Chapter Ten

THE YOUNG KLINGON looked nervous as he waved the knife at Data, motioning him away from the couple writhing on the ground thirty meters in front of them. The android didn’t fear the sharpened kitchen blade, but he didn’t wish to do anything that would reveal his presence to Balak and the mysterious goddess.

Certainly he had no interest in watching them engage in sex, although he was disappointed that he had to leave before getting a closer look at her displacer weapon. Data nodded in agreement and walked as quietly as possible away from the scene.

The young Klingon followed warily behind him, never sheathing his knife, and they were soon far enough away from the lovers to talk.

“I congratulate you,” the android said in Klingon. “You trailed me without my knowledge.”

“I saw you pass under me,” said the boy in a yodeling voice that was struggling through puberty. “We leave Balak alone—when he with goddess.”

“Who is the goddess?” Data queried.

“The goddess is”—the boy stammered—”the goddess is

spirit from the forest!”

“That is incorrect,” said Data. “The goddess is a flesh-and-blood humanoid like yourself. She possesses a common halogen lantern and an uncommon weapon called a displacer.”

“You lie!” hissed the Klingon. “She is holy. She show us how to fight flat-heads.”

Data observed, “That is apparently not all she is showing you.”

Data sensed the boy running at him and turned in time to catch his wrist, with the knife blade a few centimeters from his chest. The youth grimaced, groaned, and struggled to free himself, but the android held him implacably.

“You do not attack a being for merely stating the obvious,” said Data. “If I turn you loose, do you promise to put your knife away? We are returning to the hutch, as you wish.”

The Klingon grunted in agreement, and he soon had use of his arm again. He rubbed his wrist and glowered at the android, but he finally returned the knife to his belt.

“How long has Balak been seeing this goddess?” asked Data.

“I not know,” muttered the youth. “He not talk with us about it except to say, ‘The goddess say the flat-heads are coming out tomorrow.’ Or she tell us where to steal knives and food.”

“I see,” said Data. “That is a very useful ally. Do the rest of you engage in sex, as do Balak and the goddess?”

“No!” exclaimed the boy, looking aghast at the idea, and somewhat embarrassed.

If Data read humanoid reaction correctly, the thought had occurred to the young Klingon, but he was fighting the disturbing impulse of procreation. Given another year or two, Data thought, he might think differently. He had seen enough of humanoid sexuality to know it was a powerful drive.

Data asked, “Is Balak the only person from the tribe who visits the goddess in the forest?”

“Yes,” said the boy, furrowing his thick brow in thought. “That not fair, is it?”

“From your perspective, no,” answered Data. “What is your name?”

“Lupo,” answered the boy proudly.

“Lupo,” Data repeated. “I am Data. I do not wish to alarm you, but your existence in this forest is accidental. It will not last much longer. We are introducing new concepts into your society, so is the goddess, and so are the colonists, whether they wish to or not. You must be prepared to learn new ways and have your conceptions destroyed. Do you understand?”

The boy swallowed hard and shook his head, but he looked as if he understood all too well.

“Those large rodents,” said Data. “Have you ever seen baby or newborn chucks?”

The boy nodded yes.

“Then you may appreciate hearing where they come from,” continued the android, stepping between the black tree trunks. “Inside the female is an organ called a womb.”

“Womb,” the Klingon repeated, following the android. In a few seconds their voices were muted by the endless columns within the immense black cathedral.

Captain Picard rubbed his eyes and touched his cup to see if his Earl Grey tea had cooled to the point where he could drink it. He didn’t want to sip the tea, he wanted to take a healthy slug.

Assembled before him in his personal quarters were Commander Data, Deanna Troi, and Lieutenant Worf, but all eyes were riveted upon Data, who was just finishing a detailed but dispassionate account of two people making love. One of them was actually referred to as a goddess, but that didn’t cheer Captain Picard any. He had been fast asleep when an urgent call had come from Worf to have a meeting with their part of the away team. Data had a story that had to be told, Worf had insisted. It certainly did, thought the captain glumly.

Deanna Troi looked every bit as amazed as the captain felt. They had already discussed the progress of the mission, and she had assured him they had been accepted and were safe among the feral Klingons. But that was before they knew that a woman was influencing these vulnerable young people. This was a development no one had foreseen.

Deanna shook her head with disbelief. “You say this goddess insisted that he kill the settlers, then she seduced him?”

“That is the order of occurrence,” agreed Data. “Then another Klingon trailed me and forced me to leave at knifepoint.”

“Captain,” said Worf urgently, “we must determine the identity of this ‘goddess.’”

The captain’s lips tightened, and he cleared his throat. “Romulan,” he murmured.

