Ghost Dance

by Christie Golden

  “Here it is,” said Telek.

  “We gift this technology to you,” Tialin said.

  “Yes,” said Torres, “I know that, but …”

  “Shh,” said Telek. “Listen.”

  “We will give you the ability to locate and contain the mutated dark matter,” continued Tialin.

  “We know how to locate it,” said Telek. “We’ve already reconfigured the transporters. The orb is the key to telling us how to contain it.”

  Torres had opened her mouth when the scream startled them all. It had come from the tricorder recording, and it had issued from Khala’s throat. They stared, transfixed and silent, as light flooded the cavern.

  “No!” Khala was crying. “No, not again, not to another dead place—”

  Seven recognized that light. It was the same brilliant illumination they had seen just before an entire planet winked out of existence, only to return devastated. Rocks seemed to appear from nowhere, and Paris was in their path. Chakotay dove for Tom and knocked him out of harm’s way. Dust rose up, but they were all right. Chakotay looked at the light, at Khala, at his captain, then seized Paris and ran with him toward the heart of the light. He disappeared from view. They were gone.

  “The captain was correct,” said Seven. “Commander Chakotay obviously chose to enter the portal, and to take Ensign Paris with him.”

  “Cold comfort,” said B’Elanna, almost too softly to hear. Seven said nothing.

  Telek stepped forward and turned off the recording. “There is nothing further about the dark matter. Lieutenant, I believe it is obvious. Tialin thought to teach us by example. The amount of dark matter that was in this ship and its crew, which is now contained within the sphere, is infinitesimal compared to the amount that is still out there. Since I was not under the impression that she planned to drop by now and then to empty the orb for us, I suggest we begin working on how to create something similar of our own.”

  Seven narrowed her eyes. It was the first time she had seen Telek display humor.

  “Oh,” said Torres. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds so simple. Let’s get on it and we’ll be done in time for lunch.”

  Seven was about to reply when she realized that Torres was utilizing a form of speech called sarcasm. She kept her mouth closed and regarded the floating orb, which still kept its secrets. For the first time, Seven of Nine understood why Voyager’s chief engineer insisted on referring to it as That Damned Ball.

  CHAPTER

  3

  JEKRI KALEH, THE “LITTLE DAGGER,” CHAIRMAN OF the Romulan intelligence service the Tal Shiar, stood rigidly at attention on the left side of her Empress. All eyes were fixed on the viewscreen that occupied a full wall of the Senate Chamber.

  No one spoke, though Jekri knew that on this black day hearts were breaking and careers were crumbling. There, on the screen, was the only remaining warbird to have survived the encounter with the Federation starship Voyager in the Delta Quadrant.

  It was difficult for even Jekri, who held few ideals, to believe their project had come to this. It had been years in the planning. When Telek R’Mor had returned from his trip to the Delta Quadrant after having actually stepped aboard Voyager, Jekri had been waiting for him. He had been pressed into service, his fine mind and keen intellect put to the task of working for the Tal Shiar, along with the stranger, Ambassador Lhiau.

  Lhiau. It was a struggle to keep the hated name from blazing in her brain. Even as Jekri dragged her thoughts back to the viewscreen, she saw Lhiau turn and look at her briefly.

  He had come with an offer that had seemed too good to be true. He would give the Romulans cloaks made of dark matter which would render them utterly undetectable. In exchange, he wanted Romulan aid against some vaguely described “enemies.”

  It had seemed so simple, so straightforward so … Romulan. They would place Lhiau’s cloaks on thirteen warbirds and use Telek R’Mor’s wormhole technology to accomplish their goal: enter the Delta Quadrant, capture Voyager, and bring her back to be the new Romulan flagship in a total, crushing war against the Federation.

  But that wasn’t what had happened.

  What had happened was that either R’Mor had deserted or the Federation had kidnapped him. What had happened was that when they finally again located Voyager and sent their so-wonderfully-cloaked warbirds after her, the Federation vessel had destroyed all but one. What had happened was that one remaining warbird was left practically disintegrating before their eyes.

