Engineers. Buried in their projects with blinders on. Sooner or later they’d realize that before that sun goes nova would almost certainly be too late, but for now they might as well ride their success. “Very good, gentlemen,” he said, feeling the weight of responsibility settle back down on his shoulders. “Keep things moving along as quickly as possible, and keep me apprised of the results. Written report will do.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused, already talking to his back as he used swift strides to reach and reclaim the turbolift he’d commanded to wait—there were, after all, perks to being a captain—and returned to deck eleven.
And Atann, who might do well to be edgy, after facing Picard’s threat to snatch him from his own home by the very people who had been plying aught but diplomatic wiles up until this point.
Diplomacy. Picard made a disgusted noise in the privacy of his own mind. It had its uses, of course, and in its purest sense, it was the Federation’s strongest tool. But so often diplomacy got the diplomats so tangled up in the very process of being diplomatic that they—
Well. They forgot about the holodeck.
“I don’t understand why we’re here,” Atann said, somewhat warily, not even giving Picard time to reach him by the holodeck door. Behind him were arranged three personal guards, whom Picard had ignored since they’d arrived. He’d also ignored the fact that he himself was alone despite the fact that their negotiations had gone distinctly bad, and that the most recent sally—his own—had been downright aggressive.
“What is there to understand?” he replied. “We’re having difficulty coming to terms over the issue of the charts. In fact, to be fair, ReynKa, I’d say we’re having difficulty even coming to terms with the conditions under which you’re willing to discuss the charts.”
“You humans use a great number of words to say simple things.”
“Exactly!” Picard smiled broadly at him, letting some tooth show—but not so much that Atann could discern between human error and deliberate insult. “We’re having trouble communicating. Therefore, I thought we should allow our eyes, our experiences, to help us understand one another better. That’s why I wanted to see your training center this morning. And now, here, I want to reciprocate.”
Atann glanced at the holodeck’s exterior computer interface; Picard already had a program up and running. “You still don’t make yourself understood.”
“Then perhaps it’s time for actions to speak louder than words. On this holodeck, we can re-create many things—a favorite planet, a scene from a play or book . . . or we can create something entirely new. This particular program is more or less analogous to your kaphoora training center. It’s an exercise program for the crew. When you step inside, it will be as if you stepped onto another world.”
“More Federation technology.”
“Some of it, yes.”
“Federation technology lost my son in the Fandrean Legacy.”
Glitchy Fandrean technology lost your son in the Fan drean Legacy. But Picard shrugged. “If you’re concerned, of course, I can understand why you’d rather not—”
Atann’s arm hair fluffed slightly. “I did not say that.”
Of course not. “Then shall we?” Picard said. “To start with, I’ve programmed it to present you with a brief demonstration of the actual training exercise.”
Atann looked at the holodeck doors, and then at his men. “Wait out here,” he said, and gestured stiffly for Picard to precede him.
Picard did so.
Right into Worf’s calisthenics program.
Despite Picard’s comments, Atann was startled by the sudden new environment; he stood stock-still, his low-set nostrils flaring with the scents of the place—the mist-carried odor of a nearby swamp, the old wood from the decaying structures around them, the musky smell of the brushy foliage and sparsely graceful trees. The sunlight held a cast different from both Sol and the brighter Tsoran sun, though Picard had never quite put his finger on what that difference was. Something that reflected strangely off the rugged, jutting rock features around the old buildings, and seemed to energize the shifting mist. Haunting cries—some bird, some animal—punctuated the mist with syncopated regularity.
Then a hologram sparkled into place, an average human woman wearing generic gray workout clothing—formfitting but unrestrictive. “The exercises start unarmed,” Picard said, his voice low even though the hologram wouldn’t care; it wasn’t programmed to. Besides, it had plenty to deal with—for Picard had programmed the demonstration to start with three opponents at once. Three hulking humanoid creatures with the kind of breath that could knock you down all on its own, two of them with spiky long feathers as collars, all of them with skull-like features vacant of any expression . . . it only served to make their ferocity of attack more startling.
Atann watched with intent interest, practically quivering, as the beings rushed in on the crewwoman—and as, one by one, she put them on the ground, grunting with realistic effort and taking on a few quickly coloring bruises. “This is not a real human?” he said, watching intently as the creatures got up and went after the woman again.
“No. She is basically an image with substance, programmed to behave as a real woman—and to respond with appropriate injuries when she is hit.”
“If she were real?” Atann said, as the woman rolled from a throw, miscalculated, and took several hard kicks before tangling the creature’s feet and bringing it down. “This exercise program would wound your crew members? Your females?”
“There are fail-safes in place to prevent mortal injury,” Picard said. There were additional fail-safes available to prevent serious contact as well, but he didn’t mention them; they’d been created after the program drew the attention of the crew, and several had been hurt playing to Worf’s standards. “The computer chooses opponents well matched to the participant’s size. My people, men and women, find this program a useful tool; it keeps them sharp.” Those few who actually chose to use it, that was. Not a fact Picard would mention.
The woman put one creature down for good; another had taken all the abuse it was programmed to tolerate, and ran off. As she faced the third, the program phased into the next level, providing her with protective padding, and giving both she and the creature a set of wicked short swords.
