Chapter Six

DATA STUDIED HIS TRICORDER and reported, “Life-form readings are inconclusive, but I believe the Klingons are moving swiftly in an easterly direction. If we do likewise, we may be able to follow them.”

“Lead the way,” said Worf, pocketing his phaser.

Wasting no time on needless talk, Data, Worf, and Deanna plunged through the forest, guided only by Data’s tricorder readings. The android strode swiftly and unerringly, although Worf and Deanna occasionally stumbled in the deep refuse that coated the forest floor. Several times Deanna had to run to catch up, and she wasn’t certain how long she could keep up the pace. She was glad she had been working out diligently with Beverly Crusher in the Enterprise’s gymnasium.

They stopped only once, when a familiar voice sounded on their communicators: “Picard to away team.”

“Worf here,” answered the Klingon.

“Lieutenant,” said the captain, “I’ve just received a disturbing report from Transporter Room One. The operator said that you beamed there during an emergency, and that Counselor Troi was injured.”

“I’m all right,” Deanna replied for herself. “It was just a scratch.”

“Have you made contact with the Klingons?” Pi-card asked.

“We have,” answered Worf, “but we lost contact when we beamed up. We’re attempting to relocate them now.”

“Data,” said the captain, “what exactly is your status?”

“We are in pursuit,” answered the android. “I would not categorize our initial contact with the Klingons as successful. We talked briefly, then they attacked us.”

“The problem is their leader,” said Deanna. “I think he views us as a threat to his dominance.”

“I see,” replied Picard. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks. There are other ways to handle this matter.”

“We would be interested in hearing them,” said Data, “but we must maintain our pursuit. We are in no danger at the present.”

“Keep us informed,” ordered the captain. “Picard out.”

Data checked his tricorder and decided on a heading. He took one step and promptly vanished into a deep hole that had been covered with twigs and leaves.

“Data!” screamed Deanna, rushing to help the android. Her feet began to slip in the moist debris, and Worf grabbed her by the waist and hauled her back from the crumbling edge of the hole.

“Data!” barked the Klingon. “Can you hear me?”

“I am unhurt!” came a voice that sounded like it was at the bottom of a well. “I believe this pit was dug to catch animals, because there are several in here. In fact, two large chucks are gnawing on me as I speak. I may be forced to kill them. However, there is something else down here that is more disturbing.”

“What?” asked Worf.

“A decomposed, partly eaten corpse.”

Feeling his way, the Klingon crawled cautiously toward the obscured opening.

“What is it?” he asked. “Human?”

“I cannot tell with one hundred percent certainty,” responded the android, “but I believe it is Klingon.”

“Damn them!” cursed Worf.

“Damn who?” asked Deanna.

“Whoever would dig a trap like this, then not check it.”

The Betazoid remarked, “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. The Klingons could have put one of their own down there as punishment. I think Balak is capable of that.”

Data’s voice echoed. “This pit is deep, more than five meters down. The walls and the floor are smooth, which would indicate that sophisticated digging equipment was used. Perhaps even a phaser.”

“The colonists,” growled Worf. “Who else could it be? Should we bring the body out?”

“I fail to see what purpose that would serve,” answered Data. “The body is unrecognizable. However, would like to come out.”<p>

Lying on the ground, Worf wrapped one brawny arm around the nearest tree trunk and extended his other arm into the pit. For added support Deanna gripped the Klingon’s feet and braced her legs against two tree trunks. She saw Worf grimace as Data climbed his arm like a rope, then she saw the android’s hands extend out of the pit and grip the Klingon’s shoulder. The hands moved up Worf’s torso until Data could swing one leg over the edge and extricate himself from the hole.

Regaining his feet, Data suggested they look for sticks to clear away the debris that obscured the deadly trap. After the hole was cleared Worf turned on his flashlight and peered into the forbidding darkness. Deanna looked over his shoulder and saw a skeletal face peering up at them, guarded by a fat rodent perched in its hair. She quickly turned away.

“And the colonists claim they’re civilized,” said Worf.

Data peered curiously at his tricorder and tapped it several times with his finger. “The fall seems to have damaged my tricorder,” he reported. “They are probably out of tricorder range, and electronic devices are frightening to the Klingons. Perhaps we should proceed without a tricorder. My directional memory retains their general heading.”

