“Sir, if you are considering leaving orbit, I think you should be aware of the latest reports from Ntignano— straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.” He ignored Picard’s blink of surprise. “Theoretically, the massive singularity carried by the doomsday probe should have resulted in predictable, incremental increases in the sun’s fusion rate, until it reached the point of nova. However, that has not been the case. There have been several surges in the fusion rate; the star is enlarging more quickly than anticipated. While the current evacuation procedure will remove all refugees from Ntignano before the nova occurs, the solar flares and other artifacts of the increasing fusion rate will kill them long before that.”
“I see,” Picard said. Not good news. But there was, at the moment, nothing he could do about it, regardless of the Enterprise’s position.
Except . . . Geordi’s mapping project. Perhaps it was time to consider the suggestion more seriously.
“Thank you, Mr. Data,” he said, his mind already returning to Geordi’s written request, and the details of the project. “Dismissed.”
As Data left, Beverly Crusher breezed in, back in her uniform and med coat. Crusher breezed everywhere, light on her feet, creating enough of her own wind to ruffle her fiery hair on a regular basis. Always intent on something.
At the moment, that something seemed to be him.
“Jean-Luc, I need to talk to you,” she said, dispensing with any preamble.
He gestured at the couch, and seated himself behind his desk. “What is it?”
She hesitated a moment, as if suddenly realizing she hadn’t thought out how to tackle her concern. “I understand that discussion with the ReynKa isn’t going well.”
Picard gave a genteel snort. “The discussion with the ReynKa isn’t going at all.”
“And . . . Will? Have you heard anything about Will?”
Of course she knew about that. Picard hadn’t told her directly, but the suspected shuttle trouble was far from classified information. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Geordi is hoping to modify the Collins’s shields so that it can safely enter the preserve and locate the Rahjah. Local time is several hours behind ship time; they still have some daylight with which to work. And let us not forget the possibility that the transmission isn’t from Commander Riker at all, but is just another symptom of the problems with the Fandrean forcefields.”
“But you don’t think that’s the case.” It wasn’t really a question.
“No,” Picard said, answering anyway. “I don’t think that’s the case. I’m considering taking the Enterprise to Fandre to expedite the rescue.”
Alarm crossed her features. “You can’t do that!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Jean-Luc . . . the Ntignanos . . .”
“I’m aware of the Ntignano situation.” Overwhelmingly aware. Flagship captain, sent in to accomplish crucial negotiations, and thus far, a resounding failure. At this rate, the Enterprise would have done better to join the convoy of ships transporting the Ntignanos. “I also know that as things stand—until the Tsorans are willing even to talk to us—there’s nothing I can do to affect it!”
“Then find a way,” Crusher said, fierce and undeterred by his vehemence. “Jean-Luc, they’re already dying. Between the injuries they’re sustaining in the panic, the stress placed on those who are already ill or elderly, the radiation exposure they’re receiving—the journey to their relocation staging point is simply taking too long! They need medical attention, not an extended journey crammed in the holds of refurbished cargo ships!”
Picard’s annoyance faded away, sharply refocused on these new facts. “What about the medical support teams accompanying them?”
“They’re spread too thinly; they don’t have the facilities.” She shook her head, gave a gesture of helplessness. “I’m by no means criticizing them. They just can’t handle the Ntignano needs in transit. And as it is, transit is taking entirely too long.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything; his frustration swirled around thoughts of Tsoran sensibilities—and insensitivities—and he felt the potential for providing onsite support to Geordi slip through his fingers. “All right, Beverly,” he said. “Perhaps I can find a way to prod Atann into action.”
“But you won’t leave Tsora,” she said, searching his face, looking for confirmation. “From what I’ve seen of Atann, it would take years before he’d even consider speaking to us again.”
“I won’t break orbit without further discussion,” Picard acceded, feeling some inner part of him rail against his failure to rush to the away team’s rescue. But the promise satisfied Crusher.
When she left, he immediately called Deanna Troi. She was off-duty—as, technically, were he and Beverly Crusher—but that didn’t stop her from arriving in the ready room, in uniform, within fifteen minutes of his request.