  And now, with a single word, the Empress was about to complete that process.

  Jekri began to fidget, just a little. When would the Empress give her command? All the crew aboard the ill-fated vessel had already succumbed to some strange sickness that ravaged their bodies and minds. This empty hull was all that was left. It was past time to consign it to its fate.

  The Empress licked her lips and cleared her throat. “Now,” was all she said.

  The screen exploded in white light that burned its way onto their retinas for a moment. When they could see again, small pieces of drifting wreckage were all that remained to mark where one of the mightiest vessels in the Romulan fleet had been.

  “This is your doing, Little Dagger,” said the Empress.

  Startled, Jekri turned. “My doing, Excellency?”

  “Yours,” repeated the Empress. “This project has been under your auspices for the last several years. It was you who permitted Telek R’Mor to escape. You did not foresee what his wormholes would do to our mighty warbirds.”

  Jekri did not even try to defend herself, though outrage flooded every cell. She stood even taller, taking the undeserved tongue-lashing the Empress for some strange reason saw fit to dole out in front of the entire Senate. She listened only with half an ear to the accusations of sloth, of carelessness, of not knowing things she had no way of knowing.

  Finally, like an ancient toy whose key has finished its revolutions, the Empress wound down. She pressed a slim, elegant hand to her temple for a moment and closed her eyes.

  She was obviously on edge. They all were. Jekri had been a target for a frustrated, alarmed young leader, that was all. Jekri hoped that if she could recognize it, the others assembled would as well.

  After a long, awkward moment, the Empress raised her head. “So the last warbird that went against the Federation Starship Voyager has been consigned to the emptiness of space,” she said. “Those who crewed the ships are all either dying or dead. I will not cast a false sheen of some token glory over this terrible incident. We lost, and we lost badly.”

  She rose to her full graceful height. There was a scraping sound of chairs being pushed back as the seated Senate rose with her.

  “This must not happen again. We must investigate what went wrong and see to it that it does not recur. Ambassador Lhiau has offered his knowledge, which exceeds ours in such matters. Like the ancient Earth creature the phoenix, we will rise from these dark ashes to our eventual triumph. Lhiau, attend me.”

  She swept from the hall in a shimmer of blue gossamer material, striding down the long stone hallway with her proud head held high. Lhiau followed her at a respectful distance.

  Jekri watched them go with narrowed eyes. She was not sure whether to be happy or regretful that the unfathomable yet utterly untrustworthy ambassador had chosen to cleave unto the Empress instead of the chairman of the Tal Shiar. She despised him and was glad of his absence, but wondered why he had taken this sudden interest in the Empress. She was beautiful and powerful. Could it simply be that?

  Jekri didn’t think that Lhiau would be involved with anything simple.

  The silence was profound. Jekri almost laughed. The Empress had never before risen and left in such an abrupt fashion, and all these senators didn’t know what to do under the circumstances.

  She glanced at the Praetor and lifted an eyebrow. He nodded slightly.

  “This assemblage is dismissed,” he said in his high, too-frail voice. “Long live the Empress!”


  Everyone present saluted the absent Empress and repeated, “Long live the Empress!”

  “Long live the Empire!”

  “Long live the Empire!” Now the hall, which had been so still a moment ago, was alive with murmurs and echoes as the Senate began to disperse.

  As Jekri began to stride down the hall, intent on returning to her own ship, the Tektral, to begin another set of hushed meetings with her second, Subcommander Verrak, the Praetor stopped her.

  “I admired your restraint, Chairman,” he said. “The Empress’s words were unfounded.”

  “Thank you, Praetor,” said Jekri. She again started to leave, a touch impatient.

  “Although,” continued the Praetor, matching her stride for stride as they walked down the enormous corridor, the colorful banners of every noble Romulan house hanging above their heads, “she did raise some interesting questions.”

  Jekri’s heart lurched. “How so?” She flashed her keen silver eyes at him, wondering what he knew, and from whom he had learned it.

  “It is indeed unfortunate that Telek R’Mor was able to escape to Voyager.”

