by august
cDec 1998
This was written for a story collection, but didn't quite fit, so I wrote and wrote and it kinda changed into something else. Inspired by Infinite Regress (thanks Lori!) and my general loathing of festive seasons.
Legal crap: You know who owns them, they know who owns them. Enough said.
There's only so many times a person can divide themself before there's nothing left . . .
When it happened, it scared us both. For so long now, in little ways, I had been removing myself from your life. A quiet death. It happened in bits, you see -- so that I didn't notice until there was nothing left. Until I looked across the room and felt *nothing* at your presence.
It took so long to finally, finally lay to rest. We keep picking at it, like a wound. Ripping it up with a glance or a word that should *never* have been said -- reliving it over and over in our minds, but which never meant anything -- not in the end.
And the very worst of it was that moment -- when we were enduring that endless darkness of space, when I had gone to you in your ready-room. I had thrown down the gauntlet -- finally, like I should have months, maybe even years ago. And you looked back at me with this blank look, framed by the blankness around us. I knew then that it was over. And that perhaps it had never really begun.
And of course life went on. There is always some new adventure, it seems every week we have a strange encounter to deal with. It was enough to detract from what was going on. And there were other distractions, too. Riley, Kellin . . . things that put me that much further away from you. That I thought would put me that much further away from you. If only for a night . . . an hour . . . that brief moment when I had to strain not to cry out your name in their ear . . .
And the absurdity of the situation is that in the long run, it actually made things easier between us. When it was so far behind us, it became easier to stand in the same room as you. And we slowly started to do things that we once had. The game of hoverball, the quiet drink on the holodeck.
And I began to believe, for the first time, that I could do this -- that we could do this. That I could spend the fifty years by your side, without being confined to the purgatory of second-guessing.
But you come to me, tonight, on some old Earth holiday that I can hardly remember. You come to me fueled by memories of celebrations you will probably never have again.
"Are you busy, Chakotay?" You asked, hovering in the doorway, having already decided to come inside.
"No." I put the padds I was working on aside. "Come in, Kathryn."
"It's Christmas, did you know?"
"Christmas?" The word sounded familiar.
"It's an old Earth holiday. Vaguely religious -- at least it used to be. My family --" You stopped. "It's nothing, it's just . . ."
"I'm afraid I was never too good at remembering the old holidays. It got me in trouble in Bajor, you know. They have more holidays than any culture I know. At least, they used to . . ."
There was a long silence, and we both stood awkwardly in the room. I didn't tell you that I was familiar with the holiday, that I had roomed with a traditionalist in the Academy. It was a little victory, you see, but I almost wanted to hurt you that night.
"Would you like a drink?" I asked, suddenly.
"Yes, thanks. Whatever you're having." You sat down, and you looked tired. I replicated two mugs of Bolian werson, and walked over to where you was sitting.
"You want to talk about it?" I handed you a mug.
"Oh, it's nothing Chakotay, just a bit of the homesick blues." You sipped the drink, and then looked at me. "Tell me a story." You said suddenly, with forced brightness.
"Sorry?"
"Tell me a story. I won't even mind if you use the old Angry Warrior again." You smiled at me, and I think I plastered my smile across my lips. You didn't realise that you could cut me with that memory -- by using that story, and turning it into a joke.
So I sat back in my chair, my mind wandering. I closed my eyes, and began to talk.
* * *
He would be glad to get back to the ship. The negotiations had gone on for so long now, he couldn't remember the last time he had wanted to see his quarters so much.
It probably didn't help that he was having trouble disguising his obvious distaste for this race. After all his travels -- and more than that, after all he had been through, he had thought himself slightly above feeling contempt for a species. One cannot judge a race upon a few people, and especially not in the space of a few days. It was a principle taught to even the lowest classes at the Academy. It was a principle he and his people had lived by, for as long as he could remember.
It didn't changed the way he felt.
