Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [70]
At first he thought it was an arena or perhaps some kind of theater-in-the-round. Set at the bottom of a progressive set of tiers, the hexagonal atrium seemed to be little more than a bare expanse of marbled stone. There were large pillars, also hexagonal in cross-section, one at each point of the geometric shape and a lone pillar in the middle of the arena. Kes nimbly skipped down careworn steps in the tiers and Neelix picked his way after her; the place had been built for dainty Ocampans, not the larger feet of a Talaxian. The marbling in the rock was peculiarly regular, he noticed, and it was only when he was standing on it that Neelix realized the stones and pillars were actually covered with writing. He could read a little Ocampa and recognized some words in the scrolling cuneiform texts, radiating out from each of the columns like rays from a star.
“These are names?” he asked, receiving a nod from Kes. “Are these the people who lived in the city?”
“I think so. This is a mnemosia.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
She gestured at the pillars. “We never had any of these on Ocampa… but I saw pictures of them in our histories and… and other places.” Kes knelt and ran her finger along a line of words. “The ancient Ocampans, the ones who had stronger mental abilities, they used to build these in their cities. People would visit to hear stories from their elders.”
“So it is like a theater, then? Or a library?”
Kes walked over to the central pillar. “A little of both, really.”
Neelix indicated the carvings. “Where are their stories?”
“Here, in a way. These are the names of the people who remember the stories.”
“I still don’t understand.”
She laid her hands palm down on the pillar and let them flow over the inscriptions. “My people could influence the structure of the stones. They… imprinted them. They placed telepathic patterns in the rock, like a recording.” Kes’s eyes sparkled as she marveled at the idea. “The Ocampa who came here must have rediscovered the talent. They used the veracite to create a… a psychic cathedral, I suppose you could call it.”
“Can you…” Neelix gulped. “Can you, uh, hear anything?”
She smiled back at him. “Not yet. But I can feel them.”
The Talaxian looked around; at any other time he might have been awed by the majestic scope of the atrium, but the thought of vast tracts of history left behind by a dead population brought him back to his own-their own-predicament. He tried to keep the morose tone from his voice. “Kes, perhaps we should go back to Seven. We’ve been gone quite a while and she’ll be concerned. I don’t like leaving her alone too long.”
“She would say you are being irrational,” Kes said lightly, “and Seven would never admit to being worried about anything.”
“Still,” said Neelix, walking away, “we should go.”
“I want to stay a little longer.” Neelix turned back to argue with her, but he saw the look of determination in her eyes. “This is important to me. Please.”
He frowned again; he knew her well enough to know that no amount of talk would change her mind once she had it set on something. “All right, but promise me you’ll be careful. And if you feel another tremor coming on, make sure you get to cover.”
“I promise.” She blew him a playful kiss and settled to her haunches, losing herself in the carvings.
His misgivings building, Neelix made his way back toward the other tunnel.
Seven’s eyes snapped open as he pressed the cold nozzle of the hypospray at her neck, her hand instinctively coming up to block him. “It’s all right, it’s just me!” Neelix said. “You were passed out when I came back.”
“What… What is that?”
“Corophizine, just a booster shot.” Her hand dropped and Neelix discharged the hypo. “There. How do you feel?”
“Your question is redundant.” The Borg retorted, and Neelix gave a quick smirk. That was the Seven of Nine he knew and loved. She blinked and ran a finger over the star-shaped implant at her ear. “My chronometer has ceased to function. How much time has elapsed?”
“Not much, less