Work Text
If you give a world something to strive for, it will reach out and grab it. She’s known that this moment would come. Entire days had passed where she'd feared that it wouldn’t. In the fifty-two hours since they’d lost the Doctor to Kelemane, they watched the civilization beneath them backslide into violence and destruction — again and again and then again, before clawing its way, finally, to peace. During that wait, Kathryn had wondered if this was just another ragged scar Voyager would leave behind it — the indelible mark of the Federation in a space unprepared to welcome it. She feared the day she’d lose count of them. The moment: Two figures come into phase abruptly with the rest of space-time on the bridge. Their gold suits are antiquated by Earth standards, but bright and new to the Kelemane. Soon to be antiquated for them as well. Any minute now. "I'm only reading one life form," Tuvok's steady voice is the first to break the shock of silence at the sudden first contact. One removed helmet reveals a handsome young Kelemane man, the other their EMH. Later, Kathryn will be thankful that her old friend’s instinct is to always verify. If he hadn't, the sudden bloom of understanding would have been easily superseded by a sense-dulling surprise. Kathryn might have read the intensity of the Doctor's dark stare as appreciation for finally coming home. Without it, she sees the unbearable weight of lifetimes between every unnecessary blink. It’s there one moment and gone the next, all in the span of the second it takes him to meet her eyes and look away. Centuries have passed for him in a blink of their eye, and they have irrevocably remained the same. Even Tom holds back his exclamation at the prodigal hologram’s return. His face is caught in the caricature of surprise as he realizes that he may not be condemned to medical duties after all. The silence of the others, as they wait for her to speak, tells her all she needs to know. No one had expected him to return. They had all started to imagine the rest of their voyage without him, as their hope languished, and now no one knows what to say. This understanding leaves the Captain to offer a pallid, “Welcome to Voyager, gentlemen.” ...The Kelemane man, who introduces himself as Hota Gotana-Retz, takes to the truth of his people’s Watchers graciously. He easily accepts the time dilation once they’ve explained it to him, and smiles at the Doctor with a friendly, “Your theories were correct, Aeson.” Then later, he proves himself adaptable again by marveling with an uncomplicated awe at the news that his co-pilot had been one of the Watchers all along. How could he fault a man who’d done him no harm in his attempts to go home? Eventually they send the man on his way, with the information his people need to help free Voyager. The reality quickly settles in. She doesn't know what the Doctor did during all those years spent on the planet. She does not know what the two men have spoken of, or what other information the Doctor left with the Kelemane or sent Hota back with. She doesn’t know the damage he’s inadvertently done because they’d been unable to retrieve him when they’d promised to. Five hundred and twenty years is a long time, too long not to have had an effect. She will have to read his report on it — force him to report it in full if need be — so she can show Starfleet just how ravaged the corpse of the Prime Directive they’re leaving behind is. When the dust settles, and they’ve navigated to safer space, Kathryn decides it’s time to face the music. B’Elanna intercepts her the moment Kathryn enters sickbay. Usually, she can count on the engineer to freely express her annoyance after any amount of time spent with the Doctor. Yet, nothing about the younger woman suggests a hint of her usual ire. Everything from her expression to her posture indicates she’s perturbed, even confused. “How is he?” The he in question is quietly sequestered in his office. Whether he’s examining what has changed in his absence or familiarizing himself with it again after being gone so long, Kathryn can’t tell. “He was active the entire time he was down there,” B’Elanna speaks softly, “His mobile emitter is almost unrecognizable. Whatever he did to it kept him running, but,” she casts a furtive glance in his direction, “not without a cost.” “What is it?” Kathryn keeps her voice low too. “Well, for starters, there isn’t enough space to store that many memories. He’s compressed hundreds of years and purged tens more. I’m not even sure if he remembers us, not completely.” “What do you mean?” “He saw me, he knew my name and my rank, that I’m the Chief Engineer, and the one who can access his program. Beyond that? I’m a stranger. Tom too. I mentioned Seven and he said, ‘She’s my friend, right? Or was that Kes?’. It’s like he kept just enough of his memories to know he belongs here, but lost all of the context.” It is worse than she’d thought. “Is he still capable of being our doctor?” “That’s the thing. He is. His initial medical programming remains intact. From what I can see he partitioned it and made it inaccessible to alteration. Everything else? It’s chaos. I can only make sense of every tenth change, and there’s over five hundred years of it here. I don’t have writing permissions, and I’m not even sure I should. I’m afraid if I make any changes he’ll decompile.” Kathryn can do little with that knowledge, “Keep sorting through what you can.” “Yes, Captain.” With the engineer’s departure, Kathryn approaches the office. “Doctor,” she greets him. He turns, not particularly surprised at the sight of her, and gives one of his neutral nods, “Captain.” Now that she’s in his space, she can see the items he’s carefully arranged across his desk. A short stack of bound books, a worn knit sweater, and small, PADD-sized satchel. These are the mementos he’d decided were meaningful enough to bring with him, and they have been tucked into the only space that’s his. Kathryn’s fingers twitch, it’s so little for more than half a millennium of life. Had he wanted to bring more? Surely he’d been constrained by the weight limitations of early space programs. If he’d managed to assimilate enough Kelemane culture to become the peer of pilots and bureaucrats alike, enough to secure his spot in that fuselage, he must have collected the small minutia that made a place a home. A realization comes to her then, and the weight of it makes something settle thickly in her throat. If B’Elanna’s findings are the whole truth, then very little about Voyager is familiar to this man. Yet, for reasons she may never know, he’d worked so hard to return to it. This office, this sickbay, they’re still his but surely they don’t hold the same meaning. “These belong on a shelf,” she says, carefully running her fingers along the cover of topmost book. It’s fabric-bound, a rough green textile with a gilded title she can’t read. Worn and well-loved and completely out of place in this sterile room. His eyes follow the movement, confused but otherwise unbothered that she’s handling his things. She wonders if he remembers any of the thousands of their previous interactions, many of which had been fraught, many others where she’d disregarded him, a few where she’d felt genuinely kind. Does he think it odd that the captain of this ship is growing emotional at the sight of his belongings? The neutral expression on his face softens into something approaching warmth when she grasps his forearm. “Let’s find you some quarters.” She should have thought of this sooner. The moment he could freely leave this space. Hadn’t he asked, when he’d received the mobile emitter? She’d brushed him off and never considered it again. She should have. The moment she had an inkling he might well and truly be a person, she should have. ... Space is limited, but with each crew member they’ve lost during their voyage, someone else has gained a little more room to breathe. With the consolidation of Tom and B’Elanna into a single set of quarters, they are able to quickly rearrange assignments so that the Doctor has his own set near the rest of the senior staff. B’Elanna and Harry even sacrifice a non-trivial amount of their off-duty hours to make the space support holo-emitters. Within the week, Chakotay, their on-call Quartermaster, keys the space in under the Doctor’s name: Aeson Retz. At first, no one asks him why he’s taken the right-hyphenated name of the pilot he showed up with. Some speculate a relationship, others a homage. The answer is more complicated than that, like everything about his time on that planet is turning out to be. Eventually, between Seven asking why he’s eating food now and Harry’s friendly inquiries about his penchant for wearing real clothing, Tom finally asks what is up with the name. Retz? It had been the name he carried before ever meeting the pilot, just a happy coincidence surely. Aeson? That was simple, it had been the first name he’d taken, and the one he’d used the most often since. The meaning behind his reluctance to answer their questions is clear, though: his name is a relic of a place and time and people he’ll never return to. Why should they ask him to try to explain what has been lost to him? The story spreads quickly among the small crew and with it the shared understanding that they should let the Doctor tell them things at his own pace. Kathryn, as the Captain, must break this unspoken rule. A report, the size of an encyclopedia, is available to her whenever she has the time to read it. At times, it’s dry, a clinical retelling of his movements and actions, so far as his memory allows it. Very little of it reads like a narrative, much of it is context free because to add context would mean she would inherent the endless task of reading. But there are dates in the Kelemane format, and location names, and often people. The surprise of an adopted son in his first years on the planet, but little mention of him after conflict ravaged the region he had settled. There are notes of what events he thinks he had a hand in shaping. There are wars with no details, decades without complete sentences, an entire lifetime that reads like a poet’s attempt at abstract art, and a running tally of the ways he’d broken and patched his programming so he could better fit in with a species growing ever more capable of telling he wasn’t one of them. At times, she closes the report and thinks to herself, “he must be half-mad.” At others, she thinks she’s pinpointing the exact moment he completely self-actualized. She asks herself why they hadn’t been able to save him from this horrible march of time. At what points had her decisions made it impossible for her crew to find his signal and retrieve him as planned? Mostly, she comes to understand that while she’d sent down a valued member of her crew, a stranger returned. … The Qomar are the first species they meet after Kelemane. It’s unfortunate that they are unbearably smug. For a people whose impulse engines were easily damaged by a rudimentary sensor scan, they think very highly of themselves. Some would say inappropriately so. Kathryn keeps that too herself. Diplomacy is what prevents her from rolling her eyes at them every time a member of their small group opens their mouth to speak. She’s come to sickbay to welcome them aboard and assess their status, but what she gets is an exercise in patience. They’re insulting and small-minded and speak to the Doctor as if he has the processing capacity of a toaster. Frankly, they don’t seem to think much better of her. Only a few weeks ago, the hologram’s feathers would have been ruffled beyond restraint. He would have reacted to slights so casually thrown his way with an insult of his own, or a witty retort just this side of acceptable. In turn, she would have had to swiftly correct him, as she often had to, with a stern scolding. That she often agreed with his grossing didn’t matter — a Captain had to keep their crew in line. Now, however, he isn’t reacting to the Qomar at all, beyond cursory instructions and refusals to let them leave without a thorough medical examination. They may as well be throwing insults at a wall, for all that he doesn’t react. He just scans and treats then moves on to the next to do it all over again. Kathryn stays in sickbay long beyond what is necessary simply to observe. The leader of this tiresome group, Abarca, keeps pontificating on the primitive nature of holo-technology, even as a hologram heals his injuries. Tincoo is no better, treating the entire encounter like a demonstration of antiquated care. The small female Qomar follows the Doctor around with a string of pointed questions, each more accusatory than the last. Kathryn has to rebuff them on occasion, while assuring them that they’ll repair their ship and send them on their way. That it would all go more quickly if they just allowed them to do their jobs. By the time the Doctor begins to hum as he works — a tune she’s unfamiliar with, very likely Kelemane in origin — her patience with their guests is only held together by a single thread and caffeine. The caffeine is starting to wear off; the thread is frayed. “What is that sound?” Abarca, while amazed, still manages to be demanding. Kathryn looks at the confused yet awed faces of Qomar around her and is baffled. She’s warring with the impulse to roll her eyes and the need ask them, genuinely, if they’ve never heard humming before? It goes deeper than that. They have never heard music. Later, once they’ve sent the Qomar back to their repaired ship — with a sigh of a relief and a good-riddance hidden in their goodbyes — she’s left to consider how thoroughly unmoved the Doctor appeared in the face of their fascination with him. With his singing. She feels uneasy and doesn’t know why. ... They flee Tarakis, the trauma of the Nakan massacre lingering within each member of the crew forced to experience it. Kathryn cannot help but see Saavdra behind the translucences of her eyelids. Always, always, it’s her inability to stop his mass murder and the desecration of innocent people that she sees. Even though she knows she hadn’t really been there, hadn’t really seen or done the things the monument had forced into her mind, she feels like she should have done more. Chakotay still doesn’t approve of her decision to repair the transponder’s power source, to effectively allow the memorial to traumatize another passing ship. It doesn’t matter that they’ve left a message behind— warnings can decay or resist translation or come too late. Loathe as she is to let such an invasive reminder of violence and tragedy remain, Kathryn can not help but to agree with Neelix. Neelix, who only speaks of the terrors of Rinax when the horrid truth of it is dragged out of him by the carelessness of others. He was forced to throw the trauma and the sorrow of it all at the feet of those who thought him incapable of understanding the implications of these issues, only to be told by those who’d once claimed they’d had as much to lose that he was wrong. No. He is right. It isn’t their place to destroy how the Nakans choose to remember their past. The Talaxian is doing his best to raise morale, not just among the fourth of the crew suffering from newly acquired second-hand post-traumatic stress and guilt, but for those trying to support them through it. The Mess is decorated, as tastefully as Neelix can manage, with flowers from hydroponics and the many colorful tapestries he’s gathered during their voyage. Harry’s quartet is playing music in the corner, while two-dozen of her crew mill around a buffet of finger foods and desserts. More are likely to join as they can, since the word has gotten out that the food is actually decent. Kathryn is nursing a fermented drink. It has alcohol content — that much is clear from the sharp undertones — but not so much that she can’t enjoy one. Slowly. She’s not sure if mixing alcohol with stress and grief is a very good idea, but she has been assured there is an ample supply of detox should anyone get carried away. From where she sits in the corner farthest from the buffet line, she has a good view of the room. Chakotay, who has slowly stopped scowling at her in the last two days, is choosing to finish off their disagreement by spending this free time with B’Elanna and Tom. They’re too far away for her to overhear what they’re arguing about, but it must be nothing too serious, as even the engineer is smiling. Tuvok left after fifteen minutes, so Kathryn has been mingling with anyone who comes by to chat. She uses these events to speak to those who typically don’t have a direct line to her ear. For the most part, the lower decks have grown comfortable with this and utilize these moments the best they can. Her friendly but brief conversation with Ensign Wright ends organically when the diagnostician’s usual group of friends meander in. As Kathryn watches her set off to greet them, she almost misses the next young woman who takes a chair at her table. Almost. The Equinox crew still disturb her, for what they have done and what she nearly did to them. Tuvok has provided his usual wise counsel in this area, suggesting she leave their handling entirely to Chakotay for the time being. If anyone has noticed her lack of interest in their assimilation with the crew, well, they haven’t bothered mentioning it. Marla Gilmore is sitting there, wan and clearly sleep-deprived. Kathryn is relieved to see that she’s chosen what looks to be hot tea over alcohol — since the latter would surely accelerate this young woman’s unravelling. This is all that pleases her about her current company. Gilmore fidgets. It’s a nervous tic she does quite often, along with wringing her hands. She knows Gilmore and Lessing were two of the many who’d been subjected to the memorial’s transmissions. It seemed the Nakans had targeted a type. What did it say that Kathryn fit it? Eventually, she realizes that this woman used all of her bravery just to come over and sit, and decides to put her out of her misery. “Can I help you, crewman?” A sharp edge lines the attempted softness of her tone, and Kathryn nearly sighs. There’s punishing a person for their wrongdoings and then there’s mistreating them for it. She’ll have to try do better, despite her feelings on the matter. “I-I,” Gilmore fidgets some more, then takes a purposeful breath and pushes some of the tension out of her shoulders, “I want people to remember what I did. What we did. To the nucleogenic lifeforms. Nothing…invasive. I just..I…” Kathryn is still considering what she’s trying to ask for when the Doctor appears over her shoulder. His approach looks purposeful, like he’s overheard Gilmore’s request and means to participate in the discussion. A part of her wants to shoo him away, so that she can figure this out on her own. The part that sees the strange expression on his face and wants to know its genesis says nothing when he sits. Gilmore looks at him, miserable and ashamed. The Doctor treated the onset of her hallucinations as he had with the forty or so other crew members affected. They must have already exchanged words on the matter, given that the crewman seems entirely keyed in to what the hologram might say to her. “Captain,” he gives a perfunctory greeting. Kathryn nods her permission for him to interrupt. His face, while severe, isn’t unkind when he reaches out to still Gilmore’s fidgeting fingers, “Memorials remind others what the dead have lost.” He’s right. Kathryn finds in that moment, looking from the hologram that now goes by Aeson Retz to Marla Gilmore, that she understands Neelix’s impassioned argument more than she had before. The monument on Tarakis isn’t the memorial. The memories transposed into her crew’s brains, the ones that will not fade, are. The ones they’ll carry with them for the rest of their lives, even as the feelings of them fade with time and rationalization. They’ll learn to set the guilt aside, even if the settlers’ killers couldn’t. “You’re alive. You can’t ask others to remember what you’ve done just so you can forget.” His words don’t immediately impact Marla. They seep into her slowly, a lesson that if she wishes to atone for what she’s done, it isn’t enough remind others. Eventually, she’s able to take another stable breath an nod. “Thank you, Doctor. Captain.” Left alone with him now, with his familiar-not-familiar eyes cast in her direction, Kathryn wonders what events on Kelemane he serves as a memorial for. Which of his memories are the only left that mark the wars she watched from the safety of the bridge, each a little horror that came and went in a blink of an eye? She should ask. She should. She doesn’t. ... It is meant to be a straightforward away mission. A stop-and-go survey of an otherwise mediocre planet with compelling dilithium readings. Their stores are at 80%, so if the crystal matrix is impossible to reach without harming the weak ecosystem on the planet, they can leave with no real loss beyond the time it takes to get there and back. Kathryn has been steadily growing more stir crazy since they rescued Seven and Tuvok from Penk. Chakotay has taken to helping the the former crew of the Equinox make amends for their past crimes, an effort spearheaded by Marla with a feverish sense of purpose. While she’s pleased that the Doctor’s words have ignited something in the young woman, Kathryn would like to go at least a day without hearing another report on it. Had she not been so antsy to get off the ship, the away mission wouldn’t have even been approved. It’s Tuvok’s slow recovery from his injuries that allows Kathryn to overlook Ayala for Megan Delaney on the mission team without having to listen to a lecture about unnecessary risks. It will give her a chance to spend time with Megan without also having to entertain Jenny — the louder of the twins. The poor woman has been listless ever since Astrometrics Lab gave Seven near complete control over stellar cartography. Perhaps they can take the time to brainstorm how she can participate in other ways. She nearly denied her Second Officer’s single request — that she bring the Doctor with them, in case something went wrong. After all, they’d only be six hours away at Warp 4 in the Delta Flyer. It would be better for the Doctor to remain aboard Voyager in case Tuvok needed any additional care. The Vulcan’s raised brow suggests that he could very easily have a problem with her adding herself to the away mission if she didn’t do this one small thing that he asks. Kathryn acquiesces. Class L planets are known for their vegetation and water. Unlike Class M planets, they aren’t meant to have much — if any — animal life. It’s what makes them such great planets to colonize, since well-suited fauna could be imported in with fewer worries about upending established niches in the ecosystem. All their dilithium readings point to a cave network on the outskirts of a temperate forest. The trio are enjoying their short five kilometer hike from the landing site to the natural openings in the network. The sunshine is pleasant, its UV index similar to Earth’s, and the temperature is just cool enough that her jacket doesn’t make her uncomfortably warm as they walk. As expected, Megan is a joy to work with. It is true that Kathryn should have probably kept Ayala on the mission due to his security experience, but one could only spend so much time in his silence without needing a reprieve. Besides, Megan’s secondary interest in geology makes her the right choice for spelunking. The Doctor is mostly quiet — a new normal that used to be a rarity — although Megan is able to masterfully pull him into a conversation about the medicinal value of the plants they pass along the way. It’s clear the brunette knows nothing of botany, but her questions are friendly and she doesn’t give the impression that she’s bothered by the changes to his personality. Kathryn doesn’t think she’s said more than ten words to him since leaving the shuttle. Two hundred meters from their destination, several things happen in quick succession. Sensing something in the brush, the Doctor stops short and bars Kathryn’s forward progress with arm across her chest. He’s just calling out to Megan, who has traveled ten meters ahead of them to gather readings on the rock formations, to to stop when Kathryn sees it. The creature is perfectly camouflaged against the grey-green leaves of the surrounding brush and boulders. It’s quadrupedal, likely mammalian, with a sharp, lithe frame and sinister looking spines along its tail. It isn’t large, comparable to the size of a mule, but it doesn’t need to be. Its camouflage is more than simple coloration, it extends to their scanning capabilities as well. Kathryn is sure there are likely volumes of research on the evolutionary paths that lead to such a peculiar ability— whether its a primary survival trait or an incidental one. Right now that curiosity is the furthest thing from her mind. What she wants to know is if it’s hiding from them or hunting them. She eases around the Doctor’s outstretched arm, ignoring the glare he gives her for doing so, and moves carefully to join Megan. The astrophysicist is preternaturally still where she stands, her eyes steady on the creature. It’s staring back, gold-green eyes unblinking. “Are there more?” Megan whispers, when Kathryn finally makes it within arm’s reach. A very good question. One, provided it doesn’t move quicker than the human reaction time, they can handle. Any more than that, and they were in real trouble. There are three. The one on their flank strikes first. The next several seconds are a blur of shouted commands, a shrill scream, and Kathryn firing with the highest stun setting. Her precision is immaculate, but they are fast and by the time she’s able put each down, Megan is staggering with her hands against her stomach, vomiting blood. The Doctor springs into action then, gathering the young woman up as he rushes toward the cavern entrance ahead. Kathryn is slow to follow, running through protocols to secure their position. Part of her fears that the creatures came from the cavern, but she has to hope that their coloration reflects where they spend most of their time: the foliage. Even then, that doesn’t mean nothing calls the caves its home, but right now its the best cover they have. The tableau that awaits her when she enters is nothing short of a horror. Megan Delaney is writhing in agony, her chocolate hair twisting out of its regulation bun and spilling across the cavern floor. Sharp stones line the path, and she’s grinding her cheek into them with each thrash of her head, unaware that they are piercing her skin. Hoarse, half breaths are punctuated with groans as the Doctor probes the ragged gaps punctured through the stomach of her uniform. “Help me remove her jacket,” his voice is measured, as if this is nothing more than a yearly exam. Kathryn does as she’s told, the stones cutting into her own knees as she quickly kneels at Megan’s hip. Despite the sharp sting of it, her fingers are steady as she yanks the zipper free and pulls the tank up until nothing but skin and the deep burgundy of arterial blood is visible where three holes have been punched. “I’ve administered an analgesic, but she’s still feeling pain. Sedation isn’t working. The creature’s spines must contain neurological toxins. I suspect they are blocking the effects of the medication. I need to remove them to stop the pain and the bleeding,” The Doctor explains as he efficiently rolls up his sleeves and grabs a laser scalpel. With a sickening dread, Kathryn knows what’s coming next. “Megan,” the Doctor says, voice growing kinder, soothing as he leans over so his face is in the injured woman’s field of view, “You’ve been badly injured, and I can’t stop the pain. Do you understand?” The ensign gasps but nods, the movement loosing the tears from her eyes and down her cheeks. “I’m going to remove the spines, but it is going to hurt,” he pauses, as if he wants to elaborate just how badly she will hurt, “You will survive this.” Sobs erupt as she nods again, her blood-frothed breaths coming faster and more shallow with the shock of what has happened and what is yet to come. He meets Kathryn’s eyes, “This will have to be by sight and feel. You should look away.” She doesn’t. He makes the first incision. Megan’s screams are the only thing that ground her. When it’s over, Megan Delaney is barely conscious with a thready pulse but alive. Kathryn has torn the sleeves from her uniform jacket and uses one to wipe the blood away. The venom does not allow for complete dermal regeneration or cauterization, so the wounds continue to ooze. With the jacket’s back panel, Kathryn creates a fabric guard to keep Megan’s soiled tank from touching the bandage when they pull it back down. The Doctor, for his part, allows his hands to de- and then re-materialize to remove the blood that has soaked them. They both examine the four spines he’d pulled from Megan’s digestive track. They are each six centimeters in length, the largest one eight millimeters in diameter. He handles them, frowning at the barbs that line a side of each length, “I will need to reconstruct her abdomen when we make it back to Voyager.” “Did you leave any behind?” She can see it as freshly as if it’s still happening, his fingers probing between the folds of intestines in search for each spine and the many barbs attached to them. He had been detached, methodical, while Megan made tortured sounds as Kathryn held her down. “No.” Now that the immediate emergency has been dealt with, Kathryn can focus on the next. They’re stuck in an unprotected cavern five kilometers from their shuttle, unable to initiate a transport due to the geological interference. Megan is in no shape to sit, let alone to make that hike. The Doctor needs to stay here to tend to her injuries, and Kathryn isn’t convinced she won’t be hunted down if she tries to go out on her own. She might be able to fashion a signal enhancer from a tricorder, but she’ll need to work fast before whatever toxins are affecting Megan kick in. It’s her wince gives her away as she stands. The Doctors eyes are predator sharp as he looks past Megan's blood on Kathryn's body and sees the evidence of her own injuries. He's viper quick, grabbing her wrist and preventing her from playing the martyr by denying care. There's nothing to do but to let him pull her away from the glassy-eyed ensign and force her to take a seat on softer ground. She stops him from using the limited medication in his kit, knowing that any of it might be the difference between life or death for the woman barely conscious in the corner. "What part of neurotoxin don’t you understand?" he grosses, begrudgingly giving in to her order. Before she can respond to the clearly rhetorical question, the Doctor yanks her right sleeve up. It reveals the angry swelling of her forearm and the trickle of blood seeping from the spot where an especially large spine has sunk beneath her skin. Kathryn, knowing it’s better to rip the bandaid off in one go, tilts her head to show him her second injury. He takes the hint and drops her arm to tug at the collar of her turtle neck. This time he lets out an indignant huff before giving up and ripping the seam, only enough to expose the wound while keeping her dignity in tact. "I know the drill,” she says before he can admonish her for hiding her injuries for so long, "this will hurt.” “We have no idea the medium or long-term effects of the toxin. This could have paralyzed you; it still might,” warm hands adjust the tilt of her head so he can get a closer look at the wound on her neck, and one continues to hold her firmly in place by the jaw as he activates the laser scalpel. Blood is trailing down her neck to her collar and the smell of burnt flesh is nearly suffocating. The pain is intense enough to steal the rest of her breath alway. More than that, the slick sounds of fingers digging beneath her skin is nauseating. When he releases her, Kathryn rubs where his grasp has left an indent on her chin and swallows down bile. The Doctor is too busy examining the specimen he’s removed to clock the tired glare she throws his way. Dizzy from the blood loss or toxin, Kathryn turns her glare to the ground, holds out her arm, and waits for him to start the process over again. At least this time she can watch — the morbid curiosity of it all should be enough to keep her from emptying her stomach all over his shoes. Eventually, he begins to eye the wound on her arm strategically, palpitating the barb that has settled there. Kathryn hisses at the pain but doesn’t comment on the brusque way he’s handling her — she’d told him to save the sedatives for Megan after all. “I’ll need to cut through skin and muscle,” he warns her, voice nearly as soft as when he’d apologized to Megan before reaching a hand into her viscera, “the smaller barbs have likely breached the radial artery, and their anti-coagulant properties mean I’ll need to try cauterize as soon as pull them free.” She understands this to mean that she’ll be getting a taste of Megan’s medicine, “Understood.” His gaze catches hers briefly at the go ahead, a sense of presence there that has been missing for weeks, “I need both hands for this, so I’m going to anchor your wrist between my knees. Please do your best to remain still.” Kathryn gives him a single nod, which devolves into an involuntary shudder of agony when he moves her arm into place. “Muscle tremors,” he mutters, “the analgesic must have at least prevented those in the Ensign. Are you experiencing any in your jaw and neck?” “No, just pain.” He nods, then, “Three, two, one.” The laser scalpel splits the skin of her forearm like paper. Kathryn watches the bloom of blood as it bubbles up, then out, resistant to the cauterization. “That’s the anti-coagulant,” he explains calmly, using the remaining patch of sleeve she’d torn off to clear away the blood as it surfaces “once I remove the spine the cauterization should be more effective. Cutting into muscle now.” White hot pain flares up her arm and settles right behind her eyes. She feels her jaw lock around a groan, and barely keeps the sound from tumbling out of her mouth into the space between them. The next cut is worse, deeper and longer as he exposes as much of the foreign object that has settled within the tissue as he can. He switches the scalpel off and presses it into the palm of her other hand, where she reflexively closes her fingers around it. “Hold tight,” he commands, then pries open the flesh of her arm. He uses the fingers of his other hand to find the boundaries of the spine and its barbs. Her vision dips, then doubles, then settles with the fog of pain and shock. Distantly, she can hear and feel him slowly working it loose “Your heart rate is up to one hundred and eighty. I should sedate you.” “No,” she grinds out, even as she strains against his vice-like hold on her wrist. At no point does he stop the extraction process, even as he begins to speak. “This reminds me of my days as a medic,” whether it’s her failing consciousness or the tone of his voice that makes her uneasy, Kathryn cannot say, “I saw men lose consciousness at this level of pain, not to mention Megan’s.” It’s the tone, Kathryn decides. His voice is low and conversational, and given what he’s in the middle of doing, it’s eerie, “but I suspect that was because they knew what was coming next.” Kathryn can hardly speak, watching mutely as millimeter by millimeter he removes the largest of the barbs from muscle. She manages, weakly, “What do you mean?” “The Kelemane were in a state of arrested development, very similar to twentieth century humans. This was most evident during their wars. The ones you started when trying to maneuver Voyager to a higher orbit. I stayed out of it, but you can only dodge drafts so long while trying to blend in.” He set the first barb aside and went in for the next “So, I became a medic.” She’s incapable of speaking, so he continues when she grunts instead.. “They were especially fond of white phosphorus munitions, you know the type,” another barb is dropped from fingers gummy with her blood. “They make fantastic smoke screens, but,” another, “as I’m sure you’re aware, white phosphorus burns at 800 degrees celsius. Enough to dig a hole clean through skin and bone. By the time you smother the flames, half your patients go into shock. A nontrivial number of them are already dead.” With the final barb dislodged, he begins to pull the main spine free with slow precision. His voice is still even, as if he is conveying nothing more than the weather, even as the tug beneath her skin causes the sound of it to thrum between her ears. “That’s when the lucky ones would faint, because it isn’t over with the flames are gone. You can’t just leave that phosphorus in the wound, you have to cut it out while it’s still smothered. Otherwise, it’ll just start burning again. The unlucky ones remained awake for that part.” The movement of her flesh sounds slick, like mastication. Kathryn wheezes once, and it’s this that makes him look at her with compassion. “You both have handled this well. There we go,” he offers her the spine, impossibly large with little pieces of her clinging to it, in exchange for the laser scalpel. Kathryn grips the dark, blood-covered object without complaint. “Cauterizing.” Despite the pain, she hardly flinches, the minutes slip by her as she half imagines a smoke-hazed field. Despite the centuries that lay between now and then, the horrors of trench warfare on Earth are not foreign to her. She just doesn’t know why he’s decided that this was the right time to tell her about his time on Kelemane. He fashions a bandage from the frayed remains of her right sleeve and a small piece of his own. Her wound is oozing much like Megan’s, and his fingers graze the puckered edges of her flesh as he secures the bandage into place with practiced knots. “You should rest,” his voice remains gentle as he releases her arm and drops his tools back into his kit. “I need you to monitor Megan while I create a signal enhancer,” she finds the strength to order. With a sigh — as if he knows arguing with her is futile — the Doctor nods at moves away. As she disassembles her tricroder and works on its insides with shaking hands, her eyes struggle to take in anything clearly, but what she does notice is this. He has not wiped her blood from his hands. Katheryn, half delirious with the toxins that clearly do have neurological effects, solders and tinkers beside him with her one good arm. Between her slow work and the growing frequency of violent muscle spasms, she watches with a detached curiosity as her blood dries. As it cracks and flakes and rubs away while he works on the signal enhancer she has failed to complete. Where it adheres — stubbornly etched around and under his blunt fingernails — it remains red no matter how long it sits exposed to the air. Eventually she tires and can do no more. The sweat cooling on her brow is the only sign that she has had a fever and that it has broken only to return again. Between one agonizing fit and the next, Kathryn settles next to Megan’s prone form. She wakes there later, her wounded armed wrapped comfortingly around the younger woman’s shoulders until she realizes that she’s the one who’s shaking violently. In brief moments of wakefulness, she stares at her injured arm, at the blood seeping through the bandage, and listens to the Doctor complete her work. He makes progress as she hallucinates white flame burning against the cave wall. The ghosts of his stories are bright in her mind’s eye, casting shadows that aren’t really there. As she drifts back to sleep, she imagines the Doctor carving flames from the abdomens of men, just like he’d carved the spines out of Megan Delaney’s intestines. His voice had been so soft, so calm as he’d told the science officer everything would be all right. That the pain wasn’t permanent. That it meant she was still alive. Was it that soft when Kelemane men writhed under his violent treatments? How many died screaming while he whispered empty promises because he couldn’t cut their flesh from their bodies fast enough? When she finally sleeps, it’s she who is burning clean through. Skin to bone to skin again. By the time Voyager finds them, her husk will be ashes.
She should have asked.
...
The low thrum of Voyager fills her senses as she comes to. She’s trembling and ill, but it’s no hallucination. They’ve made it back aboard the ship, and her biobed is humming through its gentle scans as she takes one aborted breath after another. She runs her hands over the new, smooth skin of her right arm and neck, afraid she’ll feel the ridge of another venomous spine ready to start the nightmare all over again. Voices reach her — Jenny coddling her sister, who has against all odds survived and is awake. The Doctor is giving them both the positive prognosis, even as he explains the terrible ordeal the injured twin has gone through. There are sniffles but relief in the voice of the twin who’d nearly become a one. “The Captain?” the warbling voice asks, fretting. Concerned. Jenny. “She’s recovering,” he explains. “She made him give me all the medication in his kit,” Megan’s voice is threadbare. Exhausted, small, but steady. Her own personal crucible has made her stronger. “It bought you time” the Doctor concedes, “enough time.” Shaking, nerves jittering in her face and eyes, Kathryn understands what he’s saying. While Megan’s injuries had been the more devastating, Kathryn is paying the price for the other woman’s survival and would continue to until he could flush all the toxins from her system. The three voices continue to whisper as the biobed administers another sedative, pulling her back under as the next violent tremors take hold. “Captain?” Fingers fiddle with the sweat-slick hair plastered to her brow, soothing it away and behind her ear. It’s a gesture reminiscent of her mother’s gentle ministrations when she was sick a a child — nostalgic and ancient history. Her eyes snap open, the sharp prick of coherence lining the edges of her vision again. Sickbay is at a quarter light. Although her muscles feel weak, all the pain has left them. Her hands are still at her side — free of the twitching that had rendered her useless on the planet. She is able to move to look at who was touching her. Beside her, Megan is seated on a stool. The younger woman continues to wear a medical gown, and there are shadows bruising the undersides of her eyes as she watches Kathryn come awake abruptly. Although she’ll always be a natural beauty, the Ensign looks prematurely aged by her ordeal. Shell-shocked and emotionally exhausted. She recalls now, the way the other woman’s stare, frozen in the rictus of a medical trauma, had watched as the Doctor did his best to treat Kathryn’s wounds. How much had she really understood of that fraught exchange? How much had she heard? Had she just imagined it all? “How are you feeling?” Kathryn tries her voice. It’s raspier than usual but comes without struggle. “Like I was gutted on a cave floor,” Megan whispers, but there are traces of her usual good humor in the words. “You were,” Kathryn doesn’t lie. For as long as she lives, she will remember how she’d forced herself to watch the Doctor reach into this woman’s abdomen and work a miracle. Forced herself to pay witness in case it didn’t work. In case Megan’s last moments were filled with meaningless torment. “I thought he was trying to kill me at first,” Megan confesses. Kathryn knows now that the astrophysicist isn’t whispering because she’s afraid the Doctor will hear. He’s not here. She’s whispering because the sickbay is too empty to fill with anything louder. The experience isn’t something you share at full volume. “The crew talks, you know, about how he came back not ri… the same. It’s small potatoes stuff, just about what he must have gotten up to down on Kelemane. That he wears real clothes now, eats food. I didn’t really think about it until…” her brown eyes flick away briefly as she swallows something down, a moment later she lays her crossed arms on the edge of the bed and rests her chin on them, “…he’s never tried so hard to make me feel like everything is going to be okay. It’s the nicest he’s ever been to me. I really thought I was going to die.” It used to be easy, back when Kes was aboard and Kathryn still had hope, to reach out and touch her crew. To comfort them when they showed her their fear. To take comfort in the act of making them feel better, if only for the moment. She’d let that natural, soothing intuition shrivel in the absence of the Ocampa. Kathryn uses what is left of that pathetic thing to rest a hand on Megan’s and mean it. Megan sniffles, wiping at her eyes, “And I was really out of it, you know? Obviously I was, those pain killers were some next level stuff even if they didn’t work. I remember thinking, ‘Geeze, why is the Doctor pulling fish bones out the Captain’s neck.’” “I had a similar thought,” Kathryn say wryly. This earns her a smile, a wan little thing, “Anyway, aside from officially winning the betting pool for being the first member of the crew to be spooned by you—“ “—as far as you know.” “Oh, you better believe I’m cashing in those energy credits. No one else has.” It’s Kathryn’s turn to smile. Leave it to a Delaney sister to pull something funny out of a truly harrowing experience, “I’m assuming this line of thinking is a detour ?” “Oh, yeah, sorry. Before Kelemane, Jenny and I were convinced he was over the moon for Seven. To be fair, at least six of the men and as many of the woman are. I’m half over the moon for her myself.” “Not that I’m completely uninvested in the collective appreciation of Seven, but I’m not seeing how this is related to the away mission.” Megan wipes at her face again, her wrists pressing against her eyes as if she can’t believe she is about to actually say this, “He looked at you like he’d … before we beamed back, I was pretty out of it, but you were gone. I’d been dreaming about warm beaches and daiquiris and there you were thrashing around, fighting an entire army in your sleep. And he was just,” Megan reaches out a hand gingerly, as if afraid of the world’s worst dressing down, and strokes Kathryn’s forehead with the edge of her thumb, the same back and forth movement that had woken her minutes before. Just as Kathryn thinks she’s going to have to ask her to stop, Megan blinks, clears her throat, and withdraws. But she remembers, and Megan isn’t wrong. She’d been half-dead with pain and fear, and he’d looked like the thing he wanted most in the world was to crack open her head to see what was inside. ... “You look hungry,” leave it to Chakotay to peer into the manic core of her and pinpoint with complete accuracy what is wrong, and only two minutes after entering sickbay to congratulate her on her release. It’s a new personal record. Her smile is all teeth, the growling in her stomach loud enough to give her away. “The Captain needs rest,” comes the Doctor’s soft admonishment from where he’s entering his discharge report, as if releasing her into Chakotay’s care is unthinkably foolish. “I’ve been sleeping for days,” she looks away from Chakotay to him, and what was once a smile is now just bared teeth, “and I am hungry.” The Doctor returns the thing-that-used-to-be-a-smile with something that is all plastic around the eyes. A cellophane expression for a cellophane man. Although they’ve been in the same space for most of the morning, they have not spoken beyond vague mentions of her condition. It seems he was content to fall into his new equilibrium of quiet toil, while she’s tried — and failed — to rationalize her new discomfort in his presence until what remains is something cruel and uncharitable. It’s time she gets away from him. Once the command team makes it to Kathryn’s quarters, Chakotay is happy to carry the entirety of the conversation as he harangues her replicator into making a proper dish. He’s long since forgiven her for the Nakan incident, just as he had with the Equinox debacle and every other decision he hasn’t agreed with before. His tone is light and as friendly as it has ever been, but she isn’t paying attention. Not until a bowl is set before her, does she shift her eyes to him. He hands her the spoon, “That bad?” He knows her so well, this man. When she feels more like Kathryn than the Captain, it’s easy to sit and laugh with him over drinks and meals. To sink down into the warm safety of soft pining. She knows he dabbles in it too, even if they’ve both accepted it for the doomed thing that it is. When she’s retreated to a place where she feels less a person and more a rank, conversations with him are just another duty. A chore she has to complete to get to the other side. Lately, she has started to feel as if she’s a half-filled uniform in the shape of Kathryn Janeway, held up by protocol and duty and regret. She swirls the spoon around the sauce and catches a chunk of turnip. It’s his mother’s vegetable stew, the one Chakotay saves for when what the person he’s feeding needs most is comfort. Harry had once called it the culinary equivalent of a warm hug; Kathryn thinks that’s an apt description. “I’ve been in my head too long,” she admits, before chewing on the softened root. Chakotay takes a seat, clearly thinking through his next words as they eat in companionable silence. Eventually, he sets his spoon aside and folds his hands together. Kathryn stops chewing and waits. “Will Megan be okay?” It’s not what he wants to ask, but it’s the best way he knows how to start this conversation. “Physically? Yes. Psychologically? I’m not sure. The Doctor tortured her while I held her down.” The image of the ensign comes back to her, blood and offal and bleeding. It puts her off her appetite. Swallowing thickly, she pushes the bowl aside and leans her elbows against the table. A moment later, she rubs her face with her hands. Chakotay waits with silent compassion until she rests her chin in her palm. She wants to say she should have never approved the mission — but he’d respond with a reasonable reminder that hindsight is reviewed with perfect vision. She wants to tell him that in her own state of delusion and emotional confusion, she’d convinced herself that the Doctor had enjoyed Megan’s pain —her own pain — and had extended it. That this is a feeling deeply etched into her by the trauma, difficult to shake, and deeply unfair. He’d remind her that hallucinations can render the most benign actions insidious. She wants to talk about the detail in which he’d discussed carving fire out of men. Chakotay would explain that holograms must be able to experience trauma too, and that the Doctor said such things to work through his own at a time when he was forced to relive it. She wants to mention the blood and the look, but she knows he could have just been monitoring the anti-coagulation effects of the creatures’ toxins and then later her condition. That he had fashioned a signal enhancer strong enough to initiate a site-to-site to the shuttle, then immediately sent for Voyager to meet them at highest warp they could maintain. These are all the things she’s been telling herself, and she mostly believes them. Yet that deep, irrational part of her brain she has no control over clings to it. It clings to the paranoia that comes with relying on a stranger to keep you safe at your weakest. And as much as she hates to admit it, that’s what the Doctor — Aeson Retz — now is. A stranger they all must rely on, with an indecipherable program and unknown motivations. Kathryn doesn’t want prejudice and fear to dictate they way she handles this — it’s well past the time she’s learned her lesson on that — but she doesn’t know how to proceed. They are, none of them, his friends. Not in the way they once were. Seven has confessed that he often mistakes his memories of Kes with his memories of her, to the point that he often forgets that she’s aboard the ship and has already accepted the loss. This detachment has left the young woman uncertain of where she stands with him. She is now doing what many humans do when they are hurt, creating a protective distance instead of trying to bridge the gap it. Harry cannot keep him invested in conversations long enough to ask him about his experiences, and Neelix only finds luck when he asks for Kelemane recipes for culinary experimentation. Yet, for reasons unknown, she’s noticed him hovering around the edges of her social periphery during her off hours. Near without approaching. Present but detached. The interaction with Gilmore was just one example of his joining the conversation in response to what someone has said to her. He’d done the same with Megan on the planet, and often to Tom in the holodeck. Why hasn’t she engaged with him? It’s not like her to be uncertain when interacting with her crew. Even the Maquis. Even the ones who she spends no duty shifts with. It’s possible it’s because he no longer feels like a member of her crew. Sure, he wears the uniform and follows protocols, but he also wears the facial ridges of a Kelemane. It’s a reminder that he’s spent centuries more time not being a Starfleet Officer than he has being one. It’s possible he’s brimming with things he wants to say. Maybe Tarakis had shaken loose memories of the wars he’d witnessed, and the only time she’d stopped long enough to allow him to give words to what he’d experienced was when he re-experienced them while cutting into her arm. She’s been silent for too long. Chakotay watches her think until it’s no longer comfortable. At that point, he asks, “Are you okay?” It’s what he has wanted to ask since he got her alone. And like that, she falls back into the increasingly familiar feeling of being more Captain than Kathryn. “I’ll have to be.” … Kathryn hasn’t been back to Fair Haven in some weeks. While balancing her concerns over the well-being of the Doctor, Seven, Tuvok, and Megan, she’s spent the better part of her off-duty hours unplugging from more complex pastimes. So, she plays Velocity with Seven, shares meals with Tuvok, and works with the twins to find a place for them to make their mark. For Jenny, this means commanding Astrometrics — as she is content to allow Seven as much access to the space as she wants. It will fulfills the dual purpose of assuaging Command’s eventual concerns should she let a non-Starfleet member of her crew fill that position while giving Jenny the command experience she’s been asking for. Megan chooses to take over bridge shifts from Samantha Wildman, who in turn happily takes over command of the research lab. Her return to the program is really just a bid to get to know the Doctor again, and help him find the means to reintegrate with those who still try to think of him as a friend. To let him speak to her about what has happened to him when she’s capable of listening. This means the wholly non-secular Katie O’Clare is trying to talk the skeptical town priest into giving a sermon when Milo and Seamus barge through the front doors of the church with a cow. The Doctor looks at her, not amused in the slightest. Kathryn, for her part, is wondering what sort of prank Harry and Tom have come up with this time. So she shrugs at him, as if to say this isn’t her doing, and addresses the two characters. “Cows can’t take communion, gentlemen.” Seamus, who is already quite red around his bloated face, turns a deep shade of fuchsia, “This isn’t a cow! It’s Maggie!” “Naming the cow doesn’t mean it isn’t a cow,” is the Doctor’s sardonic response. It’s clearly out of character, as Father Mulligan is known around town to be loquacious and painfully earnest. It shocks the men into indignant silence long enough for Kathryn to remember who they must be talking about. “They think she’s Maggie O’Halloran,” she whispers through her teeth, then says so the others can hear,“The auburn haired lass who runs the vegetable stall?” Milo points at her and nods, temperament thawing slightly now that she hasn’t dismissed this outright. She has two options here: 1) assume this is some prank built into the program, and that Tom or Harry are having good fun waiting outside to see the outcome, or 2) assume that these men really think the cow is Maggie. Aware that the Doctor will never again agree to host a Catholic mass, she decides that it doesn’t matter which is true. She may as well go where this strange plot thread takes her —them, if she has any say in the matter. If it is a prank, surely she has enough good humor to laugh at herself. “Did you see how she was turned into a cow?” What does it say about her that this isn’t anywhere near the top ten oddest questions she’s asked in her time on Voyager? Seamus hesitates before answering, clearly wary of her. He’d come to see a man of God, not the strange outsider who was carrying on with the bartender. “Your friend, Tom, did it.” The Doctor may not remember this program well, but he’s catching on to the dynamics quickly. Before Kathryn can try to ask the questions necessary to determine how the holograms were able to understand Tom’s actions —and she does believe them that Tom has done this — he cuts her off. “Mr. Paris isn’t her friend. That’s why she was here, to convince me to have a word with him about his behavior.” She wants to glare at him for throwing the pilot under the proverbial carriage, but refrains when she sees the way his words make Seamus relax. The rotund man even manages to look apologetic for his harsh tone. It has paved the way for Kathryn to ask the questions she wants. “Did you see him do this? I know he’s been a nuisance, but this sounds like…” “The meddling of outsiders,” Seamus completes her sentence, “the workings of the spirit folk.” “You think Mr. Paris is a Sidhe?” If pulling off the incredulous priest — bound only to believe a certain type of supernatural and to disregard all the rest, especially Irish folklore — is the Doctor’s goal here, he’s succeeding. The tone is half question, half accusation, as if he suspects Seamus has had a little too much to drink and is seeing things. “Aye, and that friend of his too.” That would be Harry. It’s possible that this is a storyline that the boys have added to the Fair Haven program, but they’ve been good about posting their change logs to the ship forum. Kathryn had checked it the previous evening to see what had shifted in the town during her absence. Aside from a few patches after the storm, little has. “Have you seen them since?” she gestures toward Maggie-the-cow. “They disappeared through a door in the air,” is all Milo say. Kathryn makes eye contact with the Doctor. He’s thinking what she’s thinking: this is not a Tom Paris signature prank. Something might actually be wrong here. Even if Tom turned Maggie into a cow and these men saw, they shouldn’t have recognized the exit doors. They need to get out of here and run a diagnosis on the program, but first, they need Seamus and Milo to leave, so they can exit without witnesses. “You should take Maggie back to town, and keep watch in case Tom and Harry return.” “What about you, Miss O’Claire?” Milo seems uncomfortable leaving her here. “I’ll escort her to the ferry for safety,” the Doctor soothes. If the men find it suspicious that neither want to return to town with them, it doesn’t show. Instead, they seem to be nodding along with the plan, silently working up the courage to leave the perceived safety of the church. “You two be careful,” Seamus mutters, before heading out into the night. Kathryn hovers near a window, watching their forms retreat in the distance, before turning back to the Doctor. He’s watching her, faint traces of amusement on his face, the beginnings of a once-familiar smile tugging at his cheeks. When she arches a brow, he shrugs and lets the smile form. It feels a little bit like normal. … She shouldn’t have let Tom and Harry re-enter the holodeck to reset the program. Now, they’re the hostages of an irate group of holograms who’ve destroyed the controls. Her pilot and Ops Officer are at the mercy of a God and fae fearing folk, and they have no easy way to get them out. The suggestions aren’t great, but their best shot at rescuing their men and salvaging the program is to send in the Doctor with pattern enhancers. Despite Tuvok and Chakotay’s misgivings, she chooses to join him. It’s a risk, but not an especially great one. They can remotely deactivate the program if anything truly gets out of hand. Mostly, included in all of her concern about her officers, she’s curious. The holograms aren’t sentient, per se, but they’re far more aware of their surroundings than they should be. They enter out of view of the church, just below the crest of a hill that blocks them from view. It’s still night, which suggests the in-program time must not have advanced too much beyond what it was when they left. That tracks, because they’d taken it offline while Tom, Harry and B’Elanna tried to troubleshoot the issue. It’s a shame that everything has gone sideways. The evenings in Fair Haven are some of Kathryn’s favorites of Tom’s work. It’s a lived-in town and surrounding country, with period typical activities that bleed sound and dim orange lantern light out into the open spaces. Along with the moon, the bugs and the breeze, it creates an ambience that is second to none.If everything had gone to plan, she’d be on stroll with Michael right now, not the Doctor. Not that she particularly minds, he’s been a fine companion, even if she can still remember the tug of his fingers beneath the flesh of her battered arm. “They might want to know why I’m not on the ferry,” she says, as they begin the quarter mile walk to the church, where Tom and Harry are being held hostage. “The ferry didn’t show, probably just another one of Mr. Paris’ magic tricks. We heard that the outsiders had come back into town, and decided to see if they were up to no good. We saw the state of the pub and came straight here in case people were seeking sanctuary.” That sounds reasonable enough to her. As they near, a bell clangs followed by a long baleful moo from Maggie-the-still-a-cow. The absurdity of it nearly makes her laugh. Had no one reset the woman to her original form? They’d had so many opportunities to do so. At her snicker, the Doctor shoots her a look, mostly unreadable in the low light of the evening. “At least they left her outside. I don’t know how long I could manage a straight face under the recriminations of a cow.” “It might do Mr. Paris some good to face his accuser.” The deadpan catches her off guard. It’s a tone he’d used often before Kelemane but never in her presence since. She flashes him a smile before they enter the glow of the church light, where she tucks the expression away in the time it takes them to enter. An argument is playing out at a considerable volume when they do. A small crowd has congregated, likely under the belief that these hallowed halls will protect them from more mischief, and they’re disagreeing over what to do with the Sidhe. Poor Harry and Tom are tied up on a pew, watching the shouting with twin looks of worry. Kathryn manages to catch their attention before anyone else notices her, and shakes her head at them. If they start pleading with her to save them, she’ll just end up tied up right beside them, at the whims of superstitious 19th century farmers. Tom catches on quickly and nods, then whispers something to Harry that causes him to meet her eyes and nod as well. “What’s this, then?” The Doctor does his very best impression of a disgruntled member of the cloth. Like a needle ripped off a record, the shouting comes to a halt. “Father Mulligan, Katie, thank goodness you’re here,” Michael looks overwhelmed, clearly the lone man on the side of reason. He’s standing between the angry crowd and her tied up crew, doing his best to keep them from attempting to exercise or hang them. “We’d heard you found them, and went looking in town. What happened to the pub?” Seamus has worked himself up into a state of red-cheeked fury, “Their allies cast dark magic on the others, we only just managed to break their conduit to the other side before they did the same to us.” “Have they been able to do anything since you’ve brought them here?” If the Fair Haven holograms are all functioning with a baseline faith in the otherworldly, they can use it to their advantage. At least, that’s Kathryn’s hope as she asks the question. “No,” Michael says firmly, before any of the villagers can start speculating, “no they haven’t.” Not for the first time, Kathryn is thankful she added a Trinity College education to his program before locking herself out of making further adjustments. Even if his superstitions remain, they’ll be tempered with skepticism in the face of actual accusations. Three pattern enhancers are tucked away in a secret pocket in her dress; the Doctor has three more in case she’s incapacitated. If either of them can make it near enough to the others, they can finish this now. Kathryn considers calling into question the strength of the knots binding them — offering to check them — but most of the group in the church look paranoid enough to see through the ruse immediately. “Father Mulligan, is there anything you can do?” she asks instead, since the townsfolk are far more likely to trust their priest than they are a strange woman from out of town. “Exercise them,” Seamus demands.
