DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.
SUMMARY: Driven by recurring nightmares, Chakotay goes home—and on a planet struggling to redefine itself, at long last comes face-to-face with his past. C/7, post "Endgame" timeline. Rated M for adult themes and language. Follows "The Ultimate Cheesecake Challenge" in the Becoming Light series.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Chakotay's background and homeworld is a minefield of gaping plotholes, which I attempt to begin to fill here. I take from indigenous Americans' historical and contemporary realities and Star Trek canon, and attempt to project into the future on a planet sixty-five light years from Earth. Treban dialect is Terran Standard (what we know as Standard American English) with Spanish, Mayan and Náhuatl vocabulary. While I'm reasonably conversant in New York and Los Angeles "street Spanish" (i.e. I can inflect "pendejo" to mean myriad things…), I speak none of these three languages fluently. I make up stuff, too. Any idiocies are my own.
Deepest gratitude to scifiromance for the beta and encouragement.
Archive with permission.
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Tradition gives one the feeling that life is predictable. Yet, in a period of rapid change, tradition can be like a plank of wood, once part of a bridge extending over the water, but now connected to nothing, an illusion of solidity moving randomly in the rushing stream.
Susan Griffin, A Chorus of Stones
CONTRARY
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Ghost Stories
Stardate 55403.03
Oakland, California, Earth
He thought it was all behind him and then the nightmares began again. Once, twice a month at first, then more often. Same dream every time, although with variations in detail, different embellishments. But the story was the same: the setting, the characters, the events. It's how it happened, after all—or how he imagined it happening. In truth, he wasn't there.
In the dream he was on a hill overlooking Ketzál, the village where he was raised. The sun was high in the summer sky. Farmers had broken for the midday meal, sitting in small groups at the edges of their fields. On the road into town, a herder kept his pichú in line with the help of his dogs which were yapping and nipping at the native ruminants' wooly hind legs. In the plaza, it was market day—stalls overflowed with produce, glassware, bolts of fabric, jewelry, strings of beads. Children gathered around the fire pit, jostling for position, each scrambling to be the one to get the first ear of corn from the coals, the first ear of the first of the harvest. A prize. If he were younger, he would have been with them. When he was younger, he was.
The dream colors were brighter somehow than he remembered them. The music and laughter from the village was louder to his ears than it should have been up there on the hill. The smells—cook fires and manure, roasting corn and fresh-cut hay—were stronger, more distinct.
Home. He'd fled it once. He was still running.
He looked into the azure sky. It was new moons and the twin white orbs were in tandem overhead; his father would say that the Sisters were dancing. Between them suddenly a flash of light, like a star flickering at first, then growing larger, coming closer. He stood and stared.
And then the star fell and landed in Ketzál. And the village became glass.
Chakotay woke in a cold sweat, heart racing, mouth open in a silent scream, and sat up, disoriented. He took a ragged deep breath and held it, looked around. Spare décor, almost Zen in its simplicity. A child's drawing, framed and hung on a wall. A Ventu blanket, neatly folded and draped over the arm of a chair. Souvenirs of the Delta Quadrant. Familiar surroundings—Seven's apartment, Seven's bed.
She slept next to him, on her back, her face relaxed, her breathing even and deep. Her fingers tapped lightly on the blanket over her stomach—playing the piano in her dreams, maybe, or working the console in a lab. He put his hands over his face and silently gave thanks that he didn't wake her. She was trying to adapt to sleep—the doctors said that it could replace some of her regeneration cycles—but she was having a rough time of it: she slept lightly, restlessly. And his night terrors weren't making it any easier.
He got out of bed, went to the kitchen, and replicated a mug of tea, then stood at the window in the dark living room, looking out on a typically murky San Francisco night. His hands were trembling, and he tried to focus on the mug, on keeping it steady, on the heat, the scent of the steam. Not the memories. The weight of the mug, not the dream. Now, here, this room. Easier said than done. Something his mother would say. Used to say.
Seven walked up behind him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He jumped. "I did not mean to startle you," she said, her voice low and sleep-husky.
He didn't turn around. "It's okay," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I didn't mean to wake you."
