Tooth and Claw Page 2

  On Fandre, behind those technology-damping fields, the daleura waited for Tsora’s bravest. And now Akarr, alone of all on Tsora, had acquired as escort and pilot the captain of the Enterprise, flagship of the Federation.

  Not that the Fandreans truly understood. But that was irrelevant.

  In fact, it was hard for Akarr to believe that their two species were related, despite the obvious similarities in appearance. The soft Fandreans had initially created the forcefield and the carefully balanced ecological environment within simply so the beasts that called Fandre home would have a place to live, and so that the Fandreans would not be forced to eliminate them to insure their own survival. Absurd. Only the Tsorans saw the true worth of the place. The challenge of tooth and claw.

  “Due to the number of people involved—the ReynTa’s own Tsoran escort, and our security personnel, along with Mr. La Forge—we’ll be using two modified cargo shuttles. Geordi, will you see to it that both are specially appointed for this purpose?”

  “Consider it done,” La Forge said, with no hesitation that Akarr could see, and even a certain amount of cheerful willingness. Interesting. He would have to take careful note of this human. How, while clearly remaining under the command of the ship’s captain, did he maintain that air of independence? A useful tool to cultivate . . . at least, until Akarr was assured of his appointment as ReynKa, and no longer bowed to anyone. This trip would help insure that the ReynKa did not adopt the obscure decision to pass his reign on to his second-born.

  The engineer, however, did not appear to be finished. “Captain,” he said, “given what I’m hearing about the forcefields and tech dampers, I have to express some concern about shuttle integrity. Do we even know if our shuttles will function in that environment?”

  “Starfleet has worked with the Tsorans and Fandreans to be sure that they will, and Admiral Gromek has forwarded the details regarding shuttle operating parameters while under the forcefields.”

  “I don’t suppose we can delay long enough for me to examine these calculations myself?” La Forge asked.

  Akarr didn’t give Picard a chance to respond. “Absolutely not,” he said. “There can be no delay.” Not with the kaphoora fete behind him. Any delay at this point would look like hesitation on Akarr’s part, and would forever cast doubt on his prime kaphoora.

  Picard did not acknowledge Akarr’s statement. “I’m afraid not, Geordi. Nadann Jesson suggested that the kaphoora might come into play some weeks ago, before we knew the Enterprise would be involved; there’s been time to check it out. I’m sure Admiral Gromek had her best people investigate the matter.”

  “I’m sure she did,” La Forge said, sounding unconvinced. “I just think it’s wise—”

  “And I do not disagree. But we don’t have the luxury of following through. We’ll use the figures that the Tsorans have provided.”

  La Forge gave a short nod and leaned back in his seat—almost a defiant slouch, Akarr would have said, except that the human was too relaxed. Still disagreeing, perhaps, but accepting.

  As long as he did as was required, Akarr didn’t care how much he disagreed.

  “Geordi will pilot one of the shuttles,” Commander Riker said, speaking up after enough personal silence that Akarr had assumed he wouldn’t. “I’ll take the other. With Fandre in its oppositional orbit and the system’s graviton eddies to avoid, we can expect a trip of seven to twelve hours—”

  “You are in error,” Akarr said, trying to hide his sudden panic as he realized just what Riker had said. “My pilot will be Captain Picard. It is arranged.”

  Riker glanced at the captain, but it didn’t seem to be in supplication, or to garner permission for any words or behavior. “There must be a misunderstanding,” he said. “I’ll have the honor of piloting your shuttle. The captain has obligations to the ReynKa and the Federation.”

  Speechless, Akarr looked at Picard, his fur ruffling up and his nostrils flaring in distress he knew these humans—hoped these humans—would not recognize. The flagship captain, not his pilot? Unacceptable! But . . . should he negotiate, play their game until he could gain enough sense of the human daleura to turn it to his advantage? Or startle them with a full daleura display here and now, demanding that which had been promised him?