Deanna mustered a smile. “Maybe they’ll help us by playing their drums.”

“Perhaps,” said Data. “More likely they will attack us again.”

“Let’s proceed,” said Worf.

Giving the deadly pit a wide berth, the three off-worlders continued deeper into the primeval forest. This time, however, their pace was slow and cautious.

Quite to her surprise, Ensign Ro enjoyed her lunch with Myra Calvert and her father, Gregg. The food itself was quite good, which was no great surprise considering it came from the same sort of replicator used on the Enterprise. The difference, explained Myra, was that the colonists used the replicator to create raw commodities, such as onions and rice, which they cooked using traditional methods. All of this was in preparation for the day when they would be able to farm their land as they had envisioned. Myra hoped to contribute to that future by discovering the tastiest and most nutritious native vegetables and grains.

Although Gregg Calvert said very little during the meal, it was obvious that he loved his daughter very much. He deferred to her and was as proud as a parent could be of a twelve-year-old child who was undoubtedly smarter than he. Ro said even less during the meal and was content to listen to Myra explain the workings of the colony, mixed with a good deal of family history. Her father and mother had met aboard the Icarus, a scientific vessel charged with the exploration of asteroid belts that posed a threat to commercial shipping. Gregg had been in charge of security, which wasn’t much of a job on a scientific vessel, while his wife Janna did the dangerous work of charting the asteroids from a shuttlecraft.

A mere two years after Myra’s birth something had happened to the stabilizers on Janna’s shuttlecraft; it plowed into an asteroid, with all hands lost.

Sickened by the loss of his wife, Gregg turned his back on space travel and returned with his young daughter to Earth. After a few aimless years he fell under the sway of Raul Oscaras and his promises of a meaningful life in a self-sufficient colony on an unexplored world. With the assurance of a long but oneway journey to their new home, Gregg took the job of security chief for the colony of New Reykjavik. That job had turned into a nightmare, he wasn’t ashamed to admit to the visitor. He himself had been wounded in the second attack, before the settlers had thought to arm themselves with phasers. If it hadn’t been for a fully equipped sickbay, he told the Bajoran, Myra would be an orphan.

Left unsaid in his account was his impression that Captain Picard’s approach to the problem was dead wrong. Ro could tell he wanted to take an army of soldiers into the forest and wipe out the Klingons before they caused any more grief. She found it hard to blame him, having known many Bajora who felt the same way about Cardassians.

Back at the seismograph, she found it hard to concentrate on the job at hand, mainly because nothing had changed out there, a thousand kilometers away in the lifeless ocean. Ro felt an irrational impulse to get out of her seat and walk the twenty kilometers or so to the sea, just to look at it. Not that she would be able to see anything beneath its surface, but staring at instruments and readouts wasn’t doing much to assuage her fears of the powerful forces that were grinding away on this young planet. After only half a day in New Reykjavik she could understand why the colonists were testy and tense. Waiting was hell, and that was all any of them were doing.

As darkness filtered through the somber forest the drums began to beat again.

Data was in the lead, and he cocked his head, listened for a moment, then changed direction entirely. Deanna Troi was glad to be moving on a solid heading, because they had been virtually blind since Data’s tricorder had been broken. The sun had been no directional help, because it was impossible to see except when it was directly overhead; then it was just an intermittent twinkle between the dense leaves.

They had been moving rather slowly since Data’s fall into the hidden pit, and the Betazoid did not feel tired. She couldn’t explain why, but it almost seemed necessary to wander around the forest for several hours, as if they couldn’t possibly understand these Klingons until they understood their world.

There had been no complaints, and Worf’s impatience and anger over the failure of their initial contact had evaporated. There was something soothing about the dark trees, the chirping of birds and animals overhead, and the rustling of moist leaves under their feet. Even the drumming seemed to be in tune with the rhythms of the planet. Suddenly Deanna knew why the colonists had chosen Selva for their home. They had wandered around the same forest— while the Klingons hid from them—and they had felt it welcome them and take them in. More than ever, Deanna sensed the necessity and lightness of their mission. This was a planet that needed living creatures, because it didn’t seem to have enough of its own.

