Surefoot 85: The Sypher King

Thirty Years Ago - Bey Emporium, Deepmere, Hsova Province, Planet Cait:

"Cins shieste acolo mar?"

"Nimeni."

The cub, named Tarim Bey by his parents, had been dragging himself from the bed that was his prison over to the box of spare electronic parts in the corner of the storage room, when he heard the familiar refrain. It was spoken in Old Caitian, which was often used by merchants like the cub's father to disguise their communications from the public, untrained in the ancient dialect.

The cub, however, was gifted, and had plenty of time being ignored by his family, shunning him for his Neurodystraxia, to learn the language himself... along with other skills. He had heard this exchange, or variations thereof, many times before:

"Who do you have hiding back there?"

"Nobody."

The cub had the nous to recognise long ago that his disability alienated him from a family desperate not to be seen by their peers as The One With That Poor Cub, preferring to focus on his perfect younger sister Salamar. They didn't abuse him... except in not providing him with the love, support and encouragement he might have needed to cope.

They just left him alone to learn to love, support and encourage himself. And Tarim Bey did. Though he was paralysed from the waist down, he had soon learned to wash, dress and toilet himself, and keep himself amused. The local education authority made visits and provided learning materials, offering to arrange transport to and from school, and a wheelchair, but his parents declined, accepting only the materials, though they believed his disability extended into his mental faculties, part of the general misconception about 'Laggers' like him.

It didn't. While the Perfect Salamar received praise from their parents for achieving average grades, Tarim Bey met, and surpassed the levels of education expected of him, though he had learned to keep the strength of his abilities to himself. And today, as he found the parts he needed from the pile of his father's unsaleable, discarded electronic goods, he dragged himself back to his makeshift workstation, using tools secretly borrowed from his father.

He fitted the power cell and the transtater coupling to the PADD, activated the computer, accessed the Cynet, and found the banking database, entering account numbers he had overheard during his father's transaction,. Now he tested the Sypher Key he had devised to overcome the security, wondering if it would bear-

It worked.

IT WORKED!

Tarim Bey quickly shut down the program, not ready to take advantage of his achievement just yet, and risk the attention of the police. He just needed to know that his efforts were not in vain, some fantasy of his. It worked. He worked. He may have been a Lagger, a Cripple, a Nimeni to his parents, to the Perfect Salamar, something to be ashamed of and kept in the back room and denied an identity, a place in the world. But he knew better.

He would leave this miserable hovel and this miserable family.

He would make his own identity, his own place.

He would be a King.

*

Today - First Minister's Office, Capitol Building, First City:

Ma'Sala Shall ignored the recurring ache in her back - she had to get back into a regular exercise again soon, current workload or not, and stop eating so much, she would end up as fat as her husband Mi'Tree - to lean back in her chair and look up at the screen again. "Esek wasn't hurt?"

Her daughter shook her head. "His fur was singed by the plasma fire, and he pulled a few muscles I think he'd forgotten he'd had, but the Dragon fared worse. As did several of our people here."

The black-furred felinoid frowned. "And he believes the attack was a diversion for intelligence gathering? By whom? Orions? Kzinti?"

Kami breathed in, anxiety crossing her features. "There is a Terran industrialist, Max Zorin, whose company was conducting illegal experiments in this sector while Starfleet was diverted to fight the War, until we uncovered it. Zorin sent a man to try and bribe Esek into dropping the investigation. Esek... pissed on the man's jacket in response, and had him arrested."

The older Caitian smirked in amusement; her bond-son certainly had style. "And Zorin himself?"

"Zorin made sure nothing criminal could be directly connected to him, feigning ignorance. But I've studied the man, through media records. He's... dangerous, Mama. Psychotic. The type to seek bloody vengeance, on Esek. On all of us."

Ma'Sala saw the fear in Kami's expression; if they weren't light years apart, she would probably pick up the same in her scent. "And what are Starfleet doing about it?"

"They're sending an experienced Security and Intelligence officer here, a Commander James Somerset, to investigate the threat. I'm told he's very proficient and reliable... but given our previous history with SI, Trenagen and the like-"

"I'll make some discreet enquiries, though we're still rebuilding our Intelligence infrastructure following the Occupation." An alert flashed on her desktop, and she ignored it.