That’s not what she wants.
The Doctor hedges — he’s likely plumbing his databanks for information on 19th century Catholic practices — “I’d need the permission of my Bishop, and I’m not sure I’d receive it. He demands ironclad proof in cases of possessions.” “Send him Maggie,” is Milo’s less than helpful suggestion. “All he’ll see is a well-fed cow.” “He’ll never believe us anyway,” comes the lilting words of a woman Kathryn doesn’t remember the name of, “The Aes Sídhe are too Irish for the Church. And we know an exorcism won’t work. They’re not possessed, they’re of the fair folk.” It’s been years since Kathryn’s had a refresher on Irish folklore. Aside from the basics on family Banshees and the differences between leprechauns and clurichaun, she’s woefully unprepared to outwit a group that believes Tom and Harry are among their ranks. Edith, her name is Edith, points a finger in their direction, “And you, shapeshifter, don’t think no one’s seen you disappear at night.” Kathryn takes a step back, hand clutching at the waist belt of her dress. It’s this involuntary movement — borne out of the incorrect assumption that Edith was pointing at her — that works to her benefit. Because she looks like she’s stepping away from Father Mulligan in shock, it’s enough to inoculate her from the suspicions of the others. Edith isn’t pointing at her. She’s pointing at the Doctor. They’ve noticed his facial ridges. Only weeks ago, to them, he’d looked like any other human entering the program. Now, now he looks like a person who can change his face. There’s a murmur of agreement among the crowd, as they are all immediately swayed by Edith’s words. How easy it is, to change the attitudes of a mob for the worse. Michael holds a hand out in her direction, “Katie, move away from him.” It’s perhaps the right thing to do, to keep up her ruse, but the situation is one wrong word away from turning violent. Placing herself in the center of growing mob justice is risky —perhaps too risky — but if she doesn’t, she may as well tell them she’s an outsider too. She takes too long to react, and the mob is picking up steam. Milo jumps to the conclusion first, “He’s gotten Katie alone. How do we know that’s really her!?” If she’d spent more time with Michael, he may not be faltering now. Even as he makes the decision not to help her, he remains calm in the face of the other’s panic, and stands between the crowd and the pair with hands outstretched to hold them apart. It’s the best she could have hoped for. “ We don’t know, but—“ At this point, the crowd is surging toward them, led by Seamus. Michael cannot hold them back, and the shouts from Tom and Harry denying that she’s one of them fall on deaf ears. The Doctor steps in front of her, as if to hold back the tide, and she’s forced to grab the back of his arms to keep from tripping as they’re both pushed back. The wool jacket he’s wearing is coarse beneath her fingers, and bunches in her grip. This time, he’s not letting her duck around him to move toward the danger. Each step the crowd takes forward leads the Doctor to take one back — and so she steps with him in the worst dance this side of the Delta Quadrant. Eventually, they run out of room to retreat. The shouting and accusations and insults are at their fever pitch and with one final, jerky step, her grip falters on his left arm just enough to cause her fingers to slide against his mobile emitter. Kathryn knows what’s about to happen without needing to be told, and so covers it with her palm. The Fair Haven holograms cannot be allowed to take it and leave the program. The Doctor turns his face to see where she’s grabbed him and it’s enough to allow Seamus to take the final steps toward them. Kathryn doesn’t know if the, “Don’t” the Doctor utters is directed at her or the man grabbing him by the shoulders. It doesn’t matter, because as Seamus drags him away, Kathryn is left with the mobile emitter in her hand. She doesn’t know the last time she’s held it. The powerful piece of technology is B’Elanna’s duty and the Doctor’s freedom. Prior to Kelemane, she’d given it little thought beyond what it allowed her CMO to do. Now, it sits cool and light in her palm as the Doctor’s endlessly complicated program begins its integration with Fair Haven’s. It’s a proverbial slaughter, a slow, thorough destruction. It starts with the candle flames at the alter freezing in place and the shadows disappearing. The effect is eerie and causes Edith to cast fearful eyes around the room as her posture shrinks into her shawl. Michael looks at her, baffled by what must be the supernatural to him, as he hadn’t really believed in it before. He makes the sign of the cross as Seamus freezes in the middle of manhandling the Doctor. His stout frame unnaturally still, before he blinks out of existence. Milo manages a single shout of shock before he flickers once, then again, before following his friend into the ether. Chaos comes to the townsfolk then, and they embrace it with the madness of a Lovecraft protagonist. Kathryn looks to Tom and Harry, no longer bound as the scenery begins to bifurcate and fold into itself around them, “Go,” she orders, “save what you can.” They scramble out with hardly a ‘Yes Captain’, ignored by the holograms that remain, each either caught in their own hell of fright or decompilation or panicked fleeing. Michael is frozen in place now, one of the few holograms remaining. Kathryn can see the way his eyes are darting from left to right, witnessing what must be — to him — divine punishment. She steps up to him, no longer impeded, and grips his shoulder with her right hand. In her left she still holds the mobile emitter. If she knew it could save him, she wouldn’t hesitate to key it into his programming or reattach it to the Doctor’s arm to disentangle him from Fair Haven. But she doesn’t know that. “It’ll be okay,” she comforts him with a palm to his cheek, throat tight around the words, mere moments before he, then half of the Church, dissolve into the gridlines of the Holodeck. It’s just her and the Doctor now, and he takes the emitter from her when she blindly holds it out for him. “They weren’t real,” he says lowly, as if comforting her or excusing them for the role they played — inadvertently or no — in their demise. It runs counter to what he’d said to her months ago, earnestly badgering her in the corridors in his priestly attire. “Have you decided you know what’s real and what isn’t, Doctor?” The question and the way she speaks it are harsh, considering this isn’t his fault. Considering she won’t even look at him. “I find myself wondering if I’m real,” it isn’t an answer, not even close, but Kathryn suspects there is a point. “If I am, when did it happen? Was it before I was sent to Kelemane? During any of the intervening years I was there? You’ve had time to read my report. Can you tell me?” He’s shoulder to shoulder with her now, gaze locked on the slowly decompiling remains of Fair Haven, head tilted so his words slip past her ear like a breath that isn’t really there. Kathryn clenches her teeth and does not answer, because she doesn’t know the answer. The Doctor softens under the strain of her silence, then lays an apologetic hand on her shoulder. It’s the first time he’s touched Kathryn since her discharge from sickbay weeks ago, and the weight of it is heavy despite the fact that he’s a being of no real mass. ”I’m sorry. Real or not, they … I’m sorry.” ... Tom and Harry lose everyone but Maggie and the few townspeople that were caught in the pub during the conflict. They report the calamity was the result of the Doctor’s complex program burdening the already strained holodeck. Fair Haven’s program is no longer stable enough to sustain its shape or charm and is put to rest. Its survivors are left in the peace of quiet deactivation, where they need not wonder where their friends have gone. What is real? Kathryn asks herself not for the first time. You can’t cast the real into nonexistence when it no longer serve the purpose you created it for. ... The children have an interesting effect on crew morale. Like little ducklings, they follow Seven around in a line: Icheb, then Azan, then Rebi. Only the young girl, Mezoti deviates, as she prefers to spend her time with Naomi instead. Seven isn’t maternal, nor is she comfortable at the idea anyone would expect her to be, but they don’t need maternal. They need familiar. Her speech patterns and efficiency bring them comfort, and in turn, they seem to help reduce the feeling of helpless isolation she’s been feeling since the Doctor went down to Kelemane as her mentor and came back something else. Kathryn interacts with the four rarely, but enjoys it each time, seeing in them the reminder that there are people who exist within each individual Borg drone. They may be able to bring peace to those who thought their loved ones were lost forever. Icheb is easy to accept, as brilliant and quiet as he is. Many of the crew allow him into their work spaces, as evidenced by the reports she receives that include reference to his name. Curious but unobtrusive, he becomes just another facet of the social web of the crew. Azan and Rebi are more difficult, insular as they are. Only Seven and the other children seem able to draw them out of their unit of two. Kathryn fears that if they do not find them family, they may one day grow into cloistered adults, outsiders within a group of outsiders. Mezoti is the most individual of the four, with a strong personality and a developed sense of self. She is clever and capricious. She is not devastated when Voyager cannot contact the Narcadians — but is instead pleased to remain among those she knows and trusts. The little girl is the first real opportunity Kathryn has to pry into the Doctor’s new, long past. He favors Mezoti above the others, and of all the adults aboard Voyager, she appears to prefer him. Above Seven, above Samantha and above Neelix. When she isn’t attending lessons with Seven or playing with Naomi, she is underfoot in sickbay, or trailing after him in the corridors with an endless stream of questions. Mezoti is fascinated that he knows how to reconstruct a body altered by the Borg, and he in turn appears to enjoy doting on her. It’s the most normal he’s seemed. The answer to why must be in the report he submitted after returning. It will take her many more weeks to review its contents in full. A little more than half way through, she spots the first use of the name: Martzia. She issues a search based on the name, but it only returns three instances. The first is a sentence in recognition of adoption: the child’s name was Martzia, without a family she would have died, so I took her in. The next entry was twenty years later and listed only the date of her marriage and the name of her husband, Hedi, and that he’d taken her last name, Retz. The final entry was the date and cause of her death: at 70, she’d passed in her sleep from an embolism. It is a depressing lack of information. Clinical. It suggests nothing about his paternal relationship with his adopted daughter or why he might have taken a shine to Mezoti, aside from the similarities in their names and their status as orphans. Kathryn expands the search to only Retz. The results are a treasure trove — it appears often, attached to different first names across nearly a hundred and twenty-years of data. She sits back in her ready room chair and lets it sink in, the sheer passage of time. She’d only meant to send him down for days, and here before her is proof of an extensive family tree. All dead now. Half her nature is regret. It’s in the lines growing slowly more permanent on her brow, in the downward tilt of her chin as she gives orders, in the way her pips chafe against the curve of her neck and in the way she loses more and more sleep each night. She regrets Justin and her father and saying the final goodbye to Mark before unknowingly leaving him for the last time and stranding her crew in hostile space and the hundreds of terrible decisions she’s made since. This is another regret. Perhaps it will become the way she no longer enjoys the taste of her food, perhaps the way she requires more coffee to feel human in the mornings, or perhaps it will one day stare at her from behind her own eyes in a mirror, a stranger wearing her face. Perhaps it’s already in the way she avoids the girl. No one notices, because she doesn’t see much of the children anyway, but she recognizes the behavior in herself and that is enough. The way she asks Seven follow-up questions about Icheb and the twins, but never presses for anything more about Mezoti than what Seven offers. She doesn’t want to start to wonder if the child is like the Kelemane girl long grown and dead. She cannot take that sorrow away from the Doctor anymore than she can undo her decision to strand her crew thousands of light years from their homes, nor can she let that regret turn into guilt. Because unlike regret, which could only ever fester in the pieces of her she’s willing to give up, guilt would consume all of her. ... It’s the second time in as many months that Seven comes to her in her quarters in the dead of the night distraught. The first time had been at the thought of saying goodbye to Icheb forever — a boy so like her he may as well be her brother or foster son. Kathryn hadn’t been able to soothe her then, or protect her from the goodbye. It was just another way her duty required her to hurt the people she loved. That Icheb was able to find his way back to them and heal that wound does not matter because she is about to do it again. When Seven enters, Kathryn is half sprawled across her couch with a paperback Tom’s lent her in hand, one arm tucked behind her head, jacket tossed over the back of a chair. She’s spent the better part of the evening reading through reports and needs the absolute trash of a pulp 1950s science fiction novel to help her unwind. “You must speak to him.” The hiss of her doors opening without a chime causes Kathryn to sit up abruptly, jolted from the succor of the novel. Seven does this sometimes — forgets herself and barges into Kathryn’s space without permission. This time, there is something to her voice that keeps any terse corrections at bay. “To who, Seven?” Kathryn could have made those words sound like reprimand, but they just come out of her tired. “Aeson,” the name still sounds so foreign, so misplaced, no matter how much the others try to use it, to bring the stranger back into the fold, “She won’t stay if I ask her, but she will if he does because she wants to stay with him.” Seven’s features are pinched. She’s trying to hide her emotions behind reason but failing, and Kathryn has to set her book aside because she knows what this interruption is about now. Seven loves Mezoti, not as much as she already does Icheb but more than she does the twins. Kathryn wonders how much of that love comes from what she sees of herself in the girl’s obstinance and curiosity, and how much of it comes from the connection the girl has allowed her to reforge with the Doctor, however gossamer the new thread between them is. She can let the twins go in the morning, because their parents will fill the gaping wounds the Borg left behind with familiarity and love and respite, but what could they provide Mezoti that Seven could not, besides a home? What will they take away from Seven, by taking away the child? These thoughts aren’t entirely selfish. Kathryn knows Mezoti would be happy to stay aboard this ship as it hurtles toward each new danger — content to grow up with Naomi and Icheb, parentless or with an adoptive father, and a whole ship of adults to protect her. It wouldn’t be a terrible childhood, either, provided Kathryn didn’t get them all killed or worse. But Mezoti might be just as happy to put her feet on the ground and grow up with two brothers and two parents, in a real home, with a stability that cannot come from a starship, let alone one so far from safe harbor. “The Doctor is doing what he thinks is best.” Kathryn doesn’t know if she’s lying or not. It’s a guess. She doesn’t know why the Doctor has decided to send the girl on her way, despite her clear adoration for him. He could be a father to her — there were so many names ending in Retz on Kelemane that say he could — but he has decided not to be. “He is afraid,” Seven insists. Sometimes fear makes us do the right thing, the best thing for someone else, even if it’s for the wrong reason. Kathryn does not say this, because the best example of the good her own fear has achieved is standing in her quarters, facing down another goodbye she doesn’t want to make. “Please,” the younger woman says, “he won’t listen to me.” Kathryn sighs, then rubs her hands across her face. She might have actually been able to sleep tonight, and she might still be able to if she sends Seven away. That’s a lie she’s telling herself, though. If she sends Seven away, with the honest answer that she doesn’t think the Doctor will listen to her either, the regret will start to feel a little more like guilt. Finally, she pushes herself to her feet. Seven is tense but grows pliant when Kathryn grabs at her elbows. Its the most comfort she can give her, “I can’t make him ask her to stay.” “You can tell him he’s making a mistake.” “I’m not sure it’s a mistake,” Kathryn confesses. Seven, an astute student of humanity and growing more aware of it by the day, looks down at Kathryn in her imperious way, “That’s why he’ll listen to you.” That’s not it. Seven hopes that Kathryn telling him he’s right will offend him into asking Mezoti to stay. It’s clever if not cruel, leveraging the prior dynamic between Captain and hologram. The one where she always considered him that much less of a person than everyone else. Kathryn doesn’t begrudge her this cruelty. “I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll see what I can do.” The younger woman relents, leaving Kathryn at the door of her quarters. Her eyes linger in the book she’d been reading, where it rest on the couch. It would be so easy to pick up where she’d left off until sleep took her. With a sigh, she runs her fingers through her hair to tame it and steps out into the corridor to make the short walk. The doors to the Doctor’s quarters open to admit her after a single chime. It’s the first time she’s seen the space, and Kathryn isn’t surprised to find that it’s nearly as spartan as hers. She is surprised to find it smells lightly of citrus and bergamot — which stands in stark contrast to the wall of incense she steps into every time she walks into Tuvok’s quarters, or the wafts of whatever meal Chakotay has prepared for her in his. He stands from where he was seated on his couch when he sees her. Then he sets the book in one of his hands aside and places the cup of something steaming — tea, from the aroma — in the other on the coffee table, “Captain. Are you feeling well?” Her lips twitch. The Doctor no longer asks what the nature of the medical emergency is whenever brought online, so this is as close as he gets. Given it’s 0200 hours, she can’t blame him for suspecting she’s come to see him with an ailment. “I feel fine.” At his silent direction, she takes a seat in the armchair and watches as he tinkers at the replicator. A moment later, he comes back with another steaming mug of something and hands it to her. Kathryn quirks a brow but takes a tentative sniff — citrus and bergamot — and a careful sip: herbal tea. It isn’t quite citron, and the floral tones leave a stringent aftertaste. She likes it well enough, given it isn’t coffee. “Momot tea,” he says by way of explanation as he sits at his couch again. “Kelemane?” A nod, “A late summer drink, meant to be nursed before sleep. ” She takes another sip before setting it near his full cup on the table. She wonders briefly if he’d even been drinking his or if it’s there out of habit. She’s let her fair share of midnight coffees grow cold out of neglect. With no desire to get to the point, she lets a little of her curiosity through. Kathryn knows that Neelix has strong-armed a few meal ideas out of the Doctor, but doesn’t know how far that extends, “Have you programmed the replicators with other recipes?” Her interest is rewarded with a smile, one of his old ones that verge on just this side of preening, “A few. You’re always welcome to try them, Captain. Although,” the smile falters, “I don’t think you’re here to discuss the culinary delights of Kelemane.” “No,” she concedes, “I’m not.” The desire to stand and pace is so strong, she has to fold a leg beneath her and lean toward him against her armrest to keep from doing it. For his part, he remains silent and watches her with dark, unassuming eyes. It’s enough to make her want to ask what he’s reading. How like her, to use the ruse of getting to know someone to save her the trouble of having to have a conversation with them. Kathryn presses on, “Seven.” “Ah,” it’s just a sound, but the aversion of his gaze and frown give him away. He knows why she’s here. “I could have saved you the walk,” he mutters. “Humor me. I won’t say I’m not curious, and Mezoti clearly adores you. She’d stay if you offered her a family.” “And you think I’m capable of being a father?” The question is leading, as if he surely expects that not to be the case. Whatever his memories of his time aboard Voyager before Kelemane, they must contain her wavering support of his growth. “You’ve done it before.” She might be the only one aboard the ship that knows. Kathryn hasn’t mentioned it to anyone else, hasn’t had a reason to, “Twice.” The Doctor sighs, his posture turning inward, “Surely you don’t think I should try again.” “I think Mezoti should grow up on a planet, with a loving family and opportunities, far away from the risks that come with living aboard this ship. None of that has anything to do with you. You could give her love and a family, however small, but how long would it last? A week? A few years before Voyager meets an obstacle we can’t overcome?” Seven had been wrong, Kathryn didn’t think keeping Mezoti here was a mistake because the Doctor would be raising her. It was a mistake in spite of that. Naomi lived with them because she must, so long as her mother wished to complete the journey. They could keep Icheb with a clear conscience because the alternative had been so much worse for the boy. Nothing gives them the right to put Mezoti at risk. Kathryn knows it, and she knows the Doctor knows it. There’s an assessing look to him when he meets her eyes again, as if he had not expected that to be her logic. Kathryn can’t blame him, but she’s too tired to unpack that expectation any further; that will have to come another day. “Those are all noble reasons,” he says at last, in a way that suggests they aren’t necessarily his. Noble or not, they were all still deeply unfair to him, but few things ever are how they should be. “I won’t stop you,” she admits, “if you want to raise her. Starfleet Command may protest, but Mezoti will be an adult before they could reasonably expect to do anything about it. Seven would help you, Neelix and Sam as well. She’d have a family here, could have one of her own one day.” She leaves herself out of it, unsure if she can take on another responsibility. No, Kathryn had promised Seven she’d try, if not with actual words than with her actions, and she’ll be able to leave here saying that she has. That is the extent of her involvement in this. The speech is met with a thoughtful hum and a tilt of the head, like he’s working his way through a puzzle. She waits silently as he does so, until he simulates a sigh and reaches to his side for something. His hand comes back with the book he’d been reading when she entered. For a brief moment, Kathryn thinks he’s regressed socially and that this is a dismissal, that lasts as long as it takes him to hold it out to her. With some hesitation, she takes it from him. The textured cover and binding are familiar, even if the words in the spine are not. Kathryn turns it in her hands until she remembers where she’s seen it before, on his desk in sickbay the day he returned. Carefully, she cracks it open and turns its yellowing pages. Words she can’t decipher span them, some of the letters familiar to her but in no way she can read. It must mean something to him, if he brought it with him. What is she supposed to do with it? “Read it, when you get the chance,” it’s a friendly suggestion. “I don’t know the language,” but that doesn’t mean she can’t learn it. While Kathryn has taken after her father in nearly every way, ran after him to learn everything he could teach her, in this she is her mother’s daughter. Gretchen Janeway, the linguist who focused on the written folktales of long-gone, pre-warp societies, had passed along an innate love of languages and the stories they could tell. There is no way he can know any of that unless by a stray comment she’s already forgotten. He begins to stand, clearing away his cup and hers, “I’ll put together a primer. It’s no more difficult than Standard. Think about it, and I’ll think about what you’ve said.” Kathryn closes the book, runs her fingers over the binding once more, and nods. There’s no reason not to take it with her — it’s not as though he can’t walk the short distance to ask for it back if he wants to. If this is how he’s choosing to reach out to someone about his time spent on the planet, she’ll try meet him halfway. “All right,” she says, knowing a dismissal when she sees one, and leaves. ... Mezoti and the twins are seen off the ship the next morning by no less than half-a-dozen crew. Kathryn watches Seven suppress every emotion in her as she says her goodbyes to the trio and gives instructions to their parents on how to care for the parts of them that remain Borg. To their credit, the Wysanti couple listen avidly and nod along, seemingly aware of what their sons and now daughter mean to her. The Doctor is beside them all, kneeling so that he is eye level with Mezoti. Although the girl is not crying, she’s taking in the final words he’s whispering to her as if they’re the last pieces of sustenance she’ll ever receive. Beside her, Naomi sniffles, putting on a brave face for her friends. Samantha tucks a lock of her daughter’s hair behind her ear and thumbs away the lone tear, “They won’t forget you.” Naomi’s muffles her response by shoving her face into her mother’s stomach. When the family leaves, the older Wildman woman hands her daughter off to Neelix and indicates she’ll join Kathryn in her walk to the turbo lift. While her crew are free to approach her this way, it has grown more rare over time. It’s good for crew morale to see her, but she knows for many the returns quickly diminish when they speak to her. “It was the right thing to do,” Samantha says, eventually, once the others have dispersed behind them. The blonde has folded her arms across her chest, “it’s breaking Naomi’s heart, but Voyager is no place for children.” The who have other options goes unspoken. “I suspect that’s what the Doctor decided as well.” The look she receives isn’t exactly shock, but close, leading Kathryn to believe that Samantha suspects she decided for him, against his wishes. Perhaps she would have, if not for Kelemane, but she can’t really speak to that. She’ll already have to deal with Seven’s hurt feelings and disappointment in her failure, Kathryn doesn’t need judgment from anyone else. “I didn’t realize,” the other woman has the good grace to admit, “Aeson didn’t say.” Kathryn will one day no longer be phased by the easy use of his name, but today it still causes a pause. She knows Samantha sees him often, especially now that she commands the research lab. They must surely talk to one other often, and would have done so about the progress the children were making. It’s not really her place to ask her crew about their personal lives, lest it turns into an interrogation, so she won’t ask exactly what he did say. “Something tells me he’s more private now than he was before,” she says diplomatically instead. Samantha gives her a paper thin smile — it’s still too soon after saying goodbye for it to reach her eyes — “It’s just something I’ll have to get used to, along with everything else.” A change of subject is in order, since it looks like they’ll be riding the turbo lift together, “Will Naomi be all right?” “Yeah,” it’s said with the same breathiness as a relieved sigh, “She’s robust, and she knows she isn’t alone. It helps that Icheb never turns her away, even when he wants to.” It’s a testament to the young man that there is no concern in Samantha that he spends time with her four year-old-daughter. For all that Naomi has aged quickly and Icheb’s growth was accelerated by the Borg, the pair’s closeness might generate a few raised brows from those who did not know them. Kathryn has seen them together multiple times — Naomi precocious and outgoing, Icheb reserved and patient — and has always come away with a smile. Naomi won’t be the only child to have grown up aboard a starship, forced to make friends within the small pool of other children available to her and always, always having to say goodbye when families relocated due to transfers. She would be the only one forced to understand that the she was meant to be somewhere else, with a father and family. Kathryn could apologize to Samantha for this, but the words never come — haven’t come a single time since the Ensign announced her pregnancy. They certainly don’t grace the turbo lift with their presence before the women steps off at her stop. ... “Do you remember Gar?” They’ve just navigated the debacle that was Dala, Zar, and Mobar. The trio of cons had given them quite the ride, and Kathryn has spent the better part of the past few days marveling at how badly her own reformed-cons had been had. At least Tom and Neelix had had the good grace to second guess themselves, truly it was such a shame that they had lost their touch. Tuvok is seated across from her, delicately dishing himself more of the Pok Tar she’d managed to harangue out of her replicator. Kathryn is slicing her eggplant lasagna into ever smaller pieces, and while he has clearly noticed her waining appetite, he’s had the good grace not to say anything about it. It helps that she makes sure to take a bite for every three of his. “I recall that he was very exciting.” The bored way Tuvok delivers this thing that passes as an inside joke between them draws an earnest and honest laugh from Kathryn, the kind that makes the muscles of her abdomen sore as she gets them under control. It feels good to do so, to laugh and fail to stop laughing, and not for the first time she recognizes that it is with Tuvok — not Chakotay or Seven or alone — that she feels the most the Kathryn she was before she was the Captain. He expects nothing from her she doesn’t already give, and she values everything he’s willing to give her, and while her friend will never laugh with her, she knows he appreciates the sheer humanity of her. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be so dear to her and she him. “I can’t help but think,” she’s making good progress with smothering her smile, “that we keep getting conned by people are so blatantly untrustworthy. Have we lost our touch?” “I witnessed misters Paris and Neelix attempting to fool Doctor Retz with primitive carnival tricks.” “Did they succeed?” She’s curious despite herself. “No.” That gets her laughing again, a tamer thing than before, until she shakes her head to cast off the mirth, “Between those two and the former Maquis, no one will be able to question our ability to rehabilitate the riff-raff.” She doesn’t really think of any of them that way, and Kathryn knows that Tuvok knows this. It’s in the way he lifts his brow at her choice of wording and responds to it by taking a bite of food. Half their conversations are silent, as evidenced when the the angle of his brow shifts as he chews. Kathryn knows she’s been made; he’s taken three bites since her last. With a wry smile of her own, she takes a bite of her own food. “You’ve purposefully excluded the Equinox crew from your list,” it’s not a reprimand, just an observation. Kathryn sighs, but can’t be put out that he’s brought up one of her least favorite subjects. It’s his job to make her reflect on her choices — both as her friend and as her Security Officer. She may not enjoy it, and while more often than not these days, she uses her rank to change the subject, this time she accepts it for what it is. She chews slowly, thinks carefully about how she doesn’t particularly enjoy the texture of eggplant and can’t recall why she chose to make it for herself, until there’s nothing left and she’s just buying time. Finally, Kathryn decides to have this conversation with him. “They were wearing the uniform.” “As were you when you interrogated Mr. Lessing and when you chose to override Tuvix’s right to life.” As easily as he makes her laugh, her friend finds the raw edges of her that still ache and forces her to acknowledge the damage. He doesn’t even need to call her actions what they were — torture, murder — to invoke within her the feeling that he is condemning her actions and accepting her for who she is at the same time. She closes her eyes and admits, “Can’t you see that’s why?” “I have observed that you judge those who commit crimes you have committed yourself more harshly than others. I can find the logic in this, but I cannot claim to understand the emotions that come with it.” That he can admit that logic and emotion work in tandem is a testament to how she has shaped him — that this friendship is not a burden he bears for her benefit but one he also find rewarding. It can also be horribly annoying how well he’s learned to read her. She’s never had to articulate this though, has never had to put into words why when she looks at Marla Gilmore or Noah Lessing or any of the others, she cannot extend to them the same chance she gave Tom, Chakotay, B’Elanna and Seven. If not for her sake, then for Tuvok’s, she tries now. “I will never be held accountable for my actions,” in admitting it, she knows its true, “even if we make it to the Alpha Quadrant tomorrow, Command will say I was in an impossible position and that I did what I could with the resources I had.” Could he understand the terrible weight of that knowledge? That she had tacit permission to slowly spiral into a distorted reflection of herself, so long as her actions did not bring direct harm and ridicule to the doorstep of the Federation? “They didn’t — couldn’t — stop Ransom from murdering for their benefit or from torturing those he thought were a threat,” she briefly presses her hand to her mouth, as if she can prevent the next words from being said, but she can no more stop the truth from coming to light than she can force the litigation of her crimes, “and none of you could stop me from doing the same.” This isn’t a regret, this thing she feels right now. It’s shame and it’s anger and it’s self-loathing, and none of it is strong enough to stop her from becoming what she fears the most. Tuvok watches her, reads the emotions that pass across her face and understands. He himself has done things he would never do of his own volition for her, because he feels duty-bound to her as his Captain and to the love he has for her as his friend. Instead of saying this, instead of trying to grant wisdom to dilemma he must watch her face but can never help her overcome, he grants her grace. “I have observed in our long friendship that you do not like eggplant. Why have you chosen to consume a dish that contains it as the main ingredient?” She huffs out a breath of air, enough so that it stirs the hair framing her face, and feels her heart unbreak a little, “I don’t know, Tuvok.” “You do not need to eat a vegetarian dish when we share meals,” he begins to stand, “I will replicate you cottage pie. Pastry or potato crust?” Kathryn lets him do this for her, but can’t help the friendly roll of her eyes, leave it to Tuvok to force her to confront one of her deepest fears and then navigate the conversation to the more comfortable waters of food. And he says Neelix hasn’t rubbed off on him, “Potato. It’s never a question. Always, potato, Tuvok.” ... “He should have loved me better.” Kathryn has known this day would come for years, even if not when, and has looked forward to it with an anticipation that bordered on hope. How could she be given the gift of looking upon the aged face of Kes, even if just hours before it had been twisted into a maw disdain and fury, and not feel joy at knowing she is alive? This woman who has made Kathryn feel the closest to a mother than she ever will again. They stand together in the hydroponics bay, where they had once spent so much time together, two woman worn down by the things they have had to do and the ones they have chosen to do despite knowing better. Between Neelix and Kathryn, they have kept the memory of Kes alive in this place — in the plants and in the soil — it makes sense that this is where she will say her final goodbye. Kathryn watches Kes trace the leaves of an Ocampan rose with reverent fingers and smiles sadly. “Neelix,” she turns to Kathryn and then away again, “When I asked him to help me escape Ocampa, he shouldn’t have asked me to love him back. How was I supposed to say no?” “I don’t know,” Kathryn admits, “but you found the strength to, eventually.” The Ocampa stills her fingers and nods, once then twice, and decides that she can look at her old Captain without feeling ashamed, “You gave me a home and asked for nothing in return. You loved me better. I’m sorry I forgot that.” “Don’t be,” the words aren’t a command so much as they are a wish for Kes to forgive herself for what she’d intended to do. The sad, tilted smile on Kes’ face is so like Kathryn’s own, but it falls away as she moves on to her next thought. The Doctor had suggested that, at her advanced age, her memories might carry her to places other couldn’t easily follow. Kathryn doesn’t know for how much longer Kes will remain lucid enough to reminisce, and so she lets the other woman settle her demons at her own pace. “He forgot me,” voice small, hurt. She’s no longer talking about Neelix. “I was ready to kill him, to kill you all, so why I am so hurt that my best friend could forgot me so easily?” Kes small shoulders shake with her sobs, and she does not hesitate to cross the space between them to fall into Kathryn’s hug. Kathryn feels something in her heal — despite Kes’ open grief — at being able to comfort her again, “It was my fault.” Kes clings to her tightly and works through her tears while Kathryn tells her the whole sad story of it. How he hadn’t wanted to go down to Kelemane, and how she’d made him do it regardless. “He doesn’t remember any of us, not completely,” Kathryn finishes. There’s lucidity in the shadows around Kes’s still-wet eyes as she steps away, and even though she’d lost her way so terribly, she nods with understanding now, “I’ll have to remember for the both of us, then. For as long as I can.” Something catches in Kathryn’s throat — grief and that ever present regret — and she strangles down a fresh wave of tears of her own, “I don’t want you to go.” Nearly every day since she’d gone and taken with her so much of her hope, Kathryn has missed her. Knowing she’d have to let her go again is a terrible burden, but admitting that isn’t. Hands spotted with age cradle Kathryns cheeks, long forgotten tenderness coming back to Kes so easily as she decides to leave anyway, “Parents shouldn’t watch their children die.” Chapter Notes:
About the timeline:
I shifted the departure of Mezoti and the twins to (nearly) right after Icheb’s departure and return. Narratively, for this story at least, that timing made more sense. You'll understand why after the next chapter.
I also shifted the primary events of Critical Care (7x05) to this season. It’s one of those episodes that could fit anywhere in the later seasons. I place it just after Equinox in the timeline. Gar comes from this episode. If I put it in its normal spot, it will be a slaughter and there will be enough of that.
About the characters:
Megan is NOT okay in the sickbay scene. I imagine her trauma response is humor, in that way people can get when they need to laugh or they’ll sob violently. Some part of Janeway can see that in her, which is why she plays along as long as she does We’ll see more of her, given she’s hanging out on the bridge.
Marla (my phone kept correcting this to Martha. I can’t even) Gilmore and Noah Lessing should have been utilized more. Eagle-eyed readers will have caught in to what my plans for them (more specifically her) will be.
I love Tuvok. I wish so badly we got to see more of his friendship with Janeway on screen. It’s clear she takes such delight in getting the absolute minimal response out of him and that he feels comfortable with it (and I think, enjoys it).
Random:
Playlist (I’ve been treating “The Shape of Things to Come” by Bear McCreary as the theme of this. At one point it was even the working title).
