Ghost Dance

by Christie Golden

  Jekri felt the hairs at the back of her neck prickle. She continued reading.

  The first to succeed in this mission shall receive a commendation, monetary compensation, and the gratitude of the Empress.

  “No,” Jekri whispered, then bit her lip hard to keep further sounds from escaping. She could not believe it. Not the Empress. She was bold, fearless, she would not need to send a secret command to assassins with this sly order. If she wanted Jekri dead, the Empress would arrange a public execution and make sure Jekri suffered shame as well as death. She would not merely arrange a knife in the back. This whole thing reeked of Lhiau.

  Wordlessly, she handed it to her Second, then strode to stand over the prone figure of Sharibor. She heard the swift intake of breath and was glad she was not watching Verrak’s reactions. Though he tried to hide his emotions, they would be naked on his face now, as they were naked on hers.

  “Why did she even bring this to my attention?” Jekri wondered aloud. “Why notify me about this code that she and her team supposedly couldn’t break?” Her mind went back to the conversation: “I have before me an encrypted message. I can’t even determine who sent it or to whom it was sent. Are you not my chief of decoding?”

  An uncomfortable pause. “My entire team has spent the last few hours on this, Chairman. I passed it along to you in the hopes that you might have an insight that we lacked.”

  It had made sense at the time, when Jekri trusted Sharibor and had given in to anger and irritation. It made no sense now. It was a violation of regulated procedure, an uncharacteristic lapse on Sharibor’s part. And Jekri was willing to bet her life that Sharibor did not permit lapses.

  She turned to Verrak, who was attempting to compose himself. “Someone was trying to warn me,” she told him. “Someone brought that message to my attention. She would never have told me otherwise.”

  “Is your unknown ally on the ship or elsewhere?” asked Verrak. “We can try to trace it—”

  “There is no point,” came Sharibor’s voice, dripping scorn. “Whoever it is is too clever, or else it never would have gotten past me.”

  Jekri whirled. “You will tell me all you know of this, or you will suffer terribly.”

  Sharibor’s face was unrecognizable. Gone was the constant expression of faint anxiety and insecurity. Hatred blazed out of ice-blue eyes, and a faint smile of contempt curled her lip.

  All at once Jekri realized she had slipped. She was getting soft, becoming too Vulcan, losing her Romulan edge. She sprang onto Sharibor’s body, frantically searching for something she ought to have located the minute Sharibor crumpled to the floor. In her day, it was placed in the sleeve … others preferred it in the boot. …

  A soft crunching sound made her heart contract. “No,” she cried, lunging for Sharibor’s mouth and wrestling it open. “No, curse you, you will not escape me so easily!”

  But already the light in Sharibor’s angry eyes was fading. The philotostan chip, a piece of equipment as necessary to a member of the Family as the means with which to dispose of the target, had been located inside Sharibor’s mouth. The poison acted quickly, too quickly for Jekri to intervene.

  She shook the corpse angrily, cursing. They needed the information housed inside Sharibor’s skull. Who was her contact? Who had sent this message? Who else had received it? How many others were planning to succeed where Sharibor had failed?

  Gently, Verrak’s hand closed on her shoulder. “There is nothing to be gleaned from the dead,” he said. “We must focus on the living.”

  He was right, of course, and Jekri knew it. Still, she gazed at the still, dead face of someone she thought she could trust, and wondered how many other faces she knew smiled and showed obedience, feigned friendship or respect or fear, but were merely masks that hid the iciness of murderous intent.

  CHAPTER

  14

  WHEN CHAKOTAY OPENED HIS SLEEPING EYES ONTO THE searingly bright, yellow, desert landscape, he groaned inwardly. This was becoming all too familiar. Where was his true animal teacher, she whom he loved with a special devotion, who was wry and gentle and delicate and so strong that she took his breath away?

  “On shore leave, or the spiritual equivalent,” came the hateful Q-like voice. “We can’t all be on call all the time, you know.”

  Coyote sat beside a cliché cactus, lifted his head, and howled. Annoyance rose inside Chakotay.

