by Greg Cox
“You know,” Neelix said, walking beside her, “the more I think about it, the more I think this beach would be the perfect site for a special on-location episode of A Briefing with Neelix.” Because he deemed it too late to go swimming, he was wearing his usual motley-colored suit, just as she had donned her everyday attire. Only the commbadges pinned to their chests identified them as Voyager personnel. “Just think of the footage I could get if I came back tomorrow afternoon. Minute after minute of carefree crew members running and playing on the beach in their individually replicated swimsuits.”
“I don’t know,” Kes said, grateful for a distraction from her worries. “Do you think anyone will really want to watch a full hour of nothing but beach scenes?”
• • •
Harry Kim awoke with a start in the now-darkened garden. He had been dreaming of a pair of irresistible Ryol women with eyes of ebony black, but was surprised to find that the sun had gone down while he slept. How long was I out? he wondered. I must have been more exhausted than I realized. The last thing he remembered was listening to his little neffaler friend playing with the toy flute.
He sat up and scanned his surrounding while his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. The leafy boughs above him blocked out whatever moonlight might have been available, although he could glimpse the bright lights of the city through the violet hedges to the east. He automatically checked to see if his commbadge was still in place, and was relieved to feel the cool metal insignia beneath his fingers.
Good thing Ryolanov is so safe and peaceful, he thought. A tourist who nodded off at Deep Space Nine or Risa was likely to wake up wearing nothing but his socks. Thank goodness the nearest Ferengi was several hundred light-years away. He was glad to discover he still had his phaser, too.
His eyes began to get used to the shadows. Glancing around, he spotted no sign of his newfound neffaler buddy and the toy flute. Must have gotten bored and wandered off, Kim decided, heartened that the little creature had thought enough of his gift to take the cheap plastic whistle with it. He stood up and stretched, then wiped bits of leafs and twigs off his trousers. Now what? he wondered. He wasn’t due back on the bridge until tomorrow morning. Maybe he should hike into town and try to hook up with either Tom or B’Elanna. He wasn’t quite sure where to find his friends, although he guessed that neither of them would return to the same dance club where they’d run into so much trouble the night before. Frankly, given B’Elanna’s general opinion of the Ryol, he’d be surprised if she beamed back to the planet again.
A familiar chirp interrupted his contemplation. He looked up and saw a small shadowy figure nestled in the branches overhead. The shiny white whistle hung from the cord around the neffaler’s neck. “Well, hello,” Kim said. “I thought you were long gone.”
The neffaler leaped onto the lawn beside Kim, chirping noisily. “I’m glad to see you, too,” Kim said, crouching down on bended knees so he could talk to the little animal face to face, more or less. The neffaler lifted one scrawny hand toward Kim. In the dim light, he glimpsed a pale yellowish object clutched between the creature’s fingers.
“What’s that?” Kim asked. The neffaler waved the item in front of Kim’s hand. “For me?”
The neffaler chirped once, which Kim took for a yes. He reached out and gently lifted the object out of the young creature’s outstretched hand. It felt dry and brittle in his grasp, like old bone or sea shell. Deep grooves or scratches covered the surface of the artifact, although sections of it still felt smooth and polished.
He stepped away from the shade of the old tree in order to see the gift better. The little neffaler must have gone and retrieved this, he guessed, while I was snoozing. A moonbeam penetrated the leafy foliage overhead, illuminating one small portion of the garden. Kim held the artifact up to the moonlight.
It was bone all right, crescent-shaped and yellowed with age. Kim hoped the little neffaler had not lifted the artifact from some Ryol’s private collection. It certainly looked old enough to be a museum piece. At one time, it appeared, some sort of symbols or inscription had been etched on the surface, but the ancient marks had been worn away until they were barely visible. The outer curve of the crescent was chipped and broken, while hairline fractures ran along the length of the object. He handled the artifact gingerly, turning it over in his hands while he tried to identify its function. The bone was lighter than it looked. Looking more closely, he saw that it had been hollowed out, leaving open slits, less than a millimeter wide, on both sides of the crescent. When he peered through the narrow gap inside the crescent, he could see a sliver of moonlight peeking through from the other side of the object. Five small holes had been poked in the top of the bone. There might have been six holes originally, but part of the upper layer had broken off over the years, making it hard to tell.
