Akarr sunk both hands into the depth of plush, patterned fur. He could take only a tuft. A tuft that in no way would ever convey the size and immense strength of this creature. If only—
“We don’t have much time,” Riker said, having come up on him while Akarr admired the trophy, admiring what he himself had done. Riker’s trank gun was tucked away; the bat’leth hung from his grip like a thing that had worn a place for itself, and no longer needed a tight hold simply because it fit so well. “We’ve still got to get to the portal before it closes for the last time. We miss that, and we’ll be out here for two more—”
“Days, yes, I know,” Akarr said, remembering then that Riker was to blame for so many of his problems, his new way of seeing the world, and promptly forgetting who’d given him this chance at trophy—for Tsoran thinking was much too black-and-white to allow for both blame and gratitude at the same time.
He turned his back on the man and decided on the whisker. The cartiga had a profusion of them bristling around its long jaws; he found just the right one and plucked it out.
The cartiga made a noise from deep within, unable to do more. Or almost unable to do more—one of its tails twitched.
“Akarr . . .” Riker said—such an annoyance—while Zefan, still keeping watch with the group, cried something to Worf, and Worf apparently concurred.
“We have sighted the second one again,” Worf called. “It is not moving in. Yet.”
“We must keep moving,” Shefen said. “We must get away from this one, and make up this lost time, if we’re going to make it—”
“Almost done,” Akarr said, implacably cheerful. Nothing could go wrong now—at least, nothing wrong enough to ruin this kaphoora. He carefully rolled the whisker and inserted it into a secure, lined pocket along the inside of his hunting vest, patting the scarred vest back into place as he straightened. It had started this journey new and impeccably appointed. Now it bore honorable signs of his kaphoora. His blood, the blood of others . . . stained with sap, deeply scratched by sculper claws, even burned by skik poison. He wasn’t sure if he should retire it after this hunt, or allow it to continue gathering such signs of experience.
“If I’d known shooting this thing would evacuate your brains from your head, I’d have done it myself,” Riker snapped, eyeing the terrain around them as if yet another cartiga would come down upon them. “We could be half a kilometer closer to the portal by now.”
Akarr sneered at him without responding, although he did holster his trank gun and replace his trophy knife. “I’m ready,” he said, but he had to walk one final circuit around his “kill,” run his hand across that plush flank one more time—something no one else had ever done, he was sure of it. Savoring the feel of it against his sensitive palm and finger pads, he turned away. So this is what it felt like—the daleura of such a kill. No wonder there were so many repeat kaphooras. He knew he’d be—
“Akarr!” Riker’s voice had changed, and suddenly everyone was shouting, the Tsorans and Fandreans and even Worf—except that Worf went one further, and was pounding directly toward Akarr, trank gun out and aimed . . . at Akarr? Abruptly, Akarr dropped out of the intoxication of his new daleura, and understood.
Not at him . . . behind him.
Akarr whirled around to see the cartiga directly behind him, lurching drunkenly, its long legs making startling progress. And then Akarr tripped and went down, and the cartiga was on top of him. A smashingly heavy furry bulk, too drugged to attack with swift claws and teeth, not too drugged to try.
“Commander, get out of the way!” Worf bellowed. Riker blocking his shot, it had to be—Riker had been right there, right next to the cartiga—
And then Akarr couldn’t tell what was happening. He rolled between the cartiga’s paws, trying to protect himself; an unfamiliar—Klingon?—roar of attack filled the air, only to be cut short by a quick, awkward blow from the logy cartiga—and then the mighty sybyls broke loose, buffeting him, smothering him in heavy fur. His vision sparked from a blow to the head, his breath abandoned him as he slammed into the ground, and then suddenly he was awash in a hot, wet sensation.
And finally, everything stopped moving. Finally, he could open his eyes and see more than flashing shadows of moving fur. Nothing roared or bellowed at him. Just Riker, looking down at him.