“Data, you said her weapon was Romulan?”

The android responded, “Of possible Romulan origin. Others have attributed the displacer to the Ferengi secret police. Believed to have originated from a design called the Viper, which was used by Romulans until 2320.”

“That’s enough,” said Picard, “to make me worried. Officially, the Romulans vacated this sector in exchange for the Klingons vacating Kapor’At, where those youngsters are from. But did they really leave?”

The captain picked up his cup and crossed to the porthole, where he could see the steady gaze of a million suns. But the opaque clarity of space didn’t help him see Romulans any more clearly.

He took a sip of tea and continued. “What we have here is a sort of de facto neutral zone between the Romulans and the Klingons. Free space, or so the Federation was led to believe. But what if the Romulans have never left? They wouldn’t dare leave a ship in orbit, even cloaked, because they wouldn’t be able to use their transporter with the cloaking up. Romulans, however, are not above using hidden bases, or spies.”

“That is quite possible,” Data agreed. “Seventy-three percent of the ocean area is unscanned and unmapped, and the terrestrial surface is scanned infrequently.

A small outpost, properly shielded, might go undiscovered for years on Selva.”

“The Klingons did,” Deanna added.

Worf heaved his massive shoulders. “Captain,” he began, “we must overcome the influence of this ‘goddess.’ To lessen the risks, I volunteer to stay alone.”

“Lieutenant, if you were overpowered in your sleep, then what?” asked Picard. He heaved a sigh. “I have Ensign Ro in sickbay down there and the three of you living in a mud hovel. We committed ourselves to saving lives, and so we must.

At oh-nine hundred I am conducting the party of colonists to the seashore via transporter. I’ll appraise Ensign Ro of the situation at that time. Please consider your safety first in everything you do. Dismissed.”

Worf, Deanna, and Data strode out of the captain’s quarters toward the turbolift. Deanna Troi was trying to figure out how to counter the influence of this love goddess. Clearly, sex was an unstable element to unleash on the impressionable Klingons, so childlike on one hand and so violently unpredictable on the other. This mission needed time and patience, but she had the uneasy feeling that both were running out.

They stepped out of the turbolift and headed for the transporter room. Data glanced at Deanna and queried, “Are you returning to the planet with us, Counselor?”

“Yes.” She smiled gamely. “I left my gear down there. I don’t know what made me think I would be getting a good night’s sleep tonight.”

The door to the transporter room whooshed open, and they strode toward the transporter platform.

“This goddess business is maddening,” grumbled Worf. “Who would goad them into attacking the settlers?”

“Unknown,” answered Data, centering himself on a pad, “but the probabilities favor a spy planted among the colonists. That would be the most effective method for the Romulans to influence events on Selva without tipping their hand.”

Worf nodded and muttered, “It doesn’t take much to make a Romulan look human.”

“That could also explain the pit we discovered,” said Deanna, thinking of the decomposed Klingon at the bottom.

“Quite possibly,” agreed Data. He checked to see that his companions were situated, then he nodded to the transporter operator. “Energize.”

When they materialized in the woods the only things they noticed were the rapt silence and utter darkness. The trees seemed still, as if the guards and the animals had all fallen asleep. They found their pile of sleeping bags and equipment under the tree where they had left them, but the lanterns were gone.

Upon seeing that, Worf drew his phaser—but his eyes hadn’t adjusted from the light on the ship, and he was all but blind.

Data moved swiftly to the entrance of the hutch and stopped, his head making minute adjustments for the benefit of his short-range sensors. “We are alone,”

he proclaimed. “The guards who were above ground have vacated their posts. We could search the hutch, but I believe all its occupants are gone as well.”

Worf knelt down at the entrance to the burrow. “Turrok!” he called. “Wolm!” No answer came from within the dark earth.

“Damn!” cursed Deanna, putting her fists on her hips.

Worf jumped to his feet, cupped his hand to his mouth, and yelled, “Balak!”

“There is no point in shouting,” said Data. “They are out of earshot, or I would have picked them up on my internal sensors. Also, I do not believe Balak would answer you.”

Worf muttered, “That’s all right. We can track Turrok and Wolm by their comm badges.”

“No, we cannot,” Data corrected him. The android bent down, brushed away some damp leaves, and picked up two comm badges. One of them had a small patch of black animal fur still sticking to it.

Deanna shook her head glumly. “We should never have left the planet.”

“In hindsight, that would appear to have been an error,” agreed Data. “We can surmise that Balak returned with instructions from the goddess, saw that we were gone, and decided to leave the area. Had we been here, there might have been a confrontation. Leaving was by far his easiest course of action.”

