Kath tis K’chat
© 2020 by Walter Reimer


Thumbnail art by  baroncoon


“It feels great to be out of uniform, at least for a day,” the young kam said happily as he stretched out on the ground clad only in his fur. His feline pupils narrowed to slits as the Daystar came out from behind a cloud, and his tail coiled up over his waist to protect his genitals from sunburn. The xerith was nicely spongy, and the breeze was scented with flowers.

His older sister glanced up from her sleeping daughter. “Is it that hard, Dorvan? Being with the Home Fleet, I mean.”

“Truthfully? No, Nefon, not really,” her brother replied. “We’re still on alert after Terra tried to destroy the Homeworld, but since their last attempt there’s been nothing crossing the border.” His tail lifted from his crotch and he rolled over on his front, propping his head up on his hands to look up at her. “This has been going on for far too long,” he remarked. “With the Ichoniik, it’s much simpler – they attack, we destroy their military, and we have some peace until they forget that they lost to us – “

“Again.” Brother and sister turned as their father stepped into the garden. “The Ichoniik have this tedious ability to forget any lesson we teach them.” He smiled. “Narchak, my children,” and he bent over Nefon’s chair to nuzzle his granddaughter Varidh before nuzzling his oldest child. By the time he straightened up, Dorvan was on his feet.

“Kath,” the Azrin-k’chat said politely.

“Dorvan,” and Tarval XXI stepped forward and father and son shared an embrace. “You’re looking well, son.”

“Thank you, Father. So are you,” Dorvan said. Like his son and daughter, he had left his clothes behind before entering the garden area, a secluded part of the Sovereign’s private residence. “Are you well?”

Tarval smiled. “Perfectly fine, Dorvan. I want to talk with you, though.” He turned and headed back to the residence, Dorvan trailing him.

“How are you doing, as Home Fleet commander?” his father asked as he shouldered into a robe. He passed another robe to his son, who put it on.

“Admiral l’Schan feels that I’m doing well,” Dorvan said guardedly. “I’m glad to have a good teacher for this.” The Imperial Son had been at the university, studying architecture, when he’d been ordered to assume the duties expected of him as the Heir. Tarval had assigned l’Schan and a veteran staff to help guide the younger kam.

“Good,” Tarval said. “Hopefully, my son, you’ll never see combat.”

Dorvan twitched his tail. “’Hopefully,’ Father?”

The older kam’s expression was unreadable. “Come with me.”

Father and son left the residence, trailed by a lone trooper-attendant from the Guard, until they reached a certain part of the Palace. “Wait outside,” Tarval told the vir, who saluted and took up a post to one side of the door.

“Why are we in here, Father?” Dorvan asked, looking up and around. The room that his father had led him to was the Memorial Hall, and ninety-five larger-than-life statues were arrayed around the walls and in serried ranks on the floor. Most of the statues depicted kami, and all were carved wearing the Imperial Regalia, the Mūrchan e’t Tārinjir.

“I come in here alone from time to time,” Tarval explained, “if I have a decision on my mind. It helps, I think, to look at and think about what my predecessors may have gone through during their reigns.” He walked over to the statue of Yan’te VI, and smiled up at his father’s likeness. He chuckled. “Silly, I know, but I think it helps.”

Dorvan swallowed hard as he looked around. They were all here: The Savior and First Azraa; Terzhin XXVII; his own grandfather, Mroaz IV the Reformer . . . even the Oathbreaker and his idiot son were represented. “So much history,” he breathed.

“Yes, my son, and you’re a part of it.” Tarval’s tail swished, playing with the hem of his robe. “One day, someday, there’ll be a statue of me here – “

“Not for many years,” Dorvan interjected. “I’m not ready.”

“I know,” came the blunt reply. “Your education’s proceeding, though, and Frelen l’Schan says that you’re an apt pupil. The Presiding Officer reports that your studies of the government are going well also, and the Family’s very pleased with your progress as Heir.” Tarval smiled reassuringly. “I have no intention of dying anytime soon, my son, but the possibility must always be considered.” He placed a hand on Dorvan’s shoulder. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you,” he said.

The son met the father’s gaze. “This is about the Terrans, aka?”

“Ulnt.” Tarval sighed. “For a Caretaker race, they’re a problem. The Confederacy’s leadership has attacked a Colony world, and the Colonial leaders have asked for our cooperation.”

“You’re contemplating mobilizing,” Dorvan said.

“Yes. Conquering the entire race and placing them under our tutelage must be an alternative,” Tarval said. “Fortunately, the Colonial worlds have already asked for our protection, and we’re providing it. The core worlds, as they call them, are the aggressors in this case.” Tarval sat down at the base of the statue to Terzhin the Glorious. “Aka, what do you think, Azrin-k’chat?”

Dorvan gulped, thinking furiously as his tail swished, the tailspur clicking against the marble floor. “The First Maxim of Command is to limit your losses while achieving victory,” he mused. “With the Colonies allied to us . . . the center of the Confederacy is - that’s why you’re mobilizing,” he concluded suddenly.

Tarval grinned up at his son. “You’re learning. The mobilization orders went out this morning,” and he stood up. He held up his left hand, fingerclaws extended. “So far we have shown the Terrans this much of our strength.” He raised his other hand, claws slipping from their sheathes.

His heir gestured comprehension. “I agree, Kath. It’s time to end this.”

Tarval XXI smiled approvingly and put an arm around Dorvan’s shoulders as they walked out of the Hall. “Meanwhile, we will see what Terra has in response to our terms.”