Star Trek - Masks Part 4

"We know volcanoes are common here," Will acknowledged. "They're called 'boggles.'"

"Whatever they're called, stay away from them. The colder parts of the planet are probably the safest."

"Make sure you stand prepared to beam us all aboard at a moment's notice," Riker warned. "That may be all the time we'll have."

Geordi sounded confident. "All the transporter rooms are on round-the-clock alert, and we have auxiliary personnel at full standby. We're all with you. Let's get our captain and our crew back."

"That's the plan," answered Will. "Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. La Forge. Riker out."

Commander Riker put his badge back into his inner pocket and zipped it shut. Despite his greater concerns, one smaller and more immediate concern was gnawing at his stomach at the moment: he was hungry. And he wasn't looking forward to the food in his pack. The mysterious peddler seemed to be well fed and spry enough, thought Riker. Maybe he knew where they could find some real food.

The first officer rolled out from under the wagon and stood up, noticing that the rain had waned to a fine mist. He brushed the red clay from his clothes as he strolled to where Day Timer, Data, and Whiff were working in impressive unity to carve a shelter from the thick lower limbs of a giant evergreen. "Everbrown" would be a better term, thought Will, although he did notice some green twigs among those in the firewood pile.

"Are you really going to build a fire inside that tree?" he asked doubtfully.

"It is quite amazing," said Data, holding up a leafy branch that was caked with brown moss. "Day Timer says this moss is naturally flame-r.e.t.a.r.dant, even when the moss and the tree are both dead. Of course, the moss is a parasite and eventually kills the tree, but it allows the tree to survive fire. A curious trade-off."

"But a necessary one," Riker observed. "How long would this forest last, surrounded by volcanoes, if it weren't impervious to fire? Judging by the height of some of these trees, I'd say they've been here for centuries."

"Watch," said the masked peddler as he drew a strange contraption from the oversize pocket of his pants. It consisted of a thick rope, tied in a coil, one end of which poked through a bronze flint-holder attached to a crude striker wheel. He struck the wheel several times with the palm of his wrinkled hand until finally the sparks from the wheel against the flint set the rope on fire. Carefully, he blew on the smoldering rope until it was burning well enough to light his pile of kindling.

"I sell these," he said proudly. "Very popular."

"Are you planning to cook something on that fire?" Riker asked hopefully.

Day Timer was lying on his chest, nursing his fire with a few well-directed puffs. "Do maskless people eat fish?" he asked.

"Certainly." Will smiled, pleasantly surprised. His mouth watered at the thought of fresh food. "Is there a place to go fis.h.i.+ng?"

"Fis.h.i.+ng?" scoffed Day Timer. "You people are truly backward. First, you don't know about masks, and now you say you don't know about werjuns either?"

"Werjuns?" asked the commander.

"The animal," Data replied, nodding up at Reba. The gangly sloth dangled by her tail from a branch far overhead. Now that she knew they were talking about her, she stopped her leisurely swinging and listened intently to the conversation.

Day Timer kept his mask angled toward the rising flames. "Go get them fish, Reba," he said. "Find them a bog." He motioned toward Riker. "That one there looks like he could eat a bushel."

"I could," the commander admitted. "What can we do to help?"

"Just follow Reba," the Lorcan answered. "And take the women, too, so they will stop going through my wares. Be careful you don't fall into a bog, or that will be the end of you."

"We'll be careful," Riker a.s.sured him. He waved up at the red-furred quadruped. "Lead on, Reba."

The animal swung gracefully down from the tree and landed on all fours. On the ground, the werjun didn't look simian at all, having the gait and something of the appearance of a gazelle-if a gazelle could have a rounded head, no neck, and an enormous tail.

As they pa.s.sed the blue wagon, Riker called, "Doctor! Ensign! Reba and I are off to catch some fish. Care to join us?"

Dr. Pulaski and Ensign Greenblatt climbed out of the wagon and joined the unusual procession. They glanced back at the masked Lorcan, who never looked up from his fire.

"You wouldn't believe the junk he has in that wagon," whispered Kate. "He does, however, have some beautiful hand-woven cloth and two gorgeous masks, one of clay and feathers and another of wood and gemstones."

Greenblatt shook her head, obviously puzzled. "I suggested to the doctor that we wear the masks so we could come out of the wagon and help you make camp. But she said we could only wear the masks we were a.s.signed."

