The premise of this series is that Samantha Wildman, designated madonna figure of Voyager, has an interior life.
It isn't always pretty.
I wasn't a writer, until MiaCooper said I should be.
Warmest thanks to her for opening that door and then beta-ing what emerged through it.
Chapter 1. Recall
I open my eyes to bright lights overhead, the soft whir of equipment. I can't place the scent in the air but I know it. But I don't. I don't know where I am. I was sleeping, in the apartment. How did I get here? I don't remember anything. Panic swells and an electronic beeping begins somewhere near my head.
A man looms over me, holding some sort of device. I flinch, cringe away. Then I'm off the bed … no, exam table … oh fuck, where am I, what have they been doing to me? I scoot away until my back hits a wall, crouching low, head down, breathing hard.
"Ensign Wildman."
I am taking stock of my own body, checking for damage, for sensations that might be… evidence. I don't look up until I hear that voice again.
"Ensign WIldman. Please, you're safe here. No one will hurt you."
"That's not my name. You have the wrong person. Where am I?"
He's not alone. They're all wearing uniforms that I've never seen on this world. Blue or red but mostly black. My eyes are drawn back to the blue, to the … insignia? badge? they each wear.
The man confers with a small woman in red and black. They are keeping their distance from me, as best they can in this crowded space - clearly some sort of medical facility.
"Captain, it seems the first restoration procedure hasn't done Ensign Wildman much good. She should at least remember her name and recognize Voyager at this point."
"Will it help to repeat the procedure?" They are both looking at me but talking to each other. I'm edging along the wall, hoping against hope that I can somehow reach the door, then maybe lose myself in the crowd, get away, get back to the apartment. I have no idea how much time has passed. Oh FUCK I have to get back before morning or I'll lose my job get evicted oh FUCK…
I realize I've missed some of their conversation in my panic. I hear the woman say, "It's regrettable, Doctor, but we can't delay her treatment. We need to bring Naomi back and I don't want to begin until her mother can be there for her." This doesn't make any sense to me so I hope they aren't actually speaking about me any longer. The man in blue - a doctor, apparently? - is arguing. Good. I make a dash for it.
A man in yellow appears in the doorway just as I reach it, and I collide with him, hard. He's almost knocked off balance but he gets his arms around me in a bear hug, a restraint hold. The blood rushes loud in my ears and I howl, " Noooo! " and he is saying, "Sam. Sam. It's me. It's Joe. Calm down. You're safe." but I'm struggling, terrified, nothing is registering with me except that I'm pinned against him and cannot escape. The Doctor is next to me and I hear a hissing noise under my ear and then the blackness closes in.
**ooo**
When I regain consciousness, I understand things better. I'm Ensign Samantha Wildman, science officer serving aboard Voyager, married to Greskrendtregk, mother of -
My eyes fly open and I sit bolt upright. "Where is Naomi?"
The Doctor is there, and Tom Paris. I realize that I know them, but that before I didn't. I remember feeling terrified the last time I was awake, and it's a strange memory. Unreal, like a dream, but more vivid than a nightmare. I see my bare legs and feet and discover that I'm wearing a medical gown.
" Where is my daughter?" I repeat, with urgency.
The Doctor quickly assures me. "She's safe. You'll see her soon. We need to get you back to normal first, and … that will take some explaining."
**ooo**
It's another full cycle before I'm deemed sufficiently recovered - restored, more precisely - to be more help than hindrance to my daughter's re-entry. Those twenty-four hours include a tour of the ship, especially the science labs. As we walk through Engineering I see Joe Carey and reflexively avoid eye contact; I ruthlessly silence the little voice that is trying to tell me why.
I spend a long stretch in my and Naomi's quarters, accompanied by Tal Celes, looking through holo albums and talking about what I'm remembering. We skirt around the subject of Joe; Tal picks up quickly on my reluctance, and tactfully doesn't ask me why I don't want to see him. I don't ask her about her time downworld or her re-entry. She excuses herself before I start reviewing my personal logs.
A third engram procedure follows, and when I wake up from that, I'm all the way back. My identity, my story, is back within me, not something I feel I'm mostly viewing from the outside, like a researcher. All that's missing is my daughter. I need her back, not just my memories of her.
The hardest moment is my confidential treatment exit interview with the Doctor. We are alone in his office, veiled for privacy. He shows me scans of my brain and explains why the first attempt to restore my memories didn't work. The memory manipulation process I'd been subjected to on Quarra had been particularly deep, stripping away nearly all my real memories far back into my life and implanting new engrams on top of my brain's oldest neural networks.
What the doctor had failed to account for in his design of my first treatment was the paucity of those oldest networks - significantly fewer in number and less developed than the other crew members he'd treated before me. Basically, it had left him with an inadequate scaffolding on which to hang the engrams he'd been trying to restore, and the treatment had failed.
Fortunately, a second, more intensive bout of engram recovery therapy had compensated, creating new workaround neural networks that connected enough engrams to restore my memories fully. However, he is concerned that my implanted memories remained more tightly connected to the restored ones than they ought to be, and he wants me to be alert to the risk of confusion, intrusive thoughts of my time on Quarra, and possibly a resurgence of childhood memories.
I meet his eyes, hoping he won't say what he says next. "Ensign Wildman, as a xenobiologist, you have a thorough grasp of brain anatomy and development. You surely don't need me to tell you the significance of those underdeveloped early neural networks."
I nod. He waits. "You don't," I say.
He looks a question at me.
"Need to tell me. You don't need to tell me what it means. My childhood memories were never … repressed."
He continues looking at me, with an expression of dawning comprehension and compassion. "I see. It is remarkable that you've been able to accomplish so much after such a difficult beginning."
He wants me to talk about it, to tell him the gory details of a childhood gone sideways. I resist.
"Thank you, Doctor. I was determined, and lucky. Can we go to Naomi now?"
He relents, but I'm sure this won't be the last I hear from him on the subject.
**ooo**
She knows me. Thank the universe, she knows I am her mother, her real mother. That is the first thing I can tell when she sees me, and after that, I know I can handle anything that follows. There are hugs, and tears, and stories that don't make much sense, and more tears. But the important thing is that my daughter knows me; she is safe, well, and with me.
We are encouraged to cocoon for one full day, just the two of us - no duty shift, ample replicator rations, and limited visitors. It reminds me of her first days as a newborn, when like now we had both been through an ordeal and then faced the challenge of simply getting to know one another. I am more grateful than I can say to my commanding officers for recognizing our need for this time.
It does not occur to me until much later that the captain must have had her own re-entry experience, before they started bringing the rest of us back.
Naomi and I spend the time looking at holos, remembering events on Voyager, re-telling stories of her papa, reading books together, eating her favorite foods. When night comes I tuck her in, then seeing her eyes follow me as I move towards the doorway, I change my mind, break my own long-standing rule, and crawl into bed with her. She sighs with contentment and her whole body relaxes into the curve of mine.
As she is drifting off to sleep, she murmurs, "I'm glad I didn't have to stay there." I squeeze her torso, brush a kiss across her temple, tell her that I'm so glad, too. Then she sighs again, and says, "I'm sorry I forgot you, mommy."
I whisper, so she can't hear the tears in my voice, "Don't be sorry, baby. It wasn't your fault." Then I lie awake in the dark for hours, wondering, worrying, remembering.