Fan Fiction
TITLE: In the Midst of Life...AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
RATING: G
CODES: C/T
Author's Note: This story is set sometime after the episode "Hunters," in which the Voyager crew receives their first information about events in the Alpha Quadrant, significantly about the final fate of the Maquis. It's alternate-universe in that it postulates a romantic relationship between Chakotay and Torres. Besides that, it's a direct sequel to my Halloween story "Traditions," although you don't have to read that to follow this.
It's also a response to the 2005 Halloween challenge at "Light and Dark." Challenge elements included are: the number 47, a black cat, the quote "This is *not* a good time," and either Chakotay or Torres sees a ghost or spirit - Chakotay on a vision quest doesn't count. Thanks to Mary S. for betaing.
SUMMARY: Chakotay, B'Elanna, and the other surviving Maquis' honor their fallen comrades with a "Day of the Dead" celebration.
"In the midst of life, we are in death; in the midst of death we are in life."
-- The Book of Common Prayer
"Are you ready?"
Chakotay unconsciously straightened his leather vest as he looked at his companion. Though he'd not worn it (nor the matching pants and striped shirt that accompanied it) since his days with the Maquis, it still fit him well enough - and this day, seemed more suited to his mood than his usual Starfleet garb.
"I suppose."
B'Elanna brushed her hands against the fabric of her pants. Like him, she had chosen clothes dating back to their shared days on the Maquis ship Valjean, and probably for much the same reasons. Her expression and her stance, however, didn't suit the ensemble; she looked stiff and uncertain.
She had thought that both of them -- and all of the Maquis -- needed a Day of the Dead celebration to mark the intense lives and tragic deaths of their former fellows in the Alpha Quadrant. To make gifts to the spirits, and do what they could to guide any who needed it, to the next plane of existence. Chakotay had agreed, partly for the reasons she cited, but partly in the simple hope that it would be enough to help B'Elanna.
Reaching for his lover's hand, Chakotay squeezed it firmly, reassuringly. Then he triggered the holodeck doors, and they stepped through the hatch into a different world, and a different time.
The dirt streets of the small, close-built village were festooned with black and white banners, cut in a variety of patterns: birds, angels, chalices, crosses, skeletons dancing or singing or playing music. The chiaroscuro decorations above were in sharp contrast to the riot of colors below: colorfully dressed celebrants, brilliant arrays of flowers, tablecloths and garlands and dishes in a rainbow of hues. The hum of conversation vied with the upbeat music of guitar, drum, and other instruments not so easily identified.
B'Elanna gasped, and tried to turn around, pull away, but Chakotay whispered a soft sound of reassurance and would not loose her hand. After a moment, she stopped struggling.
Of course, much of the design of the "village" itself had been Chakotay's (he had chosen a rather generic background, as it would have to serve for the celebration of those from many worlds, many cultures), and he had approved and assisted with some of the individual displays. But to see it all assembled, that was different - that was rather dazzling, truth be told. The Day of the Dead this Voyager crew celebrated would be like and unlike those celebrated amongst his own Aztec ancestors, and B'Elanna's Latino forebears, and on many of the Federation's human-settled worlds even today. But it would be celebrated with a right good will, and in the right spirit, even though it was the first time this group had ever marked such an event.
B'Elanna at his side, Chakotay looked out at the altars, awed and humbled.
He should have trusted his shipmates sooner, to know and understand. He should have given them the Day years before this.
No matter. He had given it to them now. Here it was, as large as life -- and death -- and more brilliant than he'd remembered from his childhood, and the days when Kolopak had led the celebrations. Of course, one of the reasons it was more colorful here was that, back on Dorvan, the altars would have been in people's homes. Here, where every participant called the whole ship "home," and called on communal resources to create their memorials, there had seemed no good reason to isolate the commemorations or the celebrants from one another. So the altars were laid out along dirt lanes of footpaths, each display against its own backdrop. Placements had been chosen by lot.
