Lines in the Sand

by Seema

As Voyager approaches the Alpha Quadrant, the crew is faced with a reality that isn't quite what they expected.

1. Default Chapter

Lines in the Sand


Character and places belong to Paramount; I'm just taking them out for some exercise.

Voyager has faced the Kazon, the Hirogen, the Borg, Species 8472. Going home should be a piece of cake. or is it?

*****

Twilight

Seven has news.

Whether it's good or otherwise, she won't say.
Only thing we can deduce is that it's important enough for her to convince Janeway to call a staff meeting, but we can tell the Captain is equally in the dark.
Seven's sphinx-like expression gives nothing away as she stands at the front of the room, intent on the tricorder in her hand.

Damn, she is good at torture; must run in Borg genetics. B'Elanna, since her return from the Borg, seems to have inherited this particular talent also.

"Come on, Seven," I cajole. "What's going on?"

Seven rewards me with a thin-lipped smile. We could make a list of all of Seven's faults, but indiscretion isn't one of them.

B'Elanna leans over the table and exchanges a less than mysterious look with Chakotay.
Wherever Seven's concerned, B'Elanna is ready to rumble; while Chakotay may not come out and say anything, he usually takes B'Elanna's back, though in a much nicer and gentlemanly way.

Me, I'm ready to give Seven the benefit of the doubt; she's been playing nicely these days, sharing when appropriate and not talking back. In fact, just the other day, she joined Harry and I in a Captain Proton adventure and actually went along with the story line. Amazing; Seven is rapidly becoming the eighth wonder of the universe.

"All right, Seven," Janeway is reclining, staring up at Seven from beneath her eyelashes.
"What's going on?"

Seven does her little head tilt, almost annoyed by Janeway's little admonishment.

"Curiosity killed the cat," I offer up.

"There is no cat on Voyager," Seven retorts.

"Tom," Janeway turns her chair to skewer me with a penetrating glare. "Go ahead, Seven."

Seven nods and brings up the view screen. There is Voyager represented by a Starfleet emblem, and around it, nothing but blackness. A second later, the computer pops up curved vectors.

"What are we looking at?" Janeway asks.

"Our projected course and velocity," Seven answers. "If we continue on this trajectory, I estimate we will reach the Alpha Quadrant in approximately seventeen days, eight hours and thirty-two minutes."

"How many seconds?" I ask insolently, earning myself a punch in the shoulder from B'Elanna.

"The Alpha Quadrant," Janeway says, pointedly ignoring me. "Are you saying it just sneaked up on us?"

"No," Seven says. "We omitted one crucial variable in our calculations. I discovered the error and corrected it."

We all lean back in our chairs as if on cue except for Janeway; she is out of her chair and across the room faster than I thought possible. If we could have bottled that kind of speed seven years ago, the Maquis would have made it back in time to continue their guerrilla war against the Cardassians and I would still be cooling my feet in New Zealand, not having spent enough time "rethinking my mistakes."

"How long have we been making this mistake?" Janeway asks in a low voice. I sense that a certain helmsman is about to face the wrath of Janeway, formerly of Borg.

"For the last five months," Seven says.

Ah, that explains it all. Mistakes made during the crazy period when Janeway, Tuvok and Torres were on the Borg cube are automatically forgiven. Or so I hope.

"You're positive?" Janeway asks. "You're not making a mistake?"

After four years, Janeway still hasn't learned; you never ask a Borg if she has made a mistake, but I don't blame her. We've been let down so many times in the past that this particular revelation is almost anticlimactic.

"My calculations are accurate," Seven says. "There is no error."

Again, that odd silence falls over the group. My eyes scan them all. Chakotay is unreadable, but that is no surprise. A photon torpedo could explode three feet from him and he wouldn't blink.

Next to him, Harry looks as he is going to be sick; I don't blame him, I feel the same.

It's odd to feel this way. After seven years meandering and exploring the Delta Quadrant, we are going home. The Alpha Quadrant is a sacred mantra on the lost ship Voyager; it's what keeps the warp core going, the replicators humming and the holodecks running. Hell, it's what keeps us going. The Alpha Quadrant is our raison d'être; without it, we would probably be chopped liver for some Delta Quadrant species.

But being obsessive about returning home and actually getting home - now those are two very different things.

We talk about the Alpha Quadrant loudly, hoping to hide whatever truths we left behind; now it's the day of reckoning and there's much to confess, much to face.

That speaking for myself, of course; I wouldn't be so presumptuous to speak for the rest of Voyager.

It just feels strange, that's all I can say. To finally attain something that seemed so far away. I guess I never really thought we would actually get home.

"Let's double check," Janeway says. "I don't want to take a chance of telling the crew yet; we've had too many disappointments already."

True. Who knows? We could always run into the Caretaker again or maybe discover some rare nebular phenomenon that has to be explored before we could possibly return home and that could possibly fling us somewhere else, say the Epsilon Quadrant (wherever that might be).

You can never count the Delta Quadrant out; she's a harsh mistress and unfortunately for us, a deadly and manipulative one also.

"Keep this quiet for now," Janeway says, sweeping her eyes over all of us. If there is one thing none of us are good at, it's keeping secrets. Twenty holodeck rations say that everyone on Voyager will know, to the second, how far we are from home within thirty minutes.
Conventional wisdom also puts money on Harry to be the one to spill the beans first.

"Remember," Janeway puts a motherly finger to her lips. "Dismissed."

We spill out of the room, but Chakotay remains behind to talk with Janeway. I often wonder what the two of them talk about. I'm sure some of it is business, but even the most scintillating of conversationalists - which Chakotay is certainly not - would get bored of discussing Voyager day after day.

After all, much as I adore B'Elanna, I get tired of her engines real fast.

"Hey," I say, grabbing B'Elanna by the upper arm.

"What?" she glares at me. I recognize the flash in her eyes and let go. I back away so that I'm up against the corridor wall, making sure there is enough distance between us so I can duck if she lunges at me.

For the life of me, I can't think of what I did wrong this time. My mind quickly scrolls through all possibilities. I haven't been late for a meal in at least a week, I barely have spent any time in Fair Haven and I did not watch the latest episode of "Bonanza" without her.

"Something you want to tell me?" I ask easily.

The tension eases visibly out of B'Elanna's shoulders as she looks quickly up and down the corridor.

"You startled me."

Now that's a bunch of, well, crap. Mostly because B'Elanna has the finely tuned instincts of a saber toothed tiger. She can smell blood and fear a kilometer away and she pounces when you least expect it. I don't try to surprise her because she has the uncanny ability to detect when
I'm hiding something, whether it's good or bad.

"You're upset," I say.

"No," she shoots back. "Not upset. You're making a big deal of nothing, Tom."

"You just bit my head off and while you're still chewing on my cranium, I want to know what got you so riled up."

B'Elanna actually smiles.

"Sorry," she says sincerely.

"So?"

She starts walking and I trot along behind her.

"I'm just thinking about everything that needs to be done before we get back to the Alpha
Quadrant."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. I told you I was thinking about it."

"If it's the warp core, you can get a new one in the Alpha Quadrant," I tell her. "I hear they actually manufacture them. You don't need to hold it together with bubble gum and spit anymore."

"Huh?" she pauses. "Bubble gum and spit?"

I offer her a cheeky smile.

"I want to make sure that Voyager looks good when we get home, that's all. I want to make sure
the Starfleet engineers can't find anything wrong," B'Elanna answers.

Ah, it's that bit of vulnerability showing through. No matter how many times I tell her, B'Elanna never believes in herself enough. She has her moments of self-realization, but never enough for me and certainly never enough for her.

"You've done a great job," I pull her close to me. "Don't worry about a thing, okay?"

If we had endearments, silly names to call each other, this would be the ideal moment to do that. But both of us - and B'Elanna especially - shrink from silly nicknames. No, I take that back. B'Elanna is allowed to call me "pig," but only in when we are rutting in the heat of passion.

I take it as a compliment.

"You just don't get it, Tom," she says in a low voice.

"Get what?"

"If you have to ask." B'Elanna says. She pulls away. "I've got to go. I've got work to do."

I stare after her, wondering what exactly is going on in that head of hers. I could run after her and prod her for more information, but I know better than to do that; since her return from the Borg cube, she has been a little colder, more standoffish. Sometimes, when I touch her, I feel her muscles tense and I pull back.

I don't doubt her love for me; that has never been in question. I do worry about her though because sometimes I think she is walking a plank and any second now, she's going to jump.

What frightens me most is that I won't be there to catch her.

****

He means well and I know that.

There are so many things involved in being with someone, in loving that person so completely. So many things and yet, I feel capable of none of it.

There are books written on relationships. The titles are not mysterious in any way, all of them giving away the plot before I even turn the holo-PADD on. I have already worked my way through "101 Ways to Love Your Lover," "Open Your Heart and Start Living" and "The Power of Honesty."

None of them help. I'm still hollow inside.

It's odd. Give me some schematics, and I can interpret them and make a pile of circuits work. A blueprint on how to love someone correctly is not something I have been able to follow; instead, I find myself muddled constantly, caught off guard by him and constantly wondering how long can
I keep this pretense up?

I say "pretense" only because that's how I view this relationship.

I want a schematic on Tom Paris; I want someone to write it down for me, to tell me how best to approach this man in my life. I need the guidance because when I look into those baby blues, I'm hopelessly lost. I hate that he has that effect on me and I hate not being able to put him off-balance the way he does me.

I love Tom Paris. I love him like I have never loved before and I doubt that that fact will ever change.

He doesn't tell me that he loves me as often I tell him, but it doesn't bother me. I feel his love in the way he always cups my jaw before leaning in for a kiss. I see the quickness in his step when he sees me and the way his lips curve up when my hand surreptitiously brushes his when I think no one is looking.

I worry that his love for me will vanish if and when I ever tell him what I have yet to tell anyone. I fear that he will look at me with that same disgust that was in his eyes when I was still Borg.

I don't tell him that I saw his initial reaction because I know it disturbs him greatly that he reacted so violently; I don't tell him that he is one of the reasons why I can't confess the crimes that plague my every waking hour.

I know I'm not strong enough to see us through what lies ahead. Tom will protest, say that he is strong enough to hold us together, but he doesn't know everything yet.

I love him in ways that are completely unexpected. If at some point in my younger years, if I had been asked to draw up a list of my ideal man, very few of Tom's traits would have been on that list. About the only thing my list and Tom have in common is the fact that he is not Klingon. Indeed, the list of Tom's faults is longer than my arm.

He's late.

He's forgetful.

He breaks rules more often than he follows them.

He spends more time in the holodeck than with me.

He drinks too much beer while watching television.

He leaves his socks lying around.

Yet Tom has grabbed a hold of my hearts and won't let go. When I see him, everything stops just like that. He only has to smile at me and I forget who I am, where I am, everything.
And I'm keenly aware that when we are in a room together, no matter how many people are around
us, I am the only one he sees.

But I'm also a realist and know that at some point I have to stop pretending.

When he knows the truth, Tom is going to leave. He won't stay with me.

No one ever does.

****

Word travels fast on the good ship Voyager. It's amazing sometimes. Gossips evidently know things about B'Elanna and me even before we know it ourselves. Sometimes, I hear stories about our fights, each tale more fantastic than the last. We throw things, apparently, and call each other terrible, unmentionable-in-public-type names.

I find this all a bit humorous, for the very idea of B'Elanna and I constantly at each other's throats is a bit ludicrous.

B'Elanna has only thrown something - a vase - at me once before.

As for calling each other names? Nah, never happened, unless you count "pig" as a name.

But I digress.

Entering the messhall, I find Neelix bubbling with something resembling joy. He has accosted poor Tuvok who did indeed leave what little sense of humor he had on the Borg cube.

"We have not yet confirmed this news," Tuvok says patiently as I swing into the seat directly opposite him. "You must be calm, Mr. Neelix, and not spread false hope through the crew."

"Can't I just tell one person?" Neelix is positively glowing. Makes me wonder who he has back in the Alpha Quadrant keeping his dinner warm.

