by Greg Cox
Varathael sighed, seemingly weary but none too concerned. “I take it then that the attempt was unsuccessful?”
“Very,” Janeway stated, “although her activities resulted in the death of one of my crew.”
Varathael did not bother to apologize for the fatality. “More lives than one are at stake, Captain, as I think you are aware.”
“Let’s get straight to the point, Elder,” Janeway said. “You have some of my people. I have some of yours. I am willing to discuss a trade.”
“You have merely a fraction of my people,” Varathael said. “I have three irreplaceable members of your crew.”
“My seven include your daughter,” Janeway pointed out.
Varathael scowled. “Do not mistake me for a sentimental man, Captain. You would be severely in error. My Heir knew the price of failure.”
Is he bluffing? Janeway wondered. She didn’t want to find out. “What exactly do you want, Elder?”
“Your ship,” he said. “Nothing less will satisfy me. My people have been confined to this pretty prison for long enough. Your ship is our salvation.”
It’s not enough that you destroyed the civilization of the neffaler, Janeway thought angrily. Now you want to inflict your vile appetites on the rest of the universe. She knew there was no way she could, in good conscience, surrender Voyager to the Ryol. With the star charts stored in Voyager’s computers, it was even conceivable that the Ryol might be able to reach the Federation in less than a century. She couldn’t take that risk.
“Let me make my position perfectly clear,” Janeway said. “I will destroy this ship, and everyone on it, before I let Voyager fall into your hands. Do you understand me, Elder?”
This was not the first time she had made that threat since entering the Delta Quadrant, and each time she had been deadly serious. She prayed that this time she wouldn’t have to go through with it.
“Understood,” Varathael replied. Every last trace of warmth faded from his features. “Know then that your people will die, one by one. How long will your resolve last, I wonder, when you hear your precious crew screaming for mercy? Who shall I begin with, Captain? Who shall be the first to perish? The funny ugly one who beamed down with you that first time? Or maybe one of the women? There’s a delicate, fair-haired young woman here, with unusual ears. She looks like a promising victim, what do you think?”
Janeway sprang from his chair and marched straight toward the main viewer. “Listen to me, Varathael,” she said. “If you harm one more of my crew, if you even scratch any of them, I will retaliate with deadly force. Don’t think your psionic powers will be able to protect you. I don’t need to step foot on Ryolanov to destroy you. There’s enough firepower on this ship to devastate your world from orbit.”
“I’m sure there is,” Varathael said calmly, “but you cannot turn those weapons against us without also targeting any surviving hostages.” His malachite eyes stared at her without blinking. “I want your ship, Captain. You have one hour.”
The transmission ended abruptly. Janeway found herself gazing at a blank viewscreen. And I thought Cardassians were ruthless, she thought, amazed at the Elder’s callous disregard for sentient life. Varathael made even a Cardassian gul look warm-hearted.
She turned to address the bridge crew. “Gentlemen, the clock is ticking. What do we have?”
“Just one possibility,” Chakotay said. He looked up from the tactical console behind the command center. “A wide-dispersal phaser blast aimed directly at the harbor area, strong enough to overpower the Ryol shields. With luck, it would stun both the Ryol and the hostages, thus giving us a chance to send in a rescue team while the Ryol are immobilized.”
“What about the neffaler?” she asked. Now that they’d ascertained the real history of Ryolanov, she didn’t want to make the mistake of overlooking the planet’s indigenous population. It seemed more than possible that the Elder and his cohorts might have some of their unfortunate servants with them.
“In theory,” Chakotay said, “the neffaler would be stunned as well.”
“But?” she prompted him. Years of Starfleet experience had taught her that there was almost always a “but.”
“Given our meager knowledge of Ryol biology,” Tuvok explained from his security station, “it is impossible to fully predict the effect of the phaser blast on the Ryol. The blast could be useless—or fatal. We risk both failure and the possibility of killing all the Ryol within range of the blast.”
Janeway instantly saw the full dimensions of the ethical dilemma presented by Chakotay’s plan. As depraved and treacherous as the Ryol were, she was reluctant to order a massacre, even by accident. “And the neffaler?” she asked again.
