“Everyone?” demanded Atann, not waiting for an invitation. “My son? My people?”
“Your son,” La Forge confirmed, nodding in a short, decisive gesture. “And—”
“Captain,” Riker said, moving into the comm-screen range.
Alive! “Will,” Picard said, rather more warmly than he’d intended with the Tsorans present. He caught himself, put a more formal face back in place. “Nice to have you back.”
Even more so than La Forge, Riker looked down at the comm screen, which was set for Fandrean use. He also looked like someone had been using him as a kaphoora target—battered and bruised, his uniform torn and covered with blood and a glazed sticky substance, one arm bandaged along its whole length and seeping pinkish ooze . . . but he had that look on his face. The cocky, triumphant look that spoke not of the hurts, but of the victory.
And well he should feel that victory, having gotten out of this one alive, and with the difficult ReynTa in one piece. “Commander,” Picard said, “report, if you would.”
“The Rahjah suffered engine failure shortly after entering the preserve,” Riker said. “For the most part, we walked away from the landing, but the shuttle is a complete loss. We spent the night in the jungle,” and here, his shoulder went up a notch, an unspoken commentary about the event, as well as his disinclination to discuss it in detail just now. Picard let it go. “And in the morning Mr. Worf found us. The Collins also malfunctioned, but Geordi’s modified shields made the difference—Worf put us down in a clean landing. We can retrieve the shuttle with the assistance of the rangers, if we can get her running again.”
“And then?” Atann said, insistent and pushing up behind Picard, although Picard doubted that Atann realized his rudeness—at least, not this time.
Riker said, “Then we walked out.”
“What of my son’s kaphoora? What of his men?”
Akarr moved in front of the comm screen, quite comfortably at the correct height to use it. “Our men were honorable and earned much daleura protecting me and each other. But . . . several of them were lost. Pavar, in the crash. Regen, to a sholjagg before the first night. Takan to a flock of skik. And Gavare, who saved Ketan from a stampede of ictaya and was trampled himself, less than a meter from safety.”
The Tsoran youth had a different quality about him, Picard realized, than when he’d been stalking around the Enterprise stirring up resentments. Still all-Tsoran—that stiff and aggressive way of looking at the world—he nonetheless seemed to have more thought behind his words, and even behind the way he framed them.
“Ketan and Rakal are both injured but survive,” Akarr continued. “Commander Riker, too, is injured—it was done in his efforts to save Takan from the skik. He has never hesitated to do what he thought correct to insure the safety of myself and my men.”
Picard could easily read behind the lines on that one. Riker and the young ReynTa had clashed, and often. The surprising thing was that Akarr had reported it as he had, and not as insubordination.
“And your kaphoora?” Atann asked, his body language turning a little more formal.
Atann held up a thin circle of what appeared to be filament. “Cartiga whisker.”
All the starch went out of Atann in his relief, but he quickly caught himself and returned to public mode. “I’m much relieved,” he said. “I was . . . concerned on many levels.”
“With reason,” Akarr said, and then stopped short; Picard knew enough to recognize the distress in the quiver of Akarr’s ears, although he was tempted to put it down to fatigue. Except . . . he glanced at Riker and saw anger there. Restricted to his eyes, but Riker could do quite a lot with anger when it came to his eyes.
Akarr finally finished, “It will be worth much discussion when I return. Discussion I would like to have before leaving the Enterprise.”
“We’d be glad to provide you with a place for private discussion,” Picard said. “Meanwhile, Commander, you’ll be glad to know that we have come to an agreement regarding the charts. And ReynTa, your ReynSa is on her way up—we expect her at any moment—and I’m sure she’ll be glad to see that you’re not only alive, but unhurt.”
“And with cartiga trophy,” Atann said, and there was no mistaking the pride in his voice. “No one of us has ever returned with cartiga trophy, not even the seasoned pros.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Riker muttered, but he didn’t seem inclined to take the comment any further; Picard noted it but let it pass. There were stories within stories, here; the challenge was to find the most important story first.
