STAR TREK - VOY - 20 - Ghost Dance

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Star Trek - Voy - 020 - Ghost Dance
by Christie Golden
INTERLUDE
THE ENTITY HAD NO FORM, BUT IT COULD SEE, SMELL, taste, touch, hear, and sense. It had
no mind, but it thought thoughts that went back to the very beginning of time, and dared reach forward to
contemplate time's end. It was in all places and none, and in this place that was no place, it was content.
It drifted, thinking its vast thoughts and touching places in and out of time and space. Here, the Entity
knew joy as it recalled something as simple, as unique, as an image of a beloved face. There, it tasted
profound sorrow as an entire species blinked out of existence. It knew these emotions simultaneously and
was in no way troubled by the conflicts. It simply drifted, dreaming.
The Entity was perhaps the single most powerful being in this or any universe, and it was as fragile as a
spiderweb blown away by an errant wind.
It knew its complexities and contradictions, but always, the Entity had revelled in them alone.
Until now.
CHAPTER 1
THE SWEET, THICK SMOKE FROM THE BURNING LEAVES
of the Sacred Plant wafted upward, wrapping the Culil in its gray embrace. Culil Matroci struggled not to
cough, instead telling himself that the smoke was holy, it purified him, and it was only his weak, fleshly
lungs attempting to resist the presence of the Divine.
If only he had the courage, as the Culil before him had, to lock himself into a closed room and let the holy
smoke from the Sacred Plant fill up those fleshly lungs until he was entirely one with the spirit world. But
Matroci was young, and sometimes the delights of the flesh were sweeter to him than the smoke of the
Sacred Plant.
Sacrilege! his training screamed at him, and inwardly Matroci quailed at his lapse. Tonight, before he
snatched what little sleep his position permitted, he would have to spend an extra session with the Sacred
Plant smoke to purge himself of his blasphemy.
Still, he always kept a window open.
It was the Strangers who had done this to him, unsettled him so that he could not think with the peace
and clarity mat a Culil ought. It was not unusual for the Culilann to meet beings from other worlds, though
it had seldom happened in Matroci's village of Sumarka. Was that not the first of the ninety-nine Chants?
"Never think you are alone. The works of the Crafters are multitude, and little have you seen of them."
Such encounters often proved mutually beneficial. Of course, that was after the Ordeal had been
completed, something any representatives of a completely new race must undergo. This time, the Ordeal
was proving to be precisely that, and Matroci could not find it in him to approve.
Despite his efforts, Matroci found himself thinking about them, even though this was supposed to be a
time of deepest prayer and inward contemplation. His sanctuary, large and roomy to befit his august
office, was decorated with furnishings of both grace and utility. Handcrafted, of course, to honor the
Crafters. Only the Alilann artificially manufactured anything. Such unimaginative products were scorned
by true Culilann, and the Culil would lose his office if he dared allow them in the sanctuary. So for the
comfort of the Culil there were pillows and rugs upon which to recline, woven and sewn and stuffed by
those who cared for the soft-furred simli, chairs
crafted from the trunks of the Sacred Plant as well as other woods, bowls and cups spun on a turning
wheel while clever fingers worked them into objects of almost unspeakable beauty. Beverages, pressed
by steady tramping feet, filled those cups; fruits and vegetables harvested by free-hearted labor adorned
the table, waiting to be consumed.
Sometimes, Matroci wondered why the Culil accepted such beautiful things when his position required
him to mortify his flesh and shun such niceties. The dictates of the Grafters were sometimes rather
confusing. On the one hand, it was clear in the writings that the Culil was not to take active pleasure in
gifts. On the other, it was also written that the people were to honor the Culil with the labor of their hearts
and hands, thus also honoring the Grafters. So Matroci was in the awkward position of having to accept
gifts he was forbidden to truly use and enjoy.
He sometimes wished he were not so high ranking. He'd have fewer pretty things, but at least then he
could appreciate them openly and honestly as the rest of the Culilann did.
The smoke was dissipating, thank the Grafters. His lungs still burned, but not quite so much as before.
After a few more moments, the fire had consumed all the dried leaves, and there was only the faintest
trace of their sweet scent clinging to Matroci's heavy robes and long, pale blue hair.
He prostrated himself in front of the altar, asked forgiveness for his wayward thoughts, and rose. He
bathed his face with the herb-scented water and let it dry on his blue-hued skin. Droplets traced their
way
down his shaven chin and neck and past his high collar, and the cool dampness was annoying.
