Chapter Seven
the kaphoora had been planned with day hikes--the Tsorans carrying small but adequate packs to get them through the day with plenty to eat and drink, and personal tarps for the late-afternoon rains. That the packs suited Riker's human frame poorly did not bother Akarr in the least; the man should be grateful that there was a pack for him to carry, and should thank dead Pavar for the use of it.
He eyed Riker with annoyance as they followed the crash path past Pavar's memory spot and the human hesitated, eyeing the huge rocks that covered the spot. Impressed, Akarr would have said--and the site indeed deserved such a response. Because the shuttle had dug into rock at this point--throwing it up and aside in a frozen wave of earth--it had been easy to put Pavar to rest, cover the site, and then roll down rocks that ordinarily would have been much too large to handle. Rocks
as big as Akarr himself, rocks that would protect the spot as an eternal memory site.
But somehow it raised the hair on his arms to have the human examine it so. "Are you slowing us already?" He kept his voice gruff, knowing Riker had a difficult time understanding him when he did so, and that he had no concept of the significance of different under-purrs ... or how badly he'd just been insulted.
Or maybe he did. Riker strode away from the memory site, one hand holding the pack to a more comfortable position, a large flashing blade swinging in the other. Akarr stared at it as Riker approached. He hadn't paid any attention to the human as they'd prepared to move out; he, Rakal, and Takan had enough to do, outfitting both themselves and the injured guards with packs. Gavare and Regen could carry their own packs, but Ketan's shoulder injury prevented him from doing the same. For now, Rakal and Takan would take turns carrying double.
So he'd ignored Riker, noting only that the human was prepared and waiting to go despite his repeated, strongly voiced protests--protests Akarr could quote back at him by now if he'd wished: "Geordi will know we're in trouble. Worf will come looking. And he's not going to be able to find us if we're off stumbling through the trees, and he's working on visual in a pared-down shuttlecraft!"
Privately, Akarr thought Riker gave his companions far too much credit. That anyone would interpret a blast of noise as a cry for help was absurd. That a single man in a pared-down shuttlecraft had a chance of finding them in the first place was too remote to contemplate. Yes, privately, Akarr thought Riker--despite his size and bearing--would have done anything to stay with what he perceived as the safety of the shuttle. But Akarr wasn't about to abandon his only chance to wrench
70?
daleura out of this misbegotten kaphoora by clinging to a useless shuttlecraft, eating down their rations and bringing himself no closer to the preserve boundary.
Not that he'd explained it to Riker. Not in the least. What Riker thought or didn't think had no relevance. He'd had the choice of sitting there by himself, or tagging along with the Tsorans. And addled Gavare might have been the only one of them to have experience with the Legacy, but all of them had trained for it, had earned their way here. All of them, even the son of the ReynKa. Riker was the one who was unprepared--no tranquilizer gun, since Pavar's had been as broken as its owner. No training. No other weapons besides a puny little knife.
Or so Akarr had thought. Until now, when his mind, busy with thoughts of Riker's inadequacies, had no control over his eyes--which had greedily locked on to the sight of the formidable weapon Riker carried. Two parallel curving blades, connected with bracing sections. The back blade provided leather-wrapped handgrips between sections; the ends, with the front blade significantly shorter than the back, hooked wickedly--as though they'd been designed with Tsora's now extinct, heavily antlered troph-deer in mind.
Riker, to his surprise, seemed perfectly comfortable with this shining, sharpened weapon in hand.
And Akarr didn't know quite what to make of it, or of the way the human strode confidently forward, as alert as any Tsoran to the brief movement in the foliage to then- side, knowing to ignore the light fluttering of insignificant lizbirds high above them ... not intimidated. Not reluctant.
Just damned annoyed.
Akarr did the only thing he could. He turned his back on Riker, pretending he hadn't spoken those last,
provocative words--no Tsoran did anything else, when faced with conflicting facts. Ignore the other person, even in mid-sentence, until things became clearer, that was the way of it. And Akarr fairly dove for the safety of those ways, pushing his pace to fall in ahead of Riker until he nearly trod on Takan's heels.
Above them came the first patter of rain in the upper leaves; soon enough those leaves would be drenched, and dripping their own rain down on the next level, and so on, until the kaphoora party was soaked. Not that it mattered in warmth like this, not with his thick, short fur to keep his skin dry. But come evening, the temperatures would fall, and if he were wet... Not even the bravest Tsoran foolishly left himself open to hypothermia. But Akarr waited until Takan pulled out his rain tarp before donning his own, not hesitating in his steady, marching progress.
A glance behind showed that Riker had done the same, although Pavar's tarp was too small for him; he hadn't come with wet-weather gear--or gear of any sort. The only thing he'd contributed was the medical kit he carried.
And that wicked blade.
Akarr stumbled; he'd let his glance rest behind him too long, lured by the weapon. And they were running out of easy travel, though the crash path had taken them farther than he expected. Now they'd navigate with a primitive compass--standard issue for any kaphoora party--and push their way through an unfriendly jungle.
