locks he had established in order to access the contents: still images and videos, news articles, Starfleet logs, Caitian news programs. All centred around one subject: Sasha Eismann Hrelle, the exception to his derision.

He went to his favourite image, the first image he ever saw of her, one taken years before, on Stardate 49568.2, five years before, the day she graduated from Starfleet Academy... and led her fellow cadets in the rescue efforts around the campus following a Dominion terrorist attack.

He had been fourteen years old at the time, in the San Francisco Bay Area with his family on an assignment providing security upgrades to the Michel Shipping offices, when he watched the news after the attack, and saw Sasha Hrelle, someone who didn't look that much older than him, but moving, acting with such confidence, such maturity.

He kept track of her, even as he entered Starfleet Academy when he came of age, watching her many trials, her many triumphs. He had learned everything he could about her, and it was all he could do to control himself in her presence when he learned he would be part of the cadets continuing their education at Salem One... and then serving onboard Sasha Hrelle's very own vessel!

Admittedly, he had erred during the training session. He had tried to show off, to impress her, to prove himself to her. He had been uncharacteristically impetuous and immature. One did not try to impress a supreme warrior like Sasha Hrelle, not in a training session.

No, it had to be in a real fight, with real foes.

It had been an honour to stand beside her, to see her fight in the flesh, to hear her grunt and smell her sweat... and, when no one was looking, taste the blood she had spilled on the deck of the Kzinti ship. She had been strong. She had been savage.

She had been utterly beautiful.

Yes, in his continued haste to impress her, he had made himself look foolish. Nevertheless, afterwards, he had demonstrated his worthiness to her.

And he would make sure that there would be another chance. And another. And another. He would force her to see him, to appreciate him.

And she would be his.

*

Sasha grunted as she tried not to rub or scratch her repaired face, before rolling her neck to work out the residual aches.

Mori drew up and placed his paws on her shoulders, working on her muscles until she purred and leaned back against him. "Oh, Stud, you're definitely looking for some tonight."

He purred back, drawing in to breathe in her scent. "As opposed to any other night?" He nuzzled against her neck. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"For worrying about you over there. I've heard horror stories about the Kzinti. I know how capable you are, Sash, but still-"

She nudged him. "Don't ever apologise for worrying about me, okay? As for the Kzinti, they're a Hell of a lot tougher than I expected... but nothing more than I can handle. "

"I believe it." Mori began purring against her. "It's very good of you to do this for C'Riir."

She closed her eyes, inwardly reciting her mantras to help continue accepting the events of the day... and what was still to come. "It's nothing. I just imagine how I would have felt in his place during the Occupation."

"Still, it won't be easy. I'm still dealing with it."

Sasha turned in place and embraced him, drinking in his scent. "We both are. Now I'm sorry. I planned this assuming you'd go along with it. You don't have to be here for this."

"Hush. It'll be good for all of us."

Their door chimed, and they parted, Sasha straightening out her own Caitian casuals and responding. "Enter."

The door slid open, and C'Riir entered formally. "Ma'am, Cadet Nes C'Riir reporting-"

She raised a hand to him. "No need for that. Relax, come in." She stepped aside, as Mori drew up, nodding to him.

Before Sasha led them to the centre of the room, and the display on the low round stone table: a circle of small unlit candles, surrounding a clay pot containing a tiny shrub of snow-white Caitian sablewood blossoms.

She watched as the young cadet drew closer, drinking in the scent of the flowers, smiling. "I didn't know there were any plants from the Motherworld onboard!"

She smiled. "We brought some back with us, we have a small corner of the Arboretum onboard set aside. It's good for meditation, or just a reminder of Home." She indicated the table.

The males descended, Sasha joining them, all kneeling at equidistant points around the table, as she prepared the lighter. "You're from the Mrestir Province, aren't you?"

The cadet. "Yes, Lieutenant Commander."

She shook her head, adjusting the ring of candles. "It's 'Sasha' here tonight, Nes."

Mori nodded. "And I'm Mru. No ranks in here. Not for this."

"I almost invited Dad and Kami along," Sasha added. "But they're still recovering from their experience today."

C'Riir breathed out in relief. "I'm glad you didn't! I made a complete fool of myself the last time I met the Old Cat-" Then he gasped, his bronze eyes widening. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean that!"

Sasha chuckled. "Forget it; you wouldn't believe what I've called him." Sasha broke off a twig, breathing in and out. "We are here to commemorate those we lost in the Season of the Seven Hells. We do this not to wallow in grief or anger or self-pity, but because we believe that no one ever truly dies, as long as all the good they have done, all the lives they have touched, live on. And so we share our memories of these spirits, to ensure they live on."

