by Jeri Taylor
That statement hung heavily in the air until Neelix chimed in. “Staying here in Hellhole has perils, too. I’d rather take my chances with B’Elanna’s transporter.” From their reactions, the others clearly shared this opinion, and B’Elanna smiled at the vote of confidence and sat down to begin fiddling with the stolen components.
Neelix then shared his dinner ration with the others, because, as he told them, “I’ve had my fill of food. On the work detail there’s plenty to eat. Today my pockets were full of contraband, but tomorrow I’ll bring more food.”
This prospect, added to the now very real possibility of creating a transporter, made the small group almost heady with excitement. They became a little silly, laughing and joking like small children, then sank into a contented silence.
Neelix waited for a moment, then spoke quietly. “If no one objects . . . I’d like to add my story to those that’ve been told.”
“I’d like that, Neelix,” said Tom sincerely.
“There are things about myself I’ve never told anyone. Not even Kes. I’ve never wanted people to know.” He hesitated, looking pensively at Tom. “I told you last night you gave me courage. I don’t think I could have done this without your example.”
Tom gave him a brotherly pat on the shoulder. “I feel a lot better for it,” he said encouragingly.
Neelix was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know how to start,” he admitted.
“Start with the easy things,” Tom suggested. “Your childhood, your family . . . the things you enjoyed.”
Neelix considered this briefly and then smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “I know exactly where to begin.”
CHAPTER
10
SINCE HE WAS A SMALL BOY, NEELIX HAD LOVED THE HOLIday of Prixin more than any other. His sisters, all five of them, spoiled him shamelessly, baking his favorite dishes and giving him extravagant gifts on each of the five nights of the celebration.
The year he was fifteen was the most memorable festival ever. For weeks the people of Rinax, the moon of Talax where Neelix’s family lived, had scoured the woods to find the most fragrant branches of the fellin bush with which to bedeck their homes. For at least that long, the heady aroma of moolt spices filled the air as the inhabitants made fruit compotes that would age in the moolt nectar until the first night of Prixin. Then they would become the ceremonial elixirs consumed in the Feast of the First Night.
Neelix had suspected his family had planned a great surprise for that night. On several occasions, he had come into a room to find his sisters or his parents engaged in covert whispering, which stopped immediately upon his entrance. He had taken note of strange sly smiles among his sisters when the plans for Prixin were being discussed.
He hoped he knew what all the secrecy was about. He had been longing for a hover vehicle ever since his spots came in a year and a half ago. He desperately craved the freedom it would bring him to roam the hills of their verdant moon.
All his life, he had loved to wander. When he was a toddler, he was notorious for slipping away from the family on their frequent outings, oblivious of the consternation these peregrinations caused. By the time he was eight, he had explored as much of the woods as he was allowed, and begged to push the boundaries even farther.
Only his sister Alixia shared his wanderlust. Six years older than he, she volunteered to take him on overnight camping trips into the hills and the deeper parts of the woods.
Neelix adored her for it. She would pack wonderful treats for them, knapsacks full of brillin, and trove bars, and frosty containers of iced neth. They would hike for hours, deep into the woods, Alixia pointing out unusual plants and trees that grew only in the dark and shaded moistness of the forest depths. Finally they reached the secret place Alixia had found several years before: a clearing that contained, magically, an abandoned hut. Alixia believed it had belonged to a woodsman many years before, but if so, no one knew who he was or where he had gone.
It was a simple affair, one room with a door and a window; no furnishings, and one cupboard, which was empty. But it became Neelix’s castle. He swept it clean of dust and insect webs, and began furnishing it with objects he found discarded in the affluent neighborhoods of Rinax. Many long treks through the woods were required to carry in the belongings: pillows, a cot, lamps, window coverings. Alixia helped him each time, portaging the heavier items for him.
No one knew of the place except for himself and Alixia. He shared the secret with neither his friends nor the rest of his family. Alixia seemed to recognize the importance of this private domain, and as far as he knew, she kept the secret as well.
He spent hours there, his activities changing as he grew older. As a youngster, he dwelt for long periods in fantasy, imagining himself to be Prince Morax, who drove the evil Krebe creatures from Talax so many eons ago, thereby insuring lasting peace. He portrayed each of the legendary battles, from the first infamous debacle at Xelon shores, to the final near-miraculous triumph on the plains of Talax. He, Prince Morax, slew the grotesque Krebe monster Lothal, lopping off his head with the curved blade of Simus, ending the threat forever.
He envisioned the victory procession, which legend said lasted fourteen days, during which Morax neither slept, ate, nor drank, having been sustained by eating the heart of the monster Lothal. Neelix usually skipped over that part, not able—or willing—to let his vivid imagination conjure up the sensation of eating a raw heart.
But he soaked in the adulation of the illusory people. Massive crowds cheered him, their delirious gratitude transporting them into a mass rapture. They wouldn’t stop screaming their praise, couldn’t contain their adoration. For fourteen mythic days Morax was saturated in the bliss of his people.
