Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [68]
His mind drifted back to Seven; it had been she who had discovered the first clues about the Nyma colony, rooting through the databases of a derelict Vok scoop-ship. The name “Ocampa” had instantly raised flags in Voyager’s computers and started a search that lasted for several weeks, backtracking the piecemeal navigation charts from the Vok craft and filling in the blanks with spacer hearsay. All of them had known from the start that they were pinning their hopes on a very slim chance, but it was a possibility that Janeway could not afford to ignore. The Ocampa’s ersatz Caretaker had been the one to drag Voyager unceremoniously across the entire galactic disc from the Alpha Quadrant, and the prospect that the Nyma colony might hold some clue-any clue-toward reversing that jaunt had to be investigated. Neelix’s adult life had never been tied down, always rootless and free, but on some level he had always felt at home out in the void. Not for the first time, he found himself thinking of his alien friends and pondering what it must feel like to be so far from their places of birth. The cities in the caves here hinted at great secrets concealed in their depths, and he could imagine the anticipation of the crew, each of them hoping that this time they would find the way home, but also afraid that Nyma IV would be just another in a long line of disappointments. One more distance marker on the endless road back toward Federation space.
Any question of investigating the ruins would have to wait, however. Seven’s life was the priority now. They had almost completed their circuit of the dry moat and all the watercourses and access channels visible were either filled with rubble or far too high up the walls for them to reach. Even able-bodied with ropes and tackle, it would have been nearly impossible, and there was no way Neelix would be able to haul the crippled Seven up the sheer, glittering fascia.
He smelt air.
Neelix’s whiskers went tight with surprise. Yes! There, in the shadows ahead, there was an oval mouth cut in the rocks, decorated with veracite discs. It was wide enough to get a brace of Rinaxi sand-oxen down it, and the distinct scent of surface air was seeping through. Kes caught his enthusiasm and ran with him. The Talaxian fumbled to activate his wrist beacon and turned the bright dual beams on the channel entrance. The pumice powder was slick across the floor of the tunnel.
“No,” he said aloud, pushing himself up into the yawning cave. Neelix virtually threw himself into the dark, the torch beam darting about him like a mad lighthouse. “No!” His denial rebounded off the slick basalt walls. Perhaps twenty or so meters further up the tunnel there was a broad cairn of fallen rocks, deposited there when the ceiling had given way in decades past. Stones the size of shuttlecraft had landed in wild disorder and there were gaps between them where thin traces of air could still move freely. The faintest of breezes found their way through, teasing the Talaxian’s delicate senses with the false prospect of escape. “No, no, no!”
Neelix was rigid with frustration and anger, casting out a fierce kick at some loose pebbles. His hand curled into a fist and for long seconds he hovered on the edge of smashing the wrist