He handed the empty bowl back to Yurula, who smiled at his appetite. “Would you like some more?”
“Yes, please. It’s delicious.”
“Before you have a second bowl,” said Soliss, “please put these on. If my guess is right, we may have need of your bed soon.”
“More injured?” Suddenly Chakotay wasn’t hungry. He reached for the soft robe-like garment Soliss handed him, spun by Culilann hands, and slipped it over his head.
“No,” said Soliss, chuckling. “A blessed event. It is almost Winnif’s time. I would not turn a sick man out of bed, Chakotay, but I’d want to make sure a woman giving birth has a comfortable place. If you will pardon me, I am going to see how she fares.”
Chakotay found himself smiling. Life does go on, he thought. His mind went back to the last time he had seen his shipmates. Were they all right? Janeway had accepted the Shepherd’s so-called quest to locate others and help them rid themselves of the deadly dark matter. Had they been successful? Were they able to utilize the alien technology, put it to work for a good cause? And what had they learned about Khala, the poor, misplaced Alilann? Had she told them about these craftsmen and farmers, healers and weavers?
Were they looking for him?
Would they find him?
He ate a second bowl of the delicious and no doubt nourishing soup. He had to get his strength up if he and Tom were to leave. Chakotay had not endured the Ordeal in a pleasant frame of mind, but he had known kindness at the hands of Yurula and Soliss, and he was not going to make a sweeping condemnation of these people. They had their own ways, and Chakotay respected that. Yet it was becoming increasingly clear to him that the only way he and Tom could hope to contact Voyager was to contact the Alilann first and make use of their technology.
He finished the soup, worked the soft robe about his frame, and swung his legs to the floor. The soles of his feet tingled, as if they had not touched earth in far too long. When he rose, he was unsteady on his feet, and if it had not been for Yurula’s swift movements he would have fallen. She slipped beneath his arm and held him up.
“Come sit by the fire,” she said, “while we change the bedclothes.”
He wobbled a little as he walked, but made it to the fire. Yurula eased him down and began to gather the soiled clothes. She stirred the herbs on which Chakotay had been lying, bruising them and sending a burst of fresh scent into the air, then placed clean cloths on the bed.
Chakotay turned his attention to Tom, who slept on. Chakotay thought that sleep was probably the best thing for the injured conn officer. There was a ceramic carafe and cup beside Tom’s makeshift bed, and Chakotay guessed they got a little bit of water into him from time to time.
His own wounds had been superficial—a sprain, simple skin lacerations, nothing more. Yet even his injuries had become infected and gangrenous. Tom’s had been much worse. A broken arm, with the bone poking through the skin—bad news even under the best conditions. Here, it could be a deadly threat.
Hang on, Tom, he thought fiercely.
The door opened and Soliss entered, guiding an extremely pregnant young woman. It had to be the aforementioned Winnif. Chakotay mentally congratulated Soliss on his observation; he’d been right on target about today being Winnif’s time.
She beamed from ear to ear, showing no signs of the pain that human women endured. Chakotay remembered what Seska had once told him, back in the days when they were lovers. He’d expressed some concerns about pregnancy. She had told him that if she did get pregnant and chose to carry the child to term, the birth would be easy on her as she was a Bajoran.
Of course, Chakotay mused bitterly, she hadn’t been a Bajoran, but a Cardassian spy. And she had gotten pregnant, but not by him, though she had tried.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the bitter memories, and focused on the simple happiness that the young woman emanated. Yurula eased her onto the bed, smiling along with her, and Soliss placed a beautifully carved and painted screen in front of the bed so that the birth might occur in private.
An astonishingly short time passed, and then Chakotay heard the lusty wail of a newborn crying for air.
Life. It went on.
The pleasure ebbed as he saw Yurula, with tears on a face that was nonetheless staunchly resolute, rush out the door with the crying baby. He couldn’t hear what Soliss murmured to the young woman, but her cry of anguish shattered the air.
“No! No, not my baby, I have prayed, I have done nothing wrong, no, no—”
“I am so sorry, but the Crafters have called for your child. It is an honor, Winnif, an honor.”
But Winnif sobbed and sobbed, and Chakotay knew that the new mother felt that whatever was happening to her baby, regardless of Soliss’s calm, gentle words, did not feel like an honor to her.
“Let me take you home,” said Soliss. “You should be with your family now.” Physically, Winnif seemed well enough, aside from her tear-streaked, blank face. Clearly, recovery from birth was instantaneous in this race. The door closed shut, and Chakotay was left alone.
The Crafters, he surmised, were the gods of these people. Perhaps the baby was born with a mark that indicated he was to be raised by whoever served the Culilann as shamans, or priests. Such a separation would be hard on a mother, but surely such a child would be well looked after and loved.
After a time, Soliss returned. He looked as though he had aged a decade. Wearily, he sat down by the fire. For a long time he did not speak. Chakotay respected his silence. Finally Soliss rose and went to Paris. He checked his vital signs and eased the ensign up into a sitting position. As Chakotay had suspected, Soliss got a little water down Paris’s throat, then laid him down.