“What,” he said, with very little preamble, “would you predict of the Tsoran response if they discovered we had initiated mapping of the space under discussion?” Or not under discussion, as the case may be.
“I doubt they’d have anything to do with the Federation for a long, long time,” Troi said, tucking her hair behind her ear—the long, unruly curls were the only sign that she’d been caught out of uniform, although her fatigue was evident, and worry rested in her eyes. Worry over Riker, no doubt. The past ties that bound them were strong—stronger, sometimes, than Picard thought either of them realized, regardless of what other entanglements they entered.
But not so strong that she couldn’t continue to focus on the question at hand. Quite practically, she added, “I’m not sure how much the Tsoran reaction matters. Is our goal here to rescue the Ntignanos, or to establish sturdy relations with the Tsorans?”
“I’m sure Starfleet would prefer that we do both,” Picard said dryly. “And there is certainly some question, according to Geordi’s report, whether we could accomplish the mapping in time to do any good. Dr. Crusher has made it clear that for some of the refugees, we’re already too late.”
She sat quietly for a thoughtful moment. “It’s not an easy decision.”
That it wasn’t. Throw the fate of his first officer into the mix and it bordered on the impossible.
“I’d like to see what we can do to jar Atann into responsiveness,” he said, after his own moment of thought, moving away from the conflicts of the mapping issue for the moment.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been giving that some thought.” She scooted to the edge of the couch, resting her entwined fingers over one knee. “I think, if we made it known to him, perhaps through Nadann, that you had heard of their accomplishments—the way they’ve thrived in what used to be a difficult and dangerous environment—you might well prompt an invitation to visit their historical sites or kaphoora training facilites. The question is, will Atann merely walk away again when you bring up the subject of the charted space?”
“Quite likely,” Picard muttered. “Unless I have some news of his son.”
“Have you heard from Geordi recently? Do we know anything more than we did?”
“Not recently.” La Forge was, however, in occasional contact with Data, and if there had been any significant development, Picard was quite sure he’d know about it. “And I’m afraid not.” He took a deep breath, feeling decisions settling into place. “Counselor, come planet morning”—the same as ship morning, as they’d arranged it—“I’d like you to contact Ambassador Jesson. See if you can convey our needs to her. And until then . . .” He looked at her, seeing again the subtle signs of worry eating around her edges. “Until then, see if you can get some sleep. I, for one, have no intention of disturbing you again.”
“It was no disturbance, Captain,” she said, and he was certain she’d just stifled a yawn. Certain enough that it passed along to him, and he, too, yawned, discreetly behind the curl of his hand. She smiled at him, genuine and warm. “Maybe you should take your own advice,” she offered upon departure.
Perhaps he sh
ould.
But first, he’d put in a call to Lieutenants Barclay and Duffy, and tell them to initiate mapping of the corridor.
And to do it quietly.
* * *
“I dunno, Data,” La Forge sighed, crouching over a scooterpod and raising his voice slightly so the portable Fandrean comm unit on the floor would catch his words. “I can understand why they installed these tech dampers, but it seems to me that they cause more problems than they solve.”
“If that were truly the case, then surely they would have removed the dampers by now.”
Data’s voice came through with its naiveté intact; in the background, La Forge heard enough murmur and movement to deduce that Data was on watch. No wonder La Forge was tired . . . from the Enterprise clock to the Fandrean clock with twelve hours of tight shuttle navigation in between. They’d arrived in the wee hours of the morning, and he’d managed to grab an hour or two of sleep in a museum lounge after the reception when he discovered that his guest quarters had not yet been assigned—only to rise early with the departure of the Rahjah.
And now it was late again, and he was staring stupidly at the shield-generating assembly mounted at the back of the scooterpod, trying to imagine how he could adapt it to protect the shuttle engines.
Two of them. It would take two of them, at least.
“Geordi?”