Kami didn't, however. "Take it. You have a planet to command; you have better things to do than indulge your firstborn."

Ma'sala hissed. "You'd be amazed at how little power a First Minister actually has around here - and a good thing, too. And I always have time for my firstborn... except when I don't. I'll see what I can dig up about this threat, and get back to you. Give my love to Esek and all the cubs... and be sure to keep enough for yourself."

Kami smiled. "I will, Mama. I love you."

As the screen went black, Ma'Sala set aside her Mother's head and returned to the job at paw. Which was considerable: they were still recovering from the Occupation, cleaning up the environmental damage, dealing with the effects of the nuclear bombing of Shanos Minor, rebuilding their Militia and Planetary Navy, repairing their economy, their society, the minds and hearts of their people, seeing to the disposition of the Ferasan civilian refugees... one thing at a time, Old Cat. "What is it, Anjeles?"

Her personal assistant's voice responded quickly and professionally. "Your meeting with the Shanos Minor Disaster Relief Committee is starting in ten minutes, Madame. Also, the authorisation for the Ferasan Colony Funds is still overdue, the Federation Commissioner's Office is requesting a change of appointment to today to discuss the allocation of more property in First City, and I wanted to remind you again of the inaugural party-"

Ma'Sala rubbed the bridge of her muzzle, craving a plate of fried shuris pieces for herself. "All duly noted. Get me Commissioner Canri. Now."

*

Port of Highsun, Mrestir Province:

At that time, in a crowded warehouse office in another part of the planet, a small viewscreen displayed a newscaster with an inane smile and various starship schematics behind him. "And tonight we will be broadcasting live from the Clanlands of the Mroara-Lnee, whose company has been the vanguard in the reconstruction of our Planetary Navy, where we will get our first look at the flagship-"

Nash C'Nosin entered the office, his black tail twitching in derision. "Turn that garbage off."

As the viewscreen went to black and the six occupants of the office turned to him, the most vocal of them, the ginger female Shurr, looked up with mild annoyance. "What's wrong now?"

He set down his bag on an unoccupied chair. "It's propaganda, designed to encourage reallocation of wealth and resources towards the military-industrial complex. Like the alleged radiation threat from Shanos Minor, an excuse to inject the population with mind-controlling Nanites!"

The others around the table made sounds of agreement, bolstering their leader's confidence that he had chosen wisely, among the many who had subscribed to his Cynet page espousing the Truth about what has happened to their planet and people this year. And he was glad that it was so obvious to the others here.

Only Shurr proved to be the most... challenging... among their newly-formed Inner Circle. "Maybe, Nash, but you have to admit, they're putting on a good show. It's on all the channels-"

"Of course! Everybody loves shiny new starships, don't they? Keep them looking up at the skies, and ignore what's happening on the ground! And none of the networks are going to say No to Butcher Shall's orders, are they?" When they agreed again, even Shurr, he smiled, reaching down and opening his bag, confident that he had them all under control. He smiled. "Still, if they're looking up, they won't see us coming, will they?"

He brought into view the detonators another Truthist supplied for the cause. "As the Mindless stay glued to the screens like the obedient little tail lickers that they are, there'll have a real show to look forward to-" Then he saw their reactions, all of them acting now like they hadn't been planning this all along. "What?"

Shurr swallowed, her breathing quickening and scent shifting. "C'Nosin... it's one thing to try and take out Ma'Sala Shall for her war crimes. But this operation you've planned... her family are innocents-"

He slammed his open paw on the table, making the others start, as if afraid he might accidentally set off the adjacent detonators. He smiled inwardly at the notion - no, my friends, we're not dealing with trilithium here - as he caught their attention once more, looking into all their eyes as he replied, "Have any of you forgotten that pivotal moment in your lives, when you finally recognised the lies they were feeding you? When you stopped being Mindless, and rose up and joined the ranks of the Truthists?"

He pointed in the general direction of First City, on the other side of Cait. "When you realised that everything that happened this year to the Motherworld - the so-called Invasion, the so-called Occupation, the so-called Camps - was all a conspiracy by Butcher Shall to seize control? She used, and then betrayed her Ferasan allies, and turned our planet, our people, into weapons of war on behalf of her paymasters in Starfleet, of which her children are a part?

