“I shall, Captain.”
Ulaahn turned to Janeway. “Prepare to beam my crew aboard, Captain. They are in your capable hands.”
* * *
By the time they had transported thirty Kwaisi and completely eliminated all traces of dark matter from their systems, Torres was beginning to feel cautiously optimistic. At one point, during a brief break, she glanced at the hovering ball with something akin to affection. They were all getting used to the awful screeching noise the ball emitted every time they utilized it as a conduit for the dark matter. Seven had adjusted her ocular implant to account for the bright, bloodred light so that she, unlike the others, was not forced to look away and could continue working.
With Janeway’s permission, they rotated their own crew with those of the alien vessels. One by one, slowly but steadily, the crews of all the ships were being purged of the deadly dark matter. Everyone in engineering had been transported and reassembled. Torres couldn’t speak for everyone, but she knew she felt calmer and more stable now that she knew the dreadful stuff was no longer in her tissues.
So far, everything was performing without a flaw. Khala was monitoring the status of their warp bubble universe and just kept nodding her head every time. All was well there. It pleased Torres to watch the affected Kwaisi enter as hostile, frightened, or otherwise mentally disturbed beings and emerge after the transport slightly stunned and sometimes sheepish, but sane.
Results. Torres liked results.
“Lieutenant Torres,” came Seven’s cool voice.
Please, no problems, not now that we’ve finally figured this out. “What is it, Seven?”
“Because of the adjustment to my ocular implant, I have been able to monitor the sensors during the last several transports. There is something you should all see.”
Torres exchanged glances with Telek and Khala. Silently, they all left their posts and went to stand beside Seven’s console.
“At the precise moment when the dark matter is transmitted into the sphere,” said Seven, “there appears an encircling field of some sort of radiation. It dissipates almost immediately once the dark matter is transferred to the warp-core bubble.”
She deftly touched the controls, and an animated graphic appeared. “I shall play back the sensor readings of the last three transports. Observe.”
They watched in apprehensive silence as the graphic displayed the process of dematerializing one of the aliens, separating his healthy molecules from those of the dark matter, and placing the dark matter particles into the orb.
Exactly as Seven had described, a perfectly spherical field suddenly appeared around the Shepherd’s orb. It lasted only as long as the dark matter was contained within it, and then it quickly dissipated. Twice more, the same thing occurred, except—
“Damn it.” Angrily Torres rubbed her eyes and blinked. “I’m hoping I’m just tired and my eyes are playing tricks on me, but I don’t think so. Seven, check this for me. Is it just me or is the radiation field around the orb growing larger with each dematerialization?”
Quickly Seven did the calculations, then gazed at Torres with new respect. “You have excellent vision, Lieutenant. You are correct. The circumference of the radiation field around the orb has increased point zero six percent with each transport.” She looked at her colleagues in turn.
“I believe this has been occurring ever since the orb was activated. There is no indication as to the purpose for the manifestation of this field, or whether it is harmful.”
Torres turned and stared at the hovering purple sphere. It was their only hope to remove the dark matter from these affected, infected people. And now it was emitting some sort of field that grew more powerful every time they used it. What were they going to do? The orb was all they had.
“That damned ball,” Torres said, with feeling.
CHAPTER
11
INTERCEPTOR SHAMRAA EZBAI REMILKANSUUR WAS convinced that the trauma of seeing his sister disappear right in front of his eyes had rendered him temporarily insane. It was the only explanation. Otherwise, he would never have opted to lead a recovery party at all, let alone think such a thing would be “fun.”
How could he have forgotten the unpleasantness of the sim runs he had undergone as part of his training? A holosim training exercise was grueling enough, and there was always a shower and clean clothes and fine, replicated food waiting for him at the end of the ordeal.
