Ghost Dance

by Christie Golden

  “You are free of large concentrations of dark matter,” said Seven, “but there are minute traces in the phalange of your thumb and in the lunate carpal. It will be sufficient for the testing requirements. You may proceed.”

  “Thank you,” said Janeway, with a hint of amusement. Then, calmly, she placed her hand where Torres had indicated.

  When Telek had done so earlier, the orb and the field had not reacted. This time, the orb lit up in its by-now recognizable fashion and emitted the screeching sound. Janeway, for whom all of this was a new experience, looked somewhat concerned in the brief instant before the light grew too bright for Telek to look.

  When the light and sound had died, they all turned excitedly to Seven.

  “The dark matter has not been removed from the phalange and lunate carpal,” she announced. She looked disappointed. “However, Captain, you appear to be undamaged.”

  “Well,” said Janeway gamely, “that’s something.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Khala suddenly. “This ought to have worked. The orb reacted, it tried to take the dark matter out of the captain’s hand. It’s the next logical step. What is the field for if not to aid in the recovery of dark matter?”

  “It does,” said Seven. “We have been able to ascertain that all dark matter within its circumference was transported first to the orb and then to the warp bubble.”

  “All dark matter save that which is within living tissue,” said Janeway thoughtfully. “It might be a safety measure of some sort.”

  “Too bad we don’t have a real guinea pig,” said Torres. “It would be nice to have a test subject other than a humanoid.”

  “Living tissue,” said Janeway again. “Ensign Vorik, go to the aeroponics bay. Take your tricorder and scan the plants there for traces of dark matter. If you find any, bring them back here at once.”

  Vorik nodded and left immediately. Telek understood what Janeway was driving at. Plants had their own complexities, to be sure, but they weren’t as complex as humanoids. Maybe the sphere would work on them.

  Now, for perhaps the first time, the true scope of the task they had been set dawned on him. They would have to remove dark matter not only from space and from individuals. They would have to remove it from ships, from plants—from planets. From stars. From solar systems, perhaps. True, not every person or plant on every planet would be contaminated. In fact, the odds were that only a small percentage of dark matter would be present any time it was detected. Still, when one considered the vastness of space, it was a daunting task.

  And the tiny, purple, floating orb was their only tool.

  Vorik returned, carrying a tray with three plants of varying sizes. Torres appropriated them at once. “Seven,” she asked, “is the radiation still present?”

  “Affirmative, though it is slowly decreasing.”

  Carefully, holding the tray firmly, Torres extended it toward the sphere and held it there.

  “The plants are within the radiation’s—” began Seven, but the terrible noise and bright red light interrupted her. When they had faded, she checked the computer.

  “The dark matter has been removed from all three of the plants,” she said.

  “Do you realize what this means?” said Telek, unable to control himself. “Captain, we can extract dark matter from anything now—plants, people, ships, even planets! All we need to do is to increase the size of the radiation sphere!”

  “It’s a good beginning,” said Janeway, placing a cautioning hand on Telek’s shoulder. “But we’re far from being able to sweep entire planets clean.”

  “The transporter was operating at maximum capacity, and we were only able to increase it a little over a meter,” added Torres, somewhat glumly.

  Janeway’s keen blue eyes examined each of them in turn. “Unless I’m greatly mistaken, we’re well into the second shift. That means all of you are off duty.”

  They all protested at once. Janeway raised her hands, smiling. Her decision had been made. “Right now, it’s going to take several more hours’ worth of work before we’ve even transported the crews of the Kwaisi ships. The second shift should be able to handle that without a problem.”

  The door hissed open just as she was speaking. Harry Kim entered. He smiled when he met Khala’s eyes. “I must agree with the captain,” he said. “Khala, will you join me for dinner?”

  Khala looked from Harry to Torres to Janeway. “You’ll be back at work first thing in the morning, I assure you,” said Janeway. “Because, like Dr. R’Mor, I too am looking forward to being able to rid entire planets of dark matter at a single go. In the meantime, eat something and go to bed. You all look exhausted.”

