Trials 04 Shadow's Trial

by Terri Zavaleta

  lights and the humans in view.

  "So what is this? Is this all it does? It doesn't seem to operate

  anything else?" Malista asked, frowning her puzzlement as she studied

  the flashing lights. There were approximately twelve different colors

  of spots and short rays of light bouncing on the blank wall opposite

  the machine.

  Tom's eyes suddenly widened. "We talked about the flashing lights

  being their language, right?" She nodded. "Now listen to the clicks."

  She frowned more deeply, then shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry,

  Tom. I just don't understand what you're getting at. The lights seem

  to be just a random manifestation of some sort of---"

  Tom held up his free hand to stop her. His motion was echoed by the

  aliens. "Man, this is getting spooky," he whispered, disconcerted by

  the duplication of his every move. "But listen to the clicks. They

  aren't random. There's a rhythm. Da-di-da-da-da. Di da dum dum da."

  Her eyebrows flew up almost to her hairline.

  "Listen, Malista," Tom insisted. He began to snap his fingers to the

  beat he was hearing in the clicks.

  She nodded slowly, with dawning comprehension. "So are the clicks the

  language? Or is it the flashing lights?"

  Paris narrowed his eyes. "It's not just a click. Can't you feel the

  vibration? It's almost like the clicks are reverberating through the

  walls...like a speaker system?"

  "What are you saying, Tom? You think this device is---"

  He grinned broadly. "I think it's a music box."

  "You mean a piano?" She eyed him dubiously.

  He shook his head. "No, a music box. The old ones used to have a key

  to wind the mechanism, but with the newer ones you just flick a switch

  and it plays music."

  She smiled weakly as if willing to humor him. "Okay. And you think

  this is their version of a music box?"

  "Sure. Don't you get it? Doesn't the beat sound familiar? You've heard

  it before. At Sandrine's. I've played it on the piano. That's The

  Pakled Polka."

  "What?!" Her voice was a squeak of disbelief.

  ****************

  "How are the repairs going, B'Elanna?" Chakotay asked, striding into

  Engineering.

  In answer, Torres tilted her head back and bellowed, "Carey! How are

  you coming with the inertial dampers?"

  Joe Carey's curly head emerged from behind a large console on the

  upper level. "Systems will be restored in thirty minutes,

  Lieutenant," he replied, not at all disconcerted by his chief's

  unorthodox manner of communication.

  "Make it fifteen!"

  "I canna change the laws of physics," Carey muttered in a perfect

  imitation of Starfleet's most famous engineer, as he sank back down

  out of sight to return to work.

  "WHAT?!" It was a mild roar---for the Chief Engineer.

  His head popped back up. "I'm doing my best, Lieutenant, but if it

  isn't done right, it will just have to be done again! Which will make

  for a very short trip." His expression was perfectly deadpan.

  Torres started to reply sarcastically, but felt a hand on her arm and

  instead looked at Chakotay. "Let him work," the first officer said

  quietly.

  "We can't make another pass at that dome until we get those inertial

  dampers online!" she retorted. "I've almost got guidance control

  working to optimum efficiency---not that you're going to get that with

  Bateheart at the helm!" she added scathingly. Her eyes turned upward

  towards Carey's position once more.

  "Yelling at your subordinates isn't going to speed repairs. You're

  slowing them down by interrupting," the commander reasoned. "I know

  it's hard to wait----"

  She'd been doing so well at first. But now she wasn't on the bridge

  trying to keep Harry Kim from worrying himself into uselessness and

  had time to focus on her own fears. Mentioning guidance control had

  brought Tom Paris forcefully to mind.

  "What if Haldersen is right?" The words erupted from her as if they

  could no longer be contained. "What if those aliens are---"

  "You don't know that!" Chakotay interrupted sharply. "Don't let your

  imagination take wings, B'Elanna. Remember, Tom Paris evidently has

  more lives than the proverbial cat! How many times have we written him

  off as lost? And he's always come back---usually with a smart ass

  comment to make about how long it took us to come to his rescue."

  Torres clenched her fists and struck out at the nearest bulkhead. Even

  Klingon strength didn't---quite---make a dent. "I hate waiting!" she

  seethed through gritted teeth.

  *****************

  As tired, thirsty and hungry as they were, The Pakled Polka's rapid

  rhythm quickly took its toll on the humans. The aliens didn't seem to

  be the least bit fatigued but faithfully imitated every move. Or did

  their best at any rate. An awkward best.

  Tom Paris returned to the 'music box' and pushed a few more buttons.

  He was rewarded by a change in the pattern of the lights flashing. He

  turned the only dial on the console and the tempo of the clicks

  modified as well. "What does that sound like?"