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Lewis Zimmerman is the only person alive who can crack open the Doctor’s programming, divine what’s really inside, tell them if he is at risk, and explain the extent of what was done to it to keep him active for so long without decompiling from a cascade failure. It is both a terrible shame and extremely fortuitous timing, then, that the very first data stream they receive from the MIDAS array brings the news that he’s dying. Neelix is fidgeting where he stands in her ready room; he’s a terrible gossip but always seems to know when the information he brokerages is too personal. From where she’s sitting behind her desk, nursing the mug of some variant of coffee he’s brought her to try as a cover, part of her manages to enjoy his anxious company. It’s a side effect of the news Seven gave her just a handful of hours prior and which she had been able to convey to her crew. They can communicate with their loved ones. Regularly, with a scheduled frequency. It makes her feel closer to home than they really are. She would be entirely happy to see him if he’d only get to the point. The letter to her mother isn’t about to write itself. “He’s pretending he doesn’t care,” Neelix finally begins. “‘He’ who?” She blows across the surface of her mug then takes a sip. It tastes surprisingly like real coffee, even if the texture has a little grit. It can go in the list of approved substitutes. “Dr. Retz.” That piques her interest proper. Neelix is the one who’d passed around the letters from home. It looks like the good Doctor received one. “This is good,” she lifts the mug a little, “do I want to know what it’s made from?” It hits him like a trick question, and so he quickly changes the subject back to what he’s come here to tell her. It’s a tactic that works nearly every time. “He received news that Dr. Zimmerman is dying. I shouldn’t have pried, but when I asked him if he could help him, he said he thought so.” The news that the holography expert is in poor condition causes some of her joy to drain away. Shouldn’t the Doctor be telling her this? Surely she could facilitate his aid by asking some of the crew to reduce the length of their correspondence. She’d be willing to herself. Perhaps the engineer himself could return the favor by collaborating with B’Elanna on her efforts to decipher the many alterations to the Doctor’s program. When she says that much aloud, minus the part about B’Elanna’s quest to crack the code, Neelix finally gets to the heart of the matter. “He says he’d have to go himself, but he can’t ask the crew to take the risk, since he might not make it back.” When he leaves, promising not to tell anyone else what they’ve talked about, she contacts her engineer. They make it happen, despite the Doctor’s objections. He claims he can’t ask the crew to give up their chance to contact their families. Kathryn reassures him that they will have another — many more chances in fact — but he will only have this one to save the life of the man who created him. He says his program is too unstable to send so far, but B’Elanna has done the calculations and is certain his compression algorithms can be used to get him there and back again safely. It’s true that he’ll take up the entire data stream, and that they’ll need to store some memories (of his choosing) externally for the duration, but he’ll only be gone the thirty-two days. He has enough grace not to mention that they had told him he’d only be gone for a short amount of time once before, but had underestimated it by a half a dozen centuries. When B’Elanna finally sends him on his way, and they are alone in astrometrics, the engineer turns to Kathryn, “I keyed a short message to Zimmerman explaining what happened. I suggested that he use this opportunity to monitor and study the Doctor’s program.” “Did you tell the Doctor?” Kathryn asks, and it bothers her how unashamed she is by what she’s implying with the question. B’Elanna stares at her for a moment, her dark eyes seeing in her Captain what she herself has no doubt thought about the stranger wearing their CMO’s face. She would think the worst, this woman who had been a Maquis nearly as long as she had been Starfleet, wouldn’t she? Of course she would. Artificial intelligence of his complexity must frighten her on some level, especially now that she doesn’t have the ability to change him if he went wrong. When she gets what she needs, B’Elanna bends to snap her tool case shut then stands: “No, and I told Zimmerman that he should be … discrete.” Was it an unkindness to send the Doctor away again so soon, against his objections? He’d relented eventually, had even preformed the compressions himself because he was the only one with the permissions to do so. Yet, he’d done it solemnly, with the air of a man who thought he wasn’t coming back. Kathryn had hoped that by sending him to save his creator’s life, he might take the opportunity to find a family in the Alpha Quadrant. To create connections with those who had not known him before Kelemane. At least then he might just be known for himself. She’s not sure if that alone is enough to serve as a counterweight to her subterfuge. The month passes slowly. They are all careful, aware that should someone suffer any injury or ailment beyond what Tom and Samantha can treat between them, it will end in tragedy. The letters they read and reread carry them through the wait — and it’s all anyone could talk about. What information they plan send to their families and friends, who they want to reach out to, what stories and fiction and news they want to solicit from the Alpha Quadrant. Even Neelix has a penpal in mind, Greskrendtregk, Naomi’s Ktarian father. He wants to send a man a list of her favorite desserts, so that he may learn to make them before she comes home. Kathryn keeps chipping away at her own letter between duty shifts, unsure of what she can say to her mother as well as what she won’t say. She considers sending along a digitized copy of the Kelemane book she is still struggling to translate as a gift, but decides against it. It feels like a violation of the Doctor’s privacy, and she’s doing enough of that already. Should she tell her the wonders she’s seen or share her fears? Both seem inappropriate given she must also send Admiral Hayes a list of their dead. Chakotay interrupts a session of such indecision the day before the Doctor is set to return and just two before she’s meant to send this blasted thing off into the ether. “Kathryn,” he says as he enters her ready room, smile already lighting up his handsome face. And why shouldn’t he be happy? They’d made it the month without adding anyone to the list she’s finalized for the admiral. She checks the chronometer on her desk and realizes she’s technically off-duty and has been for two hours; it explains why he so easily left her rank at the door. “I don’t know what to write,” she confesses easily. The letter is the least of the concerns weighing on her these days — the easiest way she can let him in. Because he knows her so well, Chakotay is able to intuit what she means, “You could send her Neelix’s dinner menu, and she’d still be happy.” “Well, I don’t know about that.” Her droll delivery rarely fails to make him chuckle, and this isn’t one of the times where it falls flat. Kathryn stands and meets him at her couch, where they sit apart but near enough that his knees almost touch hers. She only needs to turn just so and lean a little closer for it to happen, like some protagonist in one of the comedy of manners she sometimes reads. She doesn’t; it doesn’t diminish his smile. “You’re falling behind. I finished my letter to Sekaya a week ago.” It’s a rare for Chakotay to mention his sister. Kathryn knows he has one — has known from the moment Starfleet Intelligence told her to find and arrest him. Beyond that, she has only the scraps of information he’s been willing to give her. Even with so little, Kathryn knows Sekaya is as dear to him as Phoebe is to her. He’d joined the Maquis in large part because she had chosen to remain on Dorvan V when the Federation gave it to the Cardassians. Perhaps now that he has proof that she has survived the war and the occupation — that she is thriving — he will be willing to share even more. “Don’t tell me,” she pretends to guess, brows and mouth twisting as if she’s deep in thought, “you’re sending her Neelix’s lunch menu.” He exaggerates an expression to imply that she’s caught him red-handed, which makes her laugh. Since he doesn’t like to make her laugh alone, Chakotay joins her until they’ve both recovered themselves. “It isn’t that I don’t have enough to say, it’s that I have too much. I’ll figure it out,” she waves the idea of the task away with her free hand. “I know you will,” sensing correctly that she doesn’t want to discuss her mother, he asks, “Was the casualty list all that the Admiral wanted?” She nods, then sips her ever-present coffee before shaking her head, “I can’t believe it’s finally happened.” “What?” “I’m taking orders again. Admiral Hayes told me I must have my fair share of casualties, and my first reaction was to tell him to mind his own business. I’m so out of practice saying ‘Yes, Sir’ that my instinct is to issue orders blindly.” “It’s a good thing you had to wait a month. Plenty of time to practice saying ‘Aye, aye.’” And then, before she can give him a witty retort: “Come on,” he says, settling a large hand on her shoulder. She leans a little into the warmth of it before he stands, “you promised me dinner in the mess.” His grin is dimpled, eyes sly, and she knows he’s goading her into saying it. Kathryn gives him a withering glare, but the effect is ruined by the roll of her eyes as she gets up to join him. … “I have isolated the data stream,” Seven’s tone is affectless as she works astrometric’s lone station. She has not spoken since Kathryn and B’Elanna entered, content instead to do her work as if the other women are not present. Kathryn is happy to allow her engineer to stand at the only available space beside Seven. They’d need her there should anything go wrong, and there’s something in the blonde’s demeanor that suggests she is purposefully ignoring her. Given that she can think of half a dozen reasons why this might be the case, Kathryn doesn’t comment on her attitude. It’s best not to do so with an audience, anyway. B’Elanna, with her years of practice tolerating the ex-drone, doesn’t care about any of this. She stands quietly instead, monitoring the readings while she prepares the mobile emitter to receive the Doctor’s program. She’s uncharacteristically precious with the device, treating it delicately as she keys in her commands. Kathryn knows she cannot do much more than give it basic instructions, as she’s still locked out of writing permissions to his program proper as well as out of most of the emitter’s higher functions. “That’s all of him,” she says instead, packing away her tools. Seven nods, seconding B’Elanna’s assessment, and looks over her shoulder at Kathryn, “We can send our response in seventeen hours.” “Good work. Both of you.” Some of the tension leaves her shoulders then. This had been a gamble. With all the projections in their favor, it was easy to say that the stakes weren’t high, but she’d been burned before. “Here goes nothing,” B’Elanna mutters, then activates the emitter. The Doctor materializes immediately, giving a quick scan of the room before muttering a dark, “At least it was only a month this time.” She bites her tongue and levels a stare at B’Elanna, who looks as unimpressed by his comment as Kathryn feels. “Welcome back,” she eventually manages, but it’s cooler than even Seven at her worst. He looks at her then, face all severe lines, “He’ll live,” is all he says to her greeting, and then adds, “but I’m afraid I can’t say I was able to find a cure his terminally unpleasant attitude.” His bitterness makes a little more sense now. If Zimmerman had been as difficult as Kathryn suspects for the entire thirty-two days, well, it would take a saint to come back from that with a smile. “We are glad you are back,” Seven says, attempting to soften the exchange. “Thank you, Seven,” he manages to sound like he means in, “but if you’ll excuse me, I have experiments in stasis I need to tend to. Captain, I’ll submit my report today.” “Very well.” He leaves quickly, and all three woman look at one another in silence. Eventually, Seven turns back to her work and B’Elanna shrugs. Once the engineer gathers her things, she gestures quietly for Janeway to follow her. When they’re alone outside of astrometrics, the engineer hands her a PADD. “We won’t know more until next month, provided Zimmerman commits to his end of the deal, but I was able to isolate this message from the stream and pull it to a local file. No one else has access.” Kathryn reads it. It has no name attached, no introduction, no context. Just two words that make her stop short. It could mean anything, that the Doctor’s program is at risk of failure, that the data stream destabilized it further, that he is in danger or a danger. It could be from someone who isn’t Zimmerman or Zimmerman-adjacent at all, but Kathryn knows that’s not true. He sent it, or someone who works with him did. He’s the only person who knows how to piggy-back the Doctor’s program in order to do it. ‘Be careful’ “That’s dramatic,” she says, because she has nothing else she can say. Kathryn hands the PADD back and makes a decision to keep this between them. She can only hope she won’t regret it: “Delete it.” B’Elanna agrees, keys the deletion orders into the PADD, and they settle in for another long wait. … Unimatrix Zero is an opportunity that she can’t afford to pass up. It’s dangerous, yes. In many ways it is cruel to those she wants to free from the mental grasp of the Collective with no hope of also ensuring their physical escape. Yet, waking them from their shared virtual reality is the only viable long-term solution to the Borg Queen’s scorched-earth approach to treating what she considers an infection: tearing out the genetic mutation, root-and-stem. It’s also Kathryn’s best chance to bring the Collective low, and she means to take it. If only she could get her crew to let her go on the mission alone. Tuvok’s reluctance to allow her makes sense. Her Security Officer should demand a presence on the mission, even if she knows he won’t stop her if she tells him no. Tuvok knows her fear, what she wants to avoid becoming most in the world, and yet he will support her in anything she does regardless. If only to make sure she has the best chance of surviving it. It’s B’Elanna that causes her pause. While she’s willing to put her own life at risk and even allow Tuvok to roll the dice himself, Voyager — the ship — needs B’Elanna. Without her, it won’t make it a year. Without it, her crew are doomed to die or languish in the Delta Quadrant. So she turns them both down and plans to go it alone, until Chakotay makes his support conditional. And oh, how clever is he to do so, because she’d just made a promise to him that she’d do better to get his approval for her wild schemes. So she says yes. Her senior staff is working through the details when another roadblock is thrown her way, this one more likely to derail the mission than the others. “We can engineer a signal to force nanoprobes to self replicate the nano-virus,” B’Elanna is laying out her plan in the conference room, keying information into the wall console to show what the process would look like. “Once the drones with the mutation receive the signal, it will interrupt their cortical inhibitors, allowing them to retain their memories from Unimatrix Zero when they wake. All we’d need to do is infect a central plexus with the virus and replicating signal, and the rest will resolve itself.” “The only thing? Captain,” Tom looks at her instead of B’Elanna, clearly already having argued with her prior to this meeting and lost, “You’d have to find a Borg cube, and then find a way on board and navigate through drones.” “All valid concerns, Mister Paris,” she concedes, coming to stand at the table at his side, “but it isn’t as impossible as you think.” “I have located a tactical cube within four light years,” Seven explains. “A tactical cu-,” he stops himself short, as the incredulity in his tone was enough to make her raise a brow in warning. “All I’m saying, Captain, is that it’s a risk, a big one. Tactical cubes outpace us offensively and defensively. How are we supposed to get you in it let alone out again? How do we keep you from being assimilated the moment you beam aboard?” “We can find a way to temporarily suppress assimi-“ On her other side, the Doctor shifts, “I won’t do it.” A pin could drop —a pin could drop a Sector away — and she would still be able to hear it. Even over the rushing in her ears. Even over the complete disbelief she feels in this moment. Around her, others are caught in a rictus of shock, others still are preparing for what will be her response. Kathryn turns just enough to look at him, where he sits, staring straight ahead defiant, “Excuse me?” It’s low, lethally so, and she presses her hands against the top of the table so she can lean over and force him to look at her. His jaw tenses, then he meets the glare she’s boring into his temple. It doesn’t phase him, her growing anger, “I won’t do it.” Chakotay begins to speak, but she raises a hand to silence him. The click of his teeth when he snaps his jaw shut is audible. “Give me the room,” she orders, standing and turning away from the group in clear disgust. They’re all quick to react, Harry and Tom are on their feet and to the door in seconds. B’Elanna is slower to follow, and Kathryn can see from her periphery that the engineer eying her warily as she goes. Tuvok is next, then Chakotay when he understands she won’t be asking him to stick around. “Stay,” she commands, when the Doctor is at the threshold He lets the doors slide shut in front of him before turning around. She waits a moment longer, the fingers of her right hand pressed to her brow as she forces herself not to say the uncharitable thoughts she’s thinking. About him. About this absolute death-trap of a mission. Finally, she drops her hand and faces him. She tries, tries very hard, not to jump to the nuclear option first. This is what she’s wanted, isn’t it? Her crew to question her if they think she’s wrong. Not like this, though. “I understand,” she begins, “that you may need more time to remember how this works, Doctor. But this? This isn’t it. You can’t just—“ she throws her arm out, “decide not to follow orders.” From his place near the door, he watches her without much change to his expression, and he doesn’t respond. “Understood?” She prompts, ire growing again, as she steps away from the view port and toward him. “I know how the command structure works, Captain. I have full access to Starfleet regulations and protocols. You’re violating at least twenty of them.” And yet none of that gives him the right to derail mission briefings. As CMO he could override her only when she was medically unsound or asking him to break his medical oaths. This isn’t that. “It isn’t your call to make.” He ignores her, “I’m perfectly willing to follow your orders when they don’t put everything at risk on a whim.” “I’m your captain, and as a Starfleet officer you don’t get to decide to—” “Starfleet officer?” He cuts her off, and there it is, the first spark of something etching its way across his stern features as he steps further into the room, finally willing to engage with what should be a dressing down but is turning into something else entirely, “You think I’m a Starfleet Officer? Do you see any pips, Captain?” Her eyes move to his collar involuntarily. If he were human — no, if he were anything but an EMH — there would be three pips adorning it, side by side, putting him at rank with Tuvok. But he isn’t, and he has no power beyond medical decisions. She’s never given him any. “I’m a tool,” his face twists in his anger, in his disgust for having call himself something so prosaic, “and right now you’re angry because tools shouldn’t be able to say no.” Kathryn knows that he’s derailing the conversation, but what would she be if she let that stand? How can she ever convince him to follow her orders if she doesn’t argue against this? How can she leverage her power over him and not feel like a monster for doing so if he leaves this room thinking she sees him as nothing more than an object. “You aren’t a tool,” she’s trying to reach him, so she can grab his shoulders and what — shake him? Force him to slow down and listen to her? But for every step she takes toward him, he takes another away. “No? Would you have sent Harry down to Kelemane? Tom? Any other organic? There was no medical need to send me. I had no expertise in covert tactics. I’m not trained in first contact scenarios. You sent me there because if something went wrong, it wouldn’t matter because I am a medical encyclopedia with a bad attitude. Was. I was,” he’s gaining steam, pacing to the other side of the table so there is something between them, “I haven’t been that in four…five hundred years … I won’t be that again. But I’m not a Starfleet officer either.” Before she can react to any of that or refute it or justify her decisions with any of the arguments she’s come up with since things on Kelemane became a disaster, his uniform jacket shifts into solid black. All traces of Starfleet are removed as the elegant delta of his combadge morphs into a plain oval. “Doctor,” she starts, but what is there to say but ‘do your job’ or ‘get out’? “You may be the captain of this ship, but you haven’t been my captain in a very long time,” his words are soft, like he hadn’t meant to do this now, but now that he is he can’t stop himself, “I’d call you Kathryn, but you aren’t even really that, are you? You’re just an empty uniform trying to get yourself killed.” He rushes out without her dismissing him, and all she can do is stand there in shock.
What?
…
The mission must happen, but they can’t do it without him. It’s a humbling position to be in, but more than that it’s frustrating. She should confine him to quarters, and she has half the mind to do so once this is settled, but for now she needs him to complete his duty shift in sickbay. After that, she knows she’ll need to make a decision, and it isn’t one that will deescalate what is happening between them. She spends nearly three hours mulling over her options in her ready room before the door chimes. It must be a record, the time her crew is giving her to calm down after what was clearly going to be rumored to be an explosive exchange. Expecting it to be Chakotay, she braces herself and calls for him to enter. What will she tell him? How can she even put into words what has happened? What they will need to do once they clear this hurdle and have time to think. It’s B’Elanna. “Captain,” she says as she enters, with none of the vitriol that Doctor had imbued the rank with just hours before, “we have the means to create Axum’s nano-virus without the Doctor, but I haven’t been able to figure out how to bypass Borg security without the assimilation suppressant.” “The suppressant only reduces the risk of assimilation, Lieutenant, there is nothing preventing us from failing with it,” she sounds tired to her own ears, if not outright defeated, “but Axum’s virus will only hide them. For how long? A year? Two? Can we risk it for a temporary solution?” And hadn’t she already been seen in Unimatrix Zero, during her link with Seven? The Borg drones that had infiltrated that space had clearly been sent by the Queen, which meant the entire Collective knows she is involved somehow. Without that suppressant, they’ll be walking willingly to their fate. The engineer looks around the room, unused to being asked questions in this manner. She’s thinks through the options honestly, bounces a PADD against her leg as she does so, before coming to the decision that what she says is worth the potential reprimand, “We need to convince him.” Kathryn hasn’t told anyone what was said in that room, but everyone on that bridge saw him walk out without a a Starfleet uniform. They didn’t need to know the details to know what had happened. “I don’t know how,” she admits. In a few short steps, B’Elanna makes it to Kathryn’s desk, holding out the PADD for her to take, “I don’t know if this will help, but it can’t hurt.” She takes it and turns it so she can look. “We received the most recent MIDAS data stream an hour ago,” B’Elanna explains, “and Zimmerman pulled through. I have technical report the size of a quantum physics textbook waiting for me when this is all over, and he sent something for you. I don’t know who he convinced to give up their bandwidth…” Kathryn keys into the file and is surprised to see it is a video recording, “Have you viewed this?” “No, Captain, he addressed it specifically to you.” It could be a vitriolic reprimand for sending him a hologram decidedly different from the one he created, it could be a five minute monologue on what a monumental waste of time it was talking to her, or…or it could be the start of the answers she needs. She makes up her mind, “Keep looking into solutions. I’ll review this and see if it gives me any ideas.” The other woman nods, then adds, “Yes, Captain” before taking the dismissal for what it is and leaving. When she’s gone, Kathryn orders the computer to bar entry to her ready room and transfers the message to her desk console. Then she presses play. Dr. Zimmerman fills the screen, his aging face wan and drawn as he looks into the camera. He’s a man who doesn’t sleep and doesn’t like to speak to people, but he pushes through his clear discomfort with the task at hand, “Captain, ah, Janeway. I’m sorry I’ve hijacked your correspondence this month, but I think this is important enough to take precedent over baby shower invitations and wedding announcements. You won’t be attending either anyway…” He grimaces, looking so very like his creation in that moment, “Sorry. I’m working on that.” She remembers how he once called her Captain Jane at a conference and remained unashamed of his mistake when corrected; she finds this, whatever it is, to be a vast improvement to his personality. Another moment of silence passes as he scratches at his wispy over-growth of gray hair, “I wanted to thank you for sending…Aeson? Aeson, that’s his name now?” A feminine voice mumbles something just out of audio range of the camera. “Yeah. He saved my life, which means you did by extension. So thanks.” “You’re welcome,” she replies wryly to no one in particular. He clears his throat and then looks away, the fake pleasantries of his tone shifting back to what must be his usual annoyance,“Right. With that out of the way, let me get to the point of this. I’ve done what you asked. Your engineer should be pouring over the technical report I sent her, if she knows what’s good for her, but this is for you.” He pauses, then reacts to the woman off screen, “I will not be nice, Haley. When have I ever been nice?” To the camera again,”She’s going to hold that against me later.” Not that Kathryn isn’t a little intrigued by this half of what is a clearly dysfunctional dynamic, but there are more pressing matters. She keys the video to skip ahead a few seconds. “Captain, your EMH’s programming is a transcendent mess. I’ll be studying it for the rest of my, thankfully, long life. Some part of you knows it already and your engineer knows it too, or you wouldn’t have asked me to try to find writing access. I couldn’t by the way, which means you won’t either.” He leans closer to the camera, an unsettling urgency gracing his familiar features, “Don’t even try to. He’s robust, but pieces of him are held together by shoestring and wishful thinking. Unravel that and you won’t lose him, but you will lose your doctor, and I don’t think you’ll like what’s left.” She isn’t completely sure she likes what is there now. “He’s nearly completely untethered from his original programming. Sure, by partitioning it, he made it so he couldn’t overwrite it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t delete it entirely. It’s his proverbial kill switch. Don’t give him cause to use it. Not if you want someone capable sewing your crew back together.” The feminine voice sounds again, closer this time, carrying a warning. “I’m running out of time,” he frowns, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening, and in that moment he looks nothing like the Doctor at all. Age and illness and whatever insults he thinks have been directed his way have beaten him down, leaving behind a cantankerous man with only his work to keep him company. “I debated telling you this, since you can’t do anything about it, but I’ve been told I have to if I want to keep a good conscience. Keep one? I don’t even know what that means. If I had a conscience, I would have kept him here and sent you an EMH Mark IV in his place. I should have, given what I know, but I can’t decompile him, and I didn’t want to see what he’d do if I tried to keep him here.” She watches his ramblings like she imagines one might watch the genesis of a warp core explosion, with an impending sense of doom. “Be careful. He tore his programming apart and pieced it back together again. Not once, not twice. Five times, Captain. I’ve counted no fewer than six cascade failures he had to counteract on his own. Each time he had to compress more of his memories until his only option left was to delete them. When all else failed, he tied his memory compression algorithms to a scaffolding of sorts: to the totality of his memories of single person.” Blindly, she reaches a hand to her throat, trying to loosen the tightness she feels there. For the first time in a long time, it isn’t from sadness or regret. Its from something like fear. For months they’d thought he’d remembered nearly nothing of anyone. He’d let them think that, but they’d been wrong. She assumed his behavior, at its strangest (at its most concerning) was because he felt compelled to serve with crew he couldn’t remember caring about. “You, Captain.” Zimmerman continues, words gaining speed, unaware of the realizations she is coming to, “I don’t need to tell you that that’s not good. It isn’t how I would have solved his cascade failures, but it’s what he could manage with what little he had. It kept him alive, kept him focused on getting back to Voyager. It’s the shoestring holding him together. God help you if you try to take that away from him.” He reaches for the camera, and parts with a final, “I wasn’t going to be the one to try.” An hour later, Kathryn pauses the video after Zimmerman confesses he shouldn’t have sent the doctor back to them but before he can tell her first and second officers that the she’s the unwilling cornerstone of the Doctor’s programming. Although she’s taken the time to try to come to terms with this information, to understand what it means in its entirety, she hasn’t. She doesn’t think she ever will. What she can’t handle emotionally, she can process logically, and what she’s determined is this: They can make this mission work. “We underestimated the toll Kelemane took on his programming,” she explains, looking between Chakotay and Tuvok as they digest what they’ve just seen, “and that failure has come back now to take its pound of flesh.” Tuvok steeples his fingers in thought, “There is more to the video.” “There is,” she says, and then she lies, “it isn’t relevant.” Her friend raises a brow in disagreement but nods, “If the Doctor is unstable, as Dr. Zimmerman is suggesting and will not concede to help us on this mission, it will fail.” “If he won’t help, we shouldn’t even try,” Chakotay insists. The Doctor may not be willing to follow her orders if it means she goes on this mission, not if he has reason to believe her death could affect his compression solution, but he might be willing to agree if she stays here. And so she lies again, “His objection wasn’t based on protocol or his oath to do no harm,” she has no idea if that oath — if that programming — still holds. Kathryn can only hope that it does and verify with B’Elanna later, “it’s because I’m going on the mission.”This piques Tuvok’s interest, “Why object to that specifically?” “Because I sent him to Zimmerman without asking him, and this is the only way he knows how to exert control,” in for a penny, in for a pound. It would cost her little to tell them that it’s more than that, that he may have very specific reasons to refuse her to run headlong into danger, but what it will cost is more than she’s willing to pay. Kathryn knows she’ll have time to regret her decision here later, even if she doesn’t regret it now. She can’t handle the Borg and the Doctor at the same time; she certainly can’t have these two trying to either. Her only currency against him is that he doesn’t suspect what she knows, and she isn’t willing to let the over-protectiveness of these men give it away. Not when there still so very much she doesn’t understand about what is happening. “If he’ll agree to it, then let me go instead” Chakotay says this too quickly, as if the words themselves are a relief, “and when it’s over we’ll decide how to handle the insubordination.” It is more than mere insubordination, Kathryn knows it and so does he. That is the way of it, though. When it comes to what the Doctor can and cannot do within his role as CMO, Chakotay has always recused himself from making any decision. She’s never been able to tell if it’s because he’s too humble to form a strong opinion on the place the hologram has on this ship, or if it’s because he’s too lazy to. At least, he had. Until now. Until it serves his own purposes to have a say. She wants to lash out at him for going along with this, even if she has led him to this point. Sure, he doesn’t approve of the Doctor’s methods, but he clearly agrees with the outcome. For all she’d worked to solicit his opinions on this mission, and give in to them by including Tuvok and B’Elanna, Chakotay hadn’t been honest with her. This was first real chance he’d been presented to prevent her from going — and he is taking it. “Fine,” she grits out through her teeth and can hardly stand to look at him, “you’ll take my place.” Before he can respond, she turns to Tuvok, “Let the Doctor know there’s been a change of plans, and then escort him to his quarters. Make sure he stays there until you’re ready to go. Until he agrees to meet all the expectations of a member of this crew, he’ll lose the privileges that come with being one.” … Every moment she stands on the bridge instead of in that cube, Kathryn fears she’s sent the three of the best people she knows to their assimilation or death. Until it works. After, when Korok has left in his commandeered sphere to make contact with other freed drones, Kathryn counts their losses. No deaths, but the hull breaches on decks five, six, and seven have caused their share of injuries. Tuvok is convalescing in his quarters, recovering from his assimilation into Three of Twelve, and although Chakotay and B’Elanna have faired better, they must each deal with the trauma of losing the little of themselves they did to the Collective. Kathryn, who has not had those voices in her head — battering down the doors of her sense of self — cannot know how this will affect them as they move through the next days and months. All she can do is check on them — all three in turn — speak with them, thank them for doing what she had not been allowed to do, wish quietly that she was in their place, and then tell them she is proud. Then leave them, before any of the resentment that lingers can taint what little she has been able to give. No, the resentment has to go somewhere else. Standing, just inside the door to the Doctor’s dimly lit quarters, she reveals how she has decided to punish his actions. “You may not see yourself as a member of this crew, but as long as you are on this ship, you will act like one. Until your confinement is lifted, you will continue your duties in sickbay when your services are needed and return here when they aren’t. The use of your mobile emitter will be limited to duties outside of sickbay and remain in the custody of Tuvok until the end of your confinement.” It’s a weak response, but the truth is that they rely on him to continue his work. There is no throwing him in the brig as she had done Tom, no handing his shifts to another until the punishment ends. Much of the rage bubbling in her in this moment comes from the knowledge that they need him, and that he knows it. She cannot keep the anger from contorting the features of her face, even if she is able to stop herself from telling him what she knows. What Lewis Zimmerman has told her. That that the need goes both ways, even if she doesn’t know to what extent. Her words hit first, and then the meaning of them lands. For the briefest of moments, he has no visible reaction. The smile starts in his eyes, and by the time it slowly spreads across his face, she has identified the dark undertones of it. The joy that mixes with cynicism as he surveys the room around him transforms his face into an acridity that is growing more familiar. She hadn’t been wrong those months ago, about what had happened on that planet in that cave. Kathryn may not be able to justify those feelings to anyone else without creating more questions than she’s able to answer, but she knows it hadn’t been the neurotoxins playing tricks with her mind. “How will I ever survive being confined to a single room? Surely no person could tolerate the same four walls, day in and day out, for years.” The smile drops and is replaced with nothing as he steps into her space and speaks softly, as if conspiring with her, “I think I have enough experience to get by. Don’t you?” She ignores him, ignores the challenge, the call back to memories he says he doesn’t have, “At the end of the sixty day period, your movements will no longer be limited.” Since the moment Zimmerman delivered his news, she has wondered why the Doctor would ever come back to this ship. Why he’d subject himself to the command of a person he thinks sees him as nothing more than a tool, to be used and disposed of at the earliest convenience? Why he’d pretend, for as long has he’d been able, that he wanted to be here, even if he couldn’t remember why? “We’ll do this as many times as needed,” she promises, looking back from her place at the open doors. “You’ll find that I have a lot more of that than you do. Captain.” Kathryn leaves without responding, because she knows now. Knows that, as much as they need him to survive this voyage she’s damned them to, he’d needed to be here with her when Voyager left Kelemane’s orbit. The why may still be a mystery to her, but she can live with that a little longer. What a bitter pill that must be for him to swallow. … The news Seven is dying arrives in the form of Icheb, franticly chiming her door at three in the morning. His behavior is so out if character that Kathryn is stunned just long enough to let him slip into her quarters. Had she been roused from sleep, had she been wearing anything but her uniform, she’d have sent him away. She may have still, even though neither of these things are true, but there is a look in his eyes that makes her give him a chance to explain himself. “Do you know?” He asks, and while it may not be an accusation, it’s the closest thing to it. No, no she doesn’t know. She grips his shoulder and leads him to a chair, ordering the computer to increase the light by fifty percent as she gently pushes him into it. What she sees when the lights go up is a boy, sad and lost and determined. It’s a jumble of emotions she knows all too well. “I’m going to need you to explain,” she says, taking the spot on her couch closest to the chair. “Seven’s cortical node is failing. She’ll die without a replacement, but she made us promise not to tell anyone, but she is refusing any help.” Something like a buzzing settles between Kathryn’s ears. She feels like she heard him wrong, that this is some strange waking dream, “The Doctor knows.” It isn’t a question. “Yes,” Icheb says solemnly, “but he says it’s her decision. I suggested taking a cortical implant from a drone, but he cannot make the simulations work. It is because he is running his simulations anticipating we’d use an implant from a dead one.” She has questions. The first of which is why no one told her. Icheb has explained his reasons, and no one can ask a child to break a promise to a person they view as a parent. Seven may have grown more distant from her, but Kathryn suspects that her silence is either her pride or her desire to not burden others with what she must see as a forgone conclusion. The Doctor? Who could understand his reasons? Beyond any promise Seven might have extracted from him, he certainly wouldn’t be eager to tell Kathryn her protege was dying. She will ask those questions later. For now, she takes a grounding breath, “Are you suggesting we take an implant from a living drone?” And can’t she picture it? Finding a damaged cube or sphere, disarming a drone and taking from them the thing that will surely save Seven’s life but…kill them. It would be so easy, now that the Unimatrix Zero drones are free and fighting back, to utilize the chaos they are creating to commit murder. To justify it, because Seven is free and that unlucky drone would not be. Could she really stop herself from doing that, if tomorrow she walked into sickbay and Seven was living her last moments? “Yes,” says Icheb, as if he isn’t suggesting murder. If it weren’t so horrifying, she might laugh about it with Chakotay and tell Seven to add morality tales to his lessons. “We can’t possibly,” she doesn’t even really believe it, “No. We can’t kill a member of the Collective, not unprovoked.” He hears what she’s saying, perhaps for the first time since entering her quarters. It unsettles him. Icheb blinks, no longer running on a speech he’s been practicing, “I am talking about me, Captain. We can give her my cortical implant.” There’s nowhere good to start with that. ‘No’ is the obvious answer, followed by an twenty minute lecture on why it isn’t the responsibility of children to sacrifice themselves for adults, but Kathryn can only stand and pace. This is too much information all at once, too late in the evening, with no time to brace herself for the impact. “No,” she finally says. “Captain, I would survive the procedure. I’ve simulated every scenario, and each is successful. Because I exited the maturation chamber early, only twenty percent of my cortical functions are reliant on the implant. All my autonomous systems run independently of it. My species has 170% greater brain elasticity than humans; in the worst case scenario, I would recover within a month of its removal.” She presses the fingers of both her hands to her forehead, “You’ve already explained this to Seven.” “She has refused.” “And the Doctor?” “He has deferred to her wishes. You must intervene.” He holds out a PADD to her and she takes it. Contained within it is his proposed solution, his evidence, and notes from the Doctor’s review of it. Kathryn sits and takes her time with it, unwilling to engage further if this is a well-intentioned lie from a scared little boy. When a not insignificant amount of time and a dozen questions answered, she’s convinced. Yet, it doesn’t matter because the others already said no. She could order the Doctor to do the procedure — he would refuse. She could not order Seven to take this from Icheb. It would only distress the other woman further, drive her further away in what might be her final days. “I can’t make them.” Icheb closes his eyes briefly and deflates. He must have had this argument multiple times already, and each must have ended here, this way. It’s a weight he has carried for — for however long no one told her. She had been his last hope, and there is no more fight in him. Seven is never going to forgive her for this. Kathryn doesn’t comfort him. She stands apart from him as she puts her piece into play, “I see no reason why you can’t ask the Doctor to remove your implant. If he agrees it will have no long-term negative effects…” He sits up straighter in the chair, some of the hope coming back to his too-austere face, “On the contrary, it would help me. Should the Borg choose to broadcast a communications signal to me today, they could do so. This disturbs me, and while it remains, I am unable realize my individuality. I am told this is not healthy for an adolescent boy.” But then he frowns, “Seven would still refuse to accept it.” Kathryn takes a breath and braces herself as she chose to betray Seven to save her. “Then we better get our timing right.” They do. Three days later, Seven is recovering in her alcove, and Kathryn can only watch over her for so long before it becomes excessive. When it hits that point, she makes her way to sickbay to check on Icheb. Without his cortical implant, he no longer needs to regenerate and really shouldn’t until his brain can acclimate to the missing implant. When she enters, he’s asleep. The Doctor, who will need to monitor Icheb’s brain activity for the next two days (which means he has a reprieve from the punishment of confinement) sees her enter. Without a word of acknowledgment, he retreats to his office. The young man stirs when she approaches. His recovery will take longer than Seven’s, but he isn’t so impaired that he is lost to the world. “Captain,” his voice his weak, but he’s otherwise alert. “It worked,” she says softly, hand on his shoulder. If Seven cannot be here to comfort him, then Kathryn will do it for her, the only way she knows how. “Don’t thank me yet, I’m told you have a long two weeks ahead of you.” He isn’t ready to say more than a few words at once, and so the next time he speaks he manages to sound more like Tom than he likely ever will again, “Worth it.” She smiles at his resilience and gives his shoulder a final, soft pat, “Sleep.” His eyes slip shut as he nods once. Within moments, his body relaxes into unconsciousness. “It was a risk.” The Doctor is close behind her. He’d snuck up without a sound, and it takes considerable effort to not lash out in shock. Kathryn turns and looks him up and down, taking in his black jacket and trousers. She’d frozen his replicator access when she’d confined him to his quarters, which means the clothes are a part of his program. Did it bother him that he had to waste memory and temporary processing to wear these? Did she care? “It was his to take,” she responds. He’s referencing his medical PADD, not bothering to look up as he says, “Seven will know you were involved in it.” Let her know, she wants to say. Let Seven know that Icheb had wanted to remove his implant himself in the cargo bay, to force their compliance. Let her know that Kathryn had cared enough to convince him to request its removal in sickbay, where his treatment could be immediate and the damage limited. If she also has to know that Kathryn told him to wait until Seven was unconscious from her implant failure, then so be it. She’s willing to take the blame. “You performed the procedure without her consent,” she reminds him. The Doctor shrugs, then finally looks at her, “As her doctor, her medical care is at my discretion when she is incapacitated. I was presented a solution, and Mr. Icheb explicitly refused to reinsert his implant. She’ll understand in time.” She hums thoughtfully, as if she might agree, but holds up a finger on thought, “How do you know that? She’s a stranger to you.” When he levels her with a stare, his face taking on a familiar scowl, she presses the point, “We all are.” The Doctor tucks the PADD beneath his arm and raises his chin, “And whose fault is that?”
Touché.