“Now we’re back to square one,” sighed Deanna. “We have to find them again.”

At some distance a rapid but brief tattoo of drumbeats sounded, and Data cocked his head in that direction. “To the east,” he reported, “toward the ocean.”

“We’ll follow you,” said Worf with determination. He reached down and grabbed a big handful of their gear. Deanna and Data grabbed what was left, and the trio stepped cautiously into the immense darkness of the forest.

Ensign Ro looked out the second-floor window of sickbay and saw the first glimmerings of dawn striking the corrugated metal fence. New Reykjavik could be so beautiful, she thought to herself, but there was nothing beautiful about a wall designed to keep other people out. There was nothing beautiful about a people who had a paradise to explore yet cowered in a metal enclosure.

The trees, which loomed over the fence like giant celery stalks, were honestly beautiful, but even they had an unsettling mystery about them. Were they really no older than ninety years, as Myra thought? Ro wasn’t a botanist, but she had thought it was peculiar the way they were all about the same height. That quality reminded the Bajoran of a Christmas tree farm she had seen during her training days at Starfleet Academy. Perfect trees in perfect rows—all the same height. It didn’t look natural then, either.

Ro sighed, thinking she was getting too paranoid and suspicious. She had been warned about the mantis bites, so she couldn’t blame anyone for that. On the good side, she had made two friends—Myra and her father, Gregg—and two friends in two days was pretty good for Ro. Only Doctor Drayton had shown any overt hostility toward her, but she was probably just another control freak who resented her moving into her lab. Ro was gradually learning to stomach those types.

She felt like someone who had slept for fifteen hours, which she had, and she was raring to do something. She wondered what time Myra and Gregg awoke. Maybe she could locate the family in time to have breakfast with them before their outing at the beach.

“I’m checking out,” she told the orderly on duty. “Will you please thank Doctor Freleng and everyone for my care? I owe you all my life.”

“Here, dearie,” said the older lady, “button up your shirt collar so they don’t crawl in there again.”

“Good advice,” Ro agreed, letting the woman button her collar. She was wearing the plain brown clothing of the settlers and found it extremely comfortable.

Another reason to like New Reykjavik, she decided. She had thought about changing back into her Starfleet uniform, but then she remembered Guinan’s words on the night before her trip to Selva: “Conquer their fear of the Other.” It was time to become one of them. Nevertheless, her communicator badge was stuck securely on her breast pocket.

Ro stepped out into the bracing cold of the early morning and gripped the homespun jacket tightly around her shoulders. Her breath came in steaming spurts, intermingled with the early morning fog. She sensed rather than saw eyes peering at her from the guard stations in the corners of the compound, and she stood perfectly still to give them a good long look. Then she walked purposefully across the compound toward the square.

In the square she remembered seeing a map and directory of people’s homes carved into a wooden plaque by someone who obviously had a lot of time on his hands.

That was the shame of this place, she thought—they were too busy hating to conduct their lives.

She checked the directory and located the Calvert unit in the southwest corner.

Walking the deserted metal streets was oddly soothing, and she could smell cooking flames coming from a few of the apartments. The cold rows of one-story dwellings would have been oppressive if the main streets hadn’t been left broad and spacious. For what reason that had been done, Ro didn’t know, because walking was the only form of transportation they had in New Reykjavik. She passed only one colonist, a woman returning home from guard duty. Bleary-eyed, the woman smiled at Ro, noticing the familiar clothes, not the unfamiliar face.

Ro smiled back, and the woman didn’t stop to take a second look until the Bajoran was well past her.

A camera swiveled to watch her as she approached the door and pushed the buzzer.

“State your business,” said a synthesized voice.

“Ensign Ro to see Myra and Gregg Calvert,” she replied.

“Ro!” called a friendlier voice on the intercom. It was Myra. “Wait there, we have the manual bolt on the door.”

Ro waited at least a minute. When she heard the bolt snapping back and the door opening she looked down to where she expected to see Myra. Instead she found herself staring into Gregg Calvert’s muscular chest, which he quickly hid by buttoning his brown shirt.

“Sorry.” He smiled. “Myra wasn’t as together as she thought she was. Please come in.”

He stepped back and allowed her to enter an apartment that was doing its best not to look like an army barracks. But it was losing. Despite the personalized touch of some unusual plants, family photographs, and limp curtains, it looked about as homey as what it was—several metal utility shacks welded together. It reminded her of the places where the Bajora lived. The difference was, she reminded herself, that the Bajora lived in makeshift housing out of desperation—the humans lived here by choice. She didn’t know for whom to feel sorrier.

