PERSONAL LOG, STARDATE WHENEVER. I REGRET TO SAY THAT Trima and I have been avoiding one another ever since her confession a couple of nights ago. She’s probably sorry she told me, and I am at a total loss as to what to say or do. I don’t envy her one bit. Her role as Culil would be difficult under any circumstances, and to have obtained it the way she did, and to be what she is—a woman divided—well, all I can say is I’m glad it’s not me.
Tom realized that the words he had just written were all squiggly. His hand was shaking. He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue.
On the other hand, Trima appears to be well, something I most certainly am not. Soliss can’t explain it. It’s nothing I’ve eaten, I don’t think I’ve been bitten by any nasty little insect, and it doesn’t seem to be any one of the eighty-three or so fevers he’s familiar with. I’m tired, and weak. It almost feels as though I’m recovering from an injury or something, like I’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m craving meat on the rarer side these days.
That was enough. The words were almost too shaky to read, so he abandoned his log for the day. He hated this. He couldn’t contribute any more, and did not want to feel like a charity case. His mind made up, he rose, rather unsteadily, and made his way to Trima’s hut. They had to do something.
Tentatively, Paris knocked on the door. “Enter,” she called in her cool voice.
He did so, and gave her a faint smile. Her pale blue brows came together in a frown of concern. “Paris, you do not look at all well.”
“Yeah, so Soliss tells me. But I can’t stand any more tree-bark tea, so I thought I’d come while away some time with you.”
She glanced down. She had not risen, but had remained seated on the soft floor cushions. “What is it you require?”
“A trip home.” He sat down, quickly, before he fell down. “I know you said you don’t like to contact the Alilann frequently, but we both thought they’d have come for me by now.”
She nodded. “I have received no more messages. I do not understand what’s happening.”
Tom thought he might. Contrary to what he had just said, he asked for a cup of tea before he began. He’d need it to keep his throat wet through what was certain to be a long story. He took a sip, and then began. He told Trima everything, from Telek R’Mor’s unexpected contacting of the ship to the discovery of the dreadful nature of the mutated dark matter to his arrival in this place. Her eyes widened when he mentioned Khala, but she remained silent until he had finished.
“I think that may be what’s wrong with me,” he said at last, draining his cup. “I think your planet has dark matter in it somewhere and it’s starting to affect me. It may have already affected your contact people.”
“It may be responsible for Matroci’s murder,” said Trima softly. “This is a frightening tale you weave, Tom Paris.”
“If only it were just that—a tale. But it’s the truth.”
She gave him a cold look, as if doubting him, then smiled. Tom thought it was like the sun coming out from under a cloud, and that thought frightened him more than the thought of dark matter in his body. He was terribly afraid he was starting to fall for Trima. He really, really wished that Chakotay had been able to drag B’Elanna along with them through the portal. Tom was not particularly good at resisting temptation. He never had been.
“It would serve you nothing to make up so complicated a story,” she said. “Of course I believe you. And you are right. Much as I hate to do this, it is clear to me that you are ill. Soliss has done wonders as a healer and I respect him, but I also respect the Alilann doctors and their science.”
She rose and with a slight rustling of her long robes went to a carved wooden chest. Gracefully she opened it, and to Tom’s surprise, removed a false bottom.
“Hey, my phaser and communicator!” he said, moving over to sit beside her. She hesitated, then slowly picked up his possessions and handed them to him.
“These do belong to you,” she said. “Please, keep them concealed. We are not supposed to return technological devices to Strangers who become part of the village.”
“Gotcha,” said Paris, already in the process of hunting for a place in his clothes to secrete them.
“Your communication devices are quite beautiful,” said Trima. “If any of the Sumar-ka saw them, they would be after a jeweler to make replicas for them.”
Tom looked at her closely. Yes, it was definitely humor. He allowed himself a smile in return.
Trima removed another device. After all this time not seeing advanced technology, to Paris the thing looked dark, alien, and sinister in her hand. One corner of it blinked green.
Trima thumbed a control, then shook her head. “No messages. I had hoped they would have left one. I check every night before bed, just in case.”
She had been kneeling beside the chest. Now she extended her legs, long and muscular, crossed them, and settled the device in her lap. Quickly, she tapped in a message. “There,” she said.
“What did you say?”
“The Stranger Paris is ill. Send Recovery team as soon as possible. The Silent One.”
“Short and sweet,” said Paris, thinking that he’d warranted something a little more eloquent.
“Brevity is best,” said Trima, seeming to agree with him.
