Frozen Masks and Forlorn Tasks

[Tachyon 0]

“Frozen Masks and Forlorn Tasks”

Stardate 0605.10

Lieutenant Dave Grey

----------------------------------

 

With their little adventure on Rago's ship over, it looked like things were getting back on track—if one considered being practically stranded on an inhospitable station surgically altered to look like an Orion female as “on track”, of course.

 

Grey looked around the station. It was reminiscent of fiction he had read before that depicted these shady environments where underhanded transactions take place as a matter of course. The station had an atmosphere of tension overlying a sense of deception and complicity. Honest people did not come here; they had no place in this station's society. It was not anarchical, though. On the surface it seemed disorderly, but Grey perceived an underlying current of fear. The denizens of this circle of hell were all afraid.

 

And so they should be. In their world, they always had to remain on top—they had to keep their guard up, because if they didn't, then someone bigger, stronger, and smarter would come along and steal their niche. It was a world of competition, competition that was as far from fair as fair is from foul, where lying and murdering are considered common after-tea-time social activities.

 

It was strange. Even now, Grey did not feel afraid. He had felt afraid in any number of—in comparison—absurd situations. But now he felt calm, resolute, collected. A switch in his head had flipped and rid him of any worries. He felt ready for what was coming next.

 

It was strange, because Grey was very sure he had not consumed any alcohol in a long, long time. So he wondered what the heck was wrong with him. Perhaps the pheromones were to blame. Or maybe it was just the milieu—maybe he was blocking out all of the tension and building himself a fortress of solitude. That must be it—a mask for his fear, nothing more.

 

All he wanted now was to be back on Challenger with a good book. He wanted to be able to send that letter to his cousin, the one that would tell her what he needed. Harriet . . . Harriet was lying in a coma in some hospital, attended by a cheeseburger-vending quack who was better with barbecues than brains.

 

They were a long way from Kansas now, and Grey had yet to find any ruby-red slippers to send him home. He sighed and returned to the Orion ship, hoping that their little mission would unfold as neatly as it had been so far.