Pathways - Jeri Taylor [32]
He would hear that silence forever.
Though it was a hot day, and the moist film of smoke that hung in the air exacerbated the warmth, Chakotay was strangely chilled. An iciness had penetrated him, had consumed his heart and his mind, a cold steel of determination: I will avenge them.
It had been easy to find Sveta. In fact, she was waiting for his transmission. She had heard of the Cardassian attack on Trebus, and knew Chakotay well enough to surmise that he would be contacting her. The rest was easy. She procured a ship for him, not the most splendid or the most up-to-date, but packed with weaponry and defensive features. It was a guerrilla ship, meant for fast, daring raids, quick battles, and swift escape. He named it the Liberty. The first time Chakotay sat at the controls, he felt at home.
And then Sveta put him in touch with Seska.
He heard her before he ever saw her. He had been sent by Sveta to Bajor, where there were an ample supply of willing recruits for the Maquis, Bajorans whose long subjugation by Cardassia had ignited in them a murderous desire for vengeance. Sveta had learned that a woman named Seska was one of those, and Chakotay was to bring her into the fold.
At the periphery of one of the towns on Bajor had once been a magnificent outdoor arena, a graceful oval built into the side of a mountain that was studded with huge trees, spreading a lacy canopy over the terraced seating area. The Bajorans had used it for celebrations of the arts, and for various rituals of their Prophets. Cardassians, during their occupation, had made it the scene of punishment and execution of dissidents. Now it was in ruins.
Chakotay had been told he would find Seska among those ruins at the moment sunset becomes twilight, and when that time arrived, he approached the now-crumbling arena, which had been all but destroyed by receding Cardassian troops. A ring of columns still stood at the top of the auditorium, proud sentinels of survival on a planet that needed every symbol of courage and resilience it could muster.
From somewhere behind those columns came the sound of a woman’s voice, singing. It was haunting in the sunset haze, a strong, husky voice that had the ability to convey powerful emotions: longing, valor, despair, determination. He didn’t recognize the melody, but he stood for some minutes, rapt, listening as this muscular voice captivated his senses.
When it stopped, he approached, feeling somehow abject, humbled by the intensity of her song. He saw her at last, standing, facing the sunset, which was exploding in a profusion of orange and pink, her body straight and proud, gazing up at the violent sky with a concentration that was almost palpable. It was a moment of potent communion, and he was silent, respecting its sacredness.
Finally, she turned. Her face was as strong as her voice, beautiful in the way a powerful animal is beautiful. Her dark hair was swept back but loose, like a mane, and her black eyes glistened with some inner fire, opalescent.
“You’re Chakotay,” she said simply, and he nodded. “Seska,” she informed him.
And then she walked straight to him, put strong arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.
It was the most electrifying event of his life. Everything coalesced into that one moment: the brilliantly turbulent sunset, darkening now into slashes of purple, the proud clear voice raised in defiant song, and the anguish Cardassia had inflicted on each of them. Lightning flashed between them, igniting some deeply smoldering eroticism into a raging, heedless lust.
An hour later, they were engaged in a pitched battle about whether or not to venture into Cardassian territory on their first sortie.
And thus was their relationship born, of hunger and need and conflict, and so did it continue, until the time Chakotay realized he could not captain a ship and carry on an affair with one of his crew, but that time was surprisingly long in coming.
The first time he killed as a Maquis,