“You have seen only the harshness of our people,” he said, not looking at Chakotay. “We must seem like the worst of primitive barbarians to you. You have undergone the Ordeal, and now must witness the Surrender. Would that you could see our brighter, more life-affirming celebrations. Well, you will, once you are healed.”
“I don’t understand,” said Chakotay. “You said the baby had been claimed by the Crafters. Is he or she to be raised in a holy house of some sort?”
Now Soliss did look up, and grief warred with anger on his face. “The holiest house of all,” he said. “The house of Nature itself. The child was born with a clubfoot. We are not permitted to keep such children. Yurula has taken it to the sacred mountain and left it there for the Crafters to take. They always do. At least,” he added, “something always does. In my darker moments, I fear that it is not the Crafters, but their predatory children, the beasts of the woods. There are not many of them, but what there are, particularly the islaak, are fearsome. And prey is scarce these days.”
Chakotay stared at the bleak expression. He felt the blood draining from his face. Now he recalled that every person he had seen here had been whole and straight. No blindness, no missing limbs, no twisted spines, nothing that one might expect from what was essentially a primitive culture. There was no one who was even remotely homely among their number. Now he knew the reason for that.
The Culilann killed their imperfect children, and sweetened the horror with a sugary dusting of faith.
CHAPTER
9
JEKRI HAD SAID NOTHING, NOT EVEN TO VERRAK. BETTER that he not know. That way, he could not be forced to tell. She, of all people, knew that if the Tal Shiar wanted to know something, it had the means to do so. She had merely told him that she was pursuing another lead and that she would be periodically out of contact over the next few days.
She had forgotten how beautiful the outskirts of the city of Tal K’shir were. Certainly, an effort had been made in the city to have the occasional garden or grassy area, but that was a pale imitation of the vast expanse of green, growing things that stretched to the horizon here, away from the city. She had seldom ventured beyond her offices and her vessel. Sometimes she felt like a spider, wrapped securely in her web, thousands of tiny strands reaching from her to the
outside. Jekri’s intelligence officers were all individually selected for loyalty, intellect, and evidence that they knew how to think on their feet. She respected all of them and trusted most of them.
But she was on her own now, lingering over an ale in a tavern while the soft, muted light cast everything into comfortable shadow. In the corner, a single flute player piped a soft tune. In the heart of the city, it was cheaper to use computerized music; live performers were prohibitively expensive. But out here, the songs that came from a player’s fingers cost very little. Outfitting the entire tavern with a computer system was not an option.
Despite the urgency of her mission, Jekri felt the tension melt off her shoulders like wax. Had it really been that long since she had put aside her uniform and spent some time simply sitting in a tavern?
The ale was strong. Surely that was it. Jekri took another sip, a small one, and her silver gaze flitted around the tavern for the hundredth time.
This tavern was the hotbed, her source had assured her. Jekri had rolled her eyes at the term. A handful of Romulans whispering in a tavern was hardly a “hotbed” of anything. She had dismissed the report, filing it away. Now, she was glad of the thoroughness of that intelligence gatherer. It could save her life.
Two Romulans, a male and a female, entered together. They tried to move casually, as if they were no more than a couple patronizing a tavern for a drink before dinner, or perhaps before something more intimate. And they probably would have fooled anyone else, but Jekri had almost a sixth sense about deception. She had practiced it enough to recognize it in another’s manner.
The laughter was too loud. The movements too free. And the way they kept looking about, although it was painfully obvious that they were trying not to be noticed, practically shouted that they were here not for an innocent ale, but for something much more risky.
She continued to watch them as they took a seat in the darkest corner of the room. The pale green illumination globe on their table was the only light, but it was enough for the sharp-eyed Jekri.
Jekri couldn’t hear their conversation over the droning sound of the flute and the chatter of the other patrons, but she didn’t need to. She had a clear line of vision; that would suffice. Reading lips was a skill she’d mastered almost before she had reached puberty.
“He told me he won’t be able to attend the meeting tonight,” said the woman.
“Is he being watched?” asked the man, his body language revealing his anxiety.
“He’s not sure and he doesn’t want to risk it.”
Jekri smiled to herself. No one was watching these people, except of course for her.
“Perhaps we should move the meeting place,” the woman continued, her uncertainty plain on her face even as she pretended to peruse the list of alcoholic beverages the establishment provided.
“I think you may be worried over nothing,” said the man, reaching out to cover her hand with his own. “We’re small, yet. There’s nothing for the Tal Shiar to fear.”
You’re half right. The Tal Shiar couldn’t care less about you, thought Jekri. But the chairman of the Tal Shiar …
“The children are starting to ask questions, according to Mairih,” said the woman.
“Then let her bring them,” said the man. “I still have the toys I played with as a child, and I know you do too. We have no children to pass them on to. Let us give them to Tonna and Dral.”
A server stepped forward, blocking Jekri’s view. She waited patiently as he took their order and moved away.
Eagerly the two returned to their illicit conversation. Jekri wondered if they were more interested in doing something forbidden than in the theories and culture they were allegedly devoted to reviving.
