Pathways

by Jeri Taylor

  The injector open-close cycle was variable, from twenty-five ns to fifty ns. Each firing of an injector exposed its corresponding warp coil to a burst of energy to be converted into the warp field. At warp factors one through four, the injectors fired at low frequencies, between thirty Hz and forty Hz, and remained open for only short periods. If she didn’t try to restore the full range of their cycle, and required only low firing frequencies, the ship could achieve warp speed if Mesler didn’t try to push it faster than warp four. It would have to do.

  She was ready to make the final modulation on the injectors when a muffled shriek over the comm system made her snap her head up, and then suddenly a rush of air disturbed the warm closeness of the engine room and a man materialized in front of her.

  A Cardassian, to be specific, weapon drawn and pointed right at her. The cords of his elongated neck stood out, rough and fibrous. The bony cartilage that gave his face the appearance of a topographical map was distended and shiny—a sign, she knew, of aggressive posture.

  She backed away from him slightly, arms in front of her, showing no hostility. She was about to ask him what he was doing there, but he spoke first.

  “Your cargo, Klingon. Where is it?”

  B’Elanna bit her tongue. She hated it when people addressed her simply as “Klingon,” and hadn’t tolerated the appellation from the pudgy Bolian pilot. But this Cardassian warrior was another matter. He was dangerous.

  “We have four decks of cargo. It isn’t that difficult to find.”

  His dark eyes flashed slightly at her impudent tone, and she felt him assessing her with barely disguised disdain. “Be careful, Klingon. Your people may be brave warriors, but you are a lone woman and unarmed. It would be more sensible to cooperate than to antagonize.”

  B’Elanna tossed her hair out of her eyes and glared at him. “What gives you the right to demand cooperation? You’ve boarded our ship illegally. We’re in Federation space and you have no authority here. I’m going to register a complaint with the Federation Council.”

  His eyes narrowed and the start of a patronizing smile curled at his lips. “You’re a plucky one,” he murmured. “I’ve always enjoyed strong-minded women. But you are no navigator. This ship is in the demilitarized zone which buffers Federation and Cardassian space.”

  Torres stared at him. She was sure he was wrong, but unless that could be proven, they were in trouble. Starfleet offered no protection to the denizens of the demilitarized zone. Cardassians, knowing that, routinely took advantage of the situation to harass the tenacious colonists who had refused to leave their homes. She and Mesler could hope for no reinforcements from Starfleet, and were essentially at the mercy of this pompous Cardassian soldier.

  Nonetheless, it seemed wrong to show weakness. She kept her eyes locked on his and lifted her chin. “I’m afraid you’re wrong. I can prove to you that we’re still in Federation space and that you are the trespasser.” She took one step toward her console and felt a hand clasp her arm firmly and swing her back around. Suddenly she was drawn closely to the Cardassian and could smell a musky odor coming from him.

  “You don’t move unless I tell you to move,” he said, extremely softly, and that quiet tone was somehow more menacing than a snarl. She stiffened, forcing herself to look at him once more.

  “Let go of me,” she said, just as softly, but hoping the timbre of her voice was as threatening as his. But he didn’t move, keeping his tight grip on her upper arm.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, and in his tone she heard complete authority and confidence. The voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. “I enjoy the feel of you. You’re wonderfully . . . firm.”

  In spite of the heat of the engine room, B’Elanna felt a chill. What did this man want? Were there others? What was going to happen to her?

  She endured the touch of his hand as he squeezed her arm lazily, staring at her with the proud look of possession. She felt herself become faintly nauseated; she wanted to shrink from him and curl up into a ball, shutting him out. But she willed herself to stand proudly, unyielding.

  He smiled indolently, continuing to rub her arm, never relaxing his firm hold on it. “First I want to see your cargo. You may lead the way.” And he released her. He had become languid, fluid. Clearly he had more on his mind than cargo. Her mind began to race, trying to plan a strategy.

  “The cargo decks are this way. Should I lead you?”