Normally the participants would have had to produce their own altar makings but, given that it had actually been Halloween when Chakotay asked to hold the Day, and that he didn't want to take the event too far off the traditional Terran calendar, that hadn't been an option this time. As it was, he and the captain had set the date for one week from the Halloween party, which was marginally acceptable date-wise but left little time to make decorations or save replicator rations for the purpose. As an alternative, he had required everyone who wanted to make a display to be personally involved in its programming.
Chakotay had been, and still was, surprised by just how many people *had* wanted to make a display. There had been 47 at last count, and he wasn't sure that a few more hadn't been added in the last hour or two. Just as much to his surprise, there were Starfleet participants as well as Maquis. While he understood that the longtime Fleeters might feel the same need to remember and celebrate their dead as did their ex-rebel companions (and certainly the spirits of such dead would be no less worthy of welcome than the spirits of the lost Maquis), few Fleeters were particularly mystical or religious, and he wouldn't have thought them interested in such rites.
Well, he'd been wrong before, and no doubt would be wrong again before he walked in the spirit world himself.
With that thought, he stepped out along the first "street," looking at the carefully-arranged altars. Since he had, after all, set up the program, Chakotay had known for whom the first altar in the row would be designed. Actually seeing it, though, still made him smile inwardly.
Surrounded by pots of brilliant green shamrocks, it bore a loaf of bread and assorted unfamiliar foods as well as old-fashioned books and a Starfleet-issue medikit. The holographic image of a black-haired man in Starfleet blue hovered above the display, and the holographic image of a bald man in blue stood behind it. "My predecessor," the second image -- Voyager's EMH -- said in response to B'Elanna's inquiry.
"We rarely worked together, but I thought that, as one doctor to another, I ought to give him his due."
Chakotay nodded acknowledgement, wondering (not for the first time) just what the late Doctor Fitzgerald's spirit felt about being celebrated by a being whom, in his life, he'd probably considered a useful tool. Still, perhaps the spirit would appreciate the gesture, without quibbling about the construction of the being who'd made it.
"Very nice, Doctor."
Next came Neelix's altar, bedecked in native Delta Quadrant flowers and bearing food with a suspicious taint of leola root.
"My sister, Alixia," the ship's cook said quietly, indicating the hologram of a slender Talaxian woman with delicate features.
"Thank you for letting me make her a part of this, Commander. She always loved celebrations."
And Neelix, as Chakotay had reason to know, had always loved her.
"She looks like she had a lot of zest for life," Chakotay said, noting the image's bright smile.
"That she did, Commander."
In the spirit of the day, Neelix offered a smile of his own.
"That she did. Excuse me, Lieutenant," his eyes fell on the woman at Chakotay's side, "but are you all right? You look a little ill."
When Chakotay looked, she did seem wan. But she brushed away the Talaxian's concern.
"I'm okay, Neelix. I'm okay."
But her step was slower as they proceeded to the next entry in the line, which commemorated someone far more well-known to her, and to her companion, than either of the first two memorialized: Kurt Bendera, the old friend who had saved Chakotay's life, and B'Elanna's, more than once back in the Maquis.
There was a small holographic image of him over the altar, the wiry brown-haired, deceptively boyish-looking man Chakotay had known so well. He was smiling (just as he so often had smiled in the face of danger), his body curved and his arm straight as he aimed a phaser forward. Arrayed beneath the image were chunky pretzels, a pitcher of beer, and the traditional bread, along with assorted tools, a deck of cards, and an old locket. Chakotay recognized the locket as Kurt's grandmother's; Kurt had always carried to it remind himself of his family. At his death, it had passed into the possession of the young Starfleet officer who now protectively banked bright golden flowers about the altar's base: Megan Callahan, Kurt's Voyager sweetheart.
Noticing his and Torres's presence, Callahan stood, offering him a dirt-stained hand.
"Sir."
He accepted the hand, and squeezed it firmly, correcting, "In here it's Chakotay, Megan. And this is a wonderful altar."
"Thank you, s - Chakotay."