“Swords?” said Atann. “Your people still fight with swords? When you have phasers in your arsenal?”
“As you noted, ReynKa, we do not always have working technology at our disposal. We have other venues for phaser practice; this is where people let off steam. It is something they do by choice, not as mandatory training.”
She fought two of them at once now, her blades whirling and blocking and thrusting; each time she disposed of one of the creatures, it lay as dead for only a moment, and then jumped up to reengage her.
“They don’t stay dead,” Atann observed. “How does she win?”
“It’s not a game. She accomplishes her goal by avoiding computer-declared fatal injuries for the duration of the exercise time period. Of course, some of the crew do establish contests among themselves over who can stay ‘alive’ the longest.” He stepped forward, commanding, “Computer, end demonstration.”
The woman faded away in mid-sword; the creatures, a moment behind her.
Picard looked at Atann. “Would you like to try it?”
As if Atann could have said no.
Chapter Twelve
THE SHUTTLE COLLINS SAT neatly at the very beginning of the crash path, not quite level but placed well in the available terrain; there was already a vine drooping over it, and stains indicating it had served as a resting spot for bird and beast. Katan’s litter lay just outside the shuttle; Rakal sat beside it, and Gavare, a Tsoran med kit by his side and Shefen assisting, tended them both.
To Riker, it looked like home sweet home.
Worf stood beside the shuttle, alert, his hand on his bat’leth and his gaze moving constantly around the surrounding vegetation. Riker had no d
oubt Worf had spotted them long ago, although he’d given no indication of it. Too busy watching the area—and the only guard, since the Tsorans were deeply involved with their wounded.
He stumbled, then; Zefan came up beside him, trying not to be obvious about it. “I’m fine,” Riker grunted at him.
“Of course,” Zefan responded, without moving off.
Akarr broke ahead of them both, running the remaining distance to the shuttle despite the heat; he knelt down by his men, pointing at Ketan’s leg, examining the dressings draped over Rakal’s arm, side, and leg.
“Ah,” Zefan said with an under-purr-filled sigh, drawing Riker’s gaze. “I’m not sure I was ever that young.”
Riker grinned at him, a wry expression. “I can’t remember it myself.” Or maybe it was just hard to recall a youth based in snowy Alaska while the sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. Nice shuttle . . . nice, climate-controlled shuttle . . . and finally, he was here. He stood before the Collins and wondered if he should sit, or if he should simply stay on his feet until he could sit for good.
Worf looked directly at him for the first time. “We have a problem.”
Riker felt his eyes narrowing. “And that is . . .?”
“I cannot get the shuttle energy levels to stablize.”
Akarr stood up. “More shuttle trouble?”
Riker turned on him. “Don’t. Even. Start.”
To perhaps everyone’s astonishment, Akarr, though stiff and aggressive in posture, held his tongue on any response, giving Riker the chance to turn back to Worf, rub his hand over his eyes, make an internal note that the neutralizing sap on his back still stunk most stupendously, and say, “Will it take us out of here?”
Worf bared his teeth. “Do you want guarantees?”
“No, no,” Riker said. “Heaven forbid there should be guarantees.”
“Then, yes, it will take us out of here.” Worf hesitated, tracking something through the upper trees before returning his attention to the conversation. “Lieutenant Commander La Forge speculated that the surge problem the Fandreans have been experiencing with the interlocking shields and technology damper is to blame for problems with the Rahjah. He modified the Collins shields with this in mind. It does not appear to have been completely successful.”
“Define success,” Riker said. “I define it as getting us out of here.”
“We’ll be ready to move Ketan in a moment,” Shefen said, looking up from his ministrations.
“Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help,” Riker told him.
“Sir, I respectfully suggest that you go inside,” Worf said. “There is a med kit inside. Your wounds should be tended.”
Riker said, “I was kind of getting used to the smell of the sap. What do you think? Not too bad, is it?”
Worf merely looked at him. Wordless, expressionless . . . saying it all.
Riker put on the appearance of great deliberation. “I suppose it might get a little overpowering in a closed shuttlecraft. Especially if we’re light on environmentals.”
“We are,” Worf said distinctly, “going to be light on environmentals.”
“Let me help,” Zefan offered. “I’m not familiar with specific human needs, but I know these injuries.”
Riker nodded. “Thank you. Mr. Worf, keep an eye on things out here.”
“Sir,” Worf said, meaning as if you had to ask.
Zefan worked quickly but with a light and careful touch. Cleaned up reasonably well, filled with broad-spectrum antibiotics, antimycotics and antivirals, his arm and back sprayed with a light topical anesthetic and his system responding to a mild hypospray restorative, Riker had to admit the time taken was well spent. The Tsorans were aboard and strapped in, the Fandreans had conferred about some issue they hadn’t cared to share, and Worf had closed the shuttle door, only then securing his own and Riker’s bat’leths in the weapons locker. Everything snug and cozy. Riker contemplated the large, hard-shelled and slow-paced insect inspecting the juncture of the shuttle floor and wall, and decided to leave it alone. It could get off at the next stop.
