Shadow World

Chapter One - Guerillas in the Mist

Tom Paris couldn't see past the tip of his phaser; mist draped in a heavy white curtain all around him. This wasn't the way he liked to spend an afternoon, dodging a barrage of enemy fire.

With his phaser drawn, he leaned against the rough bark of a thorny tree, spines pricking through his tunic and into his skin. A blast hit above, giving him a jolt, but he'd braced himself, and somehow kept his footing in the slimy soil. When he tried to ease around, to at least see his enemy, a sharp pain brought him up short. He looked down and saw a bloody rent in his sleeve and the torn flesh of his upper arm. Oh, that's just what I need, he thought bitterly.

"Paris," Chakotay's voice seemed to meander to him on the fog, "Where are you?"

"Not sure," Tom answered. The commander could be anywhere, but at least he was alive. "I can't see a thing in this soup." He looked for a sign that might indicate the commander's position, but a soft wall of white hid everything. He took a small step in order to see better, but as he did so, an explosion shook the tree and showered him with splinters.

"Don't move, Tom," Chakotay warned, "Looks like they can see us."

Tom would have complied, but he was sure he could get a better look. Crouching lower, He tried once more to peer around the trunk. Another blast came, a pinpoint streaking through the mist. There came a thundering explosion, and the tree shuttered with a terrible splintering sound. He covered his head just as a heavy bough crashed down behind him. Too close.

"I said stay put!" ordered Chakotay.

"I think I know where that last shot came from," said Tom, ignoring the order, "I saw it, just above the ridge, maybe twenty meters from camp."

"You think you can hit it?"

"One shot," Tom assured him, mustering up a certainty in his voice that he didn't exactly feel. To get a better grip on his phaser, he switched it to the uninjured side.

After a brief pause, Chakotay responded, "I'll distract them. Make it a good one."

Tom shifted his weight and leveled his phaser. After two seconds, he saw flashes of light streak from a position a few meters to his left. Enemy fire bombarded Chakotay's position. Without hesitation, he stepped out and fired - a direct hit. Orange heat ripped the air, radiating in an intense wave that knocked Tom off his feet.

He pulled himself up, spit mud and wiped it from his eyes. Looking up, he saw a chaotic frenzy of movement ahead. The enemy was running off, but still taking potshots at the two Starfleet officers as they fled.

"Let's move," Chakotay said as he rushed past, firing on the deadly adversaries.

Slipping in his first attempt to get up, Tom soon found his footing, and followed in pursuit. But by the time he caught up, the fog had settled back in. The aliens looked like ghosts darting one way, and another, until one by one, the mist swallowed them whole.

He stood still, listening, but the swamp became eerily quiet, with only the sound of his breathing and water dripping from the dense foliage. It was as if their attackers had never existed.

Blood oozed out in a steady flow down his wounded arm. It was throbbing with pain. The laceration was deep, but after a closer look he decided he could manage all right with the med kit.

A chill came over him. The dampness in the air and the constant dripping from above had him almost soaked through. The only heat came from the alien's weapon, which was spewing black smoke. The devastated gun had rested on long spindly legs. It was now lying on its side, curled up like a charred metal spider. If there's one, there's bound to be more, Tom thought.

He moved back toward camp and found Chakotay crouching by the body of one of the attackers. Apparently, the commander had hit it in the firefight and it fell, its gangly gray appendages spilling out some of the precious supplies it had tried to steal during the attack.

"Is it dead?" Tom asked, pausing a few steps behind him.

"I'd say so." Chakotay replied. He lifted a flap of clothing to examine the creature.

Tom craned his neck to look. He wished he hadn't. The alien's grayish flesh writhed and shrank away, revealing a wraithlike grin as the creature's pointy yellow teeth were bared to the bone. He stared in fascination, instinctively covering his wounded arm. There was a prickling at the back of his neck, when the alien flesh pooled underneath the sinewy bones.

Chakotay made a choking sound and released the clothing. The corpse expelled such a putrid vapor that Tom stumbled away and coughed to dislodge the stench in his throat. "Great," he said, eyes tearing, "We're fighting the undead."

Chakotay nodded, but didn't seem to notice Tom's aversion, or the remark. He examined the body more closely, and uttered a sound of surprise. He reached into the twisted strands of clothing and cautiously picked from them a small object.

"What is it?" Tom said, stepping closer and kneeling beside him, trying his best to ignore the rotten carcass at their feet.

Chakotay handed the object to Tom; it was a combadge. The aliens had gotten to the captain first.

"I should have known," Chakotay stood and started toward what was left of their camp, "This mission didn't feel right from the beginning."

As Tom watched his friend walk away, he ran his thumb over the smooth emblem. The team couldn't be dead. He had to believe that; he'd only spoken to B'Elanna hours ago. He clenched his hand around the precious artifact, a symbol of a peace mission, gone horribly wrong.