“Again, our biological data is incomplete,” Tuvok said, “but I believe the risk is significantly less in their case. The neffaler are much more conventional life-forms, lacking both the Ryol metamorphic abilities and their psionic metabolism. According to The Doctor, they should react to the phaser blast as we expect, although I cannot state that as a complete certainty. I estimate the odds of accidentally killing the neffaler to be less than one-point-five-seven percent.”
That’s good enough for me, she thought, but what about the Ryol? Do I dare risk slaughtering an unknown number of aliens just to protect a few stranded castaways from another quadrant? And what if it doesn’t work, what if the Ryol prove immune to a phaser burst of this specific magnitude? They might retaliate by killing the hostages immediately.
“How much time do we have, Mr. Kim?” she asked, knowing that he would be keeping track.
“Forty-nine minutes and counting,” Kim reported. He watched her anxiously, clearly apprehensive about what might happen next. She didn’t blame him; they both had close friends among the hostages. She couldn’t imagine Voyager without Neelix or Kes or B’Elanna or any of the others.
“Well, let’s not make this a split-second finish,” she announced. “Any comments, gentlemen?”
“From a security standpoint,” Tuvok stated, “the Ryol represent a potential danger to all other forms of life. Although I would regret any unnecessary bloodshed, I believe deliberate action must be taken to limit the threat they represent. My recommendation is to attempt to stun them with a controlled phaser burst.”
Chakotay limped around the guardrail into the command area. “Once again, I’m inclined to agree with Tuvok,” he said. “It may not be the most scientific basis for a decision, but my spirit guide has been warning me about these creatures since we first arrived here. They have to be stopped, for the sake of the neffaler if not for our own. Protecting innocent communities from remorseless invaders was what the Maquis was all about.”
“Starfleet places a bit more emphasis on the Prime Directive,” Janeway said, “although I share your sympathy for the neffaler.” She sat down in the captain’s chair and looked at the main viewer. At her command, an image of Ryolanov appeared on the screen. The planet slowly rotated beneath them, its bright red atmosphere as deceptive as the glistening skin of a poison apple. “With Voyager safe,” she announced, “my first priority has to be the hostages. B’Elanna, Neelix, and Kes are counting on us and I’m not about to let them down. Whatever happens next, the Ryol brought this upon themselves. Mr. Tuvok, prepare a maximum dispersion phaser blast, set on stun.”
“The ship’s phaser banks have already been programmed accordingly,” Tuvok informed her. “And security teams are standing by for immediate transport to the planet.”
“Excellent,” she said. “Mr. Kim, how long until the Elder’s deadline.”
“Thirty-nine minutes,” he reported.
“That’s plenty of time,” she said. “Fire at will.”
Tuvok responded immediately. On the viewer, Janeway witnessed twin beams of coruscating blue energy converge on the planet’s equator. The beams shimmered slightly where they intersected with Ryolanov’s atmosphere. The beams flashed for less than two seconds before Tuvok deactivated the phasers. “The burst has
been completed,” he stated calmly.
Harry Kim was more emotional. “Is that it?” he asked. “Did it work?”
I hope so, Janeway thought. Otherwise, they’d run out of tricks—and time. “Let me see what’s happening down there. Full magnification!”
CHAPTER
17
“OUCH!” TORRES BARKED. “THAT HURTS.”
“I’m sorry,” Kes said softly. Her fingers dug beneath Torres’s dark hair to explore the bump on the back of the woman’s head. The injury didn’t seem serious, although Kes wished she had a medical tricorder. Better yet, she wished she could get Torres to the sickbay for a complete examination. We’d all be better off back aboard the ship, she thought.
She considered asking the Ryol for some rudimentary first-aid supplies, even just a cold compress at least, but was reluctant to attract their attention for even a moment. Varathael was ignoring them at present; Kes saw him standing several meters away on the other side of the dilapidated cargohold, speaking into a portable plastic monitor that his aides had erected atop another moss-covered boulder. She wondered if he was communicating with Voyager.
Captain Janeway would never surrender the starship to the Ryol, Kes knew that much, but she was confident that her friends aboard Voyager would attempt some sort of rescue mission. We just have to hold on, she thought, and do our best to stay alive, no matter how difficult it gets.