  “Please.” He still had the weapon, and raised it slightly to remind her of his dominance. She turned her back on him and moved toward the ladders. She climbed upward, uneasily aware that he was right behind her, and she imagined his gaze on her.

  As soon as she could, she swung from the ladder and onto the lowest cargo deck. Crates were stacked in neat rows—credit the Bolians with tidiness, anyway—which filled the shadowy confines of the space. One solitary light source in the rear of the room provided the only illumination. They could have had ten times the light for the same energy output, but Mesler for some reason claimed that one light was enough and that frugality was a virtue to be championed.

  “Open one of the crates,” ordered the Cardassian as soon as he had joined her on the deck.

  “You’ll have to speak to the pilot,” she retorted. “This is his ship, his cargo. You’ll need his permission before you touch anything.”

  The Cardassian’s easygoing smile played again on his mouth. “Your pilot lies in a pool of his own blood,” he informed her quietly. “I suspect he’s being skinned. Bolian skin is considered a rare treasure on our homeworld. Our women particularly enjoy its suppleness.”

  B’Elanna’s stomach turned to ice. She tried not to register the shock she was feeling, but knew she couldn’t fully hide it. She drew several full gulps of air, trying to counteract the light-headedness that had overtaken her. She looked back at her captor and saw that he was smiling easily, assessing her.

  “Shocked? Disgusted? I thought Klingons were made of hardier stock.”

  “I am only half Klingon. I am also human. And, yes, I am reviled at what you’re saying. It’s barbaric. Savage.”

  “It was my understanding the people of the Federation are too open-minded to make judgments on the cultural predilections of other species. It would seem that you are a poor representative of both your genetic strains.”

  Nausea was threatening to overcome B’Elanna, and she drew in more ragged gasps of air. It was as close and warm on the cargo deck as it had been in the engine room, and she felt the room begin to spin. “Sick . . .” she gasped, and sank to her knees, lowering her head to bring blood to it. She felt the Cardassian kneel beside her, felt the caress of his hand on her back. She looked up at him.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “If I could just sit here a minute . . .”

  “It’s quite all right, my dear,” he said softly. “Gather your senses. In the meantime, I’ll inspect your cargo.” She nodded, still not looking up, trying not to think of poor Mesler, who was an annoying little man but essentially a decent one, and who did not deserve to die violently on the bridge of his hard-won vessel. Gradually, her head began to stop swimming and her stomach stopped roiling. She looked up.

  The Cardassian stood over her, Starfleet weapons in his hands. It was such an unexpected sight that for a moment she didn’t realize the implications. Then, she gasped.

  “I suppose you’re going to say you didn’t know this ship carried weapons,” he intoned.

  “Of course I didn’t. Mesler said we were taking humanitarian supplies to the colonists in the demilitarized zone.”

  “I suppose one might classify phaser rifles and photon torpedoes as ‘humanitarian,’” he said. “Depending on one’s political stance.”

  “I have no political stance. And I didn’t know anything about those weapons.”

  To her dismay, he approached her, knelt down beside her, and stroked her cheek with his corded hand. “Proud little Klingon,” he breathed. “Don’t be afraid . . . I am
Gul Tancret, and I will put you under my protection.”

  B’Elanna lifted her eyes to his. She felt clearheaded now, focused. She knew exactly what she had to do. “My name is B’Elanna,” she breathed. “You’re very gracious, Gul Tancret, and I appreciate your kindness. I’m alone now . . .”

  His hand dropped to her neck, her shoulder, her back, stroking and caressing. She was aware that his breathing was deepening. She picked up his other hand in hers and began sniffing it, the instinctual Klingon prelude to mating. The gesture seemed to arouse him, and she heard a low moan escape his lips. She nipped gently at his hand with her small white teeth—thank goodness she hadn’t inherited her mother’s Klingon teeth—and heard him moan again.

  Her legs tensed under her as she readied herself. She drew one long breath of air (knowing it would be interpreted as passion), and then suddenly drove upward like a shuttle being launched. Gul Tancret’s head snapped back and he tumbled off balance, sprawling in an ungainly heap on the deck. Caught completely off guard, he struggled to regain himself, but by then B’Elanna was on her feet and swinging a flying kick at his temple.

