Ah. That did indeed make sense. She’d never been positioned as a negotiating diplomat; she was more of an explorer. Pity she was still in the beginning stages, and couldn’t offer him more guidance. “What is this place?” he asked, as they finished traversing the huge, high-ceilinged room. Stately draperies swooped from column to column—intense purples interwoven with screaming reds—and the columns themselves were as heavily carved as the receiving-room door. Picard caught glimpses of stylized animals that might correspond to those he’d seen in the Fandrean report . . . or to Tsora’s extinct indigenous predators.
“The main bestowing hall,” she said promptly. “Where training participants are awarded honors. Historically, the kaphooras began and ended here, but no longer.”
“No,” Picard said. “Considering they’ve wiped out any animal large enough and dangerous enough to provide daleura on a hunt, I can see why they would end that particular tradition. Has it not occurred to them to seed some of Fandre’s creatures here?”
She laughed, a pleasant sound. “What makes you think the Fandreans would allow that? They know well enough that no matter what the Tsorans say, sooner or later the animals would be offered up as sacrifice to special kaphoora, and not remain protected under the current—and stringently enforced—Fandrean rules.”
Yes. Of course.
Nadann pushed aside another door, a huge and hugely ornate thing, and sunlight flooded in. “The actual training takes place outdoors, in the central area. The young Tsorans learn to use the trank guns and their knives, and build their strength and endurance. There are classrooms for studying the flora and fauna, and mock battles in which crude holograms represent the creatures.” They headed across hot, bright sand toward another structure, one whose walls scooped outward in the clamshell shape of an outdoor viewing venue. “It might be worthwhile to add that none of these kaphoora candidates is given much information on the deep Legacy, the area in which your Commander Riker was directed to land. That landing was the ReynSa’s idea, a way for her son to earn more daleura than anyone before him. Her second son, Takarr, is already incorporating deep Legacy information into his studies, in case he should acquire the same opportunity.”
“Well,” Picard said, preparing himself to deal with Tsoran social patterns again, “let us hope that while Atann explains and displays these aspects of the training, he’ll also find himself amenable to discussions of a more serious nature.”
“It was a good move, I think, to express such interest in the daleura-laden kaphoora training,” Nadann said, optimism on her clear, open features. “He really couldn’t pass that up. Now . . . I’m afraid it’s up to you to turn the encounter into something more.”
“It is, isn’t it,” Picard muttered to himself, giving Nadann a small, wry smile as they entered the shadow of the training facility and hesitated before another pair of intensely carved doors. Even as they halted, a Tsoran youth walked briskly around the curving exterior, his eyes on the ground and his chin pouch tense with thought.
“Pardon us,” Nadann said instantly, stepping out of his path; her hand on Picard’s arm indicated that he should do the same.
The youth looked up. By Tsoran standards he was slender, even for an immature male, but his vest was as ornate as any Picard had seen, and he quickly drew himself up into a stiffer, more arrogant posture. With that movement he suddenly looked familiar, although it wasn’t until Nadann gave a respectful acknowledgment that he knew why. “Takarr,” she said, turning her head ever so slightly to reveal throat.
“Ambassador Nadann,” the youth said, his tone still reserved—but already he was relaxing his aggressive stance. More easygoing than Atann or Akarr, on the whole.
“Let me introduce Captain Picard,” Nadann said. “I’m delighted to have the opportunity.”
Takarr showed his teeth slightly, a startling reversal of his pleasant response to Nadann—albeit quickly squelched. “I’m surprised they allowed it to happen.”
From Nadann’s sudden poker face, Picard surmised that she was just as surprised—by the fact that Takarr had said as much. Definitely undercurrents here, and ones about which he knew nothing.
He would.
Meanwhile, the less friction, the better. “I’m honored to meet you, Takarr.”
“Not,” Takarr said, “honored enough to ask for my presence aboard the Enterprise.”
Picard didn’t bother to hide his puzzlement. “You have a standing welcome aboard the Enterprise, I assure you.”