The lace of a black mantilla covered the woman's auburn curls, and brushed her cheek. One of the handful of openly religious Starfleet officers, Megan had been reared on an extremely Roman Catholic colony world, one that celebrated the Day of the Dead.
"I hope Kurt would have liked it."
"I think he would have."
Megan had captured her lover's spirit perfectly; Kurt had loved poker, beer and snacks, his work and his family. Chakotay was glad he'd trusted her to make his friend's memorial, doubly glad that he'd agreed to expand the day to include all the deaths and losses their crew had faced, and not only those which had happened in the Alpha Quadrant. Kurt deserved this altar in the sunshine.
"I think he would have been glad to see you knew him so well."
Chakotay drew Megan into a quick, fraternal hug.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He stepped back then, and looked at Torres. Her eyes were fixed on the image of Kurt, her face oddly stiff.
"B'Elanna?"
"I'm fine."
Chakotay wouldn't have wanted to have to analyze her tone, or her expression, over a poker table. But her feet betrayed her mood; they all-but-dragged as he and she walked to the next altar.
It bore the image of a woman he hadn't seen since Voyager had made the crossing to Delta: Aviva Meyer, formerly a sharpshooter for the Maquis. Beneath the hologram were the tools of her trade: a phaser rifle and an old pistol phaser, plus some apples, cheese, and a thick crusty bread in addition to the sweet bread that tradition required. There were also, incongruously, a few samplers with tiny embroidered flower images.
"Spirits," he said, reaching out to touch one with a fingertip, "are those real?"
Mariah Henley nodded.
"That one's Avi's; she gave it to me. The other one," and she indicated the one which looked less polished, "we were working on together. She was teaching me."
"I think she'd be proud."
Mariah's smile was uncharacteristically shy.
"I hope so." She looked up then, at B'Elanna. "Hey, Torres, are you okay?"
"Fine," B'Elanna said, a little strangled. "Fine."
Before Chakotay could follow up, she was pulling him past the altar --
Only to stop dead at the next one. Miguel Ayala stood behind an arrangement surrounded by brilliant tropical flowers, and featuring images of animals (cats, horses, hounds) alongside coconut cakes, a mango salad, and pan de muerto. Crowning the altar was the image of a young brown-skinned man with midnight hair: Roberto Alvarez, medical aide and general odd-job-man on the Maquis base at Aramis III. He'd had a gift with animals, Chakotay recalled; anything on the base that walked on four feet or hooves, or flew on wing, had eventually made its way to his side. He'd rescued a recalcitrant black cat from a nest of pipes, once, and returned it to its nominal owner, B'Elanna Torres.
At that thought, he turned quickly toward B'Elanna.
She didn't have a poker face now; instead it was contorting with rage. "Did you have to use my damned *cat*?" she snarled at an astonished Ayala, reaching for the tiny ebony image and hurling it away.
Chakotay saw it vanish in mad-air just before it hit someone, and threw a grateful thought to the designers of the holodeck safety protocols before he tightened his hold on her hand and pulled her away.
"We're going to talk. Now."
"This is *not* a good time!"
"This is a *very* good time." Against her resistance, he dragged her down the "street" until they were clear of the ersatz village, and headed toward the trees.
The path through the trees led to a holographic cemetery, where later there would be picnics and prayers. But at the moment he wasn't seeking the cemetery, only a place of privacy. In the middle of a tree-shaded grove, he stopped, his hands gripping Torres's slim shoulders firmly.
"B'Elanna, tell me what's wrong! You wanted a Day of the Dead - hell, you've worked harder than almost anyone to make it happen. It was you who said we needed a way to remember our friends, and to give them what we can."
"Our friends who died!" she flared.
"Our friends who lived," he corrected firmly. The Day was for lives and spirits, not death and despair.
"Lived." It came out in a growl.
"B'Elanna."
He tried to tip her chin upward so that he could look in the dark brown eyes, but she wrenched away with a sudden burst of strength.
"Look, you want me to celebrate them, but I don't feel like celebrating!"