Now he was out with his team of ten subordinates, sitting in a hot, steamy jungle while hot, steamy rain fell for what seemed an eternity. There had been nothing real before this rain. His life before now had been an illusion, a fantasy, a dream of dryness and temperate, artificial climes. And there would be nothing after this rain. It would continue, inexorably, until it had washed away their clothing from their bodies, their flesh from their bones.
In short, Ezbai was utterly miserable.
Next to his skin, which was soaked beneath several layers of clothing, which also were soaked, his communication device vibrated. On a mission such as this, a sound would give them away. They wore their commdevs on their chests. Ezbai called a halt and rummaged through his clammy garments to retrieve the device.
It was a message from the Order:
Am in receipt of a transmission from the Silent One. Change course to two point eight seven mark eight, to the site the Culilann call the sacred mountain. There is a small cave at the base and you will need to issue a recovery.
Ezbai wanted to groan, to weep, to fling himself on the sodden, stinking soil and pound it with his fists. The course change would add several hours to what was already becoming an almost unendurable mission. Still, he knew what a recovery at those coordinates meant, and there was no way he’d not want to make that kind of recovery.
He kept reading: The two aliens have been released from their Ordeal. The larger of the two, named Chakotay, is recovering well. The slighter, called Tom Paris, fares ill. We do not think his life is in danger; however, recovery from the Minister’s domicile will be more difficult. We will keep you posted as to new developments.
Then, nastily, the Implementer had written, Hot enough for you?
Ezbai resisted the temptation to hurl the commdev into the brush. Instead, he tried to dry it off—futilely—and reattached it to his skin.
His crew were taking advantage of the halt in hiking to drink water and eat some food. “Finish what you’ve got in your mouths and put the rest away,” he told them. “Course change. We’re to go to the sacred mountain, two point eight seven mark eight. A recovery will await us there.”
A chorus of groans and protests arose, competing with the hum of insects. Someone suggested what the Culilann could do with their sacred mountain, and in his heart, Ezbai agreed.
“Primitives,” snarled Ioni, his second-in-command, as she hoisted her pack. “Dirty, stinking, feebleminded primitives.”
It crossed Ezbai’s mind that at the present moment he was dirty, he probably stank, and he had certainly been feebleminded to volunteer to head this mission, so he said nothing. Grimly, the recovery team reversed course to heading two point eight seven mark eight.
* * *
The days had passed uncomfortably since Yurula had taken Winnif’s baby to the sacred mountain. The warmth Chakotay had felt toward these people, the admiration for the way they clung to their traditions and their faiths, was now offset by the brutality of some of those traditions.
He was alone in the Minister’s hut, helping to prepare the midday meal by chopping some long, sweet-smelling roots, when he heard Tom’s voice.
“Hey,” said Paris weakly.
Chakotay whirled. “Tom,” he said, not bothering to keep the warm rush of pleasure out of his tone. He knelt beside Paris’s pallet. “Welcome back.”
“Not sure I want to be back,” said Paris. “I feel like hell.”
“You’ve pretty much been there for a while,” Chakotay agreed. “What do you remember?”
Tom’s br
ow, shiny with the healthy sweat that meant his fever had broken, furrowed. “Not a lot,” he confessed. “I remember the cavern, and you jumping through some kind of portal.” His pale lips curved into a smile. “There was this girl. She was pretty stuck-up, but boy was she gorgeous.” The smile faded. “And rain. I remember rain, and mud. And that’s about it.”
Briefly, Chakotay filled him in. Tom remembered nothing of Soliss or Yurula. He had slept through the Sacrifice, and when Chakotay told him of it in sad tones, he shocked Chakotay with his response.
“How do you know they’re not doing the right thing?”
Chakotay stared. “Tom, they’re taking a helpless infant and leaving it on the side of a mountain.”
“No, no, I mean how do you know that the Crafters aren’t real?”
Chakotay laughed, a harsh, disbelieving bark. “That fever must have hit you pretty bad. I’m usually the one making the case for the divine. You’re one of those I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it types.”