The body in the pit was the only discordant note in everything they had seen and heard. There was something wrong with it, something that didn’t fit her impressions of either the Klingons or the colonists. Death was not the thing that didn’t fit—death was surely a part of this world. It was the carelessness and heartlessness of that particular death that shocked her. It had even shocked Worf, who had seen more than his share of death. She couldn’t envision either of the warring groups digging a trap like that, then abandoning it. The Betazoid resolved to find the answer to this disturbing mystery even if she had to question every person who lived on the planet.

Their pace quickened, both because it was getting darker and because the drums were getting louder. There was also something remarkable ahead of them, the first irregularity in the unchanging canopy of trees since they had passed the stream that morning. Just ahead of them the trees ended and a hill began. But it wasn’t an ordinary hill—it was a steep mound of dirt with trees growing upon it that were mere saplings.

“This is unusual,” observed Data as he trod up the side of the mound. “This is the first elevation we have seen. It is also perfectly oval. I would say someone built it.”

“Built a pile of dirt?” asked Worf skeptically.

“Such things are not unknown,” answered Data. “On Earth early humans built extremely complex mounds, some in the shape of serpents. They were found along the northern part of the Ohio River.”

“What were they used for?” asked Deanna.

“Burial,” answered the android. “To show a ruler’s greatness. Because of their size and visibility, there is some speculation they were constructed to communicate with beings in the sky. If this was a natural hill, the trees would be as tall as those in the forest. They clearly are not.”

“S-s-h-h,” cautioned Worf. “Listen.”

They held their breath—the drumming was getting louder.

“They are coming closer,” said Data. “They may be coming here.”

“We’re too visible on this mound,” said Worf, scurrying down the side of it.

“Let’s get back to the trees.”

Data and Deanna followed him, and they crouched at the edge of the darkening forest.

“This is a good place for observation,” whispered Data. “The way Turrok could smell the ocean, we can surmise that their sense of smell is highly developed, so the two of you need to remain upwind from them.”

No one else spoke as slow, funereal drumming filled the clearing. In the fading light they saw a solemn procession emerge from the forest. There were two drummers in the lead, followed by six marchers who were carrying what appeared to be a wooden cage over their heads. Then came two more who were holding a rope; the rope was tied to the neck of a forlorn figure who walked alone and appeared to have his hands tied behind his back. Ten or so youngsters followed him, making a total of about twenty, and they were led by an imposing figure who stood at least a head taller than the rest and banged on a scrap of metal with a knife.

To the beat of the drums the procession climbed the mound until they reached the top, where they stood silhouetted against the red sky. The drummers stopped drumming, and the marchers set down the cage so that it was standing on end. It was impossible to see their faces, but Deanna knew that the bound prisoner was Turrok, and she also knew the tall one with the knife was Balak. The others formed a tight circle around the two of them and the cage.

With great ritual Balak held the knife over his head and intoned in Klingon, “Knife-god, giver of Death and Truth, tell us if Turrok is infected with Evil.

Taste his blood and tell us. If he is innocent, let him live. If he is evil, kill him.’”

The others cheered and grunted their approval. Then the drummers began beating a wild tattoo, and the young Klingons around the circle clapped their hands to the tempo. Balak cut the rope from Turrok’s neck and hands, then grabbed the boy and thrust him into the cage, latching it after him. The big Klingon raised the knife high over his head, as if he was about to summarily execute the boy, and Deanna gasped and held her breath. But Balak plunged the knife into the side of the cage, where its deadly blade stuck fast—pointing toward the shivering figure.

The powerfully built Klingon grabbed the cage and turned it over on the ground.

Then he shoved it toward the Klingon beside him, and each person in turn rolled and spun the cage, passing it from one to the other. The drums beat faster and faster, and the cage whirled around the circle with the youth falling against the knife countless times.

Worf growled and jumped to his feet, but Data restrained him. “He may already be dead,” whispered the android. “We risk alienating them forever if we disturb their ritual.”

Worf nodded and looked away.

Finally Balak caught the cage in his powerful arms, and the drumming and the ceremony abruptly stopped. Many hands reached forward to rip open the cage and pull the blood-smeared body out, and Deanna waited breathlessly for their pronouncement.

