“That’s it,” says Jusko, her voice sounding a little tinny as it comes to me over our helmet radios. “Let’s go. But be careful.”
It’s good advice. If there aren’t any life signs here, it’s because the enemy managed to drop by before we did—and the Cardassians have been known to leave calling cards in the form of disruptor mines.
Activating my suit’s built-in tricorder, I scan the jumbled terrain ahead of me. No mines, according to my wrist-readout. I move forward with the others, picking my way among the rocks.
Even without any Cardassian leftovers around, we make slow progress. Though our suits protect us against the planet’s ambient radiation and give us oxygen to breathe, they can’t keep us from breaking a leg.
It takes us several minutes to get to the dome. I notice there aren’t any holes or blast marks to mar the curved, gray surface. Nothing to indicate a violent confrontation.
The door, which conforms to the outline of the structure, is wide open. Jusko sends an officer in to check it out. He scans the area for booby traps, then turns and gestures that’s it all right to proceed. Satisfied, the commander waves us forward again.
When we approach the doorway, I’m in the middle of the pack. My wrist-readout tells me I’m about to pass through an electromagnetic field operating at Starfleet Regulatory Agency standard output—enough to keep the plasma motes from flying inside, but not enough to stop something with the mass and motive power of a human being.
There must be a low-level field projector still in operation, I tell myself. When I pass through it, I feel the slightest flicker of resistance. Then I’m inside, getting my first live look at a Maquis camp.
What I see sends a chill down my spine.
The Badlands have long been used as a haven by smugglers, mercenaries, and others seeking to elude the authorities. But as far as anyone can tell, the rebels known as the Maquis are the only ones who ever took up residence on a Badlands planet.
The Maquis movement came about as a direct result of the Treaty of 2370, which ceded a handful of Federation border worlds to the Cardassian Union and vice versa. A number of Federation citizens on the affected planets were horrified at the prospect of Cardassian rule, but didn’t want to give up their ancestral homes.
Feeling abandoned by the Federation, they formed a secret paramilitary organization to undermine the Cardassians’ hold on them. From 2370, this organization—dubbed the Maquis, after a French resistance movement during World War II—succeeded in making a rather large gadfly of itself.
However, in the long run, it didn’t stand a chance. In 2373, the Dominion-backed Cardassians overran six Maquis strongholds in the Badlands, leaving little more than an army of burnt corpses.
When Federation intelligence got wind of the raid, they dispatched three starships to the Badlands to look for survivors. By some miracle, they found a few. But as far as anyone could tell, the Maquis movement had been brought to a stunning and hideous end.
Then one of the Maquis survivors, who had been sent to a penal colony on Earth, made a remark to a fellow prisoner about a seventh installation in the Badlands. He seemed to think the Cardassians might not have known about it. If so, the Federation still had a rebel nest to clean out—and a chance to get there before the enemy did.
Starfleet sent the Crockett, an Excelsior-class Starship, into the Badlands to investigate. When SNS asked me if I wanted to go along, I was of two minds. On one hand, it was a chance to see Starfleet capture the last remaining stronghold of the infamous Maquis. On the other hand, I wasn’t looking forward to a landscape full of barbecued corpses.
In the end, I went … and hoped for the best.
I hear one of the younger officers mumbling something over his com link before he realizes it is open. I don’t blame him. I try to think of something else, and suddenly from the recesses of my mind comes one word, “Jamestown.” It was an ancient Earth settlement that was found deserted when a relief mission arrived. No trace of the survivors was ever found.
I remove my helmet and breathe decent air, which smells only slightly like rotten eggs. All around me, I see Jusko and the others remove their headgear as well.
In the center of the dome, there’s a black plastic table with a couple of cups sitting on it and some chairs—an open conference area. The rest of the place is tightly packed with low, narrow beds and brown metal boxes, all of them illuminated by a collection of hanging light fixtures.
Everything looks like it’s in good shape. There aren’t any signs of violence. Approaching the conference table, I peer into the cups. They’ve got some kind of tea in them; it looks clear, as if it could still be consumed without risk of food poisoning.
The good news is that there aren’t any corpses. But there aren’t any people either. Not a single one, dead or otherwise.
Numbly, I approach a cluster of three beds and two boxes. There are pictures on top of a box. One of them shows me a family—a human mother with pale blonde hair, a human father with a receding hairline, and a little girl who borrows features from both of them. The other picture shows me a dark, frozen lake embraced by snowy, pine-flecked mountains.
Pulling open a drawer in the same box, I see clothes—the kind any family might accumulate. Men’s clothes, women’s clothes, children’s clothes. Also, a small stuffed animal that resembles a Klingon targ, though it’s so worn and beaten up it’s hard to tell.
If the Maquis decided to leave, they would have taken that targ with them. But they didn’t. I look around some more and notice bookpadds, personal grooming items, even some jewelry. I can’t escape the impression that their owners will be back in a moment to pick them up.
Jusko’s standing by another cluster of beds and boxes with her helmet tucked under her arm. She shakes her head, the muscles in her jaw rippling with dissatisfaction.