"No," Tuvok says.

Neelix's face falls but I could have predicted Tuvok's answer; you ask a stupid question, you get a stupid answer - especially when you ask a Vulcan.

"Are you excited, Mr. Paris?" Neelix asks me.

"Excited isn't the word for it," I said. "I'm positively overjoyed."

Tuvok arches an eyebrow at me.

"You are exaggerating your emotion," he says. Always the one for the understatement, always pointing out the obvious. Yes, I'm anxious to get home, yes, I'm exhausted after seven years in the Delta Quadrant.

What I want most is to stay in one place for some time, sit out in the sun and drink lemonade. It sounds simplistic, but after going up against a million different aliens and escaping by the skin of our teeth each time, I want nothing more than to relax, stretch and feel the tension ease from my muscles.

For once, I don't want to wonder who is around the next nebula or who is hiding in the next star system. I don't want to figure out how best to dodge torpedoes that far surpass Voyager's technology and I certainly don't want to run into the Borg again.

I wonder what the others want. I have no doubt that Harry will continue in Starfleet; he is much too eager not to purse his career. Chakotay, who knows? I can never read the man. Sometimes he is almost as enigmatic as Seven, showing little or no emotion.

Tuvok will stay; it would be logical for him to. He would never dream of retiring to Vulcan to peruse ancient texts. I do suspect that first stop on Tuvok's tour of the Alpha Quadrant will be Vulcan to resolve his Pon Farr; there is no way in hell meditation can replace a soft body curled up against you.

Janeway is married to Starfleet; more importantly, Voyager is her ship. She won't give it up without a fight and I honestly would hate to be the admiral who comes between the Captain and her ship.

But then again, that's what B'Elanna would call a worst-case scenario. Retiring Voyager isn't a done deal. Only in my twisted, most demented moments, do I imagine this ship as a heap of scrap metal in the shipyards of Planetia Utopia.

And speaking of B'Elanna, I do not know what she will do once we return home. There are times when she allows herself to indulge in my flights of fancy, seeing and feeling the same as I do; other times, she fixes me with a penetrating gaze as if admonishing me to be real.

I don't know what she wants from me, honestly.

There are times when I wonder what we are still doing together. Her, me, B'Elanna, Tom, Torres, Paris. It's a bizarre thing, no matter how you look at it. We disassociate freely, face off with impunity and never, and I mean never, ask for forgiveness.

She doesn't need me; this much I have figured out.

"Well, I'm excited," Neelix declares.

"You're coming back to the Alpha Quadrant with us?" I ask in surprise.

"There is no reason for me to stay here, is there?" Neelix asks. "I would love to see the Alpha Quadrant. What do you think, Mr. Vulcan?"

Tuvok gives Neelix a look of pained tolerance. Neelix grins, his reptilian skin stretching as his lips curve up.

"Your decision on whether to stay here or accompany us to the Alpha Quadrant is not a concern to me," Tuvok says.

My jaw drops; damn he is cold.

Neelix looks disappointed. He shuffles his feet, bends his head slightly so that he is no longer looking Tuvok in the eye.

"It will not be long before we are there," Neelix says. "I imagine the crew will be just as excited as I am."

"You are not to share this information," Tuvok lectures sternly.

"Everyone already knows," I point out.

Tuvok nails me to the wall with one of his glares.

"That is not an excuse, Lieutenant," he says. I fully expect him to ask him if everyone else on this ship decided to jump out an airlock, would I do so also? Instead Tuvok pushes his chair back and gets up from the table; his back is ramrod straight, a new posture courtesy of the Borg.

I sit there in the middle of the mess hall, surrounded by so many, but feeling so alone.
Eager to go home? I don't know. Disappointment seems to follow us at every turn so I don't want to get my hopes up.

There's more involved in going home than just arriving in the Alpha Quadrant and saying, "Hi honey, I'm home!"

There will need to be a period of adjustment - I know this - and none of it will be easy.

Those whom we left behind aren't the same people now. Seven years has a curious way of changing people, of getting beneath the skin and tinkering with emotions and opinions. There are the superficial changes like crow's feet or gray hair and then there are the other changes, the deep personality traits hidden deep within. Those are the ones you can't predict, the ones that are harder to get used to.

And then there is something else: I'm not the same man I used to be.

I'm only afraid that they - the ambiguous they we are always talking about - will see and understand the changes in me.

****

Each time I take a step through the corridors of Voyager, I'm very much aware that this might be the last time I put my foot down in this exact location. I notice things more than I have before; everything is in focus, clear and sharp. No longer do I take Voyager for granted; each day that passes is one day closer to the Alpha Quadrant, one day less on Voyager.

I don't know where my sentimentality comes from.

Tom says I'm softer, more gentle, since my sojourn on the Borg cube. I think he is trying to be nice, trying so hard to make up for his initial reaction when he saw me for the first time in full Borg regalia.

He was frightened, understandably frightened.

In my lucid, non-Borg moments, I too felt a tinge of fear running through the parts of me that still belonged wholly to B'Elanna Torres.

But whether Tom is trying to be nice is irrelevant - there, you see? I did it again. I can't help myself; some parts of my brain were so completely absorbed into the Collective, I find myself curiously alone at times, longing for the cacophony of voices. At other times, I want to flee, run from the memory of constant shrieking in my head.

And then I wake and realize that it was all a nightmare, that I no longer sleep standing up.

Realize that I can relax beneath a sonic shower and not wonder when my joints will be oiled again.

These are things I do not share with Tom; instead, these are mine and mine alone.

I do not mean to push him away; it just happens. Sometimes, I find myself staring at Tuvok or Janeway and there's this look in their eyes and I know, just as they know this about me, that they are remembering something too.

The three of us have never sat down to talk about the time we spent on the Borg cube - there just hasn't been the time.

And now, with the Alpha Quadrant in arm's reach, I doubt we will ever talk about it.
Does it matter?

Maybe it does. I don't know. Maybe in ten, twenty, thirty years I will know the answers, but right now, I'm just counting my steps. Measuring each moment, hoarding them because I don't know what lies ahead and more than any specific instant on the Borg cube, this frightens me.

****

It has been weeks since I have worked on the Camaro. I'd been staying away from the holodeck since B'Elanna's return, working on putting her back together, putting us back together.
But now, dressed in my grease-stained monkey suit, I lay beneath the car, running a rag over its engine parts.

I love this feeling of making things work. Especially something that I could so easily have the computer fix in a few minutes.

The holodeck doors slide open.

"Tom? You in here?"

Harry.

I slide out from beneath the car, wiping my hands on the rag.

"You are a mess," Harry observes.

Of course Harry is standing there in his neatly pressed Starfleet uniform, nary a stain to be seen. I'm impressed. If he doesn't get his promotion in the Alpha Quadrant, I'm going to nominate him for the "Best Dressed" award.

"Hello to you too," I say. "Coming off the Bridge?"

"Yeah. You know, Tom, before we get back home, you really ought to consider spending some time on the Bridge."

"No thanks. I get enough time as it is on the helm."

"You don't want the command experience? It would help with your career."

My career. I had never thought of Starfleet as a career before; in fact, it was merely something my father did and something for me to try when nothing else worked out.

Until Janeway extended her hand to me, I had always thought of Starfleet as a bunch of foggy old men in starched uniforms drinking Earl Grey, and spouting philosophy in the best tradition of Aristotle and pontificating endlessly, each one hoping to be the next Cicero.

And now?

Well, don't ask me now what I think. I haven't got the faintest clue. I vacillate daily, shifting from foot to foot, thought to thought, wondering what the galaxy holds for me.

"Not interested," I answer airily because I don't have anything better to say.
Damn if Harry looks disappointed. He's a good friend; he cares more about my future in Starfleet than I do.

"B'Elanna's looking for you," Harry says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Is she mad?"

"No," Harry shakes his head.

"So she's just looking for me?"

"Yeah."

Harry walks around the car, very careful not to get any grease on his uniform. He touches the chrome lightly with his fingers.

"Nice," he says. "You ever drive one of these? I mean in real life, not on a holodeck."

"Once. At that antique car museum."

"Fun?"

"Yeah. I kept stalling though. On the other hand, the Mustang, now that's the car to drive."

"Do you like driving better than flying?"

"Nothing is like flying," I tell him. "You see where you are driving and you react accordingly. It's very manual, very visual. Flying, now that's more instinctive, more from the heart than driving is."

"I'd like to try driving again," Harry says.

"We'll go again sometime, just don't hit a burrito stand again."

"Don't put the burrito stand in a place where I'm going to hit it," Harry retorts.
Harry takes another look at the car, "I'm going to miss this."

"Miss the car?"

"No. This. You, me, the holodeck."

"There are holodecks in the Alpha Quadrant. I hear that's where they were invented."

"Haven't you thought about what going home means? They could split us up, you know."

"The possibility has occurred to me."

"Doesn't that frighten you?"

`Frighten' isn't quite the right word for the emotion I experience whenever I think of the possibility of the 150 people on Voyager dispersing to various parts of the Alpha Quadrant.

A counselor - and we could sorely use one on Voyager - would term my feelings about our return to the Alpha Quadrant as "separation anxiety."

I have this crazy fantasy that we will write to each other daily, share dirty jokes and trade barbs over the comm system. Once a year, we will reunion talk about the good ol' days on Voyager and then we will reminisce about the Malon until they are larger than life and we come out looking like heroes every time.

"It is a possibility," I say. "Depends what people want to do with themselves."

"I'd like to stay," Harry leans against the car; I'm impressed by his daring - he might get a speck of dust on himself.

"On Voyager or Starfleet?"

"Voyager, preferably, but the ship could be decommissioned when we return. Who knows if Intrepid-class vessels even exist anymore?"

"So you'd take your chances again in the great black beyond?"

"Yeah," a slow smile spreads across my friend's face.

"You'd do it again?"

"Yeah," he says. "In a heartbeat. Wouldn't you?"

Now there's the question of the day.

I don't know.

I would think by now I would have acquired the ability to know what I, Tom Paris, would want.
Maybe I'm waiting for someone else to tell me what he or she wants.

I joined Starfleet because my father wanted it.

I ended up on Voyager because Janeway wanted me.

And now, with all my options in front of me, I still can't figure out what I want.

"For the chance to be a punching bag for the Hirogen again?" I shake my head.

"When you put it that way," Harry grins. "No, but really, Tom, don't you know?"

"Actually, I'm going to wait and see," I answer, picking up the rag again. "Did you say B'Elanna was looking for me?"

"I'm here," B'Elanna says from behind Harry. She is leaning against the doorjamb, her arms folded across her chest; she is smiling though.

"Took you long enough, Maquis," Harry says, turning towards B'Elanna.

"You didn't ask the computer?" I ask.

"And take all the fun out of searching for you?" she shakes her head. "There are only a few
places you would be, Tom, and I can pretty much eliminate the lower decks."

"She's so smart," I tell Harry. B'Elanna offers me a grin, a crooked mixture of arrogance and pride.

"I've got to go," Harry says. "I'm beat."

He is out of the holodeck so fast that we feel a breeze in his wake. B'Elanna tips her head towards Harry's departing figure.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asks as I slide back underneath the car.

"No," I say. "We were just talking."

B'Elanna pulls out a wobbly stool from beneath the tool bench and perches on it precariously.

"You really need to fix this in the program," she says. "It's not safe."

"It's for authenticity," I argue back as grease lands on my cheek. "Aw, shoot!"

B'Elanna is immediately at my side, "What is it?"

"Nothing," I slide back out. She kneels by my side and dabs at the grease with a rag. Damn, I love this woman.

"You were looking for me," I say.

"Hmmm. just thinking about you."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she offers me a shy smile. I wrinkle my brow.

"What's going on?"

"Just thinking about going home."

"You excited?"

"Don't know. I like it out here."

"You've said that before."

"Wouldn't you like to stay out here?" she leans forward, balancing her weight on her palms.
"Think about it, Tom. You, me, and wide-open spaces. There is so much to discover, so much to do. We could make a life out here, you and me."

