Nightmares
© 2022 by Walter Reimer





“Light and Death,” Vesan said as the late Lord Foad’s guard ferrets gathered around the remains of the throne and began dooking it out to see who would get the first serving from the pasteboard bucket of cooked avian, “that was completely bizarre.”

“When you get up to this level, you’ll find that you’re quite used to it,” Varan assured her as she closed the game summary, dispelling the various noises being made by the ferrets, and prepared to send the module off to Meredith. “Aka, there’s that done. Do you wish to add anything to my message?”

The admiral smiled. “Not this time, lir renit. I am looking forward to your return.”

Varan smiled. “Thank you, Vesan.” Her fingertip came down on her padd, and the device sent off the letter. “I, too, am looking forward to meeting you again. Lalande isn’t the most hospitable of locations.”

Vesan smiled, knowing the associations the system had for Varan. “I know, but such is duty.”

“Of course.”


***


The dream came to her again, the mounting inescapable tension, the fear as things went dark and the increasingly frantic, panicked terror that had her subconscious teetering at the edge of an abyss as her spine arched and her tail went rigid . . .

Vesan k’Daridh came awake, knees drawn to her chest and her tail wrapped around her ankles in a fetal position as she shuddered, sweat dampening her fur, eyes open and starting from their sockets, her feline pupils dilated fully as she panted.

The biosensor next to her bed gave a soft chime. A medical team was on the way.

Slowly, the vir brought her breathing under control, feeling the tension seeping out of her body and aware that she’d peed herself as well as drooled all over her headcushion. As the tension and stress hormones ebbed, she felt limp and tired, and was sprawled out on the soiled bed as the door to her quarters opened.

“Admiral?” She opened her eyes to see a Surgeon-master looking down at her. “Admiral, are you all right?” the kam asked. “The sensor reported that you might be having another seizure.”

K’Daridh squirmed slightly, rolling over on her back. “Just a bad dream, Surgeon-master. It felt like I was starting to have a seizure, but the medication prevented it.”

“I see.” The kam gestured, and he and a tech began to get Vesan out of bed. “What - ?”

“You have soiled yourself, Admiral,” the physician said calmly but firmly, “and while you are cleaned up, we will clean your bed. And I plan on checking the level of medication in your blood.” He and the other kam deposited the taller vir onto a medical blanket draped over a chair while two others expertly changed the bedding and a third prepared the shower.

“You are making a great deal of fuss,” Vesan said to the physician.

He smiled at her. “That’s my duty, Admiral.”


***


He’d had the dream again, Gromov Feranq realized as he came awake and sat up in bed. The vision of the fleet chasing his force transmuting into the likeness of a Kashlanin face, its mouth opening like a maw filled with jagged fangs to consume him and all Terrans, had dogged him from time to time since he’d returned to his home. It was just a dream.

Nothing really important, but it bore watching if things got worse.

He glanced at the clock display on his padd, and the tiger smiled. The dream had awakened him only a few minutes before his alarm went off, and it was still quite dark outside. He shut off the alarm before it could sound, and he heard a few sounds come from the kitchen as his morning coffee was prepared.

Despite Felix’s rather wounding remark about writing poetry, Gromov had been fairly content since Rikki had succeeded in freeing him from the Intelligence operatives who’d kept him captive. His home was roomy and comfortable, and his wants and needs were easily satisfied, even to femmes and the occasional mel.

Today, however, as he padded out of his bedroom to get his coffee, he was going to leave the shelter and comforts of home for the forests outside the arcology.

He was going hunting.

Coffee and a hearty breakfast later, the tiger headed for the nearest transit station dressed in camouflage jacket and trousers and carrying a cased projectile rifle with him. A small backpack containing food, water and first aid supplies completed his kit.

While he took the maglev, several of the passengers glanced at him before returning to what they were doing. Hunting was a fairly popular pastime in this section of the single-unit city, due to the luxury trade in non-farmed meat and the large herds of rammers in the forested hills outside, and Gromov had enjoyed going out to hunt since he was a small boy joining his father out in the woods.

The maglev stopped briefly at a transfer point between arcologies, and the tiger stepped away from civilization, took a deep breath of unfiltered air, shouldered his pack, and started hiking.

A few kilometers away he found the blind that he’d set up a month earlier, on a ledge overlooking a small grassy area bounded on one side by a creek. It hadn’t been disturbed, so he unburdened himself and opened the rifle’s case before activating the shelter’s thermoptic camouflage.

The barrel screwed on, locked in place, and he inserted a magazine and cycled a round into the chamber before settling down to wait.

The major sun in the sky soon rose in the west, burning off the dew and the light wisps of fog that had risen from the creek. Gromov sipped at a canteen of water, carefully making as little sound as possible, and his ears perked as his patience was rewarded and he saw several rammers venture out onto the grassy field.

Rammers were the descendants of feral goats introduced after the planet had been terraformed. They were notoriously wily and could attack if they saw a likely target. All the adults had horns, between four and six in number, and they knew how to use them.

