The BLTS Archive- Needs IV: Chakotay's Story
by Kelly (rather_be_reading@yahoo.com)

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Archive: ASC/EM; others please ask

Date:  June 11, 2000

Disclaimer:  The Trek universe belongs to Paramount.

Note -- This story was written last August, but for various reasons I
never got around to posting it to the newsgroups.  I'm getting around to
it now.

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The bastard is going to make us watch.

He sent for her again this evening, as he has done every night for the
week we have been here.

Nothing was said.  The guard just showed up at the door, and Kathryn
stood.

"Dinner, Captain?" I asked.  She flinched slightly.

Part of me hated myself for saying it, for what we were doing to each
other.  Part of me was glad to see the thrust hit home.  What was a
small stab or two?

When she had gutted me?

She didn't look at me, just tightened her jacket around her as if she
were cold.  And left.

She hadn't been gone long when two Devoran thugs appeared to walk Tuvok,
Tom, and me down the hallway to this small room.  It is sparsely
furnished with just a couple of couches -- benches, really, with a flat
pillow or two.

It was not until the door closed behind us that I realized that one
whole wall of the room is transparent.  A giant viewscreen of some kind.
 On the other side is another small room, also mostly empty.

Except for a bed.

Now, we sit in silence, waiting for we don't know what.  At least, I
hope I don't know what.

But of course I know.  He is going to make us watch.

The door to the other room opens, and they are there.  Kashyk.  And
Kathryn.

He puts his hands on her shoulders in a proprietary fashion and turns
her to face him.  We see only their profiles.  He kisses her softly.
She responds -- or doesn't respond.  I honestly can't tell.  All I know
is that she doesn't move away.

"Now," he says.

She begins to undress, slowly.  I can't see her expression.

I don't think she has any idea we are here; she never gives even the
slightest flicker of a glance in the direction of our wall.  It must be
transparent only on our side.

Her motions are unhurried, displaying neither eagerness nor reluctance.
Kashyk makes no move to touch her; he just watches.

Like us.

I try to figure out what he's doing, what his game is.  Is he trying to
demoralize us?  Humiliate her?  Show us his power?  Warn us not to plan
anything?  If that's his goal, he doesn't know Kathryn.  She hasn't
stopped planning since we got here.

Kathryn drops the last of her clothing to the floor.  She is naked.  And
beautiful.  So beautiful.

"Jesus," breathes Paris next to me.  He pulls one of the pillows onto
his lap.

//Oh, Kathryn.  How I needed. . .But I didn't want it to be like this.
Not like this.//

Kashyk runs his hands down her body, wraps his arms around her, carries
her to the bed.

"I want to fuck you, Kathryn," Kashyk says.

"Do it."

Paris begins to laugh.  I understand.  Those words -- spoken here, now
-- make a sort of travesty of her command, of our lives on Voyager.
Tom's laughter starts to edge toward hysteria, until Tuvok quiets him
with a hand on his shoulder.

Kashyk pauses and sits back, looking at her.  "But you're only doing
this for your ship, aren't you?  You don't really want me, do you,
Kathryn?  Do you?"

"For god's sake, I'm here, in your bed.  Isn't that enough?"

Kashyk is suddenly livid.  "Enough?  Enough?  Do you have any idea what
I'm risking?  What I stand to lose every day I stay with you?  What the
thought of you drives me to?" He is almost foaming.  "You want enough?
Here's enough!"

He grabs her by the hair and slaps her, heavy blows that snap her head
back.  Now he's squeezing his hands around her throat, pinning her to
the bed, forcing her legs apart with his knees.

Kathryn fights him, gets her arm free, drives her fist into his face.

Kashyk roars, maddened.  It is an alien sound that reminds me just how
far we are from home.

Kathryn has no chance against him now.  He pulls her arm above her head,
and I finally notice the ropes that must have been hanging there this
whole time.

She still struggles, but she has lost.  Soon she is tied firmly, her
wrists and ankles straining against the bonds.

I find that I am on my feet, pressed against the transparent wall,
futilely trying to reach through.

The billowing bedclothes mercifully hide her from us somewhat.  I can't
clearly see her face or her nakedness.  And I'm glad.

//Dearest Kathryn, I'm such a damned coward.  Forgive me.//

Kashyk reaches under his tunic.  "Enough?" he snarls.

He has a whip in his hand, the lash thin, dangerous.  He steps back,
raises it.  Brings it down.

Kathryn screams; her body arches.

"Jesus," says Paris again.  It is something close to a sob this time.
Or a prayer.

The whip whistles through the air a second time.  Lands.  He pauses,
breathing heavily as her shriek echoes in the room.

In our ears.

"You damned. . .son of a bitch," Kathryn gasps, her voice ragged.  "You
said. . ."

"Never without your consent," he finishes.  "I know.  I lied.  Oh, don't
look so betrayed.  It's nothing more than you've been doing to me."

The whip falls again.  He is using all his strength.

"It's what you have always done to me, since our first meeting on
Voyager."

"But you. . .would have done the same. . .to us."

He smiles through his rage.  "True.  But it feels different when you're
the one being done to, doesn't it?"

He hits her again, but she makes no sound this time.  God knows what the
effort must be costing her; I only know what it means.  She will no
longer give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

//Kathryn.  So brave.  Even when you don't have to be.//

In the Maquis, in Starfleet. . .you always know that something like this
is possible.  That you might have to witness the torture or rape or
murder of your friends and colleagues.  You can imagine few things
worse.

But you always know it can happen.

And when it does, you are never prepared.  I am certainly not prepared
for this.  For it to be Kathryn.

//Oh, please not you, my Kathryn.//

I turn my attention back to the scene before me, feeling guilty that I
have left her alone for even a few seconds.

Spirits help me, I have lost track of the blows.  Six?  Seven?  Ten?

Her wrists are raw from the rope.  But she is still silent, only her
tightly-clenched fists betraying her effort and pain.

I want to scream myself, throw myself against the door, something.  But
I sit.

Because there is nothing we can do.

Kashyk lowers the whip yet again.  And again.  Finally a whimper escapes
Kathryn.

The sound touches Kashyk somehow.  He drops the whip to the floor and
stands there, shaking.

A sudden pounding in my chest makes me realize that I have been holding
my breath.  I let it out slowly.

Tuvok sits impassively, or so I think.  Then I see that he holds one of
the small pillows.  It is shredded.

Tom Paris goes over to the corner and throws up.

The tableau in front of us moves.  Kashyk clambers onto the bed,
frantically loosening the restraints.  "I'm sorry; I'm sorry; I'm
sorry," he repeats, over and over.

He gathers Kathryn into his arms.  His mouth is on her face and throat.
He's smoothing her hair and kissing her, and his caresses seem to me
almost as obscene as his violence.

He holds her face in his hands and says, "I only need you to want me.
Just want me."

Kathryn shifts away from him and crawls slowly to her knees.

She is bloody.  I want to look away from the welts, but I can't.

"Know this," she says.  If I didn't see her lips move, I would not know
the voice is hers.

"If I see you again, I will kill you."

"Kathryn. . ."

"Don't doubt me."

I don't.

And I can see in his face that neither does Kashyk.

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The End of Chakotay's Story