Think of the daleura. Never mind the discomfort, the effort, the wearying state of vigilance ... it was only a few days of inconvenience, compared to the daleura he'd earn. Even Tehra would acclaim him now, and quit looking at his younger sibling with such an attentive eye. Yes, he'd trained for his time here on Fandre ... trained hard. And he was determined, and strong, as were all his guards--even the injured ones. Against all that, walking out to the portal would surely present no obstacle he could not overcome.
Riker slashed a clinging, thorn-covered vine out of his way and hoped that Worf never learned he'd used the bat'leth for such a purpose. The Tsorans had it somewhat easier, ducking obstacles that met Riker at chest level--but even so, their progress remained slow. At least the deluge of rain had eased, although he had the suspicion that he was likely to mold before he managed to dry off. In that, at least, the Tsorans had a disadvantage; their fur, despite use of the simple rain slickers, had turned damply dark, a baptism from the thick foliage at then" level. The Tsorans trained and prepared for their time here, he knew ... but they'd never come this deep into the preserve before.
Apparently it made a difference.
That difference hadn't fazed Akarr, who forged ahead with unflagging determination--aside from his occasional covetous glance at the bat'leth. Riker would have preferred to move more slowly, take better stock of their surroundings. He'd already learned to spot the sticky vines at several meters, and the thorny vines had gotten his quick attention as well. There was also a certain broad-leafed bush he'd pegged as responsible for the stinging red welts across the back of his hand; that one was harder to see at a distance.
But it wasn't the plants that worried him, or the insects --which, so far, had all been of such a size that there was no subtlety to them at all, no chance of one landing unnoticed to take a chunk out of him. Even if he was bitten, he specifically remembered reading that
none of the local insects were anything more than annoying; for all their size, they left no more sting than a mosquito.
Although he didn't imagine it would take as many of them to drain a man dry.
No, the plants were so far only an annoyance. The insects were an annoyance. But the various hoots, calls, and chattering that he heard in the distance, he took as warning. And the one oft-repeated call--where it came from, he wasn't sure, except that it seemed to bounce among the trees,
swelling significantly before it finally faded away--that one, he found alarming. Damned alarming.
It came again--to his ears, closer than ever. More than anything, it reminded him of the sound of a stick running across the boards of a snow fence ... if amplified many times and imbued with an underlying tone of menace that no fence had ever produced.
He stopped, engulfed in foliage, unconsciously lifting the bat'leth closer to a guard position as Ketan stumbled past him, followed by Rakal, their last man. Slowly, he turned a complete circle, searching the layers of green on green--dark greens, shadowed greens, green spreading to reveal glimpses of grayish tree trunks, green splashed with the vibrant color of arboreal flyers and flowers--hunting for the owner of the haunting cry.
If he hadn't viewed the reports, if he hadn't paid close attention in the museum, he'd have been struck by the strong suspicion that the carnivores they sought to avoid were also green.
The carnivores, he corrected himself, that most of them sought to avoid.
And then there was Akarr.
Some part of him couldn't blame the Tsoran's resistance to abandoning the kaphoora. He was a kid, after
all, a kid trying to impress not only his parents and peers, but his entire society. A kid with too much authority in a dangerous situation, and none of the experience to wield it.
Riker's inspection of the area revealed nothing. If there was anything out there, anything close, he couldn't spot it. And the Tsorans hadn't waited, hadn't even slowed down; there was no point in standing out here alone, exposed. He turned back to the trail--easy to follow, given all the foliage that had been hacked, broken, and otherwise disturbed--and instantly froze in place at the movement directly before his feet.
He couldn't even tell what it was, not at first--only that in the tangle of roots, leaves, and fallen branches at his feet, something moved. A gliding motion, with no beginning to it and no ending. Gray-green patterns meant to distract his eyes did just that, and he stared, baffled, not sure if he was about to die or if he was merely seeing things.
And then the shapes and patterns snapped abruptly into place, and the primordial part of his brain, the part that still lived in caves and walked on all fours, bellowed snake!
Damn big snake, bulky and stretching from here to there, neither end visible, its body muscular and lumpy ... as if the last meal hadn't quite settled down yet. He assessed the thing's girth, looked down at himself it'd be a tight fit.
But it would be a fit.
Had he seen anything on snakes in the museum? Were they poisonous, were they constrictors ... would this one even care that it had crossed his path? Would it leave him alone if he simply waited for it to pass, or was it circling back? If he moved, would that draw its otherwise uncaring attention? He hadn't seen the tail of it yet; it just seemed to go on forever. He could well believe
that this end could be passing him by while the front end came by for a second look.
For another moment, he hesitated, not sure of the best move. Then ... what the hell. If he was going to be eaten by the biggest snake in the universe, he'd do it with flair. He leapt over the cumbrous girth of the creature, landing as far away as he could get--and as lightly as he could manage.