Trials, that's all every hour brought. More tests, more trials of his faith. Matroci wished he were not quite
so young. It seemed that the Elders were much more entrenched in the faith than he was.
He rose, stretched, poured himself a cool drink from one of those beautifully wrought pitchers, and
sipped the tangy beverage slowly. He tried not to think about how delicious it was, and how beautifully
made was the goblet that held it.
There was a soft knock on his door. Matroci sighed and called, "Enter."
It was Trima, his Sa-Culil. She stood straight and tall, her long blue hair falling past her buttocks. Since
the day she was pledged to the Grafters, Trima had never cut it. It was an old tradition, hardly followed
much anymore. Matroci himself had been forced to cut his long locks a few turns ago when he'd gotten
them hopelessly snarled, but as far as he knew, Trima had proudly let her hair grow longer and longer,
untouched by shears if not by comb.
It was thick and glossy and quite beautiful, and not for the first time Matroci wondered what its heavy
lengths would feel like between his fingers. But Trima was his responsibility, and he would no more act
on his feelings than he would leap off the thatched roof thinking he could fly.
He placed his fingers first on his temples, then on his throat, then on his belly in the ritual threefold gesture
that Trima always expected. She returned it
in kind, executing the movements with exquisite grace.
"Greetings, Sa-Culil," said Matroci. "What is it you require of me? It is not time for your training
sessions."
"No, good Culil." Her voice was as sweet as the bell that rang to call them all to prayer at sunrise. She
paused for a moment and inhaled deeply, breathing what remained of the sacred smoke. She never
coughs, Matroci thought sourly.
"I come from Soliss. He tells me that the Strangers are not healing well, despite the holy waters with
which they have been anointed and the prayers we have said for them, even though they are-"
Her voice caught, and her eyes widened a little. Matroci felt for her then. Trima liked to project such an
image of peace, of tranquility. She had been the one to find the Strangers, wandering bleeding on the holy
ground, and the whole incident had clearly upset her. Their torn, broken bodies were nothing of peace
and tranquility.
But the words of the Grafters were clear. These were Strangers of the most terrifying sort, utterly
unknown, and the Culilann were not to provide any aid other than spiritual for a certain number of days.
If they survived, then the Culilann would attend to their physical needs with all the hospitality the Grafters
bade them show. If they died, then the Grafters had spoken.
Personally, Matroci didn't like it any better than Trima seemed to, but there wasn't much he could do.
Soliss, the Minister of the small village, was the
worst of all. It was in him to heal, and to sit by and watch anyone suffer, even Strangers as alien as these
two, must be awful.
A thought came to him. "They must eat of the Sacred Fruit," he said.
Trima frowned primly, if such a thing were possible. "That is a rare sacrament, as you must surely know,
Culil. Even we who are called to serve the Grafters do not partake other than at Midtime."
"We are bound to offer spiritual aid," said Matroci, standing up straighter. "Surely letting them partake of
the Sacred Fruit is offering such aid."
"Yes, but-"
"Who is Culil, Trima?"
She colored at that, pale blue suffusing her soft, rounded cheeks. "You are, of course."
"You will do well to remember that," he said, with a harshness he did not feel. "Your tenure of trial is not
yet over. Another could still take your place."
The color that had rushed to her pretty face now ebbed and her eyes opened wide in horror. Matroci
regretted his words at once, but he had to admit, they had produced the desired effect. A Sa-Culil
preoccupied with keeping her position was a Sa-Culil not inclined to challenge him. Normally, he did not
mind her chastisements thinly disguised as innocent comments. He even enjoyed them. It kept him sharp,
having so keen a student.
But the Strangers, the Strangers! It would seem that they were changing everything.
"Go and carry out my wishes, Sa-Culil Trima. See to it that the Strangers have plenty of the fruit, that
they may fill themselves with righteousness." And fill starving, aching bellies with something that might help
them survive, he thought grimly.
Obediently Trima made the threefold gesture and backed out of his so-called radiant presence. She
closed the two doors behind her, eyes on the floor.
Matroci stared at the door for some time after she had gone. Trima was right. He was playing with fire,
twisting the words of the Grafters in such a way. Passing the fruit of the Sacred Plant off as spiritual aid
was dangerously close to blasphemy. He bent his aching knees onto the soft pillow for another round of
prayers.