Her cheeks flush as the words fall from her lip. She is animated in a way I haven't seen since her return from the Borg cube. In fact, she is downright giddy - not typically an emotion I get from her.

I sit up and take one of her hands in mine. Her fingers are slender, long - the type that are perfect for piano playing. Her nails are rough, grooved and occasionally blue at the base. She is looking at me, almost pleading with me to agree with her proposal.

"So you want to leave Voyager and stay in the Delta Quadrant," I say. I want to comprehend completely.

"Yeah," she says. "No reason to go home. Hell, it's not even home to me, it's just another place to be. You know, somewhere else for me to be miserable. I might as well stay here."

"You don't mean any of that," I tell her.

"I do," she says defiantly. "Tom, don't you think about what's going to happen when we get home?"

Hmm. now that she has postulated the question, I have to be honest. I'm not very good at lying and B'Elanna has a hunter's instinct; she smells fear and she pounces without a second thought. I've been prey enough to suit my tastes, so I confess everything.

"Depends what you mean," I tell her. "I think about a normal life, a house, a family."

Her face is shadowed, guarded. I have learned, over the past four years, that there are some places I'm not allowed and as such, I don't ask B'Elanna. When she is good and ready, she will let me in.

"I don't," she admits. "I don't want walls. I just want to fly, be free."

"You can do that in the Alpha Quadrant."

"How?" she asks pointedly. "You think Starfleet is going to let me onto another one of their
precious ships? They probably don't even want me on this one."

"We'll find a way," I caress her hand between mine. She shakes her head.

"Tom, you can't fix everything."

She gets to her feet and is out of the holodeck. I sigh, drop my head, and after a minute, slide back beneath the car.

****

I'm an emotional train wreck; every time I think I'm back on my feet, something else derails me and pushes me hopelessly off track.

I want to help myself, Kahless, I do. I look at people who cringe when they see me come and I hear the fury in my voice and I see the impact; I can't help it. I just steam roll through others, knocking them off their feet only because I'm so out of control myself.

I don't want people to know that inside, I feel like blood pie gone sour, quivering and shaking. I think to reveal my insecurities would take away something that belongs to me and more than anything, I don't want to be found out to be anything less than B'Elanna Torres, chief engineer extraordinaire and Klingon warrior.

Actually, that last thing - B'Elanna the Klingon warrior - is my mother's fantasy; I think she wanted to believe that I would do battle in her honor and bring glory to her name.

Or something like that, I don't even know anymore. Don't know if I want to know.

I wake up at night, sweating, sometimes even on the verge of tears.

I didn't use to be like this.

I worry, as we get closer to the Alpha Quadrant, that I will collapse in a boneless heap on the floor, unable to stand under the weight of my own wayward emotions.

"Feelings aren't wrong or right," Tom says over and over. "They just are. If you feel something, you have to verbalize it. What you feel is what you feel and no one should condemn you for that."

He's right, I know that, but like so much else, actually putting what I feel into words is hard and instead, I hold it all in - a sure recipe for a chronic case of ulcers.

The truth is, I'm better with actions than with words. I'm not a poet, never have been, but give me a pile of circuits and I will make something out of nothing.

When I'm down in Engineering, I think that if I switch this circuit with that one, the warp core will sputter and we'll be stranded here in the Delta Quadrant. Other times, I think that I can send wrong sensor readings to the helm and put us off-track so that we continue to stay out here, searching fruitlessly for a way home.

I see Tom as a victim of my insecurity. I hold onto him as if he is the only one who can save me from drowning. The irrational fear persists though: nothing lasts forever and no one, and I mean no one, ever sticks around B'Elanna Torres for very long.

Tom looks at me sometimes, a bit confused, wondering what is going on in my head; I wish I could tell him but I don't know myself.

We cling to each other out of habit. We turn to each other because that's what we're used to.

Habits, however, cannot withstand the scrutiny that will come once we return home. There will be investigations, I know, and none of us will emerge unscathed.
Somehow, I have to hold on to Tom, make sure he doesn't leave me, make sure that I won't be alone.

I can't help it; the tears swell just behind my eyes, bubbling up in my throat. I can only swallow hard and blink my eyes back into focus. I think about losing Tom because I'm in sickbay and I can still see evidence of the frantic hours he and the Doctor spent de-assimilating the others and me.

"Are you going to take long?" the Doctor's voice is in my ear.

"Give me a second," I say. "The diagnostic picked up some corrupt recursive algorithms."

My tone was sharper than I wanted it to be, but he has interrupted my pity party; after all this time, everyone should know that when I'm feeling sorry for myself, they are not invited to ride along on the B'Elanna Torres emotional roller-coaster.

Not for the first time, the Doctor suggests counseling. He stands there, smug little hologram, arms crossed against his chest, saying in his self-righteous baritone tinged with melodrama, "I know a great holodeck program that is guaranteed to work wonders. I've used it many times to help others who are in the pit of despair."

"I'm not in the pit of despair," I tell him. "Far from it."

"I know the signs," he says. "You're suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome."

"And how would you know?"

"The classic signs are all there," the Doctor says. "Avoidance, that's one of the symptoms."

"Avoidance?"

"You refuse, for instance, to talk about the things which trouble you. You will not talk about how you feel about the decimation of the Maquis, your relationship with your fa-"

"That is no one's business!" I flare back. At this moment, I want to jab his holographic self with something metallic, anything to disrupt that photonic matrix of his. Then we'll talk trauma.

"You haven't talked about your Borg experience."

My fingers curl into fists involuntarily.

"Have you talked to Mr. Paris about what happened?" he asks. "About your time on the Cube?"

"What I talk about with Tom is none of your business," I answer hotly. My fingers curl and uncurl uncontrollably. There is nothing nearby to smash, nothing to disrupt except for the EMH Mark I holographic doctor in front of me and Kahless help me, but we do need him.

"Do you have trouble sleeping at night?" the Doctor persists.

I refuse to tell him about my nightmares; those belong to me alone. I cannot tell him of dreams tinged in eerie green glow or how sometimes I can hear the heavy metallic thud of footsteps behind me. I don't tell him how I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding and light sweat coating my brow. Most of all, I cannot tell him how it feels to know you have assimilated someone.

Yes, that's right. For three months of my life, I was Borg, lived as Borg, thought as Borg, and yes, as Borg, I assimilated others.

I don't know the number of assimilations I participated in; I was unconsciously following the Borg directive: just do it. In the echoes of my mind, I think there must have been thousands of assimilations; I look at Janeway and Tuvok and I know they are wondering the same. How many how many how many... it is a vicious taunt that plays in continuous rhythm through my mind.

"Lieutenant? Do you have trouble sleeping at night?" the Doctor is now grasping my forearm, making it difficult for me to continue working.

"No," I answer flatly.

His brow crinkles in a display of serious thought.

"I don't want to talk about this," I say.

"You see? Classic avoidance. You refuse to talk about what you feel."

I shut my tool kit with a resounding snap, "I choose not to discuss certain things with certain people. Is that all right with you?"

"We just want to help you, B'Elanna."

"Then stay out of my way," I answer.

The Doctor looks perplexed and for a moment, I let myself feel sorry for him and then, I get my furious B'Elanna face back on and stomp out of sickbay.

He doesn't know, he can't possibly know, that around every corner there is a Borg drone and that
in the shadows, when I'm alone, I hear the screams.

I hear the screams and I cannot make them stop.

****

She avoids me. Janeway, that is. She averts her eyes and says very little to me. In fact, I notice she talks mostly to Chakotay and occasionally to her protégé, Seven of Nine.
Even Harry notes it and says he thinks the Captain's behavior is odd.

"She's been like this since they got back," he says as we sit in the black and white world of Captain Proton.

"Who? The Captain?" I ask carefully, tightening the laces on my boots.

"Yeah," Harry leans forward, flicks imaginary dust off of his khaki pants.

"It was a ...difficult mission," I answer.

"It's more than that," Harry says. "Tom, did something happen between you and the Captain?"

I freeze. Harry, good-natured Harry, but still perceptive in ways that I never suspect.

I have not even told B'Elanna about my feelings about Janeway, how I feel that our Captain deliberately endangered the crew of Voyager when she chose to be assimilated by the Borg. I know that Harry has some idea of the anger that boiled within me during the time Janeway, B'Elanna and Tuvok were gone - the period of anxiety and turmoil - but I have never verbalized my feelings. Only once did I say something and that was to the Captain directly; she accepted my condemnation of her activities with something close to neutrality and then, in her gravely voice, dismissed me with the admonishment that she was the captain.

In the two months since they have been back, talk of the Borg is strictly taboo; Janeway walks around with a pained, tightlipped smile, Tuvok says less than ever and B'Elanna. well, who even knows what's going on with B'Elanna?

At night, she sits curled in an armchair, a blanket around her shoulders, staring blankly into space. Sometimes, she lies next to me, submitting to my caresses until finally, even I give up.

And then other times, I never see her; she vanishes somewhere into the bowels of Voyager, working tirelessly at problems that exist only in her mind.

"I get the feeling the Captain doesn't like you," Harry continues.

I offer Harry a semblance of a smile, "I think you're right."

****

Voyager is in frenzy; there are countdowns and plans for a "Welcome Home" type party. Sue Nicoletti made this last suggestion and I could only respond, scorn dripping from every word,

"You can't welcome yourself home. That doesn't make sense."

I could tell from Sue's expression that if such a party were held, I would not be invited. "That B'Elanna Torres," she would say in a kindly and sympathetic tone, "she's not really, you know, a party type of girl."

It doesn't matter; I wouldn't want to go anyway.

I listen to the conversations around me, hear the expectations in voices that rise and fall in excitement. Most talk about seeing their family and friends again. Even Harry, who has not mentioned Libby in years, is looking forward to seeing her again - even if the relationship isn't quite as he left it.

I envy them their anticipation, envy their nonchalance. I want that secure feeling of knowing that someone in the Alpha Quadrant loves me and is waiting eagerly to see me.

I have these fantasies of getting off of Voyager and running straight, like a little girl, into my father's arms. I dream that he will lift me and swing me around, my legs flying out behind me. His head will tip up towards mine and we will both laugh laughs that come both from the belly and the heart.

Tom sometimes asks what I'm thinking but this is one thing I cannot share with him. I'm afraid that if I say my dreams out loud, I am automatically setting myself up for disappointment. If I keep it to myself, it's mine, this crazy little dream.

It's amazing how fast time flies when you are dreading a certain event; it's almost like knowing the day you're going to die.

Heart pounding, hands shaking, blood racing - and the only place I can spend this extra energy is in the holodeck, fighting famous Klingon battle after battle.

I return to my quarters, bruised and utterly exhausted; there is no time to think of the Alpha Quadrant because sleep takes me to a place where, thankfully, there are no dreams.