Less than a meter away, the neffaler tugged excitedly on its flute, pulling the thin white cord taut while the small creature chirped at Kim. An idea occurred to him. He raised the artifact in front of his mouth, holding the crescent parallel to the lawn beneath his feet. It was a tight fit—his jaw was much larger than any neffaler’s—but he managed to place the inner curve of the crescent against his lips. He blew into the open slit.
Fine black dust sprayed from the outer curve of the artifact, raining down on the head of the neffaler, who coughed and sneezed and backed away a few meters. Obviously, no one had tried blowing on this instrument for a very long time, but a shrill piercing whistle escaped the cracked and crumbling artifact nonetheless. Kim clamped his fingers over the five surviving holes and heard the pitch of the whistle change in response. The little neffaler reacted to the harsh siren Kim produced. He placed both hands over his ears while his monkeylike features wrinkled comically.
Lifting the antique instrument away from his face, Kim laughed at the tiny creature’s expression. So much for any Prime Directive worries, he thought. Clearly he wasn’t the first person to introduce the concept of a whistle to a neffaler, although his little plastic flute had been a hit anyway. He wondered when was the last time any neffaler got a new toy to play with. A long time ago, probably. Despite their obvious warmth and generosity, the Ryol seemed to spare precious little affection or attention on their pets.
Must be some peculiar cultural thing, Kim guessed, shrugging his shoulders. Starfleet had taught him to expect a wide variety of attitudes from alien civilizations on almost every topic. One culture’s beloved pet, he reminded himself, was another race’s favorite hors d’oeuvre. He shouldn’t be too quick to pass judgment on the apparent lack of concern of the Ryol for the neffaler.
Still, he thought, watching the cute little animal start to toot happily on its plastic flute, the Ryol don’t know what they’re missing. Handling the ancient bone instrument carefully, he followed the neffaler’s lead, gradually discovering the range of sounds still available to the decrepit artifact.
Beneath the pale moonlight, accompanied by the faint rustling of the leaves and shrubs, the Starfleet officer and the naked inarticulate primate shared a private duet.
• • •
Kes and Neelix kept to the path as they approached the beach. Kes regretted that yesterday’s nightmarish psychic experience had cast a shadow over this nocturnal stroll. What a lovely romantic walk they might have had otherwise. Looking into the night, listening to the waves, inhaling the spicy aroma of the sea, she was unsure how to employ her other, more mysterious senses. Part of her wanted to erect a firm psychic wall, just as Tuvok had taught her, against any invasive telepathic transmissions, while curiosity and a sense of responsibility compelled her to open herself up to whatever had contacted her before. Remembering those anguished voices, and the suffocating darkness that had enveloped her despite the warm Ryol sun, she braced herself for more of the same.
“Are you all right?” Neelix asked. Concern was written on his face as plainly as the lighted display on a padd. He placed a comforting arm around her. “You’re trembling,” he observ
ed. “We can go back to the ship if you want. You don’t have to do this.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “There was something here, something that called to me. I have to find out what it was. Who they are.”
“For your sake?” he asked. “Or for theirs?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. So far, she had not detected anything at all. She listened to the distant waves, spilling over the beach somewhere beyond the radiance of the lamps. “Perhaps we should get closer to the water,” she suggested.
“Whatever you say,” Neelix agreed. They stepped off the solid pathway, their boots sinking into the granular substance of the beach. Following the sound of the water, they paced away from the light. “Careful,” he said, holding on to her arm. “Watch your step.” The closer they got to the shore, the more the wet black spheres mixed with the sea water to form a slippery colloidal film beneath their boots.
They had only walked a few meters away from the path when a harsh white light greeted their faces, startling Kes. “What?” she exclaimed, her heart pounding. Neelix tightened his grip upon her arm.