There was silence from the pit. Soliss's gut wrenched as he approached. Perhaps they had fallen into an
uneasy sleep at last, worn out with lack of food, of water, of care for their infected wounds.
Blasphemous though he knew it to be, there were times when he despised the words of the Grafters, and
never more than now.
He felt eyes upon him and knew that the rest of the village was watching his every move. Even though it
was part of their faith that all had a calling and no one should be jealous of another, he knew that folk
mistrusted his gift for healing. It skirted the line between the Culilann and the Alilann. His herbs smacked
of artificially manufactured medicines, his knowledge of anatomy, of scientific curiosity and skill. Unlike
the potters and weavers and artists, Ministers, as the Culilann called their healers, were the only ones
with a counterpart in the Alilann caste.
And were, therefore, not to be trusted.
His visiting the Strangers so frequently was certain to be noted and commented upon, perhaps even to
the Culil himself. Still, Soliss strode forward boldly, his head held high and his spine straight. Let them say
what they would. He had to be true to himself.
He slowed as he approached the pit. Would that the long days of the Ordeal had passed and he could
haul away the grate that covered it. As it was, he knelt beside the hole in the earth, shielded his eyes from
the light of his planet's twin suns, and peered down.
The slighter one was asleep, his broken arm cradled protectively against his chest. Soliss did not know
what the alien's race looked like when well, so the red spots on the cheeks that seemed almost gray
could be normal. He doubted it. He did not need to be familiar with the Stranger's species to know fever
when he saw it.
The other one, heavier of build, glanced up as Soliss's shadow fell across the grate. He, too, was injured,
but appeared more hale than his compatriot. Still, the ragged tears in his abdomen wanted attention.
Soliss felt a brief surge of fury that he was forbidden to give it.
"Greetings," he said.
"Good morning," said the Stranger with a hint of irony in his deep, smooth voice. "Lovely weather you
have here on this planet. Glad it hasn't rained."
Soliss felt the moisture in the air and glanced up at the growing clouds. "It will," he said. "How is he?" he
asked, nodding toward the sleeping Stranger.
"He's not well, as I know you know. His wound
is infected and the broken arm needs to be set before it starts trying to heal itself improperly." He turned
his face back up to Soliss. In the bright morning light, Soliss could make out strange lines that were
apparently painted on the being's left temple. "I wish you'd tell me your name. You're the only one who
has come to see us. I'd like to address you properly."
Without realizing it, Soliss sat up straighter, unconsciously putting more distance between himself and the
wounded Strangers.
"I am no one. You are Strangers. That is all we need to say to each other."
The alien stepped closer to the side of the pit. At the movement, his fellow woke up and groaned a little.
"That's the worst coffee substitute you've come up with yet," he muttered, then lapsed into fevered
slumber once more.
The dark-haired alien looked at him, then up again at Soliss.
"You wouldn't be coming here so often if you weren't concerned. Please, he needs help!"
Soliss rose and stepped away. The pleading of the Stranger was torment. He turned and almost collided
with the small, lithe form of Trima. She was carrying a tray with some sort of fruit on it.
"Oh!" she gasped. Quickly Soliss reached out and steadied the tray. "Thank you."
Soliss looked at the fruit. He didn't recognize it. "Sa-Culil, what is this? Why have you brought this to
me?"
She met his gaze evenly and with a hint of scorn.
"I bring the fruit of the Sacred Plant not for you, Soliss the Minister, but for the Strangers."
Soliss gaped. So, the lumpy green things on the tray were the fabled fruit of the Sacred Plant. They didn't
look particularly appetizing.
"I have never seen these before," he said.
"Of course not. You are not a member of the religious order. Only we may partake of it."
The awe that Soliss felt evaporated in the face of Trima's snobbery. "Then why are you wasting it on
Strangers?"
Trima looked displeased. "Culil Matroci orders it He says that me holy writings order us to give spiritual
aid to these Strangers, and that feeding them the Sacred Fruit is doing exactly that."
"But you don't agree?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Frankly, Soliss could not care less if the Culil's decision sat well or
ill with Trima. All he knew was that for the first time in days, these injured and perhaps dying aliens were
permitted sustenance. He grabbed the fruits off the tray, ignoring Trima's indignant yelp, and knelt beside
the grate.