A thought occurred to him. He reached into the chest, removed Chakotay’s combadge, and handed it to Trima. “You should wear this,” he said.
She recoiled, and again Paris felt a rush of sympathy for her. Part of her still reviled technology, even as she realized how useful it was.
“Listen, there is someone out there killing Culils,” he said intently. “We don’t know how high up this goes. It could be one person acting on his own or this could be the new, improved Alilann policy toward the Culilann. You’ve told me that you’re only known as The Silent One. They don’t know you’re Trima, the Culil of Sumar-ka. Right now, you’re in as much danger as Matroci was. At least if you have this hidden on you somewhere you’ll be able to contact me if something happens.”
She stared at the device, then slowly, reluctantly, closed her fingers around it. Paris felt a rush of relief.
“You too,” she said. “If something happens and you need help—you can contact me.”
“I couldn’t,” he replied. “The combadge makes kind of a chirping noise. It would give you away.”
She lifted her chin and her eyes flashed. God, but she was beautiful. “If you are in danger, then it is my duty as Culil—and as your friend—to help you. Regardless of what sacrifice it might entail. I trust you to use it only in a life-threatening situation, Paris, but use it you will, if you need me.”
He swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
He felt better when he left. It had been strange to be without a weapon on this planet, and downright unsettling to be without a combadge. A dozen times a day he’d find himself tapping his chest, trying futilely to communicate with someone. It had gotten so that the children teased him, lifting their right hands and touching their left breasts when they saw him.
And he was glad he’d persuaded Trima to take the combadge. He knew she hadn’t wanted to, and frankly, he was furious that there was a need for her to do so. The Culilann ought to be safe. They were hurting no one. Grimly, Paris thought of his talk with Chakotay, about Earth’s Ghost Dance and the fact that the more technologically advanced group had felt so threatened by a less technologically advanced one that they had to round them up and, on occasion, kill them for good measure.
He was very much afraid that he was about to see the same thing happen here.
It was about then that he passed out.
* * *
“You’ve got to send a Recovery team after Paris right away,” said Chakotay over his shoulder as the doctor and Ezbai were leading him out.
“That will be considered,” said the Implementer.
“Considered? He’s got no access to proper medical care, he can’t even get the treatment I’m going to get. You’ve got to Recover him at once!”
“Implementer,” said Ezbai, “I would be willing to lead a team—”
“What, and miss Paris a second time?” Chakotay saw Ezbai cringe at the criticism and his heart went out to the young man. It hadn’t been Ezbai’s fault that Paris was off in the jungle when the Recovery team had arrived.
“Chakotay is right,” said Ezbai. He looked as surprised as the rest of them at his assertiveness, but continued. “We don’t know how fast this cellular—I don’t know what you’d call it, cellular transfer or whatever—is progressing. He is a stranger on our world and he may be dying.”
“We can’t get a team together,” said the Implementer, “and besides—”
A strange beeping noise interrupted him. Grunting, he thumbed a control. There on one of the screens was the same black-and-white lettering as before, again translated for Chakotay’s benefit: The Stranger Paris is ill. Send Recovery Team as soon as possible. The Silent One.
The Implementer’s ugly face looked even uglier in annoyance. “See?” yelped Ezbai. “Even our spy wants him gone!”
The Implementer sighed. “I suppose you are right, for once. Still, there is no time to get a proper team assembled. Everyone is on assignment.”
“I’ll go with him,” said Chakotay.
“Absolutely not!”
“Let me check in with your doctors and see what they can do for me,” Chakotay persisted. “Then let me go with Shamraa Ezbai. I know the Sumar-ka. They won’t suspect anything if they see me. Perhaps I can fabricate a way for Paris to leave the village and then we can both depart.”
Something seemed to break in the Implementer. He sighed heavily and ran his hands over his balding head. “We had order, we had structure. Now you come, Chakotay, bearing tales of dark matter and madness. We’ve got a missing Shamraa and a sick stranger and someone or a group of someones out there murdering Culils. It’s all but spiraling out of control. Go, then. Take whatever and whomever you need, but return here as quickly as possible. There’s too much going on for teams to be out now. Do you understand?”
Ezbai nodded. “Yes, Implementer.”
“Thank you,” said Chakotay. But the moment of honesty and softness had vanished, and the Implementer merely growled and waved a dismissive hand.
“There are a couple of people who were in the last patrol who might be willing to go out again,” said Ezbai. “I’ll see if I can locate them. You report to the doctor, and let him do what he can for you.”
There was an intensity, a determination, about Ezbai that Chakotay had never seen before, and he thought he knew the reason for it.
