Ghost Dance

by Christie Golden

  Paris didn’t like what he was hearing. He didn’t like it at all. “What about Chakotay? You said he was missing, Soliss.”

  Soliss nodded. “It is very strange that he would disappear the same night that Matroci died.”

  For a second, Paris didn’t understand what Soliss was saying. Then comprehension dawned, and with it anger. “You’re not suggesting that Chakotay had anything to do with Matroci’s death?”

  Soliss did not answer.

  “Come on, Soliss! You know what kind of man he is. He respects your customs. Besides, didn’t Trima say Matroci had died of smoke inhalation?”

  The unwavering gaze of the man who had nursed him and Chakotay back to health unnerved Paris. A second thought occurred to him.

  “Soliss,” he said slowly, “you don’t think that I …”

  “I do not know what to think,” said Soliss at last. “My heart is heavy with grief, and my mind is clouded. But rest assured, your story will be verified, Paris.”

  “Good. Because it did happen.”

  Soliss again regarded him searchingly. Finally he sighed deeply. “Forgive my suspicions, but I fear with each day my ideals falter a bit more. Come. We will help you prepare for the farewell ceremony.”

  “What about Chakotay? He could be lost in the jungle.”

  “You tell us you survived a night alone in the jungle with two iislaks at your feet,” Soliss said sharply. “Chakotay has all the knowledge you have. Today we are mourning the death of our Culil. Chakotay will return if he is alive … and if he wishes to.”

  Paris opened his mouth to ask what Soliss meant by that last remark, but something in the Minister’s eyes caused the question to die in his throat.

  No work would be done that day. As if the planet itself were in mourning, the bright skies clouded and by midafternoon there was rain. Soliss cursed the rain, for it would make the pyre on which Matroci’s body would be sent to the Crafters that much more difficult to light and keep lit. Paris bathed and changed into fresh new clothes. He was surprised when Yurula, her eyes bloodshot from weeping, placed a beautiful scarf around his neck and then deliberately tore a hole in it.

  “This represents Matroci’s life, too soon ended,” she said softly. “You will toss it on the pyre when it is your turn.”

  There was no sign of Chakotay. Paris badly wanted to organize a search party, but everyone was too caught up in the preparations for Matroci’s farewell ceremony to assist him. And he wasn’t about to wander out there alone again.

  At one point, braving the drizzle, he ventured to the edge of the rain forest. Before him, green loomed, thick and threatening and almost impenetrable.

  “Come on, Chakotay,” he said softly. “Where are you?”

  As the gray day turned into a gray evening, the rain finally stopped. It took hours for the pyre to become more than a sullen, smoldering pile of slimy branches, but finally it caught. The villagers fed it with precious kindling, dried out for use in their own personal cookfires. For the next few days, at least, there would be no cooked food or hot water until more branches had dried.

  It was well into the night, and the creatures of the jungle were singing, when Matroci’s body was brought out of Trima’s hut. Paris stood silent, watching the slow procession by the flickering of several dozen torches.

  Trima was in the lead, wearing the specially colored and styled robes of a Culil. Her long hair was bound behind her, and the combination of formal robes and plaited hair made her seem even more distant and cold. Her face showed no emotion. She strode forward slowly, regally, like a queen approaching her subjects.

  Behind her, Soliss and Yurula bore the body of the dead Culil on a stretcher. He had been ritually bathed and his limbs positioned properly. Wordlessly, Soliss and Yurula placed the corpse on the pyre.

  “We come to say farewell to Matroci, our beloved Culil,” said Trima, her voice resonant. “He was young to be taken from us, but like the Culil before him, he was too good for this existence. And so the smoke of the Sacred Plant filled his lungs and burst his heart, taking him for its own.”

  In the light provided by a dozen flickering torches, Paris could see that Matroci’s skin was several shades darker than it had been when he was alive. That was indeed consistent with what he remembered about asphyxiation. Carbon monoxide, what he assumed would be emitted from the smoke of the Sacred Plant, bound oxygen sites on hemoglobin and prevented oxygen from being absorbed. The blood and tissues of a human would be cherry red. Those of the Culilann would likely be a dark purplish-blue.

