by Greg Cox
• • •
Days had passed, and hours of concentrated toil, but the enigmatic region beneath the shields had stubbornly refused to divulge its secrets to B’Elanna Torres. It was maddening. She could have reported the exact number of petals on any one flower anywhere else on Ryolanov, but this single piece of planet resisted all her efforts to probe its elusive mysteries.
Granted, she reminded herself, she had not been able to devote all her waking hours to the challenge. The day-to-day duties of heading Engineering, including keeping a close eye on their dwindling supply of crystallized dilithium, took up much of her time, as did her irritating requirements for food and exercise. At least, she thought, no one is pressuring me anymore to “enjoy” some shore leave. Her little tiff with Nimdir the Idiot had cured everybody of that particular misconception. The captain had not actually ordered her to stay on the ship, but Torres knew that her superiors would breathe a good deal easier if she kept her distance from the planet’s surface.
Fine with me, she thought as she strode onto the bridge. She walked straight toward the port forward science console. A sullen-looking Susan Tukwila was at the conn, she noticed; Chakotay sat in the captain’s seat. “Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said as she passed him. She grunted a reply, intent on her mission.
Time to break out the big guns, she thought. She had given the problem a lot of consideration last night, when she was supposed to have been sleeping, and the long-range sensors seemed like her best bet. These sensors were the most powerful scientific instruments on Voyager, designed to monitor interstellar phenomena at a range of approximately five to seventeen light-years, depending on the degree of resolution required. Turning the long-range sensors on a planetary surface from an orbital location was akin to using an electron microscope to inspect one’s fingernails, or like unleashing a full salvo of photon torpedoes to sterilize a tribble, but Torres could not imagine that any sort of ground-based shielding would be able to stand up against the sheer observational power of the long-range sensors.
With my luck, she thought, this will turn out to be just a sacred burial site or something like that. Nothing to do with dilithium at all.
“Request permission to access the long-range sensors,” she said to Chakotay. Ordinarily, these sensors were employed to detect potential flight hazards such as micrometeoroids or other debris. This function was less essential when the ship was locked in to a planetary orbit; short-range navigational sensors could watch out for stray satellites and space garbage when Voyager was traveling at significantly sub-light speeds. Still, Torres felt obliged to check with the commander before diverting the long-range sensors to another purpose.
Chakotay gave her a curious expression. Torres wondered if he knew how attractive he was. “Something up, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Just an experiment,” she answered, “relating to that supply problem we discussed a few days ago.” She didn’t want to admit how much time she had spent trying to probe one tiny corner of Ryolanov until she came up with some hard results. Probably just the hidden vault of the Ryol crown jewels, she thought, or the Elder’s private harem. She had imagined every possible explanation for the secrecy surrounding this area; none of them had convinced her that the captain needed to be notified immediately—or that she would be better off abandoning the search. Let’s find out what you’re hiding down there, she thought, once and for all.
Her explanation satisfied Chakotay. “Proceed,” he told her, then turned his attention to a padd resting on the arm of his chair. Torres called up the relevant coordinates from the ship’s computer.
According to the overall map of Ryolanov now stored in Voyager’s neural gel-packs, the blacked-out region corresponded to a harbor area located near the capital city of Ryolaler. Probably the same beach, she thought, that Neelix was raving about on this morning’s news broadcast. This knowledge only puzzled Torres more. Why shield from observation the very same stretch of sand and sea that Voyager’s crew was frolicking upon daily? She had spent sleepless nights trying to figure that one out, but now, perhaps, the answer was finally within reach.
She transferred control of the long-range sensors to the science console, then focused the full array of sensors on the appropriate planetary coordinates. She opted for a low-resolution scan at first; the last thing she wanted was a subatomic analysis of a single pellet of sand.
The Ryol shields resisted the scans at first. Electronic static muddied the sensor readouts, making them difficult to determine, but she upped the power of the long-range sensors and the shields crumpled like tissue paper before phaser fire. Success, Torres thought jubilantly, experiencing a Klingon’s savage joy at victory over a particularly hated foe. She crossed her fingers, an ancient Earth custom her human father had taught her, hoping to see the telltale energy spike that would announce the presence of dilithium crystals.
