Pathways - Jeri Taylor [89]
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 warmth 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