"I'm sorry, Ensign, that there hasn't been time to fully brief you," said Riker, craning his neck to keep Reba in sight. She loped along the road for a few meters, then scurried up a tree to get a better view of the surrounding area. "The masks aren't just decorative or symbolic; they indicate a person's rank in the community. If you don't have the right mask on, somebody might challenge you to a duel."

The young woman made a low whistle. "So being this man's apprentice is fairly safe?"

"We hope so," answered Riker. "What is that beast doing?"

Above them, Reba chattered importantly and leapt down from the branches. The humans followed as quickly as they could in the fading twilight. They found her bent over a small knoll, intently combing through long brown blades of gra.s.s. Suddenly the werjun shrieked triumphantly and plunged her gangly arms into the blades of gra.s.s up to her skinny shoulders. Her head and upper torso soon followed, and Riker blinked with alarm.

"She's going into the ground!" he exclaimed.

But not all the way. The werjun's prehensile tail and powerful rear legs remained coiled around exposed roots at the top of the hidden hole. She obviously knew exactly what she was doing.

A spray of water shot out of the hole, like a small geyser. "She's found an underground spring," Pulaski observed.

"With those arms, I bet she could reach a couple meters deep," remarked Ensign Greenblatt, smiling for the first time since they had reached the planet.

Riker shook his head. "If she comes up with a fish, I'll really be amazed."

"Prepare to be amazed." The doctor smiled.

Almost immediately, the skinny haunches began wriggling, and Reba slowly emerged from the hole. Her shoulders followed her lanky torso, then her head, then her long arms, followed by the most remarkable sight-a squirming fish caught in her powerful three-fingered hands. She tossed it nonchalantly at the humans' feet, then plunged back into the bog.

Riker, Pulaski, and Greenblatt hovered over the flopping fish. It was the ugliest water-dwelling creature any of them had ever seen. Huge near-sightless eyes bugged out on long tentacles from a cadaverous face. Nasty barbed spines radiated from the fish's snout and along its dorsal fin to its writhing tail. The fish's head and fins were milk-colored, and its body was transparent, revealing several internal organs which could be seen quivering inside a flabby torso. Its gills flapped like giant bellows, sucking in deadly air instead of water.

"I'm not sure I can eat that," Dr. Pulaski admitted.

"It looks like a larger version of cave-dwelling fish we have on Earth," said Riker. "Which stands to reason."

"There's more where that came from," said Greenblatt, indicating the busy werjun.

Reba tossed out another fish, even bigger than the first. This was a slightly different species, longer and sleeker, but no less ugly. In all, Reba caught six good-size fish before Will called a halt to the expedition.

"That's good, Reba," he commended her. "Now let's head back before it gets too dark."

The lanky sloth, her reddish pelt smeared with clay, looked up plaintively from the bog. She seemed almost disappointed, and Ensign Greenblatt instinctively reached down and scratched the pet's head. "That's a good girl, Reba," she smiled. "Thank you."

The werjun chattered happily.

The simple repast of underground fish cooked on spits over an open fire tasted surprisingly good, thought Kate Pulaski. She and Ensign Greenblatt sat close to the trunk of their tree shelter, bathed in shadows so as not to offend Day Timer, and finished their dinner. They were still close enough to the fire to enjoy its welcome warmth. Day Timer himself had eaten only a few bites, and he busied himself poking and prodding the clay masks, which he rolled in fireproof shavings of brown moss and stuck directly in the fire. He was obviously in a hurry to finish the masks and properly clothe his heathen visitors.

"Day Timer?" Riker asked respectfully, trying to stay in the shadows. "Before we came to this land, we heard of a great leader named Almighty Slayer. We have reason to believe our friends have gone to seek him. Do you know where we might find Almighty Slayer?"

The Lorcan, who was kneading one of the masks and gently curving it to offer a better fit and more protection, looked up from his work. "Almighty Slayer?" he mused. "I haven't heard that name in many a fortnight. Yes, he once was a great warrior."

"Is he still your leader?" asked Commander Riker.

"Yes," the old peddler said with a nod, "if he still possesses the Wisdom Mask."

"The Wisdom Mask?" Data repeated. "What is that?"

"The mask of the king." Day Timer shrugged. "Whoever wears the Wisdom Mask can demand obedience from every tradesman, serf, and n.o.bleman in the land. Do you not have a king where you live?"

"We have leaders," Riker answered. "But they must earn their positions."

