TO SLEEP, PURRCHANCE TO DREAM

TCS Hades medical centre
19th FEB 2681/2681.050; 0930 Hours (CST)

“How is the furry bastard, Doc?” Commodore Garrison Murdoch asked the surgeon.

“Our feline friend is in a coma. He slipped into one last night shortly after
landing on board.
We’ve kept him in it as an aid to the recovery process.”

“And what’s fuzzy’s chances?”

“We’re not sure. We’ve amputated his shattered limb, patched up most of the
other damage, external and internal, but he seems to be developing some form
of skin infection, possibly a pathogen from the alien vessel.”

“He’s quarantined, of course?” Murdoch frowned.

“Of course. We’ve taken all standard biohazard precautions when dealing with
exposure to possible infections.”

“Good. Inform me if his condition changes significantly, won’t you?”

“He’s being shipped back to the Shrak’har in 2 hours, now that he’s stable.”

“Fine, if the Kats want him back, he can be their problem.”

--

Catharx nar Vukar Tag, proud Kilrathi noble, lay in the hospital bed. Weak as
a kitten, shaved from head to foot, his thick pelt and glorious mane now gone
and the stubble itching furiously, but he was too feeble to even scratch at
it. He had only just come off the ventilator and was just too weak even to
roar with frustration.

He would NOT feel sorry for himself. He had survived, victorious. The
indignities his body had suffered would heal and his indomitable spirit was
intact. What did it really matter if they had been forced to shave away, not
only portions of his fur around his wounds, to operate, but his entire body to
allow the injections of broad-spectrum antibiotics to combat the alien plague?
It would grow back. His mangled leg had been amputated but the prosthesis that
had been fitted was an adequate replacement (and the nerve-bionic graft a
complete success).
More than adequate, in fact, and enough to win any scar-bragging competition!
Still, it would need certain upgrades from the armourer when he was fit enough
to see him: Plate armour, spikes, and enough gold and jewels to show his caste
status, but not too much ­ it must be a brutally martial device, not the
equivalent of a gilded walking stick. Yes, he must think on exactly what he
wanted for his new leg, but there were more important plans to be made. He had
time, he realised ruefully, staring at the blank ceiling.
As he absently practised moving his metal limb, he let his mind wander.

--

A barely audible whir of gears and a hiss of hydraulics from the mechanical
leg that was almost masked by the swishing of his cloak did not affect
Catharx’s ability to stride purposefully and almost silently with speed and
menace. A rubber non-slip sole had replaced the former metal hobnails after
less than a day ­ they were impractical for indoor use but could be fitted for
terrestrial excursions. It had changed Catharx though, from resembling a
leopard, he now seemed more like a sabertooth, somewhat more robust, partly
due to the added bulk of his armoured, artificial leg and partly perhaps
because he had added some weight over his enforced period of convalescence.
Soon he would burn off the fat added during his bed rest. Still, if anything
it made him seem even more imposing and deadly.

From under his scarlet cloak thrust the prosthesis, an awesome piece of
lethal-looking machinery. Burnished copper-bronze metal armour was adorned
with the blood-red tiger stripes he bore on his personal fighter, and
decorated with gold and jewels. At the same time, the observer’s eye was drawn
to the inch-long conical spikes that jutted from the thigh and shin plates
(and noted in passing the spring-loaded, 18” scythes
attachments) and the massive, clawed foot that it ended in. Bronze chainmail
clinked; gold plates shone, jewelled body piercing glinted, yellow teeth
menaced. Having surveyed the figure from foot to head your eyes at once
dropped again as you reached the burning fires of those eyes. Even if you had
rank enough to dare to look this Kil in the eye ­ and the metal limb and scars
should have given you his name by now ­ few would have the nerve to stare into
those supernova embers that burned with such intensity of driving, bitter
hatred. This Kat had gone looking for death and found the Grim Reaper too
terrified to take him.

Catharx Nar Vukar Tag, Kilrathi Clanlord. The clanlord, they were calling him
now. He had taken command of the remnants of the Kilrathi forces in the area
after the destruction of the Nephilim in Nifelheim, before his fur had grown
back, while he could barely stand, and had routed the surviving bugs that had
escaped into the nearby Kilrathi systems.

