STAR TREK - VOY - 21 - Shadow Of Heaven

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Star Trek - Voy - 021 - Shadow Of Heaven
by Christie Golden
INTERLUDE
THE ENTITY WAS PLEASED WITH ITSELF. AFTER so LONG drifting aimlessly throughout space
and time, it had a purpose. A good purpose, a healing one, one that made it feel satisfied and content. It
had not known it lacked, or perhaps had forgotten, these feelings until the Presence had contacted it,
explained what was at stake, and begged for its assistance.
Dark matter, something simple and innocent of wrongdoing in its natural state, had been twisted.
Mutated. Turned to aid evil. Both the Presence and the Entity were searching for it now, gathering it up;
rendering it harmless, and helping restore the things it had damaged, sentient or no, to their true and
rightful state.
The Entity had helped the Sikarians, the Beneans, the Kazan, and others. It had known these names,
these people, these planets, but how? How had it known such things? It tasted curiosity. Another new
sensation for something as powerful and yet as formless as the Entity.
On and on it floated, finding pockets of dark matter hidden in a nebula, gently plucking it from a
wayward asteroid.
And then it found the Vidiians.
CHAPTER 1
I'VE NEVER CONSIDERED MYSELF THE LITERARY TYPE. WELL, I've now learned the hard
way that when you're stuck so far from home that you don't even know where home is, in a civilization
that's nothing like everything you left behind, you can go nuts without something that connects you to the
life you used to know. So I started this.
The Culilann are a little bit nervous about this writing thing I'm doing. It sort of feels like I'm violating the
Prime Directive with the ABCs. But the Culilann certainly know about advanced technology, they just
choose not to embrace it. The Alilann-well, suffice to say that if I were with the Alilann right now I'd be
writing this on something resembling a padd, not on dried and stretched tree bark. I somehow think the
captain would be proud of this.
Ensign Tom Paris paused and stretched his ringers, grimacing as they cracked. He was surprised at how
badly his hand was cramping, but he wanted to get all this down. He used his hands all the time on
Voyager, but he was learning that operating the responsive controls at his station and grasping a
sharpened stick smudged with soot from the fire exercised very different finger muscles.
He continued: My fingers hurt, but here goes, trying to make a long story short. A few-
He paused again. How long had it been? This place, with its slow pace and repetitive days, blurred time
for him. And of course, being injured for so long, he'd really been out of it for a while. He thought back
to when the strange wormholes had been "following" Voyager, opening and closing like the mouths of
some kind of space monsters. No one had suspected that it was the Romulan scientist Telek R'Mor, a
man who lived in the Alpha Quadrant dozens of light-years and twenty true years ago, trying to find them
at the command of the Romulan Tal Shiar.
What a weird tale Telek had told them, of powerful aliens called Shepherds, and of dark matter being
mutated and causing terrible harm. They'd mistakenly beamed Telek aboard against his will, thinking he
was in danger. What followed was one of the strangest adventures of Tom's life, and he knew he'd had
his share of them. They had known something was dreadfully wrong when Neelix-quite possibly the
nicest person aboard the entire ship-had tried to murder Telek R'Mor. It was the mutated dark matter, of
course, affecting Neelix's mind. As it had affected Tom's own, as well.
He frowned, and scratched down his thoughts. My personal experience with the dark matter was
frightening. It made me completely paranoid. I had hallucinations, lost my enthusiasm for things-it turned
me into someone I wasn't. Someone I really didn't like. And it damaged people physically, too.
He thought about the two Romulan scouts who had managed to get aboard the ship, the awful things the
dark matter had done to them. He decided he didn't want to write that part down.
It might have been Telek who got us into this mess, but he was also the one to get us out of it. He was
able to track down one of the so-called good Shepherds, Tialin. She removed all the dark matter from
our bodies and put it into a small, glowing sphere. She told us that she could give us the technology to do
this ourselves, and asked Captain Janeway if she would agree to take Voyager and gather up the rest of
this dangerous dark matter. The captain consented. I don't think any of us believed she 'd refuse.