…
Tom and B’Elanna’s wedding is hurried and carried out on short notice, as they all but elope. Kathryn has long since given up having an opinion on their relationship, and so she takes this in stride and preforms the ceremony in her ready room with Harry, Tuvok and Chakotay as witnesses. When Voyager sends the pair off on their three day honeymoon, she thinks that things might be looking up: Seven is awake and well, Icheb is growing stronger by the day, and the reception has dramatically improved morale. She must even admit, when they reach the twenty-seventh day of the Doctor’s confinement, that he’s given her very little reason to think he’ll cause problems over the next thirty-three. Finally, she is able to take a deep breath, shake out the danger and drama of the last month, and sit down to complete her letter to her sister. It proves easier to write than the one she sent her mother, as if she’s picking up in the middle of a conversation she and Phoebe had had last week — not over six years ago. Alongside it, she pens her endorsement of Icheb’s request to sit the Starfleet exams as well as a full report on the outcome of the mission to aid the Unimatrix Zero drones. Kathryn knows that Seven is sending her own, heavily annotated summation of events, complete with all she knows about the group, including Axum’s plans to align with Species 8472. This means Kathryn has to send everything she knows about them as well. It’s true that nearly all of her Captain’s logs were sent in the previous data stream, but if Starfleet Intelligence is to understand anything of the last month within a reasonable timeframe, they’ll need someone to create a index of cross references. She even receives her next round of orders, to test a new engine calibration to see if they can maintain higher levels of warp for longer periods of time. How odd, to no longer feel so far removed from the daily minutiae of Starfleet. Within a week of receiving those orders, they are shelved. Kathryn knows that Tuvok suspects a member of the crew is responsible for the attacks on Yosa and Tabor. While their injuries are minimal and their subsequent comas brief, the two cannot identify their attacker. She is uncomfortable with the idea that someone who has worked with the two — possibly called themselves their friend — lashed out in some way. Arguments and feuds aren’t unheard of aboard the ship, but since Suder and Seska had died, no one had gone to such lengths to hurt another. The former Maquis are all on alert. She can’t bring herself to agree with Chakotay, that someone from a Starfleet background has taken exception to the Maquis. Why now? He thinks someone has received news, perhaps linking Yosa and Tabor to crimes long ago committed. Yet, all have agreed to submit their recent correspondence to Tuvok for review and he has detected nothing. His next suspicion is the Equinox crew but he can’t pinpoint any that pose a specific threat. Given that Chakotay had been working with them closely with great success these last few months, that doesn’t bode well for that theory. “Gentlemen,” she says to Ayala and Tabor, who have created a security escort that dogs her every step. They hover behind her as she walks from sickbay, where the Doctor just gave her his discharge report on Yosa before unceremoniously transferring himself back to his quarters. “I hardly need one of you, let alone two. Ensign, go. Rest. You deserve it.” The Bajoran man gives her a brief, tight smile, “Tuvok’s orders, Captain.” Ayala remains silent, content to let his chattier subordinate do the talking, but nods when she looks to him to verify. “I think I outrank him,” she says, with a rapid blink as she tries to force down a smile as they make it to the intersection and turn the corner, “and anyway…” She stops when she hears a shout on the deck, a quick left and right glance reveal nothing along the internal corridor, but she’s sure she hears phaser fire. A chirp from behind her lets her know that one of the two have engaged their combadge, “Ayala to Tuvok, we have phaser fire on Deck 5.” Kathryn has just enough time to wonder why he’s briefing Tuvok, when Chakotay should be the commanding officer on the bridge, before the former speaks over the open line “We have accelerated our timeline,” his voice is brusque — not like she’s ever heard it — and in the background she thinks Harry is shouting something before Tuvok says, “Stop him before—“ The lights go out around them, replaced with the telltale flashing of red thats signals something has gone horribly wrong. She doesn’t waste time questioning why the klaxons aren’t sounding or why the combadge signal has failed; instead she turns to touch base with the two men behind her. There’s a phaser leveled at her chest, another at her head. Twelve different ways to overreact come to her in the span of second but only one way to get out of this strange situation does. Kathryn eyes the phasers, noting they’re set to level three. At this range, where the men are aiming, she’ll be knocked unconscious for a considerable amount of time and wake up with neurological damage should they pull the trigger. She raises her hands slowly, palms out, and the only threat she gives them is in her tone “What’s going on?” “We’re running things now.” Tabor’s words are so absurd that she tries to blink them away, “Excuse me? We?” The younger man juts out his chin and looks at her like it’s obvious, “The Maquis.” What? She thinks bitterly, has everyone lost their minds? In what world would anyone take two attacks as an invitation to stage a mutiny of all things? “Move,” Ayala orders while shoving her shoulder, before she can question what that even means and how Tuvok of all people is involved, “turn and go right.” It’s clear they're taking her to the turbolift, which is close enough they might have gotten her there without coercion if their comm-link to Tuvok hadn’t raised literal silent alarms. Kathryn follows his order anyway, and considers her options for turning this around. The run to the far intersection is too long — they will shoot her, but she may be able to leverage the fact they’re behind her to disarm one and take their phaser before they get to the station. More shouting sounds from around the opposite corner behind them, and someone shouts, “Captain!” Samantha. A phaser goes off. She hears it make contact, and the thud as ensign Wildman hits the floor. One of the two shove her forward before she can turn to look, and she uses that momentum to dig her right foot into the floor and launch back, her elbow coming up into a nose. Tabor’s. She twists back to yank the phaser from his grasp, and the joint momentum of their struggle causes them to slam into the wall rail. Kathryn feels her forehead crack against it and blood ooze from a gash in her brow into her eye, but doesn’t let go and works to force the ensign off balance. In the corner of her eye, she can see Ayala taking careful aim. Behind him, drawn by the sounds of struggle and Sam’s shout, two more people rush around the corner. She recognizes them immediately but doesn’t know who they’re here to help. They’ve been working with Chakotay for months now, and if anyone would be willing to take the Maquis’ side in whatever this is — if he is even involved in it, if it is anything that can even make sense — it would be them. Noah Lessing, sporting a cut across his jaw, comes to a halt around the corner, plants his feet, raises a phaser in her direction, and fires. Ayala drops. Marla Gilmore sprints forward to grab his weapon just as Kathryn finally wrests away Tabor’s. She fires a single shot into his chest. He’ll suffer all the damage she would have and remain unconscious for at least an hour. She doesn’t know what Lessing has his phaser set to, a two or three, but Ayala is sturdy enough that they’ll have less time to put distance between them and him. “Report,” she barks out the question, catching her breath and wiping the blood from her eye. “We don’t know what’s going on” it’s Gilmore who answers, panting, “we were helping Ensign Wildman transport growth mediums when…” she’s makes a face, something like disbelief, “Jor and Yosa…” “I managed to surprise Jor,” Lessing explains, “but Yosa’s holed up in the sensor suite. We need to get out of here before he finds a way to call for help.” Gilmore regains her breath and stands straight, “Our combadges aren’t working. I don’t know if it’s just us or—“ “Theirs aren’t either,” Kathryn confirms as the trio move along the wall, toward the turbolift. Gilmore’s expression, while bleak, isn’t surprised. Kathryn cannot give thought to what that means. Instead, she checks a nearby control panel. It is dead, and Kathryn is one step closer to understanding what Harry did, if even not how or why. While it means they aren’t getting out of here quickly, it also means Yosa will be waiting awhile for his reinforcements. Kathryn does what she does best, takes command, “Tabor said the Maquis are doing this. We need to assume they’ve taken the bridge. I can’t know for certain where else, but I heard Tu-“ she falters, can barely believe what she’s about to say, “Tuvok. Whatever plan they have, something forced them to deviate from it. If we get engineering, we can divert bridge controls.” She looks back only once, knowing that she’s leaving Sam behind, but also knowing there’s no way to bring her along in her current state. Kathryn feels herself shutting her confusion away, her desire to run to the other woman and try to revive her. Eventually, she turns back to the task at hand, and feels the telltale chafe of her pips on her neck as she fades entirely into her rank. There are things that must be done. The three reach the turbolift opposite the holodecks’ second level access panels and pry open the doors to the station and its shaft. In turn, they are greeted with complete darkness. Only the flashing red in the hall behind them illuminates the way forward. “Point,” Lessing calls out, then swings himself to the access ladder. “Rear,” says Gilmore next. Kathryn tucks her phaser into her belt and climbs down after Lessing, and Gilmore follows quickly behind. She knows what the pair are doing, creating a protective unit around her in case anyone fires from above or below. That she’s putting her safety in the hands of two people she can barely trust, against those she had trusted implicitly just this morning, is not lost on her. They move, time growing meaningless as they use the sounds of feet and hands on metal and the vibrations of the ladder to sense when the person below them has cleared the next step. They must slowly navigate the subtle interchanges in the dark, careful not to cause the person below them to lose their grip, until all at once they come to a stop. “Blocked.” It looks like Lessing has found a stalled lift. Kathryn touches down beside him, then helps Gilmore catch her footing in the dark. They can’t see where they are, but if they pry open the top of the lift, it should contain emergency lighting. It might also contain someone. “We need to open the emergency hatch,” she commands in a whisper, “phasers at the ready.” She doesn’t see them follow her orders, but she hears them. Kathryn kneels, feels along the top of the lift beneath her, a hand skittering across Lessing’s boot, the smooth lift surface, then finally a latch. “Ready?” she whispers. “Ready,” a pair of voices whisper back. She yanks the hatch open when both hands, and moves quickly to the side so the others can see in. Less than a second later, her phaser is pointed downward, into the empty lift. They all visibly relax in the oscillating red glow that pulses out from the space beneath them. “Clear.” “Captain, the lift is blocking access to deck eight’s jefferies tubes,” Lessing kneels to examine how much space they have, “we should be able to fit through the gap to the turbolift station and then into the corridor from there.” Their direct route to engineering on deck eleven is cut off, and so is their immediate access to the crawl-ways that can discreetly take them to the turbolift in the main cargo bay. They’ll have to walk to either the port or starboard landing bays to reach the other lift shaft. “Let’s do it.” Between the three of them, they make careful work of climbing to the floor of the horizontal turbolift sidestep, through the station and to the door. While Kathryn provides cover, Lessing pries it open and slips through. The women follow, making sure to clear the halls as they move. “Astrometrics first,” Kathryn says, as they duck close to the wall rail and go over their options. It’s a risk, but if they find Seven there, she’ll be able to help them. The corridor intersects with another, where they make a right turn. At the next, they take another right, away from the nearest landing bay entry and toward the lab. While they don’t run into trouble on the way, neither do they find Seven at her usual post. Cargo bay 2 is too far port-side for them to check. If Seven is there, Kathryn can only hope she has barred the entry. She can’t imagine the — mutineers — will leave her undisturbed if they find her. Gilmore hunches down beside her as they prepare to move from the lab to the doors of the starboard landing bay. They can hear noises coming from the direction of the deuterium injector, and they aren’t promising. Kathryn does the quick math. There are thirty former Maquis aboard. If they are all apart of this, and only them, they would be outnumbered by over a hundred Starfleet crew. It is unlikely that they’ve spread their numbers evenly across each deck — Tuvok and Chakotay(?) would know better and only move to take the bridge and engineering. They can hold the bridge with as little as three people, but engineering requires at least eight. That leaves them approximately nineteen to move deck-by-deck to capture and secure Starfleet personnel. Kathryn does not doubt they’ve used whatever confusion occurred before the systems went offline to detain her crew. Anyone on beta shift would be stuck in their quarters or bunks during the lockdown, and delta shift would be in a similar position, aside from those who liked to wind down in the mess or the holodecks. Two places also easy to contain people. This leaves her the alpha shift, minus the Maquis, which puts approximately thirty Starfleet crew running around. More or less, she cannot say for certain. She can only hope for a parity of forces at this point. “If they’re on this floor,” Lessing says lowly, “it’s because they’re trying to find you, Captain. They have to expect you’ll be heading to the bridge or engineering.” He’s right. Tuvok is her tactical officer, and one of his greatest strengths is how well he knows her. He’ll be looking to cut her off. Without internal sensors, he’ll be forced to utilize a pincer move. Kathryn has no doubt that it’s already underway. They need to leave. The path to the landing bay is clear, and each check different directions at the intersection. Within minutes, Kathryn and Gilmore are prying open the next set of doors as Lessing covers them. Once in, they’re at a disadvantage. The space is pitch black and spotted with positions perfect for hiding behind. While they can utilize this to their advantage, so too can anyone else. Minutes or hours pass as they carefully move their way through, using shipping containers as covers, until they’re at the door to the main cargo hold. It opens to darkness, only the distant airlock’s emergency lights casting a glow dozens of meters away. Without a wrist light or emergency lantern, they’ll have to tread carefully across the space, avoiding making noise as they navigate around terminals and containers. Katheryn is about to say this, when Lessing’s forward momentum is abruptly halted. He takes one staggering step back, then another, until he collides with her, turns in her arms, and collapses. On instinct, Kathryn grasps at him, trying to hold him up, but she can only manage to fall on her knees with him. The pain of the impact is ignored when she registers the sounds he’s making. Low, desperate and —her hands and chest come away from his — wet. The smell of iron is already overwhelmingly strong, nauseating and terrible; he’s drowning in his own blood. She scrambles to find the wound, to apply as much pressure to it with her palms as she can, but by the time she finds it he has grown silent, and she can no longer feel the rapid final beats of his heart. He’s gone. Kathryn doesn’t feel anything. Vaguely, in some distant part of her mind, she knows that the serene calm that overcomes her in the moment is only borrowed. She’ll pay for it later with interest. The shadows before her give way to the faint outline of a man, to Doyle, a bloodied tactical blade in hand. His presence here, now, confirms what she’s refused herself to fully accept all along. It is the Maquis or someone controlling them, this is really happening, and they’re willing to kill. Kathryn stands, hand going to her phaser as she puts herself between his brandished weapon and Gilmore. The crewman behind her is trying to retain her calm and has her phaser trained elsewhere in the dark. It becomes clear to Kathryn then, in the moment before the butt of a phaser rifle connects with her temple, that they would have already killed her if that was their goal. … She wakes on her side, hands bound tightly behind her back, and her head throbbing with every heartbeat. Someone has brought emergency lanterns, and their blue-white light cast everything in harsh shadows. They’re still in the main landing bay. With considerable effort, she turns her head and sees Marla kneeling beside her, bound and bloodied, doing her best to angle her body in a way that shields Kathryn from further attack. They remain this way for an indeterminant amount of time. She thinks and hour, maybe more. Less? No amount of Marla trying to engage with Yosa and Doyle works; it’s clear they’re waiting for someone or something. Eventually, Marla gives up and tells her that there had been a third they sent away to report their capture. They’re obviously waiting for her to return. Two sets of footsteps finally approach from behind them. One moves by her and out of Kathryn’s line of site without slowing. A moment later, a pair of hands pull her up to her knees, and she’s staring right into the Doctor’s unreadable expression. He eyes the front of her uniform, then asks. “Is any of this yours?” She looks down, ignoring the spike of pain it causes, and sees the aftermath of Noah Lessing’s murder. Her jacket is irreparably drenched in his blood, “No.” “Some of it is,” he whispers, reaching up to slide her matted hair away from her injured brow. It sticks to her skin and peals away with a sharp sting. “Enough,” Doyle says behind them, “make her talk.” “Talk?” She asks, “There’s nothing to talk about.” If she squints, she can just make out Yosa and Anne Smithee at the edges of the shadows. The latter looks around at her compatriots grimly. Kathryn isn’t sure if she’s the one who struck her temple, but it’s clear she’s the one who was sent away to report the capture. The Doctor sighs, gives up on the lost cause that is trying tell her blood apart from Noah’s, and turns an annoyed glare over her shoulder, “I told the Commander that she may be more willing to talk to someone who isn’t trying to kill her, but I didn’t say that would be me.” “Either he releases us, or he doesn’t.” “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” the Doctor says softly, “Mr. Kim triggered a security program that locked down all systems, and your command codes are required to undo it.” She leans into him, pressing every inch of the blood that is still seeping through to her turtleneck into his side and hisses in his ear, “Why are you helping them?” He turns his head and jerks away from the contact, then quickly stands, “I told Tuvok, I’m not the person for this.” Kathryn grits her teeth and rolls her wrists to check the bindings. Firm. “Well you’re the one he sent,” Doyle snaps back. “I’m a doctor, not an interrogator. She has a concussion, that’s all I’m going to get from her.” As the Doctor passes Smithee, the blonde slips him something without the others noticing. Kathryn thinks she’s seeing things, and she very well could be, but the determination in the Maquis woman’s eyes when she looks at her is alarming. Kathryn pitches herself to her side as red phaser fire cuts across the blue light. The shadows created by the brief exchange are disorienting, and the angle of her fall slams her into Marla. The blonde, in turn, crashes over with a small cry, just as another burst of light punches through the space where her head used to be. The firefight ends as quickly as it began. Doyle and Yosa are slumped over, stunned. Smithee pulls herself up from the floor and rushes over. When she reaches them, she grabs Doyle’s knife from his belt, and drops to her knees between the bound women. “I’m cutting you loose,” she insists as Kathryn struggles against her with fierce kicks and head thrashes. A moment later, there’s a tug and her hands are free. She staggers to her feet as Smithee turns to Marla, and sways against a wave of vertigo that slams into her. The Doctor steadies her as he moves past her to kneel by Doyle. At first she thinks he’s checking his condition, but then Kathryn notices that he’s binding his arms. Without speaking, she grabs half of what remains of the length of the tether that held her and does the same to Yosa. When she’s done, she takes his light from him and straps it to her wrist. Finally, the four are free to stare at each other. “What is going on?” “I’d think it was obvious,” the Doctor deadpans, “The Maquis are taking this ship.” “Not all of us” Smithee corrects him, before handing Kathryn a phaser. “I gathered that,” she sets the phaser to level three and keeps it ready in her hand, “what I don’t understand is why.” “Why the Maquis are taking the ship, or why I’m not helping them?” “Both.” Smithee shakes her head, like she can’t believe what she’s about to say, “These aren’t my friends. It’s like a switch has gone off.” “There’s more,” the Doctor presses. “Commander Tuvok is helping them,” Anne admits helplessly. Kathryn already knows this, “What about Chakotay?” The Doctor hesitates, surprised that she isn’t surprised then nods, “He’s holding engineering with Torres.” “None of this makes sense,” Marla insists, “I had a meeting with Commander Chakotay three days ago, we were drafting a probationary program for the Equinox crew to propose to Starfleet Command. H-he was supportive.” “All I know is that they were passing around a message from Tuvok’s son, and when it got to me..nothing,” Smithee shrugs, “They acted like it should have changed my life, so I played along until I could figure out what was happening. That was this morning” Just before all hell broke loose. Had she tried to tell Harry? Was that what had caused Yosa and Jor to start a fire fight on five? Had someone caught them in the act of ‘recruiting’? “Yosa and Tabor’s injuries were consistent with a forced mind meld,” the Doctor acknowledges, “I wouldn't be surprised if that’s how they’ve chosen to handle those who don’t fall in line.” “In line with what?” “The mutiny,” he shrugs, “whatever was in that video worked like an activation phrase. I won’t be able to say more until I can do a full examination of the effected.” A distant crash punctuates the end of his sentence. Kathryn grabs Marla by the arm and starts drawing her to the turbolift. “We need to go,” she orders the other two. Smithee straightens her spine and shakes her head, “I’m not going with you.” “Excuse me?” “I need to find out what’s going on, and I can’t leave Carlson alone with them.” “There are more like you?” “Just him. Stun me and bind me like the others, I’m more useful to you acting on the inside than I am here.” Kathryn shakes her head, then gestures at the two prone forms on the ground, “They’ll know you helped me.” “They only know that the the Doctor disarmed me before he shot them.” “It’s what we planned on our way here," the Doctor confirms softly. The Maquis could kill her. Smithee stares at her, expectantly, as if she's already considered this and has accepted the risk. Please don’t make me regret this, she wants to say. Instead, Kathryn lowers her phaser setting to two, raises her arm, and shoots the younger woman in the right shoulder. Please don’t be lying, she doesn’t want to think. This could all be a ploy, a way to work Kathryn around to giving everything away. She pushes the thought down — she can do nothing with it at the moment. The Doctor catches Smithee as she slumps, and carefully lowers her to the floor. As he binds her hands, Kathryn turns away and removes her jacket. The material has stiffened, and the zipper is jammed by dried blood, but she manages to force it off her shoulders and to the floor. It’s an afterthought that she remembers to grab her inert combadge and pin it to her turtleneck. She turns back to see that Marla is kneeling by Doyle, clutching the blade he’d used to kill her friend. Kathryn thinks, briefly, that the crewman is going to retaliate in some way, but Marla only sighs once before flinging weapon across the room, where in clatters against something in darkness. When they’re all ready, Marla leads the way to the turbolift as Kathryn forces herself to walk beside the Doctor even though she can barely bring herself to look at him, “Tell me everything you know.” “It isn’t much,” he answers quietly. Yet, he talks as they work open the door and enter the shaft one-by-one: Marla, then Kathryn, then him. The Maquis are engaging in mutiny and Tuvok is helping them and none of it is in the ballpark of rational because it isn’t. “They thought I would help them because you’d confined me to my quarters. Of course, I let them think that, I even played along,” they’re halfway to deck nine when he adds, “Crewman Smithee took a risk when she told me she wanted to stop them.” Yes, it was brave, but what she needs most now is information not motivation. “Who do they have?” “They didn’t give me an alphabetized list,” he grosses, and while she can’t glare at him for it, her silence is pointed. He sighs, “Almost all of the Maquis are ambulatory. The majority of Starfleet crew have been locked in their quarters and bunks. They have Harry in your ready room. They’re using Naomi and Icheb to keep Seven in line in the mess.” “Tom? Megan?” “Megan was stunned on the bridge. As for Mr. Paris…I don’t know. I wasn’t able to watch this train wreck start. Whatever happened to him happened before the Maquis thought to bring me into the fold.” “Did they tell you their goal?” “All I know is that I was supposed to get your command codes and cancel the program Mr. Kim triggered. I’m not exactly involved in the high-level planning.” By mimicking her voice no doubt, Kathryn thought, with a shudder. “Captain,” Marla whispers from below, “someone’s coming up.” They’ve just climbed below deck nine, one of the ship’s main turbolift sidesteps. They can risk the push to ten and try to access engineering from its second level, or they can take the safer option and climb back up and use one of the three tunnels or two horizontal jefferies tubes to offload on nine. If they can make it to shuttlebay two’s operating control gallery, they’ll have a clear drop to the main level on ten. “Up,” she orders, not willing to risk it. When they reach the sidestep, she debates which path to take, aware that any of the three horizontal tubrolift tracks could be blocked, trapping them should they have been followed. “Captain, over here!” The hiss that fills the silence behind her causes her to stop and turn, phaser at the ready. The Doctor shines his wrist light directly into the face of Tom, who is sticking out of one of the two jefferies tube entries to the sidestep. The pilot holds a hand up to prevent the light from blinding him. He’s pale, sweaty, and sporting an angry black eye. The swelling and bruising make her think that something there was broken under an almighty force, but he’s staring at her with so much relief through the blue of the other. Kathryn gestures to the others to follow her into the tube. Tom makes room for them quickly, setting off at a pace that will allow them to easily follow him. Marla, now taking up the rear, pulls the entry hatch back into place. “What are you doing down here?” Kathryn asks him as they all move hand over hand, knee over knee. He should have been on the bridge. “Chakotay asked me to help with something in engineering. He was being strange … I should have known something was happening… but I just thought he was giving B’Elanna and I time to get lunch.” A moment later, he adds bitterly, “They tried to hold me hostage instead.” Without needing to ask, Kathryn knows what happened to his eye and the realization makes her ache in a way she hasn’t before. It only lasts a moment before she pushes the feelings aside — she can’t afford to think about what anyone has lost, not right now. Not until this is over. “I escaped when the systems went down. A few of us are holing up in the turbolift maintenance workshop.” “Why didn’t we use the other jefferies tube entrance?” It would have deposited them right into the workshop, instead of forcing them to crawl a loop half the length of the deck. “We sealed it from the inside. The only way to enter the jefferies tube is from inside the workshop, the starboard shaft door, or through the emergency life support bay.” “How many of you are there? I need to get to engineering,” she says, as they round the first bend. “We sent a group down to ten for reconnaissance and they didn’t report back,” Tom doesn’t look back at her as he speaks, but she can hear the strain in his tone. He’d sent the group down — it means he was the ranking officer before she arrived. “Who?” “Celes, Jenny, and Bristow.” “How many left?” “Six, including me. Nine, with you.” She knows that there could be — no, have to be — more. If not here, if not with Tom, then across the decks of Voyager, congregating in small groups or holding their own. How many times had they had to do this against external forces? How terrible was it that they now had to against their friends? They make it to the workshop just as Kathryn’s bruised knees grow numb and her headache goes from a sharp throb to an excruciatingly dull ache along her temple, neck and jaw. She’s relieved to swing her legs forward and out of the hatch the moment Tom moves away from the exit. Once again, the blue-white glow of emergency lanterns fill her vision. The workshop is a smaller space, roughly the size of astrometrics, with spare parts and tools neatly stacked against the walls. Sitting in two working groups on the floor are Lang, Mitchel, Selles, Mortimer, and Morrow, each fashioning what appears to be melee weapons out of what’s available to them. Aside from Lang and Morrow, they’re all either ops or engineering. Some are even Delta shift, and this gives Kathryn hope that the numbers aren’t entirely against them. Selles is the first to see her, and the Bajoran woman’s look of hope is fleeting, immediately replaced with horror. Kathryn doesn’t understand until Tom turns around and gets his first look of her in the light, immediately, he’s reaching for her to check for injuries, “Captain, what happened?” She remembers then. Her own wound has left her forehead a mess of sweat, blood, and matted hair. She looks down at her turtleneck and sees that Lessing’s blood has stained a large patch from her clavicles to her diaphragm. Gently, she pries away from Tom’s hold. “They killed Noah,” Marla steps out from behind her. James Morrow’s reaction to this is striking — grief and rage and resolve all contained in one twisted grimace. He’s former Equinox — more importantly, he’s Noah’s partner — and she’s wearing the blood of the man he loved, the blood of the man she’d once tortured for information, all over her. It’s on her shirt, her hands, and it streaks rusty and angry against her cheek as she swipes away the sweat that blooms there due to the heat of so many bodies in such a small space. They’d left him there, alone in the dark, to grow cold. Kathryn pushes the thought away before it can take root. “We have reason to believe that someone is controlling the former Maquis crew’s behavior. Doctor.”
He speaks on command, “I was able to convince them that I was willing to help them,” he begins. What he must have said, to do that. Surely there was vitriol there, but how much of it was exaggerated versus real? “In doing so, I was able to confirm with Crewman Smithee that a communique from the Alpha Quadrant contained an activation phrase for a what I’m assuming is a form of Maquis mental conditioning. Their repeated, devotional references to a man named Teero and his plans for them supports this.” the Doctor steps further into the light, and despite what he’s saying, many look relieved that he is here. Why shouldn’t they be? To have someone who might be able to treat their injuries should they receive any is a real boon. To have someone who knows something? What a good fortune. Except for Morrow, at the mention of Smithee, he scowls, “She’s Maquis.” “She’s a member of this crew,” Kathryn corrects, although she cannot shake her fear that Smithee might still be working under the orders of Chakotay or Tuvok to establish a long con, and that the Doctor in some way is helping them, “and the reason I’m not bound on the floor of the cargo bay right now.” “Commander Tuvok is not Maquis,” the Doctor adds, “yet he’s holding the bridge crew prisoner. I can think of no other reason why he would do this, outside of an external force.” The others whisper, and Kathryn sees the look shared between Morrow and Marla. Eventually, the latter steps closer to her in support, and the former nods. Whatever fight in him fades as his shoulders slump in acceptance of what he’s been told. Tom steps closer to her and asks softly so as not to grab the attention of the others, “Is Harry okay?” “I don’t know,” she admits, “he was on the bridge.” He can only swallow and nod, before turning to the situation at hand, gesturing to the stillness of the room around them, to the signs of the darkness that has settled across the ship,“Did they do this?” “No.” “What is it, anyway?” Mortimer asks, tone as misanthropic and irreverent as ever. It is nice to see that not even a mutiny can change that. She considers not telling them what she has slowly realized Harry had done. Weighs the pros and cons of doing so, of revealing the last line of defense a Captain and her most loyal officers have against mutiny. Kathryn hadn’t given it thought in years, not since the moment Chakotay accepted the position of her first officer. The protocol is the nuclear option, locking everyone but a Captain out of ship controls. If she dies before releasing it, Voyager will be as good as an interstellar paper weight. That’s why she’d never shared it with anyone but Chakotay or Tuvok, and why she hadn’t considered it once since. The protocol was never meant for the Delta Quadrant. It’s only useful when a captain knows they have Starfleet vessels in the wings able to lend either their support or their captain to issue command codes if the affected ship’s captain is incapacitated or dead. Here, there is no relief. Her silence lasts long enough that Marla fills the void, “It’s a mutiny protocol. I-I told Harry that Captain Ransom nearly triggered it…at the end, but that he didn’t because he wanted me to be able to transport everyone from the Equinox to Voyager.” It explains why Marla and Noah took the lock-down so easily in stride — they’d heard of it before. It also explains how Harry knew how to implement it. Given his curiosity, he would have investigated whether Voyager had a similar protocol and if he had the ability to trigger it as one of her senior staff. He did, and it is a good thing he had. “I want to be absolutely clear that it is something I’ve never considered using, because of the faith I have in this crew and our common goal to go home” she looks at each of them in turn, until they accept those words for what they are. The truth. “That said, I won’t say that Harry was wrong to use it when he realized what…What Chakotay and Tuvok were doing. It locks down all systems but shields and life support and seals crew quarters. It will remain active unless I enter my command codes in engineering or the bridge.” “The good news,” Tom tries to raise the group’s morale in the face of this bombshell of a contingency plan, “is that they won’t be able to use the sensors to detect our location.” “The bad news,” Mortimer does his best to bring it right back down again, “is that any tricorder will do the trick.”
“It’ll be a relief to you then that Smithee and I destroyed the ones in sickbay and the science lab,” the Doctor deadpans. It is said nonchalantly, but even Kathryn has to turn to look at the him in shock, “That was…” What? Brilliant? Another unexpected move in her favor? Something she should have done? “Don’t thank me, it was Crewman Smithee’s idea. It doesn’t mean they don’t have one already or that they won’t find one eventually.” He pulls the medical tricorder from his belt, and gives it a little wave, “But it does mean we’ll be able to see them first.” … She desires nothing more than to rush to engineering and take back her ship. Most of her crew is sitting in dark, without access to food or water or news about what is happening, and she’s thirsty— but the facts force her to speak to each member of the crew in the space, and gather their reports on everything they’ve seen and heard. She needs the information to help conceive a plan, break it down into its weakest parts, then create another one. The heat has her down to her tank — which is blessedly only spotted with blood instead of drenched in it, — by the end of the final debriefing. Her need to pace is outdone by the size of the workshop and the fact that the others’ morale depends on the appearance of her remaining calm and in passible health. So, she takes a seat on the floor beside Tom, elbows propped up on her knees, as the Doctor settles in to work on cataloging and healing her injuries. In addition to the tricorder, he brought along dermal and bone regenerators. Another stroke of foresight she should have had herself. Before he can start poking at her brow, she stops him. “Tom first.” The Doctor sighs and looks like he might argue with her, but he turns on his knee to follow her order. Tom gives her a thankful, if not sad, smile. “Your orbital bone is broken,” the Doctor’s mutter confirms her earlier suspicion, “and you have a concussion.” “What can I say, I married a woman stronger than me? I’m lucky that’s all that’s broken.” It’s an attempt at a joke, but it’s heartbroken and Kathryn feels her eyes slipping shut in bitter empathy. “You successfully escaped and led the others to relative safety despite your diminished capacity. Don’t sell yourself short.” “Well thanks, Doc. That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” “I wouldn’t know,” comes the quippy response. Kathryn turns away from the banter as Marla crouches down beside her. The younger woman takes the set aside tricorder and begins to scan — as she has been doing once every five minutes for the last hour. It isn’t a perfect means of detecting others, but anyone with a decent understanding of the deck layouts can parse out by distance readouts where others are. “The same,” she murmurs, “the static signs have to be the crew caught in their quarters. There are seven ambulatory signs on deck ten and another twelve on eleven. Six are stationary in engineering? Hostages?” Kathryn nods, “Most likely, at least three and at least one Maquis to guard them. What about above us?” “Three stationary and two active in the cargo bay,” the three they’d left tied up, no doubt, “eight additional active on seven. The rest are stationary. I can’t get a good reading of six. ” “Let’s assume the two moving around on eight are Maquis checking in their friends. Those on Seven could be anyone. We also have to assume they’ll locate a tricorder. I need you to work with the others to find a way to camouflage our life signs.” Marla nods, before handing the instrument back to the Doctor and moving to the small congregation of whispering ensigns and crewman. When she’s seated beside them, Kathryn looks back to the pair. Tom’s face looks much better, the bruising and swelling reduced to the point that he can open both eyes. “What should I do?” he asks her, and Kathryn knows that what he’s asking for is a lifeline. If he sits here, idle and waiting around for an answer, he’ll think about what’s really happening. If he does that, the desolation of it will take its chance to settle in. This is exactly what Kathryn has been contending with since it started. “Work with Lang and Morrow. Find a way into engineering.” It is an unconventional group, but she needs an unconventional plan to divert that many Maquis. She has little hope of making it to engineering without out-of-the-box cleverness, and even less hope of reaching the bridge. Tom nods and departs with a, “Yes, Ma’am. She watches him gather the others, until the Doctor enters her field of vision, tricorder and scanning wand in hand. “I was half right,” he says, “you have a concussion and a hairline fracture of your temporal. Otherwise, it’s just contusions, dehydration, lacerations. You’ll survive.” “It’s nice to see your bedside manner never changes.” “Well, I try,” he retorts dryly as he flicks on the bone regenerator, “although I can’t say I’ve ever had to treat anyone during a mutiny before. When this is over, I’ll solicit feedback on how to improve for the next time.” “There won’t be a next time.” “Perhaps not in your lifetime,” his eyes are on her temple, and just when it begins to sound a little like a threat, he adds, “but give it a century or two. Who knows?” As he works, the throbbing in her head subsides. The remnants of the pain is just the telltale headache that comes with needing water, which scratch in the back of her throat confirms. The Doctor moves on to the gash on her brow. To distract from the fact that his face is so near her own, she asks: “How did you convince them to let you out of your quarters?” His eyes don’t leave her injury as he almost smiles, “I didn’t. When the holography systems shut down, my program routed to my emitter, which you know was in Commander Tuvok’s possession. Remind me, and I’ll tell you all about that clever piece of engineering one day.” She remains silent as her skin starts to knit back together, and he takes it as an opportunity to continue, “It became a matter of convincing the Commander to not vaporize my emitter. He’s brainwashed, not illogical, so I delivered a few cursory arguments about how they’ll need a doctor when this is all over, how I have no particular allegiance to the crew, and how I just need the ship to survive, et cetera, et cetera.” His eye meet hers, and this close she finally understands what about his gaze has made her uncomfortable these last few months. He’d altered his irises to be as dark as his pupils — it’s a physical trait that, with the Betazed, is as warm as it is striking. With him it’s unsettling — just another marker of a planet and people he’s left behind. “Whatever concerns you’ve been sharing with him made him inclined to believe me. Not that I blame him, everything I told him is the truth.” She swallows once, her mouth dry, then makes a decision she hopes she doesn’t regret, “But not the entire truth.” He lowers the regenerator, but his eyes don’t leave hers, uncowed by the challenge in her tone, “I’m not a fool, Captain. I know why you sent me to help Zimmerman; it wasn’t because you had a sudden interest in his health.” It looks like he has more to say, but instead he shakes his head and rises to his feet. Before moving away to treat the others’ injuries, he scowls down at her and murmurs, “It would have been so much easier if you’d just asked.”
…
Noah Lessing’s blood is still on her hands, settling in the creases of her knuckles and in the lines around her fingernails. It flakes where it is dry and smears where it meets her sweat, and as much as she tries to rub it away on her pants, there always seems to be more of it. She knows her own blood is still smeared across her face — her forehead, hair and probably even her cheek — but attempts to wipe it away just make it worse. In the blue white light and the shadows it casts, it looks ghastly, and so, in turn, does she. Selles has deviated from working with Marla to bicker with Mortimer. They both agree that they can break the seal to the enlisted mess down the hall, where the group can find water. They just don’t agree on how. There are four people trapped in there, and Moritmer’s recommendation of blowing it by overloading a phaser’s power cell is sure to injure all of them and bring the Maquis on the decks above and below to their doorstep. Selles wants to carve through the door with a phaser at its highest level. It will take time, but provided no one on the inside is foolish enough to stand directly in line of the beam, there should be no injuries. When Mortimer hits his most difficult, Kathryn steps in and orders them to follow Selles’ plan. She sends Mitchel with them to help stand guard, and moves on to listen in on Tom’s group. They’re debating strategies to draw one or more of the Maquis out of the upper level of engineering in order to subdue them. If they can’t, their own group, no matter how large, will run the risk of being picked off from above as they enter. Overloading a phaser or two is a much more viable option for this mission, and one she approves of. As she steps away, they’re selecting the best locations to set off the traps. Marla, Lang, and the Doctor are huddled together in corner over the tricorder. When Kathryn nears them, they seem ready to receive her. “We can’t mask all of our signatures,” Marla starts, “but we can obfuscate one or two and create ghosts with the tricorder. Up to seven, with basic movement patterns across three decks.” Which means they can play tricks on those in engineering until they were ready to move against them, or simulate a series of movements all the way up to deck seven in order to draw those on eight away, provided they have a tricorder of their own. “That’s not all,” Marla adds, when Kathryn has commented on their good work. The expression on the younger woman’s face can only be described as bracing, as if she knows what she’s about to say won’t be received well. “What is it?” “I overheard what Lieutenant Paris is working on, and I think we should utilize it as a distraction to get you to the bridge.” Before Kathryn can outright say no, Ensign Lang begins to justify the plan. She’s security, so there can be no doubt that she’s the one who thought it up, “Captain, we might be able to take engineering, but the odds are that we’ll only manage a standoff. Do you really want to reactivate the systems and reroute bridge commands to engineering in these conditions? The Maquis might be planning a contingency in the case that you do.” She decides to hear them out, but just the mental act of doing so forces her to settle on hand on her hip and pinch the bridge of her nose with the other, “Go on.” “We can draw the five that have been moving on eight to nine with a decoy. If Anne is still one of us, she should be willing to ask them to take the bait. Once they enter the turbolift sidestep, we can stun the others. It will take four Maquis out of the equation and add one more person to our group, who we can use to help infiltrate engineering. From there, eight will be clear. We can use the tricorder to mask your life signs and mine and create distractions as we climb to one.” “Ours,” Marla cuts in, “We’ll need a guard on each side of the Captain.” Lang nods, “She’s right. It’s a straight climb to the bridge, otherwise. They’ll no doubt have people waiting at the station doors on deck two and probably three, but they can’t risk firing on us. If they hit you…” If they hit her, she’d be stunned and fall, dooming the ship and her crew to a slow death. The plan on its own isn’t terrible. Even if she is caught, they will force her on to the bridge, where there are likely to be fewer Maquis to deal with. She can find a way to incapacitate them, but… “If I send people into engineering without me, they’ll know I’m going to the bridge. Nothing will stop the Maquis there from killing them, and sending a party after me. ” “That’s where I come in,” the Doctor interjects, “I can make myself look and sound like you. They may still threaten the lives of the hostages, but I can negotiate long enough to buy you the time needed to take the ship back.” Kathryn paces a few short steps, thinking it over, not liking it but not knowing why until the holes become all too clear to her, “You can’t hide three life signs with the tricorder. We have to assume they’ll see at least one of us coming. And if we have the tricorder,” she looks the Doctor up and down, “no matter how much you look or sound like me, if even one person in engineering has a tricorder of their own, they’ll detect you in an instant.” “No,” he says, almost immediately understanding what she’s about to suggest. “Yes,” she commands, “You don’t get to stop me this time, Doctor. We’re all dead if this doesn’t work.” Her emphasis on the word all seems to cow him. This isn’t her running toward danger without cause. Not this time. After a moment he reluctantly concedes with a nod. “Captain?” Marla asks, not following along. “He’s going to the bridge with you.” “But the plan only works if there’s a decoy in engineering.” Kathryn looks at the crewman, finally willing to admit to herself that she feels something a little like fondness for her. “I know.” The rest of the day passes as they prepare to take their stand. Tom brings the four crewman freed from the mess up to speed with his plan as Morrow drags a water container to the corner of the room. It’s been nearly a day since this started, and everyone has begun to feel the effects of dehydration. Kathryn accepts her portion and throws it back with a few short gulps. As Marla and Selles work at reconfiguring the tricorder to do what they need it to, Lang is briefing the others on Maquis close-quarter combat techniques. There aren’t enough phasers to go around, and they’ll be sacrificing at least one to create a distraction, so those who will go without are practicing combat with the weapons they’ve created from the tools available to them in the workshop. Watching them, Kathryn is thankful that Tuvok had once been deeply paranoid of the Maquis and had insisted on training the Starfleet members of security in case the worst happened. This leaves her in the corner with the Doctor, who is still clearly unhappy at her decision to send him to the bridge but falling in line. “This will be disconcerting,” he warns shortly, before his holomatrix phases and a perfect physical replica of her is staring back, fresh-faced and in full uniform. He frowns, the effect is indeed disconcerting, then makes a few adjustments to his emitter. The perfectly combed bob grows disheveled, weighed down with simulated blood and sweat, and the pressed jacket gives way to a soiled tank top. Kathryn feels like she is staring into a mirror and has to acknowledge that she’s seen better days. She detaches the combadge from her tank and hands it to him, “If they capture you, they may try to take this. They need to be able to.” The Doctor understands, and the holographic combadge on his disappears, “I need something to pin it to.” “My turtleneck is lying somewhere around here. Wear that,” it will have the added bonus of making him smell truly awful should any Maquis get too close. Awful is better than nothing at all. He departs to retrieve it. A few minutes later he returns with it on, the combadge pinned to place, and her pips still on the collar. The effect is uncanny, and she’s not sure she’s comfortable with him running around looking like her, but this is what must be done. “If we’re going for authenticity,” if it’s strange hearing her voice with his speech patterns, it’s even stranger when he reaches out with her hand and presses two fingers to the pulse point on her neck. She jerks back, “What are you doing?” His (her?) other hand grabs her wrist and forces her to mimic him. Beneath her fingers, under skin that feels all too real, she senses a strange, thready tap-tap of a pulse that isn’t human. It slowly gives way to the steady cadence of what she must assume is her own. “Kelemane have a six-chambered heart,” he explains. Of course he would have found a way to force his program to mimic heart beats and pulses at his command. No doubt someone on that planet would have eventually uncovered the horrifying case of a man walking around without them if he hadn’t. No wonder his program had experienced so many cascade failures. “I don’t expect anyone to check, but in case they do,” he shrugs, then drops his hand and releases her wrist so she can do the same. “Hide your emitter, and keep the tricorder on you,” she instructs as she puts more space between them, “if they find you, you can use it to fabricate your own life signs.” He nods and stares at her expectantly through her own eyes. She hesitates, still unable to shake the concern that this has all been part of some plan cooked up between him and Smithee and Tuvok. That he will take what she gives him, walk easily into the bridge, and help people she once trusted implicitly take her ship and kill the crew she’d sworn to get home. “I’m counting on you,” she says. “I know,” her voice says back. Kathryn gives him her command codes. … The start of the plan goes off without a hitch. Marla, Lang, Morrow, Tom and the Doctor draw the Maquis down from deck eight into the turbolift sidestep and then ambush them. Without a tricorder, they are easily outmaneuvered, stunned, and left bound in the jefferies tube. Smithee is quickly brought up to speed on the plan, and sets off down to deck ten to stun the two Maquis who are doing peripheral rounds. From there, she will move to eleven to convince those guarding the main level of engineering to follow her away from their post. When she departs, the rest split into three groups. Tom leads Mitchel and Selles and two of the newer recruits to the stern of the ship, where they are supposed to access the second level of the shuttlebay. There, they will overload a phaser to create an explosion. Without fire suppression systems, the Maquis will have to respond in order to prevent engineering from being affected. Once they’ve manually suppressed it, Tom’s team will stun them and climb down to ten to access the upper level of engineering Marla, Lang, and the Doctor depart as soon as Tom’s group sets off. Once they’ve gone, there will be no way to contact them again. Kathryn watches them until their wrist lights are no longer visible and wishes them silent luck, then look at those waiting for her orders. Kathryn’s group — Morrow, Mortimer, and two of the freed crewman — are all that’s left to follow down to eleven. “Ready?” Four people are staring back at her — each of them give her a firm nod — and she briefly wonders how many of them will make it to tomorrow. They descend. Ten is clear, the sounds of chaos echoing loudly from the shuttlebay as they continue climbing down. Kathryn is third out of the station on eleven, and when they’ve cleared the way, all five quietly rush starboard to the outer hall, where they pivot at the intersection toward the bow of the ship. When they reach the interior corridor that houses the main entrance to engineering, Smithee is waiting for them. The bay door — which closed during the lockdown — is now hoisted open haphazardly at waist height with a storage container. Smithee is standing to the right of it, fingers to her lips shushing them and phaser angled to the ceiling. Two rush forward to fall in line beside her along the wall, while Kathryn and the other two move to the opposite edge of the entrance. Some commotion is happening within. Kathryn knows Tom’s group hasn’t made it to the upper level of engineering yet — it’s too soon — which means the hostages must have used the confusion of the explosion in the shuttlebay as an opportunity to take a stand. Without weapons, they’re doomed to fail. How many are going to die if she waits? How many will if she doesn’t? Kathryn looks at the group behind Smithee. The red emergency lights are enough to give away that they want to go in. From behind her, Morrow whispers, “Captain.” It isn’t a question, just an affirmation that they’re with her. “We go in,” she whispers, “but keep to the plan. Fan out. Those with phasers cover those without. We’re outnumbered, so neutralize who you can and then take cover. We can’t win, but we can buy the Doctor time.” She and Smithee step aside to allow the rest to duck into the room. After counting to five, both women rush into the fray. It isn’t a trap — but as expected, it isn’t a clear victory. After a frenetic minute of combat and phaser fire it turns into the intended standoff. Maquis and Starfleet injured and down and her team taking cover or keeping Maquis at bay, and she is stuck mere meters from the entrance with Smithee at her side. Chakotay and Ayala move into pearlescent light of the warp core. Ayala pushes Joe Carey, out of breath, bleeding from one ear and clutching his side, to his knees in front of him as Chakotay takes a few careful steps toward Kathryn. Twisted in a heap on the ground beside him is a woman in a engineering gold. Kathryn’s stomach can sink no further — it’s Celes, her glassy brown eyes fixed toward the upper deck unblinkingly. “Ann, I’m disappointed,” said by anyone else, it would snide or cloying, but Chakotay’s tone is measured and sincere. Somehow, this is worse. “Shut up, Chakotay,” Smithee has her phaser trained in his direction and is keeping herself positioned between Ayala and Kathryn. “Set your phasers to kill,” he ignores the slight, instead choosing to issue the order to his people while looking in Kathryn’s direction, “If you shoot me, Captain, my people won’t hesitate to kill yours.” She keeps her phaser trained on him regardless, pushes down the echoes of the memory of Noah Lessing choking on his own blood, and grits her teeth as she considers how to buy Tom and subsequently the Doctor more time, “How do you think this will end, Chakotay?” “Very differently than how you want it to,” he concedes, “but if they behave, we’ll keep some of your crew aboard.” He’s been her right hand for so long, yet he remains a tactician at heart. Chakotay will have done the math — will have figured out who he can and cannot off board, who he can and cannot force into his service. He’s wearing the Starfleet uniform, his field commission rank still on his collar, and she has to remind herself that the man making threats isn’t who he really is. She has to acknowledge that that might not matter in the end. “The others?” He makes a show of considering it, “That depends, on them and on you. Surrender, and we’ll find you an M Class planet to settle down on. Continue as you are, and,” he gestures to Celes, “We’ll find one to bury you on.” “You know I can’t surrender this ship, Chakotay. What’s happening to you isn’t you.” “Do you feel like you, Ayala?” “More than I have in a long time, Sir.” Chakotay shrugs at her, as if to say, well there’s that, then. “Captain,” Joe calls out to her, panting through what must be broken ribs, “I’d rather die than be stranded out here.” “We can oblige that, Mr. Carry,” Chakotay turns to Ayala with a solemn nod. Several things happen so quickly that they cannot be stopped. Kathryn turns her phaser on the security officer as he prepares to fire on Joe, but Smithee beats her to the trigger. Ayala is able to dodge the beam but, with his poor footing, fires off one of his own in her direction despite Chakotay’s sharp, “No!” Kathryn has no time to brace for the impact and what it means, but Smithee lunges in front of her just in time to intercept it. Even before the the blonde hits the floor, dead, Joe launches himself against Ayala, wrestling the phaser from him until, eventually, it goes off between them. Ayala makes no sound as he dies. Joe staggers to his feet, the exertion clearly having taken his toll, and then crumples into a limp heap when Chakotay punches him. Her XO grabs the phaser and appears to consider using it on the engineer, but shake his head once and stands to look at bodies of Tal Celes and Anne Smithee before conceding, “We’re going to need some engineers left alive after this.” He gestures at someone to his right, in one of the console alcoves that happens to be in Kathryn’s blind spot. A few seconds later, B’Elanna steps out dragging Jenny Delaney to him by her arm before forcing her to her knees. “I don’t think we’ll need another stellar cartographer, though” it’s almost apologetic, the way he says it as he levels Ayala’s phaser at Jenny’s back. The brunette is trembling, and her soft, “Captain, no,” might have made a lesser man mock her for her fear. Chakotay isn’t that lesser man, so he says nothing. Instead, he flicks his eyes to Kathryn in time to see that she’s pressed her phaser to her own temple. “It’s set to kill, Commander,” she says, angling herself in a way that he can see that she’s telling the truth. As if on cue, a short commotion reverberates across on the upper level. Jenny tries to use the distraction to struggle against B’Elanna, but the half-Klingon outclasses her in strength. Her punch isn’t enough to knock Jenny out, but the way it breaks her nose causes Jenny to sink back to the floor as blood freely trails down her lips and chin. Kathryn can do nothing about this, can only keep the phaser pressed to her own temple, and watch as Tom darts beyond the far side of the warp core on the upper level to take cover. When B’Elanna breaks away to engage him, he doesn’t hesitate to shoot her in the chest. Chakotay, clearly unhappy with the turn of events, has to step to the side to keep the warp core between him and the pilot’s line of fire. “Here’s what will happen,” Kathryn says, “If I fire, this ship will be derelict. You’ll remain adrift until the life support runs out or you starve to death. If you’re lucky, someone might find you, if you aren’t especially unlucky, they might even help.” “You wouldn’t strand your crew,” he counters. “The alternative is that you strand them or kill them,” she knows she sounds betrayed, and has to work very hard to remember that he wouldn’t be doing this, if he had in real choice in the matter. Kathryn takes a steading breath and manages to make her next question sound sincere, “What did you think would happen if you tried to force my hand, Chakotay?” The issue is that while she’s prepared to fire, knowing that there is still a way for this ship to still make it to the Alpha Quadrant with what remains of her crew in tact, Chakotay doesn’t know that. His decision-calculus is based on his belief that she won’t do what she’s promised as eagerly as she’s promised it. He makes a gesture as if he’s considering what she’s saying, and it does the trick just long enough that when he shoots Jenny and her body sags lifelessly to the floor, Kathryn’s reflexes don’t cause her to depress the trigger. “I wonder how many hostages I’ll need to kill to make that true, Kathryn.” Her reflexes may have failed her, but her rage does not. Without blinking, she turns her phaser on him and fires. She thinks, in that moment, that she’ll have to remember this decision for the rest of her life. Will have the angry red beam of light as it leaves the end of her phaser, travels to Chakotay’s chest, and takes him away from her forever burned into her retinas until the day that she dies. That there’s no amount of regret, no part of herself that she can give to that regret, that’s big enough to to make this okay. In the nanosecond it takes for the phaser to fire, the familiar blue haze of a transporter beam takes her. Kathryn rematerializes on the bridge, phaser inactive in her hand, and looks around frantically. Harry is at ops, Marla is at the conn, Carlson is standing guard at the turbolift doors, and Megan is punching commands into the captain’s chair. Above her, Tuvok looks down at her from tactical. She’s already trying to hurtle herself at him before she’s aware of the a pair of arms that are holding her back, “Captain, he’s with us.” It’s the Doctor, voice and body and the strange pattering heartbeat against her back once again his own as he prevents her from hurting yet another dear friend. “I have managed to fight off Teero’s control,” Tuvok says flatly, yet in that way of his that sounds like an apology. “Captain, I’ve transported Chakotay and the rest of the Maquis to cargo bay three and sealed the doors. All systems are now online,” Harry reports. Chakotay, she thinks, but cannot bring herself to ask. Something must show on her face, because the Harry nods once, “He’s alive. I was able to neutralize the phaser fire during transport.” “It’s over,” he adds, his relief and sorrow plain on his still-young face. He’d saved them, in his own way, but knows there was a cost. “Jenny?” Megan asks him, drawing everyone’s attention. The question is involuntary, since she must know they have so many more important things they need to be doing now that they can do them. The Doctor doesn’t protest when Kathryn pushes herself away from him and staggers one step, then two, toward her chair. She feels hollowed-out and exhausted, and only the way that Megan stands and squares her shoulders as she readies herself for the answer — as if she could ever be prepared for this answer — keeps her from collapsing into her chair. Megan’s eyes shutter and then dim when Kathryn shakes her head and the horrible truth settles in. When the ensign doubles over and keens, the terrible sound is of someone who has never been lonely in her life facing down a future where all she’ll ever be again is alone. It isn’t over at all, Kathryn thinks as she catches Megan before she can fall — as all the pieces of the Captain she pulled tightly around herself begin to chafe against the reality of the past day. It’s only just begun. … The Maquis are finally, unquestionably themselves again. Looking at Chakotay, hunched over on the biobed where the Doctor leaves them so they can have privacy, Kathryn knows there is a part of him that wishes he isn’t here at all. She knows because she feels the same way — about herself, about him, about the six people in the morgue who will never walk the halls of this ship again. He doesn’t look at her, when he says, “I think it would be best if I resign my post.” Would it? She thinks that, maybe, yes, it would easier if he were to no longer be her first officer. But best? Who would she give it to? Tuvok? He may not have killed anyone himself, but his hands are no less bloodied. There are at least twelve former-Maquis who had mind melds forced upon them, who will have to go on calling him Sir despite his unforgivable violation? There is no one else who can do their jobs for them, just as there is no one who can do hers. “You can’t run from this, Chakotay,” her tone is empty, and Kathryn knows that this feeling of unfeeling she has can’t last. Today, tomorrow, next week, the rage and sorrow and guilt will slam into her with all the force she has been using to keep them at bay. “I killed people,” his own voice is broken. He’s feeling too much. Well good, she thinks, one of us has to. Doyle killed Noah, Ayala killed Celes and and Ann, Joe killed Ayala, and although he didn’t mean to, Tom had killed Jor. “You killed Jenny, and I,” she pauses, closes her eyes and can’t finish the sentence. I killed you. She had, he just hadn’t died. One day, when the rage and sorrow and guilt do hit her, she will also feel the unimaginable relief of knowing that although she’d pulled the trigger, he hadn’t suffered the consequences. Right now, she just needs him to pull himself together and go do his job. “Your request is denied.” He doesn’t say anything more before he leaves; she doesn’t think he’ll be able to look her in the eyes for a very long time. When he’s gone, she lets her feet take her to the Doctor’s office. He hasn’t left sickbay since they retook the ship and started the long process of undoing what Teero and Tuvok had done to the minds of the Maquis. Five days — that’s how long it had taken. Chakotay had been the most difficult and the last. If she wants to, she can order the Doctor back to his quarters to serve out the rest of his confinement — he has a little over twenty days of it left. She doesn’t understand him anymore. She can admit to herself now that it’s the not knowing that scares her, not necessarily him. His motivations for being here, his defiance of her orders, his complicated feelings for her — these are all opaque and unexplainable. Yet, when it mattered most, he’d done his part to save her ship and her crew. He looks up from his computer when she enters, assuming she must be here for a report, “Captain, I confirmed with Tuvok and Seven that there are signs the Borg tampered with our last data stream.” Yes, she knows this. Tuvok stood across from her in her ready room an hour ago, grim and withdrawn in his own solemn way, and explained to her that while Teero was a real man — with a real agenda regarding manipulating the Maquis — the Borg were the ones who had inserted the activation phrase into the message from Tuvok’s son. The phrase they discovered when they assimilated him. He hadn’t said it, but Kathryn knows the truth. She’d given the Borg the opportunity to attack her crew by allowing them to assimilate her Chief of Security and plumb his mind for weaknesses. She’d given them the motivation to attack her crew by inciting an insurgency among their ranks. Of course they’d returned the favor. The Doctor stops talking when he sees what she’s holding out for him. Slowly, he stands and approaches her, taking the combadge from her. It was Noah Lessing’s, but she doesn’t tell him this or that she’d taken it from the man’s uniform when she stood over him five days ago and finally apologized for what she’d done to him. Too late. “I need you to be a member of this crew,” it isn’t an order; it’s a request. She has to find every shred of unity she can amidst this newly broken group of people who used to be a family. With whomever she can. The Doctor looks from it to her. When she thinks he’s about to say no, he grips the combadge tightly against his chest. A moment later, he sighs, nods, and is wearing his medical blues. She takes a single breath, the only sign of her relief. “The rest of your confinement is hereby commuted” Kathryn states as he turns away to walk back to his desk, “and, Doctor…” When he stops but doesn’t turn back to her, she approaches him, grabs his wrist, and pushes three small pips against his palm, “find something to pin these to.”
Chapter Notes
Timeline Notes:
Seven’s cortical implant fails at the same time it does in the show. You’ll notice I made the Unimatrix Zero plot actually fit in to the rest of the season by having repercussion for the crew. This is one of them — I’ve always thought the implant failed here because of what they got up to in the episodes before.
Repression’s story goes on longer than it did in the show. I’ll talk a little bit more about what even was that in this chapter in later notes.
Next up, the real aftermath of this nightmare and Workforce.
