by Jeri Taylor
But something in him still burned, an ember of resentment that he couldn’t quell, no matter how hard he tried.
In the long run, of course, Starfleet’s enlightened policies couldn’t endure. Cardassian ships kept nibbling away at the outer edges of Federation space in an intentional and well-orchestrated effort to provoke retaliation and, since they were frequently dealing with civilian colonists rather than well-disciplined Starfleet personnel, began achieving their goals. Disagreements became altercations became skirmishes became battles. The Cardassian border territory disinte-grated into a series of hot spots, growing in intensity until the Federation had no recourse but to respond militarily.
It was at this time that Chakotay was transferred to the Gage, and posted to defend Federation space in Sector 21749. It was at this time that he learned everything he needed to know about warfare.
He fought Cardassians in space; he fought them on land; he fought them, on more than one occasion, hand-to-hand. He knew moments of terror and of triumph, of bitter cruelty and noble sacrifice. He saw friends die and he saw friends kill. He learned that one can take a life as dispassionately as one can blow one’s nose, even if one is, on some more fundamental level, forever changed because of it. He had become inextricably linked to his ancient past: he had become a warrior.
That realization brought him neither joy nor sorrow. Somewhere in the course of the nearly four years he spent in warfare, he lost the capacity to feel much of anything at all. He was unaware of this at first, as it was a gradual process of self-protection, an incremental slide into indifference. When at last he realized he had lost the ability to experience any strong emotion, he was relieved, and didn’t miss the days of intense feeling. In this way, he could survive.
When, at last, there was a cessation of hostilities—not an end to war, in that war had never been declared—he was given an extended leave and he returned, for the first time in years, to his homeworld. He found it remarkably changed. Everything was smaller than he remembered— was that postage-stamp meadow really the vast playing field of his youth?—and the people astonishingly unsophisticated. His childhood friends were stolid adults with children of their own, and he found himself barely able to find a common ground for conversation. The boys he had romped with in the forests had become stodgy and colorless, younger versions of his father and every other member of the tribe he had ever known. He wondered how any of them would fare against the Cardassians.
There were any number of celebrations to mark his return, but Chakotay felt disengaged from the festivities. Music did not cheer him, food and drink were tasteless, and the companionship of his friends and family seemed shallow and unimportant. He found them all naive, oblivious of the situation in the worlds around them, caught up in their own concerns, their own lives, their own minuscule problems.
One night he wandered away from a party in his honor and went to sit alone in the fields, looking up at the two crescent moons hanging low in the sky. He was thinking of nothing in particular, but simply had to remove himself from the endless, banal conversations that punctuated the celebration. A footfall behind him made him flinch and he leapt to his feet.
It was his father. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I’m fine.”
Kolopak gazed up at their twin moons reflectively. “The sisters are dancing tonight,” he intoned. This was the phrase used when the two moons were in proximity, the smaller one seeming to dance in conjunction with the larger. “Good things happen when they prance together.”
It was an innocent statement, a variation of which Chakotay had heard a thousand times as he grew up, but tonight, for whatever reason, it struck him as intolerably ignorant. The position of the two moons was entirely predictable, charted by astronomers, their orbits entirely a matter of gravitational dynamics. He felt a peculiar fury rise in him.
“Why do you say things like that?” he challenged, and heard his voice, harsh and dark, slice through the night. His father stared at him, stunned at the intensity of the question. But Kolopak, as always, tried to respond harmoniously.
“It’s just part of the lore of our people,” he began, but Chakotay didn’t let him get any further.
“It’s foolishness. Ancient myth. Those aren’t two sisters in the sky any more than the Milky Way was a canoe. But at least our ancestors didn’t know any better—they didn’t have telescopes and astronomers and space travel to show them the difference between reality and fantasy.”
Kolopak’s black eyes burned into him through the darkness. “Chakotay, you’ve been wounded by your recent experiences. Your soul is troubled—”
Everything his father said was enraging Chakotay. He erupted once more. “My soul is fine because I don’t have a soul. I have a mind, and a body. That’s it. I won’t be endowed with some vague attribute that’s an outgrowth of ancient ignorance.”
“Whatever part of you you care to acknowledge has been wounded. You’re full of rage, and it’s crippling you.”
“If you’d seen what I’ve seen you’d be full of rage, too.”
“I know that. But I would take steps to heal myself.”
“Just how would you propose to do that?”
“I would go on a vision quest.”
Chakotay threw up his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “A vision quest. Wonderful—that would solve everything.” He whirled back to face his father, anger still boiling in him. “Don’t you see that I’m not like you? That I can’t be, I’ll never be? Why do you keep trying to push me into this world that isn’t mine?”
“It is yours. You just don’t realize it yet.”
How could Chakotay respond rationally to a statement like that? How could he carry on a dialogue with someone who could see only one point of view? He shook his head, bitter and weary. “Fine. I’ll be sure to let you know when I get around to realizing it.”
“I know you will.” His father’s voice was as calm as a moonlit night after snow has fallen and everything is stilled. It gave no evidence of ire, or hurt, or condemnation. And that made Chakotay all the more frustrated, because it gave him nothing to feed his wrath.