That had been three months ago. Since then he had destroyed the forces of a
neighbour’s clan that had attacked his home system while he was away fighting
the bugs. His revenge for that act of cowardice was brutal. He had slain not
only the clanlord and executed his family, but every officer in his forces and
then their families, lair mates, concubines and cubs. Any Kilrathi that
hesitated to swear fealty to him, even momentarily, had its eyes put out and
any that had taken arms against him had their paws cut off as well. Other
clanlords and pirate warlords had come to him and sworn allegiance and in
return they were given the systems they conquered ­ less a tithe to Catharx,
of course.

The speed with which Catharx and his generals had taken control of over ¼ of
Kilrathi space was astonishing. The assembly of clans had offered him a seat
on the council, hoping to halt or at least slow his rampage of conquest.
Catharx had rejected their offer. He was distantly related to Prince Murragh
Cakg dai Nokhtak, the last heir of the emperor, and head of the Kiranka clan,
and might indeed use this as a claim to the throne, yet he had been part of
Murragh’s retinue and some sense of honour prevented him from accepting the
place of the Baron nar Kiranka whilst Murragh still lived.

The ruling council was divided between his allies, his enemies ­ those with
systems closest to the borders of his space, and so most at risk, and those
who wished to remain neutral, or who opposed him simply because they felt that
someone trying to become a new Emperor could rip what was left of the Kilrathi
empire apart. Others, though not his allies, tacitly supported his efforts to
bring a unified, strong leader to their race again. And no doubt some of them
felt that, once he had done the hard work of empire building, they could
depose him and place themselves on the throne.

The last entreaty they had made to him, pleading that another would-be emperor
would be the destruction of the Kil race had Catharx tilt his head back and
laugh. He had sent their emissary back shaved and in chains ­ with his claws
torn out. He had left him his fangs that he could more easily speak ­ as he
explained to the messenger, before sending him back to his masters ­ but the
message was plain: the council were toothless, clawless ­ powerless to resist
him.

The council had debated long and hard over what to do about Catharx. He should
now, because he had spies among them. Should they join him?
Resist him? Wait to see if another clanlord proved strong enough to resist
Catharx, and then join with him? Ask the monkeys for help? Catharx was
breaking the treaty with the humans, amassing arms as well as wealth. It could
not be a coincidence that he had focussed his conquests on the main industrial
systems. New fighters and capital ships were being built to equip his growing
forces. Yet as long as his weapons and attentions were focussed inwards it
seemed unlikely the Terrans would be too keen to interfere with Kil killing
Kil.

Those with homeworlds closer to the Vukar Tag sector were, quite
understandably, more in favour of action, those with systems more distant from
the threat advocating a “wait and see” approach.
Nothing was agreed upon and thus the council was undermined and destabilised
further, pushing the advantage still more in Catharx’s favour.
Currently it seemed there was nothing to stop Catharx declaring himself
Emperor in less than a standard Terran year.

But that assumed he kept winning systems. If he ceased to continue to gain
ground then the support of those he commanded would disappear. He was a feudal
lord now and without a war of conquest he had nothing with which to buy the
allegiance of those over whom he had no blood ties of loyalty. The pirates
would go first, of course. They’d be happy plundering the Border Worlds now
that they were recovering from the depredations of the Nephilim onslaught. And
how long would the other nobles continue to support and obey him when his
ability to increase their own wealth and power evaporated? So he was in a very
precarious position where he was forced to maintain a non-stop offensive. He
knew, from playing chess with his Takhar Eldon, that this happened in chess.
In that game of marshalled armies fighting on a chequered board you often got
a choice between surrendering the initiative by consolidating your gains,
perhaps castling, or by keeping the initiative and relentlessly staying on the
attack. However, often, more often than not, in fact, an attack would hit a
dead-end: One over-reaches oneself and leaves oneself open to a counter
attack. So, you often had the choice at forcing the pace, and risking the
fall, or sitting back, defending, reacting to what your opponent threw at you,
waiting for the opportune moment to launch a counter attack when he was
weakest.

