(Note: This story, inspired by the upcoming
Picard
series, is a one-off departure, set years in the future from the current run of Surefoot stories. The characters, histories and events depicted here are not necessarily what will happen to them in the years to come, not even in the internal universe of my stories)
Planet Cait, Shall Clanlands, Stardate 67139.5:
The elderly Roylan leaned closer to his viewscreen, his black-tipped eyestalks focused intently at what he saw. "
Bloody Hemra, Wide Load, is there something wrong with the transmission? All I'm seeing is... grey. Endless, bleak, ancient grey-"
Admiral Esek Hrelle flicked back the huge mane he had grown in recent years and fidgeted in his seat, wishing he'd set another cushion under him before he took this call. He raised his middle finger. "Let's test it: how many digits do you see?"
"
One: same as your IQ, Squab."
"Me, a Squab? You're the Squab!"
"
No, YOU'RE-"
Then Weynik caught himself. "
Wait, I thought we'd called a moratorium on all that when Naida and Misha started together at the Academy?"
"We did, you senile old butt pimple. So how's it going on the new
Starsong
? Not crashed it into an asteroid, I see."
"
No, I'm waiting for the Klingons to do that, so I can collect on the insurance."
Weynik grunted. "
Which, the way things are going, won't be very long."
Hrelle ground his teeth in empathy. He may have been planetbound now, and not commanded a starship in a long time, but he still kept abreast of current events, and the Klingon aggression following the Hobus Supernova and the collapse of the Romulan Empire dominated the news. He reached for his teacup. "The Klingons haven't been the same since Martok's assassination. They've lost all sense of honour; even the Ferengi won't deal with them now."
"
No,"
Weynik agreed soberly. "
I suppose we should be grateful that they're more interested in taking Romulan territory than Federation, otherwise we might be back around Sherman's Planet."
Something like a smile curled one corner of his lipless mouth. "
You remember that battle, Brother?"
The old Caitian sipped at his drink, relishing the minty aroma and taste. It was a lifetime ago -- one of many lifetimes, it felt like -- but that period remained strong in his mind. "I remember the shore leave afterwards... somehow. Kami still won't forgive me."
His oldest surviving friend paused, but then quickly asked, "
And the new Academy Annex there? How's it going?"
Hrelle emptied his cup and cradled it. "Construction is complete, the infrastructure is taking longer, though we should be ready to open for business on the First of Sertober. Oh, and I've got high chairs built into the classrooms for when you come to guest lecture."
"
And knowing you, there'll be a shuris grill on every corner of the campus."
Hrelle shrugged. "After all the fuss I had, I earned a few perks." He ground his teeth, more bitter and weary than he had expected to for his eventual victory. The idea of a Starfleet Academy Annex on Cait had been kicked around for decades, but previous attempts never bore fruit, mostly because of the historic contention between the Caitians and their Augmented racial cousins the Ferasans, culminating in the Occupation during the Dominion War. It had been a brutal time, with a brutal conclusion, and for years afterwards many on the Federation Council remained unforgiving of the Caitians' own Final Solution to the Ferasan Problem.
But still, thanks to his efforts, the dream would finally see reality -- with him as its first Superintendent. It still felt strange, though; once, the notion of a planetbound assignment would have been unthinkable.
As if reading his thoughts, Weynik smiled and asked, "
Are you sure you want to do this, Esek? Once you get that bulk behind a desk permanently-"
Hrelle set aside the delicate china cup. "The Universe only needs one Captain Hrelle in command of a
Surefoot
. And we've got one of those out there already."
The Roylan chuckled. "
And she's far better at it than you ever were."
"I can't argue that."
"
So get another ship. You can call it the USS
Wideload
. Come on, let's team up again and kick some Klingon ass."
The Caitian grunted. "I have the Annex, and this household, and a fishing boat at the docks; that's enough for me to command. Besides, if I was away fighting the Klingons or the Kelvans, who'd mind the grandcubs?" His ears twitched as he heard a familiar cry from outside. "Speaking of which, there's one of them now, gotten into mischief. Come back soon, Brother, we can go fishing again. And this time I won't try and use you as bait."
"
You'd better not, you old Housecat.
Starsong
out... Squab."
The screen went black before Hrelle could respond, and he rose from the chair, his back and tail protesting as he asked aloud, "What's wrong with them now, Uatu?"
The voice of the house computer responded. "
Shalom has scraped his knee climbing in the Memorial Garden. I've scanned him: no major injuries. Kamiera is with him, employing an imaginary tricorder. Her own prognosis of his condition is far more serious... or at least, far more dramatic."
