A young man stepped forward. He seemed to be weighted down by the regalia of some important office, but his movements were smooth and elegant. He raised his arms and spoke first in his native tongue, then in Federation Standard for the benefit of the strangers.
“I, Matroci, the Culil of Sumar-ka, welcome the Strangers. It has been long since the Crafters have sent us new friends who will teach us; new students whom we may teach. We ask their forgiveness for the Ordeal. Know that it is part of our deepest tradition, and know that it was for protection only, and not done in a spirit of hostility.”
Soliss leaned over and whispered, “You need to formally forgive us.”
Chakotay spoke first. “I forgive Matroci, the Culil of Sumar-ka, and the good people of this village. We have survived your Ordeal and stand ready to befriend you.”
He turned to Paris. Paris’s tongue cleaved to his throat. He didn’t really want to forgive these people in such a formal fashion. He wanted to just drop it, pretend it hadn’t happened. At his silence, the smiles faded. They looked concerned, even fearful now. One woman’s eyes filled with tears and she glanced away.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, I too forgive the people of Sumar-ka.” It wasn’t eloquent, but it would do. A murmur of relief swept through the crowd. At Soliss’s gesture, they stepped into the clearing and made for large piles of ferns. Tom needed a little help sitting down, but Soliss was so deft in lending the required aid that Paris felt sure no one had noticed.
The ferns made a very comfortable seat. As soon as the strangers had settled into position, the villagers approached, one by one.
The first was the Culil. He bore a beautifully carved wooden tray filled with delicious-looking fruits and vegetables. An exquisite knife lay in the center, clearly to be used to cut up the delicacies. He placed the tray at their feet.
“I offer you food, to nourish body and spirit,” said Matroci. “As long as you dwell with our people, we shall see that you never go hungry.” He placed his fingers first on his temples, then on his throat, then on his belly. Paris and Chakotay imitated him. Matroci bowed and stepped aside.
Suddenly before Paris stood the most beautiful woman he thought he’d ever seen. She seemed familiar, and he recalled that this was the young woman who had brought them in to undergo the Ordeal. With her lovely blue features and hair, she might have been sculpted of ice, and Ice Queen probably wouldn’t have been a bad nickname to describe her personality, either. In each hand she carried an exquisitely wrought bottle of handblown glass.
“I am Trima, Sa-Culil of Sumar-ka. I offer you wine and water, to nourish body and spirit. As long as you dwell with our people, we shall see that you never go thirsty.”
She lowered herself down—squatted was far too ugly a word to describe that fluid, graceful movement—and placed the bottles in front of them. Like a silvery blue water spirit rising from a lake, she rose, regarded each of them in turn with piercing blue eyes, and lithely stepped aside. Paris found his eyes following her, and it took the sound of another voice speaking directly to him to make him turn and face forward.
It was Soliss and Yurula, offering medicinal herbs. And then came someone else, carrying between them on a platter a delectable-looking roast something or other. Someone else approached, offering clothing. On and on they came, one after the other, the gifts starting to pile high around him and Chakotay. After the adults came the children, offering trinkets, toys, small pet animals in makeshift cages, beloved things collected in the halcyon hours of childhood. It was overwhelming.
At last, the onslaught of gifts and welcoming was over. The formal mood shattered like glass dropped on a hard floor. A ululating cry of anticipation went up from somewhere in the crowd, and even the sober Culil smiled.
“Now we eat!” he said.
And eat they did. The bounty of the food nearly equaled that of the gifts. Roasted beasts, fish, and fowl were brought for them to partake of. A variety of handmade cups, filled with beverages of varying degrees of potency, were pressed into their hands. Savory soups; crunchy, juicy fruits and vegetables; porridges of grains mixed with fruit pulp and eaten with the fingers; flower-scented sweets that dissolved into heady flavor the instant they were placed on the tongue; all manner of culinary delights were paraded in front of them.
