After ten minutes they reached a dense wall of bushes that extended as far as they could see in both directions. The claw-tracks led through the only break in the foliage. Flickering orange light suggested a fire in the open space beyond the trees. As they approached, the drumming became louder, until the heavy, monotonous throbbing filled the air with its insistent beat. Shrill, ululating cries punctuated the rhythmic pounding. The mixed scents of the Jarada clogged the air and overwhelmed the commonplace odors of soil and trees and night-blooming flowers.
Keiko and Tanaka exchanged glances. The sounds were unsettling, like the battle cries of a horde of primitives psyching themselves up to attack their neighbors, and their translators did nothing to interpret the sounds. They looked at each other and simultaneously thumbed the devices off. Keiko nodded to their left and Tanaka shrugged, indicating he had no preference. He turned off the flashlight to avoid attracting attention and slid it into the pocket of his jacket. Moving as quietly as they could, although Keiko doubted that anyone could hear them over the drums, they left the trail and crept along the curving line of bushes.
Finally, Keiko spotted a gap, small and close to the ground. Dropping to her stomach, she wiggled forward to see what was happening beyond the barrier. After a moment Tanaka followed her example, squeezing beside her to share the tiny hole.
A broad meadow, much larger than the one where they were camped, opened beyond the bushes that hid them. Keiko tried to guess how far the open space extended, but the twilight distorted the perspective and blurred the more distant trees with shadow until she was unable to estimate the distance. The mottled orange and beige ball of Bel-Major hung over them, the cloud patterns on its sunlit side glaring in brilliant contrast to the darkening sky.
Keiko shook herself and tore her attention away from the giant planet. She and Tanaka were concealed by a narrow tongue of bushes. Except for one small break, the undergrowth formed a dense, leafy wall between the main meadow and a satellite clearing. In the smaller meadow the Jarada were dancing around a bonfire. Except for the teachers, who were pounding the large, wooden drums with all four hands, everyone was running and leaping in unison, as though they were a dance troupe performing a choreographed number.
At first Keiko thought their timing was perfect, with each Jarada repeating the set patterns flawlessly. However, the longer she watched, the more discrepancies she saw. One tan-colored youth kept jerking its head in an erratic rhythm, while a red-brown individual and another tan Jarada twitched their upper limbs in spasmodic gestures that sent shivers up her spine.
“You see it too?” They were lying so close that Tanaka’s lips brushed her ear.
“Like they’re just a little crazy?” She, too, felt the need to whisper her answer, although she doubted that anyone could have filtered their voices from the noise the Jarada were making.
Suddenly a large black Jarada broke from the circle, screeching furiously. The two nearest youths raced after him. The black swung on his pursuers, knocking the smaller one off its feet and slashing his claws across the eye of the other. Several more youths charged toward the black, overwhelming him with sheer numbers. Canjiir dropped her drum and dashed over, crouching to reach the black’s exposed neck. Even over the drumming Keiko heard the crunch of Canjiir’s teeth shearing through the shell that covered the black’s throat. She crammed her hand into her mouth to keep her stomach from emptying itself.
The black’s dying shriek descended into gurgles that were covered by the sound of the remaining drum. He twitched and jerked spasmodically, fighting to hold on to life. Finally, he went still and, one by one, the other Jarada got to their feet.
Canjiir returned to her drum, pounding it with furious intensity. Slowly the youths rejoined the circle, resuming their dancing as though nothing had happened. However, as she watched them, Keiko realized that more of the young Jarada showed erratic behavior—twitches and jerks and breaks in the rhythm that seemed to upset the others in the group.
“More than a little crazy,” Tanaka murmured, starting to wiggle backward. “Let’s get out of here.”
Keiko nodded and waited for him to squirm free. She had just started her own retreat when more loud screeches interrupted the chanting of the dancers. Glancing toward the meadow, she saw three Jarada attacking their classmates. A fourth, the largest student in the group, was streaking for their hiding place. By sheer bad luck he would trip over them no matter what they did.