“Are you hurt?”
“He ought to be,” Worf grumbled, picking himself up from the ground nearby and brushing broken bits of crawling basevine from his shoulder.
Akarr looked at himself; his legs were covered in blood, but he felt no pain, and didn’t remember being hurt. The cartiga? He pushed himself away from it, traveling on his backside. The cartiga’s blood pooled across the ground. He looked at Riker in disbelief. “You killed it?”
By hand? Riker had killed a cartiga—even a drugged cartiga—with a bat’leth and lived to tell about it? Mighty sybyls, no one would even remember that Akarr had been the one to take it down in the first place.
Riker looked down at the animal with clear regret on his face. Not even his oddly patterned facial fur could hide that. “I wish I hadn’t.” He glanced at the violet, bloody bat’leth, and back to the cartiga. “I didn’t have any choice.”
Zefan approached, picked something up from the ground, and handed it to Riker. He’d lost it then, been unable to simply trank the creature. And everyone else had been afraid of hitting Riker . . . except the Klingon, who’d thrown himself right at the creature in an attempt to free Akarr, and then been thrown across the landscape for his trouble. “No, you had no choice. Akarr left you no choice. Had he but listened when we urged him onward . . .” He looked at Akarr. “The cartiga are rare. The death of one in its prime will upset this entire ecosystem, since there are none from beyond the Legacy to move into its territory.”
It was dead, and Riker had killed it. Everyone would know that. Akarr looked at the animal and said, “I didn’t break the rules to kill it . . . but it is dead. I want the skin for my trophy.”
“You what?” Zefan’s arm hair rose—longer, silkier hair than the Tsorans, and not with quite the same result. Akarr had never seen a Fandrean trigger that threat before. “You cannot possibly consider taking a pelt off-planet! Do you know how it will inflame the poachers? And at a time when our forcefield seems to be unstable!”
“It is unstable in ways that are to your favor,” Akarr said. “And the pelt is the only trophy that will offset the things that have happened to me here.”
“We don’t have time to skin it,” Worf growled.
“Akarr,” Riker said, “don’t make me sorrier than I already am that I gave you this chance. You’re the Tsoran ReynTa. Your people take their cue from you. Is this what you want to show them? That you glory in the death of an animal that was fighting drugged? That you bend the rules for the sake of your own daleura, instead of reveling in the daleura you’ve gained under the same rules as everyone else?”
Akarr thought of the scientist who had reported on the safety of the shuttles, who had presented a fictitious Fandrean report. For the sake of his family daleura, no doubt—whether he’d been told to, or done it on his own. Akarr himself had lived the consequences of that deceit. Then, unable to truly face or acknowledge such fault, he retreated deeply to Tsoran pride. He touched his vest packet—the whisker was secure enough, although the vest itself was more battered yet. “You know nothing, Riker,” he spat. “You know nothing of us or our ways or our rules.”
“Maybe not. But I know a wrong when I see it.”
“I don’t need the pelt,” Akarr said, rigidly stiff in his posture, speaking to the others as though Riker had said nothing. “I will overcome the unfortunate events of this kaphoora on my own.” And he stalked back to the group to reclaim his turn at Ketan’s side.
Behind him, Riker said to Zefan, “I’m truly sorry. If I’d seen another way—”
“With the Tsoran ReynTa between its paws and the trank wearing off faster every second?” Zefan said. “We all m
ourn the outcome. But I cannot say I have ever seen anything more bravely done.”
Just what Akarr was afraid of.
Chapter Thirteen
“WELL,” TROI SAID, stopping short as she entered the conference room, her expression changing abruptly from preoccupied worry to startlement. “You two look somewhat the worse for wear.”