Chakotay looked at the woman sitting across the table from him. She was roughly his equivalent in rank, he assumed. She had been his contact throughout the negotiations. The Jahat had insisted on a one-to-one negotiation, which had suited him at the time. He had felt like some down time, away from the ship.
It was a shame it had been anything but that.
The four days he had been planet-side had been an experience. The more he learnt about the race, the less he wanted to know. The story was the same as so many others, across so many worlds. Violent, unrelenting. They were a culture that seemed to take pride in their Machiavelli tactics, if such a thing could be believed.
If not for their obvious need of the minerals the Jahat offered, Chakotay doubted they would have continued negotiations as long as they did. However, once again, the desire had been stronger than the intentions, and Chakotay had spent four long days there.
"Well Commander, these contracts seem in order." The Jahat woman, Trell, looked up at him. "If you'd just mark this interface, we can start moving the grains to your ship."
A few hours later, he found himself sitting at a large dinner table. He gathered it was a customary gesture, yet despite the number of people at the table, the only person who addressed him was Trell. He almost laughed, it seemed indicative of this race.
"You don't like my people much, do you?" Trell asked, cutting the meat in front of her. He almost choked on his food at the abruptness of the question.
"I don't-"
"-You find us barbaric. Uncivilised, yes?"
Chakotay faltered for words again, and Trell laughed.
"Well what would you say, Commander, if I told you that we found you the same? That the only reason these negotiations are going through is our interest in your technology?"
"I would say . . . each to their own." He said, finally wrapping his tongue around the words.
"A diplomatic answer." She smiled, and filled his glass with a thick purple liquid. "But our people are not so different. Not really."
"With all due respect, Trell, our people are nothing alike."
"We have heard a lot about you. The Voyagers. News travels fast, Commander, especially when your world is the first port of call in a system."
"Oh?"
"Actually, the first thing we heard about was your uniforms. One merchant remarked on the apparent durability of the material. I suggest if you are ever at a lack for resources, you offer your material as a trade. It has quite a reputation."
Chakotay laughed, and examined the meal in front of him. He couldn't be sure, but he suspected that it was still alive.
"It is the uniform of the army you belong to, yes?" Trell asked.
"In a way. Starfleet, that's what we call it. Although some of us on board the ship do not really belong to it." He realised that his explanation made no sense, but wasn't sure he could bare to explain the saga . . .again.
"How long have you been in this fleet?"
"It's a long story." He said simply, but realising the explanation would not end there. "I used to be a member . . . a long time ago. But there were some decisions made that I did not agree with. That I thought were wrong."
"So you left?"
"Yes, I left." Chakotay took another drink.
"And yet, you are here, again? Wearing this uniform?"
"When we came to the Delta Quadrant, we were stranded. The only way to survive was to join together. Was to wear the uniform."
"Ah, so it was expediency." Trell laughed. "You are not unlike us. We understand the need for compromise."
"It wasn't a compromise!" Chakotay said quickly, finding himself angrier than the statement required. He thought perhaps the drink he was taking was alcohol based, but knew it was more than that. Trell was asking questions, making parallels which were too . . . close.
"So your Captain understands why you left the fleet?"
"Yes, I think she does."
"And she doesn't ask you to be 'fleet?"
"Well . . ."
"Ah." Trell smiled, leaning back in her chair, seeming to reveal in the contradictions. "So your Captain *understands* why you left . . . but she still asks you to belong to that system."
"It's not like that."
"No?" She smiled, reaching for the jug again.
"No." He said, definitely. "Things are different, out here. We have a different set of rules."
"A set of rules that let you negotiate with the Borg, for example?" She asked, quietly. His head must have swung around very quickly, because Trell laughed at his reaction. "Oh yes, we knew about that. It was one of the reasons we allowed you to negotiate with us. You seemed to be a race that respected the concept of necessity."
"That . . . that . . . you should not judge us on that." He said softly, but not believing them. And hating that he didn't believe them.
