But then Orilly leapt into motion. One trunk knocked Okafor’s phaser away while the other swept against him and knocked him through the open doorway. She kicked his feet out of the doorway with her paw and slapped the lock panel. Then she spun and charged K’chak’!’op, rearing up on her hind paws. The Irriol’s weight slammed into the Pak’shree, knocking her over and breaking most of her tentacles’ grip on Tuvok. With a triumphant surge, he pulled free of the rest and fell upon Pazlar once again. She struggled feebly as his hands clutched her temples. “My mind to your mind,” he rasped. “Your thoughts to my thoughts!”

“Nn no!”

“Our minds are becoming…”

“One!” they finished together. Yes—he had her voice. Now where was the code? The access code. She couldn’t hide it from herself.

“Computer!” she said, Tuvok’s puppet. “Display wideband sensor specifications. Include specific calibrations and readings for Pa’haquel biosigns and warp-signature data. Authorization Pazlar, Gamma Nine, Emerald.”

The computer chirped obedience, and the data came up on the nearest wall screen. Tuvok drank it in, and the jellies knew it as he did. Along with it he sent his own knowledge of deflector shields and how to calibrate them against the bio-energy stings of the hunters. He sagged with relief. Already he felt their triumph, shared in it. Now they will be safe.

And then the guilt began to sink in.

Interlude

CLAN CHE’HITH’RHA LEAD SKYMOUNT, STARDATE 57175.3

Elder Che’sethri had grown tired of the Hunt. Sacred duty or no, the unrelenting grind of it left its wear on an aged body and mind. There were times that Che’sethri wished he could emulate the elders of other species, those who lived in blissful ignorance or neglect of the cosmic mission which drove the Pa’haquel, and who could afford to indulge in leisure, comfort and simple inactivity.

Yet a vista like the one spread before him on the sensation wall was enough to fire what remained of his predatory spirit, to get him excited about the Hunt once more, for a little while at least. For before him was the largest assemblage of skymount schools he had beheld in many a year. They had been drawn by a rare and novel phenomenon: a protostar had collided with a tachyon stream, and their interaction had somehow triggered a subspace vortex. The gravitational suction from the vortex drew in the protostar’s hydrogen, compressing and fusing it, and the resultant energy fed and perpetuated the vortex, while also radiating outward in a flood of wide-spectrum energies, heavy nuclei, and exotic particles. As such, it was a veritable feast for starfaring creatures. The sensation feeds revealed five different schools of skymounts, turned toward the fount with their tentacles spread wide, sails grown between them to catch the nourishing outpour. They were not alone; a few of the diaphanous sail-sylphs that rode the tachyon currents had spilled wind and fallen to normal space in order to feast. Some branchers were present as well on the far side of the system, though the skymounts and sylphs kept their distance from those.

But they were of no interest to him now. The five schools offered an unprecedented opportunity; with luck and cunning, he could make the biggest kill of his career. Some in his clan complained of being too far antispinward to reach the upcoming Great Hounding. But to Che’sethri, there was just as much glory to be had here, and with no need to share it with others. Maybe his fleet would add enough skymounts to require splitting it in two, and allowing his eldest son to take his place at the lead of one. With other great fleets depleted by the Hounding, he could swoop in with two mighty fleets in its wake and instantly become a force to be reckoned with. Other fleets would be eager to make alliance with his, giving many nubile females in marriage to boost his fleet’s numbers. Perhaps some of the high and mighty fleets, like that overbearing fossil Aq’hareq’s, would be so badly depleted that he could absorb their shamed survivors into his as a ready labor force.

Such a triumph, he imagined, might win him enough esteem that he could get away with turning both fleets over to his sons and retiring into leisure. He chuckled to himself. More likely, a hunt that successful would fire him up too much to enjoy retirement. Perhaps the best-case scenario would be if he died gloriously in the struggle and left the triumph and prestige as a legacy to his sons. But what struggle could there ever be with skymounts? Perhaps when he was done with them he would go after the branchers.

Huntsmistress Rha’djemi jogged up to him, bowing her head briefly, though her attempt at humility made little headway against her lust for action. “We stand ready, Elder. All mounts report their stings are hot and ready to fire. We are poised to strike all five at once, three ships emerging in the midst of each school. We will take them unaware, all fat and gorged and slow—my Elder, if we wished we could slay every last one!” She finished with a laugh of savage glee.

Che’sethri chuckled at her zeal. “Calm yourself, Huntsmistress. Remember the balance. Kill too many, and what will our grandchildren have to kill?”

“Of course, Elder. I just meant—imagine if we could.”

“Yes.” Not that he could blame her. Rha’djemi’s enthusiasm for the hunt was what made her indispensible to him, what had brought her to her rank and kept her there. Raised without a mother or sisters, the girl had always been more interested in combat and hunting than in the maintenance of skymounts, resources and personnel. Her fierce competence had brought her quickly to authority, and quickly silenced those few foolish young males whose pride made them resent taking combat orders from a female (and the Fethetrit, whose pride made them resent taking anyone’s orders). If anything, she’d had more friction with his wife, who wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a female under his command instead of hers. But Rha’djemi had won the matriarch’s grudging respect, if not her love. The huntsmistress, far more than Che’sethri himself, had kept this fleet a viable hunting force over the past few years. And he supposed he had himself to blame for her lack of regard for future generations. He had done all he could to discourage her suitors, not wishing to lose her to another mount or fleet through marriage. Unfortunately there were no eligible males on this mount that were distant enough relations for her to wed. And she could not remain a huntsmistress if she were mount-wed and obliged to serve the needs of her skymount. He would marry her himself just to keep her onboard, if his wife would ever allow it.

He noticed that Rha’djemi was staring at him, almost trembling with bloodlust, and he realized he’d wandered off into thought like the senile old fool he was. He bowed to her. “May the Spirit bless our hunt this day, and may the prey forgive us for what pain we cause,” he intoned ritually. “Proceed with the strike.”