****

We are close, so damned close, I can almost taste fresh pizza on my tongue. It's silly the things you long for and I'm sure, as soon as we cross into the Alpha Quadrant, my wish list will grow exponentially.
But right now, I'd settle for a slice of cheese pizza, a beer and a hot shower. I guess when you've been away for so long, you get used to doing without the things you would ordinarily consider as essential to your well-being as oxygen.
What we wanted most during our sojourn was contact with anyone who was not intent on killing us or stealing our technology or kidnapping our people; this wish has been fulfilled.
According to Seven's countdown, we are only five days away and the messages from the Alpha Quadrant are coming fast and furious, almost more than we can possibly read or respond to.
My father has written several times, each time reiterating his pride in me and how eager he is to see me again.
B'Elanna, however, has received nothing.
If it bothers her, she does not say and I do not ask.
We lie in bed, her body turned away from mine, her head resting on her clasped hands. Her body is absolutely tense but I make no attempt to touch her.
There are, in my mind, two periods in our relationship. There is "BC" - or "Before Cube" and then there is, "AD" - "After Deassimilation."
To the casual observer, there is little or no difference between the two B'Elannas, but I know better. Her temper is more controlled these days and she often is deep in thought, thinking thoughts I'm not allowed to know. There are times when I want to ask her what happened on that cube. I want to know why she feels the need to withdraw into herself at the times when we should be most intimate.
The B'Elanna lying next to me tonight is "AD" - utterly cold, stiff and scarily unemotional. Her arms are at her side, her hands balled up into tight fists and her teeth grind against each other as she lies there, silent except for the rasp of her breath.
Because I want to stay alive, I say nothing. I do not ask her what is wrong because she doesn't know the answer herself.
But I know. At least, I think I know. I think it has everything to do with the Borg, with what happened there and I know she hasn't told me everything.
I put my hands beneath my head and stare up at the ceiling panels. I have counted them in the past and know that there are exactly seventy tiles making up B'Elanna's ceiling. There are little dots on the tiles too, but my eyes aren't strong enough to count those. One day though, I'm going to find out exactly how many little dots there are per tile; it's amazing how little it takes to amuse me.
"Tell me about the house," her voice is muffled. I glance at her. It has been days, weeks even, since I had last discussed my plans for a house with her. At that time, she had seemed less than interested and suggested that maybe I should focus on reconstructing the Delta Flyer than dreaming up house blueprints.
"Where did that come from?" I ask.
"I want to know."
"Well, it's on the cliffs in San Francisco," I tell her.
"I thought the house was going to be outside of the city."
"Okay, outside of the city then. Maybe four or five kilometers out."
"That's better," B'Elanna rolls over so that she is now facing me.
"It will be perfectly square," I say. "And it will be built up around a swimming pool."
"A swimming pool? You never said anything about a pool before."
"Harry's idea. He and Megan were talking about pool parties they went to back at the Academy. I thought it sounded good."
The look B'Elanna gives me is positively crippling; I don't believe that she believes a single good idea can spring from Megan Delaney's head. But then again, that's the little jealous streak that pops up every now and then in my selfish darling. She'd never admit it, but she does get fiercely protective, clutching at my arm whenever either Delaney sister is around. Her grip, during those chance encounters, is so tight, circulation ceases, but I get the point and so does everyone else; I might as well have "property of B'Elanna" stamped on my forehead.
"Go on," B'Elanna says, an edge creeping into her voice.
"Uh, all of the rooms will open onto the pool patio," I tell her. "There will be an office for you, an office for me, kitchen, living room, maybe three or four bedrooms."
"That's a lot of bedrooms," she says.
"I figure we might need them. Don't you?"
She raises both eyebrows at me; now I'm in trouble.
"I'm just anticipating possibilities," I tell her. "And there will be flowers, lots of them, and maybe even a fountain."
"It sounds beautiful, Tom," B'Elanna rolls over on top of me, the tips of her hair brushing my cheeks. She leans down and brushes her lips against mine. I tighten my hold on her, sliding my hands down her back, reveling in the feel of the silky material against my palms.
"Is there a reason you're asking?" my hands are pushing her nightgown up past her thighs.
B'Elanna lifts her head and meets my eyes. For the first time in days, I see that she is ready to be honest with me.
"I don't see myself living there, Tom," she says. "It's not that I don't want to be there, but I just don't believe it will happen."
"It's going to happen, B'Elanna," I tell her. "I'll make it happen."
"I don't doubt that for a second."
She rolls off of me and sits up in bed. She removes the magenta nightgown in one fluid motion. I prop myself up on my elbow, admiring the curve of her back, the delicate arch of her neck and the slope of her shoulders. B'Elanna glances back at me, her chin nearly resting on her shoulders.
"Everything is going to change, Tom," her voice is soft but confident.
"I know."
"Are you afraid of what will happen?"
"It's nothing we can't handle."
"They'll separate us."
"You don't know that."
"Chakotay is positive it will happen," B'Elanna shivers.
"Why does he say that?"
"Because of some of the communiqués the Captain has shown him."
"The Captain will take care of you, of us."
"And if she can't?"
"That won't happen."
"I'm already pretending in my head, Tom. Already trying to imagine what it would be like without you. Does that make me a bad person?"
"I think you're overreacting," I respond carefully. "But no, you're not a bad person. You shouldn't say that."
She seems satisfied and falls back onto the bed, landing on my outstretched arm. I roll on top of her, my fingers brushing her hair away from her face with my thumbs.
B'Elanna presses her hands onto my shoulders, keeping me from kissing her.
"Marry me, Tom," she whispers.
"I thought you'd never ask," I reply in an equally low voice. "When we get back, we can have a big wedding in San Francisco."
"No, now," she says. "Before we get back."
She is serious, I realize. This isn't a casual proposal, but apparently something she has been thinking about for quite a while. I don't want to flatter myself and say that her urgency is driven by her unconditional and overwhelming love for yours truly; rather, I sense something more, a fear of what awaits us in the Alpha Quadrant.
And there is also a difference between me saying that I will be there for her and being legally obliged to stand by her. I have run out on some many people and commitments in the past, I understand her doubts and a small part of me even wants us to get married so that I don't have an escape route this time.
"Tom," her eyes look back at me, panic-stricken. I haven't seen her look this distressed since the first few days after her de-assimilation process. "Please."
"We'll do it," I promise her.
"Before we get back."
She is genuinely serious and I wrap a strand of her hair around my finger. What the hell, I plan to marry her anyway. Now is as good as a time as any.
"Tomorrow?" I suggest.
"Yes," her arms snake around my neck. I lean down to kiss her, my lips moving down from her cheek to her jawbone and down into the curve of her neck. Her hands ruffle my hair as her right leg bends up against my hip. I lift my head to look at her.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"You're welcome," I answer, wondering why I feel so cheap and used.

****

When I was a little girl, I used to dream of the day I would walk down the aisle. I would wear white, not Klingon red and gold, and my father would be there to give me away, his eyes misting with emotion. Everyone would stand as I made my way to the altar, some of the women would dab at their eyes with their dainty handkerchiefs. They would even mutter, "Isn't she beautiful?"
I never really put a face on the man who would be waiting for me; I only knew he would not be a Klingon.
I wanted someone smooth-faced like my father, with silky hair instead of rough Klingon tresses.
As Tom would say, one out of five ain't bad. My father isn't here and I'm not wearing white, just my usual dress uniform. There are no crowds of sobbing women here, just the senior staff. And there is no walk down the aisle; Tom and I merely join hands and look up at Janeway.
She looks slightly flustered, mostly because she did not expect our request and she certainly did not think she would have to perform a wedding ceremony during her last four days in the Delta Quadrant.
We went this morning to ask Janeway if she would marry us. We sat in front of her like two little kids in detention, hands folded neatly in laps, legs crossed at the ankles.
"You are sure?" Janeway asked about thirty times. "You sure you want to get married? This is sudden, isn't it?"
Irritation bubbled up in the back of my throat; I always felt that Janeway had feelings that were less than maternal for Tom. Sometimes, I would see her looking at Tom with a strange look on her face and it was more than pride in her protégé; her expression tended to be a little more lascivious than appropriate for a commanding officer.
"We have known each other for seven years," I told Janeway flatly. "This isn't like we just met yesterday."
"We planned to get married anyway once we got home," Tom said. I looked over at my husband-to-be; such a smooth liar he is. We had never once discussed getting married. We had talked about a house, but never about the two of us actually living there together. I guess we figured it was either implied or it would just happen with little resistance from either of us.
"We just want to do it now," I said.
"Today?" Janeway looked at both of us. "You don't have time to plan a proper ceremony."
"We want to get married today," I laid stress on the last word. "There will be time to do a so-called `proper' wedding at another time."
"I don't know about you, but I plan on getting married only once," Tom joked. Both Janeway and I glared at him and he immediately wilted, his lips pursing shut.
"I just find your haste surprising," Janeway said. "Is there. something I should know about?" I winced at the tone in her voice; did she suspect pregnancy?
"No," Tom said. "We want to get married today."
There was something in his tone that made Janeway sit up straighter.
"You owe me this," Tom said in a very low voice. I turned to him in surprise; Janeway's cheeks flushed red.
"Very well," she said. "This evening then. At 2100 hours, I will perform the ceremony."
We skulked out of the ready room and I took a moment to stop Tom, placing my hand on his shoulder.
"What did you mean by that last comment?" I asked.
"B'Elanna, don't get involved," he said. "This is between the Captain and me."
"Fine," I snapped. "Be that way."
"Hey!" he grabbed my arm. "This is our wedding day. Let's not fight, okay? Just one day, promise me that much."
And so I promised that much to Tom and as I stand here before him, my hearts are beating madly and nervously at the thought of having to pledge my entire life to this man.
My eyes shift back and forth, focusing on anything but Tom. I see Seven standing next to the Doctor. Tuvok, Chakotay and Harry are opposite them. Neelix stands just behind the Captain.
Amazingly, we managed to keep the wedding a secret from the entire ship, no small feat when you consider how fast the Voyager grapevine is. Part of it had to do with the fact that we did not inform our guests until about one hour prior to the ceremony. And when we did tell them, Neelix nearly choked as he begged for more time to bake a cake and Harry was upset because he had not practiced an appropriate tune for a wedding ceremony.
"Do you have something to say?" Janeway asks. I look at Tom, hoping he has not prepared vows, because I certainly have not; I was busy down in Engineering until two hours prior to the ceremony.
Tom swallows hard; his lips part slightly and then close again.
He has, I realize with a mixture of fury and dismay. He has something to say and I. I have nothing.
"What's there to say?" Tom asks shakily. "Except that I will stand by you, B'Elanna, through thick and thin, through Hirogen and Borg, and. you don't have to worry about me. I will be there as long as you will have me."
Damn him. Even unrehearsed, he still finds the words that stop my hearts and leave my breath in my throat.
He reaches for my hands, caressing them between his.
"B'Elanna, do you have something to share with Tom?" Janeway looks at me. At this moment, if looks could kill, I would be dead on the floor.
"Um," I hesitate. Words and people are not my specialty; I prefer engines and other things mechanical for the pure reasoning that something inanimate, such as a machine, cannot hurt me.
I can choose the trite and obvious path: my undying confession of eternal love and endless devotion. I can pledge to respect him, to stand by him and to adore him, no matter how often he gets that engine grease in his hair. I can offer to cook dinner every night, to leave my bat'leth in a place he won't trip over it and to put away my clothes instead of leaving them on the floor.
"B'Elanna?" Janeway says as Tom starts to look a bit panicked. I squeeze his hands.
"Thank you," I tell him. "Thank you for taking a chance on me. I. I can't even express how much that, um, means to me. Knowing that you, um, will stand by me forever. that's a big promise, Paris, and I, I mean to hold you to it."
Over Janeway's shoulder, I see Neelix brush away a tear. At least someone is touched.
As for the Captain herself, she looks unimpressed, even bored.
"Do you, Tom Paris, take B'Elanna Torres to love, honor and cherish as long as you both shall live?"
Tom's jaw works nervously and for a moment, I fear he might back out.
"I do," he says as he places a slender gold band around my finger.
"And do you, B'Elanna Torres, take Tom Paris to love, honor and cherish as long as you both shall live?"
There is no hesitation on my part, "I do."
Janeway swallows and then she offers up a broad, generous smile. I figure, maybe I've been wrong about her feelings about Tom; after all, I've seen her making eyes at Chakotay also.
"I now pronounce you man and wife," she says. "Tom, you may kiss the bride."
Tom's lips barely brush against mine; he has never been this tentative before and I wonder if we are making a big mistake.
There is applause as we turn to face our friends.
"Congratulations," Chakotay says, shaking Tom's hand.
"May you have live happy and fruitful lives," the Doctor says enthusiastically. Seven merely glances at us with an expression slightly less than disgust. Harry is beaming and Neelix is positively bursting.
"Congratulations to both of you," Tuvok says in his usual stilted manner.
"This is indeed a surprise," Seven finally comments. "Though not an unpleasant one."
"Thank you," I tell her. I can afford to be generous; today is my wedding day.
Tom is all the way across the room, talking to Harry.
My stomach twists, somersaults, and then after a few minutes, Tom is back at my side, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"Want to get out of here?" he whispers. "Harry just gave me his holodeck time."
I grin, more from relief than pleasure, "I thought you'd never ask."