She could still hear the murdered neffaler wailing at the back of her mind, like a headache that won’t go away. Their plaintive cries tore at her heart, but she did her best to ignore them. The ancient neffaler were dead; there was nothing she could do to save them now, while Neelix and B’Elanna and the others still needed her help. Forgive me, she thought to the bodiless voices. I don’t know how to relieve your pain.
A tiny skeletal figure shuffled toward her. Kes gasped out loud, thinking at first that one of the original victims of the Ryol had materialized in front of her. Then she realized that the figure was merely another neffaler, one of many servants, carrying a tray of food for the hostages. Unlike the youngish neffaler B’Elanna had befriended a few hours ago, this one had nearly reached the limits of his endurance. His large black eyes stared lifelessly at the ground before his feet. He moved slowly, lacking any sign of energy or hope. Does he understand, Kes wondered, the tragedy that occurred here so many years ago? How much do the neffaler remember of their own history? She forgot her own perilous situation for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the disaster that had befallen the innocent and unsuspecting neffaler. Nothing the Ryol can do to me, she thought, can be worse than what they have already done to these poor people.
Her prison fare consisted of a slice of black bread and a piece of fruit. She consumed them quickly, determined to keep her strength up for whatever trials lay ahead. Next to her, Neelix chewed glumly on his own chunk of bread. “Not very impressive cuisine,” he stated. “Why is it I feel like a Sarayan swamp sloth being fatted for the slaughter?”
“Your keen grasp of the obvious?” Torres remarked, rather sharper than Kes liked. She tried to remember that B’Elanna had been injured, and that the pain was probably making her more irritable than usual.
Across a long stretch of sand and coral, Varathael concluded his business at the monitor. Kes watched him stride away from the makeshift communications station and confer in hushed tones with one of his lieutenants. To her distress, the Elder did not look overly troubled or anxious. If only I knew what was going on between Varathael and the captain, she thought, maybe I could do something to help. There must be some way we can—
Something happened then, cutting her off in mid-thought. Kes felt a sudden burning sensation all over her body, followed immediately by a peculiar sense of disorientation. Everything went black for a second, and Kes felt her body dropping to the floor, but when the blackness passed, she found herself standing right where she’d been and able to see better than she ever had before.
She gazed in wonder upon the interior of the cargohold. Whatever had just happened had affected everyone else, too: Neelix, B’Elanna, neffaler, and Ryol. Their captors alike lay helpless upon the ground, their motionless bodies sprawled where they fell. Only a few centimeters away, Neelix and Torres slumped against each other, B’Elanna’s head resting upon the Talaxian’s shoulder, a sight Kes found curiously endearing. Her companions’ eyes were closed. Neelix’s mouth hung open as he took slow regular breaths. They were both out cold, and so was everyone else in the hold.
But what about me? Kes wondered, confused. Why am I still awake? She glanced down at her feet, amazed to see her own body stretched out on the sandy floor. Her face lay dangerously close to a puddle of brackish sea water, but had luckily remained turned toward the air. One shell-shaped ear sank deep into the sand. I don’t understand, Kes thought, looking down on her own unconscious form. Am I dreaming?
If so, it was a remarkably vivid dream. She could still feel the dank chill of the sundered hold, listen to the sudden eerie silence. Even the flying frogs had stopped fluttering overhead. Looking around, she spotted dozens of small winged bodies scattered about the floor of this artificial cavern. It appeared as though every living thing in sight had been stunned instantaneously, except her . . . sort of.
The captain, she realized at once. This had to be Voyager’s doing, part of the rescue operation Kes had been waiting for. Despite her bewilderment at her ongoing out-of-body experience, Kes experienced a moment of intense relief and optimism. They were going to beat the Ryol after all!
An angry growl caught her attention. Looking away from her own body, Kes was dismayed to see another figure lifting itself off the ground. It was Varathael, of course, his powerful body protected by a sheath of glowing red energy. He raised his arms above his head, roaring in rage. Claws sprouted from his outstretched fingers. His face was a mask of bestial hate and bloodlust, ivory fangs protruding from his transforming jaws.