"Thanks," he replied with genuine gratitude, his initial reluctance to employ automation in the house long since evaporated since he needed help keeping an eye on the grandcubs, who had long-since proved themselves to be a pawful for him. His footfalls echoed in the stone corridors, and once more he was aware of how huge and empty the clan's house was when there was no Gathering. Maybe he could convince the new Matriarch to arrange something in the near future? Any excuse, really.
He blinked as he stepped out into the morning sunlight, listening and following the weeping to the rear of the house, where a six-year-old, honey-furred male cub in a tripartite kilt sat on the grass, dramatically holding his raised right knee with both hands, and an identically-dressed six-year-old female cub with darker, mahogany fur knelt beside him, comforting him, until she looked up at Hrelle's approach. "Grandpa! Help Shalom! He's hurt! I think he might lose his leg!"
Shalom looked at his cousin and wailed at the notion.
"Really? I thought your mother was the doctor, not you." Hrelle knelt down, grunting with the effort as he examined the wound, extending a foreclaw to carefully pick away some of the particulates from the scrape. "Stop weeping, Grandcub of Mine, you'll get to keep both legs. Now tell me what happened. Were you trying to keep up with your cousin?"
The stubby-snouted male nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes on his furry forearm, and looking thoroughly sorry for himself.
"Even though you know you're half-human and not as fast or as agile as Kamiera?"
Shalom was less reluctant to admit to that, and the pout he employed, even with his Caitian muzzle, reminded Hrelle so much of the cub's mother, when Sasha was his age and hurt herself but refused to admit that she had been wrong to get up to whatever shenanigans caused the injury in the first place.
"Grandpa," Kamiera asked, "Can't we make Shalom all Caitian? That'll make him better, right?"
Hrelle smiled; the female cub, the daughter of Kami's firstborn son Mirow and Mirow's wife Ptera, was so earnest at times. "No, we can't do that. His mother is human, she gave him half of her genes; if we changed that, he wouldn't be who he is.
And anyway, there's nothing wrong with Shalom being half-human, so we can't make him 'better'. In fact, being half-human makes him stronger than Caitians in some ways: he'll live longer than us, have fewer heart problems, won't be overwhelmed by loud sounds or scents..." He looked to each of them, aware of the time. "I think I know how to best treat this: some banana and tavaberry pancakes for Second Breakfast for all of us."
They cheered at that, Shalom rising quickly, only afterwards remembering to still act injured.
*
Hrelle was a dab hand in the kitchen now, with his two helpers -- so long as they didn't try too hard, and he ended up doing more work trying to undo their own efforts. "Someone go upstairs and remind Sreen of the time, please?"
"No need, Daddy," came a sweet voice from the top of the nearby stairs.
Hrelle frowned to himself -- when he was younger, he could have heard his daughter leave her room and make her way along the corridor -- but he suppressed his melancholy to brightly announce, "Perfect timing, Princess! Your pancakes are fresh and hot!"
"Pancakes?" The sound of servo motors was faint, but now he could pick them up. "Too heavy. Just some coffee."
"Coffee? That's not a breakfast." He turned to view her arrival. "Aren't you feeling well?"
Kamiera turned in her chair, syrup on her muzzle as she asked, "Do you want me to 'zamin you, Aunt Sreen? Is it your nuro-dis- uh, nuro-dat-"
"Eat your pancakes, Doctor Grandcub." Hrelle wiped his hands on his apron and approached, somehow still swept over by how beautiful Sreen had become in recent years, blossoming despite her disability, and now sporting a golden-brown mane, fur and figure so reminiscent of her mother.
She wore a light sepia summer dress that gave freedom of movement to the antigrav exoframe she still wore to overcome the disabilities caused by her neurodystraxia. Technological advances over the years had managed to miniaturise the components of the mobility aids she employed, so that they were now barely visible except here and there, as metal mesh peeking out from under her furry arms, legs and neck.
But they were still there... and may be for the rest of her life, he reminded himself soberly. But he would do everything he could to keep her safe, from her own limitations, and from the backward attitudes exhibited by some of their fellow Caitians towards Neurodystraxics. He rubbed his muzzle against hers -- catching the change in her scent indicating her entering another Season -- asking, "Are you okay, Princess? Do you want to take the day off?"
"No thanks, Daddy."
"Are you sure? I'll call in sick for you if you like."
"I'm not in Cubschool, Daddy, I don't need you calling in sick for me, I can do it myself... if I need to. Which I don't. Besides, there's a lecture on pre-Migration Caitian music today, and I'm not missing it for anything."
"But you can't go without food!" He patted her shoulder. "I'll pack you something."
"
Excuse the interruption, Sir,"
Uatu spoke up. "
A vehicle has drawn up to the house. It is the young male friend of Miss Sreen's. You know, the one you don't like-"
"Yes, thank you," Hrelle said hastily, under the glare of his daughter. "I