  “You speak of nothing I do not already know,” Jekri retorted. “I have heard the most vigorous condemnation for that. There is much I would give to have the traitor safely in my grip at the present moment. Personally, it would make things easier for me and my people. Surely you must know that.”

  Yes, she thought, filling her mind with the images, he is a traitor. He was not abducted against his will. No, he chose to leave, and we did all we could to catch him. It was important that the thoughts feel utterly solid and sincere. Jekri suspected someone might be listening.

  The Praetor nodded. “So it appears.”

  Jekri halted abruptly, her temper rising. “I cannot speak against my Empress,” she said, “but you are not my royal leader. I grow weary of this subtle war of words. At least the Empress says what she thinks. What do you think, Praetor? What does the Proconsul think, and the Senate? Pray, tell me to my face!”

  “Odd words, coming from the Chairman of the Tal Shiar,” hissed the Praetor, his color rising. “From the Little Dagger who lurks in the shadows.”

  Jekri lifted a hand, ready to strike against this challenge to her hard-won honor. Only the Praetor and the Empress could call her by her former nickname, Little Dagger. She could not challenge the Empress, her sworn liege, but she was tense and nervous, and the Praetor was a colleague, not a queen. The Praetor was swifter. His fingers clamped down on her wrist. She would have bruises there in an hour. At once he let go and glanced about. Several people had seen them, and were still watching.

  “I think to warn you, veruul,” he hissed. “What are you doing, attempting to strike me in public in such a fashion?”

  “What are you doing, all but accusing me in public in such a fashion?”

  He ignored her and began walking again. She followed, her breath coming quickly.

  “I think you were very unlucky in R’Mor’s escape,” the Praetor said softly. “I think Lhiau dislikes you, and I think it is mutual. I think you may have overlooked something, and I think you need to get back into the Empress’s good graces very, very quickly. And I think, Little Dagger, that you need to watch your back.”

  * * *

  It was good to be aboard her own ship, with crew members she knew with reasonable certainty to be loyal to her. Jekri returned the salute the transporter operator gave her.

  “Welcome back, Honored Chairman,” said the young man.

  “Thank you. I will be in my quarters. Tell Subcommander Verrak to meet me there.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jekri noticed a slight smile on the lips of the transporter operator at her last words. Everyone aboard the Tektral thought that she and Verrak were having an affair. They had been just unsubtle enough about it to make sure the rumors flew. For a moment, Jekri felt a surge of irritation. Did her own crew think so little of her ability to keep a secret that they truly believed she’d let anything slip if she and Verrak were actually involved?

  Apparently so. It annoyed her.

  She strode down the halls, nodding to her crew, and entered her private quarters with a sigh of relief.

  Many high-ranking officials filled their quarters with items from their past. There was a sentimental streak in the Romulan nature—exhibited by Telek R’Mor, for example—that often prompted otherwise focused individuals to have holophotos of family and friends in their rooms. More understandable, to Jekri, was the penchant for trophies: pieces of an enemy battleship that had been destroyed by a mighty warbird, an artifact collected as tribute from a new world that had joined the Empire, medals and commendations and art.

  Jekri’s quarters were all but bare. Of her past, she wished no reminders. Even if she had possessed anything at all, who would desire being constantly reminded of a brutal, harsh, hand-to-mouth existence in the poorest province on the planet? As for war trophies, she had none to display. She had won the occasional medal or two, but they meant little to her and, save for when they were required wearing at formal occasions, they sat out of sight in a drawer.

  Anyway, she didn’t spend much time in her quarters. Unlike some of her predecessors, Jekri was not content to sit quietly in the shadows and manipulate. She moved among the shadows herself, though less often than she had in past years. She liked to be where the troublemakers were, and that was everywhere in the Empire. Quarters were for occasional periods of respite.

  The door hissed open and Verrak entered.

  “Were you seen?”

  “By one or two,” he answered. “I almost literally ran into Sharibor.” They both smiled a little; Sharibor Krel was known for her clumsiness.

