Fur and Fathers

Chapter Twelve

“After I’ve brought you all this way, I’m not about to be left up here while you pinkskins go running your heads into trouble!”

Shran stood beside the shuttlecraft, hands on his hips and a belligerent expression on his face.  “You don’t know the first thing about what you’ll find down there,” he continued.   “And I want to meet this lion lady of yours.  If I can’t get any other payment for coming here, at least I want that.”

He glared at his four alien passengers.  Two of them were standing properly; two of them were standing more or less.  Archer wasn’t much better than he’d been earlier, but seemed to have retreated into abstraction.  The lieutenant’s widow looked as though she was sleepwalking; it was the first time he’d seen her this closely since she’d been carried on board, and he thought she looked almost as exhausted as her ex-captain.  There were violet shadows under her lifeless eyes and her hair was dull and dry.  The Vulcan had one arm around her waist, partially supporting her as she stood braced against the weight of her bulging stomach.  At least she hadn’t gone into labor on board ship, though by the size of her it surely couldn’t be long now.

“We know we’ll be okay.  It’s you we’re worried about; can’t you get that into your head?” demanded Trip.  “If Shiránnor decides you’re a threat, Jhamel won’t even get enough of you back to bury!”

“I think I can handle the situation.”  The Andorian glowered.  “You’ve disabled my ship’s sensors so I don’t know what’s so valuable down there, and you’re going to make sure we can’t find our way back.  How much of a threat can we be?”

“Let him come if he wants it so much.”  Archer lifted his head and spoke indifferently, slurring his words a little.  “She won’t let him do any damage.”

Tucker glanced across at his commanding officer and exhaled.  “Fine.  It’s your funeral.”

They all got into the shuttle.  Now that he’d achieved his aim, Shran naturally took the pilot’s seat; he was reasonably confident that the pinkskin engineer could have handled the craft adequately even though he probably couldn’t read Andorian script all that well, but he still felt better flying it himself.  “You’ll trust me with the co-ordinates, or do I take a guess?” he asked rather sarcastically.

“Puttin’ ‘em in now.”  Trip had taken the navigator’s seat and now proved he hadn't wasted his time during the voyage by the deftness with which he entered the digits into the console.

Hath’s loading bay doors opened and the shuttle slid gently out into free space.  As soon as it was clear, the engine fired and the craft turned smoothly away, heading down towards the planet’s atmosphere.

“We’ll probably hit some turbulence,” warned Shran after a few minutes.  “Couldn’t you find anywhere easier to land than a mountain range?”

“Gotta go where the lady is.”  Trip glanced at Archer, who sat in the back of the shuttle with an expression of exhausted apathy.  The captain’s brief moment of connection with Shiránnor hadn’t given them much concrete information regarding her whereabouts, but he hadn’t actually said she wasn’t where they were going, so they were holding to their original plan.  “Might be wise to strap yourselves in,” he added, obviously seeing for himself that the readouts on the navigation console weren’t looking particularly reassuring – and in her state, Hoshi didn’t need any jolting. T'Pol took charge of this operation.  If either of the other two heard, they didn’t react.  Archer looked through her. Hoshi gave her a single incurious glance and looked out of the window again, not seeming particularly interested in that either.

The sensors were correct.  The shuttle very soon began to encounter savage cross-winds driving through the mountain passes, and its smooth flight deteriorated into something considerably less comfortable.  An air pocket dropped them several meters and stopped them hard.  A whimper of discomfort from Hoshi in the back of the craft made Trip snatch a glance from his console; Shran was too busy to hear it, and only knew something was wrong when his navigator made as if to stand.  “Stay where you are!” he snapped.

Blue eyes met brown, and some message passed.  Wordlessly Trip sat down again and resumed monitoring the display.

The valley opened in front of them suddenly.  The difficulty lay in that it was thickly wooded, with few level spaces in which to set down safely.  Almost in the middle, however, was a cluster of buildings, with an open space in the center.  A large pool reflected the blue early afternoon sky, but there was a grassy space beside it on which a shuttle could land.

“I’d feel more confident about this if the wind would drop,” said Trip, holding on to the edge of the console as the shuttle bucked again during its approach.

Shran pretended not to hear it.  He was too busy balancing the craft on air currents that were alternately playful and downright vicious.  He didn’t have time to worry about whether there would be anyone in the way by the time they got there; Hath had only one shuttle, and her transporter wasn’t exactly reliable.  If he messed the landing up, their way home might be problematic.  Not that he was going to admit that to the Enterprise crew.  Nevertheless, he thought grimly to himself that it was just as well he’d insisted on taking the helm himself; every craft has its own idiosyncrasies, and while he didn’t doubt Tucker’s ability with his own equipment, in conditions like this, experience told.

“Life signs around the landing area.”

“They’ll just have to get out of the way!”  A particularly nasty gust of wind tossed the shuttle up like a toy.  The Andorian compensated for it with thrusters, dropping the nose hard.  The gust died spitefully and the craft plunged earthwards under power.  Using words that were probably not meant for polite company, Shran dragged it up.  Engines bellowing, it plunged between two houses, ploughed into a flowerbed and came to a halt. 

“Nice smooth landin’.”  The engineer peeled his torso off the console and his face off the display.

Shran forbore to comment.  He recollected just in time that there were ladies present, and he didn’t want to send one of them into premature labor with what he actually wanted to say.

*               *              *

“I am pleased to meet with you again, Commander Tucker.  Sub-Commander T’Pol.”  The amber gaze found Shran and took him in with little more than amused curiosity.  “Please introduce me to your friend.”

