Chapter 4 – Parallel Fissures
"I say, we attack them now before they attack us," Anth'Ol slurred, his mouth half buried into a chunk of blood-red meat dripping with fat.
"Well, good luck catching them." Clara Highweather shrank away from the surly man.
"What would be the point of that? What I'm saying is let's hit their camp. They'll have more food than we've got, that's for sure."
"It's not like you know how to track them, do you Anth'Ol. Looks like they're pretty quick on their feet."
"They've got the brains of a Neanderthal. They don't even have bows and arrows, or spear throwers like we have." Anth'Ol threw the bone behind him and leaned over the fire to grab another lump of sizzling meat.
Clara's face crumpled with disgust. "Can't say I've ever seen you using a bow. You are a disgrace. Always whingeing about going hungry, and never getting off your arse and doing something about it."
The man clumped his greasy hand hard on her arm and whispered, bits of fat and gristle stuck in his beard.
"Jonas was at a team leader meeting this afternoon. Chakotay and Neelix have gone all chummy over the natives they've met. Chakotay said nobody should approach them so as to not contaminate their culture. As if they've got one. Anyway, seems their camp is only five kilometres from here, over that hill. Nothing stopping us from having a look ourselves in a couple of hours, when the sentries are nodding off."
"You wouldn't be game." She unplucked his fingers one by one and brushed her arm off.
"Ah well, if you prefer to stay here and be fed the scraps the officers leave behind, be my guest."
"I don't see how killing the natives is going to get us more food," she said, uncertain.
There were rumours going around that the hunters were keeping much of the food for themselves. And most of the hunters were Voyager's officers, helped by the natives they'd met two days before.
"Well, there'd be less competition for a start. Chakotay is letting them keep most of what they kill. So, there's less for us. More to the point, though…"
She could see a malignant smile spread on his face in the flickering light of the camp fire. "What?"
"Well, Jonas was saying the way Chakotay explained it, it's a family group. One old chief, his adult sons, and their women."
"You are disgusting, Anth'Ol." She made to stand up.
"No, not for that, Highweather." He rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't touch them with a barge pole. They must be as revolting and filthy as the guys. What I mean is that we could use them to get food for us."
"Why would they do that?"
Trust Anth'Ol to have the most stupid ideas. Clara did not know much about Starfleet, but she'd always wondered how the guy had landed a job in Engineering. No wonder Torres had relegated him to the dirtiest jobs.
"No choice. The way I see it, we bring the females here, and send the males away to hunt. When they come back, the females can cook the food. Less work for the likes of you and me."
"Fancying yourself as a slave master now?"
There was merit in what he was saying though. She was getting sick of skinning and cooking whatever the hunters brought back. Just because she did not want to hunt didn't mean she had to do their dirty jobs for them. If they killed it, they could as well prepare it too.
"Heh, it's not like the natives are real people. They're hardly a pretty sight."
She had to agree with that. She'd been part of the original group that had met the couple of natives. The combination of animal furs and matted hair looked pretty awful, and they stunk to high heaven. Then there was the corpse they'd come across a few days back. The natives did not even bury their dead, just left them to rot on top of a few rocks. Chakotay had forbidden touching the tools and weapons left at the side of the body, but she'd seen the well-made spears in the hands of some of the crew. Those guys must have doubled back and served themselves, she thought.
Not that the dead did not need any of their stuff. Hogan, Mort, Cavendish —they hadn't left much behind from what she'd heard. Some, like Janeway, had vanished without a trace. A pity about the baby, but she'd never liked the Starfleet woman. Too confident and pushy, ordering everybody around as if she was still the captain even after Voyager had disappeared back in space leaving the crew behind.
"How long do you think we'll be staying on this bloody planet?" she asked wistfully.
"How long?" The man guffawed. "You and me and everybody else aren't going anywhere, lass. It's not like Paris is ever going to come back. Probably sold the shuttle the minute he set foot on a civilised planet."
Paris had never given her the time of day, but she'd always fancied his rogue charm. "Just because that's what you would have done—"
"Forget about him. It's been two months. He's gone."
"The Captain said he'd be back."
"Give me a break. She was in cuckoo land that woman, all about this principle and that, and sticking to Starfleet rules and keeping us all together like we were kids. It's all her stupid fault we're trapped down here, living like savages," the man said.