Again he paused, and shook out his right hand, cursing. It was not cooperating. He would have to wait
until later to describe being dragged by Chakotay into this strange place, injured and weak. The aliens
here had not greeted them with overwhelming warmth. They had even put him and Chakotay into a pit
for a few days. The "Ordeal," they called it, a sort of test to see if he and Chakotay were acceptable to
their gods, the Crafters. He didn't remember a lot after that until he got better.
Most troubling was the events of the last few days. Chakotay had mysteriously disappeared and the
spiritual leader of the Culilann, a gentle young man named Matroci, had died. The Sumar-ka, the
villagers, attributed the death to asphyxiation. But Tom had seen the corpse before it was ritually burned;
had seen the un-mistakable mark left on Matroci's abdomen by some kind of energy weapon.
Paris knew he was not under direct suspicion of Matroci's death. They didn't even realize their Culil had
been murdered. But the tragedy occurring on the same night as Chakotay's unannounced disappearance
had made the Sumar-ka uneasy around him. The result was that Paris, who had just started to think
maybe he had made friends here, was again feeling isolated and itchy to leave.
But first, he had to find out who had killed Matroci. He had not voiced his suspicions, but he was going
to emulate Chief Inspector Tuvok and see if he couldn't do a little detective work on his own. He would
start his investigation tomorrow. His first suspect: Trima. She was the one who directly benefited from
Matroci's death. She got promoted, from a mere Sa-Culil to the Culil herself. And she was so icy and
unapproachable, she had to be up to something. He tried to pretend that he wasn't pleased at the thought
of spending more tune with her, for cold as she was, she was gorgeous. It wasn't cheating on B'Elanna
just to want to look at and talk to someone he found attractive.
Was it?
He leaned over on the pallet stuffed with fragrant ferns and blew out the lamp. He did not look over at
the empty bed where Chakotay had slept.
Trima wondered if the Stranger Paris had killed Matroci.
He and the one called Chakotay had come from a strange and far-off place, been accepted by the
Sumar-ka, and then the same night as Matroci's death Chakotay had vanished. She had made certain
that Paris's alibi had been investigated. He had led them to the tree and shown them deep, fresh gouges in
the trunk that could have come only from the claws of an iislak, and a large one at that. Smaller footprints
confirmed his story of a mother and cub in the area. Still not completely satisfied, she had shinnied up the
tree herself. Sure enough, there were fresh breaks in the trunk, still oozing sap, in places where someone
Tom's size could have been supported.
She felt his eyes on her as she climbed and was fairly certain that he was looking at her legs. This Tom
was one for the females, it would seem, though he had never behaved improperly. Trima thought she had
heard Yurula, who found both Strangers quite handsome, say something about Tom having a partner
back hi bis old life. But Trima knew that ties loosened their hold on one after enough time had passed.
One day, Tom would truly realize that he was to spend his life here in Sumar-ka, and set about looking
for a mate among the Culilann. She imagined he would have his pick of willing females.
So his story had been verified-he had indeed been treed by an angry predator until the morning. But what
if he had been treed while trying to flee with Chakotay, after they had murdered Matroci? Why was he
still here while his friend had gone?
It seemed a sound theory, but for one thing: the reaction Paris had had to the dead body. She had been
watching him keenly when he approached the pyre to pay his last respects. She had seen Paris notice the
burn mark, seen him express shock and horror, seen those emotions quickly covered as he realized that
no one else would recognize the mark for what it was. Would a murderer so give himself away as to
react to the sight of his killing, especially if no one else even realized that murder had been committed? It
did not make sense. So now she was confused, and not a little frightened.
Because of her position, first as Sa-Culil and now Culil proper, Trima could not express much interest in
Tom's origins. One did not question where Strangers had come from. It only mattered that they were
here. But Trima needed to know for reasons that no one else in Sumar-ka was aware of.
She went about her duties of morning prayer, placing a few leaves of the Sacred Plant in the small bowl
of embers and taking care to fully open the windows. She was not interested in dying the way Matroci
had died.