Not far enough, not lightly enough--the snake whipped around, a lightning-fast motion he hadn't begun to suspect it possessed, whacking him across the back of the legs even as he intended to put more distance between them. Shouldn't have hesitated, shouldn't have taken that one look back--Riker went down, breaking through the foliage with his face, landing with his arms outspread and his fingers splayed against the ground, the bat'leth under his open palm--little good it could do him while he sprawled so thoroughly across the fungus-filled ground. He tried to flip himself around, hindered by the leaves and branches that clung to him, nearly blinded by whatever had gotten into his eyes--and was stopped short by the thick muscular body suddenly clinging to his calves. Not only clinging to them, working its way up with a prickly, gripping oddness, pinning his thighsRiker twisted to discover that the snake had legs. Or hands. Small, three-fingered hands that had emerged from a protective groove along its side and now clung happily to his trousers while the tip of the tail--finally visible--curled around to possessively claim an ankle.
And then he heard the rustling glide of the front half, coming back for its share.
The shock of it, the hesitation, left him--and left him cold and grim and moving. With a growl, he snatched up
the bat'leth and heaved himself up to his knees, whipping around to bisect the tail with the sap-sticky blade.
Too thick--it was too thick, and he didn't have the leverage--the blade sunk two-thirds of the way through and stuck there, and Riker clung grimly while the tail flailed against him, battering him, knowing he couldn't afford to lose the weapon and hoping that There Slicked by the creature's own blood, loosened by its own contortions, the bat'leth abruptly yanked loose; Riker fell back with the momentum of it and turned it into a roll, his legs free of the creepy, clinging hand fingers and his feet solidly under him--just in time to see the head of the monster shooting toward him, lancing through the air in a deadly swift strike.
He let the bat'leth do the thinking for him.
Slashing, striking, ducking, skipping out of reach ... in the end^ he didn't know if the snake-thing was badly wounded or merely annoyed enough to leave. It left enough of its blood in evidence so he felt he'd at least ruined its day; already the insects were swarming. He stood, panting, looking at the evidence of the struggle--but only for a moment. Then he wiped his face against his shoulder, clearing it of sweat and... less pleasant things ... and turned to walk briskly down the trail.
It took him some moments to catch up with the Tsorans, who had made no attempt to wait for him. Even so, Rakal turned to give him a disgruntled look. "Best if you don't slow us down," he said, the Universal Translator faltering and barely comprehensible over the gruffness of his under-purr and his steady panting. Definitely affected by the tech damper, dammit.
"Just taking a look around," he told Rakal, wiping sweat from the side of his face; he merely smiled when Rakal caught a glimpse of the bloodied bat'leth, giving
it an obvious double take. It distracted him enough, in fact, that when Ketan--whose short, slightly bowed but normally sturdy legs had gone distinctly wobbly in the moments since Riker's arrival--folded neatly to the ground, Rakal almost walked right over him.
"Ketan!" Rakal's exclamation wavered between concern and annoyance. "On your feet, then, Ketan--we need to make more distance this day."
"I think it would be wiser to find a place to camp," Riker said.
"There is still plenty of day left," Rakal said, although beneath the canopy, it was hard to judge the fading light. "We'll move until Akarr says otherwise."
"And is Akarr going to carry your friend? Because maybe you can't see it, but he's gone just about as far as he's going to go." Riker doubted they had much of "this day" left. And if there was one thing he knew, it was that he wanted to have a good, defensible camp set up before twilight settled in.
Most hunting, he recalled, took place in the twilight hours.
"What delay has Riker caused now?" Akarr shouted back at them, already retracing his steps and bringing the others with him.
"Just trying to save your hide," Riker said between his teeth, feeling his remaining patience trickle away through the hole in his temper. More loudly, he said, "Your men are injured, Akarr. They're beat. We need to find a good place to spend the night, and we need to do it while we've still got the energy to fight off whatever comes after us in the next few hours."
Akarr lifted his head slightly, his nostrils flaring as he sipped in a quick series of breaths. Scenting the air. More accurately, Riker knew, than any human could
ever do the same--but not nearly with the accuracy of even the most over bred Earth dog. Nonetheless, Akarr spoke with assurance. "There's nothing in the area."
"Is that what you thought a few momen
ts ago, when you walked past this?" Riker lifted the bat'leth, holding it vertically; obligingly, the last drops of maroon blood slipped down the edge to splat dramatically against the leaves below.
Silence fell over the group. Silence more or less, considering the increasing activity in the trees around them; the creature of the hollow, clacking cry loosed another series of calls.
Well. He'd been hoping that one was gone, but on the other hand it hadn't seemed likely that it was the defeated snake-thing, either.
"It would be best," Akarr said, struggling to maintain his grasp on a command presence, "to make more distance while we're still fresh."
Gavare chose that moment to wander into the middle of them and slowly sink to his knees. As unobtrusively as possible, Rakal tugged him off to the side, next to Ketan.
"Can't get much fresher than that," Riker said. He plucked a giant leaf and used it to wipe the worst of the snake-thing's blood from the bat'leth. "Face it, Akarr. They're not going anywhere. I'm going to look around for a better spot to spend the night. Someplace that doesn't look so much like something else's dinner table." He turned away from the group, hoping for something resembling high ground.
Star Trek - TNG - 60 - Tooth and Claw Page 10