That fantasy began to play itself out when he was ten or eleven, to be replaced by a fascination for weaponry. His household provided no role models for him in this intrigue: his father was a bookish man who found nightly entertainment in a game of Threx with his wife; his sisters were bright, studious girls who excelled in school and whose spare time seemed to be devoted to flirtatious games with young men.
No one cared about weapons.
Neelix’s interest was piqued when, in picking through the trash a wealthy family had discarded, he discovered an ancient energy weapon. It was big and clumsy, and had long ago ceased to function, but there was something about it— the heavy weight, solid in the hand, the spare, functional design—that appealed to Neelix. He carried it to his woodland hut and took it apart, carefully aligning each piece as he removed it, so he could put it together again.
He did that four or five times until he understood the principles of the particle-beam generator, and then he set about finding out how to repair it. He found old books which gave some rudimentary instruction in weapons repair and he studied them painstakingly. He realized there was only one way to activate the weapon he had found, and that was to procure some radiogenic isotopes.
How could a twelve-year-old get such a substance? What possible reason could he concoct to persuade someone to give him some? He had no doubt that if anyone suspected he was trying to create a working weapon, the uproar would be enough to bring his parents and perhaps the authorities to his hut, ending his secret world forever.
Alixia was his only hope. He found her one evening sitting by the stream that ran through their property, cooling herself in the warm summer night. Above them, the planet of Talax loomed huge, casting a brilliant light on the inhabitants of its moon.
“Alixia, I’ve been given an honors project in school. I need to find some radiogenic isotopes.” Alixia had just entered Level Ten School, and Neelix knew she might have access to the wealth of supplies this advanced institution provided.
Alixia looked up at him with immediate suspicion. “Radiogenic isotopes? Whatever could you be doing that would require a dangerous substance?”
“It’s for nuclear chemistry. I’m building a chargedparticle analyzer.”
“If it’s for class, won’t yo
ur instructor provide the necessary supplies?”
Neelix was ready for that one. “Part of the idea is that we have to build our projects from scratch, providing all the elements ourselves. It’s to develop self-reliance.”
That was a perfectly reasonable statement, which derived naturally from the Talaxian system of education, which fostered independent thinking and self-sufficiency. Alixia seemed to accept it. “I’m taking a laboratory course in bionuclear medicine. There might be some isotopes available. I’ll find out.”
Neelix’s spirits soared. He knew he could count on Alixia. And, sure enough, in a few days she gave him a small vial that was carefully wrapped in a protective batting. “Be careful,” she warned him. “It’s awfully volatile.”
He knew that, and felt proud that Alixia would trust him to handle it responsibly, even though it was dangerous and he was only twelve. Almost immediately, he was on his way through the woods.
The infusion of the isotopes into the prefire chamber of the energy weapon caused an amazing transformation. One minute he had an inert and useless piece of technology; the next he had a potent weapon which hummed with a pulsating power. Trembling with excitement, he stepped from his hut and into the clearing.
He had prepared his test firing carefully, constructing three cutout targets, which he’d drawn to resemble Krebe warriors, with frightening, snarling faces, and placed them in the woods. The Krebe were a guileful species known for their treacherous ways. They were his adversaries, threatening to attack his domain. They must be routed.
He held the throbbing weapon at his side, walking with calculated nonchalance in the direction of the first target. Neelix was no longer Neelix; he was Xebot, master spy, behind enemy lines in the heart of Krebe territory. So far he had not been detected. But he had learned that several of the Krebe were suspicious of him and were planning to execute him. He must act first.
When he was about seven meters away, he suddenly lifted the weapon, whirled in the direction of the Krebe, and fired.
The cutout shimmered briefly as it absorbed the energy charge, then burst into plasma flame. Within seconds it was consumed. Neelix continued his slow, calculated ambling, tacking indirectly toward the second cutout. As he seemed to pass by it, he turned suddenly and fired at the third one, some twenty meters away, because that one had spotted him and was ready to fire.
But Neelix was quicker. The Krebe took the impact right in his chest and, like his recently departed colleague, burst into plasma flame.
Now Neelix spun back to the second attacker, who was rushing toward him, weapon drawn, and fired for the third time.
The weapon exploded in his hand.
Neelix screamed. The remnants of the weapon went flying and scattered on the ground, sizzling in their death throes. His hand was raw and pulpy, burning with a pain unlike any he’d ever imagined. He stared at it, panic overwhelming him. Was he going to die? He had to get to a doctor. How could he get home through the woods in this much pain? His hand would have to be amputated.
Nausea began to rise in him, and he grew light-headed. He was vaguely aware of the two destroyed cutouts, and of the third, which still stood, triumphant, mocking him. If they’d been real he’d be dead by now. He suddenly felt cold, racked with chills, and the world of his imagination, which had been his fantasy playground for so long, now seemed a hostile and uninviting landscape. He turned in a circle in the clearing, trying to clear his head, trying to wish away the pain, and longing for his mother’s warm embrace.
He had to sit down for a few minutes. He was, after all, just a small boy, and he didn’t know how to handle problems like this. What was he to do? He began shaking violently, watching as his hand began to turn from red to purple.