A quartet of females, with one very large male shepherding them. Two of the females looked gravid, so he’d avoid trying for them. It was the male he wanted, so Gromov slowly brought the rifle to his shoulder and began to sight in on the target.

The sights were primitive, just a simple telescope; no adaptive optics or AI assistance, just simple lenses and the eyes that Deus had given him. The tiger sighted in, tracked the rammer as it moved about warily, and finally Gromov’s finger rested on the trigger as the beast lowered his head to crop the grass.

His finger stroked the trigger, and his ears went back as the chemical explosive in the chamber fired, sending the projectile through the barrel. The rammer flinched and fell over on his side as the rest of the herd scattered, the echoes of the shot lingering in the morning air. It had been a clean hit to the rammer’s head.

Gromov put two more rounds into him, to ensure that the creature was dead and not simply faking it in hopes of getting the predator to come closer. Only after firing the last two projectiles and observing the rammer for another ten minutes did Gromov leave his blind and hike down to the meadow.

The tiger looked around as he advanced on the carcass, one projectile chambered and ready; satisfied that the other rammers had fled, he studied the dead male. Good size, maybe one hundred kilos . . . he’d get the choicest cuts for himself, and a slice of the cost of the rest of the carcass when it was processed for market. He slipped a paw into a pocket, pulled out his padd, and pressed a specific part of the device to alert a crew to come out to help him field-dress and carry the dead rammer back to the city. Receiving a reply, he pocketed the padd and settled down on his haunches to wait.

His ears swiveled at the sound of a loud hum. An artigrav-equipped jumpcar was what was expected, but it was too early. The tiger got to his feet as the humming grew louder, and tucked the rifle under one arm as the vehicle appeared over the trees around a bend in the stream.

The wreathed globe of the Confederate (Imperial, he corrected himself) Navy was emblazoned on the blunt, spade-shaped nose of the jumpcar.

What the fuck? He asked himself.

He shifted his stance, keeping the weapon’s muzzle pointed down, as the jumpcar extended its landing pads and settled to the ground. Doors popped open before the artigrav had shut down, and two mels jumped out, one in Navy uniform and the other in a dark suit. They took up a defensive position as two more furs climbed out of the now-quiescent vehicle, the pilot remaining inside.

One was a roebuck he didn’t recognize; the other –

“Rikki?” Gromov asked.

“Hello, Feranq,” Schalke Rikki said, the red panda stepping past the two guards. She looked at the dead rammer. “Good, er, shooting?” she asked, her banded tail jittering slightly.

“Hm? Oh,” and the tiger stepped around his kill to block her view of the dead rammer. Rikki far preferred farm-grown meat, and the atavistic killing of an animal revolted her. “Sorry. Good to see you, Rikki. Who’s your friend?” and he nodded at the roebuck.

“Oh, this is – “

“Call me ‘M,’ Admiral,” the deer said. He stepped to his left and looked at the carcass. “Excellent shot, very commendable.” His ears swiveled as Gromov growled a sotto voce curse. “Oh, come now, sir. I’m not the ‘M’ you’re angry at.”

The feline in the dark suit tensed slightly as Gromov shifted the rifle in his grip. “What do you want?”

‘M’ glanced at the red panda femme, who cleared her throat. “Well, Feranq, it’s like this – “

“We’re friends, Rikki – or were,” the tiger glared pointedly at the roebuck.

“We still are.”

“Glad to hear it. Why are you here, Rikki? Please?”

The red panda glanced at the roebuck, who was turned away and admiring the scenery. “I’m here on behalf of the Admiralty, with the Regent’s personal endorsement.”

“The Regent?” Ah, yes; the Emperor was still too young to make his own decisions, with his mother acting in his stead as the leader of the Regency Council. “Why?”

“Feranq, they’re offering you the Five Stars.”

Gromov’s eyes went wide and he almost lost his grip on his rifle. “Admiral-General? Me? What the – why the fuck do they want me?”

Schalke glanced at ‘M,’ who turned back to face Gromov and said, “You are a senior officer who has combat experience. You are politically reliable, but neither doctrinaire nor afraid to speak your mind if you disagree.” His smile faded. It was like he had donned a mask, or perhaps the smile had been the mask. “You are needed, Admiral Gromov. Terra calls you. Will you refuse?”

Gromov glanced back at the dead rammer, considering his options.

In the distance, a hum was heard as another jumpcar, the one he’d summoned, drew closer.

Finally, the tiger turned to face the red panda and the roebuck. “I accept. Give me a week to settle my affairs here.”

‘M’ smiled. “Of course, sir.”

Schalke said, “So we can expect you at the Palace on Terra within a week,” and she smiled as he nodded. “Thank you, Feranq,” and she came to attention and saluted.


***


“Good morning, Gartabin,” Varan’s new Command-Second said as she entered her office and sat down. The kam smiled. “Sleep well?”

“Quite well, Subcaptain,” Varan replied. “Status? Did anything happen last night?”

He gestured negatively. “Ship status is normal.”

“Excellent.”