It wasn’t there.
Disappointment nearly overwhelmed her. All that work with nothing to show for it! She felt like gutting the control panel with her bare hands, then she noticed something odd about the readings from the parametric subspace field stress sensor. It wasn’t the energy spike she was looking for—that would have showed up on the data from the variable frequency EM flux sensor—but what could cause a subspace fluctuation of that sort on the planet’s surface? Intrigued, she adjusted the main deflector emitter screen on the subspace scanner, then double-checked her findings against the input from the gravimetric distortion scanner. Intriguing, she thought as she inspected the new data, her anger and disappointment now forgotten. There was definitely something down there, and confined to one discrete location. Not dilithium, not even uncrystallized, but maybe—a rush of adrenaline raced through her body as she considered the possibilities—could it possibly be . . . antimatter?
What could be the Ryol be doing with antimatter, she wondered, and why only in one place on the entire planet? She had found the secret of the Ryol, she knew it, but she didn’t want to alert the captain until she was sure she knew what it meant. Captain Janeway might think she was holding some sort of irrational Klingon grudge against the Ryol on account of that altercation at the dance club. Torres wanted to present a fair, unbiased, and totally incontrovertible report on the hidden stash of antimatter before finding the Ryol guilty of gross and doubtless malevolent intention. Next time, she thought vindictively at the planet below, maybe you’ll tell me what I want the first time I ask.
“Let’s take a closer look at you,” she muttered to the display panel as she zoomed in on the region in question with the passive neutrino imaging scanner. A map of Ryolanov appeared on her screen, a flashing blue dot marking the location of the subspace irregularities. “Visual,” she requested, and another image appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. Torres saw waves crashing upon a beach; in the distance, she recognized the tips of several tall pyramids. One of them, she felt sure, was the very same dance club where she had disgraced herself on her first and only trip to the planet. She checked her memory against the computer’s. Sure enough, just as she’d suspected, the minute subspace fluctuations were coming from the harbor outside Ryolaler.
Under the beach? Torres didn’t understand. She couldn’t be positive it was antimatter, not from this high in orbit, but if it was, then it couldn’t possibly be a natural phenomenon. So why were the Ryol hoarding antimatter under the harbor? And if it was for some variety of matter-antimatter power station, then how were they managing to regulate the energy output without any dilithium?
“Find anything interesting, B’Elanna?” Chakotay asked. He walked over to glance over her shoulder, then looked vaguely surprised to find a pretty seascape occupying a portion of Torres’s monitor.
“Maybe, sir,” she answered. “Not dilithium, I’m afraid, but I am picking up some odd readings that I can’t entirely account for.”
“Anything I should report to the captain?” Chakotay asked.
“Not just yet, sir,” Torres said. A full Klin
gon, she thought, would simply rush to judgment, heedless of the consequences; she prided herself on being more patient and exacting, at least most of the time. “I’ll let you know after I get back from the surface.”
Up until now, she had thought she’d had enough of shore leave and Ryolanov. Suddenly, though, the beach was sounding a lot more interesting.
• • •
“Thanks for seeing me right away, Doctor,” Harry Kim said warmly. Kes guessed that Harry was trying to make up for his rude behavior the last time he visited the sickbay. He sat on the edge of a biobed while The Doctor scanned him with a medical tricorder. Kes stood nearby, only half watching the examination. Her mind was still filled with the menacing impressions she had picked up on the planet’s surface. Were they the psychic residue of some long-ago catastrophe, she wondered, or presentiments of impending danger? If only she knew more about her own telepathic abilities!
“I have nothing but time, Ensign,” The Doctor stated. “Aside from a few bad cases of sunburn, our visit to Ryolanov has provided me with little in the way of stimulating medical emergencies. Speaking of which”—he peered at the lightly browned tint of Kim’s face—“I assume you have been assiduous in applying your Starfleet-issue protective solar radiation blocker?”