“Good night, Father. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. It’s time I returned to the real world.”
His father nodded, and Chakotay strode off into the night, continuing the argument in his head with a father who was much more belligerent, and much more satisfying, in that he let Chakotay argue him into chastened defeat.
The next morning, when he was ready to leave, his father was nowhere to be seen. His mother stood with him, her eyes grave and solemn. “Your father is in the forest,” she told him. “He thought it best if he didn’t try to say good-bye to you.”
A ripple of guilt shimmered over Chakotay, but he forced it away. “Please tell him I asked about him,” he said, and she nodded. Then she took his face in her hands and held it tightly for a moment.
“No one can find your way for you, Chakotay, or clear it of stones before you set off. You must find your way. But we will be here, to help, if you need us.”
His eyes stung briefly and he blinked away the sensation. “I don’t mean to hurt you,” he began, but she covered his mouth with her fingers. “You owe us no explanation,” she said gently. “Love requires none.”
He nodded and then touched his commbadge. “Energize,” he said to the starship waiting in orbit, and his homeworld shimmered out of his vision. It was not the last time he was to see it, but it was the last time he cared to remember.
It was years before Cardassia and the Federation were able to finalize a treaty that officially dealt with the disputed area between their territories. It was controversial, creating a demilitarized buffer zone which belonged to neither power, and which ideally would have been unpopulated. But a number of worlds in that zone had already been occupied, generally by hardy pioneering people who were self-reliant and stubborn, and who had no intention of abandoning the homes they’d created. Among these were Chakotay’s people, who had s
earched for years to find the planet that was most suited to their needs, and with which they were spiritually at one.
And so these people decided to stay where they were, despite the urging of the Federation, and the insistence by Starfleet that they would not be able to protect them from attack. The inhabitants of colonies and outposts throughout the demilitarized zone responded with one unified voice that they didn’t care, they were staying put.
Chakotay, by now a lieutenant commander aboard the Gettysburg, found himself in an unaccustomed position: defending his people’s actions. He was serving under Captain Madolyn Gordon, an energetic, cheerful woman whose good nature belied her toughness, her tenacity, and her intimidating intelligence. She had curly brown hair that bobbed up and down in response to her habit of punctuating her arguments with short, sharp jerks of her head. She and Chakotay spent long hours engaged in debate on a wide-ranging number of subjects, the latest of which was the Cardassian treaty.
“It’s concessionism,” insisted Chakotay, as they drank coffee in her ready room. “The Federation shouldn’t be required to abandon its own colonists.”
“Those colonists were given every opportunity to resettle. They would have been moved by Starfleet to any of a number of planets that were virtually identical to the ones they left.”
“That’s easy to say when it’s not your homeworld. These settlers have made an investment in their colonies, with their labor and their energy. My people went through an exhaustive process of determining their spiritual affinity for the planet they finally decided to settle. It may sound easy to the bureaucrats to relocate everyone to ‘identical’ planets, but in fact it’s incredibly disruptive.”
“Your people have absolutely no protection against any Cardassian attacks. Doesn’t that concern you?”
“Of course it does. That’s why I think the idea of a demilitarized zone was fallacious in the first place. Cardassians won’t respect it—they’ll be in there in a minute, trying to force our settlers out. It would’ve been far better to draw a definitive border and then protect everyone within the confines of our territory.”
“Maybe you’re being unfair to the Cardassians. So far they’ve lived up to their word. The planet we’re headed for, Bajor, was occupied by them for over fifty years.” Gordon’s curls bounced heavily as she nodded her head heatedly. “They’ve withdrawn and given the Bajorans their autonomy once more.”
“After destroying their culture and their infrastructure, and decimating the population.”
“But they’re gone now, and Bajor is rebuilding.”
“Captain, mark my words. We’ll all come to regret this demilitarized zone. It’s bad politics and bad military tactics. Remember, you heard it here.” He smiled at her and she smiled back, gray eyes twinkling. They had a genuine affection for each other and enjoyed these jousting matches mostly as an intellectual diversion, and often switched sides just for fun.
But once he’d seen Bajor, Chakotay found his feelings calcifying. He had experienced brutal savagery during the war, and though that ordeal had certainly damaged him, he believed he had, over the years since, managed to recuperate. Visiting Bajor was like ripping open old scar tissue only to find that, underneath, the wound has never properly healed.
The Cardassians had followed a scorched-earth policy before they left. Cities that were once graceful and inviting had become vast ruins. Dwellings were ravaged, public buildings razed, temples burned. Nothing in this behavior had benefited the Cardassians; they could just as well have packed up and left the cities intact. Instead, in pointless savagery, they laid waste.
One thing that seemed to have proliferated and thrived on Bajor was the saloons. Built by the Cardassians, they found increasing popularity among the Bajorans who sought respite from the horrors of their existence. Depressed after his tour of the once-beautiful planet, Chakotay sought the same palliative. A dark, quaintly ornate room, festooned with garlands and banners that bore an air of faded elegance, was probably more depressing than uplifting, but the darkness obscured the desperate decorations. Chakotay went to the bar and ordered ale.