  “His soul has gone already,” Trima continued. “It has merged with the smoke of the Sacred Planet and flown to the Crafters. They have surely welcomed as gentle and wise a Culil as Matroci.”

  Paris heard muffled sobs. Everyone was trying hard to make Matroci’s death seem like a good thing, but Tom had yet to attend a happy funeral.

  “Though we are full of joy for Matroci’s soul, we are permitted to be sorrowful for ourselves. For we will no longer have his wisdom and gentle good humor to guide us.”

  Paris regarded the new Culil and thought, No, we won’t. We’ll only have you, Trima, and your icy adherence to the letter of the law. For no reason that he could name, his skin began to crawl.

  “Now it is time to send Matroci’s body to be with his spirit. As his soul wafted to the Crafters on the smoke from the Sacred Plant, so now we send his body after the same fashion.” She turned and, taking the nearest torch, thrust it deep into the pyre. It sputtered, lighting only grudgingly. Wisps of smoke seeped out. It would be well into the morning before Matroci’s body would be consumed, if then.

  Trima then unwound a scarf similar to the one Paris wore about his throat. She held it up so that all might see the rent in it, then placed it on the body. Soliss imitated her.

  Around the circle it went, until it was Paris’s turn. He stepped forward and tugged at the scarf. He held it aloft in both hands, showing the rest of Sumar-ka the hole, then started to place it on Matroci’s chest.

  He paused. He was standing fairly close to the body. The pyre was hardly too hot for comfort and he wanted to place the scarf on the dead man, not just toss it. From this vantage point he had a clear view of Matroci’s abdomen.

  The robes the Culil wore had fallen away from the body slightly during the trip from the hut to the pyre. Tom could see very clearly a bright blue ring on the man’s skin. Within the ring, the skin was paler. It looked like a bizarre birthmark, which was clearly what the Culilann had taken it for. But it was not.

  Sweating suddenly, Tom let go of the scarf and stepped away. Winnif stepped forward with her own scarf, and the ritual continued around the circle.

  His mind reeled with the knowledge. What he was looking at was the characteristic wound pattern produced by a weapon using directed energy of some sort. Matroci might indeed have died of asphyxiation, but before that, someone had placed a weapon over his heart and fired.

  The Culil had not committed suicide. He had been murdered—murdered by someone who had the weapon with which to do it.

  The Culilann did not have technology that advanced. Three options flooded into Tom’s brain.

  The Alilann had attacked last night, killed Matroci, and abducted Chakotay. With no one hearing anything? Hardly likely.

  Someone in the Culilann was in actuality an Alilann spy. Paris glanced at the faces and dismissed that thought. The third option was the worst, and just as unlikely as the others—which was to say, just as valid.

  A phaser could be reconfigured to leave just such a mark, and Chakotay was gone.

  CHAPTER

  18

  NEELIX SANG TO HIMSELF AS HE CLEANED THE LAST few pots and pans. It had been a pleasant day. All of his dishes, including a few new recipes, had turned out wonderfully. People had had seconds and thirds of that dish he’d created for Harry Kim, the Szechwan yruss-and-broccoli. He was pleasantly tired, looking forward to storytime with Naomi Wildman, a nice hot bath, then bed.

&n
bsp; He was surprised to hear the door hiss open at this hour, even more surprised to see a haggard-looking Khala enter. She took a few steps, then halted.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re closing up.” She turned as if to leave.

  “Kitchen’s always open for hungry bellies,” said Neelix. “Especially for you, because the replicator’s available twenty-four hours a day. What can I get you?” He hastened over to the replicator and stood poised, ready to ask the computer to prepare his visitor whatever her stomach desired.

  “That’s just it,” said Khala. “I don’t want replicated food.” She looked miserable, and the words came out slowly, reluctantly.

  Neelix stared. “I’m sorry? You say you don’t want replicator food?”