Eldon had told once mentioned to him a human warlord called Hitler. After a
brilliant campaign or lightning-war he had encountered a dead end in his
offensive because he couldn’t manage to invade an island called Britain (this
was in the days when air travel among humans had barely left its infancy, and
space travel only a dream) and so he had turned on his one-time ally of
Russia, and thus over-reached himself as another great warlord and self-made
Emperor, Napoleon had done before him (so Eldon said). The Russians had
retreated endlessly over their vast land until Hitler’s armies had out run
their supply lines and then the Russians had let a shortage of petrol,
ammunition and the brutal winter of their country do what tanks and guns could
not. Hitler had not learned the lessons of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow,
Eldon told him, “Those who forget the mistakes of the past are doomed to
repeat them”. Sometimes the human quotes Vandermann had countered his own
knowledge of the codices with were illuminating. He had fewer lessons of
history to choose from. After all, the emperors stretched back into a past
that was more myth than history, and the Terrans were the first race they had
failed to defeat. The wars of conquest had stopped and the Emperor slain. How
then to avoid the mistake? He had the dynastic wars to consider, of course,
but these were situations where one clan had overthrown another to become pre-
eminent. And of course, more recently, the attempts of the Clan Caxki to form
a ninth dynasty after the destruction of Kilrah had been a special
circumstance ­ and ended in abject failure in any case. How had the first
Emperor managed to unite the savage, stubborn, warring, proud, arrogant,
independent, warring clans that made up the Kilrathi? Myths, nothing more.

He heard Eldon’s voice in his head, mentioning a name with awe, “Ghenghis
Khan”. He had escaped slavery to unite the Mongol hordes and created an empire
that spanned the known world at the time ­ or at least, it did under his son.
Catharx’s lip curled at the bitter memory. His own son was dead. If he created
an empire, he had no son to continue after his inevitable death. No matter
what the feral warriors in the ranks of his army said, he had no illusions
about this ­ he would die one day. If he did not have a son to keep his name
alive, he would create a legacy: The new empire, the Tenth Empire, would be
founded by him. He would be a new Julius Caesar, a new Ghengis Khan. If a
civil war erupted over his corpse for control of the new empire, so be it.
But there would be a new empire. If nothing else, that would be his legacy!

--

What would the Kilrathi he commanded think of his friendship with a human, of
his learning their language, customs and history- a waste of time?
An eccentricity? A weakness? Catharx saw it
differently: Knowledge was powerful. Know thy enemy. Know his history, his
military history that his generals learned and would inevitably shape their
thinking in future campaigns.
Learning about your enemy was never a waste of time. Enemy? Yes, the humans
were his enemies, the enemies of the Kilrathi race. Anything that confined
Kilrathi space, hindered their constant expansion was a threat to him and the
very existence of the Kilrathi race. If their aggression was not directed
outward it would have to turn inward. Endless civil war, an ever more weakened
people, killing themselves and saving other races the trouble. Already he had
seen what such a Kilrathi future held ­ smugglers, pirates, freebooters and
mercenaries ­ the dogs of war. He growled in disgust. The clanless, lordless,
landless were vagabonds, nomads, thieves, murderers. The fate of all warriors
without a liege-lord: Dishonour.

How had such feeble monkeys brought the mighty Kilrathi Empire to this? Yes,
of course they were his enemies. Eldon would understand the inescapable logic
of it. There would be no dishonour in turning on his erstwhile allies, the
Terrans. In fact, honour demanded it.