The bartender set a glass before him and then a frosty dark bottle that was beaded with condensation. It looked wonderfully cool, and Chakotay rubbed the bottle over his face before he poured it. When he quaffed the first mouthful, he felt the first bolstering moment of that grim day. The ale was delicious, strong and faintly sweet, but with a tart aftertaste that lingered pleasantly in the mouth. He was never much of a drinker, and his people eschewed the use of alcohol entirely, but he was glad he hadn’t adopted that particular prohibition. He would have hated to have missed the experience of a drink of ale as good as this at the end of a day as bad as this.
He was halfway through the bottle when he felt movement and a presence at his side. Before he could look up, he heard a silky voice in his ear, cool as a mountain rivulet. “Hello, Chakotay. It’s been a long time.”
Recognizing the voice instantly, he whirled to find Sveta, the Ice Maiden of Russia, sitting next to him. She was as otherworldly as ever, remote, poised, confident. And incredibly beautiful. He felt his pulse quicken and heard his voice stammer as he spoke.
“Sveta! What—why are you—I can’t believe you’re here!”
She smiled in that serene way and laid a dainty hand on his arm. “I’m here because you’re here,” she said, waving off the bartender, who had approached with a questioning look. “I heard you were touring Bajor and I set about finding you.”
He eyed her clothing, which was civilian. “Aren’t you in Starfleet anymore?” he queried.
“No. I served eight years and then I got married. We settled in a colony on Riva Prime.”
Chakotay felt himself grow immediately somber. Riva was one of the planets most devastated during the war, subject to repeated attacks by the Cardassians. He was silent, waiting for Sveta to tell him more.
“My husband was a farmer. He loved the process of planting, growing, reaping. It was an almost holy occupation to him.” Her voice had taken on a faraway quality as she seemed to move back in memory. “We had two children, twins—a boy and a girl. We thought we had everything . . . we used to wonder how it was we were so fortunate. We loved each other, we had a perfect family, we had an occupation that gave us pleasure.”
She looked into a mid-distance for a moment, and Chakotay had the feeling he didn’t want to hear what was next.
“You know that Riva was a prime target during the war. Starfleet did its best to protect us, but the Cardassians were determined to occupy our planet and mine the valuable pergium ore there. Eventually, there was no letup.” Another silence ensued, and Chakotay could sense her trying to find a way to continue. She looked up at him with sad eyes.
“You know what’s coming. There’s no point in embellishing anything. The Cardassians attacked our settlement while I was away trying to procure medical supplies. My husband and my children were killed when our settlement was wiped out by an orbiting battle cruiser.”
Chakotay didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” was inadequate. He’d heard countless stories like this over the past years, and he never knew how to respond, so usually he simply kept quiet. Sveta turned her gaze directly to him, and stared at him with those unsettling pale eyes.
“That tragedy ignited something in me, Chakotay. I swore to avenge them, and that cause has given me a reason to live.”
“But it’s over now.”
Something hard and flinty happened on her face. “Don’t be naive. It’s just beginning. Do you think Cardassia has given up just because there’s a treaty?”
“Of course not. But Starfleet’s out of it.”
“Good riddance, as far as we’re concerned. We’ll make more progress without them.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
She glanced around carefully, then leaned in toward him. “A group of freedom fighters is beginning to band together. We’ve even taken a name—the Maquis.”
“Maquis?”<
br />
“The name of ancient French resistance forces during a conflict on Earth known as World War Two.”
Chakotay had studied ancient Earth warfare, but was unfamiliar with the French name. The whole thing had a faintly adolescent sound to him. But Sveta was leaning even closer, her voice clear and intense.
“We intend to defend our homes. It’s obvious to us that Cardassia intends to harass us mercilessly and try to force us out. We aren’t going to let that happen.”
“Good for you. I wish you well.”
“Your homeworld is in the demilitarized zone. Surely you have feelings about this.”
He felt himself take a deep breath. It was impossible to explain to her, in one sitting, the complexities of his relationship with his people. “My people will do what they do. They don’t pay a lot of attention to me.”
“Join us, Chakotay. We need trained, disciplined people like you. Many of us are former Starfleet personnel. You could be in a leadership position—we need you.”
“Sveta, I wish you the best. But I’m part of Starfleet. I have no intention of leaving—even if I don’t agree with them about the treaty.”
“What is that supposed to mean? You disagree with them but you’ll continue to follow them, like a sheep?” Her voice had taken on an uncharacteristic passion. “I don’t remember you as that hypocritical.”
“This isn’t my fight, Sveta. I won’t take it on.”
She eyed him briefly, then nodded. “If you change your mind, you can reach me this way.” She slipped a padd into his hand and stood up. “It really is your fight, you know,” she offered, and then she walked out, her tall, slim body proud and straight.
Chakotay finished his ale, but it had turned sour somehow, and the aftertaste was bitter.
Captain Gordon’s face was pale but she was composed. “We have incomplete reports because the situation is chaotic. And of course, we have no official presence in the zone.”
He nodded, trying to turn himself to stone. He didn’t want to hear what he knew he was going to hear.