****
There was no time to create a special honeymoon program so it's the old fallback, the Virgin Islands beach program B'Elanna created for me over a year ago.
We enter the holodeck, hand in hand. The scene is already set; a melting sunset bleeds lavender and gold over a faded blue sky, a gentle breeze moves the heavy branches of palm trees surrounding the crescent-shaped beach.
"Does it feel different to you?" she asks. "Being married, that is?"
"No, but it's certainly not the way I expected," I say. I lead her over to one of the lounge chairs and push her down on it. We're definitely not the giddy lovers of four years ago; we're too domesticated, too settled for that kind of passion these days.
"I know it came out of nowhere," she says, lifting her foot so I can remove her shoe.
"We never even talked about getting married," I tell her. I sit at the edge of the chair and remove my own shoes. B'Elanna is already removing her jacket.
"I hate these things," she says. "Itchy and hot."
She leans back against the chair, moving over to make room for me.
"I don't think the person who designed these uniforms actually has to wear them," I answer, removing my own jacket. B'Elanna rests her head against my shoulder. It feels so good to sit here, just the two of us, talking for the first time in what seems like weeks. "So why did you want to get married so quickly?"
"I was afraid with all the excitement in the Alpha Quadrant, we'd just forget about it."
"Forget about it? B'Elanna, are you crazy?"
"Maybe," she says. "I wanted to be sure that you wouldn't go anywhere."
"Where do you think I'm going to go?"
"I don't know," her brown eyes are wide and curious. She runs a finger up and down my pant leg.
"Don't say you have doubts about me."
"I don't. I doubt me," she says. "The other day, I was in the turbolift, and all of sudden, I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened and I really thought I was going to die. And that's when I realized that there was something left undone and that was you and me. After all we've been through, I wanted to make sure we had something to show for it."
She holds out her right hand and I take her fingers, carefully inspecting the gold ring.
"It does look nice there," I tell her softly, lifting her hand to my lips. "Mrs. Paris."
She smiles, "I think it should be Torres for now, don't you?"
"If you insist," I tell her. "And I suppose this means you can't go off and get yourself assimilated without asking me first?"
"I did not say I would obey you," she says, smiling. "But yes, I guess I can't. You're stuck with me, Tom."
I wrap my arms around her, "I can think of worse fates."
She leans her head back against my shoulder and I feel her muscles relax. We have not been this close in months. Emotionally, that is. There are times, in bed, when I feel like I'm clawing at her, trying to get underneath her skin just to get close to her. There are other times when we are the only two people in a room, meters away, yet sharing a connection we both feel but need no words or physical contact to experience.
I do not know how this paradox exists; it's unfathomable to me and merely taunts me into lust or utter disinterest - there is nothing in between.
B'Elanna gets up from the chair; I make no motion to stop her. She walks towards the edge of the water, a darkening silhouette against the early echoes of evening. She steps into the surf, wading ankle deep into the water. She turns only once and I wave at her.
After a few minutes, B'Elanna comes out, the hem of her pants soggy and clinging to her legs. She beckons to me, and fool I am, I get to my feet.
B'Elanna is dragging her toe in the sand.
"Stand there," she commands.
"What's going on?" I ask. A meter separates us, but once again I feel the distance between us lengthening, the earlier intimacy of the evening gone.
"This is the way it's going to be," she says. She points down at the sand. "When we get back, it's going to be Starfleet versus Maquis. Everyone's going to have to choose."
"That's not going to happen," I say, staring down at the line.
"It's already happening. Don't you feel it?"
"You're the only one who talks about it."
"You're not listening, Tom," she hisses. "Don't you ever listen?"
I turn away and head towards the holodeck doors.
"Where are you going?" she calls after me.
"I don't need this," I tell her. "For once, can't you let well enough alone?"
"I don't want there to be surprises."
"Surprises? Ha! You're paranoid, B'Elanna."
"No, I'm not," she catches up to me, her hand on my shoulder. "Tom, please, promise me, when it's time to take sides, you'll forgive me."
I shake off her hand, "That's not going to happen."
"Don't be so stubborn. It's only a matter of time."
I gaze into those brown eyes, wondering what she's hiding.
"Are you planning something, B'Elanna?"
"Promise me," she says. "Whatever happens, you'll forgive me."
I twist the gold wedding band on my finger nervously. She is serious and that scares me.
"Sure, yeah," I say, not really believing the words dripping from my lips. At this point, I'll say anything to get her to stop this crazy delusional talk.
And I look at her and realize that she knows I'm lying to her. B'Elanna bites her lip.
"It's all right, Tom," she brushes my cheek lightly with her fingers. "And I hope you're right and I'm wrong and that this is all in my head."
She exits the holodeck, leaving me alone.

****

He would hate me for this but I went to Chakotay. My feet somehow know what I want even before my brain does and I suppose this is why, on my wedding night, I am standing in front of Chakotay, trying to compose myself. He hands me a raktajino and indicates the chair opposite his.
"You fought already?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. "B'Elanna, really."
"I told him what is going to happen," I say dully. "He doesn't believe me."
"Do you really need him to believe you?"
"I'd like to think he would," I put the mug down. My hands are cold, so very cold, and I shiver. Chakotay gets up and hands me a thin, black blanket. I wrap it around my shoulders, trying to get warm.
"It's a small thing, B'Elanna."
"Not to me, it's not," I answer. "He doesn't see me the way I want him to."
"As a Maquis?" his voice is sharp.
"In a few days everyone is going to see me as Maquis. He might as well too."
"You can't dictate terms like that, B'Elanna. It's not fair."
Chakotay straddles his chair, resting his arms on the back. The lights are dim, his hair is slightly tousled and he is wearing pajamas; I am only just now conscious of the fact that my late night arrival must have woken him.
"I'm sorry for bothering you," I tell him. I push the mug back and get to my feet. "You're not," he says. "But I don't think it's fair for you to impose on Tom a vision you have of yourself."
"Do you see yourself as Maquis?" I challenge.
Chakotay's face tightens; I can almost see the thoughts running through his brain; I imagine electrical impulses dashing along neural pathways, igniting another messenger neuron in turn.
"I haven't thought about it in a long time," he answers finally. "I guess the Alpha Quadrant seemed so far away, I never thought we would get home."
"What's going to happen to us, Chakotay?" my voice is very low.
"I'm not sure. I've told you everything I know already," he says. "But we're still Maquis to Starfleet. That much is clear."
"Has Janeway said anything?"
"No, only that she will do her best for us."
"I don't believe that."
"She's the only friend we've got, B'Elanna," Chakotay's voice is harsh and I wonder if there is something more, an unspoken sentiment, behind this last statement. Of course there has been gossip about the Captain and her first officer. There has been plenty of talk about the way they look at each other, how their fingers occasionally drift a little too close, and how much time they spend together. alone. in her quarters. Kahless only knows what they do together - I can't fathom what Chakotay could possibly see in Janeway.
I know what I see.
I see a cold woman, utterly hardened and single-mindedly determined. If she has regrets, she does not dwell on it; there is always the next best thing to move on to.
Chakotay, on the other hand, and here, I get into dangerous territory - a place no married woman should go on her wedding night. But it's true. Chakotay possesses a quality of serenity, utter calmness, and trustworthiness; his word is good.
Janeway, I don't trust. I never have and there have been times when I felt her actions mirrored those of my mother and so I disliked her even more.
"That's a sorry state of affairs then," I answer. Chakotay scratches his nose and then looks at me.
"She'll do her best for us," he says.
"It won't be enough," I say. "The whole Alpha Quadrant could speak for us and it wouldn't make a difference."
"You don't need the whole Alpha Quadrant, B'Elanna," Chakotay says softly. "You only think you do."
"What is that supposed to mean?" I demand.
"I guess I'm just telling you not to worry," he smiles. "And also, good night."
It is probably the coldest dismissal I've gotten from Chakotay, but I take it in stride.
Chakotay's just afraid to admit what the rest of Voyager's crew already knows.
He's Janeway's boy - always has been and always will be.
And I, well, I no longer know who I am.