“Well, they’re certainly not gods, but how do we know that they aren’t aliens who appear to be gods to this culture? You said that Soliss said the babies are always taken.”
“He thinks they’re taken by predators, not the Crafters,” said Chakotay.
“But others don’t. All I’m saying is, don’t jump to conclusions. For all we know, some aliens may be watching the Cu—Cully—”
“Culilann,” supplied Chakotay.
“—Culilann and sending someone down from a ship to rescue the kids.”
Chakotay regarded him sadly. “That’s a nice world you live in, Tom. Maybe you shouldn’t rejoin our reality just yet.” He rose. “Can you get up? You’ve been lying down on the job for too long.”
Paris flashed him the faintest ghost of his trademark devil-may-care grin and tried to lift himself up. His elbows slid out from under him. Chakotay was there, easing his fellow crew member up, wrapping a blanket around him, and helping him toddle on rubbery legs to the fireplace in the center of the hut.
“Thanks, Mom,” said Tom, hugging the blanket around him. “How about some chicken soup?”
“Maybe later if you’re a good boy,” Chakotay replied. “In the meantime, I’d better keep chopping these vegetables if we’re going to have anything to eat for dinner.”
The door opened. Yurula entered, carrying a woven basket full of herbs. Chakotay saw something that looked like a purple loaf of bread peeking out over the top of the basket.
“Paris!” she exclaimed, pleased. “Were you able to get to the fire on your own, or did Chakotay help you?”
“I am as yet unable to stumble to the fire on my own,” said Tom, sounding more like his old self with every minute, “but I remain confident that someday I will be able to feed myself.”
She chuckled.
“I understand that we have you and your mate to thank for our survival,” Paris continued. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to express my appreciation sooner.”
“You were in no condition to do anything but eat, sleep, and get better,” Yurula responded. “It was an honor to assist Soliss in tending Strangers to our village. While you were both asleep earlier this morning, Culil Matroci stopped by. He says that when you are feeling up to it, we would be happy to prepare a feast and celebration in your honor.”
“Feast?” Paris perked up considerably. “Sounds wonderful.”
Yurula stopped putting things away and regarded him steadily. She went to him, knelt beside him, and pressed her cheek to his forehead. Paris raised an eyebrow and looked at Chakotay. Recalling his own reaction not so long ago when Yurula did this to him, Chakotay grinned. Yes, Tom too was definitely feeling better.
“Let us see how you feel throughout the day,” she stated, rising and putting her hands on her hips. “Soliss will not like it if you have a relapse. But if you continue to feel well, I see no reason why we should not have our welcoming celebration. The skywatchers tell us the weather will change after midday and the night should be bright and clear. Perfect for a ceremony. And you two will have to do nothing more strenuous than sit and enjoy yourselves.”
“Sounds like a plan,” announced Paris. For a moment, Chakotay found himself smiling in anticipation. Then he remembered Yurula’s arms filled with the deformed child, taking it to be abandoned to the wild things of this place. Tears on her face, but resolute, confident that she was doing the right thing.
His smile faded, and an ache rose in his chest. There was so much good here, so much kindness. Such talent. And yet, and yet.
He turned back to chopping the vegetables with unnecessary vigor.
* * *
Paris continued to improve throughout the afternoon, though he did crawl back to his pallet for a nap at one point. The Culilann skywatchers’ forecasting had been completely accurate. As they had predicted, the steady drizzle slowly stopped and the clouds parted, revealing a dazzling blue sky and two suns, one large and one small. Steam rose from the earth as the hot suns baked the moisture out of it.
With evening came a welcome coolness and even a breeze. Soliss had brought some beautiful robes for the humans to wear. “Our finest weaver has been working on these since the day you arrived,” he told them.
The garments were a deep indigo hue, comfortingly soft to the touch. They were light and loose-fitting, allowing air to circulate and cool the body, necessary in this hot, damp climate. They sported intricate embroidery with threads of every color of the rainbow. The patterns curled and turned in on themselves, narrowing here, blossoming out there. Jewels had been sewn into the sleeves and flashed in the firelight. Chakotay shrugged into his with ease; it fit perfectly.
