The BLTS Archive - Time's Orphans
#4: A Time to Kill
by Kiff (Kiff47@yahoo.com)

---

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Feedback:  Gladly accepted.

Completed in July 2000.  This is the fourth installment in my "Time's
Orphans" series and follows "A Time to Mourn," "A Time to Gather
Stones Together," and "A Time to Heal."

Warning:  This story contains sexually explicit scenes between two
adult men.  If you are underage or if this kind of content squicks
you, run along.

Thanks again to Britta for beta-reading.

---

"Okay.  Are you sure you're up to this?"

"I helped build the damn thing, didn't I?  And we've practiced over
and over.  Today's the day, Tom.  I know it."

He smiles.  "Four years."

"Not that anyone's counting."  I smile back.  "You must have a
calendar in your head."

"I just remember things," he replies, scratching at his beard.  "All
right, old man.  We'll give it a try.  I'll bring my medical supplies
along, just in case."

"Don't baby me, Paris."

"I'm not.  I'm just being a good Scout.  I'll be prepared for any
emergency."  He's putting herbal packages and clean strips of cloth
into his bag.

Damn, he's cute right now.  I reach over, grab him by the shoulders,
and plant a rough kiss on his cheek.  "Suppose I want to jump you in
the middle of the river?"

"I'm ready for that, too."  He shows me a small jar containing a
greasy yellow substance.  "Natural lube."

"What is it?"

"I mixed it from a few plants I found.  It's perfectly safe.  I've
tested it."

"Not on *me*, you haven't."  I look at him skeptically.

"Well, now's your big chance."

"I'll stick to good old-fashioned spit."

"This is better."

"How would *you* know?  What have you been fucking besides me?"

"The inside of my left hand."

I start laughing.  I can't help it; he's so deadpan about this, it's
hilarious.  But Tom just puts the jar in his pack without another
word.

I gather my own supplies and follow him outside.  It's a beautiful
sunny day, perfect for boating.  I hand my pack to Tom, who stows it
in the stern, just behind his bow and his quiver of arrows.  His spear
lies lengthwise in the bottom of the boat. 

Tom looks around for a moment, then turns back to me expectantly.

"What is it?"

He puts his hands on his hips.  "You forgot your cane."

"I'm fine.  I don't need it."

He just stares at me.  I know better than to argue with those blue
lasers.  I go back to the house and retrieve the cane.  I thrust it at
him, but he doesn't take it right away.

"Shit, Tom, you're not having second thoughts again."

He looks down at his feet.  "Second, third, fourth....Chakotay, what
if we run into some rapids or even a waterfall?  You'd have to help me
carry this thing...."

"I can do it," I say.  He's not the only stubborn one here.  "I told
you, *stop* treating me like a child."

He looks back at me.  Finally I see the beginning of a smile.  "Okay. 
We'll do this.  But you *have* to tell me if the foot starts bothering
you.  Right away.  Deal?"

"Deal."

We shake on it.  Tom pulls me into the boat, and I settle into my seat
and pick up my paddle.

Tom looks back at the house.  "Fred, you're on your own for a couple
of days."

"Let's hope he still knows how to get food for himself."

"Ah, he'll be fine."  But Tom still hestitates a few seconds before
finally untying the boat and shoving off.

---

We let the river carry us along, only using the paddles to keep the
canoe straight in the water.  It is a pleasant ride through the
forest.  After about thirty minutes, the trees begin to thin out
somewhat.  We are getting close to unfamiliar territory.

A hill looms up on our left.  Tom and I both look up.  His "Help" sign
is still there; it does not look much disturbed in the past couple of
years.  Of course, no one has responded to our message.  I am becoming
more and more convinced that no one ever will.

Tom has stopped paddling.  He stares at the rocks that he had spent
countless hours arranging.  It was an act of penitence for the damage
he had caused to our replicator when he had tried to convert it into a
communication device.  I know some small part of him still hopes that
it will lead a rescuer to us.

I see his jaw tighten;  I stop paddling and place my hands on his
shoulders, saying nothing, hoping my touch alone is reassurance
enough.  After a few moments, I feel his tension ease; he reaches up
to squeeze my right hand as if to say, "I'm all right now."  I release
him and we continue on our journey.

---

The trees continue to thin out as we go along.  The current moves us
along at a good pace, so we relax and enjoy the ride as much as we
can.  I know that going back will be a difficult task, and that it is
good that we can conserve our energy.

At midday we eat some salted fish and dried fruit from our packs,
washing the meal down with fresh water.

"We should start looking for a spot," says Tom when he is finished. 