Takarr studied him a moment—most likely not familiar enough with humans to measure the sincerity of the offer. Then he said, “I have business elsewhere,” and left as abruptly as he’d arrived.
Picard looked at his slender back as Takarr entered the building he and Nadann had just left. “I think I’ve just been snubbed.”
“Don’t take it to heart, Captian,” Nadann said. “Recent weeks have been a trial for him. Over his mother’s protests, the ReynKa chose to leave Takarr out of the shipboard activities. These are Akarr’s days of glory.”
“Surely having the boy present wouldn’t—” Picard started, but stopped himself. “Foolish question. It obviously would make a difference.”
“Not much of one,” Nadann said. “Frankly, I think it’s Atann’s way of making a point with his ReynSa. But that’s speculation on my part.”
Speculation. Of course. As Troi had told Picard . . . a complex people. “I only hope I can gain a better understanding of this culture befo—”
The doors before them slid aside, and a young Tsoran barely checked his momentum before crashing into Picard.
“Apologies, apologies,” he said, barely glancing at Picard as he quickly flashed his throat to them both. He’d clearly been about to speed onward, but came to a second abrupt halt as he saw Nadann. “Mighty sybyls! Ambassador, I’m supposed to meet an important hu—” and he cut himself off, finally truly seeing Picard for the first time.
Picard was not without sympathy . . . but that sympathy was limited. He wasn’t at all slow to add up the pieces. Nor was Nadann; her optimism faded, her expression turned inscrutable. “That is most likely to be me,” he said to the youth. “I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”
“Captain,” said the young Tsoran, his lower lip drawn tight in what struck Picard as an appalled expression; the boy’s under-purr was tight and high. “I’m sorry I’m late, esteemed sir. I wasn’t told—that is, my assignment came la—that is, there is no excuse, Captain. Please accept my apologies for not meeting you at the inroom.” This time, he held position with his head twisted to expose his throat . . . waiting.
“Apology accepted,” Picard said, although there was a tight edge to his own voice; he understood just what had happened here; the boy had fallen into trouble, but the insult was meant to Picard. “What is your name?”
The boy relaxed a little, if cautiously. “Ekenn.”
“And you are to be my guide, am I right?”
“You and the ambassador, I was told. It will be my honor.”
Indeed. Nadann had intended to excuse herself, to leave Picard in a better position to discuss the charts with Atann. If Atann had been here, as expected. Picard cast through the discourse since the previous night, messages passed and taken, with no direct communication between himself and Atann. “Atann,” he said to the boy, “is not coming. Is that right?”
Ekenn shifted uneasily, recognizing the loaded nature of Picard’s question, but not the reasons behind it. “No, he isn’t,” he said. “I will show you the kaphoora training. It was said that such a tour would mean more, coming from a student in training.”
“And indeed it will,” Picard said, though he exchanged a glance with Nadann and said, quietly wry, “We’ve been set up.”
“That we have,” Nadann said. “But there’s only one thing for it, and that’s to sally forth with delight, as though we could not have arranged things better ourselves. Are you up for that?”
Picard gave her a gentle snort. “A
mbassador— Nadann—it is the least of my worries.”
“I expect it is,” she murmured, and then turned to the boy. “Ekenn, we entrust our experience here to you. Please show us those things you deem most important.”
As Ekenn ducked his head in a quick bow and preceded them into the cool interior of the training rim, Picard forced his frustration aside and turned his attention toward learning as much as possible from what Atann had meant only as a daleura ploy. The one interesting thing he’d discovered about children, as ill at ease as he generally found himself when around them—when you put a question to them, they generally answered it.
Chapter Ten
AS DAWN FINALLY TRICKLED DOWN to the bottom layers of the canopied forest, Riker dropped the tip of his club to the ground and leaned the handle against his leg while he wiped the sweat and grime from his face—careful not to use the sleeve stiff with dried sculper blood.