  “Please go away,” he said.

  “What? I am here for your betterment, Ebenezer, to see that you do not walk the path that Jacob Marley—whoops, wrong morality play.” He pranced a little, huffily, and fixed Chakotay with piercing yellow eyes.

  “You are a figment of my imagination. I have no idea why you have been sent to bother me.”

  Coyote half-closed his eyes. A pink tongue lolled. He looked like he was laughing. Abruptly, he shut his jaws with a snap and rose on his hind legs. He grew, changed, and developed a human torso. Kneeling, he scooped up some sand with paws that abruptly sprouted four fingers and an opposable thumb. Humming a little under his breath, Coyote shaped the sand into a crude approximation of a human figure.

  Chakotay watched intently, all his dislike of the Trickster gone. Something important was transpiring here. He still didn’t know why Coyote was coming to him in dreams and visions, but he was going to pay attention, just in case.

  “Some say man was made out of clay,” said Coyote in a singsong voice. “Some say that Coyote created him, just like this, to trick the other animals. Others say he was crafted from stardust.” He fixed Chakotay with those yellow eyes. “Or planted on Earth, a sort of seed from another world. Who knows the real truth? Coyote does, Coyote does!”

  He fiddled with his sand man, scraping a few grains here, packing some in there. “Whoops,” he said, “got a little dark sand right here. Let’s get rid of it, shall we?” With a pointed forefinger, he touched the sand man’s head. It crumbled at his touch, followed by the rest of the body.

  Coyote blew on the pile of sand in his palm. It flew up into a dust devil and launched itself at Chakotay’s face, stinging his eyes.

  He gasped and found himself awake, safe inside the little hut that the Culilann had constructed for him and Tom, his heart hammering within his chest. He was bathed in sweat and his skin was hot to the touch, as if he had been standing for a long time under a hot desert sun, though he knew he had no fever.

  Dark matter. It was dark matter inside him that was making him see Coyote. He marveled at the wonders of the human brain and soul, because even when distorted by dark matter, they were giving him an important message.

  Dark matter was inside the sand man that Coyote had created. The attempt to remove it had destroyed the sand man.

  Something very bad was about to happen.

  Chakotay rose and silently went to the small table at the far end of the hut. He poured water into a bowl and splashed his face, trying to make sense of the dream. It was too logical, in its strange, illogical way, to be simply a dream. He poured some more water from the pitcher into a cup, took a few sips, then went to the window and opened the crude shutters.

  It was the deep heart of the night, the quietest hour. Even the night things that called and whistled to one another from the depths of the rain forest seemed hushed. The thick, moist air had settled to the ground as a ghostly fog. This planet had moons very similar to Earth’s single luminous orb, and their cool, milky radiance bathed the plants and tinged the slow-moving fog with silver.

  Coyote was the Trickster. He loved to joke and play pranks, some more dangerous than others. Some legends said that he created man as a joke or an experiment. Was the dark sand the dark matter, or merely the darkness that dwelt in every human heart, even the brightest and kindest?

  But Tialin had cleansed them of the dark matter, had extracted it and placed it into that glowing purple sphere. He and Tom at least were—

  But this place wasn’t. These people weren’t. And who knew whether he and Tom had been reinfec
ted since their arrival. He knew, in a way the Culilann could not, how very different he and Tom were from them. Not just in their embracing of science and technology, but also in their very cells. The Doctor had said something about Khala’s DNA sequencing being almost backward from that of humans. Did that apply to everything? Did it apply to the birds he could hear? Was their DNA a complete inversion of that of a parrot or a macaw? The plants, what about them?

  And were they all infected with dark matter?

  Chakotay made a decision without even realizing that he had been in debate with himself. Kind as the Culilann were, and much as he had grown to like them, he and Tom needed to leave. They had to contact the Alilann, Khala’s caste, and speak with them about the potential dangers they faced. Only advanced technology could even recognize the dark matter present in their bodies; only advanced technology had a hope of extracting it. Prayers, meditation, chants, and rituals certainly had their roles in nurturing the soul, but science had to step in now. Besides, contacting the Alilann was the only way he and Tom could possibly contact Voyager and return home.

