Ghost Dance

by Christie Golden

  Ezbai and his whole family had, in fact, been otherwise engaged at the time when the aliens had appeared. His sister Khala had been seated at the table on one of her rare visits home when a strange light had exploded from nowhere. By the time they could see again, Khala had vanished.

  He had reported it at once, of course. Within moments, teams had arrived at the domicile, sweeping with information recorders, taking gauges of radiation, looking for any signs of alien intervention. They had found nothing. Khala had been there, and then she had not.

  They buzzed about abductions, transportation devices, off-world kidnappers who looked for slaves to trade. Ezbai had done what pathetically little he could to calm his wild, grief-stricken, elderly parents. The teams sent by the Order did nothing to help. There had been the insistent chirping of his communications console, but he had ignored it. He found out only when he entered this office ten clicks ago that it had been an alien intruder alert in Section 40329—Ezbai’s section. And Ezbai was an interceptor.

  And now here was the head of the Order, the fat and rude Implementer, calling him a gardener or a painter. Ezbai’s attention had lapsed, perhaps, but surely the circumstances were understandable. There was no need for such insults.

  “You know very well what I was occupied with at that time, Implementer.” Ezbai’s voice was carefully controlled. “My sister disappeared, and—”

  “And there were teams taking care of the incident,” retorted the Implementer. Standing on his feet and raging at Ezbai was exhausting him, so he sank back into his chair and popped an articrunch into his mouth. His jowls shook as he chewed. Ezbai fought the urge to leap up and throttle his superior. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his fingers probably couldn’t tighten sufficiently around the thick neck to do the job.

  “They were going about their business, Shamraa Ezbai. You should have been about yours. Do you know that by this time the aliens are well into the Ordeal? Barbaric custom, that. Makes my skin prickle just to think about it. No food, no water, just prayers.” He shuddered and reached for a fistful of the artificially manufactured crispy treats. “They’re lucky to be alive.”

  That last line revived Ezbai. “They’re still alive? Your report said that they were gravely injured.”

  The Implementer frowned. “What did I just say? Our spy reports that they are still alive, though of course the Culilann haven’t done anything to dress their wounds. The Culil authorized feeding the aliens fruit from their Holy Tree.”

  “Sacred Plant,” Ezbai corrected absently. His mind was racing. If they were alive, they could be gotten out. To a degree, the obese Implementer was right. Ezbai was the interceptor in charge of the section in question. Within minutes of getting the notification, he should have had a team out there scouting the area to get to the aliens before the Culilann did.

  The report certainly was intriguing. A new race that had seemingly appeared on the planet without detection. No ship in orbit, no energy residue detectable. It was as if they’d just manifested, like something out of a primitive Culilann folktale. Still, even if Ezbai hadn’t been otherwise engaged, he would have been hard-pressed to locate and intercept the aliens in time. Normally, an interceptor’s job was nothing so exciting as tracking aliens on the planet on foot. They picked up communications, or noticed ships approaching the planet. There was an excellent communications system in place among the Alilann, and it had seldom failed.

  Always a first time, he thought. Then what the Implementer had just said fully registered. Ezbai sat upright and repeated, “The Culil authorized feeding them the fruit of the Sacred Plant?”

  The Implementer scowled. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me to repeat myself. Should you see the doctor and have your hearing checked?”

  “But … that’s unheard of!” Ezbai sputtered. “No one save the religious order ever partakes of the fruit of the Sacred Plant. What is the Culil trying to do?”

  “Our spy was as puzzled as we were,” said the Implementer with a full mouth. Crumbs of articrunch flew from his lips as he spoke. “There may be more sympathy with us than we had previously imagined.”

  “That would be all to the good, if it were true. Will the Silent One be able to assist us once the aliens are released from the ordeal?”

  “Negative. We do not wish to risk exposing our sources.”