“This isn’t about Tom, is it?” said Chakotay softly. “It’s about Khala.”
Ezbai nodded jerkily. “It’s foolish, but somehow I think that if I work hard to save you and Paris, then someone will be working hard to keep Khala alive until we figure out how to get her back home safely.”
Chakotay smiled. “It’s not foolish, Ezbai,” he said. “It’s not foolish at all.”
* * *
Three hours later, Chakotay, Ezbai, and four others had donned appropriate gear and were striding through the rain forest. The transporter had cut kilometers off their trip, but there was still something called the “no-transport zone” that had to be honored. Chakotay was glad of the supplements the doctor had given him. Even so, he felt weaker than usual, and could not help but wonder how Tom was faring.
For a while, they simply hiked. Sweat pooled beneath their protective gear. Chakotay thought these people, intelligent and advanced as they were, still had a lot to learn about dressing for the tropics. He was not altogether happy with the team Ezbai had been able to cobble together, but he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. In particular, he was sorry to see the bigoted Ioni among their number. He had taken a strong and instant dislike to the woman and regretted that she was part of this team. But for the moment, she was silent, keeping her prejudices to herself.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Chakotay,” said Ezbai quietly. They were some distance ahead of the others, but Ezbai’s voice was pitched so that only Chakotay could hear. “About what you said earlier.”
“About the division between the Culilann and the Alilann?” said Chakotay in an equally soft voice. The last thing he wanted was for Ioni to overhear. Hope began to seep through him. Sometimes, all things needed in order to change was one good man, and with all his failings, Ezbai was a good man.
Ezbai nodded, keeping his eyes on the trail. Mud sucked at their boots. “They are the ones who rely on the soil for their food, and yet somehow they’ve ended up in places where the most extreme weather systems on our planet occur. I don’t know how that happened. But I still think we are being tolerant in taking their children, giving them continued life and homes with loving parents.”
From under a large frond, a long muzzle poked. Chakotay caught a glimpse of bright yellow eyes. He blinked, and it was gone. But it had left an answer in his brain.
Now he understood why his subconscious had begun conjuring Coyote. Coyote symbolized something from another culture, a Native American culture, but one in which Chakotay had not been raised. Coyote was not his tribe’s totem animal, but that of other Indians, among them a nation called the Navajo. The lesson Chakotay needed to recall was that of the Navajo, of Coyote’s people. He could almost sense the spirit creature leaping joyfully as it realized that Chakotay finally understood.
“Yes, you bring them in, and heal them, and feed them, and teach them your culture,” he said, choosing his words with care. “And considering the alternative is a cruel death by exposure, I wholeheartedly give you full credit for that. That tells me that you have a great deal of compassion.”
Ezbai seemed pleased at the acknowledgment, but also realized that Chakotay had more to say.
“Many years ago, my people were the Culilann,” Chakotay continued. “And my planet’s version of the Alilann, the Anglos, decided that they wanted to live where the Culilann lived. So they rounded them up and forced them into the least habitable places in the hemisphere. Said these places were ‘reserved’ for the Culilann, for the Indian. The children were given a way off these reservations, but at a cost. They were forbidden to speak or write in their native tongue, or practice their traditional faith. A whole generation of children from one tribe, the Navajo, was taken from their families and forced to attend Anglo schools. They were punished if they spoke Navajo. The culture was almost lost.”
Ezbai looked wretched, and Chakotay suspected that it was not from the weather. “But why is that bad? Why does a—a backward culture need to survive?”
“Because ties with your past teach you how to be truly alive. Ezbai, you—the Alilann—you are doing to the Culilann what the Anglo culture did to my people,” he said softly, without rancor. “It took centuries before it was realized that by trying to stamp out another culture, the Anglos were cheating themselves too. The Vulcans figured it out long before Earth did: Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations. Without that kind of tolerance, it all comes down to hate. And fear.”
“I don’t hate the Culilann,” said Ezbai.
“Perhaps not personally, but as a culture, you do. You hate the Culilann, and believe me, they hate you right back. You’re not a killer, Ezbai. But someone is. There is some Alilann out there, or perhaps a group of them, who are killing the Culils of the villages because they hate what they symbolize.”
“I can imagine hating someone, an individual, enough to kill him,” said Ezbai, with obvious reluctance. “If they tried to kill you, or hurt your family. But wanting to kill someone just because they’re different?” He shook his head, not comprehending.
“And that is what makes you a good man, Ezbai,” said Chakotay, placing a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. He said no more. Ezbai needed time to think, to digest what had been said. This situation had taken thousands of years to evolve. Change would not come overnight.
