billowing in the wind, and she knew she was about to faint;
but this strange desperation to verify her observation
superseded everything. Was this an iceberg?
Gradually the world stopped fluctuating and she forced her
eyes to focus on the area around the-the object she was
trying to verify.
And, indeed, there was water surrounding it.
It protruded from a dark, glassy pool, which seemed to lap
and roil around it in unusual agitation. Another strange
thing: the pool was small. There was no sea here, no ocean,
just the ring of agitated black water that bubbled around
the tall shard of ice.
Then, could the object in fact be an iceberg?
Was it possible to designate it as such in the absence of
an ocean? And if not, how should it be designated?
She felt her mind move into a frenzied Socratic dialogue,
feeding on itself and becoming ever more urgent. She must
determine if there was, in fact, no ocean. Empirical
evidence. Prove it for certain, one way or another.
She took a step and very nearly collapsed.
Something was broken-leg, ankle . . . something-but it
couldn't be allowed to stop her. She would use the pain,
turn it to her own ends, create from it a focusing lens
that forced her to concentrate on her quest. With each
agonizing step, her mind would fixate more intently on the
task at hand, narrowing the beam of determination until it
was an unstoppable laser point. And so, in that cruel way,
she made her way forward. Several truths began to reveal
themselves.
The first validated her single-minded undertaking: there
was a body of water present-probably a vast body of water-that was frozen over. The iceberg (yes, now definitely
deserving that definition) jutted from its depths, but she
could see surrounding it other holes in the ice sheet,
holes and cracks, long, ragged gashes through which the
dark liquid below was seeping, as though a giant had
plunged a massive pick through the ice, over and over,
cracking it open in an orgy of destruction, and the more
she looked the more holes she saw, larger holes, huge
holes, holes that were smoking as though the water were
boiling from below, over some unseen flame.
The second truth was that her mind wasn't working
properly. More than her body had been injured; she must
have sustained a concussion. What was this mad
determination to prove an iceberg was an iceberg?
She was losing rationality. She had to begin functioning,
to treat her wounds and get shelter; she'd be dead from
hypothermia before long if she simply stood and stared at
her iceberg.
She tried to reason through this strange conundrum in
which she found herself. Something had broken through the
ice sheet. That's why the water was turbulent, why the ice
was so mutilated. Parts of the ship she'd been on must have
rained down on a vulnerable section of the frozen sea and
ripped it apart, superheated from flaming entry into the
atmosphere, steaming the water into a huge, heaving
cauldron.
Parts of the ship she'd been on. What ship was it?
She looked around her at the scattered debris; only one
section, the empennage she'd been sitting on, was intact.
She noted a console that still flickered, partially
functional, but the rest of the rubble that was strewn
about was in pieces smaller than a meter square.
Where was the main cabin?
Who was the pilot?
What was the last thing she remembered before standing
alone in this vast, ice-shrouded wilderness in front of a
steaming vat of black water? Suddenly she wondered if the
lionfish was in that water, parboiled now, flesh flaking
off the bone, sightless eyes running like jelly. And then
the third truth, like a hideous specter that looms in a
nightmare, stood dancing before her, monstrous and obscene.
Her father. Her husband-to-be. They were in the cabin of
the ship. They were now entombed beneath that ravaged sheet
of ice. Her mind instantly became lucid and crystalline.
She knew with awful clarity what she must do next. She
lifted her broken leg and began to stamp it on the ground
beneath her, gently at first, then harder and harder, because only the excruciating pain that she was inflicting on
herself stood any chance of offsetting the third truth.
Brutal physical torture could demand her full mind and keep
it from acknowledging the third truth; and in that way, she
kept the specter dancing in front of her, at a distance,
unable to overwhelm her, until the pain obliterated her
consciousness. As she sank to the ice, just before blacking
out, she realized that her iceberg was gone. It had melted
from the heat of the smoking water, disappearing forever to
join Justin and her father in their dark and lonely grave.
TRAKIS THE PHYSICIAN STARED
CALMLY INTO THE EYES OF MADE Dut.
He felt strangely composed, considering what would seem to
be the seriousness of his situation. Maje Dut was not known
to be magnanimous toward those who had failed him. But
Trakis knew that the Maje was also somewhat deficient in
intellect (like most Kazon, in his opinion), and he felt
confident he could weather this latest mishap. The Maje, it
was true, was furious, his forehead ridges dark and his
eyes red-rimmed. He gestured toward the prisoner, lying
motionless on the examination table.
"You've accomplished nothing. We know no more than we did
before you began your inept examination. And now you've
butchered him." "It's you who's butchered him.
You insisted that he be continually narcotized. I warned
your minion that the drug might kill him, and now you see I
was right."
At least, thought Trakis, the prisoner hadn't suffered. He
simply proceeded from oblivion to death-and what, after
all, was the difference?-without even being aware of it.
Of course, he had no idea if the being had anything
approaching awareness, anyway. The Kazon's foolish
insistence on narcotizing him had precluded any of the
sophisticated testing that might have allowed Trakis to
ascertain if the species was sentient.
All he had was a catalogue of anatomical and physiological
data-not particularly helpful for the Maje's purposes, he
suspected. "Careful, Trabe. That tongue could be pulled
from your head if it's not kept in check." The Maje
glowered at him for a moment, but Trakis merely held the
look with an even stare.
Maje Dut circled the examination table, gazing at the body
of the prisoner. "It was a miracle that we found any of
these beings. We have no access to another. This was our
one opportunity to study the species." He glanced back at
Trakis. "It would seem your usefulness is at an end,
physician." The implication was clear, but Trakis wasn't
cowed. "You're wrong about that, Maje. I can perform a
necropsy. I'm likely to discover a great deal more from
this specimen dead than I was able to alive."
Maje Dut's eyes flickered with renewed interest. "Such
as?" "Brain structure. Neural architecture. Synaptic
integration. I can probably determine just how the Krett
were able to control them."
The Maje's arm snaked out and grabbed Trakis by the
throat, holding him firmly. "You'd better do just that,
Trabe. And quickly. Once the Federations are dispatched we
must act quickly."
"If you want me to do this with any efficiency, then keep
the Control out of here."
"Nimmet? He hasn't been empowered to harm you."
"His presence is harmful. He's a nattering fool who 236
constantly interrupts my thought processes with inane
comments or superfluous commands. I could complete this
project much faster without him."
Maje Dut stared at him for a moment, and Trakis knew he
was weighing the request.
Trakis smiled ingenuously and spread his palms.
"After all, Maje-where could I go?"
Dut finally nodded curtly. "Very well. But I want hourly
reports from you. And I expect those reports to be
substantive."
Trakis inclined his head in acquiescence. "I think you
will be most surprised, Maje."
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 routine 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.