Butcher Shall will maintain absolute control, and will create a dynasty to pass onto her offspring! And we will never be free of their abominable authority, unless we take decisive action now! And if that means a few alleged innocents are also neutralised along the way, well... that's a small price to pay to save a planet. Wouldn't you agree?"

They looked at each other warily, as if waiting for someone else to make an objection. But no one did.

He took their silence as support. "Let's get to work. We have to prepare the bomb and get it to the Butcher by nightfall."

*

Mroara-Lnee Clanlands, Mrestir Province:

A hundred tasks ahead of her, always ahead of her...

Ptera set aside the datapad, reminding herself once again that her new role in life following the Occupation, and the death of her mother, was really no more complicated than her work as a neurosurgeon: there may be a hundred tasks ahead of her, but each could only be done one at a time, whether it was suturing a new neural connection or approving a new company order.

She left her office and headed towards the kitchens, manoeuvring around the staff preparing for the ceremony tonight to sneak a freshly-baked pastry off a tray, before proceeding to the deck in the rear of the house, overlooking the Gardens, an expansive area now being filled with rows of chairs flanked by long tables, and bordering them, platforms for the Inauguration.

But then her attention turned to the right, where her infant daughter Jnill sat up on her colourful padded playmat. She was half supporting herself on a large pink ball, while an adult male lay on his belly opposite her, encouraging her to roll the ball his way.

And for once, it wasn't the cub's father, or any of her many relatives. "Mr Bey?"

The male, the head of the company that was supplying the broadcasting and support equipment, looked up and smiled at her. "Good morning, Madame! I hope you don't mind me partaking in a little game with your daughter?"

Ptera glanced at her husband Mirow, a former rescue pilot who, following the Occupation and Ptera's move into running her mother's shipbuilding company, had also joined her, heading the Design and Testing Division. He was leaning against the railing of the deck, watching the work, and the play, while sipping from a steaming coffee mug in his paws. "I said it was okay. My back was killing me."

She looked back at the other male on the floor... and his hoverchair sitting nearby, the only visible hint that he shared the same disability as Sreen Hrelle, her bond-mother Kami's youngest cub, albeit with different symptoms and utilising different compensatory aids.

And unlike nearly all Caitians, Tarim Bey had no tail; she remembered him telling her he'd undergone a caudectomy to remove the useless appendage when he was a cub. "Of course it's okay... but I think your tailor might have another opinion. Isn't that Tholian silk? Rather expensive material to be rolling around the floor playing with cubs?"

"Yes, to both questions; you have an obvious eye for the finer things in life, Madame. And perhaps you're right... but what I'm getting here, the joy I see in your daughter's eyes, can't be bought for all the money in the world. Besides, I was bereft of playmates when I was young - they were too afraid of my condition - so I have some catching up to do. Come on, Cub! Roll it!" He mimed the actions.

"Gabba Baw Go!" Jnill declared determinedly, pushing the ball towards Bey, nearly toppling over without the support.

Bey laughed as he caught it. "Very good! Very good, Little One! Ready for it back? Here we go... now!" He rolled the ball back to her; she caught it, but then fell to one side like a tenpin, and began mewling in protest.

Ptera drew up and scooped Jnill into her arms, purring to soothe her. Still on the mat, Bey rose to his elbows, looking remorseful. "I'm terribly sorry, Madame, I didn't mean to be so rough!"

She looked at the male, smiling. "You weren't, Mr Bey. She has her grandmother's impatience, and gets cross when her body doesn't respond to what her brain demands."

He grunted. "A sentiment I can readily understand." He adjusted the devices wrapped around the base of his paws, the antigrav support beams from each lifting him up to a standing position like crutches, before he helped himself back into his hoverchair, graciously waving off Mirow's attempts to approach and assist. He dusted himself off, smiling up at them. "Thank you for indulging me. I'm afraid I've taken advantage of your hospitality; I'm here to work, after all, not socialise."

"Your people are doing the work, Mr Bey," she teased.

He adjusted his legs into the stirrups of the chair. "Perhaps, but I've never been one to just sit around... appearances to the contrary."