She lit the end of the twig. "Tonight I commemorate Mistress Nvell, the Head of the Kaetini Order, who had brought me into their exalted ranks, and taught me, and led the members of our Order in reaching out across the planet, working in open and in secret to fight the Ferasans."

She smiled. "She was foul-mouthed and crotchety and never allowed things around her to get too serious, and she died exactly the way she wanted: in defence of the Motherworld." She lit the candle nearest her, handing the burning twig to C'Riir.

The younger male stared at the flickering flame, his gaze narrowing as if hypnotised. "Tonight I commemorate Ssarin, my first boyfriend. We grew up together in Meregreen, and he had the most exquisite singing voice, able to croon the pants off of anyone... literally, in my case. Ssarin swore that when he was old enough he would go off to Shanos Major and join Frana Mhan's Opera Company, and that I would come along and bask in his fame.

Instead, I left and joined Starfleet, and he stayed and joined the Militia. He was stationed at Syeya when the Ferasans dropped their bombs on all the bases on the Motherworld. I will always remember his songs." He lit a candle nearest him, passing the twig to Mori.

The other male let the twig move between thumb and forefinger, to keep it lit. "Tonight I commemorate Captain Majes Biggleshen, leader of the 40th Aerobatics Squadron, the Skycats. He was dashing, debonair, stalwart, humble, a paladin who embraced the ideals of our ancestors in keeping the ancient art of aerofighting alive, and led the Skycats to an incredible victory over Navron against odds that still stagger me to this day. We owe them a debt that can never paid." He lit a candle of his own, and passed the twig back to Sasha.

She saw how little was left of the twig, and used it to light another, for another round. They would run out of twigs, run out of candles, before they ran out of people to commemorate tonight... but this was not a contest. It was a means of helping those who survived... survive. Survive, and move on to make precious use of the life they have left.

Sasha included. She had resisted participating in such a ceremony since leaving Cait. She wasn't ready then. She was, now, and could fully move to address the challenges they would face in the Salem Sector.

And if the worst they face here is the Kzinti, they'll all be sitting pretty...

*

Unknown Space, Blockade Runner Green Death:

"Shipmaster!"

Nesrac Sur was in his quarters, finishing a roasted targ leg and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, when he belched and hit the intercom. "What is it?"

"An incoming transmission for you, Shipmaster."

Nesrac dropped the leg bone on the plate on his desk, waited for more, and then prompted, "And will I be honoured to know at any time in the near future who is contacting me?"

"A... Surinh Dag, Shipmaster."

The young Orion frowned, his olive brow creasing. That name... that name was familiar- "Put it through."

Seconds later, a broader, older Orion with a thick nose and scars on his right temple appeared on the desk viewscreen. And then the recognition struck the younger Orion. "I know you!"

"Nesrac Sur, I am calling-"

The Shipmaster reached for his waiting bottle of Saurian brandy and uncorked it. "You used to be all Supernova on the Deathmatch Circuit!"

"Nesrac Sur, I am calling because I have-"

Nesrac chuckled as he poured the dark violet liquid into a glass. "I heard the Syndicate cleaned you like a pair of shit-covered boots!"

Surinh glared at him. "Nesrac Sur, I am calling because I have a proposal for you-"

He raised his glass to the screen in mock salute. "How long did it take after they stopped screwing you before you could sit down again without it hurting?"

The old Orion stopped speaking, and the screen went black.

Nesrac stared at the viewscreen for a moment, before shrugging to himself and downing the contents of his glass in one shot. That was one of the weirder calls he had ever taken, and from the last person he had ever expected. He remembered the Deathmatch shows, and seeing Surinh Dag, the High Lord of It All, showing off his wealth and power. Men looked up to him. But that was a long time ago.

"So where are you now, you misbegotten old bastard?" he asked himself aloud, ready to pour another glass.

"Behind you," Surinh replied.

The younger Orion barely had a chance to react, before the older Orion grabbed him by the shoulders of his jacket, twisting and pulling him out of his chair and slamming him into the nearest wall, driving a fist into Nesrac's lower back, striking his kidneys and sending him to the floor.

Then the older Orion moved to the desk and poured himself a drink. "Oh, the arrogance of youth." He downed it quickly, turning to see Nesrac struggle to help himself back up. "Seriously? You're half my age. I've taken ten times the punishment I just gave you, and stayed on my feet."

Nesrac gasped, trying not to be seen holding his side as he leaned against the wall... his eye on the disruptors and knives displayed on the nearby wall. "H-How- How did you get in here- I should have been told you beamed onboard-"

Surinh poured another drink. "Your crew doesn't know. I came directly from my vessel, six light years away."