*****

The day after my wedding, I meet Harry for breakfast. He is sitting by the windows, stirring oatmeal listlessly.
"What's going on?" I ask him.
"Didn't think you were coming," he says. "It being your wedding night."
"I wouldn't stand you up," I answer. "Give me a second."
What I don't tell Harry is that B'Elanna and I spent the night apart. At least that's one perk of keeping separate quarters; when the going gets tough, we can retreat to our separate corners to link our wounds and wallow in misery in private.
I replicate a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice, and bring the tray back to the table.
"Have a good night?" Harry asks without a trace of irony.
"It was all right," I answer.
"That good, huh?"
Harry puts his spoon down.
"Have you noticed it?" he asks.
"What?"
"The divisions."
"What divisions?"
"Are you blind? Look around," Harry's voice is low. "Starfleet and Maquis."
I twist around to look. Harry is right. There are not many people in the messhall at this hour, but those who are, have chosen their tables strictly along party lines.
"Well," I struggle to find an explanation. "That's normal. They've been through so much together."
"I don't think that's. It's more calculated," Harry says earnestly.
"You sound just like B'Elanna. She said the same thing last night."
"She's right, you know," Harry says. "Look around you. Friendships that have lasted seven years mean nothing now. Once again, we'll be two separate crews, hating and distrusting each other. It will be like we were never in the Delta Quadrant together, fighting for one common goal."
"Getting home, you mean?"
"Exactly."
I take another look around; a group of three, Starfleet, rise from their table and leave with nary a glance at the table of four former Maquis members. The coldness of their departure leaves a bad taste in my mouth and I push my plate away.
"Just watch," Harry says in that low voice. "In a couple days, we'll be in the Alpha Quadrant and I bet you and B'Elanna won't even talk."
"Isn't that looking on the dark side of things? That's not like you, Harry."
He picks up his bowl without looking at the oatmeal now congealing on the sides, "I hope I'm wrong, Tom."
I hope he's wrong too, but a funny feeling in my gut makes me think that he might actually be right.
It's weird how you don't notice things until they are specifically pointed out and then this new awareness nags at you, driving you utterly out of your mind.
During my Academy days, there was this girl - I think her name was Fiona - and she irked me in ways I never thought possible. She was the type who always had the great ideas but always came across as a sledgehammer, bludgeoning you until you cried uncle. With Fiona, you never wanted her to be right even though instinctively you knew everything she said made sense.
She had this high-pitched laugh and one day, someone confessed, "I hate Fiona's laugh. I hear it and my blood curdles." After that, whenever I heard Fiona laugh, I cringed.
It's the same thing now that Harry pointed out the division between Starfleet and Maquis. I notice it as I walk through the corridors of Voyager. Maquis and
Starfleet barely glance at each other as they pass. With each cold encounter between former friends, I cringe.
In Engineering, I notice the division even more. The Maquis are on the second level while the Starfleet blue bloods occupy the lower levels. I find Seven intent on a data PADD as she inputs information into her console.
"Seen B'Elanna?" I ask casually.
"She is in conduit thirteen."
Ah, my favorite conduit, a prime breeding ground for claustrophobia. I know it well, having spent time there before repairing down power relays, hating every second of it. It would figure that B'Elanna would hide out in the one place where it is ninety percent sure I would not follow.
Well, her luck just ran out.
"Thanks," I tell Seven. I cross Engineering to conduit thirteen; the wall panel has already been removed and I enter, crawling through the narrow space.
B'Elanna is lying on her back, about halfway down, fiddling with something directly above her.
"Damn!" she exclaims as something sparks.
"Something I can help you with?"
"Tom?" she sits up, banging her head on the ceiling. "Damn! Oh, that hurt! See what you made me do?"
"Want me to kiss and make it better?"
"No," she says, lying back down. "What are you doing here?"
I settle myself into a semi-awkward position of my back against the curved conduit walls and my feet propped up against the opposite wall.
"Looking for you," I tell her. "I miss you."
"We saw each other last night."
"You walked out on me last night, remember?"
B'Elanna sighs, "You really want to talk, Tom?"
"Yeah," I say. "Look, we need to. We got married and I'm not sure that it was the right thing to do."
"If you have doubts, tell Janeway; she can divorce us as quickly as she married us."
"That's not what I mean. I merely meant that maybe we rushed and maybe the Captain was right. We didn't exactly think things through."
"I've been thinking," she says.
"You want to share some of those thoughts with me? Don't you owe me at least that much?"
B'Elanna sits upright, this time a bit more carefully. She pulls her legs to her chest. She leans forward slightly, a pensive expression on her face, as she rests her chin on her knees.
"Does there need to be a reason?" she asks. "Can't you just do things because you want to?"
"Depends if there is someone else involved or not. And if there is, you damn well better have a reason."
"I love you," she says simply. I tilt my head towards her. Once again she takes the easy way out. In the past, all she has had to do it whisper those three words to me and I would melt into a puddle of goo at her feet. This time, I don't.
"That's it?" I ask.
"What more do you want?"
"An explanation, maybe," I say. "You never mentioned getting married before and then all of a sudden, you want to do this. Forgive me if I find it a bit confusing."
"Sometimes things feel right. This felt right."
I laugh sardonically; "right" is certainly not the word I would use. I'm more inclined to describe our shotgun nuptials as "uncomfortable."
"We didn't spend our wedding night together," I remind her. "Where were you last night?"
"Here," she says in a low voice.
"You married me, not Voyager's engines, B'Elanna," there is more bite in my voice than I intended. "Are you planning something I'm not aware of?"
"I don't have an ulterior motive," she shakes her head but her voice wavers making me suspect otherwise.
"Have you and Chakotay..." I let my voice drift off. "What has he said to you?"
"Nothing," she says defensively. "I told you everything."
"I don't think so. B'Elanna, are you even planning to come back to the Alpha Quadrant?"
B'Elanna blinks, her eyes shifting back and forth.
"You're not coming back with us," I whisper. "When were you going to say something?"
"I was going to... eventually."
"When? When you were on your way out of the airlock? Don't be crazy, B'Elanna. You can't survive in the Delta Quadrant by yourself."
"I won't be by myself," she says.
Our eyes lock and she is the first to break off the eye contact.
"I wouldn't agree to stay so..." I stare at her, completely bewildered. She looks apprehensive, licking her lips like she does when she is nervous.
"You have to understand, Tom," she says. "There isn't going to be a party when Voyager comes home. Janeway will be a hero and then when the formalities and debriefings are through, they will march Chakotay, me, and the others off to some penal colony."
I'm still in shock; in all of our years together, I had never imagined B'Elanna capable of such duplicity, not had I ever thought she would be afraid to face consequences.
"I don't want to be locked up," she whispers.
"That won't happen. Janeway won't allow it."
"Why would she care?" B'Elanna flares. "She only cares about herself."
"That's not true," I say, but silently, I agree; only a few months ago, I had confronted the Captain, demanding answers, and wondering why she put Voyager in unnecessary jeopardy.
"It's true. She will show off Seven and she will talk about all the discoveries she made, about how she survived the Borg a million times, and in the midst of all that pomp, she'll forget about the Maquis."
Where this stream of invective comes from baffles me; B'Elanna has been less than fiery since her return from the Borg. She is more low-key. There are times when I fear that if she gets much calmer, she will be comatose. In some ways, I'm glad the anger is back; dealing with her temper is something I can do. This other B'Elanna, the sedate B'Elanna, is not someone I know.
"B'Elanna, I won't let you stay here."
"Is that really your decision?" she asks.
She has a point but I think she also knows that I won't leave her behind and now that we are married, my obligation to B'Elanna Torres has increased tenfold.
Damn, she's good.
"You're overreacting," I say firmly.
She looks at me doubtfully, "You say things you want to believe, Tom. What happens when none of what you think will happen happens? Then what?"
"I refuse to be pessimistic about our homecoming," I tell her. "I'll talk to Janeway myself, find out what she thinks of the situation."
B'Elanna extends one hand, curling her fingers in and out. I am transfixed on this simple movement, imagining those long fingers against my cheek, my neck and then those nails, scratching my skin, drawing blood.
"Or I'll talk to my father," I say suddenly.
B'Elanna's head whips again, banging against the ceiling.
"Ouch!" she exclaims.
This time, I lean forward and gently touch her head. She leans forward, allowing me to see the slight bump already forming on her scalp. The skin is bruised, already smarting from impact.
"I'll do whatever it takes," I tell her. "But you have to promise to trust me. Trust Starfleet."
She gives me a look, one that usually would reduce me to a quivering mass, but I shrug it off. I have faced that famous temper of hers so many times that now it rolls off of me like water on oil.
"I'd sooner trust a Cardassian," she says.
"Oh that's great. You compare Starfleet to Cardassians. That's not a fair, B'Elanna."
"If things were fair, we'd never have ended up in the Delta Quadrant," she swallows hard. "I would have finished what I had started and..."
"You can't be blamed for not being there for-"
"Easy for you to say. You've never seen anything through, have you?"
I glare at her, "Fine, stay here."
I get to my hands and knees and start crawling out. I'm almost a third of the way to the conduit opening when I turn. B'Elanna is still sitting there, her arms wrapped around her knees as she rocks back and forth.
"You're wrong," I tell her. "I'm going to see this through."

****

It's easy to blame the Alpha Quadrant for what ails me.
I don't care about penal colonies honestly. I hear the food is bad, the furniture is utilitarian and uncomfortable, and the clothes are itchy. Sounds a bit like Voyager, except that you can actually go outside.
Putting my finger on the exact source of my discontent is more difficult. I might as well throw a dart at a wall or spin a wheel or something.
Chakotay says when it comes to me, the list of possible suspects is endless.
"I think you just like being difficult," he tells me as we hike through the Cascades. After my altercation with Tom in conduit thirteen, I took a few minutes to compose myself, and then commed Chakotay. He had suggested the holodeck and twenty minutes later, I am surrounded by towering pines beneath a deep blue sky.
"That's not it," I object.
"I think it is," Chakotay pauses at a fork in the trail. "You are afraid of going home but I don't think that's the only thing you're afraid of."
"Are you a counselor now?"
"I'm your friend."
We turn right and for a few minutes, we don't speak.
"You do realize that the Captain will never allow you to stay here," Chakotay says.
"I wasn't planning on asking her."
"Hmmm... now that sounds like the B'Elanna I know," Chakotay points out a rock ledge. He removes his pack and sits down; I follow suit. Our feet dangle off the edge; below us is a cover of lush green pine. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the roar of a waterfall.
"Whose program is this?" I ask. "I've never seen it before."
"I think it's a default," Chakotay answers as he hands me a water bottle. "I discovered it, um, when you were on the Borg cube."
I pause in mid-drink, "Tom says no one used the holodeck while we were gone."
"That is almost exactly the truth," Chakotay says. "I came in here just the one time to relax. I guess there are some things you want to do with a good friend and hiking is one of them; I left almost immediately."
I lean forward, mentally trying to calculate the distance between the ground and me.
"The holodeck safeties are on," Chakotay says. "Jump if you'd like. The most harm you can possibly do to yourself is a few scratches from the tree branches."
I give him a sideways glance.
"I'm not trying to kill myself," I tell him.
"Sometimes it's hard to tell with you. One moment you're hurling yourself through space at a hundred kilometers an hour and then the next, you're volunteering for an insane mission on the Borg cube."
I look at him in surprise; most of the time, he kowtows to Janeway, agreeing with everything she says as if she is never wrong. It makes me furious when Chakotay acts like a Starfleet officer, with his strict adherence to rules and regulations; it's almost as if he forgets he was - is - Maquis.
"You didn't agree with the mission?" I ask.
"No," he shakes his head. "It made me feel better that you and Tuvok were with her, but I still didn't feel good about it. I played out a thousand different scenarios in my head about what could possibly go wrong and it terrified me that we might not be able to get you back."
"You sound like Tom."
Chakotay offers me a cryptic smile. He reaches to the side and plucks pine needles off of a tree. He hands them to me.
"He's a good man, B'Elanna," Chakotay says. "He doesn't deserve what you do to him."
My fingers are sticky with sap and I turn my gaze downward in attempt to avoid Chakotay's eyes.
"When did you and Tom, um, become so close?" I ask.
"Close?" Chakotay snorts. "I doubt that that would ever be possible with Mr. Paris. You two are a lot alike, B'Elanna. I think that's the problem."
"Excuse me?"
"You're both hard to reach. You both coat yourselves with a shiny veneer, a personality that you want everyone else to see, but you never let anyone see below the surface. Sometimes, I wonder how I can reach out to either of you and with Tom, I think I had a breakthrough while you were gone," Chakotay says. He breaks a stick into little pieces and hurls them off into the distance. "For a few moments, I felt like he actually trusted me. That, B'Elanna, was a good feeling."
"I can imagine," I tell Chakotay. "But I don't know what that has to do with me."
"Yes, you do, because you're doing it again. You're putting up barriers the way you always do, but there is a difference this time. You know exactly what you are doing," he says. "I never thought of you as manipulative, but that's exactly what you're doing to Tom and I'm telling you, it has to stop."
"That's between Tom and me."
Chakotay heaves a sigh, "None of this has been easy for us, B'Elanna. I suppose it was more straightforward when we, Maquis and Starfleet, were united in a common goal - getting home. Now that we are so close, it's easy to lose sight of what binds us together and I want to believe something more holds us together than our original mission."
I fling the needles over the edge of the rock, but some stick stubbornly to the palm of my hand. I pick the survivors off and then rub my hand against the rock in an attempt to remove the sap.
"Here," Chakotay hands me the water bottle. "This might help."
I pour the water over my hand, some of it splashing on my clothes. A breeze ruffles my hair and Chakotay glances upward.
"It's getting cooler," he says. "Want to keep going? We should reach the summit before nightfall."
"It's a holodeck program, Chakotay," I say. "We can always set back the chronometer."
"That's cheating," Chakotay is already on his feet, shouldering his pack. "Are you coming?"
We make our way up the trail, pausing at junctions in the trail to catch our breath or drink water.
"I see from holodeck logs you've been running your Klingon battle simulations," Chakotay says casually during one such break.
"Are you monitoring my activities now?"
"I review all holodeck logs."
"Since when?"
Chakotay shrugs, "I like to know what the crew is up to."
"Even the, um, private programs?"
"It's not my intention to pry into the crew's privacy," he says sharply.
"I should hope not," I answer. I brush past him to continue up on the path.
"So when did you start reenacting famous Klingon battles?" he calls after me.
"You ought to know. You're the one who is reviewing holodeck logs."
"I imagine meditation doesn't work for you like it does for Tuvok."
I whirl around, nearly breathless.
"What does that mean?"
Chakotay leans his shoulder against a tree, crossing his arms against his chest.
"Tuvok meditates to control his emotions," Chakotay says. "We all have our own ways of escaping what bothers us, what haunts us and keeps us awake at night."
"I'm certainly not escaping anything."
"I believe that you believe that you are not escaping," Chakotay's face is grim. He takes a step towards me. "Kathryn and I have talked, B'Elanna. I know what happened on the Borg cube. I know about the assimilations."
My eyes widen and I take a step backwards. I miss my footing and stumble over a root, landing painfully on my rear.
"Are you okay?" Chakotay asks solicitously.
"Fine," I hiss back.
"The Captain has said that she has difficulty accepting her role in those assimilations," Chakotay goes on.
"I'm not listening."
Chakotay leans down and lifts my chin so that I'm staring directly into his liquid brown eyes. It surprises me now to recall that eight years ago, I would have done anything to find myself in such a position. Instead of his love, I had to settle for friendship.
"You need help," Chakotay says. "You're not like Seven who was programmed from an early age to assimilate. She didn't know anything else really, barely could remember a life where she was not Borg. You are different."
"I knew the risks when I went in," I answer. "I knew what might happen."
"Just because you knew what might happen doesn't mean you were prepared for it," Chakotay says. He releases my chin and stands upright again. "Do you remember the first one?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Of course not," Chakotay says. "That's why you want to stay out here in the Delta Quadrant where no one will ask you the questions you don't want to answer."
I cover my eyes with my hand, "Chakotay, I'm tired."
"I know," he says; his voice, low and gentle, sends shivers down on my spine. Damn me and my stupid reactions. I'm a married woman now, hell, I was practically married before Tom and I exchanged vows. "B'Elanna, the transition isn't easy. One day you're B'Elanna Torres, the next you're Borg, and then it's back to B'Elanna again. Those kind of changes don't occur without some kind of trauma."
He holds out a hand and I take it.
"You don't want to stay here, B'Elanna," he says. "You just want to be comfortable and you're comfortable here, even though you hate everything about the Delta Quadrant. You know it too, B'Elanna, so stop saying that you aren't coming back with us, because you're lying to everyone and to yourself."
I open my mouth to speak, but there is really nothing left to say; Chakotay has said everything that is inside of me and it amazes me how he can pull the exact words from inside of me and put them together into sentences, complete with nouns and verbs.
"Let's go," he says. "We've been standing still too long."
He pulls me to my feet in one smooth gesture.
"There's another thing, B'Elanna. I see the divisions," Chakotay says over his shoulder as he continues on. "It worries me to see people separating into Maquis and Starfleet contingents. And it's not the Starfleet officers who are doing it, B'Elanna; it's the Maquis. Somehow, we Maquis manage to put distance between us and the people who care about us the most; it's an unnatural talent, B'Elanna, and not one that I'm particularly fond of. I expect that you, as a senior officer, will not contribute to the segregation. We've gone through a lot to become the crew we are today; I intend for it to stay that way."
"You're asking for a lot."
"I'm asking you to do your part," Chakotay says. "The rest is none of your concern. I'm asking that you don't perpetuate the division."
"Are you afraid of going home?"
"Afraid? No. Apprehensive? That's more like it."
"Do you think they really will put us on trial?" I ask.
Chakotay stops in his tracks, waits a second, and then turns.
"Sounds like you plan on coming back to the Alpha Quadrant," he says.
"Tom won't stay here," I say petulantly.
"No," Chakotay says. "This time, he won't be the one running away."
This last comment really hurts; I have always thought of myself as fairly strong, able to get through the toughest times. But I have to see now that I'm the one who is falling apart inside. It's almost like my insides have been shredded and my body is held together by the thinnest of skins.
"Well?" I ask, choosing to ignore this last comment.
"I wouldn't be surprised if questions are asked," Chakotay says. "I don't know what the consequences, if there are any, will be."
We are now just a meter apart from each other.
"For what it's worth," I tell him. "I don't regret my time with the Maquis."
Chakotay quirks a smile, "I never thought you did. In fact, I think the Maquis made you the person you are today."
"Don't forget the Borg."
Chakotay's smile broadens.
"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Isn't that right?" I continue.
"Only if you let it out," Chakotay answers. "Otherwise it eats you up inside until there is nothing left."
He reaches out and lightly touches my shoulder, "Come back, B'Elanna."
Then Chakotay turns and heads down the trail.
I stare after his retreating figure in wonderment. It startles me how Chakotay can get to me. It's absolutely amazing the way he gets beneath my skin and manages to find all of the right emotional buttons to press. Once again, that wistful dream of mine, that little girl's fantasy of Chakotay whisking me away into the sunset, tugs at my memory. I smile to myself and then follow him down the path.