She moved to stand in front of him, peered at his face with concern and traced the tracks of tears down his cheeks with her fingers, then cupped his trembling hands in her own. "Nightmares, again," she said. A declaration, not a question—she didn't need to ask.
He nodded and closed his eyes, but this time he couldn't stop the images: the charcoal sky, the blackened stumps that once were orchards, his sister on her knees in the still-smoldering cinders that used to be their father's field, her soot-stained face and desolate, pleading eyes. Do something. He couldn't stop the smell of the acrid smoke that even now made the gorge rise in his throat. Do something. He couldn't stop the sounds: the haunting whistle of the scorching winds and the agonized wails echoing a grief so deep he could never before have imagined it. And he couldn't stop the rage and hate exploding from his heart—white, pure, lethal… and as fresh as if then were now. I will avenge them.
Seven put her arms around him then and he broke. She held on. He dropped the mug and it shattered, the hot tea scalding their bare feet. She held on. His knees buckled. She held on and guided him to the floor, and the last thing he would remember of that night was clinging to her as if she was the only thing keeping him tethered to anything at all, while his own voice finally joined the inhuman chorus in his memory.
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The humid air was heavy with the scent of lemon blossoms—sweet, with a spicy top note which just kept it from being cloying. In the morning twilight, the blooms glowed purplish-white, as if they radiated light from within. Seven bent close to a flower and lightly transferred pollen from the anther to the stigma with a small, soft brush. It was a component of the plant's routine maintenance, as essential as its needs for water and light. There were few bees to naturally accomplish the task here in Oakland, and even fewer on a fourth-story rooftop. If the tree—a container specimen said to be at least fifty years old—would give her lemons, her assistance was required.
She stood upright and stretched. The dawn breeze rustled the leaves of a Risan palm and the horizon glowed faintly white, again too overcast for a sunrise. Although the garden had been Irene's idea and largely her project, Seven was pleased with the result. With plants confined to pots in rows and on shelves and trellises, nature was somewhat tamed, subdued, orderly—unlike the tangled, disquieting profusion in the forest surrounding Chakotay's quarters. This garden was a calm island above the city, where she returned night after night in the silent uneasy hours before dawn. She realized now, on this unsettling morning, that it fulfilled one of the same functions as her lab had on Voyager—refuge—and was, in one small way, proof that she was adapting, could adapt.
And that was not something of which she was always certain. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose, then exhaled slowly through her mouth, attempting to concentrate only on her breath. The exercise was a remedy for anxiety—or so she'd been told by various counselors, physicians, Vulcans and Chakotay—its purpose to assist her in ordering her thoughts when emotion threatened to overwhelm her. This was not an uncommon occurrence following the deactivation of the failsafe device in her cortical node. She'd been assured the effect was temporary—she would adapt. In the interim she had this exercise. It was more effective some days than others.
Today, it was an exercise in futility. She looked over her shoulder. He slept on the floor next to the glass doors separating the living room from the garden, where she had held him only hours before. He didn't dream—there were no rapid-eye movements—and for that she was grateful. His nightmares, which he had only cursorily described but she could imagine, had unleashed a torrent of memories. She held some of them, of that she was certain: her mind had retained them following the neural link when Voyager severed her from the Collective. She had seen what he saw when he returned to his homeworld after the Cardassian attack. She'd heard his howls in their minds long before he released them last night. And she knew that he didn't talk about them, tried not to think of them; even during the link, she'd felt his attempts to forcibly suppress them, keep them buried, away from her knowing—or more likely, away from his own.
He had come to her now—whether through circumstance or intent, she wasn't certain, and she was equally uncertain as to what she should do. She felt inadequate to the task. She knew the destructive power of long-buried memory—her own tended to surface without warning or context. But, how could she assist him with his unreconciled past, when she had as yet been unable to come to terms with her own?
She could listen; she had promised him that. But in order for her to listen, he needed to talk—and until now, he had offered her nothing other than rage, tears and evasion.
He stirred in his sleep and threw his forearm over his eyes. Seven looked at the horizon again. The burgeoning light would soon wake him. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, tried to feel the light of her breath in her abdomen… and failed. She picked up a small bowl of strawberries that she had just harvested, and went inside.
