Pathways - Jeri Taylor [70]
B’Elanna’s eyes lifted to the rest of the camp, and was astonished by what she saw. Everyone not directly involved in the slaughter was working feverishly but doing nothing, taking absolutely no notice of the carnage that was occurring. Heads did not lift, eyes did not seek out the events that played out around the awful arena. There was a kind of mass denial, a refusal to acknowledge the hideousness of what was being done. B’Elanna guessed that experience had taught them that the safest behavior in such circumstances was to feign indifference.
She was unable to do so. She stared, unmoving, horrified, sick, her mind struggling to encompass the horror to which she was witness. The bodies were continuing to burn, even after they had stopped their agonal writhings, burn hotly, until nothing was left but a skeleton to which was affixed hunks of charred meat.
The guards finally stopped firing and simply stood, watching as their victims perished. When they were satisfied that a sufficient number had been punished, they turned back toward the portal in the wall through which they had emerged, and loped back to their posts.
It had taken minutes. Retribution for whatever offense had been committed had been swift and dreadful, but was it expected? B’Elanna wondered if the prisoners knew they were risking such awful punishment, or if the guards behaved unpredictably, changing the rules without warning, on a whim. She couldn’t imagine the fight taking place so openly if they had even vaguely suspected the consequences.
The next event was even more hideous.
As soon as the guards were done, prisoners set upon the charred bodies, ripping black flesh from the bones and consuming it. B’Elanna felt her stomach contract, her vision blur. Nausea flooded her, and she put her head down, bringing blood to her brain. In a moment, she felt slightly better, and turned to her companions. They were as pale as she imagined she was. Perspiration beaded Harrison’s face, and his eyes were haunted. Chakotay stared solemnly down toward the newly created crematorium, one vein in his temple throbbing.
Finally he turned to them, and said quietly, “You do what you have to to survive. Let’s keep going.”
B’Elanna found herself relieved. Work, purpose, activity—those time-honored elements would help to eradicate the sights and sounds they had just experienced. Do your job, fulfill your responsibility, keep going. In the end, that was always best.
That night it was a sobered group that ate the unappetizing rations—grain cake again—and huddled around the small fires. B’Elanna, Chakotay, and Harrison had told them briefly and tersely what they had witnessed; most were unaware that anything had happened, so complete was the denial of the other prisoners, though most had noticed the acrid stench that had permeated the already odoriferous air in the stockade.
“We could use a change of subject,” said Chakotay quietly. “B’Elanna, maybe you could take our minds off this place for a while.”
B’Elanna found that she wasn’t reluctant to chronicle her life, and was in fact almost eager. She would do anything that would take her away from this wretched site, from the searing memories of what she had seen this morning. Even if that meant speaking of the greatest pain that had ever assailed her.
CHAPTER
6
OF HIS LEAVING, SHE REMEMBERED NOTHING.
Of the time before his leaving, she had only the most vaporous of memories: a strong, deep voice . . . arms with dark hair curling on them . . . jumping into those arms from a platform in a lake . . . the scent of the plains of Nessik after a summer rainstorm . . . her hair being tied in tight braids . . .
. . . and the voices, subdued and angry, that made her stomach twist and her hands turn strangely wet. Their arguments.
Of the time after his leaving, and of her mother, she remembered too much.
“B’Elanna, HighoS! Come out this minute. I won’t let you hide in your room like a cowardly puff cat.”
“I’m not coming.” Her voice sounded anything but brave, eight-year-old B’Elanna admitted to herself, but