A girl shouted, “He lives! He lives!”

There were even louder cheers, and Turrok was lifted high into the air like a conquering hero, although he seemed to have barely enough strength to lift his arm. As the drums beat a joyous refrain twenty laughing youths carried the survivor of the test down from the mound and into the forest. Balak stood alone on the hill, retrieving his knife from the cage. He wiped it across his chest, then sniffed the air for a moment, as if something was amiss. Was it only her imagination, wondered Deanna, or did he look squarely in their direction?

Finally the big Klingon sheathed his knife, grabbed the cage, and ran after his fellows.

“Balak will have to be dealt with,” Data observed.

“Yes,” grunted Worf angrily. “He will have to be dealt with.”

“How?” murmured Deanna, shaking her head. “How will we ever get them to lay down their weapons and live peacefully?”

“To gain their confidence,” said Data, “one of us could take their Test of Evil.

If we assume this mound is the spiritual center of their existence, we should set up camp here and wait for them.” He rose to his feet and strode toward the top of the knoll.

Deanna looked at Worf and shrugged. “I haven’t got any better ideas. Have you?”

The Klingon muttered, “Yes, but they all involve smashing Balak in the mouth.”

He grabbed his pack and climbed after the android, and the Betazoid followed.

Ensign Ro looked at the tiny barred window over the weather maps along the wall and saw that night had fallen on this part of Selva. She had no feeling that her work had ended, even though all the other technicians had left their stations in the lab. The Bajoran had spent the last hour rigging up an audio alarm on the seismograph so that it would awaken her if there was a sizable jump in the readings. She had also focused two scanners on the troublesome ocean bed and was recording every grain of sand that shifted. Without staying awake for twenty-four hours, that was the best she could do, and she intended to sleep right beside her equipment on a cot she had requisitioned from the replicator room.

She heard people walking on the floor above her in the stillness of the prefab building, and she knew that Gregg Calvert’s personnel were standing guard at the communications console. She also knew that the replicator on the same floor was manned around the clock, providing for the 212 colonists, somewhat against their will. Those hollow footsteps were as much company as she needed until Myra returned— if she ever did. The girl had left after lunch to attend classes, but she had promised to return as soon as she could. Ro could imagine the many explanations for her not returning, and she hoped the stifling atmosphere of New Reykjavik would change. Myra and the other children deserved better.

The pressurized metal door whooshed open, and Ro turned, expecting to see Myra.

Instead she saw the head of the lab, Doctor Louise Drayton. The small, dark-haired woman strode toward her, looking as if she wanted to chew her head off and spit out the bumps. The formidable doctor had stayed away all day, but Ro hadn’t kidded herself into thinking she would never confront the woman again.

Drayton pointed to the cot and snapped, “What’s the meaning of this?”

“It’s to sleep on,” answered Ro, turning her attention to the midzone scanner.

“You can’t turn my lab into a flophouse!” the doctor hissed, kicking the cot and flipping it onto its side.

“Flophouse is a term I’m unfamiliar with,” Ro answered dryly.

The woman sneered. “That’s right—you’re not human. Why did they send you here?

To rub our noses in it?”

“I appreciate this lesson in colorful terran language,” said Ro, “but I have work to do. Does your visit have a point?”

“Yes”—the woman frowned—”it has a point. I’ve been ordered to put up with you, but there isn’t a helluva lot they can do to me if I don’t. Still, I have a lab to run, and morale is bad enough around here as it is—so I’m going to try to get along. We just need to work out some ground rules.”

“What kind of ground rules?” asked Ro.

Drayton took a deep breath to calm herself, then continued. “If you don’t openly defy me and weaken my authority, I’ll bend the rules to suit you. There are good reasons for not sleeping in this lab, but if you insist, I’ll change the rules to allow it. I only ask that you consult me before you take action on your own.”

Ro nodded. “Very well. I’ll consult you, but I won’t let you interfere with my mission.”

The small woman smiled grimly and replied, “I won’t let you interfere with mine either. Good night.”

Doctor Drayton ambled slowly around the lab, checking on a few experiments and computer screens as she went. She stopped to pick up a rubber glove that had fallen on the floor and dropped it disdainfully into a trash receptacle. Ensign Ro watched the dark-haired woman until the outer door clanged shut behind her, and she wondered if this would be their only confrontation.