There weren’t many Skaira who could have looked utterly unaware of the fact that they were up to their hocks in disturbed earth and broken plants as they made the acquaintance of a new species.  Shiránnor appeared to regard it as simply part of the entertainment.  Observing this, Trip decided that the intervening years hadn’t changed her much.  She was still cute and crazy.  And her pronunciation was just the same as it had been, mangling their names and titles with that quaint and characteristic guttural.

“Shiránnor – ”

He’d hardly got the word out of his mouth before another of the Skaira, standing directly behind her, interrupted.

“The term you should use is ‘First Priestess’,” she snapped. 

“The term he could have used is ‘Old friend’, Jerhazy,” said the First gently.  “I have no quarrel with my name in his mouth.”

“Shiránnor, I’d like you to meet an old acquaintance of ours, Commander Shran from Andoria.”  She extended a hand to grip the blue wrist; Shran responded in kind, studying her carefully and curiously, though he didn’t speak.  “He’s been kind enough to bring us here because our own ship was too damaged to fly.  We need your help, if you’re able.  And willin’.”  The words started off on a note of slight defiance; he didn’t care for being told by a total stranger how to address someone he thought of as a friend, but they ended on one that didn’t try to conceal his anxiety.

“I know your need.  We will gladly do all that we can to help.  Be welcome here.”  The smile had lost none of its charm, though it was a little shadowed because of the circumstances.  “Are your passengers well enough for me to speak to them?”

“Of course.  Though Hoshi…” He hesitated.  “I don’t think she’ll answer ya.  And Jon … well I guess you already know.”

“Yes.  I know.  And I know of her loss.  I am sorry.”  Genuine grief swept across her face.  “The First Among Healers has asked that she be brought into the Infirmary as soon as possible, so that she may be cared for properly.  You will need to give her any guidance you can on what your people’s birthing practices are.”

“I have brought all the necessary data with me.” T'Pol had downloaded all of Phlox’s helpful hints on human childbirth onto a padd.  She met Shiránnor’s gaze calmly as it moved to her.  “It is agreeable to meet you again, First Priestess.  I will be glad to advise your doctors and attend at the birth, if required.”

“That is for Grenyal to decide.  I do not trespass on her province.”  The tongue protruded a little in the quirky grin.  “Commander Shran, may I enter your vessel?”

The white eyebrows lifted at the way she pronounced his name; the Skair guttural sounded as if she was chewing something, growling as she did so.  He’d had enough warning that it would happen, but obviously it still came as something of a surprise when he actually heard it.

“Come aboard.  You’re welcome.”  He stepped back out of the hatch, and she leapt lightly inside.  The twenty or so Skaira who’d been behind her craned their necks, plainly eaten with mingled curiosity and apprehension for her safety.  Trip turned immediately to see what effect her arrival had on the two casualties.  Jon was rigid in his chair, straining against the seatbelts.  He wasn’t trying to rise, simply staring at her with a hunger that was far past what was right to see on another human being’s face.

“Shiránnor,” he whispered, his voice breaking.  “I’m so sorry.”

“My friend.  My dear friend.”  She hurried over to him and enveloped him in a bear hug.  “They have brought you back to me, and you will be well again.”

The sounds that emerged from the man clinging to her were awful, unstrung, hardly containing a single coherent word.  She looked up at the ceiling as if pleading for inspiration, her own eyes wet.  “No, my friend.  None of this was fault of yours.  Sleep now.  Sleep and do not dream till you can again without harm.  I will help you.”  She looked down again and watched the rumpled thatch of brown hair slide slowly sideways, the face beneath it now blank and peaceful.

“He will not wake now till I call him,” she said quietly. In answer to her call, two other Skaira jumped into the shuttle, looking around them with wary faces.

The clips of the seatbelts resisted her questing fingers for only a second.  “Carry him to the guest room in my quarters and leave him there.  I will join him shortly.”

They were a little awkward about lifting him, but they were careful.  His weight was evidently no problem at all; they carried him between them, one with her arms under his head and shoulders and the other supporting his pelvis and legs.  As they left the shuttle, a little awkwardly because there was perhaps half a meter’s distance between the hatch and the floor, the other Skaira eddied closer, almost pushing one another in the effort to see him better.  Their mouths were open in what looked like astonishment, though the hush of indrawn air revealed that they were in fact inhaling his scent.  At least they were more nosy than hostile, thought Trip with relief, watching an unconscious Jon being carried off through the crowd.

Shiránnor had now turned to Hoshi.  The lifeless almond eyes stared past her, uncaring, though they blinked when the hands – claws carefully sheathed – came to rest lightly on her swollen abdomen.

The Skair breathed deeply.  A shiver ran through her.  “Hello, Princess,” she murmured lovingly.

“Damnation!”  Trip took a step forward, unable to believe what he’d heard.  Her accent – just for a moment, there’d been no trace of guttural in it.  It had been British.

And Hoshi cried out – a single, small sound of unbearable longing.  As though she’d gasped it in her sleep.

Abruptly Shiránnor stepped backwards.  The fur all along her lower spine had lifted into a thick blonde hedge. “She must go to the Infirmary at once.  The cub is in danger.”

“I will carry her.”  T'Pol unfastened the seatbelts and lifted the inert woman without apparent effort.  “Please show me where she needs to be taken.”

“I will take you there.”  She led the way out of the shuttle, leaning up to steady the Vulcan in the descent.  A rather older Skair with tawny hair and fur and a deceptively sleepy expression immediately stepped forward.

“This is she of whom we spoke, First Priestess?”

“It is.  But the situation is worse than I had thought.  If we do not find a way to deal with it, they will both follow him.”