I would like to go a bit further, but I see his point.  Going back
against the current will take us about twice as long as it did for us
to get here.  And we had not planned to spend more than one night away
from our cabin.

I have just taken one last sip of water when I spot it to my right --
a large animal of a species I have never seen before on this planet.

"Tom....look!"

He follows my gaze and lets out a low whistle.

The animal looks to be over a meter tall at the shoulder.  It has
shaggy black hair and walks on four legs.  Two curved horns protrude
from its head.  As we come over a slight rise, we can see that there
are dozens -- no, *hundreds* of these animals gathered on the grass
near the river.

"They look like buffalo," Tom says.

I disagree.  "Buffalo were larger."

"Close enough," Tom responds, and I get an odd feeling in my stomach
at the sound of his voice.  Something's up in that brain of his.

We pass by the herd.  A few of the animals look at us curiously, but
otherwise there is no reaction to our presence.

Tom calls a halt about a hundred meters further downstream, and we
pull the canoe out under a small copse of trees.  My legs are cramped
from sitting so long, and my left foot is swollen, but I say nothing
to Tom as we unload our supplies and begin to set up our small tent,
cobbled together with materials from our old Krenim-made shelter.

After the tent is up, Tom helps me build a fire.  I expect at this
point that he will get out his fishing equipment, but he has other
ideas.  He is staring hard at the animal herd.

"Tom?"  I say, hoping to snap him out of his reverie.

"I'm going to get me one of those," he says, retrieving the weapons
from where they had been leaning against a tree.

I don't like this idea.  "Tom, they're too big.  There's no way...."

"I'll aim for the head.  Head's always the most vulnerable point. 
Chakotay, think of what we could make out of those pelts.  And the
meat...."

"I won't eat it."

Tom gives me an exasperated look.  "Come on, old man.  Hunting buffalo
is part of your tradition."

I try the tired old argument.  "Wrong tribe."

"I really hate it when you pull all this noble Indian bullshit on me."

Now I'm pissed.  "Listen, Tom, we don't need to kill these animals. 
We're doing fine on what we have."

"But we can do better."

"You are *not* coming out here every week to shoot them."

"I never said I was."  His voice is too even.  He's made up his mind,
and he doesn't care about what I have to say anymore.  "I'm only going
to take one.  If you're worried about wasting the kill, don't.  I can
make some good tools out of those horns, and maybe even the bones will
have some use."

"You'll never eat all that meat before it spoils."

That stops him just a little.  "I'll give some of it to Fred."

"How are you going to get it back to the house?  This boat can only
hold so much."

Tom scowls.  "Okay, okay.  Point taken.  A lot of the meat is going to
be wasted.  But I still think it's worth it just for the fur and horns
alone."

"I don't."

"Are you going to try and stop me, Chakotay?"

He knows damn well that I can't move nearly as fast as he can.  I
shrug and throw my hands into the air.  "You know I can't.  Do what
you need to do."

He looks surprised for a moment, as if he'd expected more of an
argument from me.  Then he picks up his bow and arrows, leaving the
spear in the grass.  He slings the quiver over his shoulder.  "Trust
me, old man.  I know what I'm doing."

I just shake my head, and he turns away and makes his way through the
tall grass.  Despite my misgivings, I move forward so I can watch him. 
He creeps quietly forward, hiding behind trees, bushes, and river
boulders.  Soon I can see his intended target -- one lone animal
grazing close to the water's edge.

I can't help but admire the stealth and grace of Tom Paris as he
stalks his prey.  Perhaps one of his distant ancestors hunted buffalo
on the Great Plains of North America.  Tom may be carrying on that
ancient tradition at this very moment.

So why am I so uncomfortable with his decision?  I know that I have
always disliked killing another creature unless it is in self-defense. 
I know that my ancestors killed to eat, made war upon each other and
the European invaders, but I am not like they were.

Tom is setting up his shot now, putting an arrow to his bow and
waiting for just the right moment.  The animal ignores him, continuing
to chop at the grass with its teeth, seemingly unaware that Tom
intends to end its life any second now.

The bow twangs; the arrow finds the animal, but not in the head, as
Tom had planned.  Instead, he has hit it in the side of the neck.  A
surprisingly loud and angry roar rises from the creature; it shakes
its head, attempting unsuccessfully to get rid of Tom's arrow.  Then,
quicker than I ever could have suspected, it turns and charges its
attacker.

Quickly Tom fits another arrow to his bow, but this shot is wild, and
now the beast is almost upon him.  I am shouting his name now, urging
him to run.  And he does, but the beast is gaining on him.  He is
fifty meters away...forty, and the animal is on his heels.