The light sank below their faces, shining instead on the commbadges on their chests. Blinking her eyes to dispel the aftereffects of the sudden glare, Kes saw a brawny Ryol male standing on the other side of the light, which came, she saw, from a small crystal he held in his upraised palm. His green eyes reflected the light in his hand, giving his face an eerie inhuman look.
“Sorry to surprise you,” the Ryol said. Aside from the shining eyes, he could have been the brother of the lifeguard who had come to her assistance the day before. “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around. The beach is restricted at night.”
“Restricted?” Neelix asked. “Why?” Kes recognized the tone is his voice. Neelix had switched into his “investigative journalist” mode.
“Dangerous tides,” the man replied. “It’s not safe for wading, let alone swimming, when the tide is going out or coming in. An undertow can drag you out to sea before you can catch your breath.” The Ryol smiled at them, his flawless white teeth gleaming. “The last thing we want is for you or any of our other guests to suffer a tragic accident.”
His explanation sounded plausible enough to Kes, who knew next to nothing about tides and undertows. Still, she strained her extrasensory faculties in hopes of dredging up some answer from the mysterious depths of the unseen water. Was it merely a lingering memory, or could she hear the faint echo of yesterday’s scream, still calling out to her with voices filled with wordless agony? A wave of shock and despair swept over her, dimming her vision and turning her legs to rubber. Her knees buckled, and she would have fallen if not for Neelix’s support.
“Is something the matter?” The Ryol lifeguard eyed her suspiciously.
“Not at all,” Neelix said heartily. “It’s been a long and active day, that’s all. There’s so much to do on this wonderful planet of yours!” His grip on Kes relaxed as her head cleared and she secured her footing. “Thank you for your concern, but I guess we’ll be on our way now. I assume that the beach will open again in the morning?”
“Of course,” the Ryol said. Moving his hand, he shined the light toward the path. The fused black pellets glistened when the brilliant beam fell upon them. “Let me escort you back to the path.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Neelix objected. “We can find our own way.”
“I insist,” the Ryol said. His pupils expanded ominously. He swung the beam back and forth between the path and the two visitors from Voyager. “You are strangers on Ryolanov. It is the least I can do.”
As he led them away, Kes looked back over her shoulder at the impenetrable darkness where the water hid. Her momentary weakness had passed, but not her determination to find the source of the disturbing sights and sounds that had assaulted her untapped psychic resources. Tides or no tides, she couldn’t help feeling that the Ryol were hiding something here. She wondered if Neelix felt the same way.
I hear you, she thought to the bodiless voices that wailed on the periphery of her conscious mind. I will stop your pain if I can. I promise.
CHAPTER
8
CHAKOTAY GLANCED DOWN AT THE DIGITAL DISPLAY ON his padd. It was 20:11. Susan Tukwila was over ten minutes late for bridge duty. He frowned. This wasn’t like her. Tukwila had been a good soldier when they had both served in the Maquis. Guerrilla operations in the Demilitarized Zone had often required split-second timing, and he had always been able to count on Susan to hold up her end of the operation. He remembered one occasion when they had been ambushed by an “unauthorized” Cardassian death squad; only Susan Tukwila’s quick thinking had kept a close call from becoming a disaster.
So where in blazes is she now? he fumed. He tapped his fingers against the arm of the captain’s chair. This was hardly an emergency situation, he admitted, but even routine bridge duty required discipline and diligence. He didn’t anticipate any sort of crisis over the next few hours, just more time spent cruising in orbit above Ryolanov, but he took his responsibility to manage the bridge in the captain’s absence very seriously, more so than Tukwila apparently. Besides, he thought, any misconduct on the part of one of his former comrades-in-arms reflected badly on all the Maquis now serving on Voyager. Chakotay considered himself personally responsible for the conduct of every Maquis aboard, and it was a burden that sometimes weighed heavily on him.