“Could they have left in a hurry?” I ask hopefully, my voice sounding much too loud in the confines of the dome.
Jusko’s expression is neutral, but her eyes are full of sympathy. “I’d like to believe that,” she says. “But I don’t.”
I sit down on one of the beds. It creaks beneath my weight. “So what did happen to these people?” I wonder out loud. “Did the Cardassians decide to take prisoners this time?”
Montgomery, a big man, picks up an empty animal cage. “Or did the Dominion give them a weapon that wipes out life without a trace?” he asks.
Jusko winces. “We may never know.”
As a reporter, I hate those words. Unfortunately, it looks as though I’m going to have to live with them for a while.
I find consolation in only one thing—a feeling that this is one mystery Starfleet’s going to want to solve.
“What happened here?” The question hangs in the air as Starfleet officers and civilians both try to piece together the puzzle of Prussura IV.
TRILL
AVERSION
The Guardian Timor’s skill is evident, and he goes about his work with a quiet grace and a sense of delight. “Repetitive? Never! I am honored to be a Guardian!” he declares in an atypical outburst.
The caves of Mak’ala stretch for kilometers under the surface of Trill—an elaborate network of small underground chambers illuminated only by light strips embedded in the stone walls.
Each chamber plays host to a pool of milky liquid which is connected to other pools of milky liquid. They couldn’t be more packed with nutrients if our scientists had designed them that way.
This particular stone-walled chamber smells vaguely pungent in a rather pleasant way. The air is humid, the only sound the playful gurgling of water as it passes from one pool to the next. The currents reflect the light back at the cavern walls, creating spectacular effects.
I’m so mesmerized, I almost forget why I’m here. Reminding myself, I walk down a set of steps that have been carved deftly into the rock and seek out Timor, whose duties should have brought him to this point by now. There’s no sign of him.
I would ca
ll out, but that would violate the sanctity of the caverns. So I wait patiently on a flat piece of rock and listen to the almost hypnotic music of the pools. Then something catches my eye.
Something is moving through the murky water, barely breaking the surface. No—there are two somethings. Suddenly, a spidery web of white lightnings passes between them.
Symbionts, I realize with a jolt of excitement. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen one.
“They’re sharing a joke,” says a voice.
Whirling, I see a man with sleek, black hair and a long gray tunic. His eyes are protuberant, his nose long and thin, and his skin is as pale as a bottom-fish’s belly.
“Timor?” I venture.
With a gentle, knowing expression, he jerks his head in the direction of the pool. “They don’t have a very sophisticated sense of humor. But then, they haven’t had many funny experiences yet.”
I know the Guardians aren’t used to visitors. “My name is Rantic Lan. I’m the new apprentice guardian.”
Timor gazes at me appraisingly for a moment. “So you are,” he says at last, his voice strangely devoid of inflection.
Retreating to a metal pedestal full of equipment, he removes a device with a long, cylinder projecting from it. Then he moves to the side of a pool, kneels, and activates it. A beam of light pierces the milky liquid.
Timor is testing several aspects of the pool water; ion concentration, temperature, viscosity. Everything has got to be just right. When he checks his gauges, he looks satisfied.
“Can I help?” I ask.
Timor looks up at me. “I suppose you’ll have to, eventually. But not yet,” he says.
Then he gets up, returns the device with the long cylinder to the metal pedestal and removes another one. As he moves to the next pool, I follow him, trying my best to be unobtrusive.
“You want to hear a story?” he asks without turning around.
I nod. “If you wish to tell me one.”
“You really don’t have a choice,” Timor tells me matter-of-factly. “All apprentices have to hear it. It’s part of your education.”
“What’s it about?” I inquire.
“It’s about Aylim,” he says.
“Aylim?” I echo, and the chamber echoes it again.
But Timor doesn’t answer. At least, not right away.
No one knows how, when, or why the first joining of Trill and symbiont came about. Some speculate that the symbionts reached out to us with their minds and compelled us to take them into our bodies. Others believe we were once one species and somehow grew apart. And still others say the symbionts are alien to this world—that they arrived from the void in prehistoric times.
There’s no evidence to support any of these theories. On the other hand, there’s no evidence to refute them either.
What we do know is that the symbionts are vermiform entities with a high degree of intelligence and an enormously long life span. In their natural state, they’re sightless—not much of a disadvantage in a subterranean environment—but capable of propelling themselves through their underground pools and communicating via electrical discharges.
When they’re sufficiently mature, the symbionts are implanted into the abdominal pockets of humanoid Trill hosts. The symbiont’s intelligence is the dominant personality in the joined life-form, though the personality of the current and previous hosts are reflected as well.
Once joined, host and symbiont become mutually interdependent. After ninety-three hours, the host can no longer survive without the symbiont.
When it works, the relationship is beneficial to both parties. The symbiont derives sustenance and mobility from the host, while the host is allowed to experience the symbiont’s remarkable intellect. What’s more, where a symbiont has had previous hosts, its current host gains access to their memories.
For a joined Trill, nothing is more important than protecting the life of the symbiont—even at the expense of the host’s life.
I follow Timor from cavern to cavern, watching silently and respectfully as he performs his duties. He appears to have forgotten about me, but l know that’s not the case.