  It was nothing less than the truth. Telek could not see himself, but he could feel the strain in his shoulders and neck from the constant tension, could sense how bloodshot-green his eyes must be after hours with no breaks.

  The crew exchanged glances, then silently headed for the door.

  * * *

  Harry had spent an entire hour wondering what to do for dinner with Khala. Should he program the holodeck? Khala might enjoy the slightly run-down but cozy atmosphere of Sandrine’s, or the laid-back milieu of Polynesian resort simulation three. Perhaps she’d like a picnic on a ship aboard the Black Sea at night, or maybe Lake George, or Lake Como.

  Or he could simply prepare a repast in his quarters. In the end, that was what he had opted to do. He didn’t know Khala well enough to know what her likes and dislikes were, and didn’t want to risk offending her with the wrong holodeck program.

  Of course, though, the minute she appeared at his door, he frantically wished he had opted for the holodeck. “Come,” he called.

  She had replicated a dress for the occasion, and looked almost as awkward as Harry felt. “Is this all right? I mean, is it appropriate? I asked Seven about it, and she told me to ask the Doctor, and this was what he suggested …”

  Her voice trailed off at Harry’s silence. “I’m sorry. Let me go back and change—”

  “Oh, don’t,” said Harry, earnestly.

  He was silent because he was stunned at how truly beautiful Khala was. She had been lovely in her uniform, of course; beauty shines through no matter what costume it wears. But she stood before him now, hair freshly washed and combed, replicated sapphires sparkling at her ears and throat. The dress she wore was a symphony of soft pastel shades of white, blue, silver, indigo, and purple. It draped one shoulder, leaving the other sky-blue shoulder bare. A silver belt emphasized a small waist, and simple blue slippers completed the outfit.

  “You look …” He fumbled for words. “You look amazing.” Not it was his turn to feel uncomfortable. “I didn’t know you were going to dress up, or I’d have—”

  “Oh, Harry, I didn’t want to—”

  Their eyes met and suddenly they both laughed. “Okay,” said Harry, “You look gorgeous, I look like a boring old Starfleet ensign, but I am going to make you a wonderful dinner so you’ll forgive me.”

  She relaxed, the smile spreading across her face and lighting up her eyes. “Sounds wonderful. I haven’t had anything since lunch, and that was hours ago.”

  “Please sit down,” he said, indicating the sofa. “Computer, two glasses and a bottle of 2063 Dom Pérignon champagne.” He took the bottle and glasses and sat down beside her, handing her a glass.

  “This isn’t the real stuff, of course, but it’s pretty good synthehol,” he said, and then winced. Once again, he’d insulted Khala’s choice of artificial over real. Rushing on, he poured them each a generous amount of the sparkling beverage, and said, “To the success of our quest: to finding every last piece of dark matter and getting rid of the stuff!”

  She laughed brightly. “I will definitely drink to that.”

  The synthehol was good, and Harry continued preparing the meal. He had decided to expose Khala to a wide variety of dishes to see which she favored. With the replicator, there was no waste. Anything they didn’t eat went right back
in.

  He started with antipasti, a dish from Earth’s Italy. Khala seemed to enjoy the tart flavors of olives, cheeses, and roasted peppers. She was less fond of the algae puffs and plomeek soup, but, to Harry’s amazement, she devoured the Owon eggs and hasperat with gusto.

  He finished up with a simple chocolate cake and Vulcan spiced tea. Khala accepted the cup and brought it to her nose. She sniffed and smiled.

  “Mmmm, that smells wonderful,” she said. She took a sip. “And it’s so delicious! Harry, thank you so much for all of this. You’ve been so kind to me.”

  “Aw, shucks, ma’am, ’tweren’t nothing,” he drawled.

