by Jeri Taylor
Chakotay felt foolish speaking like this to a snake. But he made no move to leave the clearing, and he still felt no anxiety about being in some proximity to the creature which had caused him uneasiness all his life. “If you’re my spirit guide, then guide me. What do I do? Go back to Starfleet Academy or stay on my home planet?”
The snake uncoiled beautifully, and flowed around the edges of the clearing. Chakotay turned to watch it, fascinated by its easy muscularity. “That’s a hard one,” it said as it glided along the ground. “Go or stay home? Go or stay home?”
Chakotay felt a stronger sense of annoyance. It sounded very much to him as though this lowly snake was making fun of him. He doubted that was how spirit guides behaved. “Well?” he asked at last, when it seemed that nothing further would be forthcoming from the serpent, which continued its relentless progress around the clearing, circling and circling and circling.
“Well what?” it responded.
“What answer do you have for me?”
“I don’t have any answer for you.”
“Then what’s the point of my being here?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask the bear?”
And with that, the brightly colored coils disappeared into the leafy ferns, leaving Chakotay alone in the clearing with only the sound of the trickling stream for company.
Frustrated, he turned in a circle. “Is there a bear?” he called out, but there was only silence. “A wolf? An eagle?” He’d heard of those noble animals serving as spirit guides. But there was no response.
“A parrot, perhaps,” he called out, determined to conjure up a guide he could accept. “Or a macaw. I know the creation myth.”
The clearing was still except for the sound of trickling water. Even the usual forest noises were silenced. He stood for a few moments trying to think of another animal.
“All right,” he said finally, “it doesn’t have to be a powerful animal, or a noble one. What about a raccoon, or a beaver? A woodchuck. A prairie dog.”
He imagined he heard laughter in his mind, but of course that wasn’t possible. He waited.
“All right, have it your way. How about a snake?”
The green-and-yellow serpent erupted suddenly from the water, something trapped within its coils. It was a fish, which the snake was methodically suffocating. The fish struggled only briefly against its fate, then went limp. Chakotay watched, fascinated, as the snake opened its mouth and began to ingest the fish. The fish seemed to be larger than the reptile’s mouth, but the snake widened its jaw in order to accommodate its meal. Gradually, with successive gulps, the fish disappeared down the snake’s craw, leaving a huge lump directly behind its head. Then it turned to Chakotay.
“Were you indulged a great deal as a child? You behave very much like someone used to getting his own way.”
Chakotay felt a chill as he heard Sveta’s words repeated to him. It was hard to remember that everything that was happening was in his own mind, that all the memory and experience of his life was available to anyone or anything that might inhabit this strange landscape.
“Is that a clue?” he asked sincerely. “Are you saying I should go back to the Academy, where Sveta is?”
“I’m not saying anything. All of this is coming from you.”
“But I don’t know what to do. I need an answer.”
“It’s an answer you have to provide yourself.”
“Then what’s the point of coming here?”
“Good question. Maybe it’s to confront something you can’t confront in the external world. Out there you can point the finger at others, blame them for not making things easy for you. In here it’s a little harder. There’s only you.”
Chakotay contemplated this. This annoying snake was certainly frustrating, but he would feel awfully foolish suggesting to anyone—including himself—that an imaginary snake had let him down by refusing to make his decision for him.
“I’ve always been a contrary,” he said. “If I’m here, I want to be there. If I’m there, I want to be here. I don’t know what to do about that.”
“Then I guess you’ll stay that way.” The snake’s muscles gulped once more, and the lump of fish moved slightly farther along its body.
“I’d like to change that. I just don’t know how.”
“Then I guess you won’t be able to.” Another gulp.
“I’m trying to work this out,” said Chakotay irritably, “and I thought you were supposed to give me some help. ‘Spirit guide’ does imply guidance, after all.”
“I’m hurt. You’re accusing me of not doing my job.”
“Exactly. You’re not guiding me.”
The snake lifted its head slightly and extended its forked tongue once more. “People used to think my tongue was the poisonous part,” it said. “It’s actually my sensing organ. I sense a big hulking presence in front of me, and I sense that it’s a hopeless mass of confusion. I sense it would do anything other than make a decision, including indulging in a perfectly pointless argument with a figment of its own imagination. I see little hope for this presence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to digest my meal.”
And the snake coiled itself again, lowering its head to rest, preparing to spend the next several days in a torpor, consuming its recent meal.
Chakotay sat down on the ground and stared at it. Somewhere in what it had said there must be an answer, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. If this was all the help one got from a vision quest, he failed to see why it was so important to his people. Did they all go through these exercises in frustration and then report to the world that it had been a satisfying, productive experience? Was it all a sham, a ritual perpetuated for its own sake—as he suspected most of their rituals were—and lacking any intrinsic value?
He stood up in the still silent clearing. “All right, I’m ready to go now,” he announced.
Nothing happened. He remained in the clearing, the water pool trickling softly, the snake coiled and still. This was bothersome, but not really an impediment. This was his clearing; he’d discovered it and he knew the way out. He turned to follow the path he’d worn between the ferns over the years.
