Star Trek - Voy - Mosaic

by Mosaic

  Dut swept out and Trakis turned back to the carcass on the table. The eyes, in death, were as dark and unfathomable as they had been in life. "I'm sorry, friend," Trakis murmured. "I would rather not have harmed you. But perhaps we can still be of use to each other."

  And after invoking a brief blessing for the dead, Trakis began to lay open the creature's brain.

  Never had Neelix been so grateful for Tuvok's unflappable bearing. It was possible that panic might have overcome the group under other leadership, but Tuvok simply proceeded as though this enigmatic situation were a rou- tine mission, easily accomplished. His superior Vulcan eyesight had quickly adapted to the darkness, and he was able to read the faint markings of his tricorder.

  "Take the hand of the person in front of and behind you. Each of you, with the exception of myself in front, and Ensign LeFevre in back, should be joined with two others."

  There was a hasty shuffling in the dark as the crew members followed his order. "All set, sir," came LeFevre's voice from several meters down the corridor.

  "Very well." Tuvok's rich voice rang through the passageways. "Mr. Neelix, you're directly behind me. We will proceed."

  Neelix put one hand in Tuvok's; the other was held by Greta Kale. Almost subliminally, he registered that Tuvok's voice had sounded different as he called out the last command, but he couldn't put his finger on just what had changed.

  Tuvok kept up a fairly steady accounting of his plan and the route they were following-largely, Neelix suspected, to function as a calming presence for the group. "I am reading signs of Kes and Ensign Kim's progress through this passageway," he intoned. "We are most assuredly following the path they charted."

  Tuvok's voice definitely sounded different. There was no question about it. Closer. More-muffled. What had caused this change? Neelix spoke out himself, curious if his voice would sound similar. "Are you reading any signs of Kes and Harry themselves, or just their trail?" He sounded strange to himself. His voice seemed to be absorbed into the air and hang there, as though he were inside a thick cocoon. "At this point, I am only detecting their trail. I have yet to detect any life signs." As Tuvok spoke, Neelix pinpointed what had changed: the Vulcan's voice didn't echo. The bare stone walls of this underground structure had heretofore bounced the sound of their voices in several directions, resonating hollowly through the passageways. Now sound wasn't reflecting. It was being absorbed.

  "We will be turning to port," announced Tuvok, but he did so before Neelix had registered the order, and his shoulder grazed the stone corner. But it didn't feel like stone anymore. It had yielded to his grazing touch. He didn't want to alarm Ensign Kale by dropping her hand, so he maneuvered close to the wall, then raised the hand that clenched Kale's so that he could feel the surface.

  It was sticky. Gelatinous, like a thickly textured Yasti pudding. Neelix recoiled at the feel, and instinctively scrubbed his knuckles-and Kale's-on his trousers. "Mr. Vulcan," he said, with his voice sounding in his ears as though he were underwater, "I believe something is happening to the walls."

  Tuvok halted immediately. "Feel them," Neelix implored. "It's almost as though-they're melting."

  Neelix dropped his hand and could sense the Vulcan, in the inky darkness, reaching out to touch the wall. Then he saw the faint glow of the tricorder as Tuvok scanned.

  "The wall does in fact seem to be metamorphosing," the Vulcan intoned. "Further, the organic readings in the material have increased significantly."

  "What does that mean?" asked Neelix, decidedly apprehensive about this turn of events. Stone that changed texture and exhibited organic signs was not stone that he cared to have surrounding him thirty meters underground. "I cannot be certain. I would suggest, however, that it would be advantageous for us to increase our pace. Join hands and follow." They did so, and Neelix felt himself begin to perspire. Was it nervousness, or was it, as he suspected, because the air was becoming warmer? And is that why the walls were beginning to melt? And if the former was true, how hot would it get and would the walls melt completely? And if they did, what would happen then?