  She felt her boot make contact, felt the bone in his forehead collapse, saw Tancret crumple. Then saw him shake himself, swing his head toward her, and focus on her with black eyes flaring. He erupted toward her, arm cracking her calf with such impact that she cried out. Her leg went numb and she stumbled backward, trying to regain her footing and ready herself for his next attack. But she had no purchase on the decking; his second blow caught her on the jaw, and she went reeling, pain streaking along the whole left side of her face.

  She scrambled on the floor, seeking refuge behind the weapons crates. She looked desperately for the open one, on the chance she could snatch a phaser, but she was nowhere near it, and to open another would give him time to strike again.

  She shoved at a stack of crates and, to her delight, they toppled, blocking his path for a moment. She scurried through the maze of cargo, glad now for Mesler’s frugality and the darkness of the room. She heard Tancret plowing through the toppled crates and worked her way farther into the gloom.

  Suddenly, there was a muffled rumble, and the entire deck trembled. A sound of voices in the distance, excited calls of alarm. There was another rumble, and several stacks of the cargo crates collapsed. B’Elanna now realized she was in danger of being buried if she stayed where she was. Carefully, she began to move toward the open center of the room once more.

  Then the voices were closer, shouting, tumultuous, and she heard the distinctive sound of phaser fire. Quickly she worked the closure on one of the crates and pulled out a rifle, feeling complete for the first time since she’d encountered the Cardassian.

  Cautiously, she edged her way forward, listening carefully. She heard the voices of humans, crisp and urgent. Then there was another of the violent shudders, the room shook, and she felt the stack of crates just next to her begin to lose stability.

  She dived into the center of the room, weapon skittering across the floor, just in time to escape being crushed by the collapsing cargo containers. She rolled to her feet, arms in front of her, ready for battle.

  A human male stood in front of her, a look of astonishment on his face. He was darkly handsome, and wore a strange marking on his temple. Gul Tancret and two other Cardassians were sprawled on the deck, unconscious or dead. “Who are you?” the human barked.

  “Engineer . . .” B’Elanna began, but winced with the effort to speak. She realized her jaw had been broken, and her hand involuntarily moved to it, pressing gingerly.

  “Is the propulsion system on line?” She nodded. “Come with me,” he ordered, and began to descend into the engine room. She followed him unquestioningly, knowing somehow he was a friend.

  Two hours later, her ship was in orbit of Riva, a planet in the demilitarized zone, along with its valuable cargo, which was immediately unloaded onto the surface.

  She was in a small compartment on board the Maquis ship Liberty, being tended by a Bajoran woman whose hands were strong and gentle, and who wielded the osteogenic stimulator with deft skill. “That was quite a blow you took,” the woman observed. “It’s a wonder you didn’t lose consciousness.” She paused briefly, then added, “Most would have.”

  B’Elanna started to reply, but the pain in her jaw was still too severe. “Shhh,” whispered the Bajoran. “Don’t try to talk yet. It’ll be a little longer before the bone is regenerated.”

  A few moments passed, with the affable hum of the stimulator the only sound. Finally, the woman spoke again. “I’m Seska. The captain of our ship is Chakotay. He’s the one who found you.” Seska smiled to herself, and B’Elanna immediately sensed a change in this woman when she mentioned Chakotay. She was softer somehow, more vulnerable.

  “You’re lucky it was our ship that found you. It took incredible courage to engage that Cardassian ship, but Chakotay is the most fearless captain a ship could have. He didn’t hesitate.”

  “The load of weapons we were carrying might have been an inducement,” replied B’Elanna, noting that she could speak without pain now.

  Seska frowned slightly. “We could’ve taken the cargo and left you to the Cardassians,” she retorted, “but Chakotay doesn’t behave like that.”

  “Believe me, I’m grateful,” B’Elanna replied. She didn’t want to antagonize these people. She was only too aware that she was alone and friendless in this part of space, and couldn’t afford to alienate her rescuers.

