Tooth and Claw

by Doranna Durgin

  “I was outvoted, Mr. Worf. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Worf said in the neutral tone he’d cultivated for those times when he really had quite a bit he might like to say after all. Riker recognized it well enough, and let it pass.

  “Skiks, you called them.” Riker looked back at the one by the base of the tree, and found it gone; sometime during their grim inspection of Takan, Akarr had taken it, and was quietly trimming its claws off. Riker, although admittedly fuzzy on the fine points of being Tsoran, had the feeling that it didn’t quite count as an appropriate trophy.

  On the other hand, if it made Akarr happy and expedited their return trip out of here, he didn’t give a damn how badly the kid cheated.

  “Yes,” Shefen said, eyeing Akarr with distaste and then turning away. “The substance that wounded you and killed this Tsoran was a digestive poison. Most skik prey is half-digested before the flocks alight to feed.”

  “No need to worry about this particular flock,” added Zefan. “It’ll take several days before it re-forms. They’re quite nervous creatures, really, and very social. This encounter, along with the loss of their flockmate, will slow them down for a while.”

  “Ah,” Riker said, not quite trusting himself to say anything else at this point.

  Gavare exited the cave to join them, warily eyeing the upper canopy—for while they’d created this small clearing at ground level, the trees closed in high above them to prevent any direct glimpse of the sky.

  “They’re gone,” Riker told him. “For now. How are the others?”

  “Rakal has serious wounds,” Gavare said. “But he will live, thanks to you. We say thank you, also, for your efforts to save Takan.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t,” Riker said, glancing quickly at the body and away. A horrible death. He’d had just a taste of it, just enough to imagine what it might have been like. His own injuries now burned with a deep, strange heat, as though his body didn’t even know how to process what had been done to it.

  “He had already been fatally wounded before you reached him,” Gavare said. “His family will honor this death, as will we.”

  “Better to worry about your survivor, now,” Zefan said, blowing out his cheeks in a way that made Riker think there was real concern behind the words. “We must cover the wounds before the zetflies find him.” He looked at Riker. “Yours, too, Commander. Unless you’d like to be eaten from the inside out.”

  “It wasn’t one of my goals for the day, no.”

  Shefen gathered up several of the limp leaves and headed out of the clearing. “I’ll be back with some isnat sap,” he said. “It will be sufficient until we return to the shuttle.”

  Zefan nodded. “Excellent thinking.” To Riker, he said, “We were lucky he returned from patrol in time to join us. Aside from myself, he is our most experienced ranger—and it’s been too many seasons since I spent extended time in the Legacy.”

  “Believe me,” Riker said, “I’m most grateful for all your help.” Especially if it kept Akarr alive and zetflies from eating Riker himself from the inside out. He glanced back at the cave and said to Gavare, “Looks like we’ll need two litters—unless Rakal can walk?”

  “He says he can,” Gavare said. “It would not be appropriate to make a litter until he says otherwise.”

  Delay now, delay later . . . it didn’t make much difference. Riker turned to Worf, who stood off to the side slightly, his gaze roving over the clearing as if daring it to offer any more challenges. “I’m assuming Geordi reported our signal to the Enterprise,” he said. “Has it affected negotiations?”

  “It has put a stop to them,” Worf said. He looked at Zefan, and cast a glance toward the cave to which Gavare had returned—but from which Akarr, skikless, approached—and hesitated. “I believe the engineering department has started a new project.”

  The high-speed drone charting Geordi had proposed. Good. Riker, too, eyed Akarr, as the Tsoran joined their small gathering. Even if they got Akarr out of this mess, the Tsorans were not likely to be pleased with the way things had gone, or impressed by the way Riker had spoken to Akarr.

  Does it ever really get any easier? Guinan had asked him, after he’d said so confidently, Nothing I can’t handle.

  Define handle. Or, more important, define the priorities. Keep Akarr—and his ReynKa father—happy, or keep Akarr alive against odds made more impossible each time the young ReynTa made a decision? There was no way he’d do both, if keeping Akarr happy meant playing follow the leader.