****

Janeway has called what she terms "an emergency brainstorming session." In other words, it's a senior staff meeting, called at the last minute, because she is panicking in the way only Janeway panics: calmly and utterly unruffled.
She is leaning back in her chair, her fingers stroking her chin; she is turned away from most of us, though she faces Chakotay at an angle.
B'Elanna sits across from me, doing her studious best to avoid my gaze. I have spent the last two hours trying to track her down, only to find out she was in the holodeck with Commander Chakotay. I personally do not know what anyone can say or do with Chakotay for more than ten minutes so it baffles me that B'Elanna spent so much time with him.
I'm sitting in between Harry and Seven and then across the table, between Chakotay and B'Elanna, sits the good Doctor. Tuvok remains standing, which makes me think that this will be a relatively short meeting; for that small concession, I would be exceedingly happy because I want to talk to B'Elanna desperately.
"I have noticed," Janeway begins, her voice scratchy with emotion, "a certain tension between some members of our crew."
B'Elanna shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Chakotay looks down at his fingers. For myself, I love Janeway's euphemism for the growing dislike between Starfleet and Maquis.
"I want you all to be clear on this," Janeway rotates her chair so she is now facing us, both elbows on the table as she surveys each of us in turn. "We are one crew and we will remain so. Going home changes nothing."
"If you are referring to the coldness between Starfleet and Maquis," the Doctor began. "The divisions have always been there, only they are more prominent now."
"I'm aware of that, Doctor, which is why I admonish you all to do your best to avoid these types of. divisions," Janeway says. "I expect you all to remain supportive of each other. Dismissed."
Chakotay is immediately out of his side and by his captain's chair. She turns her chair towards the window, so Chakotay has to turn his back to us so he can speak to her.
"Hey, Tom, if you aren't busy, want to meet in the holodeck?" Harry asks me in a low voice.
My eyes are fixed on B'Elanna, "Maybe another time. I've got something to fix."
"The car? The Flyer?"
"No," I nod towards B'Elanna. "Something infinitely more important."
Out in the corridor, I catch up to B'Elanna. She looks at me and her gaze is slightly cannibalistic; this is a good sign - I feel the need to devour her myself.
"We need to talk," I tell her, clutching her forearm in case my Klingon darling takes it into her head to hide in another EPS conduit. B'Elanna's face softens just a bit.
"I know," she says. "Uh, my quarters?"
At least I know I'm not in the doghouse anymore. I don't know what she did in the holodeck for two hours, but it seems to have a positive effect on her; B'Elanna no longer looks as if she is going to rip my larynx out if I try to speak.
Once in her quarters, B'Elanna strips off her uniform jacket, tossing it carelessly across the back of the sofa.
"One thing I'm not going to miss when we get back are these uniforms," she says casually.
"So you've changed your mind," I say. "About staying here in the Delta Quadrant."
B'Elanna curls up on the sofa and pats the seat next to her. I accept the invitation and lean back against the sofa, not quite touching her.
"I suppose that was a foolish idea," she says.
"No, it wasn't. I think you just have some things you need to work out and it's easier here where you don't have the baggage that you have in the Alpha Quadrant."
"Tom," B'Elanna knits her fingers together. "I was wrong, I'm sorry."
"There's no need to apologize," I say. "What were you doing in the holodeck?"
"Hiking," she answers. "Chakotay found this old program of a hiking trail back on Earth. It was invigorating."
"Ah," I look at her; damn if she doesn't look serene. I feel a slight tinge of jealousy because I have never put that look on B'Elanna's face. Chakotay, on the other hand, yields this enormous influence over her and he manages to bring her a sense of inner peace that I cannot. It's hard to compete with that kind of power. He makes her happy and I, well, I just make her mad. Ying and yang, Chakotay and I are. Between us, we keep B'Elanna in a constant state of flux. More than anything, I want that to change. I want to be the calming influence in her life just as I am the irritant.
"We talked," B'Elanna says.
I lean my head back, focusing on the ceiling. Of course she talked to Chakotay, she always does. The two of us, B'Elanna and I, banter back and forth, but never do we truly talk to each other. I have Harry and she has Chakotay.
B'Elanna gets on her knees as she turns to face me. She leans forward, her hand cold against my cheek.
"I should have been talking to you, Tom," she says very softly. My eyes fly open.
"What?" I croak. If I weren't already sitting, I would have fallen over.
"There are things I haven't told you," she says. "About my time with the Borg."
"I'm listening."
B'Elanna looks down at her hands, "This isn't easy for me, Tom, and I don't know where to begin. I just know that I don't want to run away. Not this time."
I fumble for her hand, "Take your time, okay?"
"You might hate me when I tell you."
"I don't think that could happen."
"It's worse than you think."
"It could be, but then again, it might not be."
We exchange a smile and then she gets up off the couch, still holding my hand. She leads me into the bedroom, that enigmatic smile crossing her lips as she glances over her shoulder back at me.
She pulls back the covers and then pushes me down.
"B'Elanna," I say. For once, physical intimacy isn't the answer; I want to talk.
"Shhh," she puts her finger to her lips. I lay back against the cushions as she curls up next to me, pulling the blankets over us. "I want to tell you something."
I wrap my arm around her and she rests her head on my chest.
"When I was Borg, I assimilated people," she says very slowly. My grip on her body tightens a bit and she presses herself closer to me. "Shhh, Tom. Don't say anything, okay?"
"All right."
"I remember," B'Elanna says. "I wake up in the middle of night because I think I'm in mid-assimilation. Either I'm getting assimilating or I'm assimilating someone else."
"Oh B'Elanna."
"There are one hundred and eighty-seven steps in the assimilation process," B'Elanna whispers. "The first step is the sedation of the victim. The second step involves the injection of nanoprobes into the blood stream, and in the third step, you begin the process of networking the new drone's brain into the neuromatrix."
She pauses, breathing deeply, "It goes on like that, Tom, and sometimes, I get on stuck on a step, say step ninety-two, which is, um, the enhancement of vision - you know, the ocular implant? I messed that up, I think, a few times. I was never, um, um, good at that step."
"B'Elanna, it's all right."
Her fingers rub the fabric of my jacket; she raises herself up on an elbow and looks down at me.
"Are you warm? Do you want to take off your jacket?"
I sit up and shrug out of the jacket. B'Elanna doesn't look at me as she lies back down, her eyes focused on the ceiling. I lay back down next to her, careful not to touch her.
"I think I assimilated a thousand people," she says. "I asked Tuvok once. I said to him `how many?' and he couldn't answer. He told me it was illogical to try and guess since the number would be inaccurate. But I have to know, Tom, I have to."
"Is that why you're angry with Janeway?" I ask softly. "Is this why you don't trust her?"
"What?"
"Because she volunteered herself for this mission and you went with her, thinking it was the loyal thing to do and then you found yourself in a position that compromised your principles."
B'Elanna inhales deeply, "I became the thing I hate the most, Tom. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see that Borg face of mine staring back or I look at Seven and I remember something awful and I'm cold. So cold, Tom."
"It's all right," I tell her as she rolls back into my arms.
"There's more, Tom," she swallows hard. "When I walk the halls of Voyager, I feel like there just might be a drone around every corner. Sometimes I hear their voices in my head or I hear screams of the victims. I can't get away from it."
I squeeze her hand, "I'm glad you're finally telling me."
"I don't feel better. I thought I would but I don't."
"It's going to take a while, B'Elanna, but I'm glad you decided to tell me. We'll work it out, okay?"
She cuddles closer and I revel in the softness of her, relishing that I can hold her in my arms, and feel her warm breath against my cheek. During the time she was gone, I felt as my right arm had been ripped off. With B'Elanna, I am complete.
What she doesn't know is that I would not have left her behind. If she had truly decided to stay in the Delta Quadrant, running from the demons in the Alpha Quadrant, my choice was clear: I would have stayed also.