  But Riker watched him with wise eyes—blue human eyes—and no alarm. As though he knew the decision that Akarr weighed, and had no concern about dealing with it either way. And . . . very few Tsorans ever fully recovered from a failed preemptive daleura display.

  So even though there were no other Tsorans in the room—his escort waited outside the conference-room door, blocking, as he’d been given to understand, the bridge privacy facilities—Akarr chose the safer way.

  No matter. He’d make up for it on Fandre.

  Chapter Two

  “HERE’S THE THING,” Geordi said, avoiding the temptation to raise his voice against the backdrop of the thrumming warp core, though it was the reason he’d chosen this spot to chat with Reg Barclay and Lieutenant Duffy. “This isn’t exactly official. Not yet.”

  “You don’t mean . . . that is, the captain doesn’t?” Barclay stopped, took a breath, and said, “We’re not— launching the probes behind the captain’s back?”

  Startled, Geordi said, “Of course not!” and glanced around the engine room to see just who might have overheard Barclay’s unfortunate phrase as Duffy gave Barclay a pointed jab with his elbow. “What I mean is that this is an option I’d like to have ready in case we need it. But until we get the go-ahead, no one else needs to know about it. Is that clearer?”

  To judge from Barclay’s expression, not terribly. “You want to prepare to launch the probes behind the captain’s back,” he said, his voice much lowered.

  “I—” Geordi started, and then raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Yes, Reg, something like that. And I won’t be here to handle it. Which is why I want you and Duffy to go ahead and modify and program the probes. Basic class-five medium-range reconnaissance probes.”

  Duffy gave him a doubtful look. “That’s a pretty complicated program, sir. I mean, we can do it, but I’m not sure if we can pull it together before you get back—”

  “I’ve taken care of that.” Geordi handed Barclay a padd. “I’ve been thinking about this possibility ever since I heard the Federation was having trouble getting the charts. All you need to do is prepare the probes themselves, and then—if the orders come down—send them out and run the program. Do it from cartography— their input feeds are designed to work with this probe. But find a quiet corner for it, okay?”

  Duffy brightened considerably, some of his normal cockiness returning. A good balance, these two— Barclay’s innate caution versus Duffy’s occasional attack of youthful enthusiasm. “That, we can do. Prepare the probes, keep it quiet. No problem.”

  “It shouldn’t be,” La Forge said. “Just keep in mind— it’s not the captain you have to worry about if this becomes general knowledge, it’ll be Admiral Gromek. This evac is her baby, and if the Tsorans somehow get wind of this, you can bet they won’t be understanding about it. Our goal here is to avoid using these probes, and to hope that no one other than the three of us ever knows we were ready to do so. Got it?”

  “G-got it,” Barclay mumbled.

  Duffy bounced on his heels once, and under Geordi’s stern look, settled. “Understood.” And then the blood flow to his cheeks increased considerably, a fact La Forge was easily able to discern with the VISOR; he turned around to see the cause. Data.

  “What is happening in this neck of the woods?” Data asked.

  “I, uh, I’ve got a holodeck glitch to check out,” Barclay said, and ducked away around the warp core before Geordi could so much as lift a hand to slow him; his gesture hung, incomplete, in midair, until he let his hand fall back to his side and shrugged at Duffy.

  “You, too,” he said. “Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Duffy said, with perhaps a tad more volume than he mig
ht have used.

  Geordi waved him off with a sigh, watching as he bolted after Barclay. “What’s up, Data?”

  “Skulduggery, from the looks of it,” Data responded in his most conversational tone.

  “How’s that?” Geordi asked, surprised . . . and thinking he wasn’t much cut out for skulduggery. Not if even Data could discern the human signs of it.

  “Do not be alarmed, Geordi. Whatever it is, I am sure your intentions are honorable. I have no plans to stick my nose into it.”

  “Well . . . thank you,” Geordi said, full of caution. “Is there . . . anything else going on?”

  “Such as what?”

  “You just don’t . . . seem yourself.”

