La Forge’s hunches about such matters were not to be ignored. Picard exchanged a glance with Troi, and saw from her concern that she’d come to exactly the same conclusion as he. And Riker would hardly take such a desperate gamble unless the situation were . . . desperate. “I see,” he told the engineer, while his thoughts raced ahead. How to tell Atann. How to determine the situation inside the preserve. How to get Riker out of there. “Assuming you’re right—that there’s trouble—what are our options?”
“If it were as easy as contacting the Rahjah to check it out, I wouldn’t be here working on their communications board,” La Forge said ruefully. “I haven’t had a chance to discuss this with the Fandreans, and Worf is on his way—some of Akarr’s staff insisted on showing him how Tsoran goods are improving the city, but I finally tracked him down. I have some ideas . . . but I’d like to confirm them with our hosts and get back to you, Captain.”
“Make it quick,” Picard said.
“Understood.” From the look on La Forge’s face as his image blinked out, no doubt he did.
Picard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Counselor,” he said, his eyes closed, preparing himself for the scene to come, “I think it best if you accompany Atann and Tehra here. If there’s one thing we can’t afford to do—”
“It’s to offer them inadvertent offense,” she finished for him. “I’ll be right back.”
The Tsoran ReynTa, under Federation escort, in trouble in the Fandrean Legacy preserve—while negotiations with his father held the fate of a world’s people in balance.
And Will, right there in trouble with him.
Chapter Five
THE SILENCE FILLED HIS HEAD so completely that Riker momentarily wondered if he were deaf . . . or dead. And then the shuttle settled, creaking and groaning, and he knew he was neither.
He’d navigated the plummeting shuttle with a mere scrap of power at his command, doing no more than trying to aim between the trees, to keep the nose up, to allow them to skim to a stop along the rugged earth . . . .
In reality, they’d skipped more like a stone across choppy water. Unpredictably. Bouncing. And striking hard, that one, final time. Now, as Riker pried his eyes open and took in the sights, sounds—and smells—of the shuttle, he found the cabin dim and tilted, no flicker of power in evidence. Someone gave a throaty Tsoran groan, but subsided again. Riker took a deep breath of his own and decided that although everything hurt, nothing was significantly damaged. He ran his tongue over the sharp taste of blood on his lip, and disengaged himself from the console, glancing over at Akarr. The Tsoran lay draped half over the console, half over the seat, and was just beginning to look around in a dazed way. No blood in evidence; no obvious injury.
But there’d been that groan. And there was that . . . smell. Someone was hurt, all right. Slowly, still not quite trusting his legs, Riker slid out of his seat onto the unnaturally sloping deck. Individual battery-powered emergency lights painted the back of the cabin in soft shadows, but he saw the blood clearly enough— splashed across the deck and wall and even the ceiling. Not quite the color he was used to, but ominous enough. There had been six of them, he thought, realizing then that among the tangle of limbs, among the mostly seated Tsorans leaning against one another like dolls, and just now coming to life—there were only five heads.
Touching a wall here, a seat there, he made his way back and found the sixth Tsoran, the one who’d gotten up at the last minute, more or less splattered against the back of the shuttle. Breathe slowly, he told himself. And then he was past the momentary reaction, switching to problem-solving mode. He gripped the shoulder of the Tsoran nearest him—the fellow looked as whole as any of them—and said, “What’s your name?”
The being looked around as if seeking Akarr’s guidance, and—upon seeing his ReynTa still dazed in the copilot’s seat, though clearly stirring and as alert as any of them—said, “Rakal.”
“Rakal, check on your friends. I want a report of the injuries.” Back to the front of the shuttle, then, to assess Akarr for himself.
The ReynTa looked up at him, a thin smear of purplish blood running from his nose. “This was not what we expected of the Federation,” he said, although for the moment his tone lacked its usual edge. He rubbed a double-thumbed hand over his arm, apparently dismissing whatever pained him.