--

The council, at least those who remained alive (Catharx had slain one and
another had mysteriously vanished, and Catharx did not know if he had been
assassinated by one of his own agents or another rival, or if he had fled into
exile) had voted to declare Catharx dictator, ostensibly that the Kilrathi
race had a strong, unified leadership in this time of terror and uncertainty,
when the Star Gods might return to destroy them at any time. The second
Nephilim incursion had given him a golden opportunity to be seen as a
conquering hero, a victorious defender of the Kil, not a bloodthirsty,
treacherous usurper. Not that the latter wasn’t a respectable career path for
a Kilrathi noble, but the fact that he was of a lesser clan was constantly a
problem to Catharx. If he had been a closer relation to Murragh there would
have been less opposition to his becoming emperor. The Kilrathi were such
snobs when it came to the bloodlines of the great clans. They would far rather
accept centuries of inbreeding than a strong leader of less “noble” blood. His
lip curled in a snarl of disgust. Still, he thought, it made their eventual
pleading acceptance of him even sweeter when it came. The ranks of his clan
had swelled daily as more clanless Kil had come to accept him as their liege
lord. And now being seen as a defender of the Kilrathi allowed him more room
for manoeuvre, and hopefully more popular support. Better to be feared and
hated than ignored, but better to be loved and adored.
At least, as long as it served his purpose.

--

The surviving council members had met with an appalling run of bad luck: a
suicide, one murdered by his youngest son, another by one of his concubines, a
mysterious shuttle “accident”, a pirate attack claiming one victim and most
amazingly of all (and undeniably nothing to do with Catharx) a direct hit from
a nickel-iron meteorite the size of a clenched paw while the councillor was
out hunting. When told of this amazing incident Catharx let out a huge
coughing, spluttering belly laugh. What were the odds of it? Surely
astronomical. The gods really must be on his side!

--

Catharx smiled as the technician bowed low before him and simultaneously a
dozen slaves pulled the curtains aside. The new fighter was impressively large
but its sleek lines spoke of deadly agility to go with the power the size
implied. The customary asymmetry in Kilrathi fighter design had caused a few
problems for the designers. The vectored thrust pods it incorporated (based on
those of a reverse-engineered Vampire fighter salvaged by the Shrak’har during
the Nifelheim
campaign) needed not only to align their main line of thrust through the
centre of gravity but also needed to be evenly spaced along the centre of mass
in the horizontal axis.

“How are the test flights progressing?” rumbled Catharx.

“A few minor teething problems, my lord,”
grovelled the technician, “no more than expected, easily solved.”

“Good, good,” Catharx’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, “And full scale
production?”

“Will commence shortly, sire,” fawned the tech, “however we have enough
prototypes and pre-production models to form a training squadron already.”

“Excellent work!” Catharx’s massive paw slapped the diminutive, hunched
technician so hard on the back the wind was knocked from his lungs.

“My Lord, we are happy to be of service.”

“It will not be forgotten,” Catharx replied sincerely, “your reward will be
well-deserved.
Now I must inspect my throne,” he announced. The technician’s scrawny mane
brushed the floor as he bowed again, but Catharx didn’t spare him a backward
glance. His fangs were bared in a wicked grin as he envisaged a dozen of these
new fighters flying as his honour guard for his triumphant enthroning.

The throne itself was understated, at least in outward appearance ­ a lump of
granite, roughly finished. Yet there were numerous veins of quartz in it, and
if cut and polished, it would be magnificent ­ but Catharx had vetoed that
idea.
The hard rock would be polished by the touch of himself and his descendants
over the generations.
It looked dark and lifeless, chained to the floor of the cargo bay, but as
Catharx ran a clawed digit over it, he could almost feel an energy radiating
from it. This fragment of Kilrah itself had been salvaged from the rubble of
the destroyed planet, at some cost ­ and not merely financial. There had been
an accident when a tractor-beam failed, damaging the recovery vessel, and
another when a cable had snapped in the cargo bay and one of the loaders had
been crushed. Another accident had occurred when a las-cutter exploded as they
were carving the rock into the shape of a throne. Murmurs were going around
that this block of rock was cursed, that it carried Kilrah’s bad luck within
it, and that the curse would pass to whoever sat upon it.
Catharx growled in disapproval of such a notion.
Such superstition among a race that travelled the stars! And yet there was the
prophecy, and the Nephilim. But the Nephilim had been defeated, had they not,
and Kn’thrak averted? So the prophecy was false, was it not? By that reasoning
there was nothing to fear in such primitive superstitions. If he was to be
Emperor, he must sit enthroned on Kilrah. If not this chunk of the vanished
planet, then what? He was Catharx: He made his own destiny. Besides, he’d seen
enough bad luck for one lifetime. Now his favourite concubine was nearing her
littering of the twin male cubs the medics assured him she carried in her
swollen abdomen. The omens were good, he decided.