The alien gazed up on him. "So you're Soliss the Minister," he said. His dark eyes fell upon the fruit. "Is
that what I think it is?"
"It's the fruit of the Sacred Plant," Soliss said.
"It's food. I thought we weren't supposed to have food."
"It's spiritual ministering," Soliss said, a touch too forcefully. "You must eat it slowly, and think of holy
things. It will please the Grafters." He didn't want to
just toss the food in there. Seeing no alternative, Soliss lay down and pushed an arm through one of the
grate's gaps.
"I will think of holy things," said the Stranger as he reached up to take the fruit, "but I can't guarantee I'll
eat it slowly."
Their fingers brushed as the stranger took the fruit. Five fingers to a hand and an opposable thumb, just
like Soliss's. His build was the same, the eyes, nose, and mouth in the same place. They were very much
alike. It was unsettling.
Soliss handed down the rest of the fruit, then edged back and stood. The Stranger, despite his claim,
didn't eat immediately. His dark-eyed gaze locked with Soliss's blue one.
"You are Soliss," he said again. "I have a name, too, as does my friend. The naming of a thing is powerful
in my religious tradition."
"I do not wish to hear it," said Soliss, mindful of the disapproving presence of Trima only a few steps
away.
"But I will say it, and then you will know. My name is Chakotay, and my companion is Tom Paris."
CHAPTER
2
CAPTAIN KATHRYN JANEWAY DIDN'T PARTICULARLY want breakfast, but her appearance
in the mess hall at 0530 every morning over the last week had cheered the crew considerably. More than
once, she'd spoken quietly to an exhausted B'Elanna Torres over a cup of Neelix's latest coffee
substitute, or ruffled the auburn hair of little Naomi Wildman.
She'd chatted with Neelix himself, who kept apologizing for his attempted murder of their Romulan guest,
and told him again and again that he had not been mentally capable of knowing what he was doing.
Janeway thought the Talaxian was finally beginning to believe her.
She'd tried a fish-and-rice dish for breakfast that
Ensign Wu had sworn was divine, and found to her surprise that she liked it. And she had sat alone,
knowing that even if no one chose to speak with her, her presence was seen and appreciated after the
incredible and unsettling events of the last few weeks.
She, her crew, and the noble Voyager vessel that had gotten them this far had undergone a great deal
together over the past six years. They had had their share of adventure, seen things some sublime and
horrific, borne witness to some of the bravest, most compassionate acts living beings could commit as
well as the most craven and appalling.
But the last couple of weeks had nearly eclipsed everything that had gone before.
She sipped her coffee substitute slowly. It "was pretty good. A touch grain like, but the aroma was damn
near perfect.
It had begun with a series of mysterious wormholes that had apparently been following the ship. That led
to the reunion with the Romulan scientist Telek R'Mor, who had told them a tale that seemed straight out
of the realm of fiction. It was a story of dark matter and the aliens who manipulated it, of so-called
Shepherds both benevolent and hostile. They had seen firsthand what this peculiar, mutated dark matter
could inflict: murderous rage, paranoia, recurring nightmares, hallucinations, memory loss, cancers that
wouldn't respond to treatment.
You name it, Janeway thought wryly, her mouth curving into a hint of a smile, we had it.
It had almost destroyed them and their ship, until they had managed to track down one of the kinder
Shepherds, Tialin. She had appeared to them as an old woman and given them what B'Elanna Torres had
taken to calling That Damned Ball. Inside That Damned Ball Tialin had placed all the dark matter that had
been contaminating the ship. Right now, Torres, Telek, and Seven were hard at work trying to unlock the
mystery of Shepherd technology as exemplified by the sphere. Once they understood it, they could put it
to work and be about the surprising next phase of their journey. It was a good, old-fashioned quest hi the
cause of what was right. Tialin had asked them to take the orb and help the Shepherds track down and
gather up the mutated dark matter still prevalent in the quadrant
Janeway had agreed.
Her smile at the thought of herself as King Arthur leading the quest for the Holy Grail faded a little. Her
best knight was not with her. There had been a price exacted, and even now Janeway didn't know how
dear that price would eventually be. While on the planet, Commander Chakotay, her first officer and
friend, and Ensign Tom Paris had disappeared.
Then, of course, there were the Romulans, and Khala. How they were going to make sense of all of this,
Janeway had no clue.