“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Riker glanced out the front viewport, into the thick jungle, remembering the holo of the cartiga, the size of the thing . . . and wondering how many of them were between here and the way out of this preserve. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Akarr said, futilely attempting to stand not once but twice.
Riker came to the sudden realization that the ReynTa had not quite figured out that his stiff vest was caught on the edge of the seat, and fought the impulse to simply reach over and release it. That would be too easy . . . and it would only cause trouble later. He’d read Nadann Jesson’s report often enough to know that. So instead he turned away, looking back out the viewport and into the jungle. “It would seem that the Fandreans were mistaken when they said the shuttle’s shields would allow us to navigate safely within the technology dampers.”
Akarr grunted; Riker heard the scrape of leather against fabric. “They overestimated your shuttle, obviously. Or your piloting skills.”
Breathe slowly. For an entirely different reason this time. As mildly as possible, Riker said, “Or underestimated the effectiveness of their dampers.” He glanced down at Akarr. “It’s not important, not now. What’s important is getting us back to the museum in one piece.”
Rakal approached from the back of the shuttle. “It’s already too late for that.” He moved to the down-tilt side of Akarr, and twisted his neck in a quick gesture that showed a flash of throat. “ReynTa, Pavar is dead.”
“Dead?” Atann’s nostrils, set down close to his mouth, flared; he looked accusingly at Riker.
“He got out of his seat,” Riker said, keeping all judgment out of his tone.
“Several of us are injured—broken limbs, among those of us who were sitting next to the wall. Regen’s arm is broken; Ketan is badly hurt in the upper arm and shoulder. Gavare hit his head and is still bleeding. He is not yet sensible.” The Tsoran was hard to understand, and while Riker first blamed the being’s harsh and obtrusive under-purr, he quickly realized that the Universal Translator in his combadge wasn’t quite as seamless as usual with its response.
“And Takan?” Akarr asked.
“Takan and I are bruised, only.”
“As am I.” Akarr gave Riker a dismissive glance, as if to indicate that Riker’s condition, though obvious, was hardly important.
“First things first, then,” Riker said, as though he hadn’t noticed. “We’ll treat your men as best we can. Then we need to decide the best course of action. We made it about two-thirds of the way to our destination, as near as I can tell—that’s three days of walking in easy terrain. Meanwhile, the shuttle may not fly again, but it’s still shelter—and Worf will be looking for it.”
“Not until we are long past due,” Akarr scoffed.
“I sent out a Mayday of sorts. I’m betting La Forge picked it up. If he did, they’ll figure it out; they’ll send someone out to look.” There was a good chance. La Forge was there, after all, to work on the communications equipment. If he hadn’t noticed it directly, he was in the perfect position to hear about it. And if he heard about it, he’d figure out it was no accident. Once he’d done that . . . nothing would stop Worf from mounting a rescue effort.
Akarr merely made a snuffling noise of sorts. Not anything Riker made an attempt to interpret. First things first, he told himself. Retrieve the med kits, see what was functional and useful.
The med kit contents turned out to be his first good news of the . . . well, for several days, now. Someone had replaced the highly technological components of the kits with basic supplies. Bandages. Cut-glue. Antibiotic salves and antivenom patches . . . even insect rep
ellent, a water-purifying plug for the canteen, and incendiary tablets. And once he was through poking around Riker was sure the changes were Worf’s doing— for the small weapons locker held not useless phasers, but sharp-edged knives with thick, sturdy blades from a Klingon forge. And even better . . . a bat’leth.
Not that he intended to go hand-to-hand with anything—neither with his passengers, as much as he might be tempted, nor with the creatures prowling the jungle around them. But . . . it still felt good when his hands closed around the wrapped grips of the bat’leth. And the knives would replace the phasers as tools. Worf, he thought, once we get back to the Enterprise, I’ll owe you one hellacious holodeck hunt.
Riker replaced the bat’leth and strapped one of the knives snugly into place along the outside of his calf. What, he wondered, did the Tsorans have in the way of weapons? He hoped, suddenly and fervently, that they had broken the strictures placed upon them by the Fandreans, and had more than a few short-range projectile dart weapons.