“Run!” she ordered Tanaka. Twisting around, she tried to force her way out of the bushes. The branches were tough and springy, and they pushed back. Tanaka grabbed her wrist and pulled, jerking her clear of the slapping, scratching foliage. As soon as she was free, they ran, racing to put as much distance between themselves and the insane Jarada as they could.
Behind them the large Jarada hit the bushes and crashed through, seemingly oblivious of the grabbing, tearing limbs. His shriek, when he saw the fleeing humans, was echoed by more distant yells and then by other crashing noises. Keiko risked a quick glance over her shoulder and saw that several more Jarada were struggling through the barrier in pursuit. The large Jarada was gaining on them fast, even though Keiko was sure she had beaten her personal best time for the two hundred meter dash. Her lungs screamed for oxygen and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold her speed much longer. Even though he had gotten a head start, Tanaka couldn’t be in much better shape, since his preferred sport was swimming.
She glanced in his direction and saw that he was slowing, angling toward a sturdy tree slightly off their course. He extended his arm and swung around it, using the change in direction to stop himself. “Up!” he said, pointing toward the treetops to emphasize the message. Keiko veered toward him, feeling her speed lessen in spite of herself, but she was still moving too fast to stop when she reached him. Tanaka grabbed her arm and swung her around the tree in a repeat of the maneuver he had used to kill his own momentum. Before she could catch her breath for the climb, he knelt and offered her a boost. She set her foot into his cupped hands and let him shove her upward.
For a moment she felt as though she were flying, and then her right hand hit the lowest branch of the tree. She wrapped her fingers around it, struggling to keep her hold, and threw her other arm and her legs around the trunk, pressing as much of her body as possible against the bark. After several tense seconds she halted her downward slide. Taking a deep breath and pulling on the branch, she dragged herself up to the next limb and freed the first one for Tanaka.
The next branch was closer and the one after that, even closer. Above that the limbs separated from the trunk in groups, with the branches and the trunk at each split all having nearly the same diameter. The tree shuddered as Tanaka leapt for the first handhold. Keiko continued working her way upward until she found a secure spot in the crotch between the trunk and a sturdy limb.
Leaning against the tree to catch her breath, she risked a glance downward to see how Tanaka was doing. A wave of vertigo swept through her, but she forced it away. Tanaka was two meters away from the tree, bracing for a running start at a second jump, and the pursuing Jarada had almost closed the distance. Launching himself at top speed, Tanaka raced for the tree and leapt, catching the branch with his outstretched hands. For a moment he just hung there, swinging, before he started pulling himself upward.
With a shriek the Jarada flung itself at Tanaka, jaws open and claws outstretched. Tanaka almost made it to safety, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The Jarada’s claws caught his leg, slashing through his uniform and deeply into his flesh. Tanaka continued to climb upward, as if unaware of the injury, although Keiko could see the blood welling through his ripped pants. Adrenaline, she thought, realizing that the need to escape had probably blocked his awareness of the wounded leg.
Below them, more Jarada had arrived. In a hysterical frenzy they threw themselves at the tree, attacking again and again. The tree shuddered under the blows and Keiko wondered how long before the Jarada tried something more
effective. And whether she and Tanaka could survive without water or medical supplies until the Enterprise found them. For the first time ever, she wished she had listened to her husband. Then she wouldn’t be in this situation—trapped with an injured partner twenty meters off the ground at the start of a thirty-six-hour night on an unsurveyed planet, with no water or communicators, and surrounded by hostile aliens. It was enough to make her wish she had never left Japan. Unable to help herself, Keiko laid her head against the tree and cried.
Chapter Twelve
WORF RACED DOWN THE CORRIDOR and turned right, with the Jarada guardians hot on his heels. Having so many enemies so close behind gave him no chance to test his theories about the door locks. Even if he were correct, his pursuers would be on him before he could finish entering the nine digit code to open the door. What he needed was a hiding place where he could observe his enemy and study the terrain while he planned his next move. Given his observations of Jarada architecture, he had about the same chance of finding what he needed as he had of getting rescued by Romulans.