  “If I wished, I could quite accurately reproduce the voice and speech patterns of anyone on the ship,” Data said. “But since I am not doing that, I am not sure who you might think I seem like.”

  Geordi looked at him a moment, then nodded slowly. “That’s more like it,” he said. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Ah. You are wondering why I am here.”

  No beating around the bush with Data. “You could say that.”

  “The science officer on the Curie is providing me with constantly updated data about the state of Ntignano’s star. I plan to tie the input into the bridge science station, and need to make sure you had no plans to use that station during our time here.”

  “Well, since I’m not going to be here . . .” Geordi said, and let the words speak for themselves. He didn’t mention the probe work; those could be run straight from engineering, or patched through one of the auxilliary bridge stations.

  “Excellent,” Data said. “See you later, alligator.”

  Geordi looked at Data’s briskly retreating back with a frown that hovered between puzzled and concerned. “In a while, crocodile,” he heard himself mutter.

  Great. Whatever was going on with Data, it seemed to be infectious.

  * * *

  Riker strode into Ten-Forward with more than the usual amount of purpose in his gait. He’d read Nadann Jesson’s lengthy report on Tsoran customs twice, and the extra file on the Fandrean preserve—the Legacy, they called it— one more time. The Legacy didn’t concern him, despite its arborata, cartigas, skiks, and giant ictaya; he hadn’t been invited on the kaphoora, only to play chauffeur. And while the notion of a token hunt didn’t faze him, the company of this particular hunt put him off entirely.

  Meanwhile, Akarr was tucked away in a guest suite somewhere, the shuttles wouldn’t be ready until late enough to delay departure for the next duty cycle, and Riker . . .

  Riker was off-duty with a vengeance.

  He eyed both the bar and the empty table in the back, and opted for the bar. Back tables were for brooding, and he wasn’t interested in brooding. He wanted to contemplate precision phaser practice. Perhaps drilling a new belly button for Akarr.

  Or maybe an initial belly button, if the Tsoran didn’t yet have one.

  “I think I have just the thing for you,” Guinan said, appearing at the bar in that way she had of just suddenly being there. She held a tall, violent-looking drink, a murky concoction of barely compatible liquids swirling around to produce a sticky foam. “To judge by your expression, it suits your mood, don’t you think?”

  Riker gave it a dubious look. “I, ahh, think I’ll stick to something more basic. Whiskey, double, neat.”

  “Whiskey it is.” The tall glass disappeared, and in moments a stout tumbler with the air bubbles of handblown glass sat before him, cradling a dark amber liquid. “Our best single-malt.” She eyed him from beneath a hat of imposing stature; on anyone else it would have looked ridiculous. On Guinan, it looked right at home, the color bright against her dark skin. “Think it’ll help?”

  Riker lifted the glass to the light for a moment of appreciation. “No,” he said, and took a sip, closing his eyes to follow the burn all the way down. When he looked at Guinan again it was with a glint of humor. “But I’m sure going to enjoy it.”

  “There’s always that.” She produced a bowl of bar peanuts to match the whiskey, filled two more requests, and cleaned up after a spill without ever apparently taking her attention from him. “Not easy, is it?”

  “What’s that?” he said, thoughtfully sucking the salt from a peanut.

  “Working with someone so important to your goals who’s also so rude.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “All over the ship already?”

  “No,” she said, and smiled a most serene smile.

  Riker sighed, giving up. This was Guinan. She’d get it from him sooner or later. “It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He sipped the whiskey, let it settle. Could hardly tell it was synthehol, at that. Bless those Ferengi. “Nothing I can’t handle, now.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “But does it ever really get any easier?”

  He lowered the glass to look at her. “Is this supposed to be helpful?”

  “Maybe.” She doled out another set of drinks and then regarded him with one elbow on the bar and her knuckled forefinger thoughtfully at her full lower lip. “Sometimes,” she said, “just because you get used to something, doesn’t mean you should ignore the way it makes you feel.”

  And then she was gone again, at the other end of the bar and leaving him to stare at the spot where she’d been, the words of question and protest unspoken on his lips.