  “No, really.” She moved closer to him and gently placed a hand on his knee. “I don’t know why I was brought here, but you’ve made it easier for me. Being able to contribute helps, too, but the time when I’m not actually working, well … it could be awfully lonely.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. “I can’t imagine you ever being lonely,” he said. “You probably have to beat the men off with a stick.”

  “Me?” She looked genuinely surprised. “Oh, no. I’m a pretty solitary person, actually. When I do spend time with someone, it’s usually my family.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  She did so, and Harry learned of a brilliant but self-conscious older brother, a fussy but loving mother, and a slightly distant father who was nonetheless clearly proud of his two intelligent offspring.

  “Tell me more about this interceptor bit,” said Harry.

  “Well, as I told you earlier, sometimes alien races don’t contact us, they contact the Culilann. We have interceptors who try to catch these poor aliens who fall through the cracks before they reach the Culilann. Once they have made contact, though, it becomes the field team’s responsibility. They have to conduct a recovery—go out and find and bring back the aliens.”

  “So that’s what your brother Ezbai does? He leads these missions?”

  She threw back her head and laughed at that. “Oh, no, not Ezbai. You’d never see anyone more out of his element than Ezbai three meters into the jungle. No, he is well suited to the job of interceptor, which means he monitors things and tells other people to go out into the rain forest and recover the aliens and the infants.”

  “Infants? You lost me.”

  She wrinkled her adorable little nose, and Harry knew he was in for another diatribe against the Culilann. “They are so primitive,” she sighed. “Any child who is born deformed is exposed—left at their so-called sacred mountain for their fictitious gods to rescue.”

  “They abandon their children to die in the elements?” Harry was truly horrified at this. His imaginative mind raced with all the dreadful possibilities.

  “They would if it weren’t for us,” declared Khala. “We have a spy planted in each village who notifies us when this happens, and we send out the emergency recovery teams at once. We can get to the infant within an hour at the outside. We take them in, cure whatever it was that so offended the Culilann about them, and raise them as Alilann children.”

  Kim found this admirable. “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  “Well, we couldn’t just let them die, could we? We’d be just like the Culilann then.”

  “But the Culilann don’t think they’re leaving them to die, and honestly, you’re playing right into their false thinking. The children are always taken away by some benevolent being. It’s just that instead of the Crafters, it’s their own kind.”

  “We are not the same kind!” exclaimed Khala. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

  This was not the way Harry had wanted the evening to go. “I understand they’re a different caste, but you’re the same race. You even raise their children to be Alilann.”

  Khala sighed, calming somewhat. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Harry. It must be so hard for you to understand this, coming from a different culture. Infants are one thing. We raise them Alilann, and Alilann they are. But older children, adults—they are Culilann to their bones. And I understand you better than I understand them.”

  Harry was silent. “Let me tell you about my family,” he said. He told her of being raised as the golden child, the only offspring of elderly parents. He spoke of his love for them, the closeness he felt, and how awful it was, even after all this time in the Delta Quadrant, to be separated from them. And finally, his heart racing and his palms wet, he told her about the clarinet.

  “Clarinet? What is that?”

  “It’s a musical instrument,” he said. Rising, he went to retrieve it. “I replicated it early on in the voyage, so that I could stay in practice.”

  Still she did not understand. “Instrument? Is it then a diagnostic tool of some sort?”

  He licked dry lips. “No, it makes music.”

  “You are using all kinds of words that are unfamiliar to me,” she said, laughing. “Show me what this does.”

  Harry stared. She didn’t even know what music was. He had imagined that there was at least some kind of corollary in her regimented, precisely controlled world, perhaps tunes composed by computer. But apparently there was nothing.

  He swallowed hard. Lifting the clarinet to his lips, he began to play.

  Khala started at the sound. Her lovely face registered puzzlement, then confusion, then something akin to panic.

  “Stop it,” she said.

  He ceased playing. “What’s wrong?” He had an idea, of course, but wanted to hear her put it into words.