  You knew that the first time you argued with him. Quit second-guessing.

  On the other hand, he’d have to explain himself, sooner or later.

  “Commander Riker,” Worf said, loudly—the kind of loud one would use when trying a second or third time to catch the attention of someone feebleminded.

  “What is it?” Riker snapped, not pleased to be caught wandering. Not pleased to feel the pain of the burns intensify. He had a feeling he’d had what grace period there was to have, in those few moments of relief that Zefan and Shefen had provided with their leaf milk.

  The stench, however, remained.

  “Nothing,” Worf said. “I was . . . momentarily concerned.”

  “No need,” Riker said. He glanced at Akarr—who had so far remained silent, assessing the mood of the Fandreans, sizing up Worf—and decided to ask anyway, the question he’d been headed for before he distracted himself with inner dialogue. “How’s the Ntignano situation?”

  “Not good.”

  Details. That’s what Riker loved about Worf . . . he never failed to cut through to the heart of a matter.

  Shefen returned with the sap he’d collected, apologizing when Riker hissed with pain as he applied it. “Just do it,” Riker muttered at him, as Zefan took the remainder of the sap to the cave.

  Soon enough, they were back on the trail home, with Akarr strangely quiet about trophies, Ketan in a travois litter and Rakal limping along behind, and both Fandreans keeping a careful rear guard. Riker and Worf led the way out of default as opposed to plan, while Riker struggled to keep a sharp watch out for day predators— as for some reason, the image of tranked skiks falling out of the sky kept intruding on his thoughts. Finally the image faded, leaving him only with questions. He and Worf readily swapped point position again, bat’leths at the ready, retracing their trail out from the shuttle. “Watch the ground,” Riker warned him at one point, and succinctly described the snake-thing, rueful that Takan’s trank gun rode emptied in someone’s pack, corroded by skik poison. The next time he came across one of those snake-things, he wanted more than a bat’leth in his hand.

  “If we don’t make faster progress, we’ll miss the portal opening,” Worf commented some time later. And then, later yet, when they were farther ahead of the rest of the party, “Captain Picard is most displeased at the deadlocked status of the negotiations. I believe he is attempting to reopen discussion, but Atann is—”

  “Stubborn,” Riker grunted, trying to summon energy he didn’t have to maintain the pace, and intensely annoyed to feel his body fail him. Behind them, Shefen had picked up the end of the litter Gavare dragged, trying to speed the injured Tsoran’s progress. “Like son, like father.”

  “Unless we return Akarr before the portal closes for its two-day recharge cycle, I don’t see how the captain can accomplish negotiations with the ReynKa,” Worf said, pausing momentarily to check movement to the side and catching up to Riker with several long strides. “At least, not in any time frame that will prove useful to the Ntignanos.”

  “Frankly, Mr. Worf,” Riker said, too light-headed with exhaustion and pain to make any attempt at keeping up morale, “I don’t see any way the captain can accomplish negotiations with these people if we do bring Akarr back. In any time frame.”

  Worf looked at him, seemed to consider and assess. “Things have not gone well.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I know enough,” W
orf said.

  Chapter Eleven

  AKARR THOUGHT AGAIN of the skik claws in his vest pocket. Thought unhappily of them.

  They’d come from an animal he hadn’t personally downed. In fact, despite the many opportunities, he hadn’t tranked any of the various creatures the Legacy had thrown at them. Riker was the only one who’d been truly blooded on this kaphoora. Riker and the Klingon, who’d killed the skik.

  They had weapons. Real weapons. The knives . . . the bat’leths . . .

  Akarr wasn’t allowed weapons, not by the rules. And neither should these humans have them . . . except some part of him wasn’t altogether too sure he wasn’t glad of it. They, then, bore the real responsibility for his safety.

  Nothing had prepared him for the deep Legacy. No kaphoora training came near it.

  Still, he’d survive. He might not have drawn blood, but he’d kept the sculpers off, and unlike Riker, he’d stayed out of the way of the skiks.

  Riker had been helping Akarr’s own men.