On the off chance that Data might be listening, he tapped his communicator again. This time he could hear the dull click of the pressure switch, but that sound was not followed by the chirp that indicated the device was active. Somehow, the Jarada had managed to deactivate the communicator, isolating him both from the captain and from the Enterprise. A low growl escaped Worf’s throat. If these insectoids wanted to test the prowess of a real warrior, then he was ready to oblige them.
He had seen no windows since he and Breen left the Council Chambers, which meant he had only a rough idea of where he was. His first priority, he decided, was to find a spot where he could see the city and the position of the Beltaxiyan sun. He would have liked to have a map as well, but he doubted that the Jarada would give him the key to their defenses. Remembering the layout of the Governance Complex, Worf took the first upward-sloping corridor that he encountered. After that, each time he had a choice he continued to move upward. Surprisingly, his pursuers lost ground, their shrieking and the clatter of their claws diminishing as he put more distance between himself and the workout room.
Finally, Worf slowed his pace to a jog, both to conserve his energy and to concentrate on the sounds behind him. After a brief lull, the shrieks rose to a crescendo punctuated by dull thuds. Apparently his pursuers had begun fighting each other again. If that was the case, it was time for him to get out of the corridor before he encountered someone else eager to take up the fight where the Jarada behind him had abandoned it. With the warriors of this society acting like lunatics, who knew what the ordinary Jarada might do? He had to get back to the captain!
Dropping to a walk, Worf began scanning carefully. Although the corridor was well lit, the light exaggerated the rough texture of the plaster walls. It was an effective camouflage, and Worf was beginning to worry that it might delay him too long, when he finally spotted the telltale dark line of a door. He studied the surface carefully, locating the exact outline of the opening before he made his next move. He scraped his thumb, forefinger, and little finger across the wall at waist height. After a moment, as if the computer that controlled the mechanism had to repeat the analysis of his stroke before giving him access, the control panel lit up. Worf fitted his fingers into the touch points and entered the code Breen had used: 1-1-3-2-1-2-3-3-1. Again there was a delay while the computer processed the code, but then the door slid into the wall.
Worf stepped into the shaft, listening for the sound of someone moving inside it. Silence, broken only by the hum of the air circulators, greeted him. Quickly, he moved farther inside to let the door close behind him. If Breen’s boasts about the Jarada’s faith in their security locks reflected a general attitude, then he had shaken his pursuers and needed to worry only about chance encounters delaying him. What he could not guess was how to find the quickest route back to the Governance Complex. He wondered if the Jarada memorized the entire maze of tunnels beneath their city or if the major passages were marked in some way the Enterprise’s away team had not discerned. Neither method was going to do him much good. He had to get outside, where he could see enough landmarks to orient himself.
He started downward, testing the ribbed surface of the ramp. It was well suited for the Jarada, with narrow shelves to catch their claws, but the ridges were badly spaced for a Klingon, particularly one as large as Worf. A growl rose in his throat, born of his frustration at running from a fight and from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. With an effort he suppressed the outburst, knowing it would attract attention that he didn’t need.
Three turns down the ramp, near the level where he thought he had lost his pursuers, he heard shrieking and pounding in the corridor outside the shaft. Apparently the melee was still in progress, with the Jarada tearing into one another with reckless abandon. Worf would have loved to watch the fight and to observe how the guardians handled actual combat, but he knew he would become the target as soon as they saw him. While he couldn’t fault their zeal in defending their hive, he had no intention of letting it interfere with his duty to return to the captain.
Four turns farther down, Worf judged he was nearing the ground floor. As he started to search for a door, he heard the sounds of several Jarada entering the shaft a level above him. Quickly, he deactivated the Jaradan translator before its sounds could betray him. Hoping they were not going far, he started downward again, moving as fast as be dared. One level, two levels, three—still they descended, the chittering of their footsteps unhurried and the singing interplay of their conversation betraying no hint that they suspected his presence. Worf noticed that a heavy, spicy smell floated down the shaft ahead of them.