Crazed green eyes searched the silenced confines of the cargohold until his baleful glare fell upon the slumping bodies of Torres and Neelix. He stalked toward them, clearly intent on exacting his revenge against Voyager by wreaking bloody mayhem on the hostages. “Stop!” Kes cried out, running forward and throwing out her hands to block him, but he seemed oblivious to her presence. She tried to grab on to him, but his flesh slipped effortlessly through her intangible fingers. There was nothing she could do to stop him, she realized, watching helplessly as he drew nearer to the unconscious forms of Neelix, Torres, and herself. The crimson forcefield shimmered around him like a demonic halo. Kes stood frozen in horror, an invisible witness to her own impending murder.
The wailing in her head grew louder, drowning out the sound of Varathael’s fierce growls, transforming from cries of despair into a spine-chilling howl of revenge. The voices spilled out of her brain until they seemed to fill the entire vast chamber. Angry shrieks and shouts echoed off the rusty steel walls, so loudly that even Varathael seemed to pause momentarily, his lupine head looking around in apparent confusion. For the first time, Kes discerned a touch of fear and anxiety in the Elder’s feral features.
She could hardly blame him. To her shock and astonishment, she saw strange apparitions rising from beneath the floor of the cargohold. The beings appeared composed of mist and shadows, passing through steel and stone as though they were as immaterial as Kes herself had become. Were they holograms like The Doctor, she wondered, or something else entirely?
They resembled the neffaler somewhat—Kes glimpsed six blurry fingers at the end of a vaporous arm—but stronger and taller somehow. Their limbs were long and supple, with a rich coating of shining fur. Their large moonlike eyes were full of wisdom and sorrow. They’re beautiful, Kes marveled. Was this what the neffaler were like, before the Empty Ones degraded them? In her heart, she knew it was so.
Varathael, his humanoid features now completely supplanted by his more bestial persona, sniffed the air frantically. He appeared to have forgotten his intent to rava
ge the Voyager crew’s defenseless bodies; instead, his head jerked from side to side, searching the shadowy recesses of the hold for some hidden danger. He could not see the noncorporeal entities ascending from the floor, Kes surmised, but he seemed to sense their presence. Varathael paced back and forth across a few short meters of rough terrain, his claws raised and ready to defend himself against the unseen foe. His growl devolved into a nervous whimper.
The fleshless beings, whom Kes knew to be the buried dead of this terrible place, approached the fallen bodies of their oppressed descendants. The bright white light of the crystals rendered the spirits partially transparent; Kes could see the walls of the hold through the entities’ misty shapes. Their lustrous red fur was almost too bright to be real, like an illusion created by a combination of lasers and neon.
As Kes looked on, and Varathael grew steadily more agitated, the beings merged with the bodies of the stunned neffaler, disappearing into the tangible solidity of over a dozen sleeping individuals, who suddenly began to move again. Thin wasted limbs twitched abruptly, then lifted themselves off the ground.
Possessed by the long-denied wrath of their murdered ancestors, the neffaler advanced on Varathael with an energy and purpose they had never displayed before. The Elder of the Ryol could see the revitalized bodies easily enough; he barked imperiously at his former servants, dismissing them with a sweeping gesture, but they ignored his command. The neffaler surrounded Varathael, leaping up and down in their fury, baring their teeth and shrieking in fury. They snatched up pieces of bone and rock from the ground, brandishing them like weapons and hurling them at the Elder.
The projectiles bounced off the red forcefield encasing Varathael, but he stepped backward anyway, taken aback by the unexpected ferocity of the neffaler attack. Scorn turned to surprise in his eyes, closely followed by a look of unmistakable fear. He turned to flee, but found his path blocked by still more rampaging neffaler. A small furry figure threw himself onto the Elder’s back, wrapping his arms around Varathael’s throat. The red sheath flickered beneath the impact of the attack, but did not repel the invader. More neffaler imitated the first one’s example, piling onto the Ryol leader one after another and flailing at him with their arms and legs. Varathael disappeared beneath a horde of berserk neffaler, exacting their revenge after generations of abuse and exploitation.