Her thoughts were not on the prayers she had uttered since childhood, but on the fair-haired Stranger.
She went through the day watching him when she could. Most of her time was spent talking to a
bereaved people, assuring them that the Crafters had a plan for Matroci and that those left behind did not
need to trouble themselves in fear for his fate. She was beginning to hate the lies. She did not even know
if there were Crafters, and she certainly did not know of any plan. And yet the words of comfort came to
her lips, and her people embraced her, called her Culil, called her good.
For years, she had told herself that her falseness was serving a higher good, but now she was not sure.
Now, she might be a target herself, and things were very, very different
There was a knock on the door and she started. She forced herself to be calm and rose languidly, the
robes of a Culil swirling about her gracefully. She opened the door.
'Tom," she said, surprised. "You have never sought solace from the Culil before. Why are you not helping
Soliss and the others in repairing Ramma's hut?'
'Too many cooks spoil the broth," he said.
Her delicate blue brows drew together in a frown. "I do not understand your reference."
He grinned. "It means that sometimes you can have too many people doing one task, and you get in the
way. They finally told me to leave after I knocked Kevryk off the roof. Accidentally, of course."
Despite herself, Trima smiled. "So that was what the shouting was all about."
"Soliss is busy preparing herbal drinks and Yurula is off gathering berries, I think. So, I thought I'd drop
by and see if I could serve some useful purpose here."
"There is nothing I need you to do." She was about to close the door in his face when she realized this
was a perfect opportunity to interrogate him. No one would know what they talked about, unless Tom
told, and there was no real reason for him to. Everyone was busy, and those who weren't would assume
that Paris had come for spiritual guidance.
"Oh," he said. "Well, if there is-"
"You could stay here and talk to me for a while. While I prepare the altar for the next prayer session."
Her voice was still hard, and she could tell the offer sounded far from genuine.
He hesitated. "If I'm not intruding."
"No. Please come in."
He stepped inside, a little gingerly, she thought, and looked around. His eyebrows rose in appreciation.
Trima was now living in Matroci's hut. It was the largest building for an individual or family in the village,
and was furnished with the finest the Culilann had to offer their spiritual leader. Pillows and rugs covered
the hard-packed earth. A small table and chairs sat to the side, exquisitely carved and inlaid with
precious stones gathered from the jungle. Trima, feeling unaccountably nervous, walked to the table and
poured Tom a drink of water from a delicate earthenware jug.
"Some water," said Trima, handing him the cup. She waved a slender hand, indicating a bowl piled high
with colorful fruit. "Please, partake if you are hungry."
"Thank you," said Paris. "This is beautiful. Nice place you got here."
"It is not mine. It belongs to the Culil of Sumar-ka."
He regarded her with steady blue eyes. "But you are the Culil of Sumar-ka. And unless I misunderstood
what Soliss told me, you will be Culil for the rest of your life."
"Yes," she said, "but these are for the position of the Culil, not for me personally."
He shrugged broad shoulders. "Same difference."
The contradictory words baffled her. "What? Perhaps I do not understand your language as well as I
thought."
He grinned, flashing white teeth. "Earth phrase, forget about it. What I'm getting at is, since you are the
Culil, you get to enjoy these nice things, whether or not they're meant for Trima. It's a nice perk."
She nodded, regretting her impulse to ask him to stay. She was learning nothing, and he was making her
feel uncomfortable.
"Do you think that is wrong?"
"Not my place to argue against the tradition of the Culilann. If they want to make their Culil comfortable,
good for them."
"You are a Culilann now," she reminded him.
"Oh, no," he said. "I'm an honorary member of the village, but I'll have to get back to my ship one of
these days, soon as I can figure out how."
Good, he had given her an opening. 'Tell me about your ship," said Trima.
The blue eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know about it? No one has ever expressed any curiosity
about it before. Soliss said that it didn't matter where I came from, only that I was here now."