  And yet, this place felt like home now. It had been several days since their official welcoming ceremony, and he and Tom had been put to work as constructive citizens of Sumar-ka. It had been good, simple work, physical labor in the warmth of the suns that left muscles pleasantly aching at day’s end. Massages were given as a matter of course to all those who had worked hard—soothing, calming massages with rich oils to moisturize the skin and strong hands, male or female, to unkink knots in the muscles. The food was strengthening but light, and Chakotay felt physically better than he had in a long time. Real, pure food, prepared simply and with care, hard work, sound rest, friendly companions. It was a world away from the intellectual puzzles, recirculated air, and replicated food that comprised life on a starship.

  Even as he thought about his time here, Chakotay realized that it was over. They would leave in the morning. He was certain the villagers would protest, but they were not barbarians. They would not prevent him and Tom from leaving if they really wanted to.

  Sighing, Chakotay finished the glass of water and returned to his cot. He turned from the window and closed it, and in so doing, missed the slight movement at the edge of the jungle.

  * * *

  Matroci couldn’t sleep. He was edgy and nervous, and couldn’t imagine why. Chakotay and Paris had accepted their initiation as citizens of Sumar-ka, and they were proving themselves stalwart members of the community. He liked them, different as they were, and their presence here merely reinforced the words of the Crafters, who told the Culilann to welcome Strangers.

  And yet, something was nagging at him. Something was not right. He wanted to sleep, but he heaved a sigh, rose, and donned his formal robes. A consultation was needed.

  He opened the shutters and went about preparing the Sacred Plant. Lighting it from the small bed of coals he kept burning in a clay jar, he fanned the flames with his hand to increase the smoke.

  Matroci coughed. As always.

  He forced himself to inhale as much as he could and opened his mind to the will of the Crafters.

  Something was not right. The sounds of the jungle ought to be louder. Now, even the night beasts were still. There were no more birdcalls.

  Without knowing why, Matroci tasted fear. Why were the beasts of the forest so quiet? He knew he needed to finish the meditation, but he couldn’t help himself. He got to his feet and padded to the window. He gulped in the fresh, cool night air and looked around. He had no idea what he expected to see. The larger predators such as the iislak disliked the bustle of the village and seldom approached, save in lean times. Still, his gaze searched. Finally, Matroci sighed and turned around to complete the meditation.

  The woman stood before him. The moons’ light spilled in through the opened window, but did nothing to soften the ice in her eyes and the hardness of her face, of her strange clothing. She was of his kind, but as different from him as she could possibly be. And even as his mind made the identification, as his lips moved to form the word “Alilann,” she lifted something, pressed it to his chest, and squeezed.

  * * *

  “Use the chamber pot, Paris,” Tom muttered to himself as he stepped carefully on the moist earth. “If you have to go out, take a lamp, Paris. You could get lost out there at night, Paris. Damn, I hate it when he’s right.”

  Used to all the comforts provided by Voyager, Paris found that using the small stoneware pots to relieve himself at night was a thoroughly alien concept. It made him uncomfortable, especially with Chakotay in the same small hut. It was one thing when he had been so desperately sick. He didn’t care who saw him do what then. But now, modesty had returned along with health, and when nature called in the middle of the night, Paris felt more comfortable going outside to perform the necessary bodily functions.

  Chakotay had been right. He should have just used the pot, should have taken a lamp. He had done neither, and now he was lost.

  “Ah, come on, Tom,” he said, simply to hear the reassuring sound of his own voice in the still darkness. “The moons are nice and bright, and you can’t have walked more than a few meters from the encampment.”

  But the moons’ light, bright as it was, stopped when it hit the upper canopy of the thick rain forest. It didn’t filter down here, where moist leaves sucked at his booted feet and every twining vine and branch looked like every other one.

