Star Trek - Masks Part 11

Cold Angel suggested, "Why don't we walk the ponies for a bit, let them digest their food?"

The Lorcans made camp in record time, eager to rest after so strenuous a march. Fish had been caught in the bog and were starting to sizzle over a fire erected inside a huge fir tree. Captain Picard and Counselor Troi waited until the first fillets were plucked from the branches before approaching Piercing Blade's tent.

The night was dark, with heavy opaque clouds, but it was the warmest of the three nights the away team had spent on Lorca. As Picard and Deanna approached the tent, they were startled when the flap swung back and the gleaming Amba.s.sador's Mask loomed in front of them. Since his promotion, Spider Wing was everywhere, screening callers for Piercing Blade, issuing opinions, and in general making a nuisance of himself.

"Did you want something?" he asked.

"We were invited to dine with Piercing Blade," Picard answered, grimacing in irritation. How easy the mask made it to conceal one's feelings. As captain, Jean-Luc was accustomed to hiding his emotions. Now he was free to contort his face into any expression he chose. The mask would maintain an appearance of civility.

"Our lady made the invitation herself," Deanna added.

The mammoth silver mask nodded, and Spider Wing held the tent flap open, revealing oil lamps beyond. "Now I remember her mentioning the invitation. Please enter and go straight ahead. Our lady has dressed for dinner."

Indeed, Lady Piercing Blade had dressed for dinner. She was wearing a gown of white feathers that flowed from her shoulders to her feet, giving her the appearance of a shimmering pillar. The Thunder mask topped off the apparition, and Jean-Luc Picard felt as if he were staring at an angel.

"Please be seated," she said with a sweep of her hands. "I'm sorry I have nothing better than saddles to offer you as chairs."

Jean-Luc noted that the pony saddles did not look all that uncomfortable after so many hours of walking. He took a seat, and so did Counselor Troi.

"That is a lovely gown," said Deanna.

"Thank you, Page." The Thunder Mask nodded.

"Do you have a name you would prefer to be called by?"

"Deanna is sufficient," the oval mask answered.

The two Lorcan pages entered with metal plates of steaming fish, accompanied by a thick gruel made from the same grain eaten by the ponies. They gave each of the three diners a cup of water, a plate, and a wooden spoon, then hurried off to their own dinner.

Piercing Blade sat cross-legged on the floor, with her plate balanced between her thighs. "Eat," she commanded.

Picard smiled under his mask at her unregal pose. She was a would-be queen who had never been trained for the job. To her credit, she was the same person all the time, whether she was covered with burlap and mud or wearing jewels and an evening dress.

"I can't tell you how pleased I am to have you here with me," she said effusively. "But I have one question. When we get to the fair, will you support me as queen?"

"We cannot take sides in your internal affairs," Picard said candidly.

"Why not?" asked Piercing Blade, leaning forward. "Do you support someone else?"

Picard and Deanna looked at each other, and Deanna took the initiative. "We come from a place far away in s.p.a.ce, and we are forbidden to involve ourselves in your culture. But we would like to be friends and a.s.sure you that you are not alone among the myriad worlds out there." Her sweeping gesture was meant to indicate the galaxy.

"Yes, the stars," said Piercing Blade, sitting back. "You and the Ferengi are equal in that regard. You remind us that our ancestors came from the stars. Unfortunately, we don't know very much about them."

"Whatdo you know about your past?" asked Jean-Luc.

"We know that they survived a terrible cataclysm," answered the Lorcan. "That's what all the storytellers say. In the olden times, before they settled in this place, our ancestors traveled around in a huge airship. But after they came here, the dragon who lives at the center of the world breathed a monstrous column of fire, and it engulfed the airship."

Deanna Troi bolted upright. "That would explain it. It explains my dream. Captain, I believe the theatrical troupe's s.p.a.ceship was...o...b..ting the planet when a huge volcanic explosion tore through the planet's atmosphere and destroyed the ship. It also put a perpetual cloud around the planet that lowered the temperature and made life arduous.