Trima thought fast. "That is true," she said. "But now that Chakotay is gone, I thought you might be
feeling a little lonely and pining for your home, since you have no one to talk about it with. And as Culil, it
is my duty to offer comfort."
He relaxed. "Well, you're right. I do miss it. I guess I have two homes-my real home, Earth, where I was
born, and Voyager. It's become kind of a home for me as well. And the people there are just like family.
Better than family, in some cases."
Trima poured herself some water and indicated that Tom should sit. He sank down among the cushions.
She sat across from him, demurely arranging her robes. She listened while he spoke. She had the feeling
that he had not come here to do that, but now that he had an audience, he was unable to stop the words
from spilling out.
He spoke of a "star ship," a vessel that could cross light-years. Of a home farther away, he said, than she
could possibly imagine, though he was wrong about that. Of visiting so many alien races that her head
spun. Of instruments that replicated food, others that shot like an arrow from a bow.
"So," she said at one point in a stem voice, "you are like the Alilann. You value only technology."
"That's not quite true," he said, and then proceeded to utterly confuse her by telling her of a friend who
loved to make music, of a place called Sandrine's where one danced, of a captain who was a scientist
but who loved to paint, of a funny alien named Neelix who reveled in preparing fresh-grown food.
Trima stared, completely taken aback. For her, it was a new sensation. Little startled her, but this-
"How do you do it?" she demanded. "How can you integrate both castes like that?"
"Because we don't have a caste system," he said. "If your planet is a member of the United Federation of
Planets, you can partake as little or as much of technology as you like. For example, Chakotay's family
was pretty traditional. They grew a lot of their own food and didn't really avail themselves of all the
technology they could have. I grew up in a family that was very involved with Starfleet, so my experience
was almost the opposite. But even I appreciate a home-cooked meal or skill with the arts."
Trima realized she was gaping at him. She closed her mouth and tried to summon outrage, but for a long
few seconds she couldn't do it. To imagine a life where one chose one's destiny. One could embrace
either extreme or a middle ground, living in an Alilann-like city with art on the metal walls, eating fresh
foods but sleeping protected from the elements-it was a revelation.
He looked at her curiously, and finally she remembered who she was supposed to be. She frowned
terribly and stood up quickly.
"You speak blasphemy, Tom Paris," she cried. She didn't have to feign the trembling that shook her
body, but she hoped he attributed it to outrage. "But since you are still very much a Stranger, I will
forgive you. Speak no more of this obscene blending of castes among die Sumar-ka." A thought struck
her. "Since I am your spiritual advisor, you may speak of it to me. But to no one else, on pain of
expulsion!"
He sobered at that. "I get it, Trima. Culil, I should say. Sorry to have offended you."
She turned her back to him, uncertain as to whether her shining eyes would give the lie to her words.
"Go, now. We will speak further of this, in private."
She heard him walk to the door, heard it close behind him. Trima didn't move for a moment, then turned
around. Yes, he was gone. She let out her breath in a rush and clapped a hand to her mouth. What he
had said shook her to her very marrow. Could it really be so? Did his people truly live like this? She
needed to hear more about it, and soon.
But in the meantime, she had duties to attend to. Trima went to a carved wooden chest, opened it, and
removed the false bottom. There, looking spectacularly out of place, were five items. Two were
communications devices they had found on the Strangers, which looked more like jewelry man
technology. Two others were weapons, also recovered from Tom and Chakotay. These looked like the
weapons they were. The fifth item was a small handheld communication device unlike the ones the two
Federation representatives had carried. It sparkled in the shafts of sun that filtered through the shutters,
and one corner of it pulsed bright green.
She removed it and checked for a message. There was one, short and to the point Yet another Culil in
another village had died under mysterious circumstances. This made the sixth one in almost as many
moon cycles.
And now, she was Culil. She sat the device on her lap, and began to manually enter a message-quick,
efficient, full of detail, and to the point. As all her missives to the Alilann were.