  Never mind. He had the whiskey, he had the peanuts . . . and his bearing—which did rather match Guinan’s unpalatable-looking drink, at that—kept away anyone who might make inquiries to his mood and especially to his latest assignment.

  With one exception. “Commander,” La Forge said, spotting him at the Ten-Forward entrance and coming straight to the bar.

  “Problem?” Riker asked.

  La Forge shook his head, then hesitated, and shrugged. “The shuttle refit is right on track, but . . .”

  “Geordi,” Riker said, “I don’t blame you for wanting out, but I have to back the captain’s decision on this one. We have to keep these people talking to us, and that means keeping them happy.”

  “It’s not so much wanting out,” La Forge said. Guinan planted a drink before him and he picked it up without even checking to see what it was. “I’ll just have a couple of Tsoran security guards in my shuttle; you’re the one who’ll share space with Akarr and Worf and the main body of the security detail.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Riker muttered.

  “I really think it would be wiser to have someone here start the mapping process, just in case negotiations fall apart.”

  Riker gave him a hard look. “If the Tsorans found out we were making an effort to map the graviton eddies in their restricted space, you can believe that negotiations would fall apart.”

  “There’s no reason they ever have to know. Lieutenant Duffy’ll be holding down engineering; he and Reg Barclay work well with one another. Let me put them on it—at least get a start.”

  Riker shook his head, staring down into the drink. “These Tsorans are too . . . prickly. We can’t afford to take the chance.”

  “With all respect, Commander, the Ntignanos can’t afford for us not to take that chance.”

  He was right, of course. That the Tsorans had put up this much resistance to merely talking about use of the mapped corridor spoke of their disregard for other species in trouble. There was no assurance that, even placated by Federation kaphoora escorts and technical assistance, they would agree to the kind of traffic the evacuation would cause. In the end, it might well come down to mapping that space as quickly as possible, and commandeering the space corridor for the duration.

  Not exactly the Federation’s style. The delay involved before such a decision could be made—and the maps charted—might well mean the death of hundreds of thousands of Ntignanos.

  Riker lifted his head. “I’ll talk to Captain Picard, see that he gets your assessment of such a project.”

  “Thank you.” L
a Forge lifted his drink for a careful sip—it was a teal-blue fizzy creation—and behind the VISOR, his eyebrows rose in appreciation. “Guinan, you never cease to amaze me. Where did this one come from?”

  “Well,” Guinan said, imparting an air of confidentiality as she moved in closer, “there’s this little planet just to the left of Sardia III—you know the one I’m talking about?”

  “Lieutenant La Forge!”

  Riker groaned silently, instantly recognizing that rough voice and the under-purr that garbled it. Who’d told Akarr about Ten-Forward? He’d find out, and he’d—

  He’d turn around with a cordial expression on his face, that’s what. “You must mean Lieutenant Com mander La Forge,” he said. “Welcome to Ten-Forward.”

  “Are the shuttles prepared?”

  La Forge hesitated, glancing at Riker. “The modifications are under way.”

  The short being readjusted his stiff vest and made a face that Riker hadn’t ever seen before—a manipulation of his mobile lower lip, which had to be quite flexible indeed, to meet his protruding upper mandible. A pinched-looking, disagreeable look. For all Riker knew, Tsoran to Tsoran, it was a smiling pleasantry.

  But he doubted it.

  “Is it wise to leave such things to your underlings?” Akarr asked, confirming Riker’s suspicions about the expression.

  “I trust my people,” La Forge said simply, and left it at that. Wise, indeed.

  Guinan leaned over the bar, her hands folded neatly before her. “This must be ReynTa Akarr,” she said with enthusiasm, and Riker gave her a startled look; seldom had he heard Guinan . . . gush.

  “Guinan,” he said, by way of formal introduction, “I’d like to present the ReynTa of Tsora, Akarr.” And to Akarr, “Guinan is our hostess here. If there’s anything you want, she’ll get it for you.”