If not, they’d deal with it. It was folly to leave this shuttle for anything but burial detail anyway. Well, and . . . he glanced at the shuttle head. With nothing but individually powered emergency lights functioning on board, he didn’t expect the head to be usable, so maybe there were two reasons to leave the shuttle.
“Once my men are attended,” Akarr said, standing just behind the pilot’s seat and contemplating Riker as Riker contemplated the head, “I’ll begin the kaphoora.”
“What?” Riker forgot to be diplomatic. He forgot to be anything but astonished. “You’re going ahead with the hunt?”
Akarr pouched his lower lip in disapproval. “We cannot put this shuttle back together; we cannot fly out of here. Therefore we’ll do what we came for.”
“We can concentrate on survival.” Riker braced his arm against a canted wall; that the movement made him loom over Akarr only meant it served him twice. “We can assess our supplies, our position, and decide on the best course of action.”
Akarr seemed to turn thoughtful—it was still hard to tell, but his lip relaxed and he idly rubbed the end of his nose. “We will hunt, as well,” he said after a moment. The Universal Translator offered a garbled word, then shifted into perfect operation. “—Pavar is honored, we will gather what we need to walk out of here, and we will hunt along the way.”
Not a chance. But he didn’t say it. If nothing else he knew better than to throw a challenge like that at an adolescent Tsoran bent on earning daleura. So instead he said, “We’ll talk about it then. Right now, your men are bleeding.” He gave the med kit meaningful heft, and Akarr, smiling—his teeth fully covered—moved out of his way.
* * *
“What if you’re right?” Yenan said, his normally smooth under-purr now harsh with tension as he reacted to La Forge’s short presentation about the signal burst. They—several highly placed Fandreans, Worf, La Forge, and a Tsoran representative—had gathered around a table in a brightly lit museum meeting room of clashing decor and random preserve holos . . . almost like a classroom with the teaching aids left scattered around. La Forge certainly felt like he was sitting in a child’s classroom, given the Fandrean scale of the furniture. Beside him, Worf must feel even more out of place; his knees hit the underside of the table. And these chairs . . . definitely not designed with the human posterior in mind. Yenan looked directly at him. “If you’re right, what do we do next?”
“Find them,” Worf said, simply and immutably.
Yenan waved his arms in a complicated gesture; the three Fandreans with him—the museum head, the city leader, and the preserve ranger commander—hummed in agreement. “Find them? That is not so easily done! And even if we do? Then what?”
The single Tsoran, a permanently stationed liaison named Kugen, clamped his mobile lower lip firmly over his mouth and left it that way, stiff and disagreeable.
“Look,” La Forge said. “Let’s start with this: the signal was from Commander Riker, and it means they’re in trouble—there’s no other reason he’d send what amounts to a broad-spectrum burst of noise in conditions under which he couldn’t really expect it to get through. And it stands to reason that whatever else may have happened, the shuttle is inoperable—or they’d have returned, waited by the portal, and blasted those same signals at us until we let them out.”
“You know your people so well to say all of that?” the ranger commander—Zefan was his name—said.
“Yes, I do,” La Forge said.
“As do I,” Worf rumbled. “We must go in after them.”
“Oh, no, it’s not as simple as that,” the museum expert, Chafar, said immediately.
“I think it is,” Worf replied.
“No, he’s right, Worf,” La Forge said, earning a glare from Worf. “There are a lot of things to think about. We can’t just send the Collins in—whatever damaged the Rahjah might just leave you as stranded as the commander.”
“And the ReynTa,” Kugen said pointedly. “And what do you think happened to the shuttle? If the machines are so vulnerable, I’m surprised you would risk the ReynTa’s life with one.”