They’d survived the night. The sculpers were gone, slunk away after a series of attacks that never reached the intensity of the one during which Ketan was wounded. No big surprise. Their bellies were full of their buddy. And Ketan had survived, although his leg looked terrible. He said nothing, but Riker had no doubt he was in agony. If only the med kits had Tsoran drugs.
Gavare came up to him, silently offering one of the rations from Riker’s pack along with the water bottle; together they stood and regarded their surroundings as the details emerged with daylight. Ragged-looking Tsorans—and human, Riker thought, knowing he looked no better—moving around a battered little area of trampled foliage, dying fires, depleted firewood . . .
They’d given their all to survive, each of them. But Gavare—Riker gave him a second look. Gavare actually looked better than he had. More alert, more deliberate in his movements. “Your head feeling better?”
Gavare gave a short gesture, one Riker took as affirmative. He didn’t look at Riker as he spoke, but he did take a quick glance over his shoulder to see if the others were paying any attention. “I heard what you said last night. To Akarr.”
“I was out of line,” Riker said. Out of line, but not sorry; it came through in his voice.
“Akarr,” Gavare started, and hesitated, chewing on his own sticky ration bar—a smelly concoction Riker was glad not to share—and taking his time to swallow. “Akarr is young. He does not understand. He has been pushed to this before his time. He will be a great leader, if we can keep him alive through this. A great leader.”
Pushed? But Riker didn’t ask, and he wouldn’t have had the chance, for Gavare turned away, leaving him the outcast that he was.
He finished up his own ration bar and could have done with five more, but knew better than that. They’d heard the Collins arrive . . . and if he knew Worf, the tactical officer would strike out on their trail as soon as it was light enough to do so. The smart thing to do would be to turn around and head back, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t get that concession from Akarr.
The second best thing . . . stall. Keep them here long enough to allow Worf to find them. Once they had a working shuttle on their hands, Akarr might well insist on trying to complete his kaphoora, but that was something they could settle later. Later, when that shuttle sat snugly around them, sheltering the wounded from the Legacy’s creatures and putting some of the decisions back into Starfleet hands.
Not, however, a moment he would take for granted until it actually occurred. So for now, a single ration bar would do it. He tossed the biodegradable wrapper into the glowing ashes of the fire pit and began the job of searching out recoverable trank darts.
Riker wasn’t sure how many tranks the Tsorans had used; he was sure that he’d never stake his own life on the effectiveness of the things. Of course, they were short-range—very short-range—and it had been dark and confusing during the night’s attacks . . . but he didn’t know of a single animal that had gone down from a trank, or even been deterred by it. He was beginning to wonder if the little guns might not make better hand clubs than anything else.
A glint of bright metal—the short body of one of the tranks—caught his eye, and he winnowed it out from the torn and crushed leaves that half covered it. Almost, he didn’t take a second look. But something compelled him, and he held it up before his eyes, examining the shiny barrel, the short, primitive needle delivery system.
The blood-tipped needle delivery system.
This dart hadn’t missed; it hadn’t hit thick fur and failed to penetrate. This dart had found its mark and been dislodged . . . but none of the sculpers had fallen here last night. None of them had fallen anywhere within the bounds of the firelight, and as far as Riker knew, the sculper he’d injured had been the only one to go down at all.
Dart in hand, he returned to the cave, and found the Tsorans in the middle of an intense conversation, with which the Universal Translator struggled.
“Morning . . . part of the day to travel,” Rakal said, looking at Gavare for confirmation, which he received in the form of a short gesture. “We can’t afford to waste it.”
“Travel in which direction?” Riker said from the cave entrance, not bothering to ease into the issue. “Worf will be looking for us.”
Akarr snuffled rudely at him. “So you say. What if the shuttle we heard last night also crashed? What if your Worf is dead? We could be killing ourselves, too, if we backtrack now.”
“There was nothing wrong with that shuttle’s engines.” Riker jammed his water bottle back into his pack, made sure the rain jacket was on top, where he’d need it this afternoon—and stuck the dart into a side pocket as an afterthought. “If we move on, we’ll be moving away from safety.”