  “You are making rhythmic sound from it,” she said, edging away from him. “The Culilann do that. It’s forbidden.”

  “We eat fresh-grown foods, and create art and music and poetry,” said Kim, pushing his point frantically. “But we build starships and understand warp drive and sometimes listen to artificially constructed music, too. It’s okay, Khala.”

  “No. No it’s not. It’s—it’s wrong, Harry. It’s sick. Excuse me, I have to go.” She turned and hastened out, but not before he saw tears glistening in her beautiful sapphire eyes.

  Harry’s stomach was knotted. He wondered if he’d be able to keep dinner down. She couldn’t have hurt him worse if she’d tried, and he knew that her reaction was something she couldn’t help. But oh, God, the look on her face, as if he were doing something terrible just by playing the clarinet.

  Music had been the constant love of Harry’s life. It had kept him sane and comforted during the separation from his parents, from Libby, during the wrenching agony of his relationship with the Varro woman Tal, during the long trip into the Void. It was his touchstone. No one could be close to him without accepting and understanding the call that playing the clarinet had on his soul.

  Khala thought playing music was sick, was wrong. He knew it wasn’t. It was something he’d always been proud of, was good at—something he did that other people enjoyed and admired. In many ways, he was his music.

  He lay down on the bed and curled up with his clarinet. The shame and pain that washed through him told him all he needed to know. Harry Kim was falling in love with a woman to whom the most precious thing in his life was an abomination.

  And he couldn’t stop it.

  INTERLUDE

  THE PLANET THE ENTITY APPROACHED WAS STILL LUSH and fertile. It was not almost dead, as that of the Baneans had been. There was not much dark matter here to be collected, but as it drew closer, the Entity realized that there did not need to be much for dreadful damage to be done.

  It settled down, an invisible cloud, and brushed lovingly across the surface of an ocean, of forests, of beautiful, graceful buildings. A molecule here, a few more there. And then there was the darkness.

  It had not ravaged the man’s body, nor his mind. It was something else that had been broken and twisted, something some spiritual peoples called a “soul.” Almost the Entity recoiled from the man, and in so doing learned something about itself: it was inherently good.

  Resolute, it moved toward the man. His name was Gath. He had once he
ld a high rank among his people, the Sikarians. More information came to the Entity, though somehow the knowledge was already familiar. Gath had once been what was called a minister. The Sikarians were famed for their hospitality, though even before the coming of the wrong things the Entity sensed that this “hospitality” had been self-serving. The Sikarians lived for amusement and pleasure, and all too quickly they grew tired of something that had once entertained them.

  Such was still the Sikarian way, the Entity sensed, but in Gath, the drive for pleasure had been perverted. Gath obtained his pleasure from the pain of others. Once he had been thoughtless and lacked compassion. Now he was cruel. Evil. The dark matter inside him had made him so.

  The woman who had given him so much pleasure earlier that evening now lay sobbing in another room. She bore bruises and burns and cuts. Perhaps a bone or two had been broken. Gath did not care. Her sobs annoyed him. Already, the pleasure that had filled him at her suffering was fading, and he was thinking of what else he could do to the girl to rejuvenate his interest in her. He had never killed, but now that he thought of it. …

  Horror and anger racked the Entity. This must be stopped. The Entity could not prevent the damage Gath had done, but it felt certain that it could stop future wrongs. It descended, unseen by Gath, and gently swept through him.

  Gath gasped. His body tingled. He felt as if he were on fire. The pain, the pain … ! And then it was gone. He stared at the blood still on his hands, and the blood stains on his robes.

  “What have I done?” he whispered, but he knew. He remembered everything. Remorse welled inside him, an alien sensation, but one he embraced like a drowning man might a lifeline. He rushed into the room, where the broken girl shrieked and cringed away from him.

  “Mirta, please, please forgive me. I don’t know why I did these awful things to you. I am so sorry. Here, let me take you to a doctor.”