Even as her thoughts turned to the young woman, Shamraa Khala Remilkansuur entered the mess hall
with Harry Kim. People stopped in mid-chew, then hurriedly returned their attention to their meals. No
one wanted to be rude, but Janeway knew her crew was desperately curious about Khala. She had been
the only living thing on a dead planet, claiming to have no knowledge of how she had gotten there. That
was a mystery, but nothing compared to the mystery Khala herself posed. The Doctor had run every test
he could think of on then: new guest, and it was beyond doubt. Khala was unlike any sentient creature
with whom the Federation had ever come into contact.
She appeared humanoid enough, and beautiful at that: tall, slim, long, pale blue hair, blue eyes, opalescent
blue skin. Save for her coloration, she could pass for human. But inside, things were "all wrong," as the
Doctor put it. Her DNA sequencing was backward, and the very elements that comprised her seemed to
be almost flip-flopped from standard humanoid development.
She stood hesitantly at the door, obviously very much aware of the interest she was generating simply by
being present. Gently, Harry touched her shoulder and subtly urged her to step fully inside. Janeway was
glad that Harry had taken such an interest in their guest. He was kind and humorous, and put Khala at
ease.
Khala came to an abrupt stop in front of Neelix's kitchen area. She practically gaped.
"You... cook?" she said, with the faintest hint of disdain. Gingerly, as if it might explode in her hand, she
reached to pick up a ripe red tomato. "You cook with plants?"
Neelix was in full regalia, from his apron to his
signature droopy chef's hat. "Indeed I do," he said, standing up to his full less-than-imposing height
Khala turned to Harry. "But you told me about the replicators, how they functioned. I just had a cup of
green tea in my quarters. I've had all my meals like that That's how food is prepared, not like... like.. "
She broke off, her shock and distaste warring with her desire to be polite to the people who had shown
her such care.
Janeway rose and moved swiftly, hoping to nip this cultural clash in the bud. "Good morning, Khala," she
said. "I can't believe it's taken Harry this long to bring you to the mess hall. He's been remiss. There's
nothing like a home-cooked meal."
"Captain, I am so sorry. Clearly I'm being rude." She straightened as if preparing to undergo torture. "Of
course I'd love some... some cooked plants."
Neelix's annoyance was changing to compassion. "You poor child," he said. "Do you come from a place
where mere are no fresh foodstuffs?'
Immediately Janeway thought of war, of rationing. The Doctor had kept a close eye on Khala while
completing his tests. It was only yesterday he had agreed to let her have free access to the ship. They
hadn't had much chance to talk with her, learn about her very alien culture.
Khala blushed, her pale cheeks turning a deeper shade of blue. "Again, I apologize. On my planet, only
the Culilann actually plant fruits and vegetables. They even raise living animals for slaughter. Can you
imagine?"
Janeway thought of the occasional unreplicated leg of lamb she had enjoyed from time to time back on
Earth. "Yes," she said, "I can imagine." She softened the words with an understanding smile and patted
Khala gently on the arm. "And your people? What do they eat?"
"We are the Alilann. Many, many generations ago, we decided to embrace technology and science. The
Culilann chose to forswear it. We can genetically engineer foods and supplements that are far superior in
taste and nutritional value to anything that comes out of the ground."
Harry smiled a little. He reached over and with a raised eyebrow silently asked permission to borrow a
knife. "Oh, please," said Neelix. Harry carefully cut the tomato into quarters and sprinkled it with a little
salt.
"We grow the food in the aeroponics bay," he said. "No dirty soil there. And believe me, I think this
tomato can beat a supplement for taste any day. This is how my father used to eat them-right out of the
garden with just a sprinkle of salt. Try it."
He placed the quartered tomato to Khala's lips. For a second she pressed them shut tightly, then opened
them and delicately took a small bite. Her eyes went wide with pleasure and her blue lips curved in a
smile. Then, like a curtain descending, an expression of nausea passed over her features. She spat the
half-masticated tomato into her palm.
"I am so sorry, I just... the thought of eating what the Culilann eat... I just can't do it."
"Don't worry, Khala," said Janeway at once. "It's no problem if you want to eat replicated food."
Her eyes lowered, Khala brushed off the offending piece of tomato onto a plate. "Captain, if this is how
the crew eats, I don't want any special treatment."
"We eat fresh foods prepared by Neelix because we like them," said Harry. "We prefer real food to
rations or even replicated food. But like the captain said, it's okay. Come on. We'll get you something to
eat over here."