Story Notes:
This story will now be four chapters. If I kept it to three, this chapter would have been a whole ass novella. I'm not doing that to you.
I spent hours going over Intrepid deck schematics for this chapter. You can follow along here if you want?
You know Janeway, all you have to do is ask. I think he’d tell you.
Repression (Story). I wanted to like this episode when I watched it. I rewatch it sometimes to see if it has grown on me. It hasn’t. It’s too late in the series for it, and so the writers clearly don’t let anything bad happen. They can’t blow up the ship dynamic that irrevocably in the final season. But I can, and I did. The background of Teero interests me, a Bajoran who might have used mind control on people to force them to join the Maquis and even loyal Maquis to keep them from defecting? It’s positively Cardassian. But that’s where his involvement should have ended. It makes no sense for him to try to get Voyager’s Maquis to take out Cardassians. They’re a too far away and the Cardassians are shattered after the Dominion War. Do you know who it does make sense for to trigger this mind control now? The Borg. They’ve recently assimilated Tuvok and to some extent Chakotay and B’Elanna. The Queen could easily scour their minds for weaknesses, high-jack a data stream with the activation phrase, and force the crew of Voyager to experience the same thing she is: insurrection. Even if it doesn’t destroy them, the Borg Queen wins because she breaks Janeway’s crew from the inside the way Janeway has broken the Borg.
Repression (Mind Control). I alter this slightly. I have significantly more of the Maquis crew susceptible to the activation phrase/chant. This means that Tuvok does not need to run around melding with all of them, just the few who are not activated and react poorly to the others who are actively plotting mutiny (e.g, B’Elanna and Tabor). Some of the Maquis are neither activated or melded with, which means they work with their Starfleet counterparts (even though they face some distrust). This makes things more of surprise for the Starfleet crew.
Repression (Chakotay). That hurt to plot out and write. He’s only in this storyline for such a short segment that we see, but god does it break him. I genuinely adore Chakotay. I even think he and Janeway are the endgame couple of Voyager. To fundamentally break him in this way and isolate them from one another breaks my heart. I love writing scenes between them together (I hope that’s clear), even if I only ever bring myself to write them as friendly scenes with hints of romantic potential.
Repression (Tuvok). He’ll overcome this, but the sad thing is his illness starts so soon after. Part of me thinks that his assimilation and then all the melding he does speeds the progression of that illness.
Repression (Janeway). Oh boy. She’s disassociated so much that when it hits her for real for real it’s going to hurt.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
More than ever before, Voyager feels like a prison. The ennui and the tension that pervade the crew are oppressive, a type of emotional humidity that clings to the skin with a weight that feels tangible. Some days, Kathryn thinks she can see this feeling — this thing — dogging the steps of those who cross her path, pulling their posture low, buzzing in their ears, sapping them of energy and rest and recovery. If she looks in the mirror, she can see it in the way sleeplessness has bruised the space around her eyes blue, dulled her hair, and infused her skin with pallor. Not since her father died has she looked so physically injured. Not since the Void have the hulls of Voyager felt this claustrophobic. What does it say that not even the excitement of the Delta Quadrant can rouse them all from this stupor? Kathryn worries about many things. About the rift that has formed between the Maquis and Starfleet, so poetically captured in the way she and Chakotay cannot look at each other —speak to one another— without another piece of her that once delighted in being so near him painfully hollowed out. Before long they will be strangers. She knows that to feel anything for him would require what she has buried away — anger, regret, remorse, unreasonable contempt — to rise up and consume all that is good. To be the Captain, she must push it all away. Around her, people are suffering the same dilemma. She watches as Harry faces down the reality that he cannot comfort both Tom and B’Elanna. So, he chooses the one he must work with every day and frowns sadly upon the other when she climbs to the bridge from her exile in engineering. Kathryn cannot say what will become of Tom and B’Elanna, only that she sees distance and silence and loss. Megan moves to delta shift, so she does not have to take the dozens of cuts to her psyche a day that taking orders from the man who killed her sister would cause. After a week of this, Kathryn moves her to astrometrics, where she takes up the now vacant command post on alpha shift, even though her presence on the bridge will be sorely missed. Perhaps worse are the Maquis who cannot forgive themselves. Doyle is a man adrift on an ocean, and he is chief among those who hate him for what he has done. The Doctor puts him on watch, but the hologram and Neelix can only do so much to make him forgive himself for the visceral act of slamming a knife into another man’s chest. No less troubling is the fact that Kathryn watches more than once as Chakotay and B’Elanna look past one another, incapable of providing comfort or receiving it. Their own self-imposed exile from everyone else much greater than physical. This new, untethered reality is bookended by Timothy Carlson openly weeping at Ann’s memori and then taking a swing at Tabor when he tries to comfort him, unable to do so to the man who took his friend away from him. Ayala’s memorial had been held the day before. The crew who were locked away during that awful day carry their own trauma. It’s an understated sort, the kind that comes with a hopelessness of having been unable to help. Of having had to sit in the dark, afraid that all they didn’t know would kill them or someone they cared about, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. They do not know how to talk to those who had to find out the hard way what was going on. They look at them, on duty and in the mess, with a forlorn sort of wariness. Who might snap? When? At who? The not knowing pushes them away from those who do. Seven has retreated, incapable of finding a way to help. Whatever progress she has made seems to regress as she refuses to interact with anyone outside of a small circle. Kathryn knows she spends her days in astrometrics with Megan or with Icheb and Naomi. The three had been trapped together in the mess, and while Neelix had helped her protect the children, not even he will explain what happened there to prevent the three from entering the space again willingly. Yet, it’s a space Kathryn’s feet carry her to most days for morning coffee and after duty meals. This goes against her deepest desire to hole up in her quarters and fester in the dark. Neelix always has some reason to ask her there — as if he’s decided that he cannot help the crew through this, and so he must focus on her. She lets her crew watch her go through the motions — sits on her own for over a week — before Selles takes a seat near her silently. The next day it is Morrow and Marla. The next Tom, Lang, and Mitchel. This little rotation of people who kept her and each other alive. She doesn’t really speak, not beyond the occasional hushed whisper. Most days, Harry and Megan join her for her morning coffee. Harry talks enough for the three of them, and Kathryn catalogs the thousands of ways Megan tells them she’s heartbroken without uttering a single word. These moments with others don’t heal her so much as they keep the wounds from festering into something worse. And so the days carry on, even if the people don’t know how to themselves. She sends a report to Hayes during the next MIDAS stream, explaining in terrible detail the events as they unfolded. Her message carries a warning, a rejection of the plan to host a hologram of Barclay on her ship: they cannot trust orders sent through a communications relay so easily hijacked. The next month he does not reprimand her for her decision but conveys that they are working on methods to strengthen security. His words are methodical, devoid of the comfort an admiral might spare a captain they are used to working with. It’s just another cost of being so far from home. Kathryn does not justify to him the field commission bestowed upon the Doctor, although Hayes asks for it. Instead, she sends a communique to her mother. It is impersonal, a request for Gretchen to use the connections she built during her marriage to an admiral to find someone, anyone, who can represent the rights of artificial life. As sure as a small child, she knows her mother will pull through.Gretchen Janeway may read the words from a daughter who is growing into a stranger with all the concern due upon a mother, but she’ll do all that she can. This much Kathryn knows. Distance will never change that truth. Months pass, missions come and go, the bruises around her eyes grow darker. Meals in the mess are no longer so quiet, but the words being said mean nothing substantial. Tuvok never comes here; Chakotay only ever sits alone. It is worse than those first uncertain days of their journey. The the prison hulls close in. … Kathryn wakes to an alarm that has been blaring for many more minutes than it should. She’s face down in her pillow, limbs heavy from an exhaustion that good sleep did not cure. A claustrophobic feeling settles in her chest, like she’s experienced a nightmare she cannot recall but which has burrowed into her bones nonetheless. An entire tuft of her hair is stuck to her face through a mixture of drool and sweat. She swipes it away, rolls over onto her back with considerable effort, and shoves a hand out to blindly slap at the alarm. After a few seconds of that, it falls silent. Forty-three minutes later she sits bolt upright, eyes fully open, and throws off her blanket. The room is dark, and whatever muscle memory she has makes her slam her shins into something she isn’t used to being there. With some swearing, she navigates around boxes and the unfamiliar furniture in her unfamiliar room until she is able to find the switch to open her blinds. Hazy, dawn saturated light pours in, and she remembers where she is. Quarra, her new home, where boundless opportunities await her. The light illuminates the pile of clothes she’d failed to put away after unpacking them. She’ll be late if she puts an ounce of care into her appearance this morning, so Kathryn grabs the first uniform she sees. It’s creased and slightly wrinkled, but she wasted the time she could have spent ironing it sleeping. As she hops while trying to fit her legs into the trousers, she trips over a boot. “Well done, Kathryn” she criticizes herself from where she’s sprawled across the floor. This is how the first day of her new life starts. She can barely keep her eyes open as she boards the wrong transport and steps off in the air filtration facility, three entire city-sectors away from where she’s meant to check into tylium reactor complex for her shift. It takes her fifteen minutes to find the right one, which won’t help her tomorrow because she never intends to visit the filtration facility — with its cloistered workers who can’t hear her shouting for directions over the loud, whirring turbines — again. Her supervisor, while impressed with her credentials seems concerned by how out of breath she is. He takes one long, sympathetic look at her tussled hair and exhaustion-bruised eyes before easily accepting her explanation for being late without complaint. He gets lost too after all, in this maze of an industrial city. By the time the alarm at her station goes off, she wishes she could start this farce of day again. Maybe then she would wake up to her alarm, climb onto the right transport, and not beg an unsympathetic computer to stop drawing attention to her by declaring her Input Error 415, whatever that means. “What is that?” she demands from the computer in a baleful whisper when it announces her Command Code Violation 2308. Kathryn doesn’t know why she’s expecting it to answer her. A hand, attached to man she does not know, inputs something into her console in time to silence the alert. “You almost started a core overload,” for words so dire, his tone is very affable. Kathryn looks up at him — because he is quite a bit taller than she is — and tries to smile. It’s pathetic, more a grimace than anything else. Why is she so tired? She’s had a restful day when she arrived in the city yesterday and the best sleep she’s had in years. There’s no reason that her arms should feel like lead or that her head should be so full of cob webs or that when the handsome man introduces himself she immediately forgets his name. When the efficiency officer has finished scolding them, Kathryn is certain she’s managed to make the worst first impression. The man, Jaffen — she finally remembers — gives her a friendly smile. After a brief moment of consideration, he tells her that he hopes she feels better and that he’s nearby if she needs anymore help. She doesn’t remember telling him she doesn’t feel well, which means she must look it. Kathryn sighs and gets back to work. That evening, she finds a bar near her apartment that serves good food because she’s incapable of making anything that resembles a meal herself and she is honestly too tired to try. Any goals of turning her miserable culinary skills around have fallen well below her newer ones: figure out how to do her job and find a reliable source of caffeine. The barkeep is a human like her, a blonde man named Tom with a friendly smile that does nothing to hide the bags around his bright blue eyes. He points her to a place at the bar-top where she can set up her work while she eats, and doesn’t seem put out when she orders the closest thing to coffee rather than anything stronger. She’ll tip him well anyway because her new position comes with more credits than she knows what to do with. When she’s halfway done picking over her meal and struggling to memorize the hundreds of codes she’ll need to know to do her job properly, a particularly merry group of men enter. She looks up briefly, sees that Jaffen is among them and waves. A few minutes later, he’s at her side ordering his friends a round of drinks. “You’re always welcome to join us,” he offers, giving the picked apart meat pie on her plate and stack of manuals a sad look. Kathryn thinks she must look pathetic, but manages as friendly a smile as she can, “Maybe when I feel like I can do my job without blowing up six square city blocks or irradiating the entire continent.” He laughs, and it really is unfair how handsome he is, “Fair enough. I’m always around to help if you need it, I know how hard getting started can be.” The offer is genuine, and as he gathers the drinks for his friends, he adds, “I’m here almost every night if you find yourself wanting the company.” She can’t tell if it’s an overture of friendship or interest, and the little shrug Tom gives her when she makes eye contact with him lets her know that he can’t tell the difference either. It’s all for the best. Meeting someone is below ‘learning how to cook’, and Hansen’s shrewd demands that they not fraternize on the job are annoying but hit home. Dating and work shouldn’t mix, not when she’s responsible for a reactor that could plunge a quarter of Quarra’s landmass into an irradiated hellscape if she messes up. But that doesn’t mean she can’t make friends.What’s life without them? Hollow and ultimately meaningless. She hadn’t fled Earth just to make money, but to escape its oppressive environment and replace it with one that would allow her to flourish, to find like minded people to spend her time with. To enjoy the little things. But it’s easy to fall into old patterns. Work, dinner at the bar or from a container at home, workout, sleep, work. On repeat. Within a few days she’s grown familiar with the regulars at the bar, a handful of which are also human. They all share the same look she does — run-down, unfocused, sad — and all she can really put it down to is that, like her, they must have left the inequity and pollution of Earth. That the sacrifices needed to make such a long trek here had tarnished what was left of their shine. When Jaffen enters with a beautiful brunette on his arm, she’s not particularly hurt. He’s still friendly at work. Sometimes she even joins his group to participate in the tabletop games they always bring with them. None of the others who haunt the bar with him are familiar except for the man named Tuvok, who works on another floor of the reactor. The first time she speaks to him, Kathryn thinks she spots a manic spark in the him that reminds her of the way she acts when she thinks people want her to be okay. She doesn’t make the effort to get to know him and doesn’t join in on the game when he’s present. And so it goes, until thirteen days into her new life, in the middle of lining up for a twice-weekly inoculation against ambient tylium radiation, she thinks she should have paid more attention to him. Tuvok doesn’t work on her floor, but today they’re all funneled to the first level where a group of Quarran doctors and nurses wait. She accepts her inoculation from a smiling woman but watches in something like horror as Tuvok has an episode in the line next to hers. In his effort to avoid the treatment, he breaks away from a man with stern features and knocks into her shoulder hard enough that she loses her balance and falls. Kathryn’s wrist makes a crunching sound when she uses her left hand to catch her fall. The pain follows a moment later, and she finds herself involuntarily curling around the injury so she doesn’t have to see it. Surely something is broken. “Don’t engage him,” calls out the doctor who lost control of Tuvok to those who have set off after him, before moving over to kneel next to her. “Let me see,” he orders, and while his tone brooks no argument, it isn’t unkind. Kathryn braces herself and grimaces against the pain as she sets her arm in his waiting hand. He has no tools on him, just his hands and his eyes, but he seems pretty certain of it when he says, “It’s a fracture, perhaps two, at the very least your scaphoid. One of the nurses will take you to the clinic. I’ll be able to look at it when we’re done with the inoculations.” Over an hour later, Kathryn waits in what amounts to a cubical in a building four city blocks away from the tylium reactor. In her short time on Quarra, she’s learned that the word ‘onsite’ doesn’t actually mean ‘in the same building’, just somewhere within the same sprawling, labyrinthian complex. The nurse, a quiet man who refuses to make eye contact, had at least administered an analgesic before taking a couple of scans, leaving her there to wait. At least the place is quiet, she thinks. Despite the fact that there are thin walls surrounding each treatment alcove, she cannot hear the sounds of other patients in pain or speaking. No cleared throats, no coughing, just silence gentle enough she can start to hear the beating of her own heart. She’d already forgotten what it was like to sit in a space without something trying to grab her attention. If she doesn’t fall into the trap of her own thoughts, it’s almost soothing. It’s a shame she had to be injured to experience it. Finally, when she’s given up on being able to get back to work in time to complete her tasks for the day, the door chimes once before opening. “Miss Janeway,” the same doctor from earlier steps into the space, reviewing what she assumes are the results of the scans from before on a tablet “I’m sorry for the wait.” She hadn’t gotten a good look at him before, but now she’s able to note that he isn’t Quarran at all — that species typically has additional cartilage around their lips and nose. He has a set of ridges starting as an inset arch on his forehead and ending at a near point on the bridge of his nose and irises so dark they may as well be black. “Kathryn, please,” she offers as he takes the stool next to her chair and reaches for her arm, acutely aware that he hasn’t given her his name and clearly intends not to. Her left wrist is already swollen, but the analgesic is working as it should. She can’t feel a thing as he tests the movement of the joint, not even where he’s using his fingers to push her palm too and fro. “Two fractured bones. We’ll have to apply a healing sleeve,” he explains when he releases her, “but you’ll only need to wear it for three days. After that, it’ll be like nothing happened.” “That’s it?” She doesn’t mean to sound so shocked, but human medicine is so antiquated compared to this that it’s hard to believe. If he looks at her oddly in response to that, she doesn’t know why, “That’s it.” Now that he’s actually looking at her and not the tablet or her injured wrist, something of a frown settles on his face. Kathryn suspects that this man frowns a lot more than he smiles, if the deep lines that frame his mouth are anything to go by, “Have you been sleeping, Miss Janeway?” It would be a strange question for someone to ask, if he wasn’t a doctor. She wants to be offended, because he clearly took one look at her and noticed the shadows around her eyes. They seem to be a permanent feature of her appearance now, no matter what she does to reduce them or hide them. She isn’t a vain woman, but Kathryn knows that if they become any darker she will look like a ghost haunting the reactor, not an employee maintaining it. “It’s Kathryn,” she repeats, “Doctor…?” “Retz,” he offers in an off-hand manner before starting to look her over. He’s in the middle of feeling the lymph nodes under her jaw when she bats him away with her left hand. “I’m fine,” she stresses, “just tired.” And she is — has been — for weeks now. The exhaustion makes no sense to her, but it lingers no matter how many hours of sleep she snags at night. She thinks, surely, something must be disturbing her rest, but she cannot recall her dreams. “I’m getting all of my work done; you can ask my supervisor. It’s just been a long couple of weeks.” “I don’t care if you’re getting your work done,” Dr. Retz mutters darkly as he starts keying something into his notes. This surprises her, because everyone cares. If she doesn’t do her job, the lights in this place will go out, and he won’t be able to do his. “Your appetite?” he asks her, brusquely, apropos of nothing. “Normal,” or at least, normal for her. “Exercise?” “At least thirty minutes a day,” her tone is starting to let on how annoyed she feels at this interrogation. She came here to have her wrist treated not for an entire physical and psychological checkup. He sighs, “You look like you haven’t slept in a month. Humans require at least seven hours a night, if not more. Are you managing at least that?” “Most nights,” and it’s the truth. She’s usually too tired to stay up late, even if she’d prefer to study her work manuals longer. He makes a sound as if he doesn’t believe her, “Are you socializing?” “I’m not sure why that matters,” Kathryn is openly offended now, put off by everything about his standoffish yet nosy demeanor. “Humans are social creatures, without it you grow irritable and paranoid,” delivered like a belligerent encyclopedia. “Yes,” she grumbles, deciding she doesn’t like him at all, “I socialize. Daily,” if one counts talking to Jaffen when Annika isn’t paying attention to them at the reactor facility or to Tom when he serves her food and drinks at the bar. He looks at her for a long moment, then shakes his head, “I’ll send Nurse Hala in to administer the sleeve. Don’t lift anything heavier than five pounds until it comes off.” “All right.” He’s halfway out the door before he turns back, looks at her, and adds, “Eat more, sleep more, and work less.” Kathryn rolls her eyes at his back. … “You could try talking to her,” it’s been a week since she broke her wrist, and she has watched Tom openly pine over the newest regular, a lonely engineer at a corner table, for all of it. Tonight, he’s parked himself on the end of the bar that Kathryn affectionately refers to as hers as he dries freshly cleaned glasses and sighs every minute or so. She’d ignored it for the first fifteen of them, but it’s getting to be excessive. She can’t focus on her work when he’s being this pathetic so close to her. “I have,” he grosses, “but she called me an unserious person.” For a moment, he looks hopefully at her, “Could you talk to her?” Kathryn nearly spits out the spoonful of soup she’s forced herself to eat; instead, she chokes on it and shakes her head. “Come on, you see her at work. She’ll believe you when you tell her I’m a good guy.” He’s technically correct. Since the engineer transferred to the reactor from the power distribution facility, Kathryn has seen her at least once a day. That doesn’t mean she knows her. “She fixes our consoles when they break down,” Kathryn argues back, “and we’re not allowed to fraternize on the job. I know her as well as you do.” He grumbles a little bit, then tosses another look the woman’s way, “I don’t know. I just…want to be her friend. She seems lonely.” Kathryn snorts and pushes a piece of squash around the broth, “No, you just want to be my friend because I seem lonely. That’s not what you want from her.” “Oh, and you’re an expert at this kind of thing? Kathryn Janeway, the real Casanova, everybody watch out,” it would be devastating if he looked like her words had actually bothered him; instead, the blonde is doing his best not to smile as he sets aside his ambitions to woo his lady for the night. She doesn’t get the reference, but figures it has something to do with human pop culture, “Just because I’m here every night, doesn't mean I’m—“ The sentence is halfway out of her mouth before Tom perks up and sets down the glass. She knows that look — a customer is walking up to the bar. “What can I get you?” His voice takes on that easy tone that means he’s angling for a good tip. He hasn’t used it on her in weeks because he knows she’s good for it. “Just water.” And Kathryn knows that voice. She wants to mount that voice to a wall and throw darts at it. She tilts away and tries to hide herself in her dinner. If Tom is bummed out that this fish will get away without sending a few extra credits his way, he doesn’t let it show as he turns around to fill the glass. “Kathryn, was it?” “It’s Miss Janeway to you,” she mutters darkly. That actually earns her something of a laugh, “Fair enough.” Tom returns, “One water. Any food?” “I’ll order when my friend gets here,” Dr. Retz says. She looks over at him with a dry expression, “You have friends?” Tom tosses up his hands and taps out of the conversation with a whistle, moving down the bar to check on a couple who are setting up shop there. “Just the one.” When she finally looks at him, the good doctor actually seems amused underneath his clear offense. Gone is the austere expression from the day she’d broken her wrist; she sees no sign of the pinched glare she’d received when she’d returned to the clinic to get the healing sleeve removed. It is like he’d taken her permanently disheveled demeanor as a personal slight, and is only just now considering that it’s who she is. He angles himself so that he’s able to speak to her without straining his neck, but doesn’t step any further into her space, “How’s your wrist?” “Fine.” After a moment, when it’s clear he’s not going to say anything else, she throws out a, “Not going to ask about my sleep?” If he asks, she won’t tell him that she now wakes most mornings covered in sweat and unrested, with the sense that she’s dreamed something terrible in the night. That doesn’t mean she can’t have a little fun. “Is that drink caffeinated?” he points to her half-empty mug. “Heavily,” her tone can cut glass. And…he actually smiles. It’s absurd how it transforms his face from something deeply dour to openly earnest. Kathryn wouldn’t consider him traditionally handsome in the way that Jaffen is or boyishly so in the way that Tom is, but when he smiles he actually manages to straddle the line between both. She thinks it has to do with the darkness of his eyes, which shift from uncanny to warm with his mirth. “Well, there you go,” he says, “You’re clearly the type of person who takes a doctor’s recommendation as a personal attack.”
“What would you call that?” she almost laughs herself and can’t even manage to feel the insult. “An observation,” he looks toward the front door as it opens, “Ah, there’s my only friend.” She follows his gaze and blinks, “What? Whiskers is your friend?” Whiskers is what Tom has taken to calling the man who shows up every day or so to buy the entire bar several round of drinks. He’s hard to miss with his spots and impressively big hair and…yes, whiskers. He’s the friendly sort, goes around the room talking at people and getting to know them. Just the other day, Kathryn had been pulled into an hour long conversation about what she’d been doing prior to coming to Quarra. By the time it was over, she couldn’t say why she’d been willing to share so much personal information with a man she didn’t know. No one has been able to determine what his angle is — if it is anything more than trying to be the life of the party. He can’t be all bad, though; to date, he has been the only person who’s been able to make Tom’s crush crack something even approaching a smile. “Whiskers? That’s a new one,” Retz says as he starts to walk away, making sure to throw back at her the expected, “Caffeine can’t replace sleep, Miss Janeway.” Tom, like the busybody he is, is at her end of the bar just moments later, “I need details, now.” Kathryn huffs and turns back to her food, “There are none. Mind your own business.” “Pfft, that’s no fun!” She pointedly ignores him and gets back to work. The next day, she skips the bar. The day after that, she gets pulled into a card game with Jaffen’s crew. When she notices that Tuvok isn’t among them, Jaffen tells her that he’s quit his job at the reactor. She goes home early when she feels something like a migraine coming on and manages to eek out a solid nine hours of sleep before starting the basic pattern of her day all over again. Work. Exercise. Bar. This time, the doctor is seated at a table when she arrives during the dinner rush. Tom gives her a pointed look when she orders a sandwich and what passes as a local variant of espresso, and then mutters, “I think Whiskers stood him up” at her when he sets her order in front of her. “What am I supposed to do with that?” she complains after him, but it isn’t even a minute before she grumbles, grabs her plate and mug, and walks over to the table. “Mind if I sit,” it would be a question, if she hadn’t already pulled a seat out with her foot and set down her food. “By all means,” Retz mutters in a way that suggests he hopes she won’t. “Your only friend a no show?” she plops into the chair with a little less grace than intended — this seems to amuse him — and then starts inspecting her sandwich. It always comes with greens in it that are a little too soggy. She pulls them off, gives one a little taste and pulls a face when it reminds her too much of chard. She looks up at him when he doesn’t answer quickly enough. He’s leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with something like bewilderment. “Your friend, Neelix,” she reminds him. “He’s busy.” “So, you just decided to sit here — alone — and not eat your food? How am I supposed to take your medical advice seriously when you don’t even follow it yourself?” She gestures to the untouched plate of what looks like pasta in front of him before taking a small bite of her sandwich. It’s just all right, but it’s the first thing she’s had all day so it’s tastes practically gourmet. His sigh is leagues more put upon than Tom’s lovelorn ones, but he leans forward, grabs his fork and spears the Quarra equivalent of a ravioli before shoving it in his mouth. He quirks a brow at her as if to say, ‘There’ while chewing. “What does your friend do?” she asks just as he takes another bite. Retz shakes his head, exasperated by her deliberate timing. Kathryn doesn’t know why she’s enjoying giving him so much trouble, but has to admit that even she needs a hobby that doesn’t involve reading work manuals. Roughly five seconds later, he sets down his fork, swallows, and narrows his dark eyes at her, “Neelix is a transporter.” “What does he transport?” “People.” “That sounds legitimate,” the way she says it makes it clear that she thinks the opposite. He rolls his eyes, “People looking for work, Janeway.” “I see you’ve dropped the Miss. Should I drop the Doctor?” she settles her elbows on the table, takes another bite and flicks the crumbs on her fingers in his direction. “I try not to be so familiar with my patients,” he says in his most dignified manner as he brushes those crumbs off the table to the floor. Kathryn swallows before she should, winces and swipes at her lip with a finger, “What if I promise to not break anymore bones?” Another sigh and then, “Aeson.” “Well, Aeson,” she smiles at him for the first time, and it’s this pleasant reshaping of her features that seems to affect him the most, “we’re back to you having permission to call me Kathryn.” Thirty minutes later, he’s stopped looking at her like she has three heads, and she thinks she’s managed to make a friend who doesn’t serve her food or work with her. It’s true that he looks devastated when Tom brings her her third espresso — it puts her well over the limit of caffeine she should have in a day — but he doesn’t say anything and that’s what matters. By the end of the impromptu dinner, in which he refuses to talk about anything of real consequence, she’s reasonably certain if she sees him again she’ll happily say hello, and he’ll even say it back. And so her daily pattern expands to include the grump who heals the steam and radiation burns for the entire reactor complex. His friend makes appearances at times, to either share a meal at the bar or round out Jaffen’s card table. Even though she continues to feel run down, after a month on her new planet with her new job, Kathryn feels like she’s finally able to start her life. That Earth and its polluted waterways and strip-mined natural wonders are finally behind her. That the burn of Mark refusing to make this journey with her no longer stings. “You make an odd pair,” she comments one day, as they’re preparing to leave the bar and Aeson watches Neelix making his rounds. She hasn’t been able to get a good read on their friendship. The man who calls himself a Talaxian is vibrant and gregarious, both annoying and ingratiating. He comes and goes for days at a time, but whenever he’s in her orbit the man who calls him friend doesn’t appear to enjoy his company very much. Kathryn has been working her way up to asking what that’s all about, but for now she’ll settle for the low hanging fruit. He waves over Tom to settle both their bills, ignoring her protest when he releases enough credits for the two of them, “I used to serve with him on a ship unaffiliated with Quarra.” That throws her for a loop. Everyone knows that there’s no money in space, when you take into account the astronomical (pun intended) costs of maintaining a ship and a crew. He holds the door open for her as she thinks it through, and they quietly take off on the quarter mile walk that will deposit them at their apartment block. It had been a pleasant surprise to learn one night that his building was just around the corner from hers; it made her late night walks home a little less lonely. After a hundred yards or so, she picks up the thread where they left it, “What business were you in that the ship would need a doctor?” “No business.” He’s trying to keep his voice light and uncommitted, but it just comes off as cagey. When she nudges his arm with her own, Aeson sighs and decides to have the conversation she clearly wants, “They were in transport, which is how I found myself apart of the crew. They picked me up. Eventually, we all settled here.” Kathryn ignores the bookend of his tone, “Where did they pick you up from?” His facial ridges are unfamiliar to her, but she knows that bluntly asking a person on Quarra where they’re from is a gamble with losing odds. They’ll either talk about it for an hour without pause or tell you to mind your own business. For a moment, she thinks he might settle on the latter, but a quick glance at his expression lets her know that he isn’t reluctant, just weighing his words. “A planet called Kelemane.” She looks up at the sky, all the stars hidden behind light pollution and the planetary security net and tries to think of all the worlds out there except for Earth. She can’t say she misses it, but if he asked her about it she’d tell him. His reluctance to share makes her give up asking question; instead, Kathryn gives a thoughtful little, “I’ve never heard of it.” The smile he gives her when she looks back down isn’t really for her — it’s wistful in a way that makes Kathryn wish she held something resembling fondness for her own home planet. There’s no nostalgia that could make her look the way he does right now. “You wouldn’t have. We have no presence in interstellar politics or markets. When my crew picked me up, my people had only just calculated the escape velocity needed to achieve near-world orbit.” Kathryn blinks at him and tries to ignore that he’d just told her his merry crew of ‘transporters’ had violated one of the only interplanetary laws: leave the primitive, pre-warp cultures alone. No wonder her line of questioning had caused him to shut down. Her expression must show what she’s thinking, because his next words are an explanation, “Kelemane isn’t what you’d call a typical planet. My crew were trapped in its orbit through no fault of their own.” “What do you mean?” He sighs again, “It has a tachyon core.” The scientist in her — the one she buried so she could make a living keeping a reactor from exploding — comes alive at that. She quickly works through the physics and temporal mechanics of it all, and has to grab his arm to stop him in her rush of curious excitement, “But that must mean…” Now that she’s gotten him to talk, Aeson doesn’t really seem to mind that she’s interrogating him. How could he? It’s clear that, between the two of them, he’s led the more interesting life. “It’s anchored in a time well, yes. Every six minutes in orbit amount to a year on the surface. The crew of Voyager witnessed the dawn of our civilization, and my people worshipped them like gods for thousands of years. We called them the Watchers. In truth, they were only caught in our orbit for a week.” The math gives her a headache, a sharp little jab right between the eyes, and she has to shake her head, “How…why did you leave?” “I was one of two on the fuselage sent to make contact, to tell them that their orbit was causing tectonic disturbances that were threatening ecosystems. They already knew, and while my pilot went back to work with the world governments to fashion a means to free them, I remained aboard.” They’ve come to a stop at the first apartment building — his — and something like horror has settled over her as the implications of the math catch up to her while they stand awkwardly under the street lights, “How long have you been away?” “Months.” She can’t say anything to that. A single month off of the planet would amount to nearly 7.5 thousand years on it. Month after month after month. “It means exactly what you think it means,” he says softly. Aeson’s dark eyes are impossible to read in the shadows, and despite the humid heat of the night she feels a rush of goose flesh sprout up along her arms. They stand for some time in silence as Kathryn digests this. With her is a man whose planet has experienced innumerable millennia since he left it. Everyone and everything he knew would be gone. Dead. Ruins. Dust. Whatever had risen up in their place would be dead and ruins and dust. And so on and so on and so on. The Kelemane are a species trapped on a probabilistic fluke of a world, one they are unlikely to ever be able to properly leave. To move beyond near orbit would require so many resources, that the fuel costs alone would regulate more distant exploration to unmanned crafts. A species doom to go extinct on their own planet. “Why would you leave?” Kathryn finally asks. Aware that she is prying — but unable to stop herself —as she tries to hide the uncertainty she feels. Why he’d leave isn’t really what she wants to know, but what kind of person would leave their home knowing they couldn’t go back. He sighs, as if her clumsy probing is to be expected at this point, “You may as well come in.” It must say something about her that she doesn’t hesitate to follow him into his second story apartment. It’s the first time she’s been here — the first time either of them have asked the other into their personal space — but it’s clear to her that she’s here because she has so many questions and he doesn’t want to answer them while standing on a busy walking path. It’s roughly the size and layout of hers, small with a combined kitchen and living space, likely a bedroom and bathroom tucked behind an adjoining door. Kathryn sets her satchel on what amounts to a joint eating and coffee table, and takes a seat on one end of the couch as he moves around his kitchenette. She knows what she’s asked him is personal, and so she watches him heat water and prepare what she assumes must be tea in silence. Not for the first time, she finds herself thinking that it would be nice to share space with another person. Her apartment is silent, and she avoids it because there’s no one there taking up the space with her. A roommate might help make it feel more like a home, but she knows that what she really wants isn’t a friendly stranger. Before she can venture too deeply along that train of thought while staring idly at his back, Aeson wanders over with the drinks. She accepts her and brings it close, catching the strong citrus and floral notes, “I’m assuming this isn’t caffeinated.” He levels her with a deadpan stare as he takes a seat at the arm chair perpendicular to the couch, then sniffs haughtily while crossing an ankle over his knee, “No.” Kathryn smiles at him and ventures a sip, not surprised to note that it tastes how it smells. Something about it is familiar, but she can’t place why. Tea isn’t her preferred beverage — often, she jokes that she avoids it at all costs — but this is something she thinks she must have had long ago and enjoyed, even if she doesn’t remember. “This is good,” she comments, aware that he’s waiting for her reaction. He graces her with one of his rare smiles, the one that is warm and contagious, before taking a sip of his own and saying, “Momot tea. It was my daughter’s favorite.” Aeson tenses then and so does she, both perched on the awkward social edge of knowing he’s said something he hadn’t meant to. As curious as she is — as much as she wants to know if he left his daughter behind to make contact with the ship that housed their gods — Kathryn knows she isn’t owed that information. They’ve only just become friends, and as much as she’s come to enjoy his capricious demeanor and barbed observations, he hasn’t really let on if the feeling is mutual. “I—,” she starts. “She died,” he says abruptly, as if he needs to force the words out quickly or they’ll never come, and then winces at how harsh it sounds. “Is that why you left?” His entire demeanor softens at her tone, as if he feared pity or judgement and is relieved to receive only curious compassion, “It’s why I didn’t go back.” As much as she can try to empathize, Kathryn cannot comprehend the loss of a child, and so she does not try to offer any hollow condolences, “What was her name?” “Martzia,” the corners of his lips quirk up when he says it before turning down again at some dark thought. It could be anything, but her curiosity wants to make her ask about the girl’s mother or how long it’s been for him. Instead, she forces herself to remain silent by taking another drink. The bitter floral tones are strongly reminiscent of bergamot, and she knows that, for a tea, it will grow on her quickly if she isn’t careful. “I found her in the aftermath of the fire bombing of a port city called Beharest Ati.” To her horror, she thinks he’s chosen to tell her how his daughter died. “She was three, in nothing but rags wandering the ruins looking for food and water. My unit was overwhelmed with the casualties and the loss of infrastructure…but I couldn’t leave her there.” “Your unit?” “I was a field surgeon,” he explains, then adds when her brow furrows, “three of Kelemane’s four continents were at war.” “Over what?” “Everyone said the Watchers, but it was more complicated than that. We hadn’t had real peace in centuries, and entire industries were built around the conflicts. The politics were messy and there were scores to settle. The gods were just an excuse — an ex post facto justification.” He sighs, adjusting in his seat as he settles in to the story he’s decided to tell. Kathryn lets him, propping her arm against the couch’s armrest and tucking in to listen. For a quiet moment, he simply watches the way she’s tapping a finger against the rim of her cup — more out of her growing inability to sit still than any impatience — then he begins. “Whatever caused the fire had killed Martzia’s family and destroyed her community. We weren’t responsible, but we had a neutrality pact with those who were. There were dozens of children like her and hundreds of injured forced to leave the city on foot. We were ordered to leave the survivors and move out.” Aeson stops then and takes a drink. Kathryn thinks it’s a stalling tactic; he can’t be proud of the way this is making him sound. She has no basis for comparison, aside from the twentieth century wars that ravaged Earth and set it along its dark path to now, over three hundred years later. Wars are complicated and the people who fight them are dropped into horrors where they do what they must to survive. What she hears in the words he isn’t saying is that Martzia’s people were inconsequential to his own, and that he’d been ordered to leave that child and those around to their bleak fate — whether it be starvation or the next wave of brutal war crimes. She bites her tongue and waits for him to speak. “It was far enough into the war that unconventional alliances were sprouting up among the rank-and-file soldiers of all sides. We were the replacements of the replacements, conscripted against our will,” he shrugs then, as if it means little, but Kathryn thinks that’s just what he’s come to tell himself. A trauma response, as if pretending it’s normal to others will make it so. “Enemy defectors were creating resistance groups that helped us scout safe passage through urban centers. Prisoners of war were released so they could protect their villages, among other things. Some of the men in my unit chose to remain behind and help the survivors make it to the safe zones.” “You were one of them,” while she doesn’t know him as well as she’d like, of this she is sure. “I was,” he admits softly. “When we reached the civilian safe zone, most of us chose to stay and protect it. Armistice was called a few months later,” he waves away the weeks and weeks of stories that likely only he now knows and remembers, “I was still there.” “And then you adopted her,” she says, because it makes sense. “She needed a family.” It’s as if he’s trying to convince her that he adopted the child as an afterthought. Kathryn knows there’s more to it than that. One doesn’t find a starving child and just happen to adopt them months later, even if that’s what his tone is suggesting. No, he must have decided to stay behind and protect the safe zone because of the girl and adopted her once peace was finally achieved. To do that and then for her to die anyway? He doesn’t look old enough to have raised a toddler to adulthood. Terrible isn’t enough to describe it. His gaze is lost somewhere in the middle distance, where she knows she cannot follow. Kathryn leans across the armrest and reaches out across the space between them to place a hand over one of his. The contact brings him back to the present, where he blinks at her with wide, dark eyes before slowly — delicately — folding his fingers around hers. When he eventually lets her hand go, Kathryn takes pity on him and doesn’t ask anymore questions. Instead, she tells him her whole sad story. How, compared to Earth, Quarra is a paradise. That her family — mother, sister, fiancé — had refused to follow her. It’s a less weighty story than his own, but there are brief movements where Aeson looks at her with genuine sympathy. Eventually, she works through her tea, and the life has come back to his expression. That’s when she takes her leave, feeling a little bit like she knows him better but not at all. That night, she has the first dream she’s remembered in months. The dark gray corridors and flashing red lights are secondary to the feeling low in her gut as she walks through them like she knows them. It makes no sense to her. It has no context. No history. She’s never seen those metal crawl spaces, never climbed hand over hand in the dark. As the images fade to the waking world around her, the anxiety of knowing she’d been in danger in that claustrophobic space but unable to leave it follows her into through the day. The feeling festers. More than once at her terminal she fights off the urge to scrub her hands clean. More than once she catches herself picking idly at her cuticles. Exhaustion and the bags that never leave their place around her eyes stare back at her when she gives into that urge during lunch and holds her hands beneath a stream of scalding water. Kathryn knows she feels happier here than she has anywhere else, but it’s been two months since she started her life on Quarra and the weight that drags her down won’t go away. She can’t understand why it dogs her steps. Nothing about Earth or her travel here has been spectacular or devastating. More than once that week, Hansen comes by her workstation and comments on Kathryn’s waning efficiency. Each time, she wants to explain to the austere blonde that she isn’t feeling well but forces herself not to. Each time, those cold blue eyes grow a little more concerned — it’s an expression that doesn’t suit her — until she stops commenting at all. Aeson administers both her radiation inoculations that week, as he had for nearly the past month, but beyond those ten second interactions she doesn’t see him — not at the bar or on her walks home. By what amounts to Friday on this alien planet, Kathryn thinks she might check with Neelix to see if their mutual friend is okay but he isn’t at the bar either. When she arrives, Tom’s engineer is sitting at the bar stool next to Kathryn’s usual. After a brief moment of uncertainty, Kathryn sits next to her and waits for Tom to come by and take her order. “We haven’t properly met,” the engineer says. It’s a little awkward, but she isn’t wearing her usual tired scowl. “We haven’t. I’m Kathryn Janeway.” “B’Elanna Torres. I’ve noticed you’ve started hanging around Retz and Wh-Neelix.” Oh, Tom must be growing on her if she’d adopted his nickname for the Talaxian. “They’re all right…” Tom ambles over, a 1000 watt smile on his worn face. It’s nearly enough to chase away the pallor of his own exhaustion, “What can I get you, ladies?” “The daily special and a dry cider,” B’Elanna answers quickly, doing an admiral job at hiding her improved mood upon his appearance. “My usual,” Kathryn adds, smiling enough for both women. “Enough caffeine to raise the dead coming right up,” he nearly skips away. “He grows on you, doesn’t he?” the other woman says, watching him go. Kathryn nearly quips back, ‘like mold’ but settle for the more flattering, “He’s a good guy.” “I’ve been burned before,” B’Elanna braces herself and stares down at the bar top, “Which is why I wanted to talk to you.” Uh oh, Kathryn thinks, wondering if territory is about to be claimed. She’ll cede it happily for her friend but would really like not to have to find a new daily haunt. “Go ahead.” B’Elanna nods once, then makes eye contact, “Retz isn’t organic.” “Excuse me?” “He’s very convincing. I wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been giving me my inoculations every week.” “What are you talking about?” “His breathing is simulated,” B’Elanna shrugs, “and my scans,” she’s scanned him? “suggested some basic life signs, but they didn’t hold up to further scrutiny.” Kathryn wants to ask the engineer why she’s telling her this, but she already knows. B’Elanna must have watched the friendship between Tom and her for over a month, since she started coming here. Whatever fledgling fondness she had for the bartender would have transferred enough to Kathryn to make her care. To make her try to look out for her in a way she would want to be looked out for herself. B’Elanna is trying to be a friend to someone she barely knew but wanted to. So, suspecting a growing connection between the two, B’Elanna had done her due diligence on the man. This might just be the strangest overture of friendship she’s ever received. Kathryn sets aside her racing thoughts as Tom begins his approach with their orders, “What about him? Is Tom organic?” B’Elanna casts a sideways glance her way and relaxes, “He better be.” “I’d better be what?” He asks cheerfully while setting their drinks in front of them. “Real.” Tom slaps a hand over his heart at B’Elanna’s single word, “Only nature could make something this perfect.”