  Ezbai sighed. It would make things so much easier, but he understood the Implementer’s reasoning. This particular spy, who went by the code name Silent One, had been planted years ago. The story was unassailable. They’d never had anyone planted so deep, in such an important position, in any of the sections before. There was very little that would justify exposing the Silent One, and these two aliens, intriguing though they were, weren’t reason enough.

  He would have to send in a recovery team. On the spur of the moment, Ezbai decided that he would lead them. He had the training and the authority, although it was a long time since he had practiced simulation runs as part of his training. It would help get his mind off Khala. Besides, it would be fun.

  Ezbai sat up straighter. “All right. Here is my strategy.”

  * * *

  The night that it rained, Chakotay and Tom stood beneath the grates with open mouths.

  At first the rain, thick with mud and chalky tasting, cooled their fevered bodies and felt wonderful. After a few moments, though, they both started to shiver as their uniforms got soaked and their skin temperatures dropped. Still, they stood, mouths open, parched tongues seeking any kind of moisture.

  Chakotay had a fleeting moment of black humor as he realized that, to anyone observing them, they would resemble nothing so much as baby birds waiting for Mama to stuff worms into their mouths. He thought about relaying the humorous image to Tom, but decided against it. Tom was very ill and even his famous wry wit had dissipated under the days of torment they’d been forced to endure.

  Chakotay swallowed a mouthful of muddy water. His stomach roiled. It was now two days since they’d devoured the bitter-tasting fruit of the apparently sacred tree, and his belly was utterly empty. It wanted pure, cool water, a sip at a time, and some dry toast to ease it back to normal functioning. What it did not want, but he knew his body needed, was this foul, sludgy mess that passed for rainwater. He clenched his teeth against the rising gorge. He needed it, every bit of moisture, and he’d be damned if he’d vomit it away.

  Tom doubled over, clearly having the same battle as Chakotay had with his sullen, shrunken stomach. He, too, managed to keep the water down. For now.

  Paris was in bad shape. Chakotay had employed all his field training to dress their wounds, but without even water to cleanse away dirt or bandages to protect them, his efforts had been of little help. He knew the lacerations on his own stomach were infected. In darker, more exhausted moments, he fancied he could even smell the sweet, sickly stench of gangrene. Tom’s arm was definitely in bad shape. There was nothing, not even twigs, to hold the set Chakotay had tried to give it on their first day here. Tom’s screams of agony still rang in his ears. He had not tried again. There was no point in simply tormenting Paris.

  They had come through whatever portal it was that they had entered when Chakotay, pulling Tom with him, had leaped into the light. Chakotay had had no sensation of movement at all. When the light faded, they were standing in a grassy meadow on the edge of a rain forest, blinking at the illumination of not some fey, incomprehensible light, but the simple pure radiance of twin suns.

  “What happened?” Tom had asked, looking around and blinking.

  “I’m not sure,” said Chakotay. He tapped his combadge. It chirped reassuringly. “The combadges still work, at least. We’ll be able to talk with anyone we encounter.” He looked at Tom. “And get you some medical attention.”

  “You too,” Paris replied, his gaze on Chakotay’s torn belly. “That is, if there are any inhabitants here.”

  Chakotay’s gaze fell upon a white building in the distance. It gleamed in the light,
a beautiful contrast to the azure sky. “I’d say there are inhabitants. Let’s go.”

  They began walking toward the large white building. Soft blue-green grass yielded beneath their boots. “Chakotay, what is going on? Why did you haul me with you through that portal?”

  Chakotay didn’t answer at once. “I’m not sure I understand it completely myself. When the light manifested in the cavern and the boulders fell through, I realized that they would weigh about as much as I did. Two of them would equal two human males. Khala started screaming that this was exactly what happened when she had been pulled to the planet against her will, and I made some kind of connection.”

  He shook his head. Sweat began to gleam on his brow. With two suns, this was a warm planet. It was clearly tropical as well, if the level of humidity was any indication.