Tom was ravenous and ate as if to make up for the lost—days? weeks?—of illness. He felt his stomach’s growling subside as it was first placated, then filled. The skin on his belly was stretched taut by the time he ruefully waved away something made of fruit paste, sweet tubers, and meat that smelled heavenly.
“I can’t eat another bite,” he said, and it was the honest truth.
Chakotay, too, looked utterly sated. His eyes even seemed a little glazed. But perhaps, thought Tom, that was just the alcohol in his own system talking.
The villagers seemed pleased by the quantity of food that the Strangers had eaten, although to Paris it looked as though they had merely made a dent in the huge mountain of comestibles. The food was taken away and the drumming began again.
“You are welcome to join in our dancing,” said Culil Matroci. “You are citizens of Sumar-ka now. You are no longer Strangers.”
“That is very kind of you,” Chakotay replied. “I can’t speak for Mr. Paris, but I’m far too full to dance right now.”
The handsome young face turned its inquiring gaze upon Paris. “I’m stuffed,” he admitted, “and I’m still recovering. We’ll enjoy watching you, though,” he said, and immediately wondered if he had committed a gross faux pas. But Matroci nodded, as if he had expected the response, and turned to his people.
“Our hearts are full. Our bellies are full. The Crafters have been good to us. The fruits ripen on the trees, the beasts fairly leap into our traps and nets to provide us nourishment. Sometimes they ask something of us for their goodness to us. Winnif, rise.”
Slowly, the woman who had borne the deformed child stood. Paris watched her closely. From what Chakotay had said, having her child taken from her had devastated her. There was nothing of grief about her now. She stood proudly, a small smile on her face. She looked like a woman who had done something wonderful, and knew it. Those who were seated near her looked up at her with a sort of awe.
“Winnif, you have sacrificed your child unto the care of the gods. They have accepted your offering.”
“Truly,” said Yulura. “I returned this afternoon to the sacred mountain, and the child had indeed been taken by the Crafters!”
“It is well,” said Matroci.
“It is well!” came the full-voiced cry of response.
“At such times as this we dance, to thank the Crafters and to ask for their continued protection against the encroachment of the Alilann.” The words were allegedly directed to everyone present, but Paris doubted that the villagers needed to be told what their dancing signified. The explanation was for him and Chakotay.
“For generations we have coexisted peacefully, but the last series of talks and debates with the Alilann went poorly. We owe it to the Crafters not to diminish their importance in our lives by accepting the ways of the Alilann. We will not fight them, but we will stand firm. And when we do, we shall wear garments that are blessed, that will keep us from harm. The Crafters will wash away the Alilann, and we, the Culilann, will remain. Come, let us dance!”
Slowly, with reverence and closed eyes, bodies lost to the motion, the villagers rose and formed a circle around the fire. Suddenly, Chakotay gasped.
“What is it?” asked Paris.
For a long moment Chakotay didn’t reply. He stared at the dancers as if transfixed. Then slowly, with pain in his voice he replied, “The Ghost Dance. They’re doing the Ghost Dance.”
“What’s the Ghost Dance?”
Chakotay turned to look at him, his dark eyes picking up the red glint of the flickering flames. “In Earth’s nineteenth century, there was a great deal of conflict between the European settlers and the natives of the Americas. There arose a
leader named Wovoka, who prophesied that all white men would be swallowed by the Earth, and all dead Indians would emerge and enjoy a world free from their conquerors. It would be a new era for the native peoples. His followers performed something called the Ghost Dance, in honor of the dead who would arise. Participants would dance in a circle, just like this one. Word of the Ghost Dance spread throughout the western part of the United States, and it alarmed the white government.”
“Did Wovoka advocate violence?”
“No, quite the opposite. He expressly stated that his followers weren’t to make any trouble. But the whites were still worried. The famous Indian chief Sitting Bull was killed because he was believed to be an instigator of an impending rebellion. His followers were rounded up and placed in an encampment near Wounded Knee Creek.”
“That sounds familiar,” said Paris.