  Burdened by questions, Neelix was grateful when Tuvok discovered a stairway-undoubtedly the one Kes and Harry had reported-and they started downward. It would be taking them closer to Kes, and with any luck, away from the disquieting presence of the melting walls.

  Harry watched in stupefaction as Kes seemed to have a one-sided conversation with the winged humanoid, though so far as Harry could tell the creature wasn't talking.

  "Time for what?" she asked, and then, after a short pause, "I don't understand. I don't know anything about it's being-time."

  Then she lapsed into silence. "Kes?" ventured Harry somewhat timidly, and was rewarded by her silencing hand held toward him. She frowned slightly, as though focusing on something difficult to understand, then began looking around the room.

  This behavior continued for some minutes, as Harry looked from one to the other. And then, abruptly-at least as far as Harry was concerned-the winged being shimmered out of existence. He turned to Kes. "Was that a hologram?" She nodded. "I think he was a program that was created to leave a message-telepathically-but it was a confusing one. He kept talking about it's being time for something to happen. It may have been some kind of regeneration ritual, because he kept talking about a reawakening." Harry noted that the temperature had dropped a bit; while still hot, it wasn't as overwhelming as it had been a few minutes ago. "We may have triggered a program to start up by coming in here. Maybe they rigged the room to produce the messenger when someone enters."

  "Well, he wasn't much of a messenger. After listening to him, I still don't understand what's happened, or what's going to happen, if anything."

  "I think it's getting cooler," observed Harry, moving again toward the wall through which they had entered, and scanning once more. "And look at this-something's going on, all right. I'm reading energy signatures that weren't here before." He circled the room, taking readings as he went, and Kes did the same.

  "Some kind of technology has been activated," she noted. "Can you tell what it is, Harry?"

  "I'm afraid not," he admitted. "It's organometallic, but in a state of flux. Not registering in the Federation database, of course." He pondered the whole strange situation briefly. The chamber was now cooling rapidly, and was almost comfortable again. Was that significant? "You say the messenger communicated telepathically. Could you tell anything about him? Did he seem belligerent, or warlike?"

  "Not at all. He was focused. Composed. If he's any indication of the whole species, I don't think there's any hostile intent here."

  Harry was vaguely comforted by this assessment, though still apprehensive about a situation over which they seemed to have no control whatsoever. He determined to concentrate his efforts on getting them out of this mysteri- ous chamber, and he walked purposefully toward the wall through which they had entered.

  What he found there was as surprising as anything that had happened.

  At the end of the room was a closed door, and beyond that, anothej- room-a room she must get into, because it had to be cleaned. She moved toward the door, but disstopped when she heard Admiral Paris' voice behind her. "Wait, Kathryn, I need you here. "She turned to face him but when she did, no one was there. When she turned back to the door, it was gone... how could she get into the room... his

  Janeway's head snapped up and she realized she had drifted off while sitting on the bridge. No one seemed to have noticed; Chakotay wasn't in his chair, having gone to oversee the ongoing repair efforts in Engineering, and the rest of the bridge crew was quietly busy. Still, it bothered her that she had lost momentary control, and she vowed to toughen herself mentally so it wouldn't happen again. For she certainly had no wish to revisit the house of many rooms, or to renew her efforts to go through the closed door.

  CHAPTER 20

  AT THE END OF THE ROOM WAS A CLOSED DOOR, AND BEYOND that, another room-a room she must get into, because it had to be cleaned. She moved
toward the door, but stopped when she heard Admiral Paris' voice behind her. "Wait, Kathryn, I need you here. "She turned to face him, but when she did, no one was there.

  Kathryn's eyes opened at that point and she stared dully at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom. The dream had become so commonplace she no longer woke with her heart pounding, as she had when she first began having it, and even the vague sense of misgiving that pervaded her when she woke had begun to abate. The dream was losing its ability to make her feel, which was of course exactly what she wanted.

  She rolled over and prepared to go to sleep again when there was an irritating chime at her door. She ignored it, burying her head in pillows and pulling a blanket high around her neck.