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Chakotay woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and groggily pushed himself upright, sitting with his back resting against the base of an armchair, his legs extended, his eyes closed. He drew a long, shaky breath as events from the night before swam to the surface. He hoped against hope that it was a dream, but so far the evidence was pointing in the other direction. If it had been a dream, he would have woken in bed, in the tangled sheets of last night's love, his body entwined with Seven's. Instead, he was on a rug on her living room floor, under a blanket that she must have put over him sometime after he'd fallen into a brief, dreamless sleep.
He heard her bare footsteps approaching and the clink of two ceramic mugs set down on the polished concrete floor. He opened his eyes and looked at her. Her face was calm, her gaze downcast, unreadable. She awkwardly seated herself on a corner of the blanket, cross-legged, her back perfectly straight, cradling her mug in her hands. He smiled gently as she met his eyes; there were shadows dark as bruises under hers. "You look tired," he said. "Did you sleep?"
She shrugged. Evasion was as close as she could get to lying.
"Sorry," he said. "You should send me home at night."
Her brow furrowed. "I thought you… wished to stay here," she said hesitantly.
"I do, querida," he said, reaching out and caressing her cheek. "I just meant you might get some sleep, if…"
Her face relaxed; she took his hand and held it. "There's no need to concern yourself," she reassured him. "I will be fine. I need less rest than other humans. I can sleep and regenerate on weeknights when you're in Chichén Itzá."
Her eyes were wide and earnest. Not for the first time, he was struck by how innocent she was, how she took so much at face value. Seven didn't read between the lines—he didn't think she even saw the lines. He knew there were some who looked at the two of them—the age difference, the social experience gap—and thought he was in it for the sex. Hell, just about every guy on Voyager had fantasized about that at one time or another. All you had to do was look at her. Which he did. Gods, she was beautiful. He could carry her into the bedroom, throw her onto the bed, and bang the hell out of her right now. Avoid the entire conversation.
He snorted. Not likely. She'd give him that scathing look that made the recipient feel as if he had the intelligence of an amoeba and the savoir faire to match. Guileless she was, but she was no child. She was a grown woman who'd been through her own circles of hell and she was as far as anyone could get from stupid. At this moment, she was the only adult in this relationship. The irony made the corners of his mouth creep upward. He tried to suppress it, but couldn't. He started to laugh.
She frowned, confused. "I did not intend to make a joke," she said softly.
"No," he sputtered. "Not that." He took her chin in his hand. "I love you, you know."
She sighed, and smiled her exasperated smile. He knew he was taxing her patience, but still, she was kind enough to return the reassurance. "I love you, too," she said, gently and firmly. "Talk to me, Chakotay."
He owed her that. In the event of a meltdown on your lover's living room floor, an explanation would be considerate—although, in all fairness to himself, it was the first time he'd ever been in this position. He wasn't sure where to start: in the here and now, or at the beginning when he was born ass-end first? "I'm not very good at this," he admitted.
The corners of her mouth quirked. "I've noticed," she said.
He took her hands in his and studied them, tracing the exoskeleton on her left with his thumb. At long last he looked up at her. He decided to cut to the chase. "How do you live with it?" he asked. "The guilt."
She pulled her hands away and stiffened. It was clearly not what she'd expected him to say. "Is the question pertinent?" She frowned. "You have told me—the counselors tell me—that my guilt is inappropriate," she said. "That as a drone I was not in control of my actions, and therefore not responsible."
"All absolutely true," he agreed. "But do you believe it?"
She smiled ruefully; she knew that he knew the answer to that—his weren't the only nightmares that had interrupted their sleep. "I can believe it," she said at last. "But believing it does not alleviate the guilt."
"So how do you live with it?"
"I'm not certain," she said, and shrugged. "I simply do. I have no choice—if I live, then I will live with guilt." She shook her head. "But the circumstances are not the same. I acted, even if I was not in control of my actions. You did nothing."
"That's exactly the point," he said bitterly. "I did nothing. I wasn't there."