After a few more moments, Ezbai consulted his instruments, then lifted a hand to signal a halt. More hand gestures; Chakotay guessed that they were within hearing range of a Culilann or the village itself. Adrenaline began to spurt through his system, and he was alert at once.
They had discussed the plan. Chakotay was wearing a replication of the traditional Culilann clothes he had worn when he had first been Recovered. He would be wearing a communication device hidden in his clothing, and when he was alone he would report to the Recovery team his and Paris’s status. Chakotay suspected that the Sumar-ka would let him and Tom leave, especially if Paris was ill, but also suspected they would want to give them the Culilann equivalent of a going-away party. The Recovery team would in all likelihood have to wait until the still of the night, as they had before.
Chakotay was a little nervous as he made for the village. What if he was wrong? What if they wouldn’t let him leave, set a guard on him? What if Paris was already too ill for the Alilann doctors to help?
But the delighted cry that left Yurula’s lips when he appeared at the outskirts of the village set his mind at ease.
“Chakotay!” she cried, running to him and embracing him. “We feared the worst! Are you all right?”
“Yes and no,” he said, hugging her back. “It’s a long story. How is Tom?”
She sobered. “Not well. Soliss has done everything, yet he continues poorly.”
“I’ve no doubt that Soliss has cared well for him,” said Chakotay. “Take me to—” He almost said Trima, then realized that knowing about Matroci’s death would reveal too much. “To Matroci,” he said, hoping he hadn’t hesitated too long.
“Matroci is dead,” said Yurula as they turned and headed for the Culil’s hut. “He went to join the Crafters, by inhaling the smoke from the Sacred Plant as his predecessor did. Trima is our advisor now.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Chakotay, and this he did not have to feign. “When did this happen?”
“The night you left,” said Yurula. “It was a bad time for Sumar-ka. Paris had gotten treed by a mother iislak, and we feared that you had not been spared by her. It is a delight to me to see you again, Chakotay.” Her smile was radiant, genuine, and Chakotay bitterly regretted the falsehoods he was being forced to feed her.
“I’m all right, for now. My people found me and they want to take me and Tom back home with them. We’re ill from living here, Yurula. If we don’t leave, we’ll die.” This much, at least, was no falsehood.
“Truly?” Her eyes searched his and he nodded. She looked down. “We will miss you. You will leave behind those who love you—both of you.”
“I know,” said Chakotay, “but the alternative—”
“Cannot be contemplated. Trima is—” Soliss rushed up to them, cutting off her words.
“Chakotay! Yurula! You must help me with Paris. I went to check on him and found him unconscious in his hut!”
They all began to run. Chakotay’s heart sank. Don’t die, Tom. B’Elanna would never forgive me. And frankly I’d never forgive myself.
But Paris was sitting up by the time they reached him, and managed a weak smile of genuine pleasure. “Chakotay! A sight for sore eyes.” He tried to stand, but swayed. Chakotay caught him just in time. He picked Paris up and laid him on the bed.
“This place is just not good for me,” Paris gasped.
“You’re more right than you know,” said Chakotay. He turned to Soliss and Yurula. “May I have a few moments with him in private? I’ll come out and speak with both of you and Culil Trima as well.”
They nodded their understanding and withdrew. Chakotay turned to Paris and spoke in a hurried, low voice.
“I’ve got a lot to tell you, Tom.”
“And I’ve got something to tell you, too. Me first, I’m sicker.” Chakotay had to grin at that. Tom had lost none of his spirit. “The Alilann have a spy planted here.”
“I know. The Silent One.”
“Yeah. It’s Trima.”
“What?” Of everyone in the village, Trima was quite literally the last one Chakotay would have expected to be the spy.
“They Recovered her as an infant and healed her. Then they sent her here in deep cover at the age of ten. She’s very conflicted, Chakotay, but she’s chosen to confide in me. Matroci’s dead.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t commit suicide, he was murdered. By one of the Alilann.”
“I know that, too.”
Paris frowned, annoyed. “I’m worried about Trima.”
“I understand. The Alilann came for us both, but they missed you. I hear you had an up-close and personal encounter with a mother iislak.”
“Yeah, and Junior too. Not one of my finest moments.”
“There’s a Recovery team waiting to take us back, and from that point our top priority has to be returning to Voyager. We’re dying, Tom.” There was no way to put it other than bluntly. Paris could take it. “We’re not from this universe. We’re in the Shadow universe and our bodies are rebelling, trying to go home a cell at a time.”