Finally, he speaks as he kneels by the side of a pool, ripples of rainbow light reflected on his face like living tattoos. “Aylim was a Guardian,” he says, filling a vial with water from the pool and holding it up to the light of a strip. “He lived and worked in these caverns a thousand years ago … or so the story goes.”
His eyes narrow as he appraises the contents of the vial. Then he empties the water back into the pool and gets up. He looks at me for a moment, his skin looking almost luminescent.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“I’m twenty-one,” I tell him.
Timor draws a breath, then lets it out. “Come,” he says. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
And again, he moves on.
Trill is dotted with deep, naturally heated pools. Theories abound as to what drove the first Trill to the deep underground caverns that are the home to the symbionts. Recent archaeological digs have pointed to some kind of planet-wide catastrophe, but there is still no definitive answer.
On Trill, there is no higher calling than the Joining. Only one in a thousand Trill can become an initiate, subject to the rigorous testing and evaluation process conducted by the Trill Symbiosis Commission, and only one initiate in ten will ultimately be trusted with a symbiont.
The Guardians—of which Timor is one—don’t have to suffer through such a painstaking initiation process. However, they too enjoy a close relationship with the symbionts, giving up the pleasures of the world to live in the caves of Mak’ala and devote their lives to the symbionts’ care.
This involves more than just testing the water in the pools. Over time, the Guardians develop a rapport with the symbionts so they can know which ones are ready to be joined.
In fact, it’s said that they know more about the symbionts than anyone—even the Trill with whom they’re joined. If the tales are true, a Guardian can identify a symbiont just by gazing at its host.
It’s mysteries like these that have drawn me to the caves the way a silikh fly is drawn to a flame.
Seeing how lovingly Timor follows the movements of the half-submerged symbionts, I feel a pang of longing myself. I want to know the pool-dwellers as he does. I want to serve them as he serves them.
“Why do you want to become a Guardian?” he asks me.
“I want to be close to the symbionts,” I tell him.
“Why do you want to be close to them?” he prods.
I sigh. “I wanted to be joined, but that wasn’t possible. My isoboramine levels were inconsistent.”
“Being a Guardian isn’t the same as being joined,” Timor points out. “In many ways, it’s like watching a celebration from a distance. You want to take part like everyone else, but you can’t.”
“I think I can manage that,” I reply.
He looks at me for a while. Symbionts swim past, making ripples in the pool beside us. In the distance, a flicker of lightning dispels the darkness and then subsides.
“Aylim was only here a little while,” Timor tells me, “a cycle shy of a solar year, when the tragedy took place.” He says this as if we were speaking of Aylim all along.
“The tragedy?” I say.
Timor nods. “At the time, his record was spotless. Everyone agreed that he had the makings of a wonderful Guardian. He was diligent, intuitive, full of affection for the symbionts and his fellow Guardians as well. Then Marh swam downstream to one of the pools he was caring for.”
“Marh was … a symbiont?” I guess.
“Yes,” says Timor. “But it wasn’t like the other symbionts. It was a rarity—a symbiont unfit for joining. We only see its like every hundred years or so.”
A rarity indeed, I tell myself. “What was wrong with it?” I wonder aloud.
“Its biochemistry was such that it would have rejected its host like an organ from an incompatible donor.” Timor
gazes into the milky depths of the pool. “Aylim was very sad. After all, he knew what Marh was going to miss. He knew how limited its life experiences would be. And yet, there was nothing he could do about it.”
I see a flicker of biochemical lightning illuminate an even more distant part of the cavern. I’m glad that these symbionts aren’t flawed the way Marh was. I’m glad they’ll all have hosts one day.
“We all grow close to the symbionts,” Timor says. “So no one was surprised when Aylim grew close with Marh. Then, one day after last meal, one of the other Guardians found Aylim in the pool.” A somber pause. “He was trying to join with Marh.”
I find that my mouth has fallen open and I close it. Joining is a delicate process, and not without its dangers even under the most carefully controlled conditions. As a former candidate, I know that all too well.
“How could he … ?” I stammer.
Timor continues to stare into the pool. “Aylim felt so badly for Marh, he couldn’t accept Marh’s inability to join. He convinced himself that it was all a mistake.” Timor turns to me. “Otherwise, he would never even have considered anything so outrageous.”
For a moment or two, the only sound is the gurgling of the water. Even the symbionts are still, as if they too are amazed.
“What happened to them?” I ask at last.
Timor’s eyes go hard and glassy. “Aylim was unable to endure the strain of rejection. There was nothing one could do but drag his corpse from the pool.”
I wince at the image. “And Marh?”
Lightning dances across the surface of the pool in front of us. It’s as if the symbionts in the milky water have heard and understood us—though of course, that’s impossible.
“Physically, Marh was unharmed. However, its contact with Aylim, no matter how brief, scarred it mentally. It was never happy again—not after it had received a taste of what it’s like to be joined.”
The horror on Timor’s face tells me he’s trying to imagine what that would be like. I try to imagine it, too.
Star Trek: New Worlds, New Civilizations Page 7