  Now, Akarr was glad that between the remnants of his uniform in the affected area and the gloppy sap, Riker’s wounds were barely visible. Unlike Rakal’s. Rakal’s fur stuck out in gooey clumps—where there was any fur left at all—and the raw skin and exposed muscle showed plainly in color if not in detail, despite their sap coating. It was Rakal who slowed them now, prevented them from keeping pace with the two Federation officers; it was Rakal’s grunts of effort filling Akarr’s ears—though with never a complaint. In truth, Rakal needed a litter, but he’d refused it; he didn’t want to waste time assembling it. Bad enough they had to carry Ketan.

  But Akarr glanced ahead at Riker—barely visible ahead of them—and wondered if a truly good leader would have insisted on a litter for Rakal, anyway.

  Too late to worry about that now. And the daleura of this kaphoora was so tangled, between the pitched battles they’d fought, the injuries they’d suffered, the sustained contact with the very creatures that most kaphoora participants had to track with care . . . He doubted that those who reckoned such intangibles would ever be able to straighten it out.

  In which case, his brother Takarr still had the chance to establish a daleura dominance over Akarr when he went on his own prime kaphoora, despite all the unique factors their father had arranged for Akarr. Not that Takarr had the driving nature to excel so emphatically . . . but as this expedition itself proved, stranger things had happened. Of course Akarr had overridden his own shame to harvest the skik claws . . . he must have trophy.

  But now, in a more objective moment, he knew those skik claws represented as much hazard as victory, for there were those alive who knew exactly from where they’d come.

  He’d take another trophy. Something more appropriate. Surely there’d be a chance before they returned to the shuttle, despite the waxing heat and the increasing midday somnolence of the predators. If only his own aim with the tranks—aim he’d been proud of at the training center—hadn’t failed him here. Something about the strange light, or all the foliage—reaching leaves, grabby branches, drooping fronds—must be interfering with his aim.

  Yes, that was it.

  Ahead of him, Riker—on point—slowed. Worf moved close, but not so close that Akarr couldn’t see Riker waver, reaching out for the nearest vine for support—a thorn vine; Akarr could see it from where he stood. Worf quickly pulled another vine within Riker’s reach. Akarr waved the others to a stop and eased into earshot, surprised by a momentary pang of concern for Riker. Akarr generally thought of him as a profound annoyance and a blot on the kaphoora—for piloting them to a crash, for challenging Akarr’s authority and daleura every chance he got—mighty sybyls, for simply not being the captain in the first place—but he’d somehow begun to think of him as a stable annoyance. One on which he could count to be annoying . . . and to swing that bat’leth around with vigor.

  “We are close, now,” Worf was telling Riker. “There are medicines aboard that will improve your situation. We have a med kit suitable for the Tsorans, as well; we can ease their pain. We simply chose to travel . . . light . . . in our pursuit of you.”

  “A wise decision,” Riker said, sounding distracted.

  Akarr suddenly realized Riker was simply trying to stay on his feet. “We cannot carry you,” he said, imagining the size of such a litter with some horror.

  Worf turned an unreadable stare on him. “I could,” he said, bluntly. Pointedly.

  “It could affect your own survival,” Akarr said, challenging not out of any great need, but to observe the reaction. To understand this humanoid culture, and why it would consider Riker fit for his rank after all the various weaknesses he’d shown Akarr. He was not at all bothered by the fact that Riker was within earshot. “Riker has earned no great daleura here. Why would you imperil yourself for him?”

  Worf’s expression changed. His reply was even and low-key, although Akarr discerned that this took much effort. He had the instant revelation that Worf had pegged him as an idiot, and that there was therefore no point in displaying anger.

  “A leader must do more than put himself in a position to . . . earn daleura. He must make the difficult decisions that no one else wants to make. He must think always of his crew, and not just of his glory.” Worf looked down from his considerable height and added, “He would do the same for me.”

  His words struck no resonance in Akarr. “You make as little sense as he does. He has done nothing since our arrival but interfere with me. How does this suit your image of a leader who inspires such risk?”