“The Lakota Indians weren’t worried. They took the ideals of the Ghost Dance a step further. They made sacred shirts, believed to be bulletproof.”
Paris knew about bullets, and he didn’t like the way this story was going. “But they weren’t bulletproof, were they?” he asked, turning to watch the dancers.
“No,” Chakotay replied, his voice soft. “They weren’t. In December of 1890, a shot was fired within the camp and the soldiers began shooting. They massacred some two hundred unarmed men, women, and children. Those who tried to escape the battle were pursued and killed. All because of the fear stirred up by the Ghost Dance.”
He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. Paris watched the figures moving in the firelight and desperately hoped that history was not about to repeat itself.
* * *
The rain had finally stopped, but slogging along in sopping wet clothes was still far from relaxing in a holosim of a glorious, sunny, dry afternoon. But Ioni was used to it, and strode purposefully along. It was their leader, Ezbai, the soft Interceptor, who seemed to be suffering the most.
The tiny bundle in her arms whimpered. She cuddled it close as best she could and made soft noises. They needed to transport, and soon. They had brought nothing that was fit for an infant to eat. But they were still within what was called the forbidden parameter—too close to the primitives to risk utilizing high-level technology. They might be discovered.
The baby was very healthy, and anger again rose inside her. He kicked, and filled his lungs. “No, shh, shh,” she urged softly. The cry of an irritated and hungry baby would give them away quicker than the hum of a transporter. The noise pierced her ears. His little body heaved with his wails. As one, the group picked up their pace to a trot. Soon, now, they would be able to transport.
He kicked, angry. His small right foot waved in the air. This was what he had been sentenced to death for, equinus of the ankle, varus of the heel, and adduction of the forefoot—an affliction that would be remedied by a doctor in a matter of minutes.
She hated them.
Dirty, stinking, feebleminded primitives. Why did the Alilann do these recovery missions undercover, sneaking to the sacred mountain, gathering up the children, taking care that they left no trace of footprints? Why not boldly stride in, snatch the helpless children, and force the Culilann to give up their barbaric ways? All the talk of maintaining peace and harmony between the two castes made her sick, never more so than at moments like these, when she clutched the evidence of their barbarism in her hands.
Everyone would be so much better off if the Culilann were all just exterminated.
Everyone.
CHAPTER
12
THERE WAS A LONG SILENCE. FINALLY, TELEK SAID, slowly, “From what we have learned about the Shepherds, I cannot believe that this is either accidental or dangerous.”
“That’s a pretty big supposition about a race that seems to take delight in jerking us around,” growled Torres.
“But they have not, as you put it, jerked us around,” Telek continued. “It is we who have been slow in discovering how to utilize their technology. Thus far, the sphere has enabled us to do everything we have asked of it—once we have determined what we need, and how to ask.”
A thought occurred to him. “We have been able to transport dark matter from space, and from inside transportable objects. But we have not yet determined how we are to extract the dark matter from something as large as a ship. And our sensors tell us that every ship out there is riddled with dark matter, to one degree or another.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” said Torres. “I just wanted to make sure the people were safe first.”
“I’m not disputing your priorities, Lieutenant,” Telek continued. “We have worked with this alien technology step by step. We extracted dark matter from space, the simplest step. We learned that we needed to utilize the transporter to remove dark matter from living tissue, the next logical step. Now we face a greater challenge—removing it from inside something we cannot dematerialize. Perhaps this field can be useful in that context. Thus far, it does not appear to be harmful. We are doing the Shepherds’ bidding in gathering up the dark matter, after all. I fail to see how giving us something that is a danger when used properly would further that goal.”
“Well phrased, Dr. R’Mor,” said Vorik approvingly. “A brilliant and logical deduction. It is sometimes very obvious that Romulans and Vulcans are descended from the same common ancestor.”
Telek knew the young Vulcan meant it as a compliment, but he bridled nonetheless. It was an ingrained, learned response, and he fought his resentment down. Few Romulans liked being reminded of their origins. He needed to remember that, for the time being, everyone on this ship was on the same side.