  A low, soft sound made him stop dead. His heart began to thud in his chest. He listened, straining, wondering if he could hear anything over the boom-boom of his own alarmed heart.

  Yes, there it was again. A soft crooning sound. Paris closed his eyes briefly, trying to calm himself. It didn’t work. Matroci and Soliss had spoken with him and Chakotay about the dangers of the jungle that began almost at their very door. There weren’t many—very few poisonous creatures, only one or two species of large predators who were shy of humanoids and who seldom came near the edge of the rain forest. But there was one they did warn the new members of Sumar-ka about, and that was the iislak. It was large and furry and, from the description Soliss had provided, resembled a cross between a pig and a cat. It was carnivorous, and notoriously silent.

  “We see its prints,” Matroci had said, “and its dung, but very seldom the beast itself. Sometimes there is a warning, a faint noise as of a woman singing a babe to sleep. If you hear that sound, consider yourselves blessed by the Crafters and leap for the nearest tree.”

  Tom remembered that advice, and immediately looked up. A nice, thick branch dangled invitingly overhead. He sprang upward, ignoring the pain of his broken bones and, wrapping his good arm about its thick, welcome bulk, he kicked his legs up. Grunting, he squirmed, hoisting himself up onto the branch. It was moist with the evening dew and twice he nearly lost his grip. Once he was secure, he did not gloat in his victory. He looked for the next highest branch.

  Another sound split the silence, a kind of bleating noise. It was similar to the first sound, but with a frantic, higher edge to it. Once Paris had secured the next branch, he risked looking down.

  It was hard to see at first. The moonlight and darkness conspired to camouflage the creature almost perfectly. Then it moved, and it was as if a shadow had come to life, a shadow with large, lambent eyes that fixed on Paris.

  It opened its mouth, emitting that bleating noise. “No,” Paris whispered. Oh, no. It was a baby iislak, separated from its mother, and it was right at the base of his tree.

  It did look like a cross between a pig and a cat. Its body was small, the fur appearing baby-soft. Large paws adorned comparatively short legs. A stump of a tail twitched. It was kind of cute, in an ungainly, ugly sort of way. It opened its mouth, situated at the end of a lumpy snout, and again called for its mother.

  The crooning sound came again, closer this time. Paris gulped and decided that the next set of branches, higher up, would provide a much better seat from which to view the no-doubt touching reunion.

&n
bsp; He was just reaching up when the crooning sound turned into an ear-splitting screech and the tree shook violently. Paris lost his footing and grabbed for a branch with both hands. Again came the awful noise, and again the tree shook. Paris clung on desperately, finally managing to get one knee hooked over the branch. His head dangled down and he couldn’t help but look upward at the forest floor.

  It was enormous. Big as a horse—bigger—and mad as hell. There was nothing ungainly about Mama iislak. She was all knotted muscle and sleek, lean elegance. Even her elongated, porcine muzzle was dangerous-looking, drawn back from teeth that were about as long as Paris’s hand. She snarled again and leaped upward, digging her claws into the trunk.

  Can it climb? They had told him to seek the shelter of a tree, and he had done so. Had they underestimated Mama’s instinct to protect Junior?

  But even as he stared, horrified, Paris saw that the long, powerful claws could not support the creature’s mammoth weight. Great furrows were etched in the trunk as Mama slid slowly back down to the earth.

  Junior cried again, and Mama turned to nuzzle her offspring. It cooed and rubbed its little face against her large, furry, ugly one. A pink tongue, longer than Tom’s arm, crept out as Mama licked her baby.

  The branch crackled under Paris’s weight. Adrenaline shot through him and sweat covered his skin as the branch sank slightly lower.

  Mama’s head whipped up and she fixed Paris with those enormous eyes. She crooned again, then, nudging Junior along, departed.

  For an agonizing length of time, Paris simply hung there. The branch continued to hold, but for how long? And were Mama and Junior really gone, or just waiting? How intelligent were the iislak, after all? Idiot that he was, he’d never bothered to ask. He breathed shallowly, not daring to move.