“I wondered if I would be in time to have breakfast with you,” she explained, trying to sound cheerful.

“Sure,” he answered. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrific!” she exclaimed, stretching her arms over her head. “I feel like walking the twenty kilometers to the ocean.”

“Not too many people would give you odds on getting there,” Gregg said glumly.

Then he forced himself to be upbeat. “This is a great favor your captain is doing us. There’s only so much you can tell about an ocean by looking at sensors. I sent the Enterprise some coordinates of tide pools that Doctor Drayton wanted to see, so that’s where we’ll go.”

“Does anything live in the ocean?”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” chirped a voice behind them. Myra bounded into the makeshift living room. “You’ll see when we get there, I think it’s alive, but Doctor Drayton’s not sure. Of course, we can’t agree whether it’s animal or vegetable, either.”

“We were planning to eat at the dining hall,” Gregg told the ensign. “Is that all right?”

“Lead on,” said Ro, smiling.

It was perfectly all right with Ensign Ro, but not so all right with Louise Drayton, whom they met outside the community building. She didn’t say anything, but Ro felt the hostility bristling from her, just as it had the night before the mantis bite. Having survived a brush with death and the hallucinatory weirdness of her own mind, the Bajoran was in a mood to be forgiving. She had even convinced herself that the mantis bite was an accident, although she was curious to hear Doctor Drayton’s opinion of it.

Ro studied the compact, dark-haired woman, thinking she didn’t look her fifty-three years. Her personal dynamism made her seem youthful, spritelike, despite her tough attitude. Ro had no problem with outspoken and opinionated people, because she was one of them herself. But bigotry rankled her, because her people and family had suffered so much from it. That made it even harder to accept the fact that an intelligent woman like Doctor Drayton wouldn’t give her a chance, for no apparent reason except bigotry. She resolved to make a project out of Drayton, thinking that if she could win her over, she could win over any of the colonists.

But she couldn’t resist asking Drayton the foremost question on her mind. As they filed into the cafeteria line Ro remarked, “That mantis bite really gave me a scare, I can tell you. Myra tells me you’re an expert on the pit mantis. I would welcome hearing anything you could tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry,” muttered Doctor Drayton, looking sheepish for the first time. “That bite might have been my fault. I don’t know how, but one of the mantises escaped from its terrarium. They’re devilishly clever, and strong. They’ve bitten and punched holes through several tough grades of metal screen.”

Drayton averted her eyes from Ro’s. “I can’t help liking them,” she admitted.

“That’s probably why I keep too many of them. They’re highly venomous but, fortunately, very territorial—they never travel in swarms. I don’t think a person would last long if bitten by a swarm of them. I call this species a pit mantis because it has a heat-sensitive pit above its mandible, something like a pit viper.”

Drayton caught herself, as if she was talking too much. “I do apologize for your illness,” she said, “although I did tell you the lab was unsafe for sleeping.”

“How close to death was I?” asked Ro with frank curiosity.

“That was an adult female that bit you,” replied Drayton, as if that meant something very serious.

“Bit her twice!” Myra interjected from behind them.

Drayton nodded. “Thank you, Myra. That certainly would have killed a child or a person in less than perfect health. I’m not a medical doctor, but I understand your ship’s doctor did an excellent job keeping your blood pressure and temperature in acceptable ranges

for your species.”

“That she did,” agreed Gregg Calvert. “We were all impressed with Doctor Crusher.”

Ro smiled, her outlook brightening by the moment. It was her turn at the food counter, and she gratefully took a large portion of hot cereal and a dish of applesauce. There were a few rude stares from the kitchen workers and other diners, but not too many. Ro felt she was making progress, at least by her own measure.

“I’m looking forward to seeing the ocean,” Ro remarked as they took their seats at a family-style picnic table. “I’ve been studying it for days now, but that’s not like seeing it with your own eyes.”

Gregg chuckled. “Myra and Doctor Drayton wax rhapsodic about that ocean, but it looks sort of eerie and barren to me.”

“Dad, it can’t support life, but it does!” countered Myra. “That’s what’s so neat about it. Doctor Drayton, please pass the butter.”

“Here, child,” muttered Drayton. “There may be life in that ocean, or rather on top of it.”

“Under it, too,” said Ro. “There’s some impressive seismic activity in those depths. I know it must look like a lot of brackish water to you, Gregg, but that ocean is one of Selva’s main tourist attractions. That’s what I feel like—a tourist. I just want to see the sights.”

Everyone chuckled, even Louise Drayton. Ro took a big bite of cereal and munched it happily.

“The euphoric feeling after a bite from a pit mantis is one of its most curious aftereffects,” observed Drayton. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Ensign Ro.”

