by Jeri Taylor
An ineffable emotion began to suffuse B’Elanna. It was vague and unfamiliar, and she couldn’t identify it, couldn’t even tell if it were similar to anything she’d ever felt before. She had a sudden, vivid memory of sitting in her father’s lap as a child, safe and protected, listening to her mother tell a story of a legendary Klingon hero. What was his name? She couldn’t remember any longer. But in that moment, secure in her father’s arms, hearing her mother’s mythic tale of courage and honor, she had felt as she did at this moment.
She glanced toward Chakotay, who was listening solemnly to Seska’s haunting song, his face betraying no emotion. She leaned toward him and whispered, “Chakotay, could your ship use a highly qualified engineer?”
When he turned to her and smiled, her heart hammered in her chest, and she suddenly identified the unfamiliar emotion she was experiencing.
It was happiness.
In the dreams, he came to her at night, taking her sometimes tenderly, sometimes in a feral hunger, but always because he loved her. He whispered of his passion, his adoration of her, his determination that they be together always. She would never again be lonely, or sad, or afraid, because he would be with her. He would never abandon her.
She would wake aroused and unsatisfied, but, for a few moments, enveloped in a drowsy cocoon of well-being. He loved her. He would stay with her.
And then the vaporous mists of sleep and dream would evaporate, and she remembered where she was. She lay on a hard cot in cramped crew quarters on board the Liberty, captained by the man of whom she dreamed. The man was a friend, who respected and trusted her, and who valued her abilities as an engineer.
But not the man who loved her.
Soon after she joined the Maquis, Seska caught her look toward Chakotay, and correctly interpreted it. She had waited until she and B’Elanna were working, alone, on a damaged shuttle they’d “salvaged” from a Federation ships’ graveyard.
As they struggled to repair the vessel’s driver coil assembly, Seska spoke casually. “How do you like it so far? Serving with the Maquis?”
B’Elanna was instantly wary. She didn’t dislike Seska, and she respected her abilities, but there was something in her voice as she asked the question that aroused suspicion. It was too offhand, more casual than the question warranted. B’Elanna shrugged. “It’ll do,” she replied.
Seska seemed hurt. “We’re starting to have a real impact. Cardassia has registered a formal complaint with the Federation about us. People can’t ignore us any longer—we’re a force in the demilitarized zone that has to be taken into account.”
“Then I guess we’re doing our job.”
Seska looked at her with accusation in her eyes. “You don’t really care, do you? To you, this is just a job, a way to pass your time. It’s not a cause like it is for the rest of us.”
“I’ve never been one for causes.” She was beginning to get annoyed. What was Seska up to? Why was she challenging her like this?
“If Chakotay knew that, he might have second thoughts about your being aboard.”
B’Elanna’s head whipped toward her. Suddenly she understood perfectly. Time to pick up the gauntlet. She faced Seska squarely. “Are you in love with him?”
The bluntness of the question caught Seska off guard. There was a brief startled flicker of the eyes, and a glance away as she gathered herself. But she was off balance for only that second. She turned back and fixed B’Elanna with a smug gaze. “He’s in love with me,” she stated decisively, and waited for B’Elanna’s response.
Torres eyed her with what she hoped was impassivity. “I’m surprised,” she said. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, but I’ve never seen him return that look. In fact, I’ve never seen him treat you as anything more than a valued crew member.”
“We’ve been having an affair for more than a year. But we know it’s best to keep that a secret. It might create tension among the crew.”
“He’s a very good actor. Better than you.”
A bright flush appeared on Seska’s cheeks and her eyes glittered in a way that made B’Elanna unaccountably afraid. There’s a lot going on inside this woman, she thought, and decided to stay alert in her dealings with the Bajoran.
“Chakotay’s able to hide his feelings well. That’s just the way he is. But . . . Bajorans are very passionate people.” She paused to let that assessment sink in, then continued. “It’s harder for us to hold in our emotions.”