Our Culil was found dead several days ago, a dear mark of a directed energy weapon on his chest.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, whoever committed the atrocity was clever enough to cover his tracks. The
Culil's domicile was filled with the smoke from the Sacred Plant, which was directly responsible for his
death; the energy weapon was obviously set to only stun. No one in the village has noticed, though I think
this alien Paris might suspect something.
Either that, or he or his companion Chakotay is the killer. Chakotay disappeared the night of Matroci's
murder, which makes me very suspicious. They could be the ones killing the Culils, wandering from
village to village, place to place. They had the weapons, though I think it odd that Chakotay and Tom
would have been able to find where I had hidden them, used them, and then returned them.
You must let me know if Chakotay was Recovered or if he fled on his own. And if the former, then why
did you not take Tom Paris? I am in danger now. Please advise.
Trima paused, then recklessly continued, voicing her emotions. They are only Culilann, but they are not
beasts to be slaughtered so. Matroci was a voice of calm reason in this village, and his death is a setback
for everything save an increase in hostilities. Was this authorized? I repeat, was this authorized? If not,
and if Chakotay was indeed Recovered, then, Implementer, you have a rogue on your hands, and no one
is safe.
Trima sighed, then tapped in her signature: "The Silent One."
CHAPTER 2
IT WAS A COMFORTABLE CELL. CAPTAIN KATHRYN JANE-WAY had to give the Kwaisi
that. But a cell it was, nonetheless, and she was in it, and she had to get out.
She paced back and forth like a caged animal, the repetitive movement helping her mind to focus. She
couldn't believe she had been so easily captured, and even with a security-guard escort! She hadn't
expected the Kwaisi to react in such a fashion, or else she'd have been more alert. After all she and her
ship had done to help them, too.
With an uncharacteristic bitterness, Janeway recalled her first encounter with the Kwaisi. Sensors had
picked up eight heavily armed vessels, riddled with mutated dark matter. It was a wonder they weren't
falling apart right before her eyes. The leader of this fleet was one Captain Ulaahn, a deluded, suicidal
being who was will convince the Kwaisi to release the captain. Our mission is far more dire than any of
us realized."
"If you would tell me what you learned from the Shepherd, I will consider your request."
"I told you, it is for the captain's ears only!"
"As the captain is not present," said Tuvok, "then your information must needs remain unheard."
"Veruul!" cried Telek, and stormed off the bridge. He was shaking, with fear and anger combined. "Deck
Two," he instructed, and the turbolift hummed into motion.
He tried to calm himself, clasping his hands in an effort to stop their trembling. Tuvok was right, as far as
he knew. To him, it would indeed be folly to simply allow Telek to beam down and himself be captured
by the trial-hungry Kwaisi. But Tuvok didn't know what Telek knew, and the Romulan feared he could
not convince the Vulcan chief of security with mere words.
Alone in his quarters, Telek lay on the comfortable bed, his body tense and his mind racing. What to do,
what to do? How to convince a stubborn, emotionless Vulcan that-
Yes. It was the only way.
'Telek R'Mor to Commander Tuvok."
"Go ahead, Doctor."
"I would appreciate it if you would meet me in my quarters immediately."
"You are hardly in a position to make requests, Doctor. Our captain has been kidnapped. My place is on
the bridge, orchestrating a rescue attempt."
"Your place is to protect the security of this vessel and its mission. Please, Tuvok. Come to my quarters.
After that, if you do not agree with my suggestions, I will make no more of them and stay out of the way."
A pause, perhaps the longest in Telek R'Mor's life. Then, "Very well. But this will be brief, Doctor."
/ don't know how brief it will be, thought Telek, but I will wager you will stay longer than you think.
Young Ensign Kim was a reliable officer. Tuvok did not hesitate to leave the bridge under his temporary
command. Kim knew enough not to do anything drastic without consulting nun first. Still, the Vulcan felt
the faintest tendrils of annoyance creep through him as he stood in the turbolift en route to Telek R'Mor's
quarters.
Gently, he pressed down the unwanted emotion. Dr. R'Mor had obviously learned something of great
import when the sphere had spoken to him with the Shepherd Tialin's voice. As the entire purpose for
being here hinged on Tialin's request, Tuvok was inclined to pay attention to what she said. That Dr.