She was disappointed that they spoke aloud, even though it made it fool’s work to eavesdrop on their conversation. She had hoped—well, she was unwise to hope. Perhaps the skills she sought to learn from these people could not be taught. Perhaps all they did was gather clandestinely, read old books, and dream of a future that could not possibly happen. Perhaps they did not truly study the disciplines. She had seen such things in so-called “enemies of the state” before—not a genuine yearning for something different, only a desire to be daring and rebellious, to do something illicit for the sake of doing so, not for any real cause or belief. She hoped she was wrong about this particular group.
The couple now began to chat about aimless things, and though she continued to watch their lips move, Jekri learned nothing new. They ordered soup and a salad of greens. It looked good. Jekri had the same thing, and was surprised at how delicious real food, freshly prepared, tasted to her. She had been living solely on replicated fare for months, perhaps years. Food had become little more than a source of nutrition, and it was certainly not an occasion for pleasure.
She paced her meal with theirs, finishing as they did. They did not rush through their meal, but did not seem to be enjoying it overmuch. Now and then the female would glance around. Jekri willed herself to melt into the background, and the woman’s eyes slid right over her. The chairman of the Tal Shiar could command the attention of the entire Senate with a word or two, or she could be utterly inconspicuous if she so chose. That was an old, old skill, one that had saved her life in dark alleyways and taverns far more run-down than this one.
The specter of her past had long arms, and Jekri willed the memories away. She valued the skills the past had taught her, but she had no wish to linger there overlong. She lived in the present, and in the present, the couple she was stalking had paid and were leaving.
Jekri did likewise, scattering a few coins on the table and heading out the door before her targets. She huddled in the darkness of an alley, her back pressed against chill stone, as they exited and strode purposefully down the street.
In her early days with the Tal Shiar, she had been given many assignments like this. She smiled a little, recalling those days. She had been a hissing, spitting cat of a girl, full of rage and a desire to prove herself. No one had expected her to be as disciplined as she was, as skilled at silence, stalking, and striking. But she was then, and was still. She followed the utterly unsuspecting couple through the twists and turns of the dark streets, through the fields that boasted swaying harvests of grains and fruits, and down a dirt road. Ahead was a small stone house. The lights were on.
The couple did not complete their journey alone. In small groups of one or two, others joined them. They sometimes embraced the newcomers, hoisting a small child affectionately. By the time the group had arrived at the stone house, their number had swollen to eleven, if one counted the children.
Jekri hesitated. Normally, if she wanted to infiltrate this group, she would have marked the meeting place and turned and left in silence. She would concentrate on one or two of them, befriend them, win their trust with the occasional “slip” of the tongue that showed she was sympathetic to their cause. Gradually, they would decide she could keep their pathetic little secret and invite her to one of their meetings.
But that would take time, and judging by her treatment at the banquet, time was short and growing shorter. Jekri did not have the luxury of a perfect infiltration. Bolder measures were needed; a gamble had to be taken.
She weighed the options. Few in the common populace had access to energy weapons of any sort. And considering the values this particular group claimed to espouse, weapons and aggression would be the last things Jekri would find inside the stone walls of that building.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders in the earth-hued, makeshift robes she’d managed to find. She felt for her own weapon, hidden in the long, rectangular sleeves. A quick shake would bring it right into her palm if she needed to use it.
“Fortune favors the brave” was an Earther’s saying that had found its way into the Romulan tongue, and Jekri knew it was right.
Boldly, she strode toward the door. She did not knock. She gripped the knob, twisted it, and opened the door.
She
heard gasps. It would have amused her, had her mission not been so dire. There they sat, two dozen or so men, women, and children. They occupied every chair and every inch of the floor. Children played with small triangular toys inscribed with strange markings; Jekri could guess at their meaning. The eldest one present was in the center of the room, a book spread across her knees. That ancient tome alone would have condemned her without another word being said. As one, they all stared at Jekri in horror, their eyes wide, their mouths open with shock.
“My name is Jekri Kaleh,” she stated. “I am the chairman of the Tal Shiar. I am armed and prepared to use my weapon if necessary. This is not a raid. I demand that you teach me everything you know about Vulcan mental disciplines, or I shall kill you all.”
There was no immediate response. Jekri grew irritated. “You,” she said to the woman holding the book. “You are Dammik R’Kel, aren’t you? A few of the rest of you are her children and grandchildren. We have all your names on file. At any moment, we could seize you, your homes, and everything you own. I have no wish to do this, but I do require your knowledge.”
Still silence. Jekri locked eyes with the matriarch, Dammik R’Kel. Can you read thoughts, old woman? Has studying Vulcan disciplines taught you how to do that?
No immediate response, as with Lhiau. In fact, the woman’s face didn’t change. Disappointment knifed through Jekri. What would she do now?
“Why do you wish to learn this, child?” said Dammik in a deep, mellifluous voice. “I know why the rest have come, but from what I know of the Tal Shiar, they would call what we are doing here treason.”
“Mother!” snapped the young man Jekri had followed to his parent’s house. “There’s no need to tell her anything.” He lifted his chin. “You followed us. I remember you from the tavern. You’ll learn nothing here. We will die first.”
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