“Seska . . . why are you telling me all this?”
Seska busied herself with one of the six toroids of the driver coil assembly. “It seemed only fair to let you know the situation. In case there were any doubts.”
A droplet of anger was beginning to boil in B’Elanna, but she willed herself not to reveal it. That’s what Seska wanted, and to give her that satisfaction would be intolerable. She maintained a studied coolness. “Frankly, I’ve never thought about it one way or the other. What you and Chakotay do in your spare time isn’t of any interest to me. I can’t imagine that you thought it might be.”
She felt Seska’s eyes on her, but didn’t look back. “Have you aligned the toroids?” B’Elanna asked casually. “We’re never going to get this shuttle operational if we don’t stop talking.”
And the rest of the afternoon passed in silence.
Six months later, Chakotay returned from a hurried and secret visit to Earth with a sullen young human in tow. His sandy blond hair was wayward and his blue-gray eyes frankly assessed every woman he saw.
B’Elanna disliked him on sight.
Chakotay had recruited him to replace Setonak, their Vulcan pilot, who had been injured during a fracas with the Cardassians and who was recuperating in a medical facility on Vulcan. B’Elanna missed Setonak, whose stoic restraint was calming to her. She wondered if she could ever learn to control her emotions in the way that Vulcans had. She’d often thought of talking to Setonak about his mental discipline, but that very discipline made him impervious to approach.
And now, in his place, was this arrogant whelp, this Tom Paris. What could Chakotay have been thinking?
They clashed right from the first. She resented his appraising look at her, as though she were an ornament whose value he was deciding. She disliked the seductive timbre of his voice, which seemed to imply that they were in a bedroom rather than an engine room. And most of all, she hated the fact that he was trying to tell her her business.
“All I’m saying,” he drawled, “is that if you’d just keep the vectored exhaust director at its narrowest setting, I could probably increase my maneuverability by about thirty percent.”
“And if you knew anything about venting exhaust, you’d know that would cause a buildup that would not only start producing toxic fumes in Engineering, but might overload the reaction chamber and cause a nasty little explosion. Why don’t you stick to piloting, and let me handle the engines.”
He grinned at her, which nettled her further. He seemed coated in some defensive shield, deflecting any comment or criticism. It was impossible ever to know what was really going on inside him, for he presented only this surface self, carefree and impervious.
“Torres, what say we call a truce? I won’t try to tell you your business, you don’t try to tell me mine—and maybe we can be friends. You might like me if you get to know me.”
“A truce is fine. But I’ll pass on the friendship part.”
He shrugged and moved away. If he was disappointed, or wounded, he didn’t show it. She found herself unaccountably irritated by that trait, without realizing that it was one she wished she could develop as well.
It was because of Tom’s skill as a pilot that they began to explore a region of space known as the Badlands.
It was a violent, churning, dangerous region, full of plasma storms that could destroy a ship in an instant. Many of the crew disliked entering it, even though it provided protection from both Cardassian and Starfleet vessels, both of which were loath to follow.
But B’Elanna found that she derived a secret thrill from the Badlands. She loved the roiling, dramatic clouds, the tendrils of trailing plasma that threatened to destroy them. She liked to watch Tom Paris maneuver his way through the storms, brow knit in concentration, skillfully guiding their ship away from danger. He was a good pilot, that she had to admit.
And she suspected that he enjoyed this challenge as much as she did. The whole experience triggered a rush of adrenaline in her—a condition that had always been like a narcotic for B’Elanna. Danger heightened her senses, elevated her mood, gave her a sense of excitement that had always been pleasurable. She sensed the same in Tom.
One day they were mapping the area for future use.
B’Elanna, Tom, and Chakotay were on the small bridge, along with Yuri Terikof, their navigator. Yuri was a wiry, dark-ringleted man with small bright eyes and a prominent nose which combined to give him a strangely avian look. He was also completely fearless, and an inspiration to them all in situations of battle. The ship was being battered by the intense storms, and B’Elanna suspected Chakotay was on the verge of giving the order to retreat from the Badlands.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, they were sailing as smoothly as a child’s boat on a tranquil pond.