R'Mor, as fine and logical a non-Vulcan scientist as Tuvok had ever met, was as agitated as he was by
this unknown message was not dismissed by Tuvok. He was prepared to listen with full attention to what
R'Mor had to tell him.
He exited the turbolift, strode down the corridor to R'Mor's quarters, then stood at the door, waiting to
be invited. "Come," called Telek.
The door hissed open. "I assume you are prepared to tell me what Tialin told you?" asked Tuvok.
"No," said Telek, surprising Tuvok. "But I am prepared to show you."
It took a second for Tuvok to realize what R'Mor was proposing. He did not like it. The Vulcan
mind-meld was not something to be used like a tricorder, as a mere diagnostic tool.
"I do understand the personal intrusion that a mind meld represents to your people," said Telek gently. "I
would not ask for such a thing lightly. But it is the only way I can truly convince you of what I know."
Tuvok cocked his head quizzically. "I do not doubt what you will tell me, Dr. R'Mor. You have not lied in
the past, and there seems little reason for you to lie now."
"Thank you, Tuvok. I appreciate your trust. But you need to know this as I know it Tialin didn't just talk
to me. She spoke to my brain, implanting the information in a way that-" He fumbled for words. "It is a
deep sense of knowing, Commander. That's all I can tell you. And you have to experience that as I did,
as a knowing, not a telling."
Tuvok's dark brown eyes searched Telek's. Precious seconds were ticking away on the bridge.
"Very well," said Tuvok. "I agree."
They sat down on the edge of the bed. Telek smiled slightly.
"What is it about this situation that you find amusing?" asked Tuvok.
"There are dissidents on my planet who secretly follow the Vulcan path," he said. "This has gone on for
generations. They hope for unification, someday. I was just thinking how pleased and excited some of
those people would be to be involved in a mind-meld, as I am about to be."
Tuvok frowned a little. "If they react with pleasure and excitement to a mind-meld, then they are not truly
following the Vulcan path, are they?"
"Spoken like a true son of the planet," said Telek.
There had been enough chatter. "Close your eyes and take a moment to calm your no doubt racing
thoughts," said Tuvok. He did the same, though he was much more tranquil than the agitated Romulan.
He was not looking forward to this. The mind-meld was an intimate act, one Tuvok had shared only in
the most dire of cases with anyone who was not a Vulcan. He was not eager to plunge headlong into the
chaotic mind of a being as passionate as Romulans were believed to be. Admittedly, Telek's years of
studying science had taught him discipline, but even a disciplined non-Vulcan mind was a riot of emotions
to a true Vulcan.
He opened his eyes. Telek sat silently, expectantly. Tuvok lifted his right hand and placed his fingers with
exquisite gentleness on the Romulan's ridged brow, temple, chin.
"My mind to your mind," he said, intoning the ritual words. "Your thoughts to my thoughts."
And those thoughts came, rushing toward him in a stampede of colors and emotions and feelings. It was
not the most volatile mind Tuvok had encountered; that dubious distinction belonged to the late sociopath
Lon Suder. The feelings and thoughts of others with whom he had melded joined in the cacophonous
chorus: Janeway's warm sincerity, Paris's cocksure arrogance tempered with insecurity, Kes's thoughts
before she spiraled away from them into an existence they could only imagine. Voices, words: You are
my soul, my husband-My dearest friend, Tuvok-I only want to do something for the ship....
Carefully, Tuvok took the many voices, many thoughts, and separated them strand by strand. With great
gentleness and respect, he laid them aside, focusing on the vibrant thread that was Telek R'Mor. Quick
images flooded his brain, not what he sought but nonetheless vital to understanding that final goal. He saw
an elegant Romulan woman holding an infant daughter. I am a husband. I am a parent, Tuvok thought, his
mind automatically seeking all resem-
blances to ease the shock of sharing another's thoughts. He beheld the face of the chairman of the Tal
Shiar, Jekri Kaleh; such a young, fair face to house such cruelty. He saw a blond man, humanoid, with a
twist of contempt to his full mouth. Lhiau, the rogue Shepherd.
