Fan Fiction
TITLE: Chakotay's Holidays: The Puebla Incident
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
RATING: PG
CODES: C/T
PART: 9/?
DISCLAIMER: Paramount will little note, nor long remember, what I do here. But
they still own the VOY copyrights, so they get a shout-out anyway.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Diane Bellomo for betaing this story.
SUMMARY: At a Cinco de Mayo celebration, Chakotay has an unexpected reaction to
seeing the Mexican victory reenacted.
"Your father came back again?"
Chakotay swallowed the remnants of his sweet camote, looking sideways at the woman who walked through the streets of Puebla with him. B'Elanna Torres looked cool and somehow exotic in her short-sleeved shirt and knee-length shorts, but her expression betrayed discomfort.
She nodded in answer to his question. "Third time." She shook her head. "I don't know, Chakotay. Maybe he really IS serious about getting back into my life."
Chakotay considered it. If she was right, and John Torres was sincere in his wish to reconcile with the daughter he'd abandoned decades ago, that would be the best thing to happen to B'Elanna in ages -- far and away the best thing since her separation from Tom Paris. If she was wrong, though, or (more likely) the elder Torres simply lacked the tenacity to persist, he had the power to hurt B'Elanna deeply, and at a time when she was most vulnerable.
But John HAD made a third attempt, even though his first two had ended in bodily ejection from his daughter's apartment. Surely that was reason for optimism.
"Maybe he is," Chakotay allowed. "What did you do this time?"
B'Elanna shook her head, looking bemused. (Perhaps, Chakotay thought, at her own desire to trust the parent who'd once betrayed her.) "I let him in."
"You did?" Chakotay was pleasantly surprised. "How did it work out?"
"We talked a little."
"B'Elanna!"
"Well, we did."
"AND?"
She assayed a tiny smile, as if trying it on for size. "He's coming back next Saturday. He says." The qualification revealed that, even now, she couldn't bring herself to fully accept John Torres's word.
Chakotay smiled his own happiness at her good news. "That's great, B'Elanna. Let me know what happens."
"Count on it. Hey, what's that sound up ahead?"
He identified the telltale noises of an old-fashioned battle without hesitation.
"The reenactment's started."
They quickened their pace, or tried to; the crowds around them were dense enough that the attempt didn't really speed their progress. Nonetheless, they were only a few blocks away, so they still got to the scene of activity in short order. By skilled use of elbows and heels, they managed to work their way near the front of the crowd of onlookers.
Chakotay watched in fascination as the two units of soldiers -- one group in the elegantly cut dark-blue jackets and tall distinctive caps of Napoleon's army, the somewhat-smaller other side in a ragtag assortment of uniforms and low kepi hats -- exchanged mock rifle fire. On the fringes of the fight, opposing soldiers occasionally got close enough to resort to swordplay, brutal crashes of metal-on-metal that looked and sounded nothing like sport fencing. Soladeros, women in brightly striped skirts and flowered hats, moved in and out of the chaos, succoring the wounded and offering the men of both sides small needed supplies such as ammunition and freshly-filled canteens.
Of course the reenactment couldn't be totally accurate; the Battle of Puebla had ranged well beyond the tiny square of El Zocalo. But within the limits of their staging, the reenactors had actually put together a somewhat realistic (if improbably bloodless) display. Chakotay coughed as the acrid gunpowder-like smoke seared his nostrils, blinked away tears as it dried his eyes. In front of him, he heard B'Elanna cough as well.
Chakotay knew enough of war to be no aficionado of it, in its historical or contemporary forms. But the anthropologist in him (not to mention the descendant of mestizos) was delighted to see such pains taken to recreate a significant event in local history. Of course, here in the town where the famous battle had actually taken place, the reenactment was itself a long-standing tradition.
B'Elanna, clearly caught up in the events they were witnessing, bellowed a warning as a well-clad soldier took aim at his shabbier opponent. The Mexican defender dove for cover in response to her cry, and the French attacker threw her an irritated look. B'Elanna put a hand in front of her mouth, and Chakotay was willing to bet that if he could have seen her face, she would have looked chagrinned. He also noted, however, that she made no apology for her partisanship.
It was a partisanship that even Chakotay had to eventually admit he shared. He couldn't deny his rapt attention, nor his surge of joy as he watched a young, dark-haired man (clearly meant for Mexican general Ignacio Zaragoza) direct his "troops" to encircle and eliminate a key French position, while a resplendent, but dust-covered, French general (Charles de Lorencez, surely) tried vainly to head the Mexicans off. Get out of our country! The thought thrummed in Chakotay's brain just as it might have in those of his far-distant ancestors.
Get off our land!
No one left the plaza as the afternoon rains began; the precipitation was as integral to the mock battle as it had been to the real one. The French advantage of superior equipment lost value against less-well-armed fighters who understood the weather and the terrain. B'Elanna cheered as the Mexican upper hand became more evident. And though he was quieter about it, so did Chakotay.
Before a Mexican victory could be won on the "field," though, a truce was called and the "armies" moved to the sidelines so that the two generals (Chakotay discovered he had been right: the well-dressed "Frenchman" was indeed supposed to be Imperial Commanding General Charles de Lorencez) could duel personally. Before long, "Zaragoza" smashed the sword from "Lorencez's" hand, to general cheers and applause. Then the victor extended a hand to help the vanquished to his feet, both men bowed to their audience, and the reenactment was over.
The crowd began to disperse, then, heading toward the waiting game booths, food stalls, and dance displays.
Chakotay didn't know how long he stood there, looking out onto the emptying plaza, when he felt B'Elanna tug at his arm. "Chakotay? Are you all right?"
"Fine," he said, though he didn't feel it -- or indeed, much of anything.
"You're not. What's wrong? Tell me."
He forced the words out, oddly reluctant to disillusion her about the results of a conflict 500 years in the past. "They lost the war, you know."
"What are you talking about? They kicked Imperial ass!"
"They won the battle," he corrected quietly. "They lost the war."
"You mean, the French took over Mexico?"
He nodded, unaccountably saddened. A part of him knew that wasn't the whole story, that the Puebla victory had given Mexico's elected government the chance to avoid capture, and had given the Mexican people the will to resist until they, in their turn, drove out the European invaders. Most of him didn't care. The gallant fighters portrayed here this day had lived to see their land conquered and ruled, trapped beneath the boot of their enemy.
Not that he knew anyone like that.
After a moment, seeming to understand his state of mind, Torres slipped under his arm and gave him a hug, her lithe body warm against his larger one even through their wet garments. "Hey, old man," she said softly. "Didn't the Empire lose in the end?"
He sighed and admitted, "Yeah. Yeah, they did."
"Well, okay then." She held him for a moment, until he felt his melancholy began to ease.
"Hey," he murmured, "thanks."
"Any time." She held him a moment longer.
And he stepped away, distracted from his sadness suddenly and in a way she had probably not anticipated. "Let's go get some dinner," he said abruptly.
"Okay," she agreed, looking a little surprised. Taking his hand, she led him toward the food booths, where the pungent scent of spices clashed, not unpleasantly, with the rich aroma of chocolate. He followed obediently, his thoughts neither on the battle nor on the food.
B'Elanna's hug had been that of a sister. But his body had clearly registered a salient fact: as dear as B'Elanna was to him -- and that was very dear -- she was NOT his sister.
