Tooth and Claw - Doranna Durgin [10]
The roomy cargo shuttle allowed more space in the aisles between the seats than the medium-range personnel shuttle, and had an additional two seats in the back, along with a reasonably spacious head—not to mention Akarr’s special seating. Eight passengers on a long journey Riker had hoped the extra space would keep the inevitable tensions low.
Apparently not.
“Mighty sybyls! This is little honor, to travel with such an escort. Can you not keep your people in line?”
“We still don’t know what happened,” Riker said, and eyed the now shamefaced ensign before him. Her long blonde hair had come loose from its restricting clip; tendrils of it hung askew along the side of her cheek. “Dougherty?”
“I… I’m not sure, sir,” she said, sneaking a glance at her opponent, trying to tuck her hair back. “I was just sitting there … I wasn’t doing anything in particular. I guess … sir, you could say my mind wandered.”
“It’s a long trip, Ensign,” Riker said. “But that doesn’t explain what happened.” He turned her head aside to
confirm that she did indeed bear the light marks of two claws near the back of her jaw, oozing but not dripping blood.
Akarr snapped something, too fast for the universal translator to decipher, and the Tsoran beside Riker-taller than most of them, and with an unusual cinnamon cast to his coat—shifted, looking away from Akarr. Finally, his words more difficult to understand than Akarr’s, he said, “She was staring at me at an improper time. It was a great rudeness. She would not look away.”
Riker glanced at Dougherty, who still didn’t seem anything more than puzzled. “Did you,” he said carefully, “ask her to look away?”
“I did,” the Tsoran said with great dignity.
“I couldn’t understand him,” Dougherty said. “So I looked at him to ask him to repeat what he’d said—”
Ah. One Tsoran, in some private moment that happened to fall under the gaze of a human whose mind had wandered off and didn’t even know she appeared to be staring. And then, in misunderstanding, she really had stared…. Riker was suddenly reminded of childhood territory disputes. He put his finger on my side of the shuttle! Wonderful. “It appears that both parties bear equal blame,” he said, to Akarr as much as anyone else. “Ensign, didn’t you read the contact protocol?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“No buts,” he said sharply. “You clearly didn’t read it closely enough. Go wait for me up front, and I’ll provide you with another copy.” To Akarr and his security force—all males, as far as he could tell—he said, “I apologize for the misunderstanding. I hope in the future you’ll understand that we have little experience with your species, and that any error in manners is an inadvertent one.” He looked at Akarr in particular and said,
“As far as we’re concerned, nothing has changed; this was merely an unfortunate incident that no one else needs to know about. We’ll disembark on Fandre as your formal honor escort, as planned.” Whatever the hell a “formal honor escort” was… but it sounded good.
Akarr must have thought so as well. Although his lower mouth was pouched up in the same distinct but hard-to-read expression he’d worn in Ten-Forward, he made a motion with his hand—and then, as an afterthought, nodded in the equivalent human gesture.
Good. And only a few more hours to go before their “full formal honor escort” arrived at Fandre, after which Riker alone would pilot Akarr into the preserve, and happily wait in the shuttle for the Tsoran to complete his prime kaphoora, snag his trophy, and present himself for a triumphant return.
Worf stood in the narrow entrance to the shuttle conn, and Riker hesitated there, murmuring, “Do you have any idea what that was about, Mr. Worf?”
Worf’s murmur was more like a bass hum; Riker tilted his head to catch it. “I am afraid not, sir. However…”
“Share, Mr. Worf. Don’t keep