He wiped his mouth with his forearm. "Nobody's going to come and save us, and that's how it is."
Clara helped herself to a second serve of meat, choosing a well-cooked piece. Chakotay had not been too happy about the decision to split the crew, she'd heard, but it had made sense, and since then the hunters had been more successful. Runners made sure the three groups kept in contact every couple of days so it wasn't like the others had disappeared into the wilderness.
This land was made for those who had the sense and strength to survive and she wanted to be one of them. Maybe it was time for a few daring men and women to upset the status quo. She was tired of never knowing if there would be enough food for her next meal, while walking towards nowhere.
"Who else's coming?" she asked, tucking in.
###
Eyes closed, the woman floated in her own private womb, one hand safely holding the naked baby sprawled between her breasts.
In the early morning, she'd left the others to go hunting, and found the hot springs while exploring a hidden gorge. After skinning the game she had killed, the warm water beckoned. Slipping off the heavy and smelly furs, she undid the knots of a thinner soft grey cloth wrapped around her upper torso, the last remnant of a life that came to her only in fractured dreams.
She cautiously dipped a calloused toe in the glassy surface of the pond. Her stomach was flat, the muscles of her legs and arms firm and well-defined after weeks spent walking. Only a slight bow marked the break in the lower leg.
Goosebumps spread on her pale skin. She lowered herself in the spring, wincing as the mineralised water made its way into the many scratches she'd collected during her journey. When she was reassured the water was safe, she unwrapped the baby. The infant kicked its legs happily, splashing her with its chubby arms. She laughed at its antics but soon the warmth and her gentle nonsense sing-song voice lulled it to sleep.
Her head slowly dropped under the opaque water until only her face and her chest with the baby on top poked into the swirls of vapour above the warm pool. Nimble fingers caressed her hair, untangling the heavy mane and letting it spread under water. She avoided touching the long gash on the side of her head, where the skin was paper thin and her hair had not regrown.
A hand slid over her collarbone, played leisurely with an erect nipple, then stroked the skin of her stomach. It then dipped lower, and the same face that inhabited dreams of another place came hovering to the surface of her awareness, brown eyes brimming with kindness and laughter, lips turned upwards.
The man's voice, firm and compelling, was calling to her. She stilled her hand. The others were always making sounds with their mouths and as the days passed, she'd strived to break through the fog of her mind to understand their importance.
Nothing happened. She sat up on the far edge of the pool, hitching the startled baby on her thighs.
It was as if there was another 'her' teetering at the edge of her consciousness. Somebody who knew the stars, wore strange clothing, lived in a place of wonders, and made powerful tools and weapons. Who perhaps shared her body with the man in her dreams, as she'd seen the people she travelled with do and manifestly enjoy during the long evenings around the campfire.
Maybe that person so familiar and yet so alien had a family of her own, people who knew and loved her. She clasped the baby tightly, tears dropping on its head. She did not know if she was crying for the lonely woman with no past and no language, or for the wise and clever one, prisoner of her damaged mind.
After a few minutes, the infant started to squirm, impatient to return into the warm water. The woman wiped her eyes and gave it a last hug. She then pushed herself into the middle of the pool for a last dip, checking the baby's skin and hair for biting insects and stubborn dirt.
The steam had grown thicker as the air cooled in the late afternoon, and stillness surrounded her. It was time to search for the others before dusk made finding their tracks and camp site impossible.
As she waded towards the edge of the pool, she heard rustling in the bank above her. A dozen lightly-built humanoid shapes rushed silently past, spears and clubs in hand. The woman sank noiselessly back into the milk-coloured water until only her eyes showed above the surface. The baby remained thankfully silent, alert to its minder's uneasiness.
Red streaks ran down the naked grey bodies, and strings of bloodied humanoid skull tops, large claws and canine-like teeth circled their waists on leather thongs. The males sported sparse facial hair, and eyes gleaming in the middle of large charcoal circles. The females with small adolescent breasts wore the same trophies and excited look. The fog closed behind them as if they were wraiths.
Hearing no more sounds, the woman quickly made her way to where she'd left her furs and weapons. Without slowing down, she quicly dried the baby and hitched it on her back, then hobbled up the slope as fast as she could, her heart racing.