“Did you measure us while we were asleep?” he asked in a mock-accusing voice.
Soliss smiled. “Nothing quite that extreme,” he said, “but Ramma did come and see you. He’s got a very accurate eye for such things.”
Paris struggled with the clothing, needing some assistance, but eventually he was able to don it. With his fair skin and blue eyes, he looked striking in the deep purple-blue color. He stood unsteadily, and Soliss gave him a staff. It was made of light-colored wood, polished smooth as a river stone.
“This will help you walk without assistance,” said Soliss. “You will not have to walk far.”
“Which is a very good thing,” said Paris, but he smiled. Chakotay was pleased. They were both well on their way to recovery. Soon, they’d have to think about a way to contact Voyager. Chakotay was surprised at how long it had been since the thought of his ship had crossed his mind. Several hours, at the very least. It wasn’t paradise here on—whatever planet this was, but it did offer a leisurely pace and a great deal of beauty.
The suns had completely set, and Chakotay saw shapes scurrying about outside, lighting torches and fires. He could hear their excited conversation and laughter, though he could not understand the words. Among themselves, the Culilann conversed in their own language. It was only to Tom and Chakotay that they spoke Federation Standard. Then, slowly, steadily, the drumming began, and a shudder of deep, primal recognition washed through him.
He knew that every culture on Earth used percussion in ritual at one time or another, depending on its stage of development. He had learned from both study and personal observation that nearly every alien culture that had a noticeable heartbeat also used drums. He was certain that was not a coincidence. Sometimes the drumming had died out; other times, it was part of deeply honored rituals that continued through the centuries. But always he had found that if a species had a heartbeat, it had drums in its blood if you searched far enough.
BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom. He already felt his body wanting to move to the primal, steady rhythm. He, the “contrary” one, never at home in any one place. Too modern for the pace of his people, too locked into tradition for a starship commander. It was no different here. He was moved by and responded to many of the traditions of the Culilann, appalled by others.
“Needs a little
guitar or Harry’s clarinet, but it’ll do,” said Tom, startling Chakotay out of his reverie.
“They are waiting for you,” said Soliss.
“Then let’s go,” said Tom.
* * *
Paris always hated it when he was sick or injured. He felt weak and frail, and his body wouldn’t obey simple commands like stand or walk or don’t throw up. And he had been very sick, and very badly injured, and his body had totally ignored any commands he’d been well enough to send it for far too long.
Soliss’s staff was a thing of beauty and of great practicality. Having tried nearly every sport he’d ever heard of, Paris had done his share of hiking and knew the value of a good, solid staff. He curled his fingers around this one, stood as straight as his body would let him, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as he followed Chakotay out the door. Soliss brought up the rear.
Two men with torches stood at attention outside the door. They turned as smartly as any Academy cadet to escort the two Strangers to the festivities. Paris sniffed the cool night air and caught a whiff of something delicious cooking. Some sort of meat, probably roasting on a spit or in an open pit. His mouth filled with saliva. For the first time in what seemed to be ages, he was very hungry.
The wonderful aromas grew stronger as they walked down the main thoroughfare to where the forested area began. Paris was feeling a bit wobbly again. He ordered his legs to continue to support him, and for the moment they obeyed.
Torches formed a corridor, showing where they should go. The drumming sound grew louder, competing with the other sounds of a jungle at night. They entered the brush, but the path had been meticulously cleared and Paris’s unsteady feet didn’t stumble. The path opened out into a large clearing.
At their appearance, the drumming stopped. Gathered in the clearing were about eighty people. Paris guessed it was the entire populace of this little village. They looked surreal in the moonlight, their pale blue skin and hair almost glowing. But the unearthly faces wore smiles of welcome.
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