“I guess I do feel pretty good,” said the Bajoran. She finished the rest of her food in record time. “I’m going to get seconds,” she announced.

“Increased appetite,” nodded Louise Drayton. “Typical.”

“I’ll go,” said Gregg, standing quickly. “I’m hungry this morning, too, and it didn’t take a bug bite. I agree with you, Ro, it’ll be nice to see something besides these four walls.”

“That reminds me,” said Louise Drayton, wiping her mouth, “I haven’t packed. How much time do we have?”

“Half an hour,” answered Gregg. “Please don’t bring too much, Doctor—a canteen, a tricorder, some specimen jars. We may have to move quickly. Oh, and bring your phaser.” He looked pointedly at Ro. “Everyone but Myra will be armed.”

That took some of the luster off the morning, and Ro thought about protesting.

Then she remembered the man who’d been overpowered in the guard tower a couple nights earlier. “Set to stun,” she replied.

“Ensign, you look great in our clothes,” said Gregg with a sly smile. “But I’m glad you’re wearing your communicator badge, in case we have to contact your ship.”

“You don’t take much for granted, do you?” asked Ro.

“No,” said Gregg Calvert. He took her bowl. “I’ll be right back.”

Myra beamed at Ro. “He likes you.”

Drayton stood brusquely and declared, “I’ll join you in the square at nine o’clock.” She stomped off.

Myra looked after the departed entomologist and giggled. She whispered even lower, “I think she likes my dad, too, but she’s never done anything about it. I know he’d be surprised to hear it. I like you better, anyway.”

Ro mildly scolded the girl. “You shouldn’t take such an active interest in your father’s personal life.”

Myra shrugged. “Why not? What else is there to do around here?”

Gregg Calvert returned to the table, set down the plates, and brushed a strand of blond hair off his forehead. “I’ll let you two finish breakfast,” he said. “I want to make sure your ship has the right coordinates.”

“You’re really nervous about this, aren’t you?” asked Ro.

Gregg replied, “I’m just the head of security taking his daughter, our most distinguished scientist, and a visiting Starfleet officer into the territory of savages who try to kill us on sight. Why should I be nervous?”

“We’ll be fine,” Ro said encouragingly. Perhaps, she mused, she judged these settlers too harshly for their apparent bigotry—she knew all too well how the constant fear of attack could to do terrible things to a community’s collective psyche. The Bajoran checked to make sure that her comm badge was securely fixed to the rough fabric over her heart.

“We won’t be alone,” she assured him.

Five minutes before the rendezvous time Ensign Ro, Gregg and Myra Calvert, and Doctor Drayton were gathered in the town square of New Reykjavik, eagerly awaiting their molecular transport. Doctor Drayton was wearing a backpack stuffed with so much equipment that she looked ready to topple over, but her determined jaw made it obvious she was bringing whatever she wanted. She also had a Type II pistol phaser strapped to her waist. Myra carried a tricorder, and Gregg had a medikit and survival gear strapped to his back. He also wore a bolstered phaser on his belt.

In contrast, Ro had decided to be a real tourist. She brought nothing but her communicator badge, personal phaser slipped unobtrusively into her pocket, and a smile. There was no piece of equipment she could carry that would tell her anything more about the tectonic plates a thousand kilometers offshore, and she had no wish to collect specimens—not if they were anything like the pit mantis.

She was merely going to look at the ocean and do something very unscientific—that is, to see if she could get any impressions from it.

Ro’s cheerful mood was cut short by a booming voice. “Don’t hesitate to defend yourselves!” called Raul Oscaras, striding toward them across the green. “For God’s sake, be careful. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“We will,” sighed Gregg Calvert, who didn’t need to be reminded about the danger.

Oscaras turned to Ensign Ro and warned, “I’m holding you responsible for the fate of this party, because this trip was your idea.”

“We might as well take advantage of the Enterprise, ” she replied. Whether her good mood was an aftereffect of the mantis bite or merely relief at still being alive, Ro didn’t care—she wasn’t going to let anyone bring her down, especially not the blustery president of New Reykjavik.

“Just watch yourselves,” said Oscaras. “You have my permission to leave.”

Ro shook her head in amazement at the self-importance of the man but said nothing. She was relieved when a familiar voice sounded over her communicator “Captain Picard to Ensign Ro.”

She tapped the badge and answered, “Ro here.”

“How many in your party?” asked the captain.

“Four, counting myself.”

“Then perhaps I’ll join you,” said Captain Picard. “Are you ready to beam aboard?”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

Their bodies dematerialized into swirls of glittering molecules.