The ReynSa burst in, trailing both a younger Tsoran and a hapless ensign behind her. Picard waved the young woman away with an understanding nod, and she hesitated, handed him a padd, made good her escape. But the ReynSa’s bearing—confrontational, righteously triumphant—lost all momentum the instant she understood what, until her arrival, had captured everyone’s attention. “Akarr!” she cried in surprise. “Akarr, you are well, and returned to us!”
Picard took advantage of the noisy reunion—as Atann proudly chimed in with news of Akarr’s cartiga trophy and Tehra made delighted noises in response—to glance at the padd. The universe had apparently not stopped so he could take Atann into the holodeck. The padd held notations from Data regarding the current fluctuation and reaction rate of the Ntignano sun . . . a summary from Beverly Crusher, detailing how many Ntignanos had died in the last several hours and at what rate they were continuing to die, as well as how many would still be left on the planet’s surface when the sun went nova on its accelerated schedule, and a report on the probe charting process, now that it was up to speed. And of course, a message from Starfleet, demanding an update.
“Takarr,” Akarr said in the background, and offered the comm screen a little bow. “I see you made it to the Enterprise after all.”
“I see that he did,” Picard said, tearing himself away from the padd. With any luck, within moments—now that the ReynSa had her son back—he’d have an answer about the charts. An answer for Starfleet, for Dr. Crusher . . . for the Ntignanos. For now, he needed to keep his attention within this room. He handed the padd to Troi and looked over at the ReynSa and her charge. When his expectant expression didn’t prompt introductions to the young Tsoran, he said, “I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commanding the Federation starship Enterprise. This is Commander Deanna Troi, our ship’s counselor.” Troi looked up from the padd, distracted and unhappy at its contents, and smiled a greeting anyway, her teeth neatly covered. “And this is Takarr. We met briefly while I was on the planet.”
“My son,” the ReynSa said, all but drawing the boy to her—but then, at a glance from Atann, actually stepping slightly apart from him. “Takarr is the reason we’re here today. It is he who discovered your Federation treachery!”
“Our treachery?” Picard said, somewhat taken aback by the hyperbole.
She made an affirmative gesture, a quick, annoyed flick of her hand. “Exactly. Explain to the ReynKa, Takarr, what you’ve found.”
The boy wasn’t quite ready for this. Not old enough, not inclined enough . . . Picard could see him talk himself up into a properly stiff posture and attitude. “I spend much of my time with off-planet concerns, Captain Picard. It is my area of . . . expertise.”
From a youth of this rough-and-tumble society? An interest, yes, but an expertise? Nadann had certainly not mentioned it.
“I have found your charting probes.”
Someone had found them, that was for certain.
“I see,” said Picard, and there was silence, although Troi stirred and probably wanted to say something— something more conciliatory, most likely, something to make the news on the padd go away. Glancing at Picard, she held her tongue.
“That’s all you have to say?” the ReynSa demanded.
“Tehra,” Atann said, staring intently at her with as much of a challenge gaze-hold as he seemed to think he could get away with under the circumstances, “the captain and I have com
e to some common understandings—”
“Did they include sending out probes in our own space, without consulting us?”
“No,” Picard said. “They included the nature of the Federation and its peoples, and how we respond when we think we’re being toyed with.” He came around the table to stand before her, addressing her directly—far more directly, in fact, than Admiral Gromek would ever prefer.
But Picard was the one who’d been doing the daleura two-step, not Admiral Gromek.
“They included a certain number of demonstrations,” he told her, “the gist of which is this, ReynSa—we will find a way to get what we want. If that means sending charting probes out as backup when it becomes evident you have contrived ways to take advantage of our good nature without any intention of making good on your own promises even to negotiate.” He looked at her, let his words sink in, and his understanding of the Tsoran’s manipulative intent, and then said, simply but with his gaze locked on hers, “Then that’s what we do. Those probes would never have been launched had your own intransigence not made it necessary.”