It hadn’t been easy trying to integrate an ad-hoc army of rebels and freedom fighters into an efficiently run Starfleet organization. He had his success stories, most notably B’Elanna Torres, despite her recent clash with that Ryol male, but he’d had more than his share of failures, too. Seska. Michael Jonas. Lon Suder. All three of them had proved dangerous to Voyager and her crew; all had died violently. The names haunted his memory and plagued his conscience with recriminations of poor judgment and leadership. Was there something he could have done to avert Seska’s treachery? Or Jonas’s? Should he have done something about Lon Suder’s homicidal tendencies before they ended in murder? At least, he recalled, Suder had redeemed himself somewhat before the Kazon killed him. Chakotay prayed that he would not be forced to add Susan Tukwila’s name to his private list of shame.
Finally, at precisely 20:15, the turbolift doors slid open and Tukwila stepped hurriedly onto the bridge. Her sleek black hair was loose and uncombed in the back. Her commbadge was stuck upside down on the front of her black-and-yellow Starfleet uniform. Chakotay spotted dark circles under her eyes; she looked badly in need of a good night’s sleep.
“You’re late, Ensign,” he announced. It still felt odd, sometimes, to address Maquis personnel by Starfleet ranks. At moments like this, he was acutely aware that very few Maquis crew members had actually completed the Academy. His frown deepened. He didn’t like being embarrassed by his own people.
“Sorry, Commander,” she blurted out, rushing to take her place at the port aft Ops console. Her voice sounded hoarser than usual. Too much time, Chakotay wondered, in loud and smoky Ryol clubs? He recalled that he had personally recommended her transfer from stellar cartography to the bridge. It didn’t make him feel any better.
He rose slowly from the captain’s chair, then marched over to where Tukwila was standing. Although the rest of the bridge crew kept their faces turned conspicuously toward the forward viewscreen, Chakotay knew that the entire bridge was holding its collective breath, waiting to see what he would do next. He milked the moment for maximum drama before reaching over and plucking the inverted commbadge from Tukwila’s uniform. “Shore leave is no excuse for sloppiness, Ensign,” he said, handing the shiny metal badge back to her.
For a long instant, Tukwila looked on the verge of saying something that Chakotay knew he didn’t want to hear. Above the puffy shadows that sagged beneath her eyes, those familiar dark orbs flashed with anger and defiance. Chakotay had admired that rebellious spirit once, when it was directed at the Cardassian usurpers who had tried to drive Federation colonists
from their homes. Now that it was directed at him, he didn’t know how to feel. Don’t do it, Susan, he thought.
At the last moment, she thought better of whatever retort had sprung to mind. Maintaining a stony silence, she took the badge and fixed it correctly to her chest. Standing so near to her, Chakotay saw that the collar of her uniform was badly wrinkled. The gray fabric looked like it hadn’t been freshly replicated for a week. “This is a long trip,” he said, frowning at this further evidence of Tukwila’s sloppiness. “We can’t afford to let our standards slip so soon.”
“Like it really matters,” she said, a smirk upon her face.
“What was that, Ensign?” Chakotay asked. “I didn’t hear you.”
She lifted her gaze from her feet. “With all due respect, sir, we’re light-years from the Federation. What does all this Starfleet rigamarole really matter?” Her expression grew even more scornful. “It’s not like we’re due for an inspection anytime soon.”
“That Starfleet ‘rigamarole’ is what’s going to keep us alive on this voyage,” Chakotay said, loud enough for the entire bridge to hear. “Here in the Delta Quadrant, far from the safety of the Federation, we need more discipline and dedication, not less. There’s no room for error out here, nor for lax standards.” Tukwila opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. “Now is not the time or the place to debate the captain’s policies. I expect every crew member to execute their duties to the best of their abilities. That will be all, Ensign.”
He turned his back on Tukwila and walked back to the captain’s chair. A hush fell over the bridge; Chakotay heard only the humming of the machinery and the occasional rustle of someone shifting nervously in their seat. He resolved to talk to the captain about Tukwila’s lapses as soon as possible; he didn’t need to check with Neelix to know a morale problem when he saw one.