“Tell that to the bags under your eyes. Do you even sleep?” “Rude!” Kathryn lets them banter without interrupting, content to be the third wheel. Their voices quickly meld into the din of the growing crowd as she sips her not-coffee and allows the strange week to slip behind her. What the engineer has told her is certainly new information — something that she hadn’t expected — but not altogether troubling. She’s never met non-organic life before, certainly not any made to look it, which means she has absolutely no priors. The flavor of her feelings about it is trending toward curious and a little protective. B’Elanna had suggested that inorganic life wasn’t real, but what made anything real? She’s too tired for philosophical debates, least of all with herself. As soon as it’s socially acceptable, she drains her drink and pays her tab. Tom tisks at her mostly uneaten stew, but is too happy to finally have the attention he’s wanted for over a month now to put up much of a fuss. It’s still early when she steps out the front doors. The sun has just disappeared behind the horizon, which means the heat of the day remains trapped in the humidity that lingers. She shoves her hands into her pockets and fights against the oppressive feeling that’s haunting her. Before this week, Kathryn would have thought the feeling was new, but she knows in some indisputable way that it isn’t. It’s followed her to Quarra, and she’s let it. “Heading home so soon?” It’s Jaffen, leading his merry group of friends, partner on his arm. “I have a date with sleep,” she offers, and more than one person nods at her knowingly. It’s confirmation that she looks as exhausted as she feels. They wave her off, and she sets off in the night toward home. As she passes the last of the crowd, a hand gently catches her elbow. “Let me walk with you.” “All right, but we’re taking the long way,” she says, hooking her arm around his. As attractive as she finds Aeson, Kathryn is usually reluctant to touch him. Something in his demeanor always suggests he is protective of his personal space, and she respects that. Tonight, though, he rewards her forwardness with a smile that starts and ends in his eyes and by setting a hand over hers where she’s tucked it against the crook of his arm. They turn and walk in the opposite direction of their typical path, toward the longer two mile loop along and over the river. The first quarter mile is spent in companionable silence — she doesn’t ask him where he’s been and he doesn’t comment on the physical indicators of her recent lack of self-care. Every twenty feet or so they pass under the amber glow of a path light, and she’s able to see him better. She can feel the sticky sweat of the heat and humidity weighing down her hair and dotting her brow — the way that it settles into the fabric of his shirt beneath her palm — yet he remains unaffected by it. Eventually, she eases her arm from his and crosses hers over her chest. Then, because it won’t do to dwell on it silently: “Everything about you is very convincing.” His pace falters only briefly and his eyes flick once in her direction before moving forward again, “Clearly not that convincing, if you’re bringing it up.” “B’Elanna, the reactor engineer, told on you. She says your breathing is simulated.” Somehow, this relaxes him even as he shakes his head in disbelief. Kathryn wonders what he thought she was going to accuse him of, if not this. “Of course she’d notice,” but he doesn’t elaborate on that further; instead, he asks, “What do you want to know?” “I don’t know anything about inorganic life. What kind are you?” “Photons and force fields,” he says it like it amuses him, “Just a hologram.” She looks around them and sees no way the infrastructure of the city could support such a thing. Not in a space so open. There doesn’t seem to be anything ‘just’ about it, “How?” “I have mobile emitter, it lets me move freely,” he gestures to his bicep, where she can just make out the raised shape of something beneath his sweater. The thing that has bothered her most since she was told surfaces then, “You’re far too advanced for a species in the infancy of its space age to create. I don’t even know of any warp capable species who could.” “You’re right, I’m not a Kelemane creation,” he sighs — and now that she knows he doesn’t need to, it’s even more amusing — “although I’ve spent most of my life there.” “How old are you? Really?” “A little over 52 hours,” the corners of his mouth twitch. She does the quick math, remembering the time conversion he told her the last time they spoke, and stops walking, “You can’t be 520.” “You’re right, I’m at least six years older than that. I can’t really remember.” “Now you’re just messing with me,” she catches up with him again, feeling like a child in comparison. “No,” it’s soft and sincere, “but I wish I was.” They walk in silence for several hundred more yards before she tries again, “The ship caught in orbit, that was yours?” “Mine? I wouldn’t phrase it that way.” “How would you, then?” “I was its.” Kathryn stops again. She isn’t surprised by the realization that he was created with a purpose that likely shackled him to a ship — she had no doubt that any non-organic life created by organics were done so to fill some role — but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t trouble her. He’s been her friend for over a month, and in that time she’s considered him many things: ornery, difficult, aloof, but also surprisingly funny and sincere. She grabs his forearm to keep him from walking on without her, then falls into step again. He slows his pace enough to let her. After another long moment of silence, it’s her turn to sigh. Sometimes getting him to speak is like pulling teeth, and Kathryn is far to tired to play that game tonight. The one sentence answers to each of her questions is turning this into a chore. “This isn’t an interrogation, and we don’t have to talk about the specifics of what you are, but it clearly changes some of what you’ve told me about yourself.” He relents, and after a few aborted starts, falls into the story of a ship plucked from one part of the galaxy and deposited to another. It sounds so fantastical that she nearly doesn’t believe it, but doesn’t interrupt, listening to what is clearly an abridged version of the time between his first activation and Kelemane. She gets the impression that his time aboard the ship was fraught. The details are sparse, but there’s a bitterness in the way he paints the broad strokes of his position as a tool of a captain and crew who resisted acknowledging what he had become. They complete the first mile as he explains the mission that saw him trapped on the planet. Aeson makes it quite clear that he hadn’t wanted to go, but that his captain had ordered him to anyway. “A day passed, then two, then a month…a year. Ten.” Kathryn winces in sympathy, remembering how he told her he made it off the world, “When did you realize you were on your own?” “I’m sure I thought it more than once in the beginning, but I can’t remember now,” at her confusion, he adds, “I wasn’t designed to remain active for so long. My program started to degrade, and with it most of my early memories.” “What did you do for all of that time?” He considers the question, “I did what I was programmed to do. Medicine, although a highly primitive form of it. I served as a medic in three wars, a surgeon in two others. Mostly, I worked in local clinics, caring for generations of the same families. When too much time passed for me to fit in, I moved along or changed my face and name. The only time I deviated was when I worked my way into their space program, although I can’t say I enjoyed flying.” She thinks of old Earth astronauts — most were test pilots subjected to risks and the death rate wasn’t anything to scoff at. There was something romantic about those initial days of exploration, the sacrifice and glory. Any human today would be hard pressed to deny it. Eventually, she admits, “I wanted to be in space, once.” The sound he makes resembles a suppressed snort, but he recovers with a dry, “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” “Why is that so funny?” she asks, genuinely confused. He shakes his head once, then looks down at her and shakes it again, “It isn’t. You could always join us, when we leave.” Something cold settles in her bones, she thinks it’s the shock of someone she’s becoming so familiar with exiting her life, “Leave?” “Neelix and I are only here to find our crew. They settled here when our ship was damaged by radiation. It’s taken longer than we expected to locate everyone.” This must be why they weren’t around the entire last week. Kathryn can feel her expression dropping, sliding into something more sedate. “Have you? Found them all?” “All but a few.” When she falls silent for too long, her mood clearly brought low by this news, he stops her with a hand on her shoulder that feels far too real to be anything but and turns her to face him. The light is behind him, casting his face in shadow, but she thinks she can spot an earnestness there as he gazes down at her that she’s only ever spotted in him from the corner of her eye. “You should come with us, when we go.” She rolls her eyes, trying to push off the heaviness that has settled between them with a wan, “I doubt your captain would let me.” He blinks, then smiles, “I think you’d be surprised.” They walk again without her answer. She asks him more questions, about Martzia and the passage of time, learns that his daughter has been dead for over 120 years but that it still feels like yesterday, listens as he explains how strange it was to start working aboard the ship again. He’d remembered so few of his crew, and they didn’t know how to act around him anymore. Later, when he deposits her at her apartment block, Kathryn asks what she’s been thinking for some time, “The way you’ve made your crew and captain sound… why did you go back?” Why would you help them now? she doesn’t add. He thinks on it, tilts his head, and then admits, “I didn’t want her to leave without me.” The her in the sentence remains undefined, and Kathryn knows she should ask. She doesn’t. … “Come with me.” Too much is happening at once, and the last person Kathryn wants to deal with is Annika Hansen. The blonde doesn’t care about her inner turmoil, though, and merely quirks a perfectly manicured brow at Kathryn’s hands and walks away. The soft alert indicating a minor error at her console startles her, but Jaffen steps in to help her. He looks between Hansen and Kathryn, concern etched into his brow as he enters the commands that corrects her mistake. “Go, I’ll cover the rest of your shift.” Kathryn looks at the raw skin around her fingernails, the damage to her is cuticles a self-inflicted reminder of her nerves, and follows the efficiency officer. Perhaps today is the day she is finally fired or reassigned to simpler duties. She feels it down to her bones that she should be, she’s scatterbrained and exhausted and clearly on some sort of edge ready to fall off. At least it’s at the end of her shift, and no one will learn of her situation until the morning. They leave the control room, navigate the stairs to the main floor, then exit the building before she finally asks, “Where are we going?” The other woman ignores her and taps a series of commands into the tablet she has rested in the crook of her arm. Eventually, she relents and slows her pace so Kathryn can match it. “I will explain when we reach our destination.” “Look, I understand my performance has be—“ “I will explain when we reach our destination,” the other woman repeats, her cold blue eyes darting suspiciously between the few people who are walking along the path with them. Kathryn has half the mind to turn around and rush back to the reactor building. Something about her companion seems off — paranoid — and it’s very clear that wherever she’s being taken has nothing to do with work. When they reach a transporter, Kathryn climbs up behind her. It lifts off and moves eastward, first out of the sector, then to the outskirts of the capitol city. The women sit in silence, and Kathryn can’t help but notice that this is an area she’s never been to before. It would be absurdly easy to get lost here, if she tries to leave without her guide. Perhaps that’s the entire point. The buildings they walk by are old and squat, nothing about their exteriors give away their purpose. No smoke stacks or turbines or signs. They could be low-end residential or business, run by those or for those with low incomes. It seems too heavy-handed even for Hansen to bring her here as a scare tactic, to remind her what is at stake if she keeps doing her job poorly. The other woman remains silent, as promised, until they duck into one of the buildings that is a perfect copy of all the others and climb two flights of stairs. They stop at door with aged gray paint, and Hansen knocks. Locks disengage with soft clicks and the door cracks open. “Who is she?” a tired feminine voice asks. “I believe she is one of us.” This cryptic exchange baffles her, but the door opens before she can ask what’s going on. Another woman stands looking at her, and Kathryn sees in her what she sees in every human she’s met on this planet: exhaustion and threadbare nerves. This woman has something more, or perhaps less, about her than anyone else. A lifelessness behind brown eyes. “The rest are here,” is all she says, before gesturing for them to enter. The ‘rest’ includes another blonde human woman, a sandy blonde middle-aged human male, another middle-aged human male with ginger hair, and a Quarran man. Introductions are stilted, but she learns their names are, in order: Marla, Walter, Joe, and Yerid. The soulless woman who let her in is Megan, but she sits slightly apart from the others and does not say much. Kathryn notes the way that Hansen hovers beside her, lending quiet and awkward support. It’s the most human she’s seen her efficiency officer behave since meeting her. When everyone is settled in, the others start exchanging eye contact that suggests no one wants to be the first to speak. It dawns on her that her presence is what is making them all reluctant. “I’m beginning to think this isn’t about my job performance,” Kathryn states, perfectly aware that it isn’t. “No,” Hansen answers from where she stands, “although it has been deficient.” The man named Joe huffs out a strangled laugh, “Priorities, Seven.” “Seven?” “I have been able to remember that it is the name I prefer.” Suitably weirded out, Kathryn begins to stand but is stopped by Marla’s hand around her wrist. “No, please,” the woman says, “I know this must be strange, but it’s important.” “What is it that we’re talking about?” “We have reason to believe that every human currently active on Quarra was brought here against their will,” Yerid rips the bandaid off. He has that straightforward look of a man who responds to and gives orders as he does so. It makes his presence only as strange as the others’ apparent sense of comfort having him here. “And some non-humans,” he adds as an afterthought. Kathryn rubs the bridge of her nose as she sinks back into her chair and digests this information. When she looks at each person seated around her one at a time to see how much they are buying into this, she realizes that every single one of them does. Completely. “Are you sure she,” Walter starts to ask Seven, before he spots Kathryn’s hand raised up in a way that suggests he should stop talking. Surprisingly, his mouth snaps shut. “Why did you come here, to Quarra?” she interrogates. The answers all match, to some degree, her own: Earth is overcrowded and polluted. Something in her jaw tightens, the gossamer-fine webbing of anxiety that spreads to her chest, “How did you get here?” If she thinks long enough about her trip here, she can remember it involved stasis in a cargo hold of some transporter ship carting those who wanted a better life to a place where they could find it. Around the edges of those memories, where it’s hard to recall due to the memory dulling effects of the stasis procedure, she knows that the trip would have taken decades at top speeds. It is the reason she can’t contact her family or Mark, or why she’s never even thought to try to. It makes perfect sense. Too much sense, perhaps. The others remember the same. It’s clear they’ve had this conversation before, each of them in turn. Kathryn wonders who found whom first. Who said the words first? Why did anyone believe them? “While investigating the disappearance of a reactor employee, I uncovered that over a hundred human personnel started working on Quarra the same day. Yerid suggested that we must have taken the same transport, but—“ Seven looks to the Quarran man and defers. “But I was released from my role as a detective when I started asking questions. Every human was processed in the same medical facility, issued permits from the same office, and even though Mr. Tuvok isn’t human, he was as well.” Tuvok, she thinks, slowly tracing the name back through her memory until the day he rushed into her while attempting to flee the inoculation line. Had she seen him after that? Or had she simply noticed his absence and accepted Jaffen’s reasoning for it. “Is he the missing employee?” Seven nods once, “Yes.” “Another of his species has also been reported missing by his supervisor,” Yerid adds. Kathryn says what she wants to think, even though the pressure in her chest is growing heavier, “This could all just be a coincidence.” Marla nods, as if sympathetic to the idea, and Yerid even says, “It could be” but both are overshadowed by the creak of Megan’s chair as she leans forward and stares uncannily in Kathryn’s direction. The brunettes eyes are hollow, bruised dark and deep, and paired with her next words they make Kathryn shudder. “I feel dead. Every night I go to sleep and wake up in the morning not remembering what I dreamed, but I know something has been taken from me. Something so big they won’t let me remember, because if I do I won’t be useful anymore.” “They call it Dysphoria Syndrome,” Yerid explains when the heavy silence in the room persists for too long, “the symptoms are vague and the treatment opaque. Do you want to guess how recently that diagnosis came into use?” She purses her lips, swallows down that wrong feeling, and grits out, “Just over two months ago.” “Imagine my surprise when three colleagues said they had it, all within days of each other,” Joe mutters, “they said the treatment was an inoculation. An inoculation against dissatisfaction? No one else had even heard of it before.” “I don’t remember an inoculation,” Walter confesses, “just the suggestion of one, and they keep checking in with me to make sure that I haven’t relapsed.” With a start, a sudden moment of insight, Kathryn realizes that Marla, Walter, and Megan are the colleagues that Joe is talking about. Their grim expressions as Walter speaks confirms it. “What am I supposed to do about this, even if it is true?” Kathryn finally asks, her eyes seeking out Seven’s. She was the one who brought her here after all. “Your work is deficient, and you are beginning to show signs of dissatisfaction with…life on Quarra. I believe you will be targeted for treatment imminently. I would like to take that opportunity to track where you are taken.” She cannot hear what Joe says over the dull roar in her ears. When she stands abruptly, Marla does as well and reaches out a hand to steady her. The friendlier blonde casts a sharp look at the other and says, “It’s too soon to ask.” “I am not asking,” Seven responds and then levels a calculating gaze in Kathryn’s direction, “I have reason to believe they will come for you soon.” “I have to go,” she’s already up and making her way to the door, Marla on her heels, as one of the men say that went well. Kathryn is out the front door of the building, fighting hard to control her breathing, before she turns and holds a hand out to keep Marla at a distance, “Stop following me.” Marla stops and raises her hands placatingly, “I just want to make sure you’re okay. It’s a lot of information to take in.” “And you expect me to believe it?” the frayed edges of her voice give her away, and the look Marla fixes on her is pitying. She should believe they’re all insane. Her fear should be centered solely around what this group of strange people will do to her if she doesn’t play along with their delusion and give in to their demands. What she should think and what she feels are two very separate things, and the subtle malaise that has marked each of her days here rears up until it can’t be ignored. Something is wrong here — wrong in the way that no matter how much sleep she gets she never feels rested, wrong in the way she feels her muscles and body responding to things as if they have a memory of their own, wrong in the way that she thinks this stranger in front of her is one of the many silhouettes that have dotted her recent, strange dreams. “What’s the alternative?” “I need to go,” and Kathryn turns to walk away. “Just…just think about it!” Marla calls after her. … It’s well into the night before Kathryn makes it back to her sector of the city. She feels like a lead block strung up on a high wire, craving both sleep and wakefulness and not knowing which will cause her to fall off. She passes the bar with barely a glance in its direction — it’s full and lively, with hours yet before the last call. The happy shouts of men exiting to wander off to their homes or their next adventures cause her to wince as the steady throbbing behind her eyes grows worse. She should stop in, tell Tom and B’Elanna all about the crazy day she’s had. This isn’t what she does. Earth is a polluted husk, she reminds herself with each step, there is nothing there that Quarra cannot give me. Except there is a little voice that’s working its way in, that has been for some time now. The city is a maze of industry and crammed living quarters and its hazy air and nighttime lights blot out what should be a vibrant blue sky and stars. She has to be inoculated against radiation twice a week just to do her job, which she received no formal training for despite the terrible implications for the planet should she make a single critical error. Tom constantly warns her not to order anything that might have come out of the river; he’s joking, mostly, but in the way one does to make a truth more digestible to the receiver. She has no life here, at least not the one she craves. There are options, aren’t there? Even if Seven and her merry band of conspiracy theorists are correct — and oh, how Kathryn fears they might just be. Staying here wouldn’t be the worst thing, as long as she could settle her nerves and her sleep. Aeson had provided an alternative, something other than remaining on Quarra or finding a way home: the stars. Yes, his crew might not sound the most ideal, but he seems intent on finding them regardless. Maybe they’d carve out a place aboard for her. Her feet carry her to where her mind has gone. It’s late, but she knows he actually doesn’t need to sleep. Instead of locking herself in her own apartment for the duration, she stands outside of his. It takes only three sharp knocks to solicit a response. “Ka—Kathryn?” he greets her in the way he sometimes does, where he hesitates as if he’s started saying her name wrong. “Does your offer still stand?” it’s been nearly five days since he made it, and it hasn’t come up since. As she asks, he looks her up and down. From the roots of her disheveled hair to her throbbing feet. She’d gotten lost in her way back, just as she expected she would. Between rushing for transports and determined walking, she’d hiked at least eight miles. “Come in.” Even while saying it, he’s ushering her into his sitting room with a hand on her shoulder. Kathryn sinks into the couch with a thankful groan, and takes note of the odd electronic tablets scattered across the table. “I’ve interrupted.” “That’s all right,” he’s affecting cheerfulness — whether for her sake or not, she cannot tell — as he busies himself preparing tea. The scent of citrus and bergamot soothe her, but Kathryn can still feel the tension in her jaw and shoulders. Her hands are clenching and unclenching where she’s set them atop her knees. If a mirror were available to her, she knows all she’d see is a mess. It’s what makes Aeson’s expression look pinched with concern when he approaches with two mugs. Kathryn takes hers, holds it between her hands so that the heat of it relaxes them. Surely her fingers will be sore in the morning, her joints forced to bear the brunt of her emotional turmoil. Aeson’s dark eyes are on her hands, and the lines around his face deepen as he catalogues what he sees. He moves from the chair to the couch beside her before easing the drink away from her. Kathryn should complain, should want to complain, but his fingers around hers are just as calming as the tea. “What did you do?” the pad of his thumb brushes over one of her tattered cuticles, where she’d started plucking at the skin when the act of washing her hands had caused them to dry out and then crack. “It’s been a very long day,” she answers but doesn’t. “This took more than a day,” voice still gentle, he leans over to dig into a case at his feet. Before she can register her disappointment at the loss of his touch, he scoops up on of her hands again. “Today has felt like a week,” she admits, and watches with curiosity as he waves an odd instrument over each finger, and the skin stitches itself back together again. It tingles, almost like an itch, but it is quick and painless. When he starts on her other hand, she asks, “Is this technology common among your people?” “They’re more advanced than the Quarra,” he concedes, looking pleased with himself at a job well done. It must be an imposition, having to use the antiquated medical tools of the Quarra when his are so much better. To think he’d spent centuries on Kelemane doing the same. How many infected cuts did he have to treat with sutures, knowing there was a better way? How many men suffered under haphazard incisions during war when the alternative was kinder? Kathryn blinks away that thought and the strange claustrophobic feeling that comes with it — they came from somewhere in her she doesn’t recognize — and lets out what she hopes is a compliment, “They’d have to be, to make you.” His smile is a little strained, but there’s a softness there as he lets go of her hands, “I can see that this week long day is taking its toll on you.” There’s enough self-deprecation in his tone and expression that she knows his sudden retreat isn’t because of what she’s said but because he doesn’t believe the intent behind it. Before she can respond, a faint chime sounds from his bedroom. “I need to answer that. Stay here, drink your tea, we’ll talk about what’s bothering you when I’m done.” He’s up and behind the closed door of his room before she can respond. Kathryn shakes her head, but starts to do what he said. It’s as she’s reaching for her tea that her curiosity gets the better of her. Taking up the nearest strange tablet from the table, she considers it and how one might use it. It’s surprisingly intuitive, and before long she’s tapping through menus that wouldn’t be uncommon amongst human technology. Most of the titles don’t make sense — just a series of vaguely familiar letters that make up no words — but when she keys into them, she surprised to learn that she can read them. Do Aeson’s people have translation technology she’s never heard of? This cannot possibly be a human language. Her bafflement fades away, replaced with a spike of concern. She keys into another menu item, then another, and another, her frown deepening with each. It’s when she lands on her seventh that she stills. The anxiety from earlier — which has nearly vanished — clamps its away around her throat and jaw again: Efficiency officer, tylium reactor facility. Five ten hour shifts a week. Lives in Sector 2, Block 15 and 24, apartment 513. She finds another. Security officer, tylium reactor facility. Five eight hour shifts a week. Lives in Sector 2, Block 3 and 11, apartment 101. Cohabitation with Norvalen male. Another. Engineer, air circulation facility. Three sixteen hour shifts a week, two ten hour shifts. Lives in Sector 8. Block 5 and 20, apartment 222. Another and another an another. That feeling travels to her chest when she stares down at an entry that must be Tom, and because it must be him she cannot excuse this as a weird coincidence. She flips to the next.
Engineer, tylium reactor facility. Five ten hour shifts a week. Lives in Sector 2. Block 12 and 30, apartment 402.
Her. The instinct to walk out of this apartment is strong, but Kathryn crushes it down. He’d told her he was looking for his crew, hadn’t he? The implications of that are overwhelming, because either it’s true and she’s a member of that crew or it’s false and he’s tracking people for some other reason. The only one that comes to mind is drenched in the words that come out of Yerid’s mouth just hours ago. She stands just as the door to his room opens. His sentence, which starts with “All right”, is aborted the second he sees her. Kathryn is tense, a hair’s breadth away from snapping and darting from the apartment, the incriminating tablet still in her hand. “What is this?” is what she finally says, voice low and demanding. Kathryn feels some pride in that, knowing that she isn’t quaking, but that means very little compared to what is coming down around her right now. The realization that this man, her friend, might not be that at all. The hands he holds up are placating, so very like how Marla spoke to her earlier, and Kathryn wonders how much like a cornered animal she must appear. “I told you,” he edges toward her, carefully but surely as she tries to navigate around the couch, “that I’m looking for my crew. It’s the list of known locations, that’s all.” Kathryn makes it around the couch just as he reaches the chair, “I know some of these people.” She fails to mention that she’s seen her own address. “Yes, you work with a surprising number of them.” “None of them have mentioned your ship or you or that they’re looking to leave.” There’s nowhere else to move, and as he reaches her she considers what it would take to overpower a hologram if necessary. If it is even possible. If she has it in her. It isn’t necessary. He merely eases the tablet from her hand just as he’d done with the mug. “That’s because they don’t remember it.” She can’t deal with that right now. With the confirmation that Seven is right. With what that might mean. So, Kathryn tries to distance herself from the impending emotional bomb if the truth. “You only encrypted their names. Why leave the information just sitting out in the open? For a single moment, he looks genuinely confused, but as he comes to understand he moves into her space, his posture open and nonthreatening, “They aren’t encrypted. It’s in sethli, a Kelemane language.” Everything about his voice softens as he says that, as if she isn’t even confronting him or accusing him of anything at all, “You must not have learned how to translate proper nouns.” She cranes her neck away and tries to read his expression for any deceit. There is none, just something open and a little mirthful at the idea that she could read the word tylium but not her own name. Nothing about it makes sense on a conscious level, but some part of her must know that every odd thing that has been happening is adding up. She really doesn’t belong on this planet and neither do Tom or Seven or Megan or Marla or the hundred more they suspect have been altered in some way. Could both be true? That she’s a part of some group that has been forced into work on this world, and that he’s been telling the truth the best that he can? “Why would I be able to read it?” she asks, making the decision to shift closer to him as his shoulders round out into something less tense. “Because I asked you to,” but he sounds like he can’t believe that that would have been enough. “Why?” Before he can retreat from her into the middle distance, Kathryn reaches out and holds his cheeks, keeping his gaze in place by pressing her thumb firmly against his chin. It feels intimate, perhaps too much so because he grasps at her wrists when she forces eye contact and asks, “Why did you spend so much time with me here?” And then, because she knows what’s going on now: “Who am I to you on that ship?” Aeson is careful not to hurt her as he pulls her hands away. He briefly holds them between his own before pressing them back toward her chest. She lets him go, watches as he sets the tablet on the table and rummages around for another. Eventually, she takes the few steps necessary to take it from him when he offers it. Kathryn activates it with muscle memory she’s just beginning to recall, then turns away quickly. Her free hand darts up to press against her mouth in aggravation when she sees what’s on the screen. Her own face, grim and tired, is staring up at her. It’s a full personnel entry, and Kathryn doesn’t need to read far to understand. “I can’t leave this planet without you, Captain.” She shakes her head, then pushes the device in his direction. He refuses to take it. Coming to terms with this information is out of her grasp. Kathryn can barely keep a tylium reactor functioning, how can she possibly be a captain of a star ship, let alone one on such a perilous journey? To keep herself from bolting away in denial, she turns instead and accuses: “Why did you pretend to be my friend?” “I didn’t,” he sighs as if this is no surprise. She resents him for having such low expectations of her, and hates herself for meeting them. “You’ve told me what she — what I — did to you. What it’s cost you. There’s no universe where you’re willing to be my friend after all of that.” Hadn’t he resisted at first? Glowered and grumbled at her persistence? When had he decided that it was easier to deal with her by using honey instead of vinegar. He stalks away then quickly changes his mind and comes back, and he’s close. Close enough that if his breathing weren’t simulated she would be able to feel it on her face, “That was never my choice to make. Not here and certainly not on Voyager. You’re accusing me of pretending, but you’re the only one with a choice. No matter what I’ve done here or will do here, when we go back, it’ll be the same. You still won’t trust me.” “How can I? You’ve lied to me for months!” “Everything I’ve told you has been the truth. I had to omit facts for the mission, but I never lied.” “Omissions are lies, Aeson! You didn’t tell me the truth until I asked.” “You’ve only ever had to ask, Captain.” “Don’t call me that,” it feels like the floor is dropping out from under her, and yet impulsively issuing this order feels natural.
“It’s what you are!”
Kathryn makes a sound of frustration and presses the fingers of her free hand through the roots of her hair. One breath — then a second — later she tries to deescalate the argument, “Why? Why didn’t you just tell me this from the start? Why pretend?” There it is, she thinks. The real reason she’s so upset. She feels humiliated, lead on and strung along. She isn’t the person who stranded him on a planet for lifetimes but she is, and nothing she feels or has felt here matters because she’s a fraction of who she is to him, and it’s the parts that are missing that matter the most, because how could they not? It’s cruel, and it’s unfair, and none of it is his fault even though it would be easier if it was. “What was I supposed to do?” the question is genuine, despite his exasperation, “Come up to you and tell you that I’m a 600 year old hologram, you’re my captain, and that you’ve been kidnapped and brainwashed? Follow me and I’ll take you back to your spaceship?” “No,” she concedes, folding and arm across her diaphragm, “no, I’d have never believed you.” “We had a plan. Neelix would find the missing crew, I would find out what they did to alter your memories, and then we’d leave. That’s still the plan, and we’re nearly ready. I was content to watch and intervene from a distance, to wait until everything was ready, but you…” A hint of what he’s really feeling slips through. Regretful or yearning? She cannot tell. “I what?” He shrugs and doesn’t answer the question; instead, he gestures to the tablet she’s holding, “It doesn’t matter. Take the PADD with you. It contains reports that will verify what I’ve told you, most of which you’ve authored. It’s programmed to respond to your commands and only yours.” “It’s for me?” “I had Neelix load it on his last trip to the ship. I was going to sit you down and walk through the evidence with you when we were ready. I should have known you’d piece enough of this together on your own.” She’s about to respond, to say something not unkind, to indicate she’ll look through it and let him know if she believes him, but he turns away from her and speaks first, “I have to report this to the remaining crew aboard. You should go. You know where to find me when you’re ready.” … Kathryn doesn’t want to sleep that night, but the exhaustion has settled in her arms and legs and eyelids and pulls her down into a deeper rest than she’s had in weeks. There are no dreams, remembered or otherwise, and so she wakes on the morning refreshed in a way that feels obscene given her current circumstances. Taking heed of Seven’s parting observation that she will be at risk of being taken in for ‘Dysphoria Syndrome’ treatment, she puts herself together in the morning, focuses completely on every task that comes by her console, and ignores every concerned glance or calculating stare that Jaffen and Seven throw her way. She goes to the bar, smiles at Tom and B’Elanna, speaks with those who speak to her, and plays the part until enough time passes that she can leave without being noticeably missed. When she returns to her apartment just before sunset, its to a space that barely reflects that she has lived in it for nearly three months. There are clothes she has failed to put away on her bedroom floor and empty mugs on the various surfaces she works at when she must, but no trinkets. No art on the wall or any of those little changes one makes in their home to reflect their tastes. She’s existed in this space only as much as was required of her, and now it is the only place she wants to be. The tablet — Aeson called it a PADD — is as responsive to her input as the one she browsed through at his table. It contains a series of numbered entries that are labeled as Captain, Supplemental, or Personal — the latter most of which require her to input audible commands to listen to or read. She parses through several in order of the oldest — she’s decided the numbers are dates — and is perturbed to hear her own voice fill the empty apartment around her. It’s the most unsettling thing she’s ever experienced, and yet she cannot step away from it. Hours pass as she sits stooped at her kitchen island, hunched over the little device that confirms this life is a lie. She forgets dinner; forgets the chime she’s programmed to remind her to sleep; forgets that work is waiting for her on the morning whether she’s rested or not. Some of the names she hears herself speak are familiar, while others are not. Tom is the pilot, B’Elanna the engineer, and Joe B’Elanna’s second. Tuvok is a dear friend, on par with a man who goes by Chakotay, and Neelix is a chef and all around Everyman. With a start, she even realizes that the reports discuss Aeson, although she only ever refers to him as the Doctor. Kathryn follows that rabbit hole until she finds the reports that cover Kelemane and realize that he has told her the truth. Hours pass, she sleeps in fits, and the next day she does it all over again. She learns the terrible truth that’s waiting to rend the giddy beginnings of a relationship between Tom and B’Elanna apart, as well as the terrible loneliness of both resenting a man she cannot remember and feeling immense guilt for nearly killing him. The reports tell her a story of a ship and a crew that has gone through much, often due to the decisions she had been required to make and the actions she took despite objectively better alternatives. The version of herself that she’s only half of slowly comes into view, both pitiable and enviable, until the PADD becomes indecipherable in her tremoring hands. Is there any way to avoid what is to come? A sizable part of her wishes she could, but she knows — almost instinctively— that multiple paths are converging quickly on a single point and that she will inevitably be standing at the center of it all. The only way to stay here is impossible. She can appeal to Aeson, ask him to stay and promise him friendship and more, but he’ll never accept it. What matters to him is the regard of his captain, and to give that to him she’ll have to give up who she is here. Become more and — from the looks of it — significantly less as well. On the third evening of this, Kathryn creates a submenu of curated personal logs, those she thinks capture the true through-line of the Captain’s thoughts and removes the security that requires her input to access them. Then she strikes out into the lamp-lit streets. The path she takes is short, just around the corner and across the street, where she takes the flight of stairs two at a time until they deposit her at the correct hall. When she reaches Aeson’s door, her knock is aborted when she hears the sound of arguing within. The second voice is male but does not carry the same exuberance as Neelix’s typical upbeat cadence. Her immediate assumption is that his goals have even uncovered by the sector police. Taking action, she tries the handle and finds the door unlocked. Only to the catch the tail end of a sentence spoken by a man she does not recognize. “…sooner, he wouldn’t have been in a position to jump in the first place.” Aeson sees her first, and so Kathryn doesn’t even try to close the door behind her quietly. It’s clear that the other man is not Quarran, although he is imposing. That man turns abruptly at the click the door makes and, at the sight of her, he instantly softens. “Captain” Aeson says just as the strange man says, “Kathryn.” “Don’t call me that,” she orders both of them. Where Aeson appears unbowed by the command, his companion looks hurt. Kathryn does not have to wonder for long who he is to her. “This is Commander Chakotay, he’s been commanding Voyager in your absence,” Aeson breaks the unfortunate silence that has descended upon them. Four days ago she would have looked at the handsome man and felt curiosity, perhaps some interest, but she’s been listening to the rasps of her own strange voice long enough now to know who he is. What he’s done, willingly or not. Something like white hot anger surges through her, an emotional reflex to an unremembered crime, and she finds herself scowling, “If he’s supposed to be commanding the ship, then why is he here?” She knows talking about someone in third person is rude, unnecessarily so, but all she can think about in this moment is her own recounting of how he’d shot a woman in cold blood in front of her. “Captain,” Chakotay says, placatingly, as if he can hear what she is thinking, “the Doctor and Neelix have taken too long. Andr—one of our crew has just died.” “Who?” She demands, wondering if the person is one she’d mentioned fondly in her reports, fearing it. “Andrew Doyle,” Aeson confirms. She does recognize the name; it makes her fingers itch with the all too familiar feeling of tarnish and grit. “The effects of the memory alteration are deleterious,” he explains as Chakotay takes up a small pace, “all the stress and anxiety of Voyager are still present, still having physical affects on the body, but there are no answers you can readily fall back on to explain why. Mr. Doyle was at risk of self harm prior to your abduction and he—“ “Killed himself,” Chakotay nearly snaps, “the whole point of sending you here was to monitor their wellbeing until we could extract them.” “There is only one of me for nearly 130 disparate members of the crew, Commander. I can’t be everywhere all at once!” “You should have had Neelix bring him back. You knew the risk.” “We needed to remove Tuvok and Vorik from Quarra before they drew too much attention to themselves. You agreed!” “Then I should have been the one to come here,” for all that her pre-mutiny reports suggested that this man was a source of peace, Chakotay is quickly working himself up to some sort of action. He has already done so by coming here and potentially putting the extraction mission at risk, “I could have mounted an offensive on their defenses—“ “How well did that work out for you last time?” There’s a moment where they all freeze in place as the words land like a grenade. It takes several seconds for Kathryn to realize she’s the one who has said it. “What did you tell her?” The question is thrown at Aeson, half choked with pain and regret. She thinks she should be sorry for putting that there, but she can’t bring herself to. It’s as Aeson told her, the effects of Voyager linger in her, even if she cannot recall them. They’re in her restless sleeps and exhausted days, in the way she tenses up at every minor alarm at work, and in how her hands never feel clean. “Don’t blame him,” she says instead of apologizing and gives the PADD in her hand a little wave, “I learned it from myself. I may not remember what you did, Commander, but I sat across from Megan Delaney and listened to her as she told me she feels dead and doesn’t know why, but now I do. It’s because you killed her sister, and these people tried to erase her entirely to make Megan a more efficient worker.” Chakotay won’t meet her eye, but he has enough grace to flinch at her words. Kathryn turns to Aeson, who is staring at her with an unreadable expression. “This mission of yours,” she tells him, “ I’m in, and I know where you can find help.” He nods, accepting her sudden ability to help with practiced ease. Kathryn supposes on a ship that seems as unlucky as Voyager, this isn’t the weirdest about turn he’s ever seen. To Chakotay, she softens, but still feels herself delivering an order, “You’re in command of my ship. Go command it.” And then, because she doesn’t want to be here while these two work through the rest of their miniature power-struggle, she turns on her heel and leaves with nary a, “I’ll be in touch.” The next day she is off duty, and so Kathryn wanders over to the doctor’s apartment again and finds herself relieved that Chakotay has left. She spends most of the morning working with Aeson and Neelix to lay out their plan. By midday, the Talaxian has set off the locate Seven with all of their available evidence, while the remaining two work through the piece of the mission that interests the doctor most: finding the source and details of the memory alteration treatments learning how to safely undo it. To do this, they will need to rely on the cooperation of a Quarran doctor at the central capitol hospital. Aeson had worked on creating a rapport with the man, Ravok, who has slowly come to understand that one of his associates is engaging in creating a forced labor pool. By bringing each of his concerns about the number of humans he’d seen with troubling flashbacks to memories they could not recall, Aeson had secured the man’s support and involvement in uncovering the truth. That work had paid off, when Ravok came to him just the week prior with word that his associate, Dr. Kadan, had created a mind altering procedure with the sanction of the government. “The option of letting the alteration wear off is proving to be complicated and unnecessarily risky,” Aeson doesn’t need to mention Doyle to invoke him, “If I can get into that procedure room, I may be able to find Kadan’s records and figure out how to completely reverse it.” “That’s where I come in.” He looks unhappy at her willingness to put herself in harm’s way. Yet, as she explains what Seven’s group told her, and how the other woman suspects Kathryn’s mediocre turnout at work will cause her to be taken into custody soon, he cannot argue against the opportunity. As it nears late afternoon, she looks up from their near-finalized plan, “Is there anyway to stop them?” “I don’t know,” he confesses, but a half hour of silent work later he perks up, “We can see if they’ve done this to anyone else and disseminate the information. Yerid and Ravok can help.” By the time Neelix reappears, they’ve done what they can for the day. The Talaxian reports his own success, and the trio make their way to the bar. They need to appear normal for just a few more days for this plan to work. Tom greets her with a smile at the bar top, while casting a curious glance at the others as they find a table, “It’s been awhile.” “It’s been a long week,” she says dryly. “Does it have anything to do with the tall, severe blonde who’s come in here looking for you every night this week?” Seven, she thinks darkly. At least Neelix had been able to convince her they were legit. If what he’d gotten from her was true, the other woman had started to remember Voyager and him. It was entirely possible some part of her had been aware Kathryn is her captain for weeks. “It sure does,” she mutters. “She looks like a tax collector. It started spooking some of the regulars.” “No, not a tax collector. My efficiency officer.” He winces, likely imagining the reason why an efficiency officer would try to hunt someone down on their off hours, “Well, if I see her again, I’ll keep giving her the runaround.” “If you see her again,” Kathryn finds herself suddenly sincere, realizing the only reason Seven will come back here is to solicit help or issue a warning, “you should listen to her and believe what she says.” Something in her tone makes him blink and swallow heavily, but Tom nods. For now, besides this establishment’s strongest dose of caffeine, that’s all she needs. Before the night ends, Kathryn slips Aeson the PADD she’s been tied to for days and instructions, “Menu 5231.” “What’s that?” “Answers.” … Ravok is only able to give a short heads up when Kadan’s team will be bringing Kathryn in. They’ve learned their lesson of disappearing individuals from their homes and tussling with them as they start or end their shifts, so she can expect to be led gently aside during one of her inoculations under the guise of concern that she has stopped responding to the protections. This is exactly what happens to her. Five hours into the third shift of her week, just after an unfamiliar doctor administers her radiation inoculation, Kathryn is tagged and led aside by a pair of medical aides. As they mutter their cover story, she stops herself from checking beneath the cuff of her sleeve to verify that Aeson’s mobile emitter is still fastened in place. Neelix had given it to her this morning, with clear instructions on where to keep it. Her friend is about to hitch the ride of a lifetime. On her way out of the facility, Kathryn makes sure to meet Seven’s eye. The woman’s nod is quick, nearly imperceptible, but enough to indicate that the dominos will begun to fall. The problem with being the bait, she quickly learns when they lead her onto a transport — still apologetic. still keeping to their false story — is that she won’t know if everything has gone to plan until it’s all over. All she can do to help it along is pretend she doesn’t suspect a thing and allow them to lead her through a maze in the city, through the doors of a hospital, right into the waiting maw of a procedure room that’s meant to take more of her away. She nods compliantly at them when they sedate her under the guise of an invasive radiation treatment. It’s invasive all right, Kathryn doesn’t say. She doesn’t say much at all for the next hour, because like all good bait she sleeps through the entire thing. The time passes without her knowing it. Waking is a slow process — a series of fits and starts — punctuated by the sounds of struggle and then silence. Eventually, all of Kathryn’s senses come back to her, and because she can recall why she’s here, she’s fairly confident at least a part of this wide-scale rescue attempt has succeeded. When she sits, a man she does not recognize rushes over to hold her shoulders steady. She’s half a second away from shoving her palm into his nose when he turns his head and calls, “Aeson, she’s awake.” Kathryn keeps the violence to herself. This must be Ravok. “I’m Ravok,” he confirms, helping her stand. She’s a little wobbly on her feet, the after effect of having been so thoroughly under anesthesia that her limbs still think they’re asleep. The Quarran doctor maneuvers her around a pair of prone nurses and through a door into the procedure theatre. It’s this that makes her realize she had been moved while unconscious. “What happened?” “Aeson can tell you the full details. Everyone here is okay, just unconscious. We’re working on breaking the record encryptions so we can send proof to Yerid.” On cue, she spots her friend at a terminal, hands moving faster than any organic’s she’s known, as he completes the task at hand. Behind him, on the procedure bed, lies another man. “Who is that?” “Kadan,” Aeson says idly, “as of thirty minutes ago all traces of his procedure have been hidden away behind a new desire to provide medical care to orphans. Got it!” This glib admission of violating another person’s mind should bother her, maybe it will when she remembers all of herself, but for how she’s content to let it slide. This man had been the one who spearheaded this awful campaign of forced labor, after all. “This system isn’t networked with others,” he calls out to Ravok, who stands guard and one of the doors. “Send the evidence to my account,” despite his apparent nerves, the Quarran is resolute, “I’ll download it and make copies. This information will get out.” There is something deeply respectable about a person who does what’s right, even if it goes against the desires of their own kind. Kathryn wishes Ravok luck when he departs to complete his end of the mission. “What now?” Kathryn asks when Aeson finally steps away from the terminal and toward her. The life has come back into her arms and legs, and despite the signs of an intense jailbreak all around her, she feels calm. There’s something therapeutic about having put her safety in the hands of another and witnessing the aftermath of them pulling through. “Now? Now, we go home.” His smile sincere as he looks down at her, all his relief and pride wrapped up in one impish expression. It’s nostalgic, reminding Kathryn of the bar and her simple life here, both about to vanish due to a job well done. She has some idea of what it will mean to become herself — all of herself —again. Difficult, isolating, and unrewarding, but also that core piece of what makes her her that has been missing all of this time. And yet, it would be a complete shame if she left here without making a lasting mark of her own: a small but unsubtle jab at the part of she can’t remember. Kathryn presses herself up onto her toes and kisses him. Hands at his shoulder and jaw, she’s sure that everything she can’t remember that exists between them will cause him spring away if she doesn’t hold him to her. Even as she has the thought, she feels the faint draw of his hand along her waist as he leans in instead of away, and allows herself to enjoy the warmth of it for as long as she can. It’s over in seconds. The rejection when he eventually pulls away is softened by the way he captures the hand she has at his jaw when she drops back on her heels. She isn’t going to apologize for it, and he doesn’t seem to think she will. Instead of balking or stuttering, he simply places a chaste kiss of his own to her knuckles before dropping her hand and leading her from the room by her elbow. They’re entering an empty stairwell when he taps the badge on his chest, “Aeson to Neelix. We’re ready.” “Great news,” comes the cheerful voice over the line, “I’ve got a small army here, so this should be over in no time. Find a a safe place to wait for the transport. Neelix, out.” She quirks a brow at Aeson, who merely shrugs as if he expects nothing else, “He’s the morale officer.” For the first time in a long time, Kathryn feels her smile reach her eyes. … When Voyager maneuvers away from the world of Quarra and its contrite global government a week later, the ship is no worse for wear. Its crew, however, are left with a lingering feeling of violation and mutual understanding. Their mental injuries are not fully healed, but the return of their memories and the remaining clarity of having lived another life begins to settle something in each who came back. The positive effects of Quarra are easily spotted in Tom and B’Elanna, whose friendly flirtation when they could not remember who they were to one another has done half the work of mending their rift. Kathryn does not know the details of their marriage and does not wish to, beyond hoping for its success, but each time she sees them glancing hopefully at one another in the briefing room or the mess, she suspects they’ll overcome this. Starfleet officers mellow toward their Marquis friends and colleagues, aware now how easy it is to be altered against their will. Some relationships will never mend completely, but Kathryn breathes deeply when, a week after they return, Marla catches her eye in the dinner line, nods just once in understanding, and marches over to sit with Chakotay. His shock is hidden well, but Kathryn knows him, and so she knows what this olive branch means to him. As days pass, Marla is joined by Sam and then Harry. Megan, still unable to meet his eye, no longer flees the mess when he enters. Perhaps the happiest surprise is their two new crew members. Ravok, keen to depart his planet for fear of reprisal in his role in uncovering the truth, takes up his post as a doctor in sickbay with gusto. His presence is a welcome one, a reminder to all that despite their past and flaws, this ship and its crew can still be viewed as a worthwhile home and a welcoming community. It takes her some time to grow used to Jaffen’s presence. This man, once a friend who helped her as she muddled through her job at the reactor, had been shocked when she came to him as the Captain of the crew he’d helped — perhaps unknowingly — by rallying to Seven’s cause that final day when Kathryn was taken. The offer of a place on her ship, as a member of her crew, would surely have been declined if not for Seles. The two had grown close on Quarra. While they will need to navigate what it meant to be a couple now that she has her memories back, it speaks well of each that they are willing to try. It says even more about him that he’s uprooting his life for this uncertain path, if only because he sees a potential future with one of her people. Time moves on, and Kathryn finds that while she misses the simplicity of her life on Quarra, she cannot miss the malaise that had come with it. Something fundamental about herself had been missing in those three months — the duty of being a captain was as much a part of her as simply being Kathryn. It is a truth that could not be avoided, and one she knows she must finally come to terms with. For better or worse, this is who she is. Nearly two weeks after their departure, she knows she cannot avoid the Doctor any longer. The events of Quarra might not have moved in a direction she would have chosen for herself as the captain, but she cannot necessarily blame him as much as that would be easier. Upon her recollection, he hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d chosen to be his friend, after all, despite all of his grumbling about it. So, on an evening after she rounds out her duty shift in astrometrics working alongside Seven and Megan — where she silently marvels at the accord that has grown between them during their strange three months — she decides the conversation needs to be had. Not the one about Quarra, although surely that will come up, but the one about Kelemane. A little over an hour later, she stops at his quarters, the now familiar green book in hand, and activates the chime. As it always seems to do, the door opens quickly to admit her into a space she’s rarely taken the time to see. Yet, Kathryn can’t help but compare it to that small apartment of his on Quarra and notice how much more lived-in this space is. “Captain,” he’s almost cheerful when he sees her enter. As he stands from his desk to greet her, Kathryn can spot some of the wariness in his posture — she could be here for any reason, a brief chat or an inevitable dressing down for daring to be her friend when she couldn’t remember that he was her CMO. Kathryn rewards the friendly effort with, “Kathryn, please, when we’re not in uniform.” And she isn’t now, having changed into something comfortable but conservative. Since regaining her memories, she’s experimented with appearing explicitly off-duty around her crew. The outcome has been counterintuitive — the embracing of the part of her that is Kathryn has made them more receptive to the duty that comes with her being the Captain. Perhaps not so counterintuitive after all, just a piece of taken-for-granted wisdom she’d lost along the way. This command appears to throw him for a moment, but he recovers quickly and leads her to the sitting area. When she deliberately takes a spot on the couch instead of the chair, he says nothing and sets off to make the customary momet tea. The drink surely is a more stable marker of her visits than she is. As he’s returning from the replicator — and discreetly trying to determine where it is appropriate to sit — she begins, “I’m here to apologize.” He hands her the tea, his clever eyes spotting the book she’s holding, and settles on the couch a respectable distance away. Thankfully, he does not ask her what she is sorry for, but rather waits for her to continue at her own pace. It’s one of the subtle deviations in his behaviors since returning from Kelemane that can be both unsettling and a relief: patience. “For many things,” Kathryn adds, “but mostly for not trying to understand what you’ve been through. I so easily take for granted that this crew is willing to make sacrifices, that I forget to acknowledge when I’ve forced them to.” She pushes on, before he can respond, “I didn’t send you to Kelemane because I think you’re a tool — at least, no more than any one of us must be at times. I sent you because I thought it was the only way to gather the geological information we’d need to leave orbit, and… yes, because I knew the risks of failing to bring you back on time would be an immediate death sentence for anyone else.” If he had listened to the reports on PADD she gave him on Quarra, he would have heard all of this. That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t say it to him anyway. He has no physical reason to clear his throat, but he does so anyway, “Thank you.” Kathryn doesn’t know if it will be as simple as an apology and acceptance, but she pushes on anyway, “B’Elanna has reviewed Dr. Zimmerman’s report on your program changes, and she thinks there may be a way to recover some of the memories you have lost.” He’d tried to tie the memories of the others to her, so that they were compressed and archived unless he specifically recalled an interaction with her that contained them. It might have worked, if they had gotten to him sooner. There was a real possibility that many of those memories could still be salvaged. “If are you are comfortable working with her on it, she has agreed to help in her spare time.” “I don’t know if I feel comfortable giving her writing access.” Nor does Kathryn expect him to. Perhaps in time he will extend that trust to the engineer, so at then very least someone can help him should his programming falter beyond his abilities to fix it. She’ll cross that bridge as soon as she is able. “She wouldn’t need it. Just enough access to pull copies of your compression subroutines for testing.” He still looks uneasy at the idea, but eventually nods with a sigh, “I do need to untangle the mess I made.” Knowing the matter is closed for now, but happy enough with the results, Kathryn to the next topic of conversation she’s come to discuss. She looks down at the book in her lap and gently opens it, “You were right. I haven’t been able to translate the proper nouns,” she’d just given them placeholders until he was in a good enough mood to supply her with a primer, “but the acknowledgment gave away the author.” He has leaned imperceptibly closer, a sort of eagerness shaping his features, “Oh?” Kathryn nearly rolls her eyes at the coyness and reads aloud, “‘To my father, who has raised me and will one day bury me.’ Your daughter, Aeson. You told her.” It isn’t a question. It could never be. This book follows the lives of men who were doctors and medics and field surgeons. Him. She’d initially thought he’d written it, until she rectified the mistake of skipping this small but telling inscription. “At first? No,” he admits, “but Voyager was there, visible in the night sky, the subject of countless religions, and protecting the already broken Prime Directive became less important than promising her she wouldn’t lose another parent.” She wonders if he would have demanded to go back, had they rescued him while Martzia still lived. In the end, it didn’t matter, because they hadn’t. Instead of asking or chastising him for breaking something she’d already broken, Kathryn passes him the book. He accepts it carefully, fingers warm where they barely touch hers. “She was an excellent writer.” Aeson preens a little, despite the clear signs of his sadness for having lost her, “Thank you.” “It’s a shame she didn’t write your report,” she chides, in an effort to dissipate the heaviness growing between them, “it’s a poorly organized encyclopedia.” “I might have, as Mr. Paris would say, phoned that one in,” he says bashfully, gaze moving from hers to where he places the text on the table, “I-“ “Hmmm?” She mumbles around a mouthful of tea when he hesitates. “Your personal logs, the ones you gave me on Quarra,” he grabs a PADD from a stack beside the book and holds it out to her, “I didn’t listen to them. It didn’t seem right…given the circumstances.” Kathryn remembers each one. She even remembers why she selected them despite not knowing their context at the time. It had been the act of a friend who had once feared she might be a monster but had grown to understand she was just a human, warts and all. “You should,” she takes it, because she knows he won’t even if she pushes it back. It’s difficult to say and do, but she wishes to honor that part of herself she still is in many ways. Before he can protest, she navigates to the submenu in question and presses play. Attraction is a strange beast, she thinks, as her voice drifts out of the PADD. It can disappear in violent second or persist for years without fuel to feed it. When had she started yearning more for Chakotay than she did Mark? Before she knew there was no one waiting for her in the Alpha Quadrant, this much she knows, but not so early as New Earth. It had grown in her over time until she couldn’t ignore it and couldn’t do a thing about it. The death of that yearning was more distinct, punctuated by the acrid red of a phaser beam as it caused every electrical impulse in Jenny’s body to cease. He hadn’t meant to — he never would have if he had full control of his faculties —but she could control that instinctual magnetic pull flipping to repulsion no more than Chakotay could throw off Teero’s mind control. Yet, she misses him all the same — the warm smiles and easy banter. She had missed it even when she couldn’t remember it. Is that why she’d been drawn to the Doctor — Aeson — down on Quarra? He’d been careful, she can say that now with the clarity of hind-sight, not to take advantage of her forced amnesia in any way that would lead her feeling exploited. Yet, he hadn’t been able to turn his attention away, not when she was so open to being his friend. Not when she’d been so persistent. All the attention she’d denied him out of regret had spilled out of her in a concentrated wave, and the part of her that had been Kathryn with the Captain carved away had enjoyed it. Had been attracted to it? To him, although it makes her uncomfortable to admit it now. They can work toward an accord now, forged by her willingness to finally sit with him as a captain and confront the part she’d played in Kelemane. She can leave his quarters fully certain that their professional relationship will heal — improve even — and that he’ll do his best to trust B’Elanna to help him recover as many memories as he could. She can snuff that worrisome spark of something out before it can flicker into a flame. It’s what she should do. Kathryn stands from the couch as he awkwardly but keenly listens to her personal logs play. She hears her own voice — exhausted and full of regret — sigh and hiss and declare sentences that prove what she’s already tried to tell him:
‘It’s been forty hours. Everything we know about his program suggests he should have perished from a cascade failure by now, but we’ll keep searching for his signal. If he’s there, we have to find him.’