Picard knew what Atann looked like; he could imagine, from the various stinging and swollen spots on his person, what his own appearance must be. Left to his own devices, he was not inclined to use Worf’s calisthenic programs with tampered safety protocols. Left to his own devices, he preferred the opinionated but basically obedient gray Arabian from his own holodeck program. All the same, there were appearances to keep up. Daleura, as it were. “Just a short workout,” he said, as if it were a typical occurrence. “Looking for common ground, so to speak.” But he aimed a short, hard look at Atann, who turned his gaze away in acknowledgment.
The holodeck diversion had been much more than that—as had his threat to beam the ReynKa aboard. Not just about Picard and Atann and the byplay between them. Not personal daleura, which was the mistake he’d made from the start, although they did indeed each personify their individual allegiances.
No, it had been about the Federation’s daleura.
And the Federation had plenty of daleura, regardless of their disinclination to use it as a bargaining tool. More than enough to outrank one lone planet full of Tsorans. All he’d had to do was make that clear in no uncertain terms, and then step back to give Akarr room to respond.
Up until today, he was quite certain the Tsorans had indeed played the Federation for fools. That they indeed had no intention of following up on their promised discussions, and would consider it honorably done, if the Federation could not find the daleura to force them to it.
Unfortunately for the Tsorans, Atann had taken their daleura-driven behavior too far—far enough so that, finally caught out, he was all but obliged to offer up the charts. He looked at Atann again, a more casual glance; the ReynKa had assumed his normal stiff posture, just short of a maximum effect. Wise move on his part. If he puffed himself up past that point, Picard would take him down in front of everyone. Pride goeth and all that.
“I take it you found what you were looking for,” Troi said, looking at him with enough humor behind her eyes that Picard knew she’d been able to assess the situation.
“Emphatically so.” Picard gestured at the conference table. “Atann and I are about to commence discussion about the charts. I’d like you to sit in. Atann has declined an invitation to have his own second; he understands that your function here is to facilitate understanding.”
“Fine,” said Troi, picking up just the right no-nonsense cue. She took a seat between the two of them. “Let’s get started.”
“Agreed. There’s already been enough delay to jeopardize our purpose.” Despite their attempts to create their own timely charts . . . Picard sat, and noted that Atann had no trouble picking out the chair that had only moments ago been replaced with a modified Tsoran design. Atann’s feet might not reach the floor, but his head was no longer significantly lower than anyone else’s. “ReynKa, there is no need to discuss why we need your charts. It is an established fact that in order to navigate that section of space, detailed charts are necessary, and you are the only one to possess them.”
“We don’t want anyone else to have that ability,” Atann said shortly. “The graviton eddies keep our system secure from encroachment.”
“And we do not want permanent use of that space. Our proposal is that we provide the charts to a limited number of guide ships, which will be responsible for guiding the convoys through the graviton eddies. When the evacuation is over, we will purge the information from our ships’ computers.”
Atann’s gaze shifted between them; he pursed his pouchy lower lip. “How can we be certain all your people will do this?”
Because none of us will want anything to do with your system after this. But Picard only gave him an even stare. “We do as we say we will do, without convenient manipulation of our obligations. Do you need a demonstration?”
Atann stiffened in his seat, his lips tight over his teeth.
“Captain,” Troi said carefully, “that question might be interpreted as a threat. Is that how you meant it?”
“Yes,” said Picard.
There was a brief silence.
“I see,” Troi said. She glanced at Atann. “As long as we’re clear on that.”
Atann sat stiff and silent, staring at the food replicator; there was a slight but noticeable quiver in his ears.
“However,” Picard added, “I find it more convenient to simply suggest that we upload the information with a dated self-delete code attached, as approved by Tsoran experts.”
“You are so certain when you will be completed with your . . . evacuation?” Atann asked, his under-purr sounding muted and cautious . . . and hopeful.
“We can easily establish the maximum time it will take for the Ntignano sun to go nova.” Not as long as they’d hoped. Not near as long as they’d hoped. “Once that happens, I assure you, we will have no pressing need to traverse the area of space in question.”