There was no path and there were no ferns. The shape of the clearing had changed subtly, and seemed more thickly thronged with underbrush. He tried to force his way through, but the brambles were thick and impassable.
He wasn’t going to be able to get out of there. This was something he hadn’t counted on—how did one leave a vision quest? He knew his body was actually sitting in the habak of his house, palm lying on the Akoonah. But here, in his mind, there was no Akoonah, no way that he could think of to break the hold of his vision.
He sat down again and contemplated the snake. It was completely at rest, all its bodily functions slowed in order to channel its energy into digesting the fish. It was in its own version of a trance. Chakotay was on his own.
That, he realized, seemed to be the message everyone was giving him. No one was going to help with this difficult choice; no one would even suggest which path might be more desirable. He and he alone must choose.
With that realization, a great weight seemed to be lifted from him, and he felt himself return to the euphoria that had preceded his arrival at this place. The green of the forest began to run, smearing into kaleidoscopic patterns once more, and again he felt buoyant and weightless. Was that all it took? Understanding, on some gut level, that only he was master of his destiny? It seemed too easy . . . until he remembered that just moments ago, it was an impossibly difficult idea to embrace.
The forest glade had swirled out of existence and its colors were shifting into cohesive forms once more. A pleasant humming in his ears grew louder and louder until—
—he opened his eyes. He was in the habak, surrounded by artifacts that had been a part of his people for thousands of years. His hand was on the Akoonah, and now he withdrew it, slowly. The sensation of euphoria was still with him, and he was loath to lose it. The stillness of the clear
ing pervaded his senses, and he remembered the coiled body of the snake with fondness, feeling somehow empty to be apart from it.
Curious.
He rose and sought out his father, who was tending his garden, lush now in late summer with fruits and vegetables, the seeds of which had been brought from Earth two hundred years ago when several native tribes emigrated to Trebus. Kolopak looked up, holding a bright golden tomato in his hand, smiling with satisfaction.
“I’m harvesting lunch, Chakotay. This will be delicious in a salad.”
Chakotay wasn’t much interested in a tomato. He regarded his father with a serious mien and said, “I’ve made a decision. I’m going back to Starfleet Academy. I intend to graduate.”
Kolopak nodded once, then studied the yellow tomato. “Is this enough, do you think? Or should we have squash as well?”
“Squash,” answered Chakotay without hesitation. It really wasn’t terribly hard to make decisions, once you put your mind to it.
Three years later, Chakotay graduated from Starfleet Academy with honors. He had eventually excelled in his studies and his extracurricular activities.
But there was little joy in the process. All around him, he saw his friends and classmates responding with enthusiasm to their regimens, finding wonder in knowledge and pleasure in activity. They laughed, they fought, they played jokes on each other, they fell in and out of love, they alternately despised and worshipped certain instructors, and in general entered into Academy life with vitality and ardor.
Chakotay was on the periphery of those experiences. He had friends, but none was intimate. He participated in wrestling events and had a rackful of medals to show for it, but he found no satisfaction in those victories. He was always asked to participate in group outings, and occasionally did, but frequently demurred. He was popular even though he didn’t seek out friends.
Only one person held a particular fascination for him, and that was Sveta, whose cool and knowing manner intrigued him. She seemed to see into him in a way no one else did. She challenged him, confronted him, debated with him—and then would smile that enigmatic smile and slip away, not to be seen for days. She began to assume the aspect of a mythological being in his mind: the Ice Maiden, alluring and mysterious.
His closest friend was probably Chert, who was undaunted by Chakotay’s darker moods and who deflected any rebuff with a cheerfulness that was irresistible. Chert might have been the only person with whom Chakotay felt genuinely comfortable, for he was the one person to accept him unconditionally, edges and all.
On many occasions Chakotay came close to leaving. Often he felt he wanted nothing more than to escape this burdensome life and go home again.
But he never did. Every time he contemplated that move, sense memory of the quiet clearing in the woods overwhelmed him, and the liberation he had felt then— when he realized he was alone, and alone could decide his life’s course—returned to him. He had made a choice; he would not unmake it. And so, almost by default, he finished school and entered into the life that Starfleet provided.
The first skirmish was hardly deserving of the title—an encounter, actually, almost not worth noting and certainly not a harbinger of everything that was to come. There was little to suggest that Cardassia would become the major influence in Chakotay’s life.
He was a lieutenant aboard the U.S.S. Vico, an aide to Captain Roger Hackney, a dour, wiry man with a leathered face and intense dark eyes that reflected both astuteness and cunning. Hackney was what in an earlier era might have been called a “man’s man,” preferring the company and comradeship of other males. He was married, had two sons, and from all indications adored his wife; however, with most females he was quaintly gallant, a behavior which covered the fact that he was uncomfortable with them. He had taken an instant liking to Chakotay, and the younger man had risen swiftly in the chain of command.
Chakotay was on the bridge of the Vico when they first detected the alien ship. “Sensors show an unidentified vessel approaching on an intercept course, one-point-six light-years away,” he warned Hackney.
