Tooth and Claw - Doranna Durgin [39]
So he’d ignored Riker, noting only that the human was prepared and waiting to go despite his repeated, strongly voiced protests—protests Akarr could quote back at him by now if he’d wished: “Geordi will know we’re in trouble. Worf will come looking. And he’s not going to be able to find us if we’re off stumbling through the trees, and he’s working on visual in a pared-down shuttlecraft!”
Privately, Akarr thought Riker gave his companions far too much credit. That anyone would interpret a blast of noise as a cry for help was absurd. That a single man in a pared-down shuttlecraft had a chance of finding them in the first place was too remote to contemplate. Yes, privately, Akarr thought Riker—despite his size and bearing—would have done anything to stay with what he perceived as the safety of the shuttle. But Akarr wasn’t about to abandon his only chance to wrench
70?
daleura out of this misbegotten kaphoora by clinging to a useless shuttlecraft, eating down their rations and bringing himself no closer to the preserve boundary.
Not that he’d explained it to Riker. Not in the least. What Riker thought or didn’t think had no relevance. He’d had the choice of sitting there by himself, or tagging along with the Tsorans. And addled Gavare might have been the only one of them to have experience with the Legacy, but all of them had trained for it, had earned their way here. All of them, even the son of the ReynKa. Riker was the one who was unprepared—no tranquilizer gun, since Pavar’s had been as broken as its owner. No training. No other weapons besides a puny little knife.
Or so Akarr had thought. Until now, when his mind, busy with thoughts of Riker’s inadequacies, had no control over his eyes—which had greedily locked on to the sight of the formidable weapon Riker carried. Two parallel curving blades, connected with bracing sections. The back blade provided leather-wrapped handgrips between sections; the ends, with the front blade significantly shorter than the back, hooked wickedly—as though they’d been designed with Tsora’s now extinct, heavily antlered troph-deer in mind.
Riker, to his surprise, seemed perfectly comfortable with this shining, sharpened weapon in hand.
And Akarr didn’t know quite what to make of it, or of the way the human strode confidently forward, as alert as any Tsoran to the brief movement in the foliage to then-side, knowing to ignore the light fluttering of insignificant lizbirds high above them … not intimidated. Not reluctant.
Just damned annoyed.
Akarr did the only thing he could. He turned his back on Riker, pretending he hadn’t spoken those last,
provocative words—no Tsoran did anything else, when faced with conflicting facts. Ignore the other person, even in mid-sentence, until things became clearer, that was the way of it. And Akarr fairly dove for the safety of those ways, pushing his pace to fall in ahead of Riker until he nearly trod on Takan’s heels.
Above them came the first patter of rain in the upper leaves; soon enough those leaves would be drenched, and dripping their own rain down on the next level, and so on, until the kaphoora party was soaked. Not that it mattered in warmth like this, not with his thick, short fur to keep his skin dry. But come evening, the temperatures would fall, and if he were wet… Not even the bravest Tsoran foolishly left himself open to hypothermia. But Akarr waited until Takan pulled out his rain tarp before donning his own, not hesitating in his steady, marching progress.
A glance behind showed that Riker had done the same, although Pavar’s tarp was too small for him; he hadn’t come with wet-weather gear—or gear of any sort. The only thing he’d contributed was the medical kit he carried.
And that wicked blade.
Akarr stumbled; he’d let