‘I look back at my reasoning for denying him quarters when he received his mobile emitter, and I cannot agree. My justifications were shallow, and for the life of me I don’t understand my reluctance.’
She moves around the space, and her choice to snoop along his bookshelf feels nostalgic for something not long past but never to be again. For all that Quarra felt like home, it no longer feels possible. Kathryn tunes out her own voice as it puzzles over his failure to reintegrate easily, her momentary fear on the Class L planet that nearly killed Megan, and her regret over Mezoti; instead, focusing on the red, textile bound book poking out among the knickknacks on the shelf. Certain it was among the short stack he brought back with him from Kelemane, she carefully pulls it down and opens it. The title page is sparse. The wording is, while simplistic when translated to Standard, profound in its original language: “A Watcher Blinks”. The author’s name is newly familiar to her, now that she knows its translation. Martzia. Another 21 thousand years gone — dead— since Kathryn stepped foot on Quarra. Still fondly remembered by a father who kept his promise to bury her. The acknowledgement is short, just the like the one in her first, “To my mothers. One bore me and was forgotten; the other is the ghost that haunts this house.” It’s a riddle, one she knows will be answered if she reads the book. Kathryn flips to the first page and begins to skim. Her voice has stopped droning on in the background, and too late she registers that Aeson has come to join her. “You can read this later,” he says and gently eases the book from her hands before closing it and returning it to the shelf. “How many did she write?” “Three,” there’s a proud little smile on his face, “a trilogy. They were very well regarded, even over a century after her death. These might be the only copies left.” She looks back to the shelf because it’s easier to catalogue the minute signs of age on the book’s spine than it is to take the full brunt of his impossibly dark stare. There beside it is a book bound in brown, the last of them. “What is the second one about?” He answers as honestly as he ever has when she can being herself to ask. “You.” His hand is gentle at her elbow. Kathryn thinks he must be trying to make her face him, which she’s trying very hard not to do, but the single word has startled her enough that she’s forgets what happened the last time he was standing this close. Her gaze drifts between his eyes and his mouth as he speaks, uncertain where to settle,“When I told her what I was, she had so many question. I’d already archived or deleted most of my memories of Voyager to make room for more. By the virtue of my compression solution, most of my stories of the ‘Watchers’ involved you. Martzia was fascinated by the idea that someone could be functionally immortal without realizing it. That she would grow old and die before a single day passed for you. That’s all it is. A treatises on perceived immortality.” The continued reminders of their of violation the Prime Directive should bother her more than it does, but she’s come to terms with the damage she’s done. “You’re right. I’ll have to read it … later.” The amusement behind his resulting smile lights up his face, and she clears her throat to keep herself from smiling back, “I should go.” He nods and leads her to the door, his fingers nearly brushing her arm where they hover over her sleeve. “Just one thing,” he says before the doors can open. “Yes?” She worries she’ll have to explain the impossibility of this, whatever it is that has sprouted up between them. The part of her that is the Captain wants to trust him but never will entirely because too much of him is unknowable. The part of her that is Kathryn is already too far down this path to be of any use here. “Can I ask you something?” She lets out a long breath. Then she nods just once, whether in permission or acceptance she doesn’t know. “Why did you decide to come back?” It isn’t the question she’s thought he’d ask, but there is no good reason not answer it. She thinks about her state of mind down there on Quarra, and what drove her to exchange her relative safety in order to help him complete his mission —despite the immense amount of stress and fear she’d felt. Because it was my duty, the Captain is first to the draw. It’s easy and it’s the truth in all of it’s depressing glory and she could say that and be done with it. But there’s another answer in there somewhere. A little deeper down, a little more hopeful, a lot more woman than rank. After a moment, Kathryn touches his forearm and gives him something of a lopsided smile as the familiar words come back to her. “I didn’t want you to leave without me.”
Chapter Notes
Jaffen! It rubbed me the wrong way that they had him just return to work on Quarra, as if knowing they kidnapped and brainwashed people was no big deal. Like, dude, your live-in girlfriend was violated by the state…have a backbone. Hitch a ride to a different world to work on. Anything. In this iteration, he took one look at our deeply disheveled and out-of-order Janeway and didn’t immediately think: “I want.” Instead, he thought: “I want to help.” He genuinely spends this chapter just trying to be a friendly presence in her life because she frequently looks like she’s a single bad day away from blowing up the reactor. He gets paired with Seles instead, and because there’s no self-imposed (but understandable) rule keeping her from dating him aboard Voyager, the two decide to give it a try. Not shown is Seles confirming that if it doesn’t work, he can go or stay, and that he’d be a welcome addition to the crew (confirmed by Janeway). Also not shown (because Janeway was out like a light) was Seven going to the bar with Neelix and telling the regulars that the feds had kidnapped Janeway and were going to do horrible things to her brain. Cue a mob of amnesiac Voyager crew and Janeway’s colleagues making a stand. Pure slapstick comedy. Tom and B’Elanna even keep watch.
Ravok, Yerid, and Kadan are canon. Ravok joins Voayger in this because he’s worked with the Doctor and thinks it’s a viable career/life when given the option. The Doctor is just happy to have a colleague that has more than a semester of first aid to their name. Our man,Yerid, stays behind to fight the good fight, what a champ. Kadan does in fact go and find an orphanage to administer care at. By the time he remembers what an absolute piece of shit he is, his program is dismantled.
I love telling stories from a single POV where the person misses all the action. Does it make me lazy? I don’t know. This chapter is 23k words. Mind your own business. :P
What a hopeful ending. I’m very sorry in advance.
The Doctor threads a very very fine needle here. Janeway has no insight into his motivations, but chooses optimism. And look, she’s finally asking questions.
Janeway chooses not to outwardly discuss the kiss or inwardly reflect on it, aside from trying to stand at least three feet from him at all times going forward.
I think it would take a lot to make Janeway give up on the “soft pining” for Chakotay. Killing Jenny in front of her should be enough, though. It’s not his fault. But you don’t think of kissing someone with that memory burned into your retinas.
So. Miral. I’m so sorry, guys. :( This story’s Repression means she won’t be joining us.
Next up, we have Endgame! Both the episode and for this story.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
β Perseus Aa2
The party is in full swing — lively chatter and laughter filling a space usually so neutral and empty that it’s made all the brighter by those currently filling it. All around her, the familiar faces of family mingle with those of friends. Hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne are distributed among the adults, while more suitable finger foods and juices are handed out to the children running underfoot. Kathryn cannot take credit for the success of this reunion, that honor goes to her aide, Ensign Towers. Credit or no, it doesn't mean she can’t bask in it, if only for the evening. Soon, these wonderful people will depart, leaving her in the silence of her apartment with nothing but the echoes of their final celebration. Enough of that, though. She spots Harry in the crowd, speaking to Naomi and Icheb’s daughter, Sabrina. The poor man is nearly as gray as she is, but his face lights up when he registers her approach. “Admiral,” he greets her, because he’s still wearing his uniform and remains a stickler for regulation. “Harry,” she slides one arm around his shoulders and hugs him to her side, “you made it.” If the display of affection startles him, he’s gracious enough not to show it. “I couldn’t miss this reunion,” his voice is so officious, so duty bound that she wants to pinch his arm and tell him to loosen up. “Oh, I didn’t doubt you for a minute.” “I would have blamed you if you did. I’m sorry I missed the memorial service. Again.” A pang of sadness fills her. For him, for herself, and most especially for Marla, who could not join them tonight, “We all understood.” “How is Tuvok?” If his goal is to lighten the mood, he’s failing miserably. “Oh,” she breathes, “not well, I’m afraid.” “I should visit him,” he says in a way that suggests he’ll talk him self out of the by the morning. “He would appreciate that,” she says in a way that suggests she would. Tuvok doesn’t appreciate anything anymore. Harry clears some emotion from his throat and nods, “I can’t believe it’s been ten years.” “Trust me, Harry,” she takes to the change of subject like it’s a lifeline, “we all look like it’s been twenty.” Her deadpan delivery never fails to make him laugh, especially now that he knows what it means to be a captain and understands the regenerative quality of gallows humor. She pats his back once and begins ushering him toward B’Elanna. The trio stand chatting in a corner, catching up on the small things, until Harry spots Tom and departs to talk to his old friend. Kathryn makes a point to keep the once-pilot and now holonovelist out of her line of sight. It’s not Tom she’s trying to avoid looking at but the man and woman who have joined him in the center of the room. B’Elanna, now a fine diplomat and reader of people, snorts into her drink, “You’re being obvious.” She smiles at the younger woman, something sharp but not unkind, “So I am. Let him come speak to me if he wants to.” They’ve come a long way from the Captain and her chief engineer. While Kathryn has always favored Tom’s boyish, uncomplicated humor, it’s B’Elanna’s stalwart competence and devastatingly deadpan threats that never fail to make her company enjoyable. It helps that, while she’s always willing to help without asking too many questions, B’Elanna knows when to draw the line. As any peer does. “All right,” the half-Klingon chuckles, raising her free hand in surrender, “while we wait for the impossible, you can tell me why you sent my son away on a secret mission so close to this celebration. I was looking forward to seeing him.” Kathryn is absolutely not going to tell her what Matthew had been sent to do, “How about you tell me the outcome of your negotiations with the Klingon High Council, first?” B’Elanna takes the hint. She glances around the room furtively and then lowers her voice so no one can hear her, “They’ve agreed to admit the House of Monak. Korath will be offered a seat, just like you wanted. It’s why you want it that confuses me. He could take or leave the Federation.” “Can’t a scientist want to help another scientist into politics?” “You’re no more a scientist than I am an engineer. Those days are behind us,” B’Elanna says this with no real intent to insult her, and even sighs, “All right. I’ll let you keep your secrets. Just be careful with Matthew, okay?” “I’d never dream of being anything but,” it’s sincere. No matter what happens next, Matthew Paris will be all right. Whatever the other woman is about to say in response is interrupted when Reginald Barclay’s begins his imprumptu speech on the balcoany overlooking the party. “May I have everyone's attention, please. Ten years ago tonight, this crew returned home from the longest away mission in Starfleet's history. Twenty three years together made you a family, one I'm proud to have been adopted by.”He brings it to a close, his voice sure as he says, “Let's raise our glasses to the journey” he catches Kathryn’s eyes and lifts his glass slightly higher. The room repeats it back, and Kathryn adds, “And to those who aren't here to celebrate it with us.” When the toast is complete, Reggie descends the steps and Kathryn bids farewell to B’Elanna so that she can join him. “I was hoping to see you here,” she says by way of greeting. This man is as familiar to her as any member of her crew — a constant Alpha Quadrant presence when they were in the Delta Quadrant — and now a friend and faithful subordinate. He’s mellowed over the years and has grown ever more comfortable in the presence of others. So, when he smiles at her, it it is sincere and a far cry from the queasy grimace of fifteen years ago. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Admiral.” Nearly everyone has shared this same sentiment with her throughout the night. There’s a power in this being the tenth year since their return. They have been home less than half the time they were gone, but that time had flown, and so much happiness and tragedy had come with it. “Things are moving more quickly than expected,” she says, affecting a smile so anyone looking on them will think they were sharing friendly stories instead of what they are really doing, plotting. Devious, highly illegal plotting. Reggie is able to hide his shock behind a cough, but hunches his shoulders so he is able to mutter while letting her still hear him. “I can have everything ready for you in a Week. You’ll just need to get the deflector and the chronexaline.” The chrono deflector is nearly well in hand, but the tachyon radiation treatment? “Is there anyone else I can go to but him?” she murmurs, casting her eyes in the direction of the man in question. Only to find that he is looking back. The simple eye contact is enough for him, and the beautiful young woman on his arm, to start making their way over. Kathryn can’t help the small frown that takes the place of the smile on her face. She has to remind herself to play nice; this is, after all, what she had claimed she wanted. “He’s the only one remotely likely to get it for you,” Reggie mutters, before straightening to his full height and smiling broadly, “Aeson, Lana, it’s so good to see you!” Kathryn’s own smile is brittle and too wide, age-cracked and paper-thin, as the pair stop in front of them. “Admiral,” Aeson says cheerfully, “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Lana.” Of course she hasn’t — Kathryn hasn’t spoken to him in over four years, hadn’t even known he’d gotten engaged to a woman who looked only as old as Seven had been when they freed her from the Collective. Not that she would have done anything if she’d known. She reaches out a hand to Lana, who takes it with a gentle shake and a bright smile of her own, “I’ve heard so much about you, Admiral.” “It’s just Kathryn, when I’m not in uniform,” and then, because she feels absolutely certain she recognizes her now, “Aren’t you Kenneth Montgomery’s daughter?” Lana blushes prettily, “I am.” Admiral Montgomery had been in charge of the efforts to remove every piece of Borg technology from Voyager in the year after their return. He continues to remain in charge of Federation research into defensive, offensive, and medical Borg strategies. She’d been subjected to his unrelenting questions — often laced with the conceit of a man who hadn’t been in deep space more than a year of his career — as he stripped her ship for parts. That is to say, she finds him unbearably smug and difficult to work with. To his credit, his daughter appears to be nothing like him. “It’s how we met,” Lana fawns, grabbed Aeson’s elbow, “He introduced us at a conference in March.” Reggie will never be a paragon of social virtue, but he knows enough about the dynamics at play here, as well as the fact that six months is too quick to be engaged let alone married, to be dangerous. Before he starts fidgeting, he actually saves Kathryn from having to speak with a tepid chuckle and a: “I guess when you know you know.” Aeson gives Lana a fond smile, “Life’s too short to wait, Reggie. You should give it a try.” The commander rubs the back of his neck bashfully and shrugs, “It’s probably too late for that.” “Oh, don’t say that,” Lana beseeches, offering up several thoughtful compliments and tips. The two clearly know each other enough that the exchange is not awkward. If Kathryn were in a better mood, she might have even joined in to save herself the indignity of standing around like the odd man out. Instead, she takes the momentary diversion as an opportunity to force out a, “Doctor, if you’re still in town at the end of the week, would you mind stopping by? I’m due for a physical, and my usual doctor got shipped out to the Bolian System.” His uncanny dark eyes search her face as the question and the forced nonchalance settle in. For a moment, he looks like he would very much mind. The expression passes into something approaching friendly, “I don’t usually make house calls, but I think I can make an exception for my old Captain.” If she were the sensitive type, Kathryn would flinch at the careful wording. Instead, she gives him a firm nod and makes her excuses to move on to the rest of her social rounds. Duty calls, after all. She spends the next two days setting her affairs in order. There are two potentialities of what she plans to do: one will rewrite the timeline, the other will simply branch it off into a new one. Temporal mechanics still give her a headache, but Korath seems to think the timelines will diverge. He claims to have sent a fully functioning Federation warp core to Qo’noS well before they procured their own unique warp drive designs. Given that history doesn’t have records of the event, Kathryn can assume there is a timeline out there now that contains a Klingon Empire the size of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants or the burned out husk of Qo’noS. Timeline divergence is what Korath is counting on, otherwise his ploy to join the Klingon High Council will be moot. Kathryn intends to prepare for the eventuality that this timeline will continue on without her. There are knowing accomplices to protect, those who have surely earned a stay at a penal colony although they do not deserve it. Matthew is easy enough to sort out, as her strange orders have created just enough plausible deniability to keep his punishment to a reprimand. B’Elanna knows even less, and though she will certainly feel betrayed if she continues exist to feel at all, she will be above reproach. It’s Reggie she worries about most. She’s known him nearly two decades, has considered him a dear friend for at least ten years, and had trusted him with her plans for the last four. Every part of this has his name on it. Kathryn has done her best to shape all traces of evidence to suggest that he had been coerced. It’s up to him not to loudly and proudly proclaim the opposite. He insists he’s willing to suffer the consequences if there are any — his fierce loyalty to the crew of Voyager and its once-Captain will be considered a pathology by most — and she hopes he’s not that foolish. When she meets him at Starfleet Academy just days after the reunion, Reggie is in high spirits. While they both know that she’s only agreed to speak to the cadets in his class as a cover for their mission briefings, and the class itself is merely and excuse to give him and excuse access to Montgomery’s labs, he’s still eager to see what wisdom she conveys. “Everything is coming together,” he says in that vague way that prevents anyone who might overhear from understanding, “the SC-4 is nearly fitted for your travel. I’m just waiting for my contacts to confirm the information you asked for. Give me four days.” Kathryn does not know his contacts, but he trusts them and she trusts him. She suspects they’re under Montgomery’s command or a Section 31 cell. The ablative shielding isn’t appearing from nowhere, and B’Elanna’s right, Kathryn hasn’t been a scientist in a long time. She’s relying on sharper minds to develop the virus needed to breakdown the Collective for her. “If Aeson pulls through, I’ll have my treatment lined up,” saying the name of a highly classified medication in the halls of the academy is a one way ticket to detection, “by Saturday. I’m just waiting to hear from my godson.” Perhaps she’s expecting the clear culmination of their hard work to phase Reggie, but he’s come a long way. The only expression she sees on his face is determination, “Soon.” “Soon,” she repeats as she enters the small lecture hall. Many of the cadets are seated quietly in the back, and they visibly perk with excitement when they see her. Kathryn takes her seat gamely, quirking her brow in the direction of the most openly curious students, and patiently waits for Reggie to get the show on the road. His introductory speech is equal parts flattering and funny, and as Kathryn stands to address the room, an eager young man raises a hand. “A question already, Cadet.” He stands and looks to his friend at her clearly teasing tone, “Well, I suppose it could wait until after class, Admiral.” She looks around at the waiting faces and shrugs, “As they say in the temporal mechanics department, there is no time like the present.” It gets her the laugh she expects, and the young cadet smiles at her. Kathryn can tell there’s some arrogance to him, even before he confirms it, but feels no reason to disabuse him of it. Time and failure will do that for her. “In the year 2377, you aided the Borg resistance movement known as Unimatrix Zero.” At her confused expression, Reggie offers a sedate, “Sounds like someone’s been reading ahead.” “I thought you had a question, Cadet.” “Yes ma’am. When you informed the Queen that you were going to liberate thousands of her drones, could you describe the look on her face?” It’s a fundamentally bad question, although Kathryn doesn’t correct him. She’d never told the Queen what she intended to do and had never even gotten the satisfaction of doing it herself. The fallout from the Queen’s eventual retribution is still clear in her memory; however, and Kathryn isn’t going to share what she looked liked after with the class. So, she doesn’t answer. It’s a rhetorical question anyway, and the cadet sits with a satisfied smirk. Oh, to be young and cocky and so sure. It has been decades since she last knew what that felt like. “Admiral,” a female cadet stands, unwilling to let this chance pass her by, “some of us were talking before class, and we were curious. How extensive was Seven of Nine’s involvement with Unimatrix Zero?” Kathryn stills and feels the muscles work in her jaw and throat to compensate for what she feels. It has been nigh on eleven years since she’s seen her protégé and nearly that long since she’d spoken to her. There are many more years of disappointments and betrayal strung up between them that will never be addressed or healed. Kathryn has resigned herself to this, although that does not mean it doesn’t hurt. “I’m not at liberty to discuss Seven of Nine, except to say that she was an integral member of my crew,” she answers truthfully. The former drone’s movements are classified, a part of Starfleet’s efforts to aid the resistance that these cadets so eagerly wish to speak about but know very little of. “Yes ma’am,” the cadet awkwardly responds as she takes her seat, “thank you.” Before she can carry on with her intended lecture, Ensign Towers interrupts with a careful whisper in her ear, “The Comm you’ve been expecting has been routed to a secure channel in the visiting staff office.” Matthew, she thinks with a mix of relief and stress. She departs with nothing more than an “Excuse me” and follows her aide to the office in question. As she settles in, he moves to wait outside the door to secure her privacy.
Her godson looks healthy and happy when she calls up his Comm on her computer. “I’m sorry to pull you out of class, Admiral,” he definitely isn’t sorry. The young man may look like his mother, but he’s as incorrigible as Tom is at his worst. “You’ve seen it.” “Have I ever. It works, just like he said it would.” The sly smirk he’s giving her makes Kathryn nearly sigh with relief, “Korath has agreed to the exchange.” “He insists that he’ll only hand it over to you, but yes, yes he has.” It’s a let down to hear that Matthew cannot bring it to her himself, but Kathryn can understand why Korath wouldn’t want to hand over the chrono deflector to an ensign. The expectation is that it can do very little to this timeline, but that doesn’t mean it is wise to let it fall into just anyone’s hands. It will take her some work to finish everything she needs to do here, but they can make this happen, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Good work, Ensign Paris.” She returns to the class while the students are discussing nanotechnology. As is wont to happen when a bunch of overachievers are forced into a small space, they’re all trying to outperform one another. It’s unfortunate that her prepared lecture was interrupted, but she and Reggie manage to moderate a decent discussion. When it’s over, she relays Matthew’s update. Reggie frets, as he still does when stressed, “Korath could renege.” “I expect he might try, or at the very least try to leverage more out of me.” “More of what, though?” That’s what she needs to find out. There is little else she is willing to give a Klingon who intends to make a farce of honor. If Korath goes that route, he will be sorely disappointed with the outcome. “Let me handle that,” she says cryptically, before bidding him farewell until next time. … Kathryn is left heartbroken in the wake of her visit with Tuvok, as she always is. This goodbye is harder than all the others they’ve shared before because it is meant to be permanent. She knows, when she looks at him while he mutters and scribbles down words that make little sense to any but him, that what she is doing will prevent his mental decline. Yet, it hurts all the same because her Tubok will never heal. The restored Tuvok, her oldest and her dearest friend, will enrich the life of a different Kathryn. A younger one. One she hopes to spare all the little losses that built into a greater one. He is alive when so many others are not, and he still cares deeply for her when so many others have stopped, even though she is the one who caused so much of the loss he suffered in those final, lucid years before senility. Even thought it was she who’d made it so his family was too far away to cure him of his illness. Some version of herself must be allowed to see him healed before it’s too late, even if she cannot be the one who is so lucky. Saying that final goodbye to this Tuvok, who she loves no less than the hypothetical version she hopes to save, leaves her nerves raw for the rest of the day. By the time her apartment door chimes in the evening, her emotions feel like live wires, threatening to lash out and harm her most of all. It’s time. When she lets him in, Aeson is dressed in his medical blues, tricorder already in hand. His expression is unreadable, the mask of stoicism he had so easily perfected after Kelemane firmly in place. It’s been so long since she’d seen it — him — up close, and yet nothing about him has changed. At least not physically. And yet, here she is, hair white with age and face lined with all the stress and worry of the last three decades. Surely there’s nothing here for him to miss. The feeling that follows the thought lodges traitorously in her throat, so painful she has to fill the silence with something innocuous or else this won’t go the way she has planned. He’s here at her request after all, despite all that she let come between them. “Thank you for coming.” He steps in, then moves ahead down the stairs while she shuts the door and follows. “Not once in 33 years have you asked me to perform a physical. In fact, I seem to recall having to coerce you into quite a few.” “Well,” she concedes, holding her arms out from her sides as he scans her, “I’m going away for awhile, and thought I should get this over with first.” “I’m sure that’s it,” he says primly, his stubborn eyes and grim mouth all set in a doubtful frown. “How are you?” she asks, curiosity making her voice soft. They’ve both been stationed out of San Francisco for over two years now, yet she hadn’t seen him in all that time. By her own design. He quirks brow, so similar to how Tuvok used to, that it nearly causes her to smile. Now that they’re alone, despite his prickly demeanor, she’s happy he’s here. “I’m well, and you’re as healthy as you were the first day I examined you.” “You remember?” An old joke and an even older insult, she isn’t sure how she means it now. “You know very well that I do, Admiral” his tone is tinged very briefly with exasperation before he sighs, his guarded posture drooping just enough that she knows he isn’t going to bolt from her apartment or fall into one of his truly spectacular rants. “Kathryn,” she corrects gently, leading him with a hand on the bicep to her couch. To her surprise he does not balk, nor does he protest. He lets her guide him and takes a seat, even settles in comfortably, as she puts distance between them to start packing her uniform. “We didn’t get to speak much at the reunion,” she starts lamely, as she carefully holds up the garment and begins to fold it. “Our new normal,” there’s no real bite to it, just weariness, “Why now, Kathryn?” She looks at him, the way he’s crossed his legs and is tapping the tricorder against his knee. He used to do that when he thought she was about to run off and do something rash that might get her killed — often he’d been right. There’s a familiar pain in his expression, as much as he’s trying to hide it, which must mean he still cares. Despite her disquiet at his choice of a wife, as young and friendly as Lana is, it is Kathryn who’d ultimately hurt him by walking away and refusing to explain why. “I need a favor,” there’s no sense in denying it. The tricorder is cast aside as he runs a hand over his face, “And here I thought you wanted to catch up. Ask me about the wedding. Comment on my choice of bride.” Kathryn can imagine it: she’d criticize Lana’s age, he’d retort that everyone was too young for him, even her. It would bring the conversation too close to something she didn’t want to think about let alone admit. The outcome would be the same, another goodbye. The least she can do is try to make it as peaceful as possible. For his sake, if not for her own. “You didn’t,” she says, not unkindly. “No,” Aeson admits, casting his eyes to the ceiling as if asking it for help, “I didn’t.” And yet, he’d come here anyway, and he hasn’t left yet. She hedges her bets and decides to be direct. “I need 2000 milligrams of chronexaline.” He’s on his feet in an instance, and Kathryn sets aside her uniform in preparation to follow him to the door if she has to. He ends up walking toward her instead of away, “It’s experimental and highly classified.” “When has either stopped me?” “Never,” it’s almost fond. “Can you?” She clarifies, “Get it for me?” “I can have it delivered to your office in the morning.” Kathryn feels a weight leave her then. In its place is the relief of him choosing not to be an obstacle in her way taking its place. She’s been avoiding this for months, knowing that he might refuse or worse, guess what it’s for. Tachyon radiation only comes from a select few sources, and the most prominent one is in the drug’s name. She turns from him, to hide that relief under the guise of righting her uniform on the couch. A part of her hopes he’ll take his leave, a larger part is saddened by the thought that their last conversation will be a distant, hollow thing if he does. Not unfriendly but cursory. Aeson surprises her by grasping her elbow and gently turning her to face him. If he means to ask her to explain herself — to explain the last four years of silence, explain why they had gone from what they were to this — then he’ll be sorely disappointed. “What you’re doing,” he visibly stops himself before he can say more, face contorting again into that old reluctant pain. Kathryn wanders how much he knows and how much he’s guessed. She’s kept him at a distance because she wants to spare him the aftermath of this as much as possible. The possibility that was all for nothing is sobering. Before she can ask, he shakes his head once and reaches for her. His hand on her cheek is gentle, his eyes warm and achingly familiar. A moment later he leans forward to press a kiss to her temple. When she hugs him around the middle in response, he holds her to him tightly. “I would have helped you,” he whispers, his breath (and oh, she remembers how proud he was to have figured that out) stirring the hair near her neck. Kathryn feels the tears but refuses to let them fall,“I know.” It’s why she hadn’t let herself ask. … Barclay sees her off with a single PADD, filled with teraquads upon teraquads of data. His smile is so bashful, so endearingly apologetic for shackling her with this much homework to read, that Kathryn nearly laughs. A somberness falls over them though, as they realize what will happen next. “Will it work?” Somehow, he knows she’s asking about the virus. Three years ago. She had just wanted to go back and have them brute force their way through the Borg transwarp hub, but he had convinced her of a better way. A safer one. One that can save so many lives if it works. Who is she to deny so much hope? “Yes,” there is a conviction there she cannot question. Then, he adds because there’s nothing else to say, “The shuttle is waiting for you at the Oakland shipyard.” A beat later, he says softly but earnestly, “I wish you would let me come with you.” Kathryn hopes her younger self makes a friend out of this man. His loyalty would have been invaluable to her on Voyager, had she been lucky enough to count him among her crew. It has certainly meant everything to her in the Alpha Quadrant. Kathryn steels herself, though, knowing that any sentiment now can only put him at greater risk when she’s gone, “I’m sorry Reg, but this is my mission.” To soften the blow, she says, “Besides, if you leave, there won’t be anyone to teach those young cadets about the Borg.” He bows his head, smile small and sad, then holds up a finger to indicate there is one thing left, as he walks over to grab something from a console, “I made you that tea you like. The real thing, not the replicated stuff.I have to drink it every time I see Aeson now, because I convinced him I wanted the recipe for myself.” Kathryn takes the thermos from him, rendered nearly speechless at his thoughtfulness. Nearly. “Thank you, I couldn’t have done this without you.” “Please,” he chuckles, “don’t remind me.” She leaves his lab quickly after and makes one more stop before Oakland. The memorial is a low, two feet tall and three feet in diameter. Flat, black, and reflective, it mirrors the fall-grey sky. Kathryn stands beside it, looking over the names one by one. There are over sixty engraved into its otherwise smooth surface; nearly half of them put there by decisions she made after Quarra. Because she must, she kneels to wipe the leaves from the names they’ve covered, then remains in that position to take it in for the last time. Her eyes land on Chakotay’s name at the top left, and she sighs. The rustle of footsteps on dry leaves approaching doesn’t stop her from saying her piece. “I wish we’d had the time to forgive ourselves. You were, even when it seemed like it couldn’t be true, especially then, my friend.” “He felt the same way.” Kathryn closes her eyes, takes a steading breath, and stands. “I still miss him. Every day, I miss him,” Marla is standing beside her, as aged as Kathryn is but no less beautiful for it. Without looking, Kathryn knows that the other woman is still wearing her wedding ring, despite the man who wore the matching band being long dead. “When did you get back?” “Yesterday,” her friend smiles, “I was told you’re going away for awhile, and I thought I might catch you here before you did.” “It’ll be more than a while,” Kathryn confesses. “I know,” Marla’s lips quirk, a flicker of a knowing smile. Kathryn hasn’t told her anything. This woman had worked her way from a criminal to a respected member of her crew to a decorated captain, and Kathryn didn’t want to ruin that. Yet, Marla has always seemed to know. Know what she’s planning to do and why. Know what to hint at and what not to. Kathryn has never figured out who keeps her informed — it definitely isn’t Reggie — but even now she can’t bring herself to mind. “I’m glad we get to say goodbye,” she admits to the captain. “We will,” and now Marla does smile, one that reaches her eyes when Kathryn looks at her with shock, “once I get you where you need to go, with the thing you need to get there.” “I have a shuttle.” “And I happen to have a shuttle bay. Let me do this. For you, Kathryn. For Chakotay. If I can buy any version of us even just a few more days with him, it will be worth any consequences I might face here. Besides,” she smirks gamely, “I can always lie and say you coerced me.” Kathryn swallows the lump on her throat. She should deny her, but she doesn’t want to. Marla has every reason to be a part of this — more than Matthew, especially more than Reggie. No matter how much she wants to keep her from suffering the fallout in this timeline, it’s still Marla’s choice to make. “Thank you,” the younger woman says, when Kathryn nods her agreement. … It’s a good thing she agrees. Without the arsenal of the USS Endurance, Korath’s treachery might have ruined the mission. As it is, when Kathryn takes the chrono deflector from him without giving him Borg technology he demands, there is little he can do when the Endurance trains its weapons on his weaker ship before going to warp. She says her final goodbye to Marla, accepts the breach of protocol that is her friend’s fierce hug, and climbs aboard the shuttle. When she sets a course for the past, when she activates the device that will take her there, Kathryn is completely certain. This will work. … The path to making it work is rockier than she’d hoped for. The Captain is unwilling to engage the Borg again, not so soon after their attempts to help the resistance led to retribution and bloodshed. Kathryn cannot blame her younger self for ignoring her appeals to save the millions of Federation civilians in outer systems from suffering the fate of future assimilation. She can’t even blame her for not taking the risk to bring her crew home early, perfectly aware of how much they have to lose. So, when the Captain refuses to hear word of the future that awaits her, the Admiral finds those who do listen. She starts with Chakotay, who responds to her happy smile when she catches him alone as if it’s the first time he’s seen the sun after a long night. It’s been nearly eight months since he killed Jenny Delaney and gave the orders that led to the deaths of five others, and Kathryn knows her younger self has not fully forgiven him (or herself). It feels good to give him a short preview of what he might one day come to expect from his estranged friend. She sits with him in the empty mess late that first night and tells him happy, innocuous tales of the journey that still fill her with some joy thinking about. When he’s softened with laughter and the warm feeling of having his friend back in any form, she hits him with it. Age-lined hand over his, in the darkness of the room over empty mugs of tea, she tells him what happens. “You die in a shuttle crash on a humanitarian mission.” Chakotay grows somber then, and she watches as he wars with accepting his Captain’s orders to uphold the temporal prime directive and his morbid curiosity to learn more. It’s the latter that wins out. “When?” “Five years from now.” The knowledge washes over him, and to his credit it does not scare him. Instead, he nods resolutely. ready to hear more. “Tuvok took your place as my first officer, until his illness made him unfit for duty,” she does not explain what that illness is, and he knows better than to ask, “if you can believe it, I ended up with Harry as a first officer and Tom as a second for the last seven years of the voyage.” The lopsided smile falls from her face when she meets his eyes. His Captain will experience no rest, and she will watch as her crew shrinks, the bitterness of it only briefly alleviated by friendly outsiders willing to take their place. Harry will get his promotion but at the cost of friends a cherished colleagues, something they both know he’d trade his pips in to undo. He realizing now, what it will mean for her and the others to finish this journey the long way. She can see it in the way his brow furrows in compassion, not for himself but for her. She needs him to stop thinking of the others now, and start thinking about himself. “She never remarried” Shock and understanding hit Chakotay at the same time. He always was and is quick to the draw. “Who?” Kathryn places her hand over his again, “I think you already know.” After Quarra, the two had grown closer. Friendlier and then more. By their eighth year into the journey the couple had been a fixture. Nothing to blink at. Hardly even a surprise, not with how careful Marla was about making sure that it was okay. And Kathryn had been happy for them — even with the lingering pangs of what if’s that came with the news. Happy enough to officiate their wedding ceremony with an honest smile on her face, and then sad enough to grieve with Marla when he’d gone. “Marla,” he doesn’t whisper, but his voice is low, as if acknowledging it at full volume will make it go away. “Yes. You were very happy. She reminded you that you were capable of forgiving yourself,” she’d reminded Kathryn too, even knowing what she’d nearly done in the final moments of the mutiny, “and you reminded her that there was more to live for than making amends.” Now for the final blow, the one that Marla had been prescient enough to levy against her at the memorial, “She risked her career to help me here, so that any version of them could spend just one more day with you.” “Them?” He asks, but the horror and hope on his face give away that he must know. “You had a daughter. Have. She’s still out there, in the timeline I left. She’s brilliant, Chakotay, just like her parents.” She leaves him there, shaken and swayed, to go find Seven in astrometrics. The younger woman flits between terminals, intent on ignoring her, and Kathryn can’t help but chuckle at the thought that so few things ever really change. “I do not wish to hear what you have say,” Seven eventually declares, when she realizes her silence won’t scare the admiral away. Because avoiding the subject to spare her feelings never works, Kathryn sighs dramatically, “Then I guess I’ll just have to tell Megan.” She’d really rather not. Looking Megan in the eyes — telling her what’s to come and the role that Kathryn plays in it — would be the worst kind of self-flagellation. It’s a regret that still festers, one that makes her stare into the middle distance when she lets her mind wander back to it. The former drone, whose back is to her, stills, “Megan is irrelevant.” Kathryn laughs. Her once-protégé may have grown to resent her so much that they no longer speak, but her tells have not and would never change. “I didn’t understand at first,” Kathryn forges on, “what she meant to you after the mutiny. I don’t think you did, either. Not until Quarra,” that damned planet had changed so much for so many of them, “but the two of you…you’re already trying.” She doesn’t know when Megan went from half-over-the-moon for Seven to completely over it. She’d never gotten the opportunity to ask. Kathryn is standing close enough to Seven now that she can see her throat bob with emotion as she speaks, “You are here to warn me against it.” Emotions of her own prick at Kathryn’s eyes as she takes the risk of settling her hand on Seven’s shoulder. The younger woman does not pull away, even though she tenses, “No. I’ve come here to fix a mistake. My mistake.” A muscle ticks in Seven’s jaw, but she’s finally willing to look at her with imperious blue eyes that are still hardened against her. Kathryn knows that that just means she’s afraid. “You never forgave me for the Doctor,” Kathryn admits, and it’s true. In many ways, she’d taken Seven’s most ardent friend and supporter away from her — not once but twice — and the pain of that never went away. Even as B’Elanna helped him regain many of his lost memories of Voyager; even as he fell into a warm friendship with Seven again. The damage has already been done. “No,” Seven concedes, “I cannot.” “And I can’t change that, but I can change what made you hate me.” Seven still has so far to go when it comes to interpersonal relationships and understanding them, but she has always been able to read Kathryn so clearly. How much of that had been out of fear of being abandoned if she didn’t? How much out of love for a surrogate mother. “I have not told her how I…feel. If I do not, then it will not hurt me when she dies.” So clever. Of course she’d pieced together so few clues and got the correct answer. They’d lost Megan three years after Quarra. The result of another away mission with her Captain that went terribly wrong too quickly. Only, unlike the first time, Aeson had had to choose which of the two to save. In a visceral lesson she’d finally been forced to learn the hard way, Kathryn had come to know that he would always choose her. “It will hurt worse, Seven, because you will have denied yourself the joy for the fear of losing it.” “I cannot…” Seven pauses, at a loss for words. When it comes down to it, this young woman had always and will always live in fear of losing those she loves, “Admiral, I do not know what I am doing.” “So few of us do, but I want you to have the time to figure it out. Let me give you that?” Seven’s nod is subtle but it is there. … Kathryn does not go to Tuvok. Seeing him in his prime is counterintuitively excruciating for her. His stern, controlled features only serve to remind her that she’s left her dearest friend behind, and that he will never understand why. She can’t change his mind anyway. His loyalty will always be primarily to the Captain and the friend he serves. It is why she loves him, and it is why she refuses hurt him by telling him things he must already know will come to pass. Tuvok must see it anyway, in the way she can’t meet his eyes. The next morning, she finds herself standing in front of Aeson’s bookshelf, browsing what is there with an old fondness and a new sadness. It’s been a very long time since she’s been able to do this. As she snoops among his things, he prepares the customary momet tea, as if he’d been expecting her arrival. “I’ll do what she tells me,” he calls over to her, “surely you know that already.” Kathryn smiles, “I’m not here to convince you to commit mutiny.” “Then why are you here?” his voice is closer now, but not directly behind her. When Kathryn looks to check where he’s at, she sees he’s settled onto his couch and is watching her. With a lopsided smile, she pulls down the book she wants and moves to take a seat in the chair perpendicular to his side of the couch. She has countless memories of sitting right in this spot, having friendly and difficult and meaningless conversation with him. Kathryn knows that, in the months since Quarra, the Captain has begun socializing with Aeson — with everyone — more than ever before. In that short time, she has grown to consider the conversations necessary to her sanity. “Can’t I just want to say hello to a friend?” “Are we that?” He softens the blow by eyeing the familiar brown cover of the book in her hand and quirking a brow in question. Kathryn doesn’t answer; instead, she opens the book in her lap and traces the pages delicately. The acknowledgment is shorter and sadder than the first two: ‘For my people, who will one day be forgotten.’ It bodes badly for the story Martzia decided to tell in the pages to follow. “I never got to read this,” she says instead, knowing that even now she won’t be able to. There just isn’t enough time. “They were all destroyed before I could,” is her answer to the worried look he’s giving her. They were just another casualty of all her choices. The sweater his daughter had knitted him had long unraveled and these books, crafted by Martzia’s sharp mind, had been lost to violent hull breach on this deck. All four objects still exist here, now, as more things she can preserve by succeeding. She intends to make the prophetic words of the acknowledgment never come to pass. “It’s her best,” he chooses to join the conversation instead of ending it. Aeson takes it from her, holding it as carefully in his hands as she had, “Although it was criticized at publication for being too bleak in a time that demanded optimism.” “Tell me about it?” She has heard so many stories of Martzia as a child, as a young woman, as a mother and a grandmother. He’d opened up to her quickly after Quarra, helped along by the fact that she’d treated him like a friend she could trust. Maybe that will happen again with the Captain, despite this interruption to their timeline.Even with everything that had happened in the end — by her choice no less — that love was still worth exploring.