  Malista licked dry lips, trying to catch her breath. "Like your

  imagination is running away with you?"

  "Come on! Just listen to the rhythm of the sounds and use your own

  imagination to fill in the blanks where the musical notes ought to

  go." He couldn't believe she couldn't hear it as easily as he did.

  Harry would have.

  "One-two-three, one-two-three---a waltz?" she ventured.

  "Yeah," Paris agreed and reached for his partner once more. He began

  to hum the tune to "Ten Minutes Ago", the waltz from the Rodgers and

  Hammerstein version of Cinderella that the Delaney twins were so eager

  to perform.

  "Tom, what's the use? What are we trying to accomplish? Teaching the

  aliens to dance?" Though protesting, she began to waltz with him. Well

  matched in height, they danced gracefully together as the aliens

  clumsily tried to follow their movements.

  "We're trying to communicate," the lieutenant replied. "Remember, Sven

  said some insects dance to communicate. Maybe these little guys will

  get the idea that we are intelligent, sentient beings. Dancing is an

  art form in almost every culture the Federation has ever contacted. Of

  course, there's such a wide variety of styles..."

  "I don't think they're very good at waltzing," Malista stated, as the

  aliens stumbled around in a clumsy repetition of the human's

  movements. "They don't seem too coordinated to me."

  Paris suddenly stopped and slapped a palm to his forehead. "Damn! Of

  course not! Their anatomy isn't the same as ours. Think about it. From

  what little we've seen, their bodies seem to be less---less rigid.

  Their skeletal structure isn't like ours. They may be invertebrates."

  He left Malista standing alone in the center of the room, surrounded

  by the alien pairs, as he ran back to the machine.

  Panicked for a moment, she froze in place, following him only with her

  eyes. "Tom! What are you doing?" She took a deep breath and comforted

  herself as she notice
d the aliens didn't make an aggressive move. They

  seemed to be waiting for the humans' next motion.

  Paris was pushing buttons and fiddling with every control. "I'm trying

  to find some kind of music that you can dance to. That slinky stuff

  you warm up with. Or the jazzy stuff you play when you do your

  gymnastics workout."

  "The interpretive---" Shadow spluttered. "Tom---" In her exasperation

  with her companion, she forgot her own self-consciousness and their

  watching audience. Malista stalked toward the man, intent on demanding

  some kind of explanation.

  He must have hit the right combination for he spun on his heel to face

  her with a triumphant grin. "Listen to that!"

  "What? It's just clicking!" She raised her voice in exasperation.

  He exhaled noisily as he frowned his disapproval and aggravation at

  her lack of cooperation and imagination. "Listen. You can hear the

  music if you try!"

  She folded her arms across her chest and scowled back at him. "All I

  hear is a clicking, rattling noise. That is NOT music and I can't

  dance to that. And what's the point anyway?"

  "Interpretive dance, not just a pattern like the Romulan Rumba or a

  Saturn Spin! A repetitive pattern could be misinterpreted as just rote

  behavior. If you could dance something that would demonstrate

  creativity, illustrate the way our bodies move, express some

  feeling---it might get our message across!" In his unbridled

  enthusiasm at finally having a working plan in mind, he surged forward

  and grasped her upper arms, lightly shaking her. He was slightly

  disconcerted to notice out of the corner of his eye that the little

  aliens were continuing to mock his every movement but kept his

  attention on his 'little sister'.

  "What message?" she sighed tiredly, leaning forward to rest her head

  on his shoulder.

  Putting one hand around her to rest on her waist, he used the other

  hand to tip her chin up. For a brief moment, he really looked at her.

  Her eyes were dull, her skin dry, her lips beginning to chap and crack

  from dehydration. He probably looked just as bad, if not worse. He

  would guess they'd been without food or water for at least eight hours

  by now. If not longer. And to top it off, Malista had already had a

  roller coaster of a day emotionally and physically before being taken

  prisoner. It was no wonder she was ready to lie down and quit in her

  weariness.

  But Tom wasn't ready to let her. He said the magic word. "Harry." A

  spark of interest and hope widened her eyes as she studied him. "Harry

  is waiting for you. Malista, I think we have a chance at this. And if

  it doesn't work---"

  She raised her eyebrows at him. "If it doesn't work?"

  That scapegrace grin was back, though he was worn out himself. "Then

  we can have fun dancing to the music. And we aren't any worse off than

  we were back in that cell. These little guys seem to find us

  entertaining. Who knows? Maybe they'll send us on the road---we'll do

  dancing exhibitions all over the planet---play only the best clubs! Be

  the idols of millions!"

  A wide grin started to spread across her face. "You, Tom Paris, are

  positively, absolutely, unmistakably a certified lunatic."

  He tilted his head to one side. "Yeah. So?"