Deanna Troi tried to get comfortable on the sleeping pad atop the hard earth of the mound. A few meters away, Worf snored contentedly, and Data sat on his haunches, staring alternately at the stars and at the pitch-black forest. It wasn’t that she was cold; her paper-thin sleeping bag had a microscopic heating element based on nanotechnology that kept her body temperature at a perfect ninety-eight degrees, even in extremities like toes and fingers. But unlike Worf, she preferred soft bedding. Had they been sleeping in the forest, it occurred to her, she could have augmented the sleeping pad with a mattress of decomposing leaves and twigs. Tomorrow night, she promised herself, she’d collect some extra bedding before it got dark, but she wasn’t going to poke around in those woods now.

As if reading her mind—or, more likely, hearing her toss and turn—Data remarked, “You could return to the ship, Counselor, for your sleep period. I will alert you when the Klingons return.”

“That’s kind of you,” Deanna replied, rolling onto her back. “But I prefer to stay here with you and Worf. If I slept in my own bed tonight, I couldn’t face those lost young people. I’m having a hard time empathizing with them, and maybe this will help. What do you suppose they’re doing?”

“I certainly hope they are attending to Turrok’s wounds,” the android answered.

“I believe if his initial contact with the knife changed its angle sufficiently, subsequent wounds would be mostly superficial.”

“Don’t talk about it”—she shuddered—”please. I really despair that we’re going to be able to get through to them and change their way of life. Unless we abduct them, as we did with Turrok.”

“That is an alternative,” Data replied, “but it is preferable that sentient beings make their own decisions. Do you not agree?”

“I agree, Data. Keep reminding me of that, all right?”

“As you wish.” The android nodded. “How often should I remind you?”

“Good night, Data.”

“Good night, Counselor.”

No one returned to the lab that night, and eventually Ensign Ro couldn’t keep her eyes open or stare at readouts any longer. Thinking about the Calvert family and Doctor Drayton, the ensign made a trip to the lavatory, then stretched out on her simple cot. There had to be an interesting story behind Doctor Drayton’s presence in this far-flung colony, and Ro resolved to ask Myra about it the next time she saw her.

The night was quiet, although there had been intermittent drumming that sounded far away. Even the animals in the forest and the footsteps overhead sounded unreal and far removed. Despite her fears and worries and the glaring lights of the laboratory, sleep overcame the Bajoran in due course.

She had no idea what time it was when she awoke, and she was slightly disoriented for a moment. But Ro certainly knew what had awakened her, as she could feel something crawling on her chest under her tunic. In her confused state she did what anybody would do and slapped at her chest to brush it off.

Immediately there was a sharp, stinging pain that took her breath away, and she gasped. Now she knew she was in some kind of trouble as she carefully sat up in her cot.

Ro had never been much for proper uniform etiquette, and her collar was open as usual. Her determined calm was shattered by a deep, throbbing pain between her breasts. Alarmed, she ripped at her top, then screamed as something crawled down her stomach and bit her again.

Leaping to her feet, she shook the scraps of her top, and a jade-green creature that looked like a stick with legs tumbled to the floor. Under normal circumstances Ro would never take the life of any living thing, but she didn’t want to let the giant insect get away before she could find out what it was. She stomped it with her boot just as it began to jump. With desperation she ground it into the floor.

Ro could hear footsteps pounding above her, and she knew her second scream had been loud enough to attract attention. Suddenly her thumping heart, throbbing chest pains, and the panicked footsteps overhead all melded into one giant drumbeat that pummeled her brain. The Bajoran staggered around the lab; the blood vessels inside her head felt as if they might explode, and bizarre lights and shapes assaulted her senses. She knew she was hallucinating, but she felt as though the crushed insect had wormed its way into her brain. She wasn’t even aware that she was screaming.

Weird, hollow voices shouted at her, and arms grabbed her, but she struggled with these new demons. “Sickbay!” she heard someone yell—maybe it was she. Pain and lights exploded in her head and rushed down her body, and she felt she was melting and igniting simultaneously.

She knew she was dying.