  Before Seska could reply, the door to the compartment opened and Chakotay walked in. “How’s the patient?” he inquired, and B’Elanna noted the imperturbability in his voice. This man was unflappable, she realized, but at the same time she had the distinct impression he could be as stern and rigorous as necessary.

  Seska smiled at him, and B’Elanna once again sensed a change in her, a responsiveness that somehow suggested intimacy. “Healing nicely,” she said. “She’s a strong one.”

  B’Elanna felt Chakotay’s dark eyes inspect her. “We’re grateful to you for bringing the weapons through. I’m sorry Mesler had to die. He was a good friend.”

  “I didn’t know anything about the weapons,” replied B’Elanna. “I thought it was humanitarian supplies. I was just the engineer on that ship.”

  Chakotay smiled slightly. “Mesler was trying to protect you,” he suggested. “Though I doubt the Cardassians would’ve believed you.”

  A flashing memory of Gul Tancret lanced her mind, and she couldn’t suppress a slight shudder. “I want to thank you. For saving me. I can only imagine what would’ve happened to me.”

  He put out a gentle hand and held her shoulder. B’Elanna was vaguely aware that Seska was watching this gesture intently. “Our friends on the surface have asked us all to join them tonight. To celebrate this supply of weapons. Will you join us?”

  B’Elanna nodded, not wanting to look at Seska to see what the Bajoran thought of this invitation. Chakotay’s hand rested on her shoulder for only an instant more, and then he was gone, leaving the room somehow charged with the strength and power of his presence. B’Elanna glanced at Seska, and saw her looking after him, longing emanating from her like mist rising from the floor of a deserted forest.

  That night they gathered in the camp of the Maquis sympathizers on the surface of Riva. It was a summer’s evening in the planet’s tropical hemisphere, and the breezes carried the wild fragrance of pungent blossoms. The dwellers on Riva had set up tables in a woodland clearing near a rocky stream, which cooled the air and lent a pleasant murmuring music to the evening.

  There were perhaps thirty inhabitants of Riva and twenty-five crew from Chakotay’s ship, who mingled easily. The tables were laden with food: a thick stew that B’Elanna was pleased to note was laced with chunks of a flavorful meat, for she often craved real meat, but could rarely find it; huge slabs of freshly baked bread; bowls of ripe fruit; and a dry, spiced ale that complemented the stew wonderfully, and brought a pleasant inner wa
rmth that dispelled her uneasiness.

  Chakotay had stayed by her side all evening, introducing her, praising her courage against the Cardassian Gul, giving her credit for bringing the much-needed supplies to their group. She felt the object of adulation, and though at first it made her uncomfortable, she gradually began to enjoy the feeling.

  But she was always aware of Seska’s presence, hovering near Chakotay, on the periphery but near enough that if he had sought her, she would be there.

  He didn’t seek her.

  His attentions were focused on B’Elanna, patiently explaining the purpose and the activities of the Maquis. His passion for this cause—the protection of the rights of the abandoned colonists in the demilitarized zone—was profound. B’Elanna found herself stirred by his commitment and curious as to its origins.

  “Why are you so devoted to this cause?” she asked him. “You’re risking your life for these people. There must be a reason.”

  Chakotay looked away from her and she saw his face cloud slightly, and he seemed to wrap himself in some invisible, protective coating. She felt an almost physical barrier between them, and it was unnerving.

  Finally he looked back at her. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you someday.”

  She wasn’t about to press him further. The sound of a stringed instrument began to drift on the summer breeze, and B’Elanna looked to see where it was coming from.

  Seska was holding the alien instrument, a round, bowllike apparatus with at least ten or twelve strings, strumming it with quiet skill. Then she began to sing, her proud, compelling voice ringing through the night, the song one of both strength and lamentation. B’Elanna leaned back against a tree and gave herself up to the sensations: the nurturing warmth of the summer night, the wild fragrance of alien blooms, the full stomach and the ale-induced lull, and the sound of Seska’s voice, clear and transcendent, wafting on the scented breezes, singing of the loss of dead comrades and the solidarity of brotherhood.