Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [83]
In Bahuzola- “zola town”- everyone was a zola. Only those infected with the duluzola would dare enter this place of exile… though Seven expected that her Borg nanoprobes would protect her own system from the contagion.
As she and Zolaluz started forward, a man shambled over to meet them, slumping between crutches. “Luz!” he cried out, pure joy flashing from his toothy grin and one good eye. “To what do we owe the honor? Did they burn your house again?”
Zolaluz laughed. “Perhaps I will build the next one underwater. It would not be so easy to set fire to, and I would no longer have to carry cooking water from the well.”
“It appears you’ve brought us another zola,” said the man, staring at the Borg implant above Seven’s left eye, “though I’ve never seen a growth like that before.”
“She has not contracted the duluzola,” said Zolaluz.
The man pushed his snout toward Seven and inhaled deeply. “You are right,” he said. “She does not smell of the duluzola.”
“And that is not a growth,” said Zolaluz, pointing at Seven’s implant.
“It is meant to be decorative,” said Seven. “My name is Seven of Nine.”
The man nodded. “I’m Zolacroy,” he said warily. “I hope you realize, coming here, you might not remain free of the duluzola for long.”
“I am aware of the risk,” said Seven.
“Then you are welcome. All zolas are welcome here.” Zolacroy grinned at Seven, then Zolaluz. “Even the World Traveler, the only zola to leave Bahuzola, who comes back only when her house is burned down.”
“But since my house burns down so often,” laughed Zolaluz, “I am practically a full-time resident.”
“Let’s sit by the fire. You’ll feel right at home there,” said Zolacroy, and then he led them to the center of the village, where they were met with enthusiastic greetings by the zolas gathered there.
Before long, it seemed that the entire population of Bahuzola had joined Seven and Zolaluz by the fire. As they dined on bowls of sweet stew, the travelers were bombarded with questions, laughter, flattery, stories… and the touch of dozens of hands, sometimes all at once.
Each time someone new joined the group, they went straight to Seven and sniffed for whatever scent the duluzola emitted. Apparently, the scent was detectable only by the enhanced senses of victims of the disease, for Seven could not catch a trace of it from any of the zolas who surrounded her.
Later, when the excitement had faded and only a few people remained around the fire, Zolaluz asked for volunteers.
“I have a plan,” she said, “to rescue the friend of my friend.”
“I was not aware of a plan,” Seven said sharply.
Zolaluz did not acknowledge Seven’s comment. “Like Seven, she rode a sky-ship that fell in the jungle. Unfortunately, she was taken prisoner.”
“I had heard that there were two sky-ships,” said Zolacroy. “Who has her?”
“She is being held by the Riga Militia,” continued Zolaluz, “at Ramana.”
Grim looks were exchanged around the fire. “Oh, Luz,” said Zolasova, a middle-aged woman whose arms were both paralyzed. “Of all places.”
Zolaluz shrugged. “If only it could be Eshy or Vod Scola or some other camp where there are ten times as many soldiers.”
“You say it as a joke,” Zolasova said sympathetically, “but for your sake, I know we all wish it were any place other than Ramana.”
“What does it matter how many soldiers there are?” said Zolacroy, wrinkling his snout in disapproval. “What can we zolas do against even one soldier with two legs, two arms, two eyes, and a gun?”
“I call for an oshozola,” said Zolaluz. “I call for an oshozola at Ramana tomorrow.”
Around the fire, everyone nodded and murmured approval… except Seven. “Explain,” she demanded.
“Oshozola is the only time the unclean are welcome among the unspoiled,” said Zolacroy. “When it is time to go and get a new zola and bring them to their new home in Bahuzola.”
“Oshozola terrifies the unspoiled,” Zolasova said with relish. “Especially if they do not know who among them is marked for exile.”
“Who will join me in the oshozola to Ramana?” Zolaluz looked