"And what could you have done?" she asked, taking his hands again. "What difference would it have made if you were there? You would have died with them."
He said nothing. She was right, of course: he couldn't have stopped the Cardassians, his people had paid no attention at all to Federation warnings to relocate, and twenty years of Starfleet training and experience would've meant fuck all when stars began falling from the sky.
He felt her gaze demanding his eyes, and when he looked up, hers were dark with worry. "I am concerned," she said. "If you can't talk to me, then perhaps you should speak to someone…"
He scowled, pulled his hands from hers angrily, and raised them to interrupt her. "No counselors," he said. Hell, no. Although he'd been reinstated, he knew Command was keeping a close eye on former Maquis. If he was ever going to get a ship of his own and the opportunity to pursue his research in deep space, he had to be the model officer now. The last thing he needed on his record was a psych blot. "I can handle this myself."
Her nostrils flared with a sharp intake of air. "You're not handling this."
For the last seven years, he'd served as a de facto counselor on Voyager, talking dozens of crewmembers away from the brink. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd tried to express his own needs, or if he could even explain anymore what those needs were. His life was good. He had work that sustained him, work he'd chosen without obligation—for maybe the first time in his life. He had the love of a brilliant, beautiful, complicated woman, with whom he fell more in love every day. He honestly thought he'd made peace with his past; he'd done the trance work, spoken with his father, felt forgiven and forgiveness. Why again? Why now?
Seven bit her lower lip. "Perhaps you should return to your homeworld," she said. "Your sister and uncles have asked you to visit…"
He studied the garden through the glass doors, the city and the bay beyond them; the bridge was shrouded in fog. He heard his father's voice: You will be caught between worlds. He was. Still. His eyes burned, he blinked rapidly. "Come with me," he said at last.
She said nothing. He understood her hesitance. Adapting to Earth was difficult enough—even amid the diverse and tolerant population, her cybernetic implants occasionally elicited unwanted attention. How would she fare on a planet where every new piece of technology was endlessly debated and ultimately rejected?
"I've met what's left of your family," he said, shrugging. "You might as well meet what's left of mine."
His pathetic attempt at a joke failed miserably; her eyes welled with hurt.
He sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "That didn't come out right." He stroked her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear, and then continued tracing the curve of her jaw with his finger. "My relationship with my homeworld is… complicated."
She took his hand and laced her fingers between his. Her lips quirked into a wry smile. "I have a passing familiarity with conflicted feelings regarding one's upbringing," she said.
Her bleak humor was more effective than his. He chuckled grimly. "So you do," he said and drained his mug. "I've spent my life in between two worlds, never exactly at home in either." He snorted softly. "They call me a contrary."
Seven pursed her lips in thought. "Because you challenge them?" she asked.
He nodded. "Because I do the opposite of what's expected," he said. "I guess that does challenge them."
"Would I be considered a contrary as well?" He looked up sharply, but there was no mockery in her eyes; it was an honest question. "Here, I mean," she clarified. "On Voyager. On Earth."
He slowly smiled as he remembered her standing up to the Captain, her moments of open defiance—and his reluctance to discipline her. Part of that was because for a long time, he'd simply deferred to Kathryn when it came to Seven, avoiding the irritating ambivalence the former drone once evoked in him. But part of it, he recognized now, was that she'd given voice to a long-silenced side of himself—and he'd wanted to cheer her on, not reprimand her. "Yes," he said, gathering her into his arms. "I think you would be."
She rested her head on his shoulder. "I think I like that," she said. "I enjoy confounding expectations." He felt her shrug and a throaty chuckle. "I might as well enjoy it—I appear incapable of avoiding it." She nodded decisively. "Contrary." What he'd taken as an epithet his whole life didn't sound half-bad when she put it that way.
He buried his face in her hair; it smelled like lavender and rosemary. He'd left his homeworld over thirty years ago, and he realized with a start that of all the people he'd known and loved since then, it was Seven who'd be the first person from this life he'd be introducing to that one. A grin spread across his face. He would be challenging his tribe. They would be challenging his tribe. "Maybe it's time I tried to bridge the divide," he murmured. "Can you help me with that?"
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