"No? Then what should we judge you on?? The fact that you keep a drone on your ship?"
"Seven is human! We liberated her from the Borg."
"In my experience, Commander, liberate is a word that is used by the victors."
"She has chosen to stay on board." He said, finally angry.
"Oh? She chose to leave the collective? What an unusual drone."
"No . . .we . . ."
"Yes, yes. You liberated her." Trell laughed, amused.
"We took her from the collective. She had been assimilated at an early age."
"So you . . . assimilated her. Again."
"No. We *liberated* her." Chakotay said, already feeling like a fool.
"Assimilate. Liberate. Such wonderful words."
"I know what you are getting at, Trell, and it is *not* the same."
"No? What makes you any different from the Borg? You take people against their will, to join your collective."
"It was for Seven's own interests. She belonged with us. It . . . it . . ." Chakotay sighed, infinitely frustrated. Trell was turning his words around. It was not what he meant to say. "We were only thinking about Seven. She could have so much from us."
"Yes, I have heard the same rationale. From a drone, as it tried to assimilate our world."
There was silence. The utensil felt heavy in his hand.
"I have angered you." Trell said, quietly.
"Yes. Yes, you have. You make presumptions about my crew, when you know nothing of our history."
"Yes, it was unthinkable, wasn't it?" She said, with a quiet irony.
"I should get back to my ship, Trell. I thank you for your hospitality."
"I will walk you to the transport space." She said, leading the way.
They walked in silence, and Chakotay swayed between fuming and embarrassment. But always towards himself. He was angry, not at Trell, but at himself. For letting himself live a life that a stranger could poke a hole through. For always thinking these questions, but never allowing himself to follow through with those thoughts.
For who he had become.
They reached the transport space in silence. Chakotay willed Trell not to talk, to allow him to leave with at least an iota of respect for the life he had created. He wanted to be able to look back upon this meeting, and claim the moral high ground in the comfortable way he -- and all the humans before him across the galaxy, had always done.
"Goodbye, Commander." Trell reached out to shake his hand, an imitation of the gesture he had proffered upon first contact.
"Goodbye." He said, wanting to get the hell out of there, and cursing her for not letting go of his hand.
"We are the same, Commander Chakotay, no matter how much you will it not to be so." She let go of his hand, and stepped away. "Please extend my greetings to your Captain."
He could feel the warmth of her hand pressing into his, even as the transporter beam wrapped around his body. It would have sickened him, if he hadn't already been disgusted by himself.
* * *
I stop and look at you now. There was a little more to say. I didn't want to, but the story would be incomplete without it. You wouldn't understand. I wasn't even sure if I did.
* * *
She was waiting for him, in the transporter room, like he knew she would be. That assumed companionship that had never been proffered, but always been taken. It was her way, he realised.
Just not his.
He didn't say anything, of course. To anyone.
And if he had had to pick a moment -- a specific point in time when he had finally, finally closed himself off, it would have been then. It was too late, as always, to make any real change. To insist on doing the right thing, not just the 'fleet thing. But it was not too late for himself.
She offered him dinner that night. He refused. It was the only thing he could do.
* * *
You stared at me, when I'd finished. I'd hurt you, I knew that. I knew it from the moment the words started coming. I think maybe that night I could have gone to you, that maybe you would have welcomed it.
But I didn't.
You wanted a happy ending, a cute little story with a hopeful ending full of promise, and I can't give you that. Not anymore.
"Is that what you think of me?" You asked, disjointed moments later, your eyes filled with tears and the room with so much more. "Is that the story you're going to remember me by?"
You asked me once -- a long time ago now, what animal my spirit guide was. For some reason, I couldn't fathom it then, I hesitated to tell you. As you sit before me now, with tears in your eyes, I can think of nothing else but the animal that guides me. The serpent that swallows creatures whole, that crushes the life out of them and ingests them slowly, over an indeterminate period of time.
It scared me then, and you scare me now.
I leave the room. There is no more to tell.