“Everyday, Doc, I promise,” Kim said.
“Very good,” The Doctor pronounced. “Now then, what exactly was the nature of your complaint?”
Kim shrugged. “It’s nothing I can put my finger on. I’ve just been feeling kind of run-down and groggy.” He covered his mouth while he yawned. “Sorry about that. I’m finding it hard to stay awake.”
“I see,” The Doctor said, inspecting the readings on his tricorder. “Well, your metabolism seems a little sluggish and you’re a trifle anemic, but otherwise there doesn’t appear to be anything seriously wrong with you. Too much strenuous recreational activity is my guess.”
Harry blushed. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” Kes wondered why he looked so embarrassed.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Frankly, I don’t understand the incredible appeal of this particular planet. You’re not the first crew member I’ve treated who has vacationed his or herself to the point of exhaustion. Why, Ensign Jourdan sprained her ankle dancing, then went out waterskiing the very next day! Against doctor’s orders, I might add.”
“Oh, you’ve got to see this place!” Harry Kim enthused. “The sun, the waves—” A sheepish look materialized on his face as he realized what he was saying. “Er, no offense, Doctor. That is, I mean—”
The Doctor dismissed Kim’s apologies with a curt wave of his hand. “No need to stammer, Ensign,” he said. “As a hologram, I am naturally obliged to take your word for it when it comes to the astonishing attractions of this apparently marvelous planet. Fortunately, my programming does not instill in me the same reckless susceptibility for foreign climes that seems to override the common sense of you organic beings.”
Kes didn’t believe a word of it. She knew The Doctor’s physical limitations—his inability to exist outside a specially equipped holographic environment—frustrated him more than he would ever admit. One of her greatest fears was that one day the entire crew might be forced to abandon Voyager—leaving The Doctor behind. “What about you?” he asked her. “Are you equally enraptured with this veritable paradise?”
The Doctor had evidently forgotten, at least for the moment, her vague and intangible fears about the planet. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It certainly seems beautiful.” She inspected Kim more closely; Harry did seem more fatigued than usual. His tanned features looked drawn and tired, although his spirits were undeniably high. Was The Doctor right, she wondered. Had Harry simply overexerted himself on Ryolanov—or was something terrible happening to them all?
No, she thought, that was ridiculous. Harry was just having too much fun, like most everybody else on Voyager. She shook her head, chasing away her fears. It was all the voices’ fault, she thought. The bodiless screams within her mind had her looking for horrors everywhere, and doubting her own instincts. She didn’t know what she really felt anymore.
Everyone else is happy to be here, she thought. What’s wrong with me?
• • •
“Morale again?” Janeway asked Chakotay. Her first officer had joined her in her ready room for a private briefing. He waited by her desk while she watered the decorative plants by the door. Thankfully, she thought, it had never been necessary to ration water aboard Voyager; otherwise her plants would hardly have stayed so green. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought Ryolanov was the solution to our morale problems.”
“So did I,” Chakotay conceded. “Certainly, the mood has improved among the crew, maybe too much so.”
“What do you mean?” Janeway asked. She sat down behind her desk. It felt good to get off her feet. She had spent most of the last few days accompanying Varathael on an exhausting whirl of diplomatic functions. At times, she felt like she had personally met and greeted every Ryol on the continent, yet there always seemed to be another reception or welcoming ceremony. What no one tells you, she thought, is that the key to a city can get awful heavy sometimes. Still, if it meant better relations between Voyager and the Ryol, and a much-needed break for her crew, then she was determined to shake as many hands and attend as many banquets as necessary. It bothered her that Chakotay seemed to be suggesting that all her efforts might have produced precisely the opposite effect than the one she had hoped for. Too bad, she thought, that Chakotay usually knows what he’s talking about.
