Tooth and Claw - Doranna Durgin [55]
Chapter Ten
As dawn finally trickled down to the bottom layers of the canopied forest, Riker dropped the tip of his club to the ground and leaned the handle against his leg while he wiped the sweat and grime from his face—careful not to use the sleeve stiff with dried sculper blood.
They’d survived the night. The sculpers were gone, slunk away after a series of attacks that never reached the intensity of the one during which Ketan was wounded. No big surprise. Their bellies were full of their buddy. And Ketan had survived, although his leg looked terrible. He said nothing, but Riker had no doubt he was in agony. If only the med kits had Tsoran drugs.
Gavare came up to him, silently offering one of the rations from Riker’s pack along with the water bottle; together they stood and regarded their surroundings as the details emerged with daylight. Ragged-looking Tsorans—and human, Riker thought, knowing he looked no
better—moving around a battered little area of trampled foliage, dying fires, depleted firewood… They’d given their all to survive, each of them. But Gavare—Riker gave him a second look. Gavare actually looked better than he had. More alert, more deliberate in his movements. “Your head feeling better?”
Gavare gave a short gesture, one Riker took as affirmative. He didn’t look at Riker as he spoke, but he did take a quick glance over his shoulder to see if the others were paying any attention. “I heard what you said last night. To Akarr.”
“I was out of line,” Riker said. Out of line, but not sorry; it came through in his voice.
“Akarr,” Gavare started, and hesitated, chewing on his own sticky ration bar—a smelly concoction Riker was glad not to share—and taking his time to swallow. “Akarr is young. He does not understand. He has been pushed to this before his time. He will be a great leader, if we can keep him alive through this. A great leader.”
Pushed? But Riker didn’t ask, and he wouldn’t have had the chance, for Gavare turned away, leaving him the outcast that he was.
He finished up his own ration bar and could have done with five more, but knew better than that. They’d heard the Collins arrive … and if he knew Worf, the tactical officer would strike out on their trail as soon as it was light enough to do so. The smart thing to do would be to turn around and head back, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t get that concession from Akarr.
The second best thing … stall. Keep them here long enough to allow Worf to find them. Once they had a working shuttle on their hands, Akarr might well insist on trying to complete his kaphoora, but that was something they could settle later. Later, when that shuttle sat
snugly around them, sheltering the wounded from the Legacy’s creatures and putting some of the decisions back into Starfleet hands.
Not, however, a moment he would take for granted until it actually occurred. So for now, a single ration bar would do it. He tossed the biodegradable wrapper into the glowing ashes of the fire pit and began the job of searching out recoverable trank darts.
Riker wasn’t sure how many tranks the Tsorans had used; he was sure that he’d never stake his own life on the effectiveness of the things. Of course, they were short-range—very short-range—and it had been dark and confusing during the night’s attacks… but he didn’t know of a single animal that had gone down from a trank, or even been deterred by it. He was beginning to wonder if the little guns might not make better hand clubs than anything else.
A glint of bright metal—the short body of one of the tranks—caught his eye, and he winnowed it out from the torn and crushed leaves that half covered it. Almost, he didn’t take a second look. But something