  She was annoyed when she heard the door open anyway, and realized someone was crossing the room toward her bed. Her mother. Her mother made these visitations several times a day, sometimes bringing hot soup or tea, sometimes just sitting with her for a few moments, rubbing a shoulder gently. These were comfortable intrusions, demanding nothing of her except a few mumbled words of thanks.

  This time, though, she felt the pillows wrenched from her head and the blanket flung back. Startled, she sat up and stared into the eyes of her sister Phoebe.

  "You've spent enough time in bed, Kathryn. Time to get up and start living again."

  Mild aggravation was the most potent emotion Kathryn could summon. Her sister was a buzzing mosquito, easily swatted aside. "Go away," she muttered, reaching again for the blanket.

  But Phoebe threw it off the bed and tossed the pillows to the other side of the room. "I'm not leaving until you're up and showered and dressed. Then we'll have lunch and maybe play some tennis."

  Kathryn gazed up at Phoebe, too tired to get into an argument. "Have to sleep," she mumbled, and lay down without benefit of either pillows or blanket and closed her eyes. Then she felt strong hands grip her shoulders and pull her upright.

  "You've slept enough. Get up, Kathryn-don't make me take drastic measures." The mosquito was becoming more of a nuisance. Kathryn felt a surge of something beyond irritation, and her eyes opened again. "Get out, Phoebe. I don't want you here."

  "Too bad. You're stuck with me. Are you getting up or do I need to do something extreme?"

  "Just leave."

  There was a brief silence and then Phoebe turned and left the room; Kathryn closed her eyes once more, drifting into soothing oblivion. The next thing she knew, a gallon of icy water cascaded down on top of her, drenching her and soaking the bed. She leapt up with a yelp, pulling sodden hair from her face. "Are you crazy? What are you doing?"

  "Making sure that bed is too uncomfortable to sleep in. Now get up and take a shower."

  Genuine anger began to rise in Kathryn. She stood up, shivering from the frigid ice bath, and glared at her sister. Phoebe glared right back. "Does Mom know you're doing this?"

  "She certainly does. She encouraged it."

  "And what, exactly, is it you hope to accomplish?"

  "Today I'll be happy if you get up and get dressed. You don't go back to bed until it's night. Tomorrow you'll get up by seven and we'll play tennis or hike in the woods. In three weeks you report for duty."

  Kathryn felt a dull headache begin to throb. "I don't have to report for a long time. Months."

  "It's been months. You're back in three weeks."

  Kathryn tried to absorb what Phoebe was saying, but the effort required concentration and she quickly abandoned it. Phoebe was simply wrong. But now she was tugging on Kathryn's arm, pulling her toward the bathroom. "There's soap, and shampoo and towels. I'll have lunch ready when you get out."

  Kathryn didn't have the strength to argue; bargaining seemed the easier way out. "If I get dressed and have lunch, will you leave me alone?"

  "Not until we've gone outside and done something physical."

  "Fine. Then will you leave me alone?"

  "Until tomorrow."

  Kathryn sighed and moved into the bathroom, unable to argue further. She'd deal with tomorrow when it came. If it came.

  The sunlight was so intense it felt like a thousand tiny needles in Kathryn's eyes. She tried to shield them from the light, but it was relentless.

  "I have to go back and get a hat," she complained, but Phoebe kept marching. "You'll adjust," she said tersely, not looking back. Kathryn couldn't find the strength to insist, and so followed behind. They were walking on the frozen ground of the barren cornfields. In six months the new corn would be as high as your eye, but today on this cold January clay, the ground was hard and clumpy; Kathryn kept stumbling on frozen clods of earth.

  "How much farther?" she asked, lurching again as her foot slipped into a rut.

  "Until you're physically tired."

  "I am. I promise."

  "I'll know when you really are."