Although the yellow mask covered Day Timer's face, nothing could disguise the seriousness in his voice. "Believe me, the wearer must earn the Wisdom Mask. Only a true king, rich in wisdom as well as battle skills, can wear it."

"Who determines that?" asked Riker.

"The mask itself determines who its wearer shall be."

The small gathering around the campfire was still for a moment, digesting the peddler's solemn words. The campfire crackled and sputtered as Day Timer slipped the hardening clay mask back under glowing embers and pulled out another one. Reba dangled from the boughs above them, fast asleep. Even Data, who could be a bit too talkative for Kate's liking, seemed subdued by the majesty of night within the Lorcan woods. The visitors sat transfixed, staring at the fire, the palpable darkness all around them, and the deep purple sky above them, shot with stars.

Chapter Four.

THELEWIS ANDPICARDEXPEDITION, as Fenton Lewis irritatingly insisted on calling it, got an early start the next day. There was no reason to sleep late, as no one, except possibly Worf, had gotten much sleep. Deanna Troi, in particular, hadn't slept well. She'd been tormented by a dream of a great cataclysm, in which a s.p.a.ce vessel had literally been blown from s.p.a.ce by a giant fireball, costing the lives of many unsuspecting souls. Of course, a fire in s.p.a.ce wasn't even possible, and the dream hardly seemed to fit a planet like Lorca. Still, it had been troubling, and it had added to her unease.

The other reason no one had slept very much was that the three men had been unable to get a fire started. Even the next morning, Deanna still chuckled at the remembrance of her stalwart captain, the earnest Klingon, and the self-styled explorer, all slaving over a miserable pile of twigs.

They had tried everything to get it lit, from waterproof emergency matches to phaser fire. Every effort had failed spectacularly, accompanied by much colorful cursing. Deanna would have offered to help if she could have thought of a way. In the end, they had resorted to chemical heat packs to warm themselves during the frigid night. It seemed unnatural to have to squeeze plastic packs of chemicals for warmth when wood towered all around them.

They had been walking on the path for about three hours, in the by now familiar order: Amba.s.sador Lewis, Captain Picard, Deanna, and Lieutenant Worf. The path was clearer now, etched in red clay, and they were all beginning to have some confidence in Fenton Lewis as a competent woodsman. Worf talked to no one and simply kept an eye on everyone. More than once, Deanna saw him feel his pants pocket to make sure his phaser was still there.

Sometimes Picard and Lewis would get involved in a historical discussion about ancient Celtic or American Indian civilizations. When the discussion became theoretical, as anthropology often did, both men hotly defended their positions. Deanna wanted to hear their lively debate and tried to keep up, but she was often slowed down by muddy stretches and fallen trees in the trail. Whenever she lagged behind, Worf gently hurried her along.

Amba.s.sador Lewis was pointing something out to the captain. "Horses have trod this trail," he announced. "Small horses. See the hoofprints?"

"What I see is a road," Picard pointed out.

The captain walked past the amba.s.sador and crossed several rain gullies to reach what appeared to be a similar trail, only twice as wide. The others caught up immediately and stood marveling at the rutted thoroughfare, as if it were the finest turbolift in the galaxy.

"Which way?" asked Worf.

"We've been going mostly south," said Lewis. "I suggest we take this road to the southeast and keep putting distance between us and those volcanoes."

"On the other hand," Picard began, "by traveling northwest, we'll be headed closer to our arrival point. TheEnterprise will still be looking for us to the north."

"What do you think, Deanna?" Lewis asked, obviously hoping to win a vote for his plan.

"I think we should stay where we are," Counselor Troi answered. "We've found a road, so why don't we wait for somebody to pa.s.s us? They will sooner or later."

Worf stepped behind Deanna, visually reinforcing her position. "If we can make camp for a period of time, perhaps we can repair the communicators or find another way to contact theEnterprise."

"That makes sense to me," said Picard. He bent down and studied the packed red clay. "These wheel ruts look fresh to me. What do you say, Amba.s.sador?"

"I say you're crazy for just wanting to sit on your a.s.ses when there's a whole planet out there to explore!"

"Let.i.t exploreus," Worf replied. The big Klingon had already sat down on a fallen log with his Starfleet insignia badge resting securely on one broad knee. He removed a small pouch of microtools from his pack and began selecting those necessary for the delicate disa.s.sembly.

Deanna smiled at the amba.s.sador and tried to lessen the impact of the enforced stop. "On theEnterprise, we're basically very cautious," she explained. "We face the unknown constantly, and we have a deep and abiding respect for it."