The acoustics in the enclosed space multiplied the noises, making it hard to separate out source and distance. From below, Worf thought he heard echoes of the Jarada behind him, which meant they were approaching the bottom. However, as he listened, he realized the sounds were growing louder. He rounded another turn and almost collided with three russet-colored guardians.
At the sight of the Klingon on the ramp above them, the three Jarada shrieked a battle cry and charged. The Jarada behind him echoed the shriek and the clattering of their foot-claws speeded up. Worf roared an eager response and dropped into a defensive crouch, letting the Jarada bring the attack to him. On this sloping ramp the disadvantage lay with the attackers, and as a true warrior, he knew how to exploit his enemies’ weaknesses.
The first Jarada reached him, and Worf lashed out with his leg, landing a perfect kick to the Jarada’s thorax. The Jarada was unbalanced from running up the ramp, and Worf’s kick threw it off its feet. It landed on its back, limbs flailing in all directions, and skidded into one of its companions. The second Jarada fell too, its limbs tangling with those of the first insectoid. Both slid downward, their exoskeletons bumping and scraping against the rough surface of the ramp.
The shrieks of the group above Worf reached deafening proportions and five more Jarada clattered into view. The leader launched itself at the Klingon, its claws extended like daggers. Worf braced himself and grabbed for the Jarada’s arms. Closing his hands around the bases of the lethal claws, he pulled the insectoid forward and flung it into the last of the Jarada below him. That Jarada went down under the impact and two more insectoids started the downward slide on their backs.
The approaching Jarada slowed when they saw how Worf disposed of their leader. Taking advantage of their momentary hesitation, Worf gave a loud roar and charged them. Caught off guard, they were slow to respond, and he got past them before they could take advantage of the close quarters. One swiped at him and caught his arm, slicing his uniform and drawing blood with its sharp claws. Then he was above them, where his height and greater reach would serve to best advantage.
Turning, Worf kicked the nearest Jarada, landing a well-placed blow on its thorax. As it fell, its body slammed into the legs of the fighter next to it. While the second guardian struggled to keep its balance, Worf close
d in and grabbed its arms. For someone who followed the Klingon’s daily exercise regimen, the Jarada was not a major challenge. He jerked the insectoid from its feet and swung it into the two remaining fighters. All three smashed into the wall with a satisfying crunch.
With all his opponents temporarily disabled, Worf headed back up the shaft, searching for the first available exit. He found it around the first turn on the opposite side of the shaft from the other doors. Still, he had to get away before anyone raised the alarm or reprogrammed the locks, so he located the control pad and tapped in the combination.
The door started to open, hesitated partway, and began sliding shut again. Afraid that his access would be cut off, Worf jammed his shoulder into the opening. The mechanism grumbled and protested as he forced his way through. At the last minute the panel snapped shut on his wrist. From beyond the door he heard the shrieks of a horde of guardians swarming into the shaft.
Growling under his breath, Worf braced his foot against the doorjamb. Curling the fingers of his free hand around the door, he pulled on it. At first nothing happened. He threw his entire weight into the effort, and finally the panel moved barely enough for him to work his hand loose. He released the door and jumped clear, just as a dozen guardians clattered past.
Worf looked about, checking his surroundings. He was in another shaft, this one damp and poorly lit. Streaks of black mold and greenish slime covered the walls and most of the floor. The air stank from the dampness, from mold and mildew, and from other things he was reluctant to name. He was on a landing at the top of the shaft, which descended an indeterminate distance. Briefly, he studied with longing the door he had just come through. A warrior should die in battle, even if dishonorable opponents resorted to overwhelming odds to defeat him. He should not be expected to fight cold, and slime, and unnameable biological horrors.
IMBALANCE Page 15