“That does not change the fact that it is treachery,” the ReynSa said, showing her teeth and ignoring Atann’s loud under-purrs of protest. “You will never have our charts after this! Let your precious Ntignanos wait for you to complete your work. I cannot imagine it will be in time.”
No. It wouldn’t be. He didn’t need Troi’s stricken expression to drive the point home. The padd report made it quite clear enough—the probe charting was proceeding at its fastest pace, and it wasn’t fast enough. But Picard just stared back at her, a step closer than he had been—uncertain of the way to handle cross-gender daleura interaction, but going for the bluff.
“Captain,” Riker said, his voice harsh with fatigue but still holding a note of intensity that immediately captured Picard’s attention.
“What is it, Number One?” he said, despite the fact that the ReynSa was even less pleased to have him turn away from her than she was to have him stepping up to challenge her.
“There’s more to this situation than there would seem—information you should have. May we speak privately?”
“I object,” the ReynSa said. “You have already done enough behind our backs!”
“Riker—Commander Riker—” On the viewscreen, Akarr had pivoted to look at Riker, his expression conflicted, his under-purr coming in stops and starts. “There is—that is, we need to talk—”
Riker looked at him a moment—what seemed to Picard to be a meaningful exchange, almost a warning— and then returned his attention to the comm screen. “I think it would be best, Captain.”
“So be it,” Picard said; he did not fail to note that Troi gave the slightest of nods. “We’ll be waiting. But,” and he caught Riker’s gaze on the viewscreen, a silent communication across an entire solar system, “don’t be long.”
Riker gave a short nod, and the screen went not blank, but filled with the Fandrean flag emblem—one only slightly less remarkably colorful than the Tsoran screen filler.
“Whatever your Commander Riker has to say, Captain Picard, it will not change how we feel about the charts,” Tehra said. “You must command your people to cease working on the transfer protocol.”
Picard looked at the young Tsoran standing beside her, doing his best to radiate the same belligerent stiffness as his mother, and at Atann, who eyed Picard with a certain amount of suspicion displayed in his tightly pursed chin and lower lip. “Let’s just see what the commander has to say,” he told them all. “In the meanwhile, it does no harm to complete the transfer protocol. They cannot upload the chart data without your command.”
“Which we will never give.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” Picard went to the food replicator and said, “Tea. Earl Grey, hot.” And then, as his tea materialized, “Would you like anything, Counselor? ReynTa?”
Tehra made a snorting noise and turned away.
Troi gave him a grim little smile. “Hot chocolate,” she said.
She was going for the chocolate. Maybe things were indeed as bad as they looked.
* * *
“What’s this about, Akarr?” Riker lifted one shoulder out of pure habit, hurt himself doing it, and consciously relaxed.
Akarr looked around the crowded communications console. Worf, La Forge, Zefan, the Fandrean museum and city managers, and Kugen, the resident Tsoran representative . . . all of them crowded into this small room on the museum’s main floor. It held only the comm unit—a pedestal-like affair with the screen set too low for Riker’s use and a short standing work table beside it—and it was clearly not meant for all these people.
Just as clearly, Akarr did not want them there.
“Gentlemen,” Riker said, a hint that La Forge and Worf took immediately.
“We will be right outside,” Worf said, as if anything could happen to them here. Once he and La Forge were gone, it finally occurred to the others that Riker had been asking for privacy, and with some embarrassment, they left.
Aside from Kugen, who didn’t move. When the room had emptied, he said to Akarr, “Are you sure you want to be alone here?”
Akarr snorted. “You think too much of yourself. Do you second-guess your ReynTa?”
“No,” Kugen said, clearly startled; he gave a hasty bow and left the room.
Akarr wrinkled his lip, a quick gesture that Riker would have missed had he not come to know the Tsoran. “He’s been here too long, with too much authority. I’ll have to mention it to my father.”
“Do that,” Riker said. “But that’s not why you asked to speak to me. You stopped me from telling Captain Picard about the . . . shall we call it a miscommunication . . . over the shuttle shields.”