Lewis snorted derisively. "I'm not normally so terribly impatient. But you see, Deanna, a diplomat's stock-in-trade is people. Until I've met all parties and decided how to approach them, I'm uncomfortable. I want to see a Lorcan right now, meet him mask-to-mask!"

Deanna nodded sympathetically. "I hope, when we do, we can all understand one another."

"If we can't," the amba.s.sador said, "it won't be because of you. Your good humor and calm head are a real a.s.set to this party." He thought for a moment. "You have too much going for you, Deanna, to be the shoulder-to-cry-on for a bunch of s.p.a.ce jockeys. When we're finished here, you should think about entering the Diplomatic Service. I think your talents would be put to better use there."

"Thank you," Deanna said honestly. "But I don't think my talents could possibly get a better workout than they do aboard theEnterprise."

Worf suddenly twisted his neck to look toward the northern section of the road. His nostrils flared as he warned, "Someone comes. I smell them."

Lewis took a deep breath, too. "Horses! I knew I was right. Well done, Worf." He turned to Picard. "What do we do, Captain? We have time to hide."

"Let's greet them openly," Picard replied without a moment's hesitation. "We need their help if we're to find this Almighty Slayer and get back to the s.h.i.+p in a reasonable amount of time."

Deanna's olfactory senses were not as acute as Worf's or Lewis's, but she had her own early warning system-and it was flas.h.i.+ng red. The life-forms headed their way were intelligent, all right, and full of anger. They were like a war party fresh from battle. Their primitive emotions frightened her.

The fear she suddenly experienced scared her even more than the approaching force. Fear, too, was a primitive emotion, necessary for survival in a harsh environment. For all its overt beauty, Lorca was as harsh and unforgiving a place as she had ever seen. The atmosphere was breathable, but it was under constant a.s.sault by volcanic ash, magnetic iron dust, and roaring fire. The ground was a soft sh.e.l.l over seething oceans; the entire planet was like an egg. It was a very new planet, still in its infancy, and the fact that humans clung to its fragile sh.e.l.l was amazing. But what kind of humans must they be?

They heard the horses' hooves and turned to meet the oncoming party. "Phasers ready," Picard ordered. "Set to stun!"

"Yes, sir," Worf replied, much relieved to be able to draw his phaser at last.

"Steady," said Picard, as flashes of color began to glimmer between the brown tree trunks in the distance.

"I'm putting my mask on," Lewis announced, pulling the ornate Amba.s.sador's Mask from his pack. "I suggest you do the same!" he snapped at his comrades.

"Make it so," Picard ordered, nodding to Worf and Deanna.

Again the Halloween masks came out. The away team barely had time to put them on and straighten them before the road filled with colorfully garbed knights on tiny ponies. They pranced to a stop, and Deanna counted six masked riders astride six ponies, all snorting thick clouds of mist in the frigid air.

At first, the juxtaposition of ponies and armed warriors was incongruous and almost laughable. But the way the ponies pawed the clay and chomped at their bits made it clear they were eager to carry their masters into battle. The riders were faceless behind their startling masks, each one of which was a work of art to rival the Amba.s.sador's Mask. But the riders' hands, gloved in chain mail, gripped the hilts of their sheathed swords as if the weapons, unrestrained, might leap into battle by themselves. Deanna didn't know exactly why, but she was glad to be wearing a mask during this confrontation.

At the front of the pack, a statuesque warrior sat astride a muscular roan pony. The curves in her bronze breastplate bespoke her femininity. But her mask was the largest and heaviest-looking of the lot, a jagged five-pointed star made of the same burnished silver metal as Fenton Lewis's. A lightning bolt of blue gemstones streaked from the star's highest ray, sent out sparks that formed irregular eye, nose, and mouth holes, and ended in a collision with a jewel-encrusted rainbow across the chin. No part of its design was symmetrical, and its overall effect was profoundly disturbing. To Deanna, the mask reflected the chaos, fury, and pa.s.sion of unbridled nature.

Deanna could not read such powerful sentiments in the other masks, but they were no less startling. One wooden mask represented a snarling animal, with real fur and teeth pressed into service to form a snout over a sardonically grinning mouth. Another mask consisted almost entirely of brown, white, and lavender feathers on a wooden frame. Though beautiful, the feathered mask gave its wearer a slightly owlish look.