“Sorry, Data.” La Forge looked up at the wall speaker, too used to working with viewscreens. “Just trying to tackle some decisions here . . . but no, they might well hang on to the dampers despite the trouble they cause. You’ve got to look at it from the human point of view. Or maybe the Fandrean point of view, but they’re not so very different from us.”
“I am afraid I do not follow your line of thought.”
La Forge selected a tool, tried it for size, adjusted it. “A project like this, it’s a big one. Has lots of people who want it—and people who don’t want it. Obviously, the people who wanted it came out on top. And they’re not about to admit it has problems.”
“But the forcefield and technology damping combination has problems whether they admit it or not.” Data’s disembodied voice provided La Forge with a clear inner image of his puzzled expression. He smiled.
“That it does . . . but as long as no one admits it, they don’t have to do anything about it. And—here’s the important thing—if they had to do something about it, they’d be in a very, very embarrassing situation with the people who didn’t want it in the first place.”
“Ah. They have to eat crow. Do they have an available alternative to the forcefield?”
“Only tight orbital patrolling. And someone could still get in. It wouldn’t take many men, armed with phasers, to decimate the population of the preserve.” La Forge dismounted one shield generator, and started on the second. “Besides, orbital patrolling is aggressive, and the possibility of having to act while on patrol is threatening to the Fandreans. The shield is a passive device. It suits them better.”
“I see,” Data said, although clearly he did not.
“And to be fair, I suppose it’s not causing them half as many problems as it’s causing us.”
“Enough so they asked for your help. Passing the buck, so to speak.”
La Forge gave the air a brief, puzzled glance while he digested that one, and then nodded. Close enough.
But he still had two problems to solve. Two big problems. He clamped an antigrav handler onto one of the generators and moved it to the waiting sled—thank goodness both items were standard equipment for a cargo shuttle, and that he’d chosen to leave them in place on the Collins when he’d loaded the extra space with odds and ends that might come in handy on this assignment. And he was lucky, as well, that the natural shape of the scooterpod shield bubbles nearly matched what he needed, even if he did need to figure out a way to enlarge them to encompass the shuttle engines.
“You seem distracted,” Data said. “Maybe it would be best if we continued this conversation at another time.”
Oops. La Forge scooped up the comm unit—a clumsy thing, as big as his head—and deposited it on the sled. “Sorry, Data. I’m just worried about what I’ve got to accomplish here. The way that tech-damping field interferes with the transfer of energy within . . .”
“The shuttle shields should have been adequate to protect against that, as long as—”
“Yeah, yeah, as long as Commander Riker restricted himself to basic systems. And it would have been, I’m certain of it, if it hadn’t been for that energy surge. It’s just that we can’t take that chance with the Collins.”
“Study of the Fandrean forcefields might suggest ways in which you can adequately modify the existing shuttle shields.”
“First thing I thought of.” La Forge guided the sled out of the scooterpod hangar, and onto the glittering pavement of the Legacy landing pad. The heat that had been pleasant that morning was now oppressively steamy; the heavily clouded sky rumbled at him. “But then I thought it might be a better idea to augment our shields with theirs. Double-layered, so to speak.” A heavy drop of rain splatted onto his head as he approached the shuttle; the cargo door opened and lowered on cue, thanks to the security guard waiting there. They all felt a little helpless, the security guards did—La Forge was lucky he wasn’t tripping all over them, as eager as they were to help in some way. He shrugged, as much to himself as to the invisible presence of Data. “Double-shielding seems to work for them. We might as well give it a try.”
“There is a chance that the two systems will interfere with one another. Too many cooks spoil the broth.” Data’s disembodied voice seemed odder than ever, away from the building and coming from the sled. The officer—Lieutenant Chueng—coming to meet La Forge from inside the shuttle gave the sled a startled second glance.
Spoil the broth. Right. La Forge shook his head. “Yeah, well . . . we’ll just have to wait and see.” But it better not happen, because if Riker and the ReynTa had gone down in the carnivore-packed Legacy, they didn’t have the time for Geordi to try again.
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 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 their side, knowing to ignore the light fluttering of insignificant lizbirds high above them . . . not intimidated. Not reluctant.
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