“Yes,” Akarr said, and hesitated. “There is more. I think it is pertinent . . .” he started, and then stopped. After a moment he took a breath and started again, holding Riker’s eye in the most neutral gaze-hold he’d ever shown Riker. Standing his ground without any challenge at all. “I think it is possible that certain people in my government never intended to see those charts in Federation hands. I suspect that my ReynSa has been . . . in discussion with them, and that they have exchanged . . . commitments of support.”
Riker stared at him. “That fits with your notions of daleura? Implying an honest interest in negotiations when no such interest exists, in order to pry favors from the other party?”
Akarr filled his considerable chin pouch with air and released it all at once with a sharp sound. “It does not fit my understanding of daleura. I am . . . beginning to understand that some of my people twist daleura for their own desires.”
Riker let out his own pent-up breath. “So do some of mine, Akarr. And while I appreciate your consideration of the matter, I’m not sure I understand its immediate relevance.”
“Because,” Akarr said sharply, “there is more to it than that. Information you can use.”
Against his own people, or against some faction of his own people. Riker began to understand Akarr’s agitation. “I’m listening.”
“You believe that the Fandreans weren’t consulted about the shuttle shields, and not simply that Zefan knew not of it as I said earlier, am I correct?”
Riker nodded, frowning.
“And you know that someone tampered with the tranquilizer darts in an attempt to make my kaphoora less than successful.”
“Yes,” Riker said, struggling to follow Akarr’s line of thought and deciding he was just too tired. “But I don’t see the connection between those two things.”
“That is because you do not know that I did not know we didn’t consult the Fandreans. My father did not know. Our coordinating engineer reported that the Fandreans had inspected and approved of the Federation shuttle shield specifications. At the time Zefan spoke of this, I truly believed him to be mistaken. That is no longer the case.” Now Akarr’s expression held unmistakeable misery, from his drooping ears to his sagging chin pouch. But he held
Riker’s gaze.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Riker muttered. Someone really hadn’t wanted Akarr to have an easy trip. In fact, someone probably hadn’t wanted him to come back alive.
Akarr shifted uneasily, and settled into a moderately assertive stance. “Whoever planned this had no idea the two . . . difficulties would combine as they did.”
“You can’t know that,” Riker objected.
“I have said it,” Akarr responded instantly, and there was no mistaking it, he was headed for the Akarr Riker knew best, the stiff and difficult young Tsoran in daleura posture.
He’d get nowhere with Akarr if that happened. Riker backed off, started at the whole thing from another direction. That which was more pertinent. “So both events were likely an attempt to keep you from gathering kaphoora trophy.” What else had he said? That the ReynSa had exchanged favors with the people who didn’t want the charts to go out, and was now therefore obliged to champion their cause? Favors.
. . . Like sabotage?
Startled beyond diplomacy, he said, “And you think your mother—that the ReynSa was behind the sabotage?”
Stiffly, Akarr nodded—a human gesture that clearly remained awkward to him. “On occasion, the inherited position of ReynKa goes to the second child; it is the ReynKa’s choice, always. It is simply tradition to choose firstborn.” He gestured at the blank screen. “Takarr is the ReynSa’s favored child. Her . . . natural child.”
Ah. Akarr, the firstborn, hale and hearty and well-versed in terms of daleura, the kaphoora, and all other things a budding Tsoran politician would need. Takarr, a slightly built young man clearly trying to live up to his mother’s expectations . . . but who apparently had already become the scientist of the family.
In short, the kid didn’t have a chance as long as Akarr was around and doing well. The ReynSa must have been beside herself when Atann arranged the Federation escort for Akarr’s kaphoora.
“I understand,” he said. And he did. But what he didn’t know was how to handle it. How to tell Picard the one bit of information that, if badly handled, could severely embarrass the ReynKa past wanting to give them the charts. He could insist on privacy, but that, too, could cause more trouble . . . . “ReynTa,” he said, most carefully, “I’d like to offer you the chance to handle this in the way you think would most benefit your family and your people.”
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