“They’re not vulnerable, not under normal circumstances,” La Forge said, letting the Tsoran’s attitude wash over him, hiding his fierce regret at the lack of opportunity to scope out the shuttle operating parameters himself. Anyway, Kugen wasn’t nearly as bad as Akarr, and La Forge had more important things on his mind. “One of the things I’ve been asked to look into is a random surge effect in the shield output, one of which the preserve experienced shortly after the Rahjah entered. If that surge somehow interfered with the shuttle’s systems, made it more vulnerable to the technology dampers . . . well, it could cause a cascade of failing systems.”
“If we cannot send the Collins, then what about the Legacy scooterpods? Those are reliable within the shielding, are they not?” Worf glared around the table as if daring anyone to disagree.
“They are,” Zefan said with complete certainty. Of all the Fandreans, he was the fittest, the most outwardly assured; if he’d had to go into the preserve, La Forge would have preferred his company to all six of Akarr’s city guards. “But they carry only two people each—in this case, one to pilot the scooterpod out to the crash, plus a passenger on the way back. It would require eight of them to effect a rescue—and we do not have eight of them available at this time. They are being used by our rangers, at work within the preserve.”
“Furthermore,” Chafar added, not meeting Worf’s gaze or looking anywhere near it, “the scooterpods are slow compared to your shuttle. Even if the shuttle made it only halfway to the intended landing, it would take several days to get there and back.”
“That’s one of the reasons the ReynTa wanted the use of the shuttle,” La Forge said. “It allowed him to start his kaphoora more deeply in the preserve than any Tsoran before now.”
“We cannot allow this to take that long,” Worf said. “They may be injured.”
Zefan showed a little tooth. “It is irrelevant, since the scooterpods will not be available for a matter of days. We must wait for the rangers to return on their normal schedules—there is no way to contact them.”
“That’s why I’m here in the first place,” La Forge said, more or less under his breath. And a good thing he was, too, given the way things had turned out. He found himself surprised at the Fandreans’ apparent unfamiliarity with the shuttle systems despite their work with Admiral Gromek’s people, and more than a little annoyed. No one had been of any help at all when he’d tried to discuss his theory that the forcefield surges might cause trouble.
Worf shifted impatiently; his knees knocked the low table, shifting it as well. “We cannot use the scooterpods. The shuttle is not safe within the forcefield and technology dampers. There is no other option—we must shut down the technology damper so the Collins can function within the forcefield even if it experiences another . . . surge.” He kept his own teeth well covered, but his regard for the twitchy field—or lack thereof—c
ame through clearly in his voice.
The city manager, Elen—up until now a quiet observer—spoke up quite sharply. “That is not possible.”
“You might say otherwise if it were your ReynTa lost in the preserve,” Kugen snapped, staring directly at Elen.
“None of our ruling family would choose to enter the preserve in such a manner, with such a purpose.” Although his words lacked the habitual edge of a Tsoran challenge, Elen easily met Kugen’s challenging gaze. “It is not our way. And we will not risk the entire city of Legacy for one being who did make that choice.”
“What do you mean?” Worf said, frowning. “I would never suggest you risk your city—I spoke of shutting down the technology dampers only.”
La Forge came to his rescue. “The dampers are intrinsically tied to the shields themselves. There’s no way to shut them down without removing the entire protective dome around the preserve. Not only could the poachers get in—and they’re always lurking just out of orbit, as I understand it—but the Legacy animals could get out.” He glanced at a miniature holo of the same cartiga he’d seen during the reception, rested his finger on the base. “I don’t know about you, Worf, but I can sure understand why they don’t want these fellows roaming among their families.”
“I see,” Worf said slowly. “With regret, I agree.”
“Then what?” The short fur on Kugen’s neck and arms had risen, subtly, until all of a sudden it was standing nearly on end. His lips peeled back from his teeth, revealing an imposing set of double canines, the gums flushed deeply purple with his rage. Full daleura display, La Forge thought suddenly, flashing on his mission prep and glad to be at the end of the table. Chafar, who was opposite the Tsoran, inched sideways and backward. Worf, who was next to him . . .
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