"Ever since then, the survivors on the planet have been left to fend for themselves without technology, all of which was destroyed in the cataclysm."

"But their masks and vestiges of their theatrical heritage survived," replied the captain.

Piercing Blade sounded puzzled when she replied, "The two of you would make good storytellers if anybody could understand you. The past is the past. We know very little about it, and we don't concern ourselves with it. My concern is the future. How can I persuade my fellow Lorcans to stand behind me? Lorca needs leadership."

The captain shook his head. "We can't help you consolidate your power. We are on a mission to open communications, nothing more."

Piercing Blade squared her impressive shoulders. "Then you aren't as valuable to us as the Ferengi. When they come here, they offer trade-manufactured goods we don't have. They offer synthehol, which many of our people have grown to like."

"What do they want in return?" Picard asked.

"They are interested in the moss that covers the trees."

Picard nodded. "A cheap natural flame r.e.t.a.r.dant. They could strip your trees of it. Then where would you be? Your forests would burn. The Ferengi always want something. We offer friendship, and we ask nothing in return."

"I've seen your friendship," Piercing Blade countered. "You came here with a mask stolen from the Ferengi. Is that an example of your friendship?"

Jean-Luc waved his hands at her. "Let's start over. You invited us for dinner, not a political discussion. As far as I'm concerned, you should be free to deal with the Ferengi, the Federation, or whomever you choose. We've come here to accept and appreciate your hospitality, nothing more."

"That's better." Piercing Blade nodded. "Politics is too dull a subject to discuss at dinner. We must be grateful to have encountered each other." She stared directly at Captain Picard.

"That's the way I feel," he answered intently.

a.s.suming her presence would soon be superfluous, Deanna Troi swallowed one last mouthful of fish. She had already eaten enough of what was, for her, very rich food. "Thank you for the delicious dinner," she said. "I must be going."

Neither Picard nor Piercing Blade tried to stop her. "Sleep well," said the n.o.blewoman.

"Will you be by the tree?" asked the captain.

"Yes," answered the Betazoid. "I will stay on the alert for Lieutenant Worf and Amba.s.sador Lewis."

"But get some sleep," ordered Picard.

Deanna stood and nodded. An instant later, Picard and Piercing Blade were alone in the flickering lamplight. The night was quiet and warm all around them, and no light or prying eyes invaded the oilskin tent.

Blade put her plate aside and stood to her full imposing height. Her feathered gown glistened in the lamp glow, enhancing her sumptuous figure. "I have something to show you, Picard."

"What is that?"

"My face."

"I would like to see it," Picard rasped, rising to stand facing her.

"And I would like to show you my face," the warrior queen breathed, "but I am unaccustomed to such behavior."

"Is it so rare," the captain asked, "to show one's face to a trusted companion?"

"For me it is."

Picard struggled to find the right words. "I don't wish to make you feel uncomfortable. Our customs are not yours. On my ... home, I would have seen your face at our first meeting."

Her voice was soft and contemplative. "I find that unthinkable, but, in a way, pleasant."

"Let me show myself first, then," said Picard. He removed the Trainer's Mask and waited, giving her a reserved smile. He remembered her reaction to Fenton Lewis's naked face, and he didn't want to startle her.

Piercing Blade's eyes widened inside the jewel-framed sockets of her mask, and she stepped closer to Picard. He gazed into her haunting eyes, as she tentatively reached out with a trembling hand to touch his face. When he didn't flinch, she became emboldened and began stroking his cheekbone and caressing his jawbone to his chin. With the back of her hand, she smoothed his stubbly three-day-old beard. She curled the fingers of both hands around his slim patrician nose and stretched them into his eyebrows.

Her fingers lingered in his eyebrows, driving him to distraction. As she raked her fingers over his forehead and into his scalp, she pressed her body into his.