She and Chakotay exchanged surprised looks. “Are you an even better pilot than I thought, or did we just leave the Badlands?” Chakotay asked Tom.
“We’re still inside,” replied Tom, “but we’ve come into an area where there aren’t any storms.”
“I can get clear sensor readings now,” added B’Elanna. “It’s an area approximately eight hundred million kilometers across—completely free of storms.”
“Like the eye of a hurricane,” muttered Chakotay, intently scanning his own console. But it was Yuri who spotted the most interesting aspect of their discovery. “What’s this? A belt of planetoids? Captain, this isn’t on any Federation map.”
“Then it looks like you’ve made the find, Yuri.” Chakotay grinned. “How does ‘the Terikof Belt’ sound to you?”
Yuri’s bright eyes sparkled even more as he smiled with childlike pleasure. “It sounds great,” he admitted. “But I don’t think a Maquis discovery is ever going to be entered into Federation cartographical charts.”
“You never know,” B’Elanna replied. “I think you should send a subspace message and register it.” She smiled to herself to think of the consternation this bold gesture might cause the stuffy Federation officials, who might balk at naming a ring of planetoids after a Maquis renegade, but who would feel ethically obligated to acknowledge that he found it first.
“Hold that thought,” interjected Chakotay, still scanning his console. “A couple of those planetoids look like they might be M-class.”
This posed interesting possibilities. If they could form a base camp here, in the middle of the Badlands, it would be far more secure than anything they could ever find in Federation space.
“Shall we check it out?” asked Tom. Chakotay nodded tersely in reply. B’Elanna had noticed lately that there seemed to be tension between the captain and the pilot, though she hadn’t witnessed any specific incident that might have caused it. Tom was irritating enough to cause tension with anyone, B’Elanna thought, and assumed that Chakotay had simply become frustrated with Tom’s cheeky attitude.
Presently they were in orbit of one of the M-class planetoids, scanning for the salient characteristics. “Breathable oxygen-rich atmosphere,” intoned Yuri, “photosynthetic flora is abundant, and sensors indicate substantial bodies of potable water. Sounds like home.”
That last remark produced no response from the people on the bridge, but B’Elanna assumed they all had a similar response: these were people who had no real home, not anymore, not after they decided to thumb their noses at the Federation’s peace treaty and try for a different kind of justice. So that paltry little planetoid in the Badlands would do as well as any.
Chakotay was clearly thinking the same thing. “Let’s take an away team. Tom, B’Elanna, Yuri, you’re all with me. And I want Seska to come, too.”
And within minutes they were standing in a meadow on one of the loveliest worlds B’Elanna had ever seen. Great forests stretched for kilometers, rich and verdant, rolling into foothills and then mountains which were snow-tipped. Sweet grasses blew on the meadow, producing a heady fragrance that reminded B’Elanna of the jasmine fields on Nessik. The sky was an azure blue, startlingly deep, and an occasional pink-tinged cloud drifted by.
They were silent for a few moments after materializing, taking in the surprising beauty of the place, each indulging in private thoughts that conjured up memories of earlier times, childhood times when the world was not so complicated and the sight of a fulsomely blooming woodland was enough to gladden the heart.
Such thoughts made B’Elanna feel vulnerable, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. She turned to the rest of the group, and her voice, when she spoke, was harsher than she’d intended. “Well, what do we think? It’s pretty, but can it be of any use to us?”
The others reacted as though they’d been jolted out of a reverie. She saw Seska, in particular, flash her an irritated glance. Chakotay turned in a circle, absorbing the grandeur of the meadow and the forests. “I think it can,” he breathed. “If we put up a few structures, we could have a base camp that’s absolutely safe from Starfleet. We could get out of the ship from time to time . . . stretch our legs . . . breathe some fresh air.”