Again, the gentle hand on the arm, steering Khala away from her faux pas to the replicator. Janeway
could no longer hear their conversation, but she didn't have to.
Neelix was silent, diligently cutting up fruit for juicing. "She meant no offense, Neelix," said Janeway.
"I know that," said Neelix. "I'm not angry. I just feel really sorry for her. Imagine not wanting this
delicious tomato!"
Janeway stared at the red fruit. On impulse, she took a quarter, salted it, and popped it into her mouth.
Neelix jokingly applauded her. Harry had been right. No replicated tomato could touch this for flavor
and general sensuous satisfaction.
The ball floated serenely about five feet in the air, emanating a cool purple light, seemingly oblivious to
their increasing frustration with it.
Seven of Nine was irritated. She was irritated with their lack of progress, with Lt. Torres's comments,
with Telek R'Mor's slightly supercilious attitude. The team was a logical one, but a tense combination as
well. They could not even seem to agree on which step needed to be taken first.
"Let us start again from the beginning," said Telek R'Mor, as calmly as if they had not already tried to
start from the beginning at least four times. "Perhaps there is something we missed."
Seven stifled her irritation and inclined her head. Torres muttered something in Klingon, rolled her eyes,
and folded her arms, but nodded anyway.
"We followed signs of Shepherd activity to the planet," said Telek. "When we reached the inside of the
cave, we found a large floating sphere, like this," he nodded toward That Damned Ball. "It emanated a
purple light. Commander Chakotay's tricorder indicated that there was some kind of energy located
within the sphere itself that animated it." His dark eyes flickered from Seven to Torres. "I was not
permitted to closely examine the cloaking apparatus given to us by Lhiau, but it was similar to this orb:
small and beautiful, made of some sort of crystalline material. It pulsed with light."
"The light coming from That Damned Ball is steady," said Torres, almost nastily.
Telek stiffened, then said calmly, "I see the dark matter that has begun to permeate your system again is
affecting your temper." -
"Lieutenant Torres does not require mutated dark matter to display irascibility," said Seven. She felt a
peculiar sense of pleasure at the scowl that furrowed Torres's face.
"It is immaterial," said Telek. "But since we have seen similar elements in three different pieces of
Shepherd technology, it would be logical to assume that this is an integral part of all of their technology.
When Captain Janeway touched the sphere in the cave, light poured forth from the orb. From within the
sphere, or so it seemed, Tialin seemed to be... hatched."
"The orb in the cavern was most likely a form of teleportation device," said Seven, repeating the same
conclusion they had reached a few hours ago. "The captain's manipulation of the orb sent a signal that
Tialin's presence was desired, and she appeared."
"But it broke the orb," said Torres. "And we've handled That Damned Ball repeatedly and nothing's
happened. It seems completely unbreakable."
"If we are to contain the dark matter within it," said Seven logically, "then we should be grateful that it is
unbreakable."
Torres turned on Seven and was about to retort when Telek held up a hand. "Silence! A moment,
please... let me think." Torres bit her lip and stayed silent, though the effort was clearly costing her.
Seven watched Telek, studying him. She had learned much from the Romulan about his way of thinking,
of approaching problems. Cognitive analytical reasoning seemed to be a strength of his, and Seven,
though not directly of the Borg Collective any longer, still had a deep instinct to take what she could from
others and make herself the better for it.
Finally Telek stopped. "We've been going about this all wrong," he said.
"Oh, great," said Torres. "What do you mean?"
"We have been thinking that Tialin gave us the orb to contain the dark matter once we were able to
extract it."
"Well, she put the dark matter in it," Torres replied.
"Yes, but perhaps only to show us something." Telek stepped forward and plucked the orb out of the air.
It lay quietly in his palm. "I think she meant this as an example. What was it she said... I can't remember
exactly."
"Your tricorder," said Seven suddenly. "If it was functioning properly, it should have recorded your entire
摘要：

StarTrek-Voy-020-GhostDancebyChristieGoldenINTERLUDETHEENTITYHADNOFORM,BUTITCOULDSEE,SMELL,taste,touch,hear,andsense.Ithadnomind,butitthoughtthoughtsthatwentbacktotheverybeginningoftime,anddaredreachforwardtocontemplatetime'send.Itwasinallplacesandnone,andinthisplacethatwasnoplace,itwascontent.Itdri...

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