For a moment, Tuvok resisted the flow of Telek's thoughts and branded everything the Romulan knew
about Ambassador Lhiau onto his own brain. Knowing one's enemy was wisdom. This was their foe,
Tialin had said, and thus far nothing Tuvok had learned had made him inclined to doubt.her.
On swept the relentless tide. Tuvok experienced grief and horror at the words uttered by Kaleh: Your
family is dead. Telek knew more than most about the atrocities that the Tal Shiar sometimes perpetrated
in the name of protecting the interests of the Empire, and now Tuvok was the shocked recipient of that
knowledge. He saw himself through Telek's eyes, saw Janeway, Chakotay, Seven, Torres, Neelix, who
had tried to kill Telek. The images rushed past, merging together in a kaleidoscope of color until it
coalesced into a hovering, purple sphere.
It was the orb Tialin had given them, their means to understanding how to extract and contain dark
matter. The orb glowed, and spoke without speaking.
Tuvok listened. Despite his lifelong control over his emotions, his heart sped up and sweat broke out on
his dark skin. His eyes went wide, dilated, and he almost stopped breathing. He had never imagined such
a horror, such a complete and sweeping disaster, as what was being imparted to him now.
It was no wonder Telek had not wanted to put this into words. To do so would be to drastically reduce
the profound impact of this knowledge, though speaking this information would be horrific enough. Tuvok
wanted to break the contact at once, to deny what had been imparted to him, had been burned onto his
brain like a brand.
Instead, he regained control. He gently disengaged his mind from that of Telek's, returning to the
Romulan the thoughts that were rightfully his and his alone. He thought a brief statement of gratitude at
being allowed to share those thoughts; a Vulcan ritual.
Tuvok was trembling by the time his mind returned to him and he stared at Telek R'Mor.
"Now," said R'Mor shakily, "you know."
"Yes," said Tuvok. "We must beam down to the Kwaisi Council at once."
CHAPTER 3
THEY WERE MOVING HER FROM THE HOLDING CELL TO her permanent place of
imprisonment, and they had blindfolded her to do it. Behind the blindfold, which was sealed to the
individual contours of her face, Jekri Kaleh's eyes still foolishly struggled to focus. She smiled to herself,
then forced her lips to uncurve. There was no telling what these guards would do if they thought she was
laughing at them.
But the former head of the Romulan intelligence service the Tal Shiar was not laughing at them. She was
laughing at fortune, which had raised her from the streets only to throw her back down even harder. And
she was laughing at the familiarity of all of this, although up until now she had only witnessed these events
from the other side.
There was terror here, of course. She'd be the worst sort of veruul, knowing all the ghastly details as she
did, to feel no fear. But she also knew exactly what was being done to her, and why, something that most
prisoners did not have the luxury of knowing. The blindfold was to make her feel vulnerable, to force her
to trust to the goodwill of the guards-who naturally had none-to save her from tripping or slamming into
something. Her ankle was slightly twisted and there were bruises forming on her forehead and right elbow
already.
Next, possibly, would come the psychological and physical experiments. -Many a cure for disease had
come from trial and error upon living patients. And new types of interrogation that did not involve
elaborate equipment were always tested on those unlucky enough to come down on the wrong side of
the law-or, Jekri mused bitterly, on the wrong side of Ambassador Lhiau.
She was glad she thought of Lhiau, because the hatred that flooded her at the thought of his loathed,
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StarTrek-Voy-021-ShadowOfHeavenbyChristieGoldenINTERLUDETHEENTITYWASPLEASEDWITHITSELF.AFTERsoLONGdriftingaimlesslythroughoutspaceandtime,ithadapurpose.Agoodpurpose,ahealingone,onethatmadeitfeelsatisfiedandcontent.Ithadnotknownitlacked,orperhapshadforgotten,thesefeelingsuntilthePresencehadcontactedit...

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