Ptera smiled at his joke. She had been fascinated to meet an adult with Neurodystraxia, and to speak with him about his experiences, and how they differed from Sreen's. He was a charming male... though she sensed he had something to hide from the world. But she knew he and his company would have been thoroughly vetted by the government, given that the First Minister, her bond-grandmother Ma'Sala, would be coming here. "Mr Bey, will you be joining us tonight?"

"Me? I'm hardly going to be included on the guest list."

She crossed her arms. "You're talking to the one who made that list. Consider yourself included, Mr Bey."

Bey appeared touched by the gesture. "I will then graciously accept... if you call me Tarim. And I promise not to be crawling around on the floor again... at least, not without a few drinks in me. Now, iIf you'll excuse me, I will go and ensure my people are not being enchanted by the smell of the firewheel blossoms." He rotated his chair towards the ramp down to the rear gardens, but not before smiling and waving at Jnill. "Bye bye, Little One!"

The infant waved back, her earlier distress gone. "Buh bye!"

Ptera chuckled and rubbed against her cub's muzzle, as Mirow and she returned inside. "What a charming gentleman."

"Baby Jnill took to him like the scent of shuris," her father noted, smiling. "And how are you doing, Wife of Mine? With all this pomp and circumstance?"

She stopped and sighed, adjusting her hold on her daughter in her arms. "I wish for the simplicity of an anterior cervical discectomy and fusion. Thankfully I have a team of actual qualified people around me to keep me from bankrupting my mother's company."

"Your company, now," he corrected gently.

Ptera breathed out. "I need another pastry, or three."

*

Back at the gardens, Tarim glided down to the grass, taking a moment to admire a collection of freshly-planted fuschia and scarlet firewheels, catching one of the workers moving slowly around a holocamera and spotlight emplacement. "I want this completed within the hour, Mr Marno. No excuses."

"Yes, Sir, Mr Bey." The young technician quickened his pace, his tail twitching behind him, as the others picked up on the order.

Then he felt the buzz from his cranial implant, as a familiar female voice announced in his inner ear over a secure line, "Just to let you know, Tarim: C'Nosin's group has assembled in Highsun, and are preparing the bomb."

He turned back to the flowers. Aloud, as if to himself, he replied, "Thank you, Shona. Inform me when they're on the road and on their way here."

*

Fifteen Years Ago - Temple of T'Greirish Nein, Mrelle Province:

Tarim Bey struck out again, ignoring the repeated pain his paws received with each blow he struck on the wooden posts that struck out at him from the training module, seemingly at random, but striking relentlessly. He had locked his hoverchair in place on the stone temple floor so it wouldn't pull him backwards in response to what its sensors would have assumed was a genuine threat. Sweat soaked his forehead, his mane, sweat from the exertion as well as the heat from the surrounding jungle, and the enclosed air within the temple.

Strike, Deflect, Block, Block, Strike, Strike, Deflect, Strike...

He had been at the Temple of the Kaetini for almost three months now, not training as one of the Order, but having been taken in as an adept, after offering them a large donation to the charity of their choice. And when they did accept him, he demanded that he be treated like anyone with working legs.

And they did just that... not bothering to warn him about the steps leading to the toilets, or the narrow corridors, or the thick walls disrupting his cybernetic connections to his chair and his antigrav crutches. He was expected to train on schedule, meditate on schedule, eat and sleep and do chores on schedule... and go hungry if he couldn't keep up.

Strike, Block, Block, Defend, Defend, Strike, Strike, Deflect, Strike...

He had left his cubhood home long ago with no regrets, finished University with honours, set up several investment portfolios, and indulged himself in learning how to hone his body - or at the least the parts that worked - as finely as he had honed his mind.

Block, Block, Defend, Block, Block, BLOCK-

One pole struck him hard in the chest, sending him tipping backwards in his chair, the gyroscopes momentarily overcome. He twisted his upper half, wrapping his arms around his head to protect it as he landed on the stone floor, and he rolled out of his chair.

Tarim lay there, gasping, fighting to dispel the pain with an internal meditative mantra, as distantly he heard the training module withdraw... and soft footfalls replaced it.