  A flicker of humanoid annoyance crossed the Klingon’s face, all the more noticeable for his formidable brow. “I am not in the habit of repeating myself. And your questions are irrelevant. As I said, we are close.”

  “I don’t understand.” Akarr looked around them. It seemed obvious to him that they’d simply followed the same path in return as they’d used on their way out—they’d even passed the area where Riker’s snake-thing had torn up the jungle in its angry, wounded thrashing. “We haven’t even reached the crash path yet.”

  Worf looked up at the trees, where shadowed movement caught Akarr’s eye as well. “When we first found the downed shuttle, I landed there. The Rahjah was too damaged to fly again, so I determined which direction you’d taken and relocated to the end of the crash path. That is the only distance we must go.”

  “Worf, I like the way you think,” Riker said with a crooked grin; it annoyed Akarr simply because he couldn’t properly interpret it. He’d come to understand the varying intensities of the human smile, but was this one of them? Or was it something else entirely? Riker lacked the arrogant-looking posture he often assumed with such a partial grin . . . but then, Akarr had never quite interpreted that, either.

  “After I found the opened grave, I had reason to believe it was imperative to catch up with you as soon as possible.” Worf’s gaze flicked from one tree to another; Akarr couldn’t see just why, but he warily aligned himself to have the same field of view. The others, who had gladly stopped at his command to rest, moved a little closer to them; one of the Fandreans came up to join them. Then Worf’s words caught up with him.

  “Open grave?” he said. “We left no open grave.”

  “I believe that is the point,” Worf said.

  “It probably took a sholjagg to move the rocks we saw,” Zefan said, inviting himself into the conversation and ignoring Akarr’s glare. “From the looks of the shuttle interior, the crash is what killed him?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Riker said.

  “It is amazing that anyone was able to walk away from an engine-failure crash in this terrain,” Worf said, giving Akarr another one of those . . . looks.

  Akarr began to realize that the Klingon did little of his most essential communicating with words. “If you want to hear words of praise for your Commander Riker, you won’t. Am I supposed to be pleased that he managed to land an inferior piece of equipment, stranding us here in the Legacy and injuring my men? I a
m not.”

  “I take it then that you will not find it necessary to join us aboard the Collins when we leave?” Worf returned his attention to the trees, apparently not concerned with Akarr.

  This cool adeptness with Tsoran insults surprised Akarr, and the hair on his arms rose no matter how he willed it down—just as he couldn’t squelch the trickle of anxiety the Klingon had created. They wouldn’t leave him here in the Legacy. They couldn’t.

  Another glance at Worf’s expression made Akarr think that maybe the Klingon could.

  But Riker wouldn’t do it. Riker had already demonstrated how he felt about leaving men behind, about doing less than his best for those in his hunting party. Or away team, as he generally called it.

  Still. Safest not to answer that one. To just let it fade away.

  “Commander,” Worf said, glancing at Riker, and then at the wounded Tsorans ranging behind Akarr, “if you are ready, I think we should move on.”

  “Yes,” Riker said. “I saw it.”

  Saw what? Akarr almost asked, but stopped himself just in time. It wouldn’t do to admit that he hadn’t yet seen whatever the two Federation officers were worried about. Then a startling little inner voice said, Which is more important, saving daleura or being prepared for danger? So startling, in fact, that he failed to respond when Riker stood away from the vine and straightened his shoulders, drawing them back in the ready for anything stance Akarr had come to expect from him.

  “Akarr?” Riker said. “Are your people ready to move? We’ve got an arborata on our tails—”

  Akarr shook off the internal conflict, deciding that it was merely the unwelcome influence of Riker himself, and the man’s unceasing hubris—so certain he knew how things should be handled, especially when it came to the welfare of Akarr’s men. “We’re ready,” he said, without looking back. At least now he knew what to watch for—as if anyone ever really saw an arborata before it was ready to be seen.

  At least, from what trophied kaphoora hunters had told him. Although now he suddenly wondered if those trophied hunters had ever actually seen an arborata. None of them had ever been in this deep. Where they merely repeating the same Legacy wisdom back and forth at one another?