  “Yes,” she said in a whisper.

  “You … you want me to cook something for you?”

  She nodded. She looked as if she were about to be sick.

  “Are you sure?” Neelix couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and sat down at the counter. Khala sat erect, her hands folded in front of her. Neelix thought she looked like someone bracing herself for a painful interrogation session. “I want cooked food.”

  He wanted to pat her on the shoulder and reassure her it wouldn’t be that bad. Some of his dishes weren’t all that popular with the crew, but he had been chef aboard Voyager long enough to figure out what they liked. But for Khala, it probably would be pretty bad. He recalled her first experience with the tomato, how she had enjoyed the taste until she remembered what it was. He suspected they would be in for more of the same tonight.

  Nonetheless, he was not about to turn down the request. He’d stay up all night if she wanted him to, the brave girl. He scurried back behind the counter, donning his apron and chef’s hat with a sense of importance.

  “What would you like, my dear?” he said very gently, patting her hand.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what have you enjoyed in the past?”

  Haltingly, she listed some of the foods she’d replicated and liked. Neelix was impressed with her range. Unfortunately, he did not have the materials for anything she cited on hand.

  “Why don’t we start with something simple,” he said. “I’ll make you a roast yruss sandwich.”

  She nodded glumly, resigned to her fate. He explained that he had baked the bread fresh that afternoon, that the spread was made from roasted mashed roots that the crew had reportedly found very tasty, that the meat was very similar to something called “beef,” that the lettuce was grown in the aeroponics bay and had been picked only a few hours ago.

  He might have been talking to himself. Khala was lost in thought, nodding slightly from time to time, sometimes at the wrong things. Neelix knew people too well to be offended by her lack of attention. Something was really troubling this poor girl.

  He carefully cut the sandwich in two, poured a glass of ice water, and set the meal in front of her.

  “Bon appétit,” he said.

  She stared at the sandwich as if it were something that might bite back. Finally, she took a deep breath and picked up a half.

  Neelix found himself leaning forward as Khala brought the sandwich to her mouth, opened her blue lips, bit down, and chewed. With an effort, she swallowed.

  And the bite came right back up.

  She spat it into her napkin and began to cry. “I’m sorry, Neelix,” she sobbed.

  “Oh, honey,” he soothed, rushing around the counter to hug her cautiously. “It’s all right, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

  “But I do!” she wailed, giving full vent to her heartache now. She leaned into Neelix’s comforting arms. “I do! I have to learn to like grown food and … and art and music—I have to!”

  “Now, now,” said Neelix, patting her back awkwardly. “I’m sure that’s not captain’s orders.”

  She drew back, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. She laughed shakily. “No, it’s not. But it might just as well be.”

  Very gently, with great sympathy, Neelix said softly, “It’s Ensign Kim, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. Fresh tears filled her eyes and trickled down her blue cheeks. “I hurt him so badly the other day. He played his clar—cluri—”

  “Clarinet,” Neelix supplied helpfully.

  “For me. It’s obvious he loves it, that this noise he makes means something to him. But Neelix, that’s what the Culilann do. They play music, and they make things, and they eat food that comes right out of the ground or from animals they raise and then kill. It goes against everything I believe in, everything I’ve been raised to honor and admire. But Harry—have you ever been in love, Neelix?”

  He thought of Kes. Her image appeared in his mind’s eye, a tiny, perfectly formed girl with large blue eyes, golden hair, and a wisdom far beyond her years. He thought of her soft, husky voice, the exquisite gentleness of her manner. His heart contracted a little. It always would, regardless of the years since she had been among the Voyager crew. He would love her, after a fashion, for the rest of his life.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “I have.”

  “Then you know,” said Khala. “You know how it feels. You know how much you want to do things with that person, to share interests, to take pleasure in the things that bring him or her pleasure.”

  He knew.

  “And I can’t do that. I can’t. I’m trying, but look at this. I can’t even eat a single bite of this sandwich.”

