The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [58]
“Geordi, you will not fall again,” Worf growled, having adjusted his comm frequency to match the Narsosians’.
“You can’t order me not to fall. I outrank you.” He scrambled to his feet and moved closer to the center of the float, struggling to keep his balance on top of the shuddering animal.
“I can order you,” Troi said. “I can pull medical rank by questioning your sanity.”
“Well, all right, if it’s doctor’s orders…” La Forge stopped and looked around, trying to see the flyers. “Ontra, Ruro, aim for my feet. These anchor points won’t open the wounds more.”
They followed his directions, and soon all the flyers were spraying lines wherever he pointed. The strain on the float was now pulling the wounds closed, and the float started excreting a slimy film over them to stop the leaks. The silk stretched, then held, and the float’s descent halted.
“We did it!” La Forge walked to the tether, attached his safety line, and slid down to the platform where Troi hugged him as much as could be done in an EV suit, while Worf clapped him on the back. Their reunion was cut short as armed guards from the airship arrived to escort them away.
In the wounded float’s oxygen chamber, its leader, Fushol, yelled, “There has never been an attack on a float!”
“Your people fired first,” Ontra said, her quiet voice as full of anger as Fushol’s shouting. “I lost a great hunter and friend today.”
“And we lost a technician, and our float is seriously wounded.” Fushol stomped in a circle around Ontra, Ruro, La Forge, Worf, and Troi. He stopped near Ruro. “A flyer skirmish is one thing, but to endanger an entire float? That goes against everything.”
Ruro started to respond, but Ontra stopped him with a glance. She stepped between him and Fushol. “Yes, a flyer skirmish is one thing, but firing on flyers from a float is something else entirely. As is raiding a communal garden.”
The two stared at each other nose to nose, silent and fuming, rapid waves of color washing across their down.
“Both of you have legitimate complaints,” Troi said. “If you let me mediate—”
“You?” Fushol turned and glared at Troi. “Your crewmate flew with those who tried to sink us.”
“It was that same crewmate who saved you from sinking.”
“You know nothing about our laws,” said Ontra. “How could you mediate?”
La Forge said, “Listen, everyone—” But Ontra and Fushol were back to arguing. “Ontra, please.” The float leaders moved off to the side of the chamber, ignoring La Forge. He looked at Worf.
Worf simply nodded and then bellowed, “Be quiet!”
The command was so loud it startled the float, which flinched around them. Everyone stumbled and looked at Worf, who shrugged and gestured to La Forge.
“Okay, now that I have your attention. For you to keep arguing when—”
“This is between us,” Ontra and Fushol said in unison. Then everyone went quiet as a shudder moved through the float.
Troi said, “The float didn’t do that.”
“Data to La Forge.”
This can’t be good, La Forge thought. “La Forge here. What’s going on?”
“The scramjet is losing orbit. If the float’s wounds have not sealed completely, it could still be losing buoyancy and adding more mass to the tether. I will put a tractor beam on the scramjet to stabilize it.”
“Belay that.” Even as La Forge said it, the airship began to list noticeably. “They want us to mind our own business.”
Troi looked nervous but said nothing. Worf gave La Forge a wicked smile. As La Forge turned to Ontra and Fushol, the airship suddenly dropped a full meter, sending them staggering, guards and captives alike.
Data’s tone was as concerned as the android could sound. “Geordi?”
“Stand by, Data,” La Forge said, as he struggled to keep on his feet. He staggered back toward Fushol and Ontra. “We can help as much or as little as you want. We can reunite you with the grounders or keep you separate. We can introduce you to the whole Federation or leave you here alone.