Atann seemed to have relaxed considerably. “What about my son?”
“That’s a separate matter,” Troi advised him, echoing Picard’s words to Atann in the holodeck with a satisfying synchronicity. “Let’s conclude this discussion first.”
Atann didn’t like it. All the signs were there. But after a moment, he offered an awkward human nod. “I find your terms . . . acceptable,” he said. “As long as my own people are involved in the process to establish the automatic delete.”
“Agreed,” Picard said. “Please contact whomever is necessary. We’ll begin that process immediately.”
“You don’t trust—”
“Don’t even say it, ReynKa. Just contact your people. You’re welcome to use our communications board.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Atann said, his under-purr sharp and tight. He removed a small round device from his vest and issued a few curt instructions to his assistant, and then they sat, silently, waiting—Troi relaxed, Picard satisfied, and Atann impatient—until the transporter room reported the arrival of the Fandrean computer techs.
Picard assigned Data to handle the work—knowing the program would likely be completed by the time Data even reached the transporter room to escort their guest techs to a work area—and settled back to wait. “They should be finished shortly,” he said. “At that time, we’ll expect to receive the navigational charts.”
“Yes, yes,” Atann said. “Now what about my son?”
“ReynKa, are you under the impression that we’ve withheld information about your son’s status?” Troi glanced at Picard, who gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. “We honestly know no more than we’ve told you. We’ve relayed all the information we’ve received.”
“This is true?” Atann asked, deflating somewhat. “You know nothing? Not even whether he is dead or alive?”
“We hope to hear from Fandre soon,” Picard said, taking the edge out of his voice. “If you cannot trust that we will make every effort to see your son to safety, ReynKa, then at least trust that we care enough about our own crew members to do the same for them. And that we are still trying to understand exactly what went wrong.”
“I myself have close ties to the officers involved,” Troi said, a grim fierceness intruding on her professional calm. “I can assure you that if there were information to be had, I’d have it.”
Picard could only hope he’d never be in a position to be between her and any such information.
Atann looked away from them both. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” Troi said. “I can tell you that the officers involved are our best. If anyone can get your son through this safely . . .”
Atann’s under-purr was especially garbling. “I understand.”
“While we’re wa
iting for Mr. Data and your own technicians to assemble acceptable code for the automatic delete, would you like some refreshments? The food replicator has recently been programmed to offer Tsoran delicacies.” And anything was better than sitting here staring at one another.
“That would be satisfactory,” Atann said, not sounding particularly enthused. But as Troi rose to assist him in the replicator’s use, his communicating device—still on the conference table—gave a strange warble.
The ReynSa. “Is it true?” she said. “You’ve arranged to give the Federation our star charts?”
Atann glanced at Picard, who offered no reaction; he and Troi withdrew to the far side of the room, as though it would truly offer Atann any privacy. But he didn’t ask for any more than that—and it wasn’t far enough away for them to mistake her next words.
“You must stop all progress toward this gift at once,” she said. “They have played you for a fool, Atann. They have only pretended to respect you.”
Atann gave his device a puzzled look, as though it were the ReynSa herself. “In what way? I am satisfied with the situation.”
“How can you say such a thing, with our son still missing?” She paused, and seemed to gather herself with an audible intake of air. “You’ll change your mind soon. Takarr and I will board their ship immediately; we must speak in person. Until I get there, Atann, mark this—they are not to be trusted.”
* * *
“Look at it this way,” La Forge said, leaning over the short console to get Yenan’s attention. “The problem isn’t on the communications end. All things considered, communications aren’t that hard to handle within the Legacy. The energy change from one form to another is subtle compared to the energy transfer going on within a shuttle’s engines—that’s why the Universal Translator is reasonably reliable in there, too.” Of course, they’d all expected the shields to be reliable, as well, given the Tsoran and Fandrean assurances. “So the question is— why are we working so hard on the communications end of this problem?”
Tooth and Claw Page 19
