Tooth and Claw - Doranna Durgin [17]
“Of course,” she said, uncrossing her legs to stand in one fluid movement. “Shall we?”
Picard hesitated on the way to the turbolift long enough to say, “Mr. Data, the bridge is yours,” and then to add, “though you should feel free to attend the reception if you wish.”
“Sir, unless that is an order, I would prefer to monitor the increasingly unpredictable behavior of the Ntignano sun. I have one of the science stations tied into a feed from the Federation vessel Curie, and am maintaining contact with their science officer.”
“Very good, Mr. Data. I’ll make your apologies to the ReynKa.” Picard headed for the turbolift, and turned back in an afterthought. “Data, I would like to see a summary of your findings, if you would.”
“Yes, sir.” Data settled into the captain’s chair. “Paint the town red, sir.”
“Excuse me?” Picard said—no, almost said, and then decided against it. They were late enough as it was.
How apt, then, to walk into the reception room, Troi beside him, and discover the pleasant gray, maroon, and slate blue color scheme replaced with bright red. Or perhaps not replaced, but covered. Red curtains along the walls, red tablecloths, red throw rugs over the utilitarian floor covering. Four tall poles grouped together in the center of the room, all bearing identical red flags with a complex, jagged black and orange device. Both Picard and Troi stopped short.
“Oh, my,” Troi breathed. “I’m not sure I can even think in here, much less pick up impressions from our guests.”
“We’ll get used to it,” Picard said, with more hope than assurance. “As I recall, the Tsorans don’t see color quite like we do—perhaps to Atann this is a subtle effect.” He stepped aside from the door—no point in blocking someone else’s overwhelming initial sight of the room—and tried to get his bearings.
The food, at least, smelled wonderful. By that smell, it leaned toward meat dishes and spices, although Picard also saw an entire table devoted to desserts. He spotted the Federation’s token offering against the wall and nearly engulfed by one of the curtains, the food mostly untouched. Well, that would probably make Atann happy. He noted, too, that despite the pleasantly cool air, almost everyone was sweating. His officers dabbed their upper lips with their napkins, their cheeks flushed; if the Tsorans showed any similar signs, Picard couldn’t discern them. And thankfully, the Tsorans—dressed in plated leather uniforms and loose flowing trousers, with their females in unusual combinations of leather and
flowing silks—seemed to be mingling freely and happily enough.
Atann himself stood at the center of one of the larger groups, entertaining them all with a tale that took wide gestures and exaggerated expressions requiring much display of tooth—a hunt, no doubt. Nearby, the ReynSa had her own collection of listeners. Dressed much like the other Tsoran women, she nonetheless bore an unmistakable air of authority, and unless Picard was mistaken, she, too, spoke of the hunt.
“Captain Picard!” the ReynKa bellowed, breaking into the middle of his own story and walking away from his gathered listeners without even appearing to take note of them. “What do you think of your ship now? An improvement, don’t you think? Have you tried the heessla?”
Every sweating crew member within earshot stiffened, shooting desperate sidelong glances their way.
“I’ve only just arrived,” Picard said, not quite prepared for such a casual greeting. “I have to say you’ve made some amazing changes here.”
“Just so,” Atann agreed. “It is not, of course, as regal as my own fete room, but I did my best.”
“I hope the view helps to make up for anything the accommodations might be lacking,” Picard said, trying out the line between holding his own and treading on Tsoran daleura.
Atann smiled—at least, Picard thought it was a smile. “I find myself much too taken with the sight of my own ReynSa,” he said, gesturing at Tehra. “I recall the hunt she