How long he sat, he didn’t know. He had fixated on his hand, and now it was all he could see. His vision, he realized, had darkened at the edges. If he stayed very still, maybe the darkness would simply close in farther and farther into the center, until the sight of his grotesquely burned hand was eliminated.
He could die here. Never again would he sit in the loving embrace of his family, never join his sisters at the table while Papa patiently lectured them about the events of the day, never wake to the smell of freshly baked trove bars. He would die alone and uncomforted. How long would it be before they found his body? Alixia would know to look here, so maybe they’d find him before the insects had invaded his body and rendered it a disgusting, spongy mass, like the dead animals he saw from time to time in the woods.
How could this be happening? It wasn’t fair—he was only twelve years old. There was so much he’d planned to do, there were so many things to learn, so many adventures to have. How could he die now? Where was Alixia?
He looked up and his eye fell on the one remaining cutout Krebe. The terrifying face he’d drawn glowered at him, eyes boring into him, teeth bared in a vicious sneer. It seemed to mock him, celebrating its triumph and the vanquishing of its enemy.
The fearful visage galvanized him. I have to get out of here, he thought. Home.
He managed to get to his feet without touching his injured hand to the ground. The clearing swam viciously, and for a moment he thought he might pitch over. But gradually the world settled into its proper position and his vision cleared somewhat.
He took one step, and then another, toward home. Each step fired a jolt of intense pain into his hand and the nausea returned, sending acid bile into his throat. He forced himself to keep going, a third step, a fourth, a fifth. Just one more step, he told himself each time. Just one more step.
He invoked no gods, for he’d never believed in an unseen and unknowable supreme being, but he made promises to each of his loved ones that if he could just make it home, he would never disappoint any of them again. He would excel in school. He would be helpful to his parents. He would never argue with his sisters again. If he could just make it home.
One more step . . . one more step . . . one more step . . .
Some twenty thousand steps later, well after dark, he stumbled, barely conscious, into his yard, where he collapsed. Even the agony as he fell on his roasted hand wasn’t enough to ward off oblivion. His last thoughts were of Alixia.
It was she who was standing over him when he woke in the hospital, hand swathed in bandages and mind groggy from pain-relieving drugs. Her kind eyes swam into view, and her familiar smile brightened her face. “Oh, Neelix . . . you scared us all so badly. What would we do without our baby brother?”
It took months for his hand to heal. He had a number of surgeries in order to repair nerves and tendons, and then further operations to do a series of skin grafts. During all this time, no one in his family berated him for playing with a weapon.
When healing was complete and he was back in school, Papa approached him one night with a stack of reading material. “If you’re going to learn about weapons, Neelix, you’re going to do it the right way.” And his father proceeded to sit with him as they read the manuals, discussed types of weaponry, and generally researched the topic from the ground level up.
Weeks later, when the research phase of the project was over, his father presented him with a new, low-energy weapon, along with a maintenance kit. When Neelix had demonstrated his ability to dismantle, clean, and repair the weapon, Papa announced that the time for target practice had arrived. They went to a place Neelix had never known existed: a broad grassy plain dotted with targets of all shapes and sizes, upon which some twenty Talaxians took aim.
“Well, Eximar . . . we never thought we’d see you on the weapons range.” This from a tall, stout man whose spots were almost black with age. His eyes glittered, and his tufts of hair were combed and fluffed into an elaborate arrangement.
“The boy wants to learn how to shoot, Uxxin,” said Neelix’s father. “I’m making sure he does it properly.”
“Good,” said the first man. “We’ll need an armed citizenry the way things are going.”
Neelix noticed that his father frowned a bi
t at this statement, and moved him away from the speaker, to a place where he could stand by himself to practice firing the weapon. They stayed for over two hours, and by the time they left, Neelix’s accuracy had improved vastly.
When Neelix had mastered that first weapon, Papa procured a second, more sophisticated one, and the process was repeated. And in this studious, scholarly way, Neelix gradually became proficient in any number of weapons, from personal armaments to starship disruptor cannons.
Only once did his father ask him why he was so intrigued with these devices, why he wanted to master them. Neelix couldn’t answer. Then Papa said something very peculiar: “Are you worried about the Haakonians?”
Neelix was puzzled by this. He’d heard of the Haakonians, but couldn’t remember in what context. “Should I be?” he queried.
His father looked worried, and that wasn’t like him. Neelix felt a little squirm of fear in his stomach, an unpleasant sensation. “There are rumors,” Papa said vaguely. “Our ruling body, I fear, isn’t comprised of the most diplomatically proficient. They may offend the Haakonians.”
“What does that mean? What’s going to happen?”
Papa reached out and clapped Neelix on the shoulder, smiling reassuringly. “Nothing, nothing. I’m sorry if I alarmed you. You’ll always be safe here, with your family, on Rinax. Any problems that may occur will be localized to Talax.”
But Neelix wasn’t reassured. The vague ominousness was more unsettling than hard information would have been. What did his father mean, “Any problems will be localized to Talax”? What problems? How could anyone be sure they’d be neatly contained on Talax? Was this what the man at the practice range had been talking about when he said they’d need an armed citizenry? Neelix, who had never known anything but comfort and security, now saw a fearful uncertainty inform his days.