  “Good,” Jekri replied. It would keep up the illusion of an illicit tryst. There was only one chair in the room. Verrak took it while Jekri seated herself on the bed. She anticipated there was going to be a lot of activity in this room over the next hour, but none of it would be physical.

  “With your permission, Chairman,” Verrak began, “I could not help but observe that you had words with the Praetor after the meeting.”

  Jekri scowled. “You and far too many other, less friendly eyes witnessed that. Yes, we had words. I do think he shares our dislike of … of him.”

  Ever since Jekri had discovered that Lhiau could read thoughts, she and Verrak had agreed to refer to him in private merely as “him.” Surely the utterance of the being’s name risked attracting unwanted attention. For the same reason, they had feigned this affair. If Lhiau thought they were coupling like hnoiyikar when they paired off and sought privacy, he was less likely to eavesdrop on their thoughts. She detected contempt from him as well. So much the better. One does not pay much attention to something one believes is beneath one’s dignity.

  Her only regret was that she had played upon Verrak’s known, but unspoken, feelings for her. For that she was sorry, but the higher need drove her.

  “Everyone shares our dislike of him,” said Verrak.

  Jekri leaned back, thinking. “Not everyone. Do you recall his treatment of our Empress? When he first came, he was as rude to her as he was to all of us. But at the last several Senate gatherings, he has been all concern and compassion for the tragic deaths of our people. I trust that less than I trusted his contempt. He also has not contacted us as much as he did in the beginning. He has done with us, Verrak, which could be a good thing. But he has not done with the Empress.”

  Her silver eyes gazed at the ceiling of her quarters, but she did not see its flat, cool blue surface. She saw a weeping Empress, young and vulnerable, and a calculating alien who would take his chance where he could.

  “No, Verrak. He has not done with her at all.”

  INTERLUDE

  HOW LONG HAD THE ENTITY BEEN DRIFTING? SECONDS? Centuries? It did not know. It was beyond the confines of the thing called time, and merely was.

  Gradually, oh so gradually, it became aware of another presence besides itself. Curiosity stirred,
a familiar sensation, though one not experienced for some time. It sent out its curiosity, and was answered.

  We know what you are. The words came without voice or even sound, permeating the Entity’s consciousness. That amused it a little. Amusement. Another sensation with which it had once been familiar. Interesting. It was amused because it itself had no idea what it was. It thought this.

  You will soon find out, reassured the other Presence. We can aid you in that quest, if you will aid us in ours.

  Quest. Not a task, not a job, not an errand or assistance. A quest. A noble term. The Entity understood nobility. It wondered what this quest might be.

  The other Presence now seemed to hesitate, then it conveyed its intentions and reasons without words.

  An anger, a rage so intense it could not be contained. A hatred of things the way they were and a desire to bring about change. Any change. At any cost. Lies. Deceit. Manipulation and greed and a burning desire for conquest. Pain. Pain! Though the Entity had no corporeal body, it writhed with the agony of the images presented by the Presence. Fear, washing over the Entity like something tangible. Death. Destruction.

  The end of things.

  The end of everything.

  The Entity was in torment, wondering what it could possibly do to stop so great an evil with so vast a reach.

  At once the images changed. The Entity was made aware of planet systems, of sentient beings, of vast clusters of something that was once natural and harmless turned into an instrument of destruction.

  It understood what the Presence wanted, and why it wanted it. And the Entity agreed to lend its aid.

  CHAPTER

  4

  “YOU’RE AN INTERCEPTOR, SHAMRAA EZBAI REMILKANSUUR,” growled the Implementer. “That means you are supposed to intercept.”

  Ezbai’s face was expressionless. “I understand the duties of my position, sir.”

  “Apparently, you do not. What were you doing while two alien life-forms manifested in Culilann territory? Puttering in the garden? Painting a picture?” Scorn dripped from the Implementer’s words. His face was flushed deep blue with rage. For a brief, angry moment, Ezbai hoped he’d have a seizure and keel over. Anything to stop this so-called interview that was actually more of a mental torture session.