Pathways - Jeri Taylor [6]
Then he saw what had caused this mood swing: a door had opened in the smooth, metallic wall of the stockade and several figures had emerged from it, moving toward the Voyager crew. Along their path, the prisoners averted their eyes, seemingly too preoccupied to look up, but Chakotay sensed a palpable terror.
He watched the approach of the figures. There were three of them, one in front and two slightly behind, the latter two holding what looked to be weapons of some kind. They were larger than Starfleet’s phaser rifles, with huge muzzles. He couldn’t be sure whether they were projectile or energy weapons, but whatever delivery system they used, they were intimidating.
The three beings were equally so. He would have to characterize them as humanoid, in that they walked on legs, albeit three of them, and had heads, although they were gray, swollen, and gelatinous, with no ears, no discernible nose, and tiny faceted eyes. They reminded Chakotay of whales’ heads. The beings had two appendages, like humanoids, but those were long and tentacle-like.
The trio came to a stop in front of Chakotay, who could see now that they constantly oozed a sticky slime, which coagulated quickly, coating their bodies—a function Chakotay surmised had to do with regulating body temperature. They were probably much more comfortable in the baking heat of this place than any of Voyager’s crew except for the Vulcans, who were accustomed to a desert climate.
An orifice opened on the head of the lead figure, and a voice spoke with the same harsh raspiness they had heard in the spaceship. “You will receive rations once a day. Water from the stream. Do not cause problems or punishment will be severe.” And with that he turned to move away.
“Wait,” Chakotay called out. “We don’t belong here. We’re travelers trying to get home, tens of thousands of light-years away, and we aren’t involved in any dispute with you or your people.”
The creature didn’t respond, just kept moving away on its three legs, which gave it a rolling gait, a kind of trot. “Who can I talk to about this?” yelled Chakotay.
The creature stopped and turned around, and suddenly one of its tentacled arms snaked out and struck Chakotay on the neck. An instant, agonizing pain erupted on his face and he fell to the ground, pawing at his neck.
Tuvok and Tom Paris were immediately at his side, Tuvok using the cloth of his uniform to wipe away the coat of slime the tentacle had left on Chakotay’s neck. As he did so, the pain began to subside, and Chakotay sat up again. “I guess I asked too many questions,” he said dryly. They watched the retreating figures making their way back to the formidable metal wall, watched the studied indifference of the other prisoners, still furiously occupied with make-work activities.
The trio paused at one of the lean-to shanties, where four pitifully scrawny humanoids were busily cleaning the area, a process that seemed to involve picking up something and putting it down somewhere else, over and over. As the three Subu watched, none of the humanoids looked at them or acknowledged them in any way.
Suddenly the leader’s tentacle snaked out once more, wrapping itself around the torso of one of the prisoners, who immediately began to scream and beg for mercy. “I didn’t do anything! Don’t take me!” But the leader plucked him off his feet and trotted off once more, with the man writhing and pleading, the two armed guards close behind.
It was a chilling event, and the Voyager crew was sobered, witnessing it. Chakotay turned back to the crew and set about doing what he had to do: seeing to their survival in these harsh conditions and making plans for escape.
“The first thing we need is water,” he announced. Chakotay was dangerously dehydrated and he knew the same was true of the others. “Whalehead said there’s a stream—everyone fan