  “Once, the light appeared and Khala came through. It appeared again, and boulders came through. It somehow made sense that we had to go to the place where the boulders came from, to keep the balance.”

  “Pretty wild idea, don’t you think?”

  Chakotay frowned. “It seems like it now, but at the moment—Tom, somehow I knew it was right. I didn’t even have a chance to explain it to the captain, or you.”

  “Why me?” Paris smiled a little. “Does this strange place you’ve dragged us to require a dashing blond ensign?”

  “If so, I’d have brought along Ensign Jenkins. She’s pretty dashing.” They exchanged grins, then Chakotay sobered. “Sorry, Tom, you were just the closest body.”

  “Yeah, I got that a lot at the Academy.” The joking over, he asked, “Okay, I believe in hunches, and let’s say this was a good one. The fact remains that we don’t know where the hell we are, or how to get back to Voyager.”

  Chakotay didn’t answer. He had no answers to give.

  They walked on, the beautiful building growing closer. A shrill voice stopped them in their tracks.

  “Halt! You are trespassing on sacred ground!”

  They turned to see a beautiful young woman dressed in flowing robes of gray and blue. Her long, pale blue hair fell almost to the grass and was unbound. The wind played with it. Chakotay thought her one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, except for the icy expression of hauteur on her lovely blue-skinned features. Her fingers gripped a basket full of what seemed to be herbs.

  “Please forgive us,” said Chakotay. “We did not realize we were trespassing on your holy place.” As he spoke, he was sizing her up. She was obviously from Khala’s race, but there was no indication on her person that she was from an advanced civilization: no communication devices, no weapons that he could see. Nothing about the building—temple of some sort, he now supposed it to be—gave any hint that this was a post-warp-technology civilization. Until they knew for certain, the Prime Directive would have to be in full force. Khala might be from an advanced civilization, but not every cluster of people on every planet progressed at the same pace.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You are wounded.”

  “Yes. We require attention, especially my friend. His arm is broken. Is there a … a healer among you?”

  The woman gathered the basket closer to her, putting up a barrier between herself and them. “You are Strangers, of a sort with which we are unfamiliar. How did you get here?”

  “It’s a very long story,” said Paris before Chakotay could interrupt. He smiled, charmingly. “Please … could you help us?”

  The woman straightened. “You are Strangers,” she repeated. “I am not permitted to interact with you. I have already done too much and will need to be purged of my transgression. Wait here. I will send someone.”

  Without another word, she turned and strode toward the building. They watched her go.

  “Friendly sort,” said Paris. “Makes Khala seem positively gushy.”

  “Yes,” said Chakotay, not really paying attention. “She is definitely of Khala’s species.”

  “Do we wait?”

  “Unless you want me to set that broken arm myself, we wait,” said Chakotay.

  They had waited, foolishly. And men armed with clubs and scythes and spears had come and herded them into the village. In the center of the market square there had been a pit. A pit Chakotay had come to know all too well.

  Now, as he stood still openmouthed, awaiting the foul-tasting rainwater, he wished with all his heart that he had fled with Tom. Even his second-year Academy training would have set the arm and kept it clean. In a world where five minutes with the Doctor cured broken bones, lacerations, even disease, Chakotay was now vividly reminded of how fragile the human body could be. It had its wonders, too, its miracles of healing, but only so much could be done in a filthy, muddy pit. He did not say so to Tom, and did not want to admit it to himself, but he was growing fearful for his companion’s life.

  When the rain stopped, there was nearly a third of a meter of mud in the pit. Nonetheless, Chakotay guided Tom down with him and drew their injured bodies close. Warmth, muddy and smelly as it was, was warmth, and right now their chilled bodies needed it.

  Impossibly, they fell asleep. Chakotay woke to bright sun streaming in, its light unbroken by the patterning of the grate. Blinking, he stared upward. Someone’s head was silhouetted against the blue sky.