“If we go back, we’ll be moving away from safety,” Akarr countered, with just as much certainty.
“What is it?” Riker asked. “Do you get more points if you get out of this in the hardest possible manner?”
“Do not presume to mock our ways,” Akarr snarled, and this time all the Tsorans turned their challenge-gazes on him—all but Ketan, who was simply too miserable. Even Gavare, the only Tsoran who had offered Riker any small degree of respect—in fact, Gavare most of all, his gaze not only hard but his lip lifted in a gesture of snarl.
Riker took a deep breath. “My intent is not to mock your ways.” Well, maybe it was, but at least it got your attention. “Just because you don’t push your courage to the obvious limit doesn’t mean you don’t have it, Akarr. Courage can mean facing that of which you’re most afraid. It looks to me like you’re afraid of returning to the museum in a manner in which it looks like you’ve been rescued.”
“He doesn’t need to be rescued,” Gavare snapped. “None of us do.”
“Rescuing you is not why Worf is here,” Riker said. Word games. How he hated them. “He’s here to replace the faulty transportation.”
Word games . . . but it got their attention.
“You’ve already done more than any before you— even those on their tenth kaphoora,” Takan said thoughtfully to Akarr. “It should be enough.”
Enough for what?
“Not without a trophy,” Akarr responded. But he looked over at Ketan.
“There’s still time for that,” Rakal said, giving Riker a hard look, one that said stay out of this.
Riker was glad to, although he couldn’t help an inner observation that there was bound to be plenty of opportunity for further contact with trophy beasts on a walk back to the shuttle, given their experience so far. As if to reinforce the thought, the clattering cry from the day before echoed above them, starting out in one place, ending in another entirely. They’d never identified that cry, Riker recalled uneasily.
Gavare gestured at Ketan. “Ketan needs a litter; he cannot walk on that leg. Once we have made that, we can act on the decision you make.”
“Attend to it.” Akarr’s echoing gesture seemed casual, but he caught each of his guards in a hard stare, holding them that way until each twisted his head to bare a flash of throat.
The Tso
rans dispersed, leaving Riker to watch Ketan against any morning activity. Gavare left last, giving Riker a parting look that would have been hard to interpret had it been coming from a familiar human face; Riker couldn’t make much of it from a Tsoran.
Until he realized that Gavare had accomplished just exactly what Riker had hoped for—a delay. And Akarr’s dignity, still intact. Gavare hadn’t abandoned him, hadn’t turned on him. He’d gone at the problem from a Tsoran direction.
Fine by Riker. Whatever it took to get the job done. If he had to play the role of the bad guy . . . why, he’d find some way to relish it.
With this bunch, that wouldn’t be hard.
* * *
“Jean-Luc, what are you and your people up to?” The admiral’s tone was slightly suspicious, her face impatient, even in miniature on the screen in Picard’s ready room. “We don’t have time for shuttle malfunctions, we don’t have time for diplomatic tap-dancing with the Tsorans. Haven’t you read your own chief medical officer’s report on the projected Ntignano fatalities? This is a serious situation!”
“And I can assure you, Admiral Gromek, I’m taking it quite seriously. I have personnel down and missing in an intensely dangerous environment, and I take that seriously, as well.” No real news from La Forge at last contact, either—Worf was still gone, and the communications problem still unresolved. “I’m acquainted with Dr. Crusher’s report, and I receive constant updates on the status of the Ntignano sun. But the Tsorans are . . . difficult. We’re doing our best to draw them out, but frankly . . .”
“Don’t mince words—you’re only wasting my time.”
Picard shrugged. So be it. “They don’t want to come out and play, Admiral.”
Admiral Gromek stared at him, her face gone stiff with disbelief. “Did I hear you correctly, Captain? They don’t want to come out and play?”
“That’s the gist of it,” Picard confirmed. “They’re stonewalling our attempts even to open conversation about the charts. Their excuse is the situation on Fandre, but frankly, I think that’s all it is—an excuse. They like being in the position of having something we want. They’d like to prolong that situation as long as possible.”
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