Picard was not thinking clearly. He wanted to put his hands everywhere at once, but they were drawn to the Thunder Mask. The mask was like a distorted mirror, shooting back reflections of gold lamplight and fractured images of his own face. He reached for the bindings of the mask.

"Let me," she said, reaching behind her head. "There's a trick to it." Her hands cupped the mask as it fell away from her face.

Picard gasped. He was not prepared for such a pale and innocent face, so totally devoid of corruption and deceit. The warrior's face was incredibly youthful, and Picard was shocked into thinking she might be a child. But no, he thought, as he stroked her fine cheekbones and creamy complexion, only her skin was childlike. Having never been exposed to harmful ultraviolet rays, Piercing Blade's facial skin was perhaps twenty years younger than she was.

However, the warrior's face wasn't entirely without character. Running diagonally from her hairline across her forehead and to the bridge of her nose was a jagged scar.

Jean-Luc reached out to touch the scar, and Piercing Blade flinched. But he kissed her hand, and that soothed her. She melted back into his chest, allowing him to touch her one imperfection. It was an old scar, scarcely darker than her extraordinary skin, but it had the proud contours of a mountain range on a relief map. She was obviously self-conscious about the scar, and Picard drove those fears away with a kiss.

He was cast into a deep tunnel of forgetfulness as he explored her warm and trembling lips. Nothing else in the world mattered but those lips. So deep was he in the pleasurable abyss that he didn't hear the voices calling. Piercing Blade reluctantly pulled herself away from him.

She picked up her mask and motioned to him to do the same. "What is it?" she called.

"Cold Angel and the new page have returned!" announced Spider Wing. "The other new page felt the trainer should be informed."

"Thank you," answered Piercing Blade.

She smiled wistfully at Picard and pulled the mask over her head. Like the curtain falling on a memorable stage production, the mask again hid Piercing Blade's angelic countenance. "You have to go, Picard."

He heaved a sigh of profound disappointment. Before pulling on his own mask, he managed to say, "I have been honored tonight."

"As have I," she countered. "I am so glad you are with us."

Jean-Luc left the tent before he could say anything stupid.

Once Captain Picard, Counselor Troi, and Lieutenant Worf were far enough away from the Lorcans to be out of earshot, Worf immediately pulled off his mask and started to shake clumps of dirt out of it.

"Nothing, Captain," he said grimly. "We learned no more about Almighty Slayer than we already knew. But whoever possesses the Wisdom Mask will command more followers and va.s.sals than anyone else."

"That much is certain," Picard agreed.

"What was the village like?" asked Deanna.

"Primitive," the lieutenant answered, wiping caked clay from his face and neck. "The huts are built on stilts, and the maskmaker is a most revered person. Even the children wear masks."

"How did you get so dirty?" asked Picard with some amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I fell into a bog," the Klingon admitted. "This is an infernal planet."

Deanna paced nervously. "We have some bad news. Amba.s.sador Lewis has disappeared."

"To be more precise," snapped Picard, "he's run off."

Worf c.o.c.ked his chin at the captain and lowered his ponderous brow. "That is most unfortunate. I personally didn't care for the man, and it doesn't surprise me to hear that he's unreliable, but I valued his skills."

The security officer shrugged and dug some clumps of clay from his beard. "It is possible to argue that without the amba.s.sador our mission is ended and we can return to theEnterprise as soon as possible."

"Our mission would seem to have been a failure," Picard admitted. "At least the part about delivering Amba.s.sador Lewis to qualified Lorcan representatives. But who are the qualified representatives on this planet?"

"Piercing Blade," Deanna suggested. "I think her followers believe in her nearly as much as she believes in herself."

Jean-Luc waged a mental battle trying to evaluate that extraordinary woman objectively.He was enamored of her, but were the Lorcans? Did she command enough allegiance to rule Lorca without the hallowed Wisdom Mask?