--

No energy or ballistic weapons would be allowed in the throne room. He had
personally overseen the installation of the scanning equipment and carried a
personal scanner and poison sniffer.
His ceremonial armour was fully functional and he wore his sword. No others
would be allowed anything larger than a duelling blade. It would offend the
sense of honour of his subordinates if he were to entirely deprive them of
weapons, but realistically, a Kilrathi warrior was just as deadly with tooth
and claw as with a Vorshaki blade. Still, at least the threat to him would be
diminished.

He had never realised just how vulnerable and alone he felt sitting in that
throne until he settled into the stone seat himself. The liege-lord system
that the Kilrathi had should mean that he was without fear of attack, but this
was far from true, as many of those that obeyed him now were merely allies,
and not sworn to him, let alone blood-tied. Not only that, but although in
theory every single Kilrathi that was sworn to him should take his orders
directly from him, as Emperor he had to rely on delegating through
subordinates -it was impossible not to. There had been surprisingly little
opposition to him becoming Emperor. After all, the council had declared him
“Dictator” and once they had been removed, there was nobody to stop him.
Perhaps, Catharx mused, many of the other surviving nobles of the eight great
clans felt it was wiser to lie low until they were ready to strike. How much
easier to take the power from an already enthroned emperor than attempt to
become one themselves?

And even his own kin, of the clan Nar Vukar Tag?
Well, who better to succeed him than one who shared his blood? The lure of
power was strong, as he himself was acutely aware. The threat of a coup was
ever-present until his new sons were old enough to fight over the throne
themselves.
Catharx lip curled. Danger had previously always been liberating to him. Death
held no fear while his clan, his blood, was strong to succeed him.
Now there was doubt. Not fear ­ Catharx would never admit to such a thing as
fear ­ and certainly not for his own safety. He was mortal, and death (in
battle) was inevitable and to be welcomed, rather than wasting away, enfeebled
in body and mind, dribbling and soiling his bed.

The big Kat shuddered at the thought. Never would he die like that. No, fear
not death (why waste your energy fearing something you cannot hope to avoid?),
he was mortal, and it was inevitable, but perhaps a fear, nay, a worry, that
his grand plan would die with him if he were slain too soon. If he died, his
young sons and their concubine mother would have to flee into exile (should
they survive his death) and if this happened before he had ensured their
future, what then? Would they survive to avenge him, or would assassins murder
the cubs and remove the threat of them ever looking to take power? He knew the
probable answer, what he himself would do: They would be slaughtered
ruthlessly, the loyal members of his hrai slain or scattered, turned into the
very vagabonds he feared the Kilrathi race was becoming before he seized the
throne.
Momentarily, Catharx regretted his greed for power now that it threatened his
offspring. When his bloodline, his name, had seemed dead, becoming emperor had
seemed the only way to preserve his name in perpetuity.

Once again, Catharx’s mind went to human history, not Kilrathi ­ for a
parallel: Julius Caesar. He had become emperor in all but name, and yet was
murdered (his oldest friend among the murderers) to “restore the republic”.
Eldon had told him that this was a lie perpetrated by those jealous of his
power, and that in reality the republic of Rome had died before Caesar came to
power.
History was written by the victors ­ but of course, it hadn’t worked. The
name, “Caesar”, had become synonymous with “Emperor” for over two thousand
years after his death. A growl of displeasure again issued from Catharx’s
massive frame as he recalled something else Eldon had told him about Caesar:
The civil war after his death had resulted in the death of his son Caesarion,
borne to him by Cleopatra. Would his own offspring share the same fate as Kil
fought Kil to stand atop Catharx’s corpse and proclaim themselves Emperor?

Catharx twitched his mane angrily. The damn monkeys intrigued and abhorred him
in equal measure. So alike the Kilrathi at times, yet at others so different.
He was a Kilrathi noble, not a hairless ape that, at that time, hadn’t even
learned to break the bonds of gravity that held him to his existence in the
dirt of a backwater planet! He was no Caesar, he was Catharx, and he made his
own fate.

END