Tom is calling out as he runs.  "...ear, Chakotay!  Spear!"

I am already moving toward it, my heart in my throat.  One stab from
those protruding horns and Tom will be done for.  The ground levels
out, and he puts on an extra burst of speed, widening the gap
slightly.  But the animal continues to come on.

I pick up the spear and brace myself, mindful of the sudden pain in my
left ankle.  I should not be doing this.  But I must.  If I don't,
there's a good chance Tom will die.  I charge forward.

Seeing me, Tom veers off to the side at the last second.  Before the
beast can react, I drive the spear into the front of its chest.  The
animal's momentum causes me to lose my balance, and I crumple to the
ground.  The animal lands a few feet away, spraying blood into my
face.  It struggles for a few seconds, then lies still.

I crawl to my hands and knees.  My foot screams at me; my shoulder
aches from trying to take on several hundred kilos of crazed beast. 

Tom rushes to my side.  "Are you all right, Chakotay?"

I wave him off.  I don't want him to touch me.

He stares down at me.  There's not a scratch on him.  But the animal's
blood is all over me.  Disgusted, I get to my feet and stagger over to
the river to wash myself off.  Tom does not follow.  By the time I
turn around again, he is already pulling the spear out of the animal
and getting out his knife to skin it.

I won't watch this.  I snatch a canteen of water from the tent and
walk up the riverbank about a hundred meters.  I sit down gingerly,
mindful of my sore shoulder.  I stare at the running water and try not
to think about what I have done, and what is going on behind me right
now.

A few of the grazing animals wander nearby.  They don't seem
particularly agitated by what has just happened.  Two of them dip
their heads into the water for a drink.  They are handsome creatures,
benign, just trying to exist in their world.  Their *own* world.  Tom
and I are strangers, interlopers.

I watch the water flow past me.  I am suddenly very tired after the
day's exertions.  I feel my eyes close, and my mind relaxes.

---

I wake up some time later.  The suns are going down, and the herd has
moved downstream.  I stretch and take a drink of water.  I can't
really avoid Tom forever, so I decide to get up and check on his
progress.

I walk back to camp in some pain, wishing I had brought the cane
along.  Tom is not immediately in sight, but I can see the skinned
carcass of the animal where he had left it.  The pelt is drying over a
tree branch.  As I get closer, I can tell that he has also cut off
several chunks of meat, and that he has removed the horns from the
animal's forehead.

I turn away, once again sickened.  Tom walks around the far side of
the tent, stopping when he sees me.  I stop as well, not sure what to
do or say.

Finally he moves toward me, halting only a few paces away.  "You still
mad at me, old man?"

Mad?  "No.  I just wish you hadn't done it."

"Well, it's done."  He looks at me, biting his lip.  "Chakotay,
I...well, thanks for stepping in when you did."

"I did what I had to do."

There's another pause.  Tom takes another step forward.  "Look, old
man, I'm no good at explaining myself.  I...well, I'm trying to help
us survive.  I look at one of those animals and I see food for a few
weeks.  I see tools.  Warm clothes for winter.  Try to understand
that."

"I'm trying."

"Killing is an ugly business.  I don't enjoy shooting the cats either,
but they do taste good, and you have to admit their furs keep us
warm."

"I know."  I close my eyes.  I don't like it, but I know it's
necessary.  At least to some extent. 

Tom's voice is closer.  "I'm sorry you had to get involved, Chakotay."

I open my eyes and look at him, think of how close I had come to
losing him, to being all alone on this world.  How then I would have
to do the hunting and fishing and killing myself, or die.  I shiver at
these thoughts, and then Tom's arms are around me, and I am clutching
him in return, and there we are, two lone men on a strange planet,
coming back to each other in our mutual need.  I feel him press his
lips against my neck, and I bend my head to his shoulder, comforted by
the feel of him in my arms.

"Make love to me," he whispers.

I lead him back to the tent.  Inside, he kisses me furiously, his
beard brushing against my face, his hands undoing my clothing.  I pull
his pants off and push him onto his back, covering his torso with
kisses, grasping his cock with one hand.  He hisses into the air, and
I respond by taking him into my mouth.  I hear a gasp from him, and
his hands reach out to hold my head as I go up and down on his hard
shaft.  He comes with several loud sighs, and I take him in deeper so
that his seed shoots straight down my throat.

After he is done, I release his cock and look into his face.  His eyes
are half closed, his skin is flushed, and his hair is rumpled.  I like
this.

"Wanna fuck me, old man?" he asks.

I like that, too.  I oblige him and myself, and we cry into the
strange night, sharing the seed of life on a day in which we have also
shared a harvest of death.

---

The End