There was a tone to his voice that B’Elanna caught, something that spoke to his appreciation for the outdoors, and she regretted her sharp words earlier. Who was she to spoil their enthusiasm for this halcyon planetoid?
“It wouldn’t take long to put up a few buildings,” she offered. “There’s plenty of wood here, which we could mill with phasers. I’d volunteer to be part of a construction crew.”
She noticed Tom Paris looking bemusedly at her, but she studiously avoided his eye. If he thought there was something quaint about her being able to build a dwelling, let him.
“I think that’s a hell of an idea,” said Chakotay, with noticeable enthusiasm. “You’re all volunteers. You can get started right away.”
“I think I’m needed on the ship,” protested Seska. B’Elanna knew right away that was a mistake on her part; Chakotay wouldn’t appreciate having his order challenged in front of others. And, indeed, he turned to her, tightlipped, clearly displeased. “I’ll make those decisions, if you don’t mind,” he said with his quiet firmness, and it was all B’Elanna could do to suppress a smile.
The morning was uncomfortably hot by eight hundred hours; two hours after that it was almost unbearable. They were all perspiring profusely and had stripped down to minimal clothing. Only the nearby stream, which cascaded from a mountain lake high above them, and into which they plunged several times an hour, made the situation tolerable.
After Chakotay refused to let her accompany the ship to Bajor, where they would resupply, Seska had retreated into a sullen pique, which was fine with B’Elanna. She was finding it increasingly difficult to make conversation with this woman, who was so clearly threatened by her presence.
Yuri, on the other hand, was as unflaggingly cheerful as always, chatting easily, making jokes about “his” belt of planetoids, and generally making the situation as pleasant as he could.
That left Tom Paris for her to cope with.
Tom disturbed her in a way she couldn’t quite comprehend. He always made her feel vaguely like a piece of livestock on display, and she certainly resented his appraising looks. But she’d been looked at like that by men for much of her life. There was something else in Tom that grated on her, but she couldn’t figure out just what it was.
Now they were working side by side in the insufferable heat, building one wall of the structure while Yuri and Seska were off milling logs with phasers. The wood of the trees they were using was dense, and the logs were heavy. B’Elanna’s shoulders and arms were already protesting, and they had hours
of this labor to go. She wiped sweat out of her eyes with a forearm and bent her legs as they struggled to lift a two-meter log into place. They’d almost succeeded when B’Elanna lost her grip and the timber went crashing to the ground.
“VeQ ngIm!” she spat, and heard Tom chuckle. She turned and glared at him. “What’s so funny?” she asked sharply.
“You—sounding like a Klingon mercenary. Just seems incongruous, somehow. You’re not like any Klingon I’ve ever known.”
“I hope not.”
He looked at her quizzically. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She drew a breath. She was never comfortable talking about herself, and Tom was about the last person she would want to discuss her most private feelings with. “Let’s get this log up,” she countered, hoping he’d get the hint. They heaved once more and the log took its place on top of the last one. The wall was steadily growing.
“Is your father Klingon? Or your mother?” He wasn’t going to drop it.
“My mother.”
“Is your father Starfleet?”
“If we have to talk, could we talk about something else?”
He looked at her solemnly for a moment. “How about a dip?” he suggested. “Time to cool off again.”
She took a breath and then nodded. It really was too hot to work for any length of time without taking steps to cool themselves. They stripped off their gloves and headed for the stream that ran through the woods.
“You know, we were at the Academy at the same time,” Tom said casually. Her head whipped toward him.
“I didn’t know you.”
“I wasn’t that noticeable. But everyone was aware of you. There aren’t that many Klingons who attend the Academy.”
Irritation nibbled at her. Did it have to be like this? Was she always going to be defined by her lineage? “My father was Starfleet,” she said. “I never laid eyes on him after I was five years old, but his name did get me permission to take the entrance exams.”
