Tooth and Claw - Doranna Durgin [85]
“Weak?” Worf suggested. “Unfit?”
Riker gave him a superior officer’s scowl. “Not the words I was hunting for.”
“Of course not,” Worf said, a little too hastily. “If you
2/7
prefer, I will stay out in the jungle an additional day and night, fighting off sculpers, sholjaggs, and ski ks I would then assume your appearance would compare, if not favorably, at least equitably.”
Riker almost stopped walking altogether. He did manage to draw himself up, “Worf, you’re patronizing me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, stop it. You’re bad at it.”
“Yes, sir.”
On point, Zefan gave a delighted shout and gestured at a quick shimmy of sparkles ahead of them.
“Mighty sybyls,” breathed one of the Tsorans—an expression of relief, as far as Riker could tell. Zefan altered their course northward so it ran along one of what Riker had considered floodplain paths, indications of faster current where the vegetation was sparse or nonexistent.
The going immediately became a little easier, although he quickly realized it was a trade-off—he wasn’t tripping over roots, but here, the gritty sand shifted beneath his feet, making each step unpredictable. Rakal stumbled a number of times in quick succession, and Worf moved as if to help—and then stopped himself even as Riker put out a hand to do the same. Not only was there the question of the size mismatch—hard to throw a shoulder under someone who only came up to your chest—but the Tsorans had made it clear that they did not want assistance from anyone outside their group. Worf shrugged and fell back in next to Riker.
“We’re making good time. It is perhaps a kilometer away,” he said. “Maybe this is a good spot for a rest.”
Riker shook his head. “I’d rather be next to the portal, waiting for it to open. We don’t have that much buffer.”
“We have very little buffer,” Worf told him.
Shefen drifted back through the group; he picked up a
reasonably straight length of thick, dried vine, and shoved it into Rakal’s hand on the way by. Rakal, clearly startled, made as if to return it, but Shefen had moved on, and Rakal wasted no more time in employing his new walking staff.
“Good thinking,” Riker said, blowing a drop of sweat from the end of his nose. “I’ll have to keep my eye out for one of those.”
“I’m not sure you’ll find one in your size,” Shefen said, ducking his head in Fandrean apology.
Riker shrugged. “It’s not that far. Though I’d thought it would be easier walking in these flood paths—”
“These what?” Shefen said, looking around them.
Riker and Worf exchanged a glance; Worf seemed to have made the same assumption. “These paths for the floodwaters,” Worf said. “This is a floodplain for the river we saw, is it not?”
Shefen flicked his lightly tufted ears. “The river is already nearing flood stage. It does not get much wider than what you saw. The rains have been heavy of late.”
Riker felt a subtle rumbling in his diaphragm—or was it in his legs?—as if the rain in question had grumbled in far-off thunder. “If this area isn’t kept down by floods, what makes these paths?”
Shefen smiled, his teeth and their remarkable over bite completely covered. “I take it you didn’t make it into the secondary museum displays. Most of our visitors do concentrate on the predators.”
“No,” said Worf, looking around the lightly clouded sky as another, more apparent rumble reached audible levels. Not thunder. “We did not make it into the secondary displays. What might we have seen in those areas?”
Shefen, too, seemed to have felt the rumbles—but his
reaction was entirely different. Instead of answering Worf, he dropped to the ground, holding his hand lightly above it, then lowering his ear to listen to the sand. After a moment, he called “Zefan!” but didn’t move from his unexpected position.
Zefan turned, and upon seeing his fellow ranger, instantly emulated his behavior. Riker traded another glance with Worf, a longer and more concerned exchange; Worf frowned. Riker crouched beside Shefen, winced—that was a mistake, now he’d only have to get up again—and said,