He humors her ask as she sips her cup of tea. Kathryn listens and tries not to miss it already. If this works, she will be gone and this will be just another strange memory for Aeson to one day decide what to do with. “Ultimately,” he finishes the summary of a tale of a people trapped in a world they could never leave due to the statistical bad luck of their planet’s core, “the Watchers depart. When they take a single Kelemane man with them, the people rejoice, because that means their history and cultures will be remembered.” “It’s bittersweet,” she acknowledges, sitting her now empty cup aside, “but hardly pessimistic.” Aeson gives her a sad smile, “No. Had it ended there, I think the initial criticism might have been kinder.” “There’s more?” A nod, then, “An epilogue. The man lives for so long among the Watchers that he forgets where he comes from. Kelemane is lost to time, and his memories of it are replaced by those of his new life.” It’s a fear he has yet to share with her younger self, that he may one day live so long he’ll have to choose what memories to carry with him. That in choosing he might whittle away at the time he spent on Kelemane, until it’s but a shadow of an afterthought. Fortunately, between B’Elanna, Reggie, and Lewis, his compression algorithms will be perfected. He’ll live for many more centuries before needing to find another solution. Kathryn reaches out and sets a comforting hand on his knee. He responds with a smile that doesn’t spread beyond his eyes, but lays a hand over hers, thumb passing once then twice over the back of her wrist. This is how the Captain finds them, so used to entering his quarters without needing an invitation that she does. It’s a surprise, but despite the younger woman’s sharp, keen eyes taking in the domestic scene she doesn’t respond to it directly. Instead, she does a valiant job at softening her features when she looks to the doctor, who now appears chastened as he lets go of the Admiral’s hand, “I’ll come back later.” Then, more firmly, “Admiral. Come with me.” By the time they make it back to the Captain’s quarters, her younger self has worked up into a level of irate that Kathryn hasn’t felt since she’d given up coffee. “I told you not to speak to anyone about the future.” Kathryn shrugs, as if to say, ‘what did you expect from me’ which does very little to calm the Captain down. “Chakotay? Seven? I’ve had them both in my ear since this morning. What can I expect Aeson to tell me? Have you unearthed some long dead spouse? A child? Do I maroon him on another damned planet?” It’s interesting that these are the things she fears might happen, at least enough to bring up. Kathryn considers it a shame that they don’t have the time to unpack that. “I haven’t told him anything.” The Captain doesn’t believe her, and Kathryn can’t blame her. She has been doing exactly what she was forbidden from doing, rallying to her cause those that hurt her younger self most. It’s not as though Kathryn expects to win anything, certainly not over the Captain. After all, at the end of this, if everything goes to plan, only one of them will be left alive, and it won’t be the Admiral. What would she have told him anyway? That his worst fear had never come to pass? He could plainly see it just by looking at her, decades older. She’d survived the journey. That he’d had her and lost her, because her pride and duty dictated she right the wrongs of her past? Why should this version of him care about that? What use is there relitigating her past with a man it hasn’t happened to yet? Won’t happen to, if she has any say. “I should just give you a list of the dead,” Kathryn snaps when the Captain continues to look on her with suspicion, “let you look at the names and wonder what happened to them. Joe, Megan, Seles. You thought ‘If they’ve already survived the worst, how could they possibly die now?’ Samantha, just months before she made it home to her husband. He’d waited for her, you know, and for all that waiting he got a traumatized daughter and no body to bury.” “Stop it…” “And Chakotay. Tuvok,” her voice breaks, and she can’t go on. The Captain throws up her arms and turns away, “So am I supposed to rewrite the timeline just to spare my own feelings.” “I’ve told you, you won’t be rewriting it. Mine is still out there, the people there unchanged, the damage the Borg did unchanged.” “Then what’s the point? Nothing you do here will make it better for them.” Kathryn wants to be angry at herself for being so difficult, but she’s just sad, “It will be better for you. Whether you like it or not, this timeline is new and it’s yours. Why waste this opportunity, if you can change it?” “Because what if it’s worse?” The Captain is so close to her now, one hand on her her hip and the other waving about in thought, “What if we introduce the virus to the Borg, and instead of disseminating the Unimatrix Zero genetic code among the Collective as planned, it kills them? I’m capable of many things, but not genocide. Not now that I know they can be saved.” “It will work,” the folks at Montgomery’s lab, the ones who’d risked their careers for an Admiral who would never know their names, had been certain of it. The outcomes of their simulations still lived on her PADD. Millions upon millions of freed drones, enough to turn a small resistance into a real separatist movement. One strong enough to bring down the Borg from within, to offer a kinder future to those assimilated against their will. “And the transwarp hub? How do we know they won’t jump to near Earth orbit before we can stop them?” “Then don’t go through it. Destroy that aperture as soon as you can. There are others, dozens within a thousand lightyears of Federation space. You can be home in months, not years.” She can tell that it’s working, that the Captain is finally listening to her. Just a little more, now. “You’re worried about retribution, but we both know you don’t need to antagonize the Borg for them to bleed you. If you stay this route, you’ll lose twenty more crew to the Borg. Morrow and Chell are assimilated. Chakotay dies trying to provide aide to their victims. Megan….” she swallows, the guilt still making it hard to say aloud, “will die in three years of you follow this course. Seven never forgives you. She joins the Borg resistance the first opportunity she gets. There is no way you can avoid the danger, whether you follow my plan or don’t, because the next twelve-thousand light years are Borg space.” The Captain’s posture visibly sags, her hand coming up to rub at her brow. It’s one thing to do that herself and another to see it happen. Uncanny. Endearing. She thinks if Chakotay and Marla and their girl, Selena, who may not be born the same here but who exists somewhere else. Of Matthew Paris who is at no risk of not being conceived, because he already has been. Of those short years that Megan looked happy again and Seven looked at peace. She thinks of the decade and more she let herself love someone, before she pushed him away to do this. Kathryn takes pity, “Good things happened too. I think they still could if we do this. You can give them a chance to happen more often. Take the risk, Kathryn.” “Okay,” it’s soft, barely audible, and Kathryn almost doesn’t hear. And then it comes again, more firmly, “Okay.” … Aeson and Ravok, always the clever medical duo, are able to synthesize the virus in a matter of days. Their own simulations match those of the nameless scientists who created it. With each new practice run of her leg of the mission and Voyager’s in the holodeck, the mood among the senior staff lightens. Baiting and infecting the Queen, and subsequently 13% of the collective, is the easy part. Kathryn has brought with her knowledge and technology from the future that the Queen cannot refuse. She knows which buttons to push to force her into rash decisions. The hard part rests with B’Elanna, Tom, and Tuvok. The engineer must install the ablative shields and weaponry they need to force their way into the hub, Tom needs to practice the flight pattern that will get them there, and Tuvok’s task is hardest of all. He must practice the excruciatingly fine targeting that will destroy the direct route to Earth before a small retributory fleet can use it to lay the Federation low, all while allowing them to take the one that should drop them no more than a year from Federation space. The excitement, the nerves, and the determination grow until the very end. As Kathryn prepares her shuttle the night before the mission, the Captain meets her there. She thinks it’s to deliver the hypospray with the virus she’ll need to inject herself before entering the Queen’s cube, but that isn’t it. Her younger self looks around the flight controls of the shuttle, calm and quiet as Kathryn works. Eventually, she starts to help until there is nothing left to do. “Thank you,” the Captain finally says, when they’re seated in silence. “Don’t thank me yet,” but she smiles, already thinking of the other woman as another woman. This Kathryn Janeway will have a different future, will become a different kind of admiral if she wants to. Perhaps, if Kathryn wasn’t about to set off to her death, they may have become a weird sort of friends in time. “I won’t be able to thank you at the appropriate time, if this works.” She chuckles because otherwise she’ll think about what it will really mean to die this way, partially assimilated into the Collective, “Fair enough.” Another silence falls, and when it’s about time to leave and prepare in a completely different sort of way for this mission, one that involves sitting with her crew one last time in the mess, she speaks, “Can I give you a final round of unsolicited advice?” “Will I be able to stop you?” Kathryn shrugs, then smiles, then shakes her head, “No, I suppose not.” The Captain smiles back through her exhaustion, “Go on.” “Don’t push him away.” It says plenty that the Captain doesn’t ask who, “Is that what you did?” “I don’t think I would be here, if I hadn’t.” “Was he trying to stop you?” “Oh, no, I don’t think so. In the end, he even helped me, when I asked.” “Always only when we ask,” but there’s a fondness there, even if her eyes are downcast as she keys commands into her own PADD. Yes, they’re talking about the same man. “No,” Kathryn sighs, “the problem was that I was happy, but so many people I loved weren’t. If I didn’t do something, if I didn’t try…” That regret, that happiness, it would have soured into guilt. The Captain is staring at her, blue eyes clear and knowing, “How do you feel now?” Sad, she wants to say, but she doesn’t have to. Who knows her better than herself? “Like I’m going to sleep very well tonight.” … In the morning, she climbs back into the shuttle with her chin held high. The time has come to say her final goodbye.
β Perseus Aa1
The SC-4 is a small blip on the bridge view screen as they prepare to complete their part of the mission. Kathryn feels many things — anxious, tired, hopeful — but mostly she feels certain. Despite her initial misgivings and her refusal to do what needed to be done, she knows now that it is the right thing. She stands between the conn and her chair, muscles tense as she prepares to receive the word from the Admiral that will start the longest hour of her life. Behind her, Chakotay sits at command double and triple checking that all stations are ready. Seven is standing beside and aiding Tuvok, who has agreed her expertise is needed to make that all important first (and possibly only strike). If they miss, if they hit the wrong one, the Borg could adapt and lock them out. B’Elanna is in engineering, her comm line open to the bridge. Aeson stands at the rail above the lower bridge. Ravok has sickbay, ready to respond to any injuries that might occur on the decks below, while her CMO is stationed to handle any that might occur here. His presence is as soothing as the others, if not more, and when she turns to briefly look back at him, he gives her a confident nod. “Incoming hail from the Admiral.” “On screen, Harry.” Her face, over twenty years older and yes, perhaps wiser, fills the screen. She looks determined and prepared to do what must be done. The sadness that marred her feature the evening before is gone, replaced with an unfamiliar peace. “I’ll be entering the nebula now. Follow behind as planned, and I’ll send the signal when I’ve been taken aboard the Cube. Strike then. ” “Understood and good luck, Admiral.” “Promise me that you’ll get them home,” there’s a subtle crack in her mask as she makes her request. Despite the fact that they share a face, Kathryn cannot quite read the Admiral’s true feelings in this moment. Desperation? Hope? “I will,” she promises. The Admiral stares at her crew on the bridge for a moment longer, and then she nods once before cutting the line. “Prepare to enter the nebula,” Kathryn orders. “Yes Ma’am,” Tom responds, hands sliding along the console in front of him. Immediately, Voyager begins to move at impulse speed, keeping fifty thousand kilometers between it and the SC-4. They ease in behind it, find their cover, and then begin the long, quiet wait. Thirty minutes later, the Admiral’s message that she’s been taken aboard the Queens ship comes loud and clear. The SC-4 explodes, taking with it all the technology the Borg could hope to get their hands on. “Tom, go.” They race toward the hub, their ablative shields protecting them from the initial volley of fire from the two cubes that arrive to engage them. After the third hit, she turns to Tuvok, “Report.” “Shield integrity at 97 percent.” The ship rocks around them. “90 percent.” Another four cubes move to intercept them. Kathryn grits her teeth, “Evasive maneuver’s, Tom.” “Already on it!” She barely keeps her balance as the inertial dampeners try to keep up with his banking. They dodge another volley of weapons fire and an attempt to catch them in a tractor beam. It looks like they might be able to shake off at least three of them, until three cubes and a sphere drop out of warp behind them. Before Kathryn can swear, certain they’re well laid plans are on the brink of being ruined, the new interlopers begin firing on the two cubes still flanking them. Harry calls up the audio from the broadcasting sphere. A familiar, gruff voice can be heard shouting Klingon obscenities. Kathryn looks back at Seven, a question plain as day on her face. She can hardly believe it. The blonde nearly smirks, “I requested backup.” The time to chide her for not disclosing that information will have to be later, right now, they move finish their mission. “Hold your fire, save it for the hub. Tom?” “We’re nearing the conduit,” he calls. “Tuvok!” Three transphasic torpedos rush from the aft banks, streaking through the nebula toward their targets. The first is the aperture the Admiral told them would take them less than a light year from Earth. The torpedo hits it, just as a cube tries to enter, and the resulting explosion destroys the vessel with it. The other two hit junctions that Seven has assured them will lead to the complete destruction of the hub. Tom keeps them on course toward their way out of this mess, at the breakneck speed meant to get them to their aperture before the cascade gets there first. “Brace yourselves!” Kathryn shouts, bounding to her chair where she sits and white kunckles the arm rests just as they enter. Their approach is less than graceful, roughened by the battle and destruction behind them. The hub pulses around them, jostling the ship, and shaking her down to her skeleton. Tom remains admirably keyed into his console, working hard to ease the rest of the ride, as behind them, a cube fires on them and a sphere retaliates on the cube. Moments later they are spit out, and the sphere slams through the remains of the cube just as the hub conduit collapses in a self-contained implosion. Around the bridge, the red alert klaxons blare and several of the consoles steam and spark. Kathryn can still feel the clacking of her teeth from the rough ride, but is able to right herself in her seat. She can just make out Chakotay doing the same. “Report.” “Shield integrity at 10 percent,” Tuvok, bleeding from a small cut on his brow, is the first to answer. “Casualties on decks 5, 6, and 10. No fatalities,” Harry looks up and is the first to smile. “The sphere is hailing,” Chakotay says to her, voice soft and low at her side. Kathryn looks at him, takes it in that they might have done this, and grabs his forearm. It’s the first time she’s touched him in months, and open relief relaxes his shoulders when she does. “Tom, figure out where we are. On the screen, Commander.” A proud Klingon’s grin greets her. It’s been nearly a year since she’s seen him, since she’s heard how his insurgency is faring, and Kathryn can’t help but smile broadly in return. “Korok, you’re alive.” “It is a good day,” he nearly shouts, raising a fist but not finishing the usual saying, “you have delivered am impressive blow!” Kathryn looks at Chakotay, then back at Aeson and Tuvok. She had resigned herself to having to wait to know if the Admiral’s plan had worked in its entirety. It seems to her now that the answer will come much sooner. “What’s happening?” “We have destroyed the Queen. Even now your pathogen is working its way through affected cubes. We shall have our army!” Emotions war within her. She knows without needing to ask that the Admiral is dead, yet she’ll will never know what her final moments looked like or what she was able to say to the Queen. If it frightened her, to know that her Collective was about to splinter, all thanks to her own foolish decisions. Kathryn can’t help but to continue smiling, to accept that Korok’s glee is infectious. Her ally has been handed a victory today as well, “What will you do next? The hub is destroyed.” He looks to his own crew, not visible on the screen, and then nods. Finally, the smile is replaced with a serious frown, “We will rendezvous with our forces in the Beta quadrant and regroup.” “Let us know if there’s anything the Federation can do.” He smiles again, all teeth, “The Federation, the Empires, yes. I am sure you will all hear from us soon.” The screen flicks back to an image of the space around them and the sphere disappears. “Well,” Chakotay says, “that went well.” She huffs out a laugh, “Tom?” Her pilot turns to look at her, eyes suspiciously bright, “we’re 874 light years from Earth, if we go around the Romulan Empire instead of through it.” The hand on her shoulder that keeps her from staggering is warm and welcome. Kathryn looks to find that Aeson has joined her in the lower deck. His silence had nearly made her forget he was there, and now she can only smile wanly, her hand reaching up to cover his. “Go, help Ravok.” “Of course, Captain.” As he leaves, she turns to look to Tuvok, then to Seven and Harry in turn. They are each their own version of happy. They are each looking at her like they cannot believe that it worked. Eyes moving back to Tuvok, knowing now what the future would have cost him if it hadn’t, she clears her throat and slaps her combadge. “Computer, open a ship-wide channel.” A chime indicates that it has followed her orders. She keeps her speech short and sweet, and her voice still cracks: “We’re going home.” … There is so much to do. Almost more than the time they have to do it in: just under eight months by Seven and Harry’s estimations. They decidedly do not take a shortcut through the Romulan Empire. They wouldn’t have even if they’d been invited to. The technology and information contained within Voyager is too much of a temptation to take that risk. It is for the same reason they do not make toward the Klingon Empire, keenly aware that their allies aren’t always their allies. Instead, they plot a course that will take them, ironically, toward the Delta Quadrant before cutting toward the Alpha Quadrant at a distance suitable enough to keep the Romulans from discovering them and staging an intercept mission. The path is verified by Starfleet Command, which immediately classifies the mission upon learning what the Admiral has done and scrambles three deep space vessels to rendezvous with them. They will meet with their first, friendly Starfleet ship in three months. Then another two a month after that. In that time, they cannot make contact with their families at home. The risk is too great that the messages will be intercepted and Voyager put at risk. It seems like domestic politics have remained as fraught as they were when she left, albeit with a different flavor. So, they work to repair the systems damaged during their trip through the transwarp hub. Then, they work to complete their reports for that mission. All the while, they still meet species they have never met before along the way. They help where they can, only now with more caution as Kathryn’s inherent recklessness will no longer help them grow ever closer to home.
They hear nothing from the Borg, Unimatrix Zero or otherwise, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. Waiting to ask for help or to try their hand again at revenge. The relief is shot through with a certain inward paranoia. Until they make it, until her people step foot off this ship at McKinley station, she will continue to fear the other shoe dropping. … It’s the evening before their rendezvous with the USS Faraday, and Kathryn has settled in with Tuvok at his usual table in the mess. Chell’s idea of a casserole is even worse than Neelix’s, so she’s opted instead to replicate a salad. Tuvok, for the most part, ignores his soup to gaze out the view port. “Penny for your thoughts.” “You do not need to pay me with antiquated human currency,” he reprimands, but his eyes are focused on her now. “No, I suppose not. I’d like to hear them anyway, antiquated human expression aside.” “I regret that I did not tell you I am ill.” She chews her lettuce, wondering if blue cheese was the right dressing to select, and waits for him to speak again. It would be a lie yo tell him that learning it from the Admiral had not hurt. He would know it’s a lie. “I did not want to burden you with the knowledge until it could not be ignored. You would have felt my indignity for me, and I wished for a few more years of normalcy between us.” It’s the closest he’ll ever get to saying he didn’t want his illness to change their friendship. Kathryn is honest enough with herself now to know that it would have. The expectation of losing him would have made every interaction hurt, if only a little. Could she fault him for wanting to avoid that as long as he could? No. There is very little she will ever fault him for. “Will Elieth be on the Cataria?” “The fal-tor-voh can wait.” “That doesn’t answer my question.” Tuvok isn’t one prone to sighing, so he regards his soup instead, “Yes. He will arrive on the Cataria. I informed him that his brother Sek could perform the meld when I return, but he is not one to be dissuaded by logic.” Because she has known him most of her adult life, Kathryn knows what is bothering him, “No one will begrudge you for seeing your family before they see theirs, Tuvok.” “I suspect you are wrong.” “Nonsense,” she says through a tomato, enjoying how her lack of table manners bothers him, “Harry’s academy roommate is aboard the Faraday, and I know for a fact that Mortimer Harren’s sister is aboard the New Amsterdam. Everyone will find someone they’re happy to see.” Even you, she doesn’t add. “Your logic is sound.” “You could try making that sound a little less surprised, my friend.” Her logic is, indeed sound. The Faraday has 767 crew to Voyager’s 129 and 2 children. Kathryn finds herself wishing Neelix was still aboard, certain that the Talaxian would have had the time of his life catering to the Starfleet Officers that come and go between ships. Chell does his best to host parties and events in the mess, but he’s missing that little bit of flair that brings it all together. For her part, Kathryn accepts Captain Jaqueline Field’s dry demeanor for what it is. The older woman is in her sixties and discusses the topic of the Dominion War as if it is the weather. They share a few meals and exchange a few stories, but by the end of the Faraday’s three-week babysitting mission, Kathryn is happy to see the other captain and her crew off. “The Delta Quadrant has made me a hermit,” she gripes to Aeson, when he finally manages to drag her into sickbay for a long overdue physical. He says nothing, but hums and continues to scan her. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m not a hermit.” Ravok does an admirable job of suppressing a chuckle from where he’s standing at one of the terminals, inputing commands. It’s not his fault he’s eavesdropping, and it isn’t the first time he’s overheard this level of bantering between his CMO and captain. “If I recall,” Aeson mutters in that sing-song voice of his that has started coming back to him, now that B’Elanna is helping him with his memories, “you don’t like it when I lie to you.” She has half a mind to protest, but merely rolls her eyes instead. “Should I rescind my holodeck invitation, if its going to make you liar?” His smile is crooked and his hand is warm where he touches her shoulder, “You’re healthy, and I’ll see you at o’900.” “Bring a bowler hat,” she orders cryptically. A week later, the New Amsterdam makes contact. The ship carries with it much needed supplies and sticks around for four days before departing for its next mission. Two days later, the Cataria falls out of warp beside them, and with it comes their first mission from command. When it’s over, and they’ve avoided a war with supremely intolerable planet of ghouls that make the Romulans look friendly, Kathryn can’t help but mutter to Chakotay when he brings her his report of the debacle in her ready room. “See, I told you I’m rusty at taking orders.” His grin comes with dimples and Cataria comes with Tuvok’s cure and Kathryn feels like the other shoe still might drop. … Their next crises are minor affairs. A radiogenic species takes over their warp core and nearly destroys the ship with four months left on their journey. Through pure rage and tenacity and the protective instincts of a mother-to-be, B’Elanna evicts them into a subspace well. A week later a star goes super nova in range of a system where the post-warp species is incapable of fleeing fast enough. They can’t save everyone on the colony that’s affected, but they do save enough and warp out just in time to avoid the blast. A Bird-of-Prey finds them three weeks after that, acting as evasively as expected. The Romulan’s aggressive ploy to ensnare some of her crew by feigning engine damage and casualties suffered in a skirmish with the Orions is transparent. Just when things start to look bleak for Voyager, a Gorn vessel appears to complete a violent act of retribution which destroys the Bird. The Gorn behave magnanimously afterward, and so she doesn’t look their gift of intervention in the mouth. At the end of each stressful encounter, Tuvok reports that there are no casualties as if that is a given. … The embargo on personal communication is lifted with three months left. They’re so close to familiar space, that even Kathryn has found that most of her misgivings have faded away. Around her, her crew are able to write and comm and respond to their family and friends as often as they want. No more waiting a month between metered messages. No more counting quads to se if the next paragraph of text can fit. No more fearing the Borg have embedded activation codes in letters from children. It is also the first time Kathryn is able to send a message to Neelix. She knows her morale officer and distant friend must have worried when his regular communication with Voyager had ceased abruptly. They had been unable to warn him, lest the Borg intercepted the message. While her good tidings won’t reach their destinations for over a month each, she knows Neelix will appreciate it. They hear what will become of the Maquis once the lines open, and Admiral Hayes actually appears happy when he tells her that Command wanted to wait to tell her the good news until she dockd, but that’d he’d convinced them that there is no better time than the present. She sits with Chakotay after the news gets out. The pardons had been expected, but that doesn’t stop the level of revelry in the mess to rival the celebration that occurred there when they made it to the Beta Quadrant. He nurses a cider as she makes do with her usual coffee, and they watch their family and crew let off some steam. “What’s in your future,” she asks, in a way she knows will make him smile. Their relationship is mending, and Kathryn thinks that by the time they reach Earth, it will be strong enough to survive going separate ways. Once, she would have hoped to explore something more with him — she knows he used to feel the same way — but there is no shame in the flavor of that love shifting into the fierce loyalty of a friend. He does, slow but wide, “You’ve converted me back to the Starfleet way of things. We’ll see if they let me back in.” “Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem,” she’d already sent her commendations for all those worthy, and all of them were worthy. Him most especially of all. Chakotay ducks his head, hiding his dimples in his drink, and she continues, “What about Marla?” He sits quietly for a moment, dark eyes suddenly serious. They soften when he realizes that she’s asking him as their friend, not their Captain. “The Equinox crew have all decided not to fight for time served. She plans to plead guilty. Most expect to lose their commission, but with the effort that she’s put in rehabilitate herself in the Delta Quadrant, I think they’ll allow her to return to duty in time.” He isn’t answering the entirety of the question, but Kathryn lets it go. If he wants to hold the burgeoning relationship close to his chest until it’s able to survive it’s first steps off this ship, who is she to begrudge him that? “You know I’ll do my best for them,” she is already putting in the political work to secure them fair deals. It’s Chakotay who knows them best, though, and Chakotay who has worked to rehabilitate them since they came aboard. “I do, and they do.” Kathryn cannot pretend to know the minds of all the Equinox crew, just Marla’s. All she really knows is that she has her own regrets to assuage. “What about you,” he asks, “surely Command will want to make an admiral of you.” She gives him her wryest look, leans back comfortably in her chair, and takes a long pull of her tepid coffee. A beat later, she decides she knows the answer, “I’ll be happy to put off Admiral Janeway as long as I can.” “I don’t know,” he chuckles, “she seemed pretty well-adjusted, all things considered.” Kathryn couldn’t, wouldn’t, let herself become the type of person who so easily throw away her present to alter the past, “Well-adjusted people don’t create an entirely new, branching timeline. Put me out of my misery if I ever try to do that.” He’s at ease with her dark humor, but his expression is too knowing: she’s being serious. “Yeah. It might be best if you put off the promotion for a few years. I’m sure they’ll give you your choice of ship.” “They will,” she concedes. He nearly groans and a shout goes up across the mess as Harry beats Joe at a game of cards, “Just promise me its name won’t be synonymous with a long and winding journey.” Kathryn snorts, “Any Odyssey or Odysseus or Epic is off the list.” …
It’s a message from her mother and a followup comm from Admiral Paris, one right after the other at the end of a long shift, that make her truly smile. She leaves her ready room abruptly, gives Harry the bridge, and sets off to find the recipient of her good news before Chell’s, “We’re Two Months Away” or is it his “B’Elanna’s One Month Away” bash in the holodeck? … “I have happy news, Aeson,” she enters his quarters without bothering to change for the celebration first, content with finally being able to surprise him with something good for once. “Oh?” He appears in the doorway to his room, tugging down the edges of the very real knit sweater he has very clearly just finished changing into for Chell’s party. His posture is curious and in no way perturbed that she’s interrupted him. Not that she’s set him back — holograms have to try to appear ruffled, as ‘put together’ is their natural state. She realizes some explanation is in order, since she failed to share her one-off request to her mother with him when she made it. “Before Quarra, I asked my contacts in Starfleet to find you representation. I’ve just gotten word that all the preliminary steps to petition the Federation courts for your personhood have been completed. Admiral Paris found you counsel and has just assured me that the final ruling will be a formality. You’ll be a Federation citizen before we make it back.” As she speaks, he moves from the doorway of his room into the living room, then nearer still as what she’s done for him (or rather what she’d asked others to do in lieu of her) is made clear until finally he enters her space. There is something gentle in his expression as he stops in front of her, like she’s dear to him. He’s worn the same expression for months now, when he doesn’t think she’s looking. Kathryn is sure that she has as well, even thought she doesn’t remember when she started to. His lips are light on her cheek, his hand warm where he’s used the curve of his knuckles to tilt her chin upward. The intimacy in the way his breath stirs the hair near her ear silences any objections she might raise. He lingers there for a second longer before dropping his hand to her shoulder and drawing away. The admiral had all but admitted this had been her future. Not quite like this, certainly not quite now, given the changes to her timeline, but that somewhere — somewhen — in a timeline she’ll never see, they’d crossed a line she’d drawn to keep others away. Why him? He’s been persistent and she’s never bothered to stamp out that spark from Quarra. What can she say to answer that in any way that isn’t an excuse? She follows the path of the words he’s about to speak until she can press his thank you against his mouth. It’s so sudden and purely on impulse, that the thought she shouldn’t be doing this with any member of her crew — least of all him — comes and goes in the scant second it takes him to fold into the kiss. Aeson doesn’t need to breathe, but he eventually allows her to, using the brief moments she takes to collect herself to work his fingers quickly along the zipper of her uniform jacket. It slips from her shoulders with the slide of his hands down her arms and a shrug. Kathryn watches his eyes as he carefully plucks the pips from her collar two-by-two and then considers them. When he tosses them away to scatter across the floor, she makes an aborted sound of protest. Now that he’s stripped her of her rank, he finally speaks, “Unless you want me to call you Captain?” While the words are a friendly challenge, there’s a strain around his eyes, as if even now he expects her to insist he should. She grips the sides of his sweater, not allowing herself to do more than press into his lean frame through its knitted fabric. Knowing that the muscles and the soft padding of skin above them have never actually served any function does not stop her from enjoying the ambient warmth of him beneath her fingers. The light dances off his dark eyes as she does so, expression softening, and his hand cradles the back of her head so he can anchor her gaze to his. It’s fathomless and intense, and she can see every one of the years he’s been forced to live. As much as she’s come to enjoy who he is now, it wouldn’t be wise to give into whatever version this unintentional obsession of his has become, but the time to restraint had passed the moment she kissed him. Kathryn slides a hand up his chest over the subtle dip of his clavicle to the skittering inhuman tap of his pulse where it jumps beneath the simulated skin of his neck that had not and will never truly age. “I don’t.” He's the one to kiss her, then. They’re an hour late to Chell’s party and still the other shoe doesn’t drop. … When they make it McKinley Station, every member of her crew that came through the transwarp hub steps off Voyager alive. Looking at them, watching as they depart and disperse toward their new futures, Kathryn realizes she has no more regrets.
β Perseus Ab
It’s time to say goodbye. Aeson follows the Admiral aboard her SC-4 and cannot help but admire, as he always does, that she doesn’t act as if she’s going to the gallows. Her shoulders are strait and her chin up. Even without seeing her eyes, he knows they show neither resignation nor anxiety, just the determination to see the job done. He doesn't know if she looked this way the first time she did this. He’d let Captain Janeway give her the hypospray containing the Unimatrix Zero genetic virus then, unable to to be the one to see her off to her death. Not when it was so new, not when all he’d needed to do to finalize his plans was scan the chrono deflector when no one was looking. He’d regretted it nearly immediately, and has never made the same mistake again. The Admiral — Kathryn, he reminds himself, because even still she’s his first Kathryn — walks through her final checks as he waits for her to finish. He’s decided she does this to spend more time with him before the end, even though she doesn’t know what to say to a man she thinks doesn’t know everything she’s been trough. Sometimes, he tells her that he does know, and watches as she works through the stages of understanding and grief. Sometimes he sends her off without knowing at all just to enjoy her uncomplicated friendship. More interesting is when she is able to read his words and his face and just know — half of the truth, at least. He wonders what it will be this time. “When should I administer the hypospray,” it’s the first question she always asks. He knows that she knows the answer. “Just before you deploy your decoy. That will give it time to work through your system before they’re able to assimilate you,” what he doesn’t tell her is that he’s also loaded it with an agent to mute her nervous system response. By the time she’s assimilated, she won’t even feel it. It’s the least he can do — sparing her that pain. Aeson ducks down to take the secondary pilot seat, and she finally looks at him. He’s lost count of how many times they’ve done this, although he knows he could find it again if he tries. What remains constant between each is that he never regrets taking the opportunity to say goodbye to her. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually, taking his presence in reaching a conclusion. Mostly she’s sorry for Kelemane, but sometimes something he’s said has made her think of something else to be sorry for. “For what?” he asks, sweetly, like there isn’t anything in the world that should make her apologize. The smile that reaches her eyes is his reward, and then Kathryn reaches out and touches his cheek, “It’s you.” He lets her trace the holographic stubble along his jaw before he grabs her hand, kisses her knuckles, and nods. One time, he told her everything. How Reggie, when she’d ended their relationship and cut off communication, took pity on him and explained what she intended to do. At first, he’d been desperate to stop her throwing her life away. How with time, he’d eventually resigned himself to it, until he decided that he couldn't wait for her to ask for his help. How he’s mostly forgotten Lana, not because she wasn’t lovely, but because she’d served her purpose. Who else but him could have created a virus to genetically resequenced so many Borg constituent species? Who else but him would? Who else could get him into that lab but the daughter of the man who ran it? Now, he lets her piece it together on her own. Why he gave her the chronexaline without a putting up a fight. How Marla knew to help when she did. Kathryn’s mind is as sharp as it has ever been, and even though she doesn’t make the connections out loud, he can see it come together in the slightest furrow and lift of her brow. “Why did you come back?” she finally asks. She always asks that, when she’s able to figure it out. He never lies to her. He never has, not when she asks. “Because you did.” If she had asked how he came back, the answer would be longer. All it had taken was Reggie transferring his program to her PADD. She did the difficult work of making sure it was aboard the shuttle when she went back. His program had automatically transferred to his mobile emitter, where it overwrote his past self. From there it had taken only a little bit of effort to keep Torres from seeing the near decades of improvements made to his routines. The engineer is always busy after all, first with prepping Voyager for its grand mission, and eventually with the impending birth of Matthew. Kathryn will never know to ask him how he keeps coming back. “What will you do now?” What I always do, he thinks. “I’ll figure it out as I go, and make sure that everyone is okay.” It’s at this point she either accepts what he has done or feels betrayed. He still doesn’t know what he says or does before this moment to trigger either reaction. When she reacts badly, he can’t tell if it’s because she can't reconcile the fact that he will move on, likely with her younger self, or if it’s because she suspects he has ulterior motives. Even now she doesn’t quite know how to trust him entirely. She accepts it -- him -- now and gives his hand a final sorrowful squeeze. He never actually says goodbye, because he knows he’ll see her again. Right here. Right when. Always at the moment it matters most. Instead, he leans in to kiss her, the way he’d wanted to in her apartment back before the first time they arrived here. Then he pulls away and wishes her luck. She doesn’t need it. This Kathryn is very good at dying and taking the Borg Queen with her. … Once again, because she knows who he is, the Admiral appears on the view screen just before the end and asks Aseson to get her crew home. The Captain, who thinks she’s the one being asked, gives her promise as he nods, just the once, from his position at the bridge railing. He’s learned, through hard work and dedication and pure luck, how to keep that promise. The first time they’d carried out the Admiral’s plans, Korok wasn’t there to provide aide. Voyager lost ten of its crew in the skirmish and landed two thousand light years away from Federation space. The resulting journey had cost them five more. Now, every time he corrects the mistake before it can be made, Seven looks at him when he tells her she should reach out to the Klingon and does not ask why. When the Admiral is gone and the Captain is the only Kathryn left, he continues to keep his promise. Radiogenic life no longer threatens to harm B’Elanna’s unborn son. Harry, Tom and Seles no longer perish trying to save one more shuttle of colonists from the super nova. The Gorn receive a communique with the exact location of the ship that raided their shipyard before the Romulans can kidnap Seven and kill Baxter. Aeson has gotten very good at making sure no one suspects what he’s doing. (Except for the once, when everyone knew the half of it but eventually gave up trying to stop him.) Kathryn still expects the worst each time, as if she preternaturally knows how it went in that first, second, third, and nth branching timeline. She still spends the months it takes to get to Earth half ill-at-ease, waiting for a divine or temporal punishment that will never come. Aeson has not figured out how to prevent her fretting, he can only do his part to alleviate it in the moment. Just another mystery he looks forward to solving one day. … This time, he does not thank her in a way that leads to a kiss before Chell’s party. That had been wonderful but unexpected, since he never embarks on each new timeline anticipating her to show the same interest she had in the original. Part of the joy of living the remainder of his life this way is that he can experience every repeated moment differently and find something new in each. Most often, he spends the decades of her remaining life as one of her closest friends. Sometimes they eventually become lovers. Rarely, do they leave the ship having already become so. As long as she doesn’t push him completely away in a timeline, he considers it a good one indeed. Because they are not late, Kathryn is able to spend more time one-on-one with B’Elanna at her baby shower. The engineer never views her Captain as a mother or a close friend (not until Voyager is well behind them), but she loves her in her own way: as the person who finally had faith that she could be more than permanently angry, something more than a liability with the penchant for breaking things. She always asks her captain to be her son’s godmother, but how she does so differs. When Kathryn isn’t late for the celebration, B’Elanna asks her when the cake is cut and passed around. When she is late, due to duty or something happier, the engineer waits until she’s given birth to make the offer. No matter how it plays out, Kathryn has to surreptitiously wipe the tears from her eyes. Another benefit of arriving on time is watching Seven and Megan enter together. The sheer number of witnesses who notice how close they stand to one another fuel the gossip markets for weeks. Aeson finds another small joy in getting to be one of those merry gossip-mongers. … They are a week from Earth, and he doesn’t see the offered posting until the end of his shift. Between final inventory and creating treatment plans for each member of the crew who requires continued care, he misses the small alert on his computer terminal indicating a message is waiting. It only comes to his attention when he submits what he knows will be his final report as the CMO of Voyager, at least until next time. When he downloads it to his PADD, curiosity piqued by this thing he has never seen before in any of the other timelines, the content has an immediate and profound effect. Aeson nearly forgets to transfer his program to his mobile emitter before rushing out of sickbay in search of its sender. It’s only Ravok’s timely yelp that prevents him from losing an arm or a head and needing to recompile. He finds her in engineering, where she’s on the second level heckling a decidedly exasperated B’Elanna. The new mother is sleep deprived and grumpy, but despite her air of annoyance, she bickers back with an ease that suggests she’s enjoying herself. Aeson looks up at them, PADD clutched to his chest, and watches as the engineer is the first to notice him. With more perception than he has ever given her credit for, she mutters something to Kathryn and takes the lift to main engineering. “She’s all yours,” B’Elanna says as she passes, “See if you can get her out of here before Vorik starts weeping.” “No promises,” Aeson mutters, and then he takes her place on the lift. Kathryn is leaning her elbows against the rail, admiring the peaceful hum of a well-calibrated warp core, when he sidles up beside her. If he were organic, he’d surely be trying to catch his breath. The offer he holds in his hands and the way the light bounces off her welcoming smile is enough to steal the air from the lungs of anyone who has them. “What do you think?” She isn’t asking about the view. “What if I’m tired of being a CMO? A Doctor? I’ve been doing variations of the same thing for centuries.” Her smile softens but doesn’t disappear; Kathryn knows he’s only pretending to be difficult for the sake of keeping up appearances. “You could certainly find a new posting. Leave Starfleet. I don’t doubt you’re capable of succeeding wherever you go. There are other ships, other postings. You could lead your own research, pick your own team…have everything you’ve ever thought you deserved.” It all sounds magnificent. It always is magnificent, when it’s what he chooses to do. There’s a but in her happy tone, one he’s never heard before. The possibilities of this something new nearly drive him to distraction. Aeson stares at the side of her face as she continues to watch the reaction in the core, the light bouncing off her eyes with hints of deep blues and greens. Everything about her posture is loose, the weight of duty and regret gone from her now that they are so close to Earth. There is only Kathryn in her right now, no Captain, no Admiral. The PADD shifts with the twitch of his hands. “But….” He prompts, soft and low, drawing her gaze to his. “You could come with me to the Venture.” She can’t say something like that, with that glint in her eyes, in the middle of engineering where he can’t really react, at least not in the way he wants to. Mostly with a thousand questions, each a variation of the last to make sure he understands the exact parameters of what she means. “I can’t leave Starfleet, not without seeing where else it takes me,” she turns, only one of her arms leaning against the railing, so that they can face one another. “It will take you anywhere you want to go,” his face feels separate from him, hard to control, a little cumbersome. He doesn’t know what the future of this timeline holds, but he knows her. Captain or Admiral, she always finds a way to make Starfleet fit to her. Sometimes, she even lets him come along for the ride. Kathryn huffs out a laugh, then raises her free hand to buff her own chin. A thoughtful, quiet moment passes, and she looks away from him to stare off into some possible future, “I guess you would know.” There has only been one timeline where the Captain knew he was the Admiral’s Aeson. In the only one where the Admiral had felt betrayed enough to tell her. In that branch, he'd been forced to wait out the remainder of the Captain’s life, as neither a friend nor something more, until he could go back and do it all over again. This is the first time she’s figured it out on her own. He can’t help but feel proud, even as he worries, and wonder how long she's suspected. Why she’s waited until now, when they’re at a crossroads, to say anything. Mostly, he marvels at the thousands of possibilities this opens if, if her knowing doesn't immediately make her distrust him. “It’s different this time. You’re different,” he says. He doesn’t deny her revelation, but neither does he explain further, lest he give more away. He's said the right thing, because her posture remains loose and she doesn’t look ready to end what has been a very promising friendship so far. “Is Vorik still lurking?” She eventually asks. “Not that I can see. That’s a really weird non sequit—“ He leans into the kiss she cuts him off with. The buzz from the contact ricochets pleasantly through his subroutines as he cradles her face between his hands. Kathryn pulls away too soon, with something of an incorrigible smile as she says, “In case you needed me to clarify what I meant when I said you could come with me.” An entire fleet of Voriks could be lurking and he wouldn’t care; he steals his own kiss, happy to once again be able to. “I’m not getting caught out like a pair of teenagers by B’Elanna,” she chides — with no real bite — when he’s barely had his fill. “She did ask me to convince you to leave.” Kathryn laughs, full-bodied, before looping an arm through his and pulling him toward the lift. The chief engineer gives him a mock solute when she sees them leaving together, something a little too knowing in her smirk. “Let’s grab coffee. I can talk you in to accepting the posting, and you can tell me about your romp through time.” He smiles primly, “I’ll have you know that I already sent my acceptance…” … Later, when he does it all again — when he holds a hand out to her and she accepts it — he will acknowledge that this is no great love story. If Kelemane taught him anything, it’s that everyone he cares about will die. Then, with time and due to limitations of his own programming, the memories of them will die as well. Kathryn, B’Elanna, Reggie, and Lewis alway thinks that the solution to this terrible condition of his life is to forever extend his memory so that he never forgets. They never consider that it's not forgetting the people he loves that's the problem; it's them dying. He can't mourn those he doesn't remember, after all. When he'd chosen his captain to anchor his memories to, he'd considered her the logical choice. Memory files that contained her in them had more of the crew than any of the others. If his compression solution had worked properly, he would have been able briefly recall everything he needed to know about another person — another friend — by recalling any of those overlapping memories before tucking them away again. It hadn't worked. For centuries, she was all he’d had — memories that refused to die — and he’d come to rely on her functional immortality to keep himself sane. But Kathryn Janeway isn't really immortal, nor would he force her to be if he could. There is an ambivalent cruelty in outliving the people who make you who you are, who you want to be, and he will not be party to any act that forces another person to suffer it. His solution isn't an elegant one, nor is it complete. Martzia and Kelemane are forever lost to him as memories he can never physically relive. Every branching timeline he creates always ends the same. All of his friends still die. She still dies. He must always grieve those losses. Yet, for all of its flaws, it's the only way he can ensure their memories never die –– by returning to them again and again and again, for as long as he can until he fails or until his program does. If that someday means he has to carve away at the centuries of Kelemane that have made him who he is, if that means that one day he will have to bury the final memory of his daughter to make more room for this? Then so be it. It’s just another tragedy he’s learned to live with. Story Notes1. That whacky timeline, huh? I didn't want to spell it all out there, but basically you can think of it like this. Imagine one time loop (arch, I guess) where the Admiral goes back in time to create a timeline where the crew gets home early. That always happens, and that's why that part of the story is the least dreamlike of this chapter. Now. Imagine the Doctor hitting the end of the new timeline she created. He then creates another time arch by going back to the exact moment the Admiral crosses over into the past using the chrono deflector (he's plucky and creates his own). At the end of the new branching timeline he creates, he does it again. Then again. Then again. He's solely responsible for a hundreds of timelines that are nearly identical. I'm sure one day a Q will look up at the Q and say, "Should we deal with this" and the Q will say, "Nah. As long as he doesn't try to rewrite this timeline over here the wormhole aliens won't care."And trust me, the Q don't want the wormhole aliens to care. 2. The Admiral is vastly more well adjusted in this version of End Game than she was in the canon one. Yes, the hints that she was in a romantic relationship with the Doctor mean she was. Yes, if someone asks me to I'll write something that explores that original timeline a little more. I didn't think details of it were pivotal for this story.
2a. If you watch Endgame closely, everyone acts like the Admiral’s timeline won’t be altered by her going back in time. It’s hinted that everyone expects they’ll still be the same once she’s gone. So I’m treating the time travel in this as they seem to expect. She isn’t rewriting the timeline, she’s creating a new branching one. A la the 2009 Star Trek reboot.3. Megan and Seven? Hell yes I ship it. No notes. 4. Chakotay and Marla? Hell yes I ship him with my version of her. She's fierce and willing to grow. 5. I hope you enjoyed!