He noticed that Seven did not appear to be listening. She was busy at the console, checking something. Telek knew, though, that the former Borg had heard and registered every word he said.
“Curious,” said Seven. “We know that the sphere is growing every time transporter energy is passed through it. Within the circumference of the field, every trace of dark matter has disappeared. And the amount of dark matter inside our artificial warp bubble has increased point zero zero zero eight percent over what we have registered as being transferred there.”
Khala moved forward, craning a long, elegant neck to examine Seven’s numbers. “You’re right,” she said. “And so were you, Telek. The radiation seems to be gathering up dark matter all on its own.”
“Let me see that,” said Torres, pushing her way in to view it with her own eyes. “My God, it’s true. I don’t want to try it on people yet, but—Seven, check out the contents of Cargo Bay Two. Identify everything that has dark matter in it.”
“That would be fourteen containers of various sizes,” said Seven.
“Dematerialize it all. That’s more cubic meters than we’ve tried yet at one time. Separate the dark matter and then return it to the cargo bay. Let’s monitor this and see what our field does.”
Everyone went to his or her own console. Telek was brimming with excitement. If he was right, if the field increased with the amount of energy fed to the sphere, then the possibilities were almost limitless.
“Energize,” ordered Torres.
As before, the orb turned red and made its by-now familiar, terrible noise. The light was too great for them to see what happened, but the sensors would record it.
Seven could see what transpired and gave them a report. “The field is increasing by one point eight percent. Holding steady. Transport is complete. The dark matter is now inside the sphere.”
“Transport to the warp bubble,” snapped Torres.
“Transporting,” replied Seven.
Again came the sound, the bright red light, and again when the sound and light both faded, the ball was empty and hovering peacefully, its usual serene hue.
Another success. Another—how was it the humans put it?—carrot to dangle before them to encourage them to take the next step, learn the next lesson. If the stakes had not been so high, the situation so dire, Telek would have found this en
tire thing an exciting exercise.
“The radiation sphere has again increased,” said Seven. “The console and the floor area are completely free of dark matter.”
Telek’s heart was racing. Something about this whole bizarre encounter with Voyager and the Shepherds sang to his soul. He was thrilled at the progress they were making, but impatient with the slow speed of the steps. Sometimes, daring and courage were what were called for, and Telek sensed that at this moment.
He stepped forward and lifted his hand, directly into the unseen sphere of radiation.
“Telek!” cried Torres. “You don’t know …” Her voice trailed off as she realized it was too late. He smiled at her, a fierce, triumphant smile.
“Seven,” he said, “scan me.”
Even she looked uneasy at his unpredictable and perhaps dangerously impulsive move, but she obeyed his request. Her thin golden eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“There is no reaction, negative or positive. You appear to remain undamaged, Dr. R’Mor, but the sphere is not activating to draw dark matter out of your system.”
“He’s already been purged,” said Khala. “We need to expose someone who hasn’t already been transported.”
Torres tapped her combadge. “Engineering to bridge.”
“Janeway here,” came the captain’s voice.
“We’re making a great deal of progress, Captain, but we need a guinea pig. Someone who hasn’t been materialized and had the dark matter removed from his system.”
There was a pause. “I’m coming down.”
“Captain, I—”
“Don’t even try, Torres. You’re in need of a test subject, I’m in need of having this stuff removed from my tissues. On my way.”
Torres glanced up, frustration, irritation, and helplessness written plainly on her features. Clearly, trying this on the captain wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.
A few moments later, the door hissed open and Janeway strode in. She looked excited, as excited as Telek had felt when he had, perhaps foolishly, exposed himself to the radiation. Briefly, Torres explained the situation. Janeway, trained scientist that she was, grasped it perfectly and nodded her understanding. Seven stepped up and scanned her right arm with the tricorder.
Ghost Dance Page 11