  Kathryn subsided once more. Just get through this, she thought. Stumble through the cornfields until Phoebe was convinced she was breathing hard, and then she could go back to bed. She settled into a sullen silence, concentrating on not twisting her ankle on the unfrly earth. She had managed to eat some of the vegetable bouillon her sister had made her, and gulped down several cups of coffee-Phoebe did make the best coffee in the family, no doubt about it-which she actually enjoyed. Now they were on this mindless trek, walking nowhere for no reason, just waiting for her to get tired. The more she thought about it, the less sense it made. Finally, she stopped short.

  "That's it, Phoebe," she said firmly. "I'm not your prisoner. I don't have to go any farther if I don't want to. I'm going home."

  Phoebe circled around in front of her, clear gray eyes holding hers steadily, cheeks flushed a patch of pink from the cold. "No, you aren't," she retorted. "You don't seem to understand. I'm not going to let you sleep your life away. You've indulged yourself long enough."

  Indignation leapt up in Kathryn, a righteous ire that was as close to real feeling as she'd had in months. "Indulged? Excuse me, Phoebe, if I'm not snapping back from this according to your time schedule, but I wasn't aware I had to live up to your expectations. Is it asking too much that you maybe have a modicum of sympathy?"

  But Phoebe showed no such thing. She glared at her sister, chin tilted, carried by her own tide of righteousness. "You've had nothing but sympathy from everybody. Good grief, Kathryn-it was an awful thing that happened. But you're not grieving, you're wallowing in grief. It's consuming you, and we're not going to let that happen."

  Kathryn started to retort, but Phoebe took another breath and kept going. "Do you think you're the only one in pain? Of course it was worse for you, you lost two people-but I lost Daddy, too. And Mom lost her husband. She can't do her own mourning because she's so worried about you." Phoebe looked at her, waiting for a response, but Kathryn had none. She felt suddenly naked in this bright winter sun, stripped of defense. She began to shiver.

  "We've given you time, we've waited on you, we've done everything we can to help you get through this. But you're sinking deeper and deeper-I didn't know it was possible to sleep as much as you do. That's not good for you, and it certainly isn't good for Mom and me, who love you and care about you. So I'm not taking it any longer. You're going to get up, you're going to face life, and if it hurts for a while it's just going to have to hurt. That's the only way you're going to get better." A vision of the closed door flashed in Kathryn's mind, and she started to tell Phoebe that she'd never get better until that door was opened, but then she realized she didn't even know what that meant. Her sister's words crawled around on her for a moment while Kathryn tried to reject their truth, but eventually she couldn't resist them, and she felt her mind absorbing them all.

  Phoebe was right. She couldn't go on like this. Daddy and Justin weren't coming back no matter what she did, so she'd better get on with life. But could she? In her bed, eyes closed, pain receded. Standing out here, in the cold winter air, she felt misery begin to rise in her, erupting in the pit of her stomach and then snaking out to envelop the rest of he
r body. She felt queasy. She had to lie down, get warm again. Close her eyes. She felt Phoebe's strong grip on her arms. "I'm here for you, Kathryn," her sister's voice promised. "You might get mad at me because I'm going to push you. But I promise I'll stick with you."

  Eyes squeezed shut, reeling in the cold sunlight, stomach raw and nauseated, Kathryn reached out and clutched Phoebe's hand, holding as tightly as she could to safe anchor.

  Four nights later, a fierce winter storm came sweeping across the plains. The sky had turned leaden in midafternoon, and the temperature dropped precipitously. Snow began falling as Kathryn, her mother, and her sister were eating dinner, and they gazed through the broad windows of the dining room onto a blizzard of white.

  Kathryn had stayed out of bed during the daylight hours all four days, going to the bedroom only to sleep. Except that now, irony of ironies, she couldn't sleep, but lay awake in silent agony, trying not to think of Justin and her father lying in the dark frigid waters, flesh now devoured by water creatures, white bones settled in the silty residue of the alien sea.