"B'Elanna, *you* wanted --"
"I know what I thought I wanted," she said bitterly. "I was wrong, okay? I don't want to see the altars. I don't want to hear the old stories. I don't want to talk about them. I just want to leave."
She turned as if to go.
"B'Elanna," he said quietly, the hint of an ache in his throat, "that won't set you free of them -- or them of you."
"Neither will this. This was a stupid idea, and I don't know why I thought it would help, but it won't. Computer," she called, "one to beam to Engin-"
"Computer, belay that."
She turned back to him, her small strong hands clenching into fists.
"What?"
"You're not leaving."
His hands were on her shoulders again, gripping so firmly that she winced.
"B'Elanna, this is *exactly* what will help."
"Screw that!"
She broke his grip again and stalked away, turning back to spit more words at him.
"I don't want to see them again, can't you understand that! I don't want to see Roberto and his animals and Meyers and her fancywork and Atara and her autographed baseball! I don't *want* to remember the good times! They're over, don't you see that?"
Arms folded tightly, protectively over her belly. "They're over."
He broke into her harsh denial with two soft words. "They're not."
"Damn you," and her voice cracked, "don't you get mystical with me!"
"I'm not just being mystical. Yes, I do believe they're alive in the spirit world, but you don't have to accept that to know that they're also alive *here* -" he thumped his own chest, and stabbed into hers with two fingers "-here, in us. In our hearts. In our souls. In our lives. And that means it's not over. It can never be over."
"It's always over!" she snarled. "They always die. They always leave."
Very softly, "And it always hurts."
"No!" But the quaver of her voice gave that the lie.
Acting on the pure instinct of a Maquis, and of a man in love, he stepped forward then, and took her into his arms.
"Yes, B'Elanna. It hurts."
"Dammit," she whispered into his shoulder, her slender form shaking. "I don't want to hurt any more. I don't want to hurt any more."
"I'm here," he said simply, and held on.
She had never wept for the deaths of the Maquis. Now she wept like a Klingon, a fierce hot storm that drove her to pound her fists against his chest and howl her outrage into his shoulder. He pressed her body more closely to his, trying as best he could to surround her with his embrace, make of himself support and strength and - insofar as that was ever possible - shield. "I'm here," he whispered, over and over again, knowing he could promise her no more than that, hoping that somehow it would be enough.
And perhaps in a way, it was, for eventually she calmed, somewhat, finally raising a tear-stained face to his. "Thanks," she whispered.
"Of course." He kissed her then, and held her close for a long time. "We should go back," he said at last.
"Chakotay, I-"
"Yes." His low voice was firm. "I think your instincts were right, B'Elanna. I think the Day of the Dead is exactly what you need. What I need, too. We have to have something of them besides the pain. And we have to give them something besides our grief."
"I-" A long sigh shook her. "All right, Chakotay. All right. I'll try."
She leaned on him as they walked back to the "village," and he welcomed it, grateful for any strength he could give her.
The first altar they came to, as they entered the nearest street, was or "Tiny" Nelson, an engineer B'Elanna had worked with a time or two. Chell had taken some trouble with designing holographic "Tiny," and it showed. The real-life man had fancied himself a juggler, and his image was juggling exactly as he had: one ball, two, then a third, then all three came crashing down around him as he looked on, bewildered.
B'Elanna stared at the image for a few moments, and Chakotay braced himself for another outburst. But the third time the balls hit the altar surface, B'Elanna suddenly started to laugh. It wasn't a harsh laugh, or a hysterical laugh, but a genuinely merry laugh for the genuinely funny sight before her.
A healing laugh.
Chakotay knew that her grief would not be cured so simply as that, but it was, at least, a beginning. Whatever else this Day had accomplished, it had done that much.
Arm around B'Elanna, he looked up into the sunny holographic sky, and thanked whatever spirits were present for their grace. For a moment, he almost thought he saw them, the dead Maquis, Starfleet officers, and others who were celebrated this day.
Perhaps it was a trick of the program. Or perhaps not.
END