Paris stared at him, but Chakotay knew the ensign believed him. “When do you think we’ll be able to leave?”
“You know the Sumar-ka. Any excuse for a party.”
“I was afraid of that. We’ll have to play up your illness, see if we can’t have that farewell dinner tonight.”
Paris grimaced. “We won’t have to play it up all that much.”
* * *
Chakotay had been right. The Sumar-ka were caring people, and they believed Chakotay’s story about returning to his ship. They could see that Paris was ill, could even see signs of weakness in Chakotay. They were left alone in their hut to rest and dress for the ceremony, which would be held after nightfall. Chakotay contacted the Recovery team and informed them of the situation.
Paris hadn’t wanted to sleep, but it came for both him and Chakotay regardless. He woke, hot and sweating, as the twilight shadows were beginning to fill the hut with a soft light. He woke Chakotay and they splashed cool water on their faces and changed into clean robes.
Trima came for them as soon as dark had settled fully. She looked like an incarnation of twilight herself, with her blue skin and purple-gray robes. Her normally poised demeanor was gone, and she looked small and lost inside the formal dress of her office.
“Hi,” said Paris, his voice sounding awkward in his own ears. “I didn’t know you’d come get us.”
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “It is my privilege, as Culil. I have been notified about the Recovery team waiting for you.” She paused, then said, “I will miss you, Tom Paris. It has been good, having someone to confide in.”
“Yeah,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and was acutely aware of Chakotay’s gaze boring into his back.
Trima did something entirely unexpected. She stepped forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. The place where her lips had touched seemed to tingle.
“Let us go,” she said, and just that quickly, she ceased being the insecure Silent One and became Trima, Culil of Sumar-ka, with important duties to perform. His face still burning from her kiss, Paris followed. Chakotay brought up the rear.
The celebration was similar to that with which the Sumar-ka had initiated them into their bosom, except it was more subdued. Paris started feeling slightly unwell again and just wanted the thing to be over with. He was ready to go, Trima had kissed him, dammit, which was a bit of a problem, and he wanted to be gone, to be home with B’Elanna, which was where he knew he belonged.
They came, one by one or in pairs or family units, to say farewell. There were no trinkets or offerings this time; the villagers seemed to know that Paris and Chakotay would not wish to be laden with gifts. The food was delicious, as always, and Paris knew that this was certainly one of the things he would miss most about this place.
Trima sat away from them after she had performed her ritual role. She gleamed in the moonlight, but not like an Ice Princess, not anymore. Paris knew her now, and despite the coolness of her demeanor he knew her great beauty disguised the warm heart of a confused, caring woman. He was going to miss her, too.
At last it was over, and Chakotay rose, as they had agreed he would.
“My people have no wish to disturb the peace of Sumar-ka,” he began. He smiled a little as he added, “Nor do they wish to endure your Ordeal, necessary though we all know it to be.” Answering smiles went around the small circle. “So we shall take our leave now, but we will carry forever in our hearts the memories we have shared with you.”
Paris rose now, too, somewhat unsteadily, and he and Chakotay gave the threefold salute common among the Sumar-ka, touching temples, throat, and abdomen. There was a shuffling sound as every single member of the village rose and did likewise. Then there were no more words. Paris cast a last, quick look at Trima. Surely it was a trick of the moonlight that made her eyes gleam, as if with tears.
They turned and left.
After a few moments, Paris said in a low voice, “I’m going to miss these people.”
“Me too,” Chakotay said. They said nothing more until they met up with the Recovery crew.
“Did it go well? Did they suspect?” The young man who rushed forward to greet them looked slightly familiar to Paris, which he knew was impossible.
“Not a thing,” said Chakotay. “Tom, this is Shamraa Ezbai Remilkansuur. He’s Khala’s brother.”
“That’s why you look familiar,” said Paris. “Khala’s in good hands.”
Ezbai nodded, a rapid movement. “Let’s go. The sooner we get past the no transport zone, the sooner our doctors can begin treating you.”
Paris found himself wishing he’d brought his staff, the lovely one they had made for him when he was ill the last time. It was a shame, really. He knew that whatever pleasure he had found here, he was always going to associate this place with being sick or injured. They hiked for a bit, their going slow in the thick jungle foliage and hampered by lack of light. From time to time they would rest, and then they’d keep going. Tom lost track of how long they had been hiking. It seemed like forever.
Suddenly Ezbai paused. “We’ve lost some people,” he said, glancing around. “Ioni, Kelmor, Travya—”
At that precise moment, Paris’s combadge chirped. He felt himself grow weak, for he knew that signified only one thing.