The Murdered Sun - Christie Golden [55]
There was only time to analyze the ship, to find a way in, to perhaps learn something from the Verunan past in order to ensure a Verunan future. Chakotay had been raised to revere the dead. It went against the grain for him to simply ignore them, but as Janeway had warned, time was growing short.
"I mean no disrespect...," he began, but Nata held up a placating hand.
"There is no time to be respectful," she said, essentially reading his mind. "Our people are ever practical. Whatever spirits might linger here will understand the greatness of the need and forgive any violation. So," she said, straightening to regard the metallic orb that loomed in front of them, "what does your... tricorder, yes?...
make of this?"
Chakotay opened his tricorder and analyzed the readings. "It appears to be fashioned from the same material that the six Guardians are," he said. "I had thought that the lack of wear and tear on the Guardians was due to the fact that they were at least somewhat sheltered from the elements, but this ship also appears in staggeringly good condition."
A thought struck him.
"Nata, the Akerians never targeted the ships because the materials in the soil hid them from their sensors. But I'm clearly picking up readings from this ship. Why didn't they attack this site?"
Puzzlement descended on her reptilian features. She cocked her head to one side, pondering. "Can you tell what is inside?" she asked.
Chakotay glanced back down at his tricorder. It efficiently showed him everything he could possibly want to know about the ship's exterior but revealed nothing of the ship's secrets.
"No," he answered.
"Then perhaps they did not think it a pertinent target," said Nata.
"Few come here, except to meditate, as I do, or to bury the dead. And recently"--her voice caught and her eyes shone with unshed tears--"may the Ancestors forgive me, but there has been no time to properly bury all those who have died..."
"And the overgrowth would continue to support the theory that this wasn't in use by your people, not now, at least," said Chakotay.
Gently, he touched her arm, shook her out of her mourning, and together, treading softly as Nata had advised, they walked over the graves of countless Verunan dead and approached the ship.
The surface was smooth and white where it was not covered by centuries of growth. Nata reached out and laid her hand on the metal.
"Yes," she confirmed, "it feels just like the ships."
"Let's see if we can find an entrance of sorts," suggested Chakotay.
"Keep searching with your hands beneath the growth.
Look for cracks, unevenness, indentations--anything that might indicate a door."
Together, they set to work clearing a space. The heat wrapped Chakotay in its stifling embrace until he felt swathed in something tangible.
He paused, took a few swallows from his water gourd, and wiped the sweat from his tattooed brow.
The vines were stubborn, and the work was hard. All they encountered for their efforts was the smooth, eggshell-like, gently curving surface of the ship's hull. The swollen sun climbed higher in the sky.
Chakotay began to wonder if perhaps this was a dead end when the surface beneath his questing fingers suddenly changed.
"Nata, I've got something." Quickly the elder came to him and, with her superior strength, began ripping the vines off with renewed enthusiasm.
"It's a touch pad," he said softly. "For your people. Look."
Indeed it was. There, the only blemish on the otherwise perfect surface of the hull, was the imprint of a Verunan hand--five fingers, each with long, wicked-looking claws. Nata stared at it, her already large eyes enormous with wonder.
"How long," she breathed, "how long has it been since one of us touched this?"
"I don't know, but I bet it will activate a door of some sort."
Chakotay had to suppress his own excitement. "Be careful, Nata.
We don't know what form this door will take. It might even open directly beneath us."