He slid into the copilot’s seat as Worf fiddled with the communications control. “I have sent a message telling them we’re on our way,” he said, not looking up at Riker. “I do not expect them to get it.”
“Neither do I,” Riker said. “We’ll have to stick to the portal schedule. How are we doing for time?”
“We should make the next scheduled opening,” Worf said, and this time he did glance over at Riker. “If the shuttle stays in the air.”
“If,” Riker agreed. “And if we miss it for some reason . . .?”
“We will have another opportunity, six hours later.”
“And then two days after that,” Riker said absently, eyeing the shuttle engine status monitors as Worf brought the engines up to full standby power and spotting the same sort of fluctuations—albeit more subtle ones—that had taken the Rahjah down.
“No offense, Commander,” Worf said, “but I have no intention of staying in this shuttle’s current atmospheric conditions for two days. We will make the first opening.”
Riker grinned. “No offense taken, Mr. Worf.”
Akarr, his voice full of some of the regal imperative it had lost over the last hours, inquired, “Do some of us need to get out and push this vehicle to start, Riker?”
“It is Commander Riker to you,” Worf said. “And that will not be necessary.” He made a few quick adjustments and Riker’s eyes widened slightly; he had just enough time to sit firmly in his seat before the shuttle leapt into the air, climbing a nearly vertical path to clear the trees. Oblivious of the cries of protest, Worf immediately leveled their flight path. Then he turned to say casually to Riker, “Unfortunate power surge.”
“Most unfortunate,” Riker agreed sternly. “Do you have things under control now, Mr. Worf?”
“Entirely.”
“Keep it that way.”
And though the grumbling from the back of the shuttle ceased, Worf was unable to comply. He ran the shuttle slow and nap of the ground—a cautious approach despite his beginning maneuver—but while the power fluctuations remained more subtle than those the Rahjah had experienced . . . they remained.
“We’re not going to make it,” Riker observed as the Collins slowly lost power; the landscape beneath the shuttle changed from thick, towering rain forest to shorter, less dense trees. They crossed a low ridge that ran endlessly in both directions, and the flat valley on the other side changed dramatically in nature. Too full of surface rock to support trees, it instead sported a patchwork of dark ground vegetation and sandy brown rock layers. Along the ridge ran a wide, flat, lazy river, and Riker got the distinct impression he was looking at a giant floodplain.
“No,” Worf said, “we are not. But the power loss is steady and manageable.”
“Take us as far as you can, then, and still provide a controlled landing.” At least they had that much. And if Riker wasn’t mistaken, he saw the faint glimmer of the Legacy forcefield in the distance.
He left the copilot’s seat and helped himself to an empty seat in the back. “We’ll be landing soon,” he said, hoping for the chance to say more but only just barely getting his mouth open again before Akarr took over.
“We’re going down,” he said, a marked tilt to his ears and eyebrows that Riker hadn’t seen in him before and couldn’t interpret. Amazed disbelief? “Is it not possible for you people to build a shuttle that can travel across the surface of a continent without failing?”
It doesn’t look that way. “Your engineers assured us, over our concerns, that our shields would not only operate within this environment, but would protect our shuttle engine integrity,” Riker said. “The Fandreans backed your assessment”—and at this, Zefan sat bolt upright— “and we trusted your skills. So if you want to assign blame, let’s spread it around a little. Or else keep it to yourself, and work with the rest of us toward overcoming the problems!”
Silence. Akarr’s mouth worked, but his gaze shifted from man to man, and ended up resting to Riker’s left. He looked like a young man caught in a lie . . . with the spotlight on . . . and trying to work up enough gall to bluff through it.
The silence stretched out into moments, during which Akarr looked as shocked as Riker felt, if nowhere near as angry. But the shuttle increased its descent, and he took it as a warning. Now was not the time, no matter what he felt building inside him. If nothing else, it gave him a kick of energy he had a feeling he’d need. He turned a hard look on Akarr. “When we get through this,” he said, “if we get through this . . . we’re going to have a talk. My people to your people. Until then—”
“We did consult the Fandreans,” Akarr said, making an effort to pull himself into a rigid posture. “Zefan simply has no knowledge of it—”
“—Until then,” Riker repeated, biting the words off hard, not even bothering to stand, to use his height to emphasize the command status he was wrenching from Akarr, “we’ll have to work together. Do you think you can do that? Because if you can’t, tell me now, so I can find some other way to deal with the situation.” He briefly entertained the image of Akarr, thrown over Worf’s shoulder with a gag over his mouth, being carted from the landing to the portal.
Because this time, they really were going to have to walk out.
“We will do our part,” Akarr said. “As always.”
“I am about to land,” Worf said over his shoulder. “It will not be smooth. Be prepared.”
It struck Riker as a good way to end the conversation.
The descent speed increased even more; Riker watched as Worf tried to compensate, achieved partial success, and managed to bring the nose up just in time to jar heavily to the ground in a level—if somewhat abrupt—fashion.
“That’s it?” Akarr said, clearly braced for another outright crash.
“For which,” Zefan said pointedly, as he rose from his seat, “I am grateful. Your chief engineer’s double-shielding has clearly made a significant difference.”
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