“Anything like it in the Federation database?” queried Hackney with interest. They had been charting a far-flung sector of the Alpha Quadrant for a month, and anything that broke the tedium was welcome.
“It might be Cardassian, but if it is it’s a class of vessel we haven’t encountered before.” Chakotay noted his sensors and then added, “They’re scanning us as well.”
“Put the ship on screen as soon as we’re in visual range.” Both of them realized that the same kind of dialogue was probably occurring on the alien ship as well, each scanning the other, wanting clues, hoping to absorb as much information as possible before actually making contact. Chakotay felt his senses go alert and wary at the prospect; Cardassians were known to be dangerous and unpredictable.
“Here it is, Captain,” said Chakotay, and a faint image appeared on the viewscreen, barely discernible among the stars.
“Magnify,” said Hackney, but Chakotay had already entered the command, and now the image took shape: a massive, tripartite warship with extensive—and powerful— weapons systems.
At that moment they were hailed, and the image of the ship was replaced by that of a Cardassian: tall and rangy, the man had thick cords outlining his broad neck and temples, and black eyes that glittered like obsidian.
“State your purpose, Federation vessel,” the man said without preamble.
“I’m Captain Roger Hackney of the Federation starship Vico,” said Hackney in the standard introduction. “We’re charting this sector for our astrographic database.”
“You are perilously near Cardassian territory,” replied the man, who had not given them the benefit of a name by which to address him. “I am transmitting the coordinates of our borders to you and I urge you to respect them.”
Chakotay and Hackney both looked down at their consoles and studied the incoming data transmission. Hackney frowned and looked back at the screen.
“We’re aware of your stated territory, sir. There have been a number of encounters between our ships and yours. But I must say there’s an astonishing amount of flexibility to your borders. This transmission seems to indicate that Cardassia has swollen considerably in the last month.”
“Are you disputing our claims?”
“Just trying to understand them. The last reported border we have in our charts was two light-years from here.”
“The current coordinates are correct.”
“Is the Federation Council aware of this?”
“It is not our duty to report to the Federation Council. We are autonomous and will not be bound by the constraints of foreign cultures.”
“I’m only suggesting a spirit of cooperation,” replied Hackney easily. “Staying in communication could lessen the chances of unpleasant misunderstandings.”
The reptilian eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me, Federation Captain?” Chakotay noted that the Cardassian ship had suddenly powered its weapons systems. He looked to Hackney, who had seen the move but didn’t order him to follow suit.
“Not at all. As I said, just trying to communicate.”
“Let me communicate this: It would be best if you left Cardassian territory now.”
Hackney and Chakotay exchanged a quick glance. The Cardassian borders had magically shifted yet again.
“Are you suggesting we’re now inside Cardassian territory?”
“Of course. See for yourself.” Instantly, a new flood of data was transmitted to indicate that the coordinates the Vico now occupied were well within Cardassian space. Chakotay felt anger begin to rise in him; this was a blatant bullying technique, purposely transparent. Did the Cardassian think they would stand for this, that they would skulk away like chastened dogs? He brought the ship’s weapons on line, sure that Hackney would give that order.
“Belay that,” said Hackney quickly, with a dark look. Reluctantly, Chakotay powered down the weapons.
“A wise move, C
aptain,” purred the Cardassian, whom Chakotay was beginning to dislike intensely. “Far better to power your propulsion system and back off.”
“I hope your government will consider establishing diplomatic relations with the Federation at some point,” said Hackney. “Unfortunate incidents like this could be prevented.”
“The only unfortunate thing about this incident is your insistence on talking instead of acceding to my demands.”
“We have no intention of causing an incident, and we will withdraw. But my government will be notified about this encounter.”
The Cardassian smiled, a mirthless expression that conveyed menace more than anything else. “A prospect that causes me to quake with terror,” he droned, and then his image blinked off the viewscreen and was replaced with the sight of his ship, weapons still powered.
“We shouldn’t let him push us around like that,” Chakotay said instantly. “Our ship is as powerful as his—we could have made things difficult for him.”
Captain Hackney cast an understanding look at his young officer. “Of course we could have. But to what end? Our orders are to map space, not cause incidents that could escalate into something worse.”
“We didn’t cause anything—that Cardassian was the one juggling his borders.”
“That’s a nicety that would go largely unnoticed if we started trading phaser shots with him.” Hackney gave Chakotay a friendly clap on the shoulder. “When I was your age, I would’ve felt the same way. What you’ll learn as you get older is that it’s almost always smarter to avoid violence than to provoke it.”
Chakotay sank into a moody silence, his mind combing history for examples of times when violence had been the only solution to a problem, and when appeasement had only prolonged the inevitable and allowed the enemy to gain ground early on. They were abundant. And yet he knew his captain was correct in his assessment of this situation. One Starfleet survey ship and one Cardassian cruiser weren’t going to affect their governments’ policies one way or the other, and the only thing that could come from a skirmish between them would be a further deterioration of relations between the two entities. Better to back off.