  Neelix opened his mouth to spout words of wisdom. He would tell her that just being herself was enough for Harry, that she didn’t need to change just to please someone else. Usually, that was sound advice. But Khala wasn’t trying to wipe out who she was, she was trying to expand herself. Trying to appreciate something another culture valued. He’d seen her with the tomato, he knew that once she could get over this irrational fear that she would enjoy the delights of fresh food, of music, of art.

  “Let’s try again,” he said, and she brightened. “I think a simple broth, well watered down, would be a good start.”

  * * *

  Captain’s personal log, supplemental: After the unadulterated success we have achieved in cleansing the Kwaisi ship of dark matter, we feel confident as we press on toward their homeworld. This will be the biggest and most important test of the Shepherd technology yet—attempting to engulf an entire planet. But I feel we are up to the task. I cannot begin to articulate how proud I am of our crew and our guest, Dr. R’Mor. He has been invaluable.

  I am not as fond of our other guests, however. Ulaahn has become almost unbearable. I am pleased that we have been able to help his people, but I must confess, I will not be at all sorry to move on.

  * * *

  The door to her ready room hissed open. Tuvok stood in the doorway, hands behind his back. “Captain, we are about to enter the Kwaisi home system.”

  “Wonderful,” said Janeway, and meant it. She hastened onto the bridge. Ulaahn, predictably, was already there, pacing unhappily. He whirled as she entered.

  “Captain! What have you been doing hiding in your ready room? This is dire!”

  That did it. “Captain Ulaahn, you and your people have been shown every courtesy aboard this vessel. We have devoted this ship and its crew to helping you. We have now come to help your entire planet. A thank you may be too much to expect, I realize that, but you will cease berating me on my own bridge. Is that understood?”

  He scowled and did not answer. Janeway would accept silence. She nodded and slipped into her chair, calling up her console with a quick touch of her left hand.

  “Torres, report.”

  “There’s a lot of dark matter in this system,” came her chief engineer’s voice. “With Dr. R’Mor’s help, we were able to ascertain that this was where one of his wormholes opened. The concentration is greatest around that area and diminishes as it’s spread forth.”

  “That should be our top pr
iority.”

  “Already on it,” said Torres. “That was the first thing we figured out how to do. It’s child’s play to us now.”

  Janeway’s heart swelled with pride. She remembered that first tentative transport of a smattering of dark-matter particles. They had gone from not having the slightest idea as to what the floating orb Tialin had given them did to creating their own warp-bubble universe to exploring the radiation sphere that would enable them to cleanse whole moons and planets.

  I don’t know what the extent of your powers are, Tialin, she thought, but I hope that somehow you can see just how damn good a job we’re doing.

  “Then play, Torres,” she said, and let the smile grow on her lips.

  They made their way through the system. The central star, fortunately, did not seem to be home to any pieces of mutated dark matter. It was all in the single planet, the Kwaisi homeworld. And there seemed to be a lot of it.

  “Mr. Tuvok, report.”

  “Our guest appears to be telling the truth about his seven ships being his planet’s only defensive vessels,” said Tuvok.

  “Of course I—” Ulaahn began, but Janeway shut him up with a look.

  “I detect no vessels other than small transport ships in orbit around the planet. It appears safe to continue our approach.”

  It was time to pour some oil on the water. “Captain,” said Janeway, turning to Ulaahn, “you said your planet is infected with the dark matter, that people are behaving irrationally. Will they listen to us—to you?”

  Ulaahn seemed about to make an angry retort, but with an effort he calmed himself. “I do not know, Captain. The dark matter appears to affect people differently. Some in my crew turned hostile. I, as you know, was suicidal.” He said the last word in a deep, disapproving grumble. Though Janeway clearly remembered his depression, it was hard to imagine the alien before her ever doubting himself.

  “In order to operate the sphere to purge the planet, we’ll have to take our warp engines off-line and lower our shields,” she reminded him. “We’ll be very vulnerable. I’ve no intention of approaching your planet in such a fashion until I can speak to someone and be reassured that we won’t be in any danger.”