  “Your Ordeal is over,” said Soliss. “For the Crafters’ sakes, come out and let me treat you.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  AS HARRY KIM TOOK KHALA ON A TOUR OF THE SHIP, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Specifically, about her DNA.

  How could Khala look so ordinary? She was perfectly humanoid, almost exactly formed like a human save for that beautiful blue that tinted to various degrees hair, skin, and eyes. And yet, she was almost a mirror image of “humanoid” as they understood it. She was one of the most … alien aliens they had ever met. He couldn’t reconcile what he knew about her with the woman he saw, her face animated and curious, her voice soft and pleasant.

  And she was smart, too. Her questions indicated a thorough familiarity with all of the physics upon which Federation technology was based. At one point, when he was explaining to her how the bioneural gel packs worked, she exclaimed, “How quaint!” before clapping a hand to her mouth and apologizing.

  “Harry, I’m so sorry. I seem to be offending you with every word I say.”

  “Not at all,” he said, and meant it. “We’ve encountered many different species, both during our time here in the Delta Quadrant and back home. Some are more advanced than we are, some less. But we learn something valuable from every encounter.”

  “You are very kind,” she said. “And I’m grateful for it.”

  “Tell me more about your people, your planet.” He wasn’t making polite chitchat. He really wanted to know. He was fascinated by her … by her strange cellular structure, of course. Harry wanted to know everything.

  “We’ve met many different races, too,” said Khala as they walked down a corridor. “We do a great deal of trade today with off-worlders. ‘We’ meaning the Alilann, of course.”

  “Tell me about the Alilann and the Culilann. Are they another species on your planet?”

  Her pert little nose wrinkled. “They might just as well be. They’re more ‘alien’ to me than you are. Completely incomprehensible. But no, sadly, they’re just a different caste.”

  “You have a caste system?” The thought disturbed Harry. He’d been raised to think that anyone could do anything he or she set mind and heart to. Even the distinction humans had once drawn between male and female capabilities, which had embarrassingly persisted into recent history, had at last been put to rest. He couldn’t imagine living in a caste system, where you were born to a certain role no matter what your innermost longings might be. He was careful not to let his distress show in his voice.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “It evolved hundreds of years ago and it’s worked very well for both our people. They keep to themselves and their ways, and we do likewise. We are the Alilann. In
the old, archaic speech, it means ‘seekers of things unmade.’ The others are the Culilann, which means ‘seekers of things of the world.’ ”

  “That doesn’t sound like it would give rise to conflict,” said Harry.

  “Millennia ago, we were all like the Culilann,” said Khala. “We were a primitive people, living in buildings made of wood and stone, eating food we grew, killing animals for their flesh and hides. This was so long ago, there aren’t even records, save for paintings on stones. We didn’t even have a written language. The stone pictures tell us that another race came from, we realize now, another planet. They preyed upon us and devastated what little there was of civilization. Worse than that, they brought some kind of disease with them. We were nearly wiped out. Only those who fled from the Strangers, as we call them, survived.”

  “What happened then?” asked Harry, engrossed.

  “The survivors were of two minds. Some thought they had displeased their gods, the Crafters, in some way and that to atone they needed to devote themselves totally toward an agrarian life. Others were angry, and wanted to be able to defend themselves should this ever happen again. The two drifted apart. My people, the Alilann, devoted themselves to civilizing our people. We created defenses, weapons, cures for diseases, the ability to create our own food without being dependent upon anyone or anything.” She spoke with a great deal of pride. “We developed into the highly technological race we are now.”

  “And the Culilann?” asked Harry.

  “They haven’t changed in centuries,” she sniffed. “Worshipping their Crafters, digging in the dirt for meager food, living in hovels that leak when it rains. They don’t design, they make. With their hands. They paint and sculpt and shape clay and fashion something they call ‘instruments’ that they make noises with. Wasteful activities. If we’d all gone that route, we’d have been exterminated the next time another race decided we were worth troubling with. The Culilann owe their very existence to the Alilann!”