"We'll find out soon how important Piercing Blade is," he predicted, "at the fair. In the meantime, we're discovering more and more about the planet, its history, and its social structure. I believe we're safe at the moment with Piercing Blade's band, and we can only hope Fenton Lewis is safe, too."

"TheEnterprise, sir," Worf reminded him. "They don't know we're safe, and they must be extremely worried."

Jean-Luc bowed his head and sighed. "I know how worried they must be aboard theEnterprise . But they can't fail to detect a gathering as large as this upcoming fair. They'll find us. I have faith in Commander Riker and the rest of the crew."

With the ease of an old habit, Worf and Troi affixed their bronze masks and walked toward the fire. Jean-Luc looked at the fearsome animal mask in his hands and marveled at the ease with which the away team had been a.s.similated into a culture of masks. Remembering how gorgeous the fair face of Piercing Blade had been, he wasn't sure anymore that the Lorcans were wrong to love masks.

Day Timer, mindful of the days needed to cover the distance to Cottage Meadow, wanted to travel that night instead of celebrating in the village. Not that the celebrations were particularly memorable. The villagers opened their coffers for the feast, but they were poor and had only the essentials, some fresh fish but mostly dried, and a barleylike grain. One hunting party went to catch werjuns but returned emptyhanded, much to Day Timer's delight.

Many of the villagers, instead of celebrating, spent the afternoon praying to the dragon and other G.o.ds. Of course, they had lost four of their own people, and a score had been wounded, recalled Commander Riker. In a village of maybe a hundred people, those were sizable casualties. The music had been subdued, too, provided by a couple of stringed instruments.

Now Day Timer and the second away team were strolling in soothing darkness, the trees providing a friendly environment. Concerned about potholes and bogs, their benefactor insisted on maintaining a slow pace for the health of his pony. Will Riker, too, was content to dawdle and avoid any excitement. The din of the brief but b.l.o.o.d.y battle still roared in his ears, and he wished it would go away. Violence was so close to the surface, he thought, on the planet or within the person. He was still blocking out the sight of the man he had stabbed to death.

He reached up and felt the polished wood of his Forest Mask. Its cool bulk was comforting. Will resolved to keep the mask, if possible, as a memento of Lorca. Though he hadn't wanted to come here-hadn't wanted anything but to find the captain-Will felt he had been accepted by the Lorcans. So had the entire party. They had all received the equivalent of a field promotion. But the awarding of the masks was more than an honor; it was a way of welcoming new people to the neighborhood.

The Lorcans had simply observed what each member of the party could contribute and had a.s.signed each of them a profession. To their credit, the Lorcans did not worship money, although some crude coins seemed to possess some value. But the masks carried intrinsic value, expressing each person's worth to the community. Will was almost sorry that he wasn't wearing a va.s.sal's mask anymore. He missed the simplicity of being an apprentice.

He didn't fully understand what wearing a mask of n.o.bility meant. He tried to tell himself that it made him an officer, one who commanded, and nothing more, but there was a reverence in the way the villagers addressed him after he started wearing the mask. Or was it fear?

"Whoa," breathed Day Timer, pulling the reins and halting the slow-moving wagon. His voice stayed at a whisper. "Riker, there is someone ahead of us."

Will rushed to the peddler's side. Lieutenant Commander Data, Dr. Pulaski, and Ensign Greenblatt froze on the trail, listening. The shadows at the base of the great trees were deep enough to hide an army.

Will strained his eyes and ears to detect something, but couldn't. "Maybe it's Reba," he suggested.

"Reba wouldn't wait to greet me," said the old peddler. "She'd jump on the wagon and give me a hug."

Riker glanced at Ensign Greenblatt and saw her holding to her pistol phaser, still in its holster. He nodded, and she discreetly drew it out.

"We mean no harm," announced the commander.

"The road is wide enough for all of us to pa.s.s," Day Timer replied.

In the shadows, surprisingly close to the wagon, stood a lone figure. It waited for a moment, then walked toward them, arms swinging slowly and deliberately.