  Her lips trembled. She slid her arms up around his neck and pulled him

  against her in a tight hug. "And I love you." She held the embrace for

  a warm, sustaining moment, then took a step back, pressing a quick,

  dry kiss on his cheek. "I just wish I wasn't so thirsty."

  "Yeah, I know what you---whoa! Look at that!"

  Her head snapped up to follow his gaze. Two of the small aliens had

  left the group and were standing next to a wall. A panel suddenly slid

  open. The aliens brought out a tray that had twelve bottles on it. The

  necks of the bottles were long and thin, no more than a centimeter in

  diameter. The alien bearing the tray walked straight to the humans and

  offered the tray to them.

  "Serving your guests first, huh? Well, you have better manners than

  the big guys around here." Tom gingerly took two bottles off the tray,

  handing one to Malista, then holding up the one in his hand to inspect

  it. It was made of a flexible plastic of some kind and was filled with

  a thick liquid. It wasn't water, but it was liquid.

  Tom raised an eyebrow at Malista. She smiled halfheartedly.

  Ten of the other aliens took the remaining bottles from the tray and

  held them waist high in front of them. It was so quick, the humans

  almost missed it. Something that resembled a straw darted out of the

  area of the robe where they presumed the aliens' faces to be. The

  snout, or whatever it was, disappeared down the neck of the bottle and

  sucked the liquid up in a matter of milliseconds.

  "You think we should drink it?" Malista asked wistfully, eyeing the

  bottle. She sniffed at its contents. "It smells sweet."

  "Let me try it first." He raised the bottle and tilted it over his

  waiting mouth. Nothing.

  Malista frowned. "Maybe you have to squeeze it?"

  With a slight shrug, Paris did just that. A thick glop of the

  orange-brown liquid plopped out and splattered into his mouth. And

  onto his chin. And onto his chest.

  Shadow giggled.

  Paris glared at her.

  Totally unrepentant, she asked, "What does it taste like? Or did you

  get enough in your mouth to be able to tell?"

  Using his fingertips to collect the errant drops, he scraped them off

  in his mouth and smacked his lips. "Thirst quenching but rather sweet.

  A saucy little vintage with a fruity bouquet---"

  "Oh, stop!" She aimed a lazy swat at his arm. "Stop making fun of

  Trent." The urbane Lt. Salaka fancied himself as quite a connoisseur

  of fine liqueurs and wines. Tom was doing a perfect impression of one

  of his commentaries. "What does it taste like? Are you feeling okay?"

  "Sweet. Fruity. Sort of like those fruit nectars Neelix concocts. Go

  ahead. Try it." Paris watched in great disappointment as she tilted

  her head back, aligned the mouth of the bottle with her own, and

  squeezed gently as if milking the plastic container. The liquid flowed

  in a thick but steady stream right between her lips.

  She stopped, swallowed, and smiled smugly. "It is good."

  "Why are you so good at that?" Paris prodded suspiciously.

  Her smile widened. "These bottles remind me of the wineskins my uncles

  and father used. Old Greek tradition. Just keep the pressure steady

  and it smoothes the flow."

  "How did they know we were thirsty?" Tom asked abruptly.

  "What?"

  "They've never seen humans before so they don't know how we're

  supposed to look, so they couldn't know we look thirsty. But they knew

  we were thirsty and did something about it! How did they know?"

  "Maybe they were just thirsty?" she ventured.

  Paris turned a skeptical eye on their hosts. "Maybe. Or maybe they're

  doing a better job of learning our language than we are of learning

  theirs." He tilted the bottle and took another drink. More of the

  liq
uid made it into his mouth this time. He felt a sudden surge of

  energy. "Hey, this stuff is good. I feel better already."

  "Maybe it's like a protein drink---high in nutrients. It really is

  thirst quenching," Shadow commented. She drank some more then set the

  bottle down on top of the music box as it stopped playing. They both

  stared at it for a moment.

  "Is it getting warmer in here?" Paris asked suddenly.

  Malista grinned at him. "I don't know. But I tell you one thing. I

  feel a lot better. I'm ready to dance. Let's go." She tugged the knife

  out of her waistband and put it down atop the console, next to their

  drinks and out of reach of the aliens. "This might get in the way."

  "Yeah," Tom replied, nodding happily. "Let's crank up this music box

  and see what we can find."

  "I don't care what you find on there. I want you to sing."

  "Sing? Why?" Tom stepped back towards the machine, ready to fiddle

  with the controls.

  "If I'm going to dance---you're going to sing!"

  "Sing!!?"

  "Hey, that stuff sounds like clicks to me," she remonstrated. "If it

  sounds like music to you, then you can sing it. Or hum, whistle, or

  scat it!"