He told her about his confrontation with Susan Tukwila on the bridge. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “this is not an isolated incident, only an extreme example of a syndrome that seems to be overtaking much of the crew. According to Tuvok, whom I consulted before raising this matter with you, the scientific data collected by various away teams to the planet has been sloppy and incomplete. B’Elanna reports a slight rise in safety violations in engineering, while The Doctor confirms a rash of careless accidents among the crew, both aboard the ship and down on Ryolanov.” He paused a moment before summing up. “On their own, none of these incidents amounts to much. Taken together, however, they point toward a general lack of discipline—and a possibly dangerous level of fatigue—all through the crew.”
Myself included, Janeway thought. Certainly she felt badly in need of a nap. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open, despite an extra cup of coffee this morning. This was more than her usual midday drowsiness; she felt absolutely exhausted. “How serious is this?” she asked. “Surely, we’re not looking at a ‘Mutiny on the Bounty’ type situation here?”
“You’ll have to refresh my memory there,” Chakotay admitted. “We didn’t have much opportunity to brush up on history in the Demilitarized Zone.”
“The Bounty was a British sailing vessel of the late eighteenth century,” she explained, “whose crew succumbed to the exotic delights of Tahiti. When the captain tried to restore discipline and force the crew to sail back to England, they rebelled and took over the ship.”
“I remember now,” Chakotay said, nodding. “I think I played a holographic version of the story back at the Academy.”
“For my sake, I hope you didn’t cast yourself as Fletcher Christian,” Janeway commented, recalling the Bounty’s first officer—who ended up being the leader of the mutineers.
“I don’t think so,” Chakotay said with a grin.
“Good,” she said. “I wasn’t looking forward to playing Captain Bligh.” Her voice acquired a more somber tone. “Seriously, how bad is it?”
Chakotay paused before answering. “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m not worried about an actual mutiny. Our crew’s gone through too much together to think they’d turn on each other now. Still, there’s no doubt in my mind that excess recreation on Ryolanov is undermining the crew’s ability to perform their duties. I would be shirking my own responsibilities if I didn’t call the matt
er to your attention.”
“And I appreciate it,” Janeway said. “This isn’t the first time, though, that we’ve dropped anchor at a very hospitable port. Remember the Sikarians? Not to mention the 37’s.” She recalled the flourishing human society formed by Amelia Earhart and other refugees from the Alpha Quadrant. If ever Voyager had been tempted to abandon its long trek back to the Federation, it had been there. “In the end,” she reminded Chakotay, “this crew has always managed to stay focused on the journey home.”
She gazed out the porthole behind her desk, contemplating the beckoning stars. Earth was out there somewhere, its blazing sun too distant to be seen. She wondered if she would ever see Earth again. “The crew has been under enormous pressures the last few years,” she said. “Perhaps they deserve a chance to blow off some steam.”
“As long as that’s all that blows,” Chakotay said. “I hate to sound like the voice of doom and gloom. That’s usually Tuvok’s job. But, well, there’s something else you ought to know about.”
“What?” Janeway asked, turning away from the window. She ignored his little dig at Tuvok; she knew that Chakotay and Tuvok were often at odds, just as she knew that neither of the two men would ever let their personal feelings about each other get in the way of their duties aboard the ship. But what was worrying Chakotay now? She could tell that her first officer felt slightly uncomfortable bringing up the subject, whatever it was.
“I was in my cabin,” he began, “getting in touch with my spirit guide. . . .” Chakotay described the eerie nature of his recent vision-quest, including the malevolent beastlike presence that had attacked him within his own mind. “I can’t tell you exactly what this vision means,” he said, “but the spirits seemed determined to warn me about something.”
“I see,” Janeway responded. She didn’t quite know what to make of Chakotay’s experience. A scientist by training, she resisted mysticism, preferring data derived from the objective analysis of the physical world. On the other hand, she had to concede that many advanced cultures, from the Vulcans to the Bajorans, placed a good deal of faith in extrasensory revelations. She had worked beside Tuvok for too many years not to respect his psychic gifts, while Chakotay had personally introduced Janeway to her own spirit guide. But was the threat Chakotay had detected simply of a spiritual nature or was it something more concrete? Where there’s smoke, there’s probably fire, she thought, but what kind of fire?