****

Janeway and Chakotay's admonishments aside, the segregation between Maquis and Starfleet continues. Somehow, it just happens.
The duty assignments are given out arbitrarily, yet I notice the Maquis take to the second level of engineering while the Starfleet engineers stay on the first level. In one thing, the lines blur and they are united: uniformly, they all stay out of my way.
I stand in front of the warp core, hands on hips, surveying the situation. The right thing to do - what the captain and Chakotay would want me to do - is to break up the teams and shift people around.
But I can't lie - my loyalties lie with the Maquis. Once a Maquis, always a Maquis, and we know that whatever trials are ahead of us in the Alpha Quadrant, we Maquis will stick together while pompous Starfleet asses rack us for crimes committed seven years ago.
I imagine claiming "principle of the matter" is not an acceptable defense strategy, so we might as well leave our principles en masse in the Delta Quadrant.
It's not that we Maquis are afraid of the consequences, it's just we need to solidify our ties with those who will stand by us, no matter what. Why try to work on a relationship when you know that the other person won't give you the time of day once D-Day (as I've started to think of our return to the Alpha Quadrant) arrives.
"Vorik," I approach the Vulcan. "How are things going?"
"I have finished realigning the plasma manifolds," he says. "They should be operating at peak efficiency now."
"Good job," I look over his work. As usual, Vorik's penchant for perfectionism shows clearly. "Do you mind helping Janus-"
I pause as trepidation crosses Vorik's face. I grab his shoulder and propel him into a quiet section of Engineering, well away from the others.
"Is there a problem?" I ask sharply.
"I had intended to work with Lieutenant Carey on the-"
"Scratch that," I tell him fiercely. "Joe can handle the job himself. He doesn't need you to help run a diagnostic on isolinear chips. A first year could do it alone. I want you to help Janus realign the relays. Is that clear?"
Vorik nods and I release his shoulders. I let my breath out slowly, my eyes still on Vorik's face.
"I know what's going on," I tell him softly. "Don't think I don't see it and I know what everyone's thinking. We're going home and eventually, we're going to go our own ways, but that's in a few days. Right now, we're still on Voyager and we're still one crew. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Lieutenant."
I turn to look back at Engineering; action has all but stopped and most eyes are turned to me. I can see the challenge unspoken in their expressions and I know they are daring me to say something, but I find that I cannot. Everyone might as well know that I too want to run in the opposite direction and get as far away from Starfleet as I possibly can.
"Back to work, everyone!" I call out. I look back at Vorik. At least I won't have to lie to Janeway; I did try, only my heart wasn't in the effort - but she does not need to know that.
"Do not let me down, Vorik."
He nods and heads to the second level to work with Janus. I lean back against the wall and watch his progress. Janus looks visibly disturbed at Vorik's arrival and voices rise in dismay as Vorik begins to work. After a few minutes, Janus joins in.
The problem is, I can't walk the talk. I understand instinctively what Janeway is saying and I know that we need to remain one crew and not promote separate factions; it's just that my heart belongs firmly with the Maquis. I never wanted to wear a Starfleet uniform and even now, sometimes I look at myself in the mirror, staring at that mustard yellow and black fashion faux pas and cringe.
It was much better on the Borg cube.
You didn't form alliances nor did you have thoughts. You just were. The Queen dictated, you listened, and not for a moment, did you feel remorse or pity for your actions.
There are advantages to being a drone.
No wonder Seven kept trying to form her own little collectives when she first came on Voyager.
I brush my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear, before joining Nicoletti.
Janeway lives in some kind of Utopia, a Borg kind of world, I think. She can spout philosophy about staying together, but guess what? I don't buy it. Not for a single minute. It's not worth expending the energy on something I don't believe in and never have I believed in Starfleet or anything remotely associated with that stuffy establishment.
I am Maquis.
Don't try to tell me that Starfleet sees anything about me other than that one fact.
And don't try to convince me Starfleet cares because it doesn't. When it comes to the Maquis, Starfleet ranks us somewhere below the common terrorist but slightly above the Genoran firefly.
I guess it's always good to know where you stand.

****

We slip into the Alpha Quadrant when most onboard Voyager are still sleeping. I only notice because I'm at the helm and the senior staff is on the Bridge.
"We're being hailed," Harry tells the Captain.
Janeway is on her feet, "On screen."
The enormous face of one Admiral Rodney McArthur fills the screen. If he sits any closer to his view screen, we might be able to see his pores.
"Welcome home, Captain," the Admiral says.
"It's good to be back," she answers.
"Preparations have been made for your arrival at Starbase 87," the Admiral says.
"Good," Janeway says. "We should be there in about eight hours."
"It's good to see you again, Kathryn," the Admiral continues. He looks around the Bridge, his gaze sweeping over each one of us. "We have a lot to discuss when you get to the Starbase."
"I look forward to it."
"Until then," the Admiral bestows a smile upon the Captain; I'll bet he was a real heartbreaker, say, fifty years ago. The view screen goes blank and is immediately replaced by the blue and white Federation/Starfleet logo.
"Now that's a sight for sore eyes," Harry declares. "Real proof that we are finally home."
"It doesn't feel any different than the Delta Quadrant," B'Elanna says. I can extrapolate, from the tone of her voice, exactly the way she is standing, shoulders back and stiff, arms crossed stubbornly across her chest.
"Except that the star maps in our database actually match up with a known sector?" Harry offers.
"It's like a birthday," B'Elanna argues back. "You officially get a year older on a specific day but it doesn't feel any different than the previous day or even the day before that."
"Your comparison is flawed. The Alpha Quadrant and birthdays have nothing in common," Seven interjects.
"I'm just saying, I don't feel any more at home in the Alpha Quadrant than I did in the Delta Quadrant. Is that all right with you?" B'Elanna is spitting fire now.
"Seven, Lieutenant," Janeway gets up from her chair, but there is a smile in her voice.
My wife bristles.
My wife.
It's odd. We have been married for three days now yet this is the first time I have actually referred - even if only in my thoughts - to B'Elanna as my wife. And like so many other things, the transition from girlfriend to wife was so subtle, I never even noticed.
B'Elanna's right; it should have felt different when we crossed from Delta to Alpha. There should have been fireworks or, I don't know, but there should have been something. Instead there is nothing.
Janeway however looks like a cat that just swallowed the last bit of catnip left in the galaxy. If her smile gets any wider, her ears are going to have to move back to make room.
Chakotay looks tense, unbelievably tense. In some ways, he looks like the man I remember from five months ago, the one who couldn't make up his mind about what to do about the Borg.
I have to cut him slack though; I wouldn't have known what to do in that situation.
If ever I was face to face with the Borg Queen, I think my first instinct would be to hop into the Delta Flyer and hope against hopes that I could outrun the cube. And then, when they did finally catch up to me, I would hope that assimilation would be relatively painless.
I know now, after talking to B'Elanna, that assimilation is not painless and that even after de-assimilation, the pain lingers, carried on the backs of nanoprobes still stubbornly flowing through her blood.
"Do you think they have a welcome party for us?" Harry asks.
Harry would be the one to ask. Sometimes, I want to smack my friend to try to get some of that naiveté out of his head.
"I wouldn't expect so," Chakotay responds even before Janeway's lips part. Janeway's head whirls around and she looks at Chakotay sternly; to his credit, he does not wilt.
"I would think there would be some kind of fanfare," the Doctor says. I have no doubt that the Doctor has already prepared some kind of slide show for the Alpha Quadrant; left to his own devices, he would certainly tour the galaxy, showing off indigenous species of flora and fauna from the Delta Quadrant. Every presentation, of course, would feature a long-winded speech filled with more adjectives and adverbs than necessary. "After all, we have been gone for seven years. Surely there would be some interest in our return."
"Too much interest, if you ask me," Chakotay mutters.
B'Elanna catches that; she is quick, my wife is.
"What do you mean?" B'Elanna demands.
"Now, Lieutenant," Tuvok says.
"No, I want answers," B'Elanna says. "Is there something we should know? Captain?"
Janeway's eyes are hard; diamonds couldn't cut the glassy surface of her expression.
"Captain?" B'Elanna says again.
There is utter silence on the Bridge; we are all waiting with bated breath.
"If you're concerned about what Starfleet intends to do with us," B'Elanna says, "you don't need to be. We already know so it's no use saying nothing at all."
Janeway clears her throat. Seven tilts her head questioningly; unfortunately, the Doctor has yet to cover body language with her and so, she remains in the dark, unversed in the subtleties of silent communication.
"That's enough, Lieutenant," Janeway says sharply.
Janeway's tone suffocates all conversation on the Bridge. B'Elanna bends her dark head over her console and Chakotay moves uncomfortably in his seat. Even the Doctor seems perturbed though I doubt it's because of anything B'Elanna might have said.
So we enter the Alpha Quadrant just as we left it: at odds with each other.

****
Starbase 87 hangs in space, tilting at an awkward sixty-degree angle, some of its decks held together by force fields. Some of its communication array towers are bent or broken off completely. Construction crews in EVA suits are tethered to various spots on the station, bouncing off of the panels as they conduct repairs.
It is not the most inviting place I've ever seen. Even the Borg cube looks like the lap of luxury in comparison.
The minute Tom pilots the ship smoothly into the docking bay, I flee from the Bridge, not waiting for Janeway's dismissal. At this particular point, I am beyond reprimands.
Instead, I retreat to the holodeck, the quietest place on Voyager and it isn't long before Tom joins me.
"I thought you might be here," he says.
Once again, I'm running the beach program. Today, there is a light wind blowing through the palm trees. In the distance, we can make out the faint shimmers of a sailboat gliding across the seemingly smooth surface of the water. I have picked late evening so I can watch what I believe is my last sunset as a free woman.
I am still in my uniform, but have stripped off my shoes and socks, letting my toes dig into the sand.
"Are you all right?" Tom asks, sitting on the lawn chair directly behind me. "I was worried when you stormed off the Bridge like that."
"She was lying," I answer, my gaze focused straight ahead. "I despise that."
"What do you want her to say? That yes, there will be a special committee working on an extra special homecoming for the Maquis?"
"If that's the truth, then yes, that's what I want her to say."
"Is this another pity party, B'Elanna? Because I'm getting tired of this."
"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I tell him. "I just want whatever is going to happen. I'm here now even though I don't want to be and if I'm going to prison, I want them to just tell me. I want Janeway to tell me. I think she owes me that much."
I don't turn around, but I can imagine Tom leaning forward, his forearms on his knees, and his fingers knit together in nervousness.
"Have you talked to the Doctor lately?" he asks softly.
"I am not suffering from post-traumatic stress or whatever that is," I shoot back.
"I think you are," Tom says. "You need medical help."
"I don't think so," I get to my feet, rubbing the sand off of my pants as I rise.
Tom catches my arm and pulls me down on to the chair next to him. "Chakotay said as much, Tom. Said that Starfleet hasn't forgotten; that they are just waiting at the airlock for us."
Tom rubs my shoulders, easing the tension out of them, "And if it's true?"
"I don't know," I say. "I guess it doesn't matter, does it? It was only a matter of time. This could have happened anytime, ten years ago or today. Except it's much worse today, much worse."
"You don't know for sure what's going to happen."
I turn to smile at him, putting my fingers to his lips, and then tracing the strong curve of his jaw.
"I'll miss you," I whisper. His hand tightens on my shoulder.
"I suppose I can give you tips about New Zealand," he says. "You know, give you the ins and outs of the place."
"That would be nice," I answer.
"It's not so bad," he says. "Food's terrible."
"That's what I hear."
The sun is now a thin sliver in the distance, lavender blending into a periwinkle sky tinged with gold.
"You can have the house ready when I get back," I tell him. "Ten, twenty years, you should have it perfect."
Tom holds my hand in his; his sweaty palms are clammy against mine.
"It better not be that long," his voice is very low. "I know we haven't quite seen eye to eye for the last few weeks, but I want you to know that I will do everything I can if, and I say if, you do end up in prison."
I touch his cheek with my palm and somehow, he gathers me into his arms and we lay back down, my cheek against his chest.
I love moments like this when all is silent with the exception of our breathing and our hearts. Sometimes, I try to match my breath with his, thinking that this simple act of living can be another way of binding us closer together.
His fingers run through my hair, his nose just above my head.
I tighten my hold on his shoulder, thinking that the might be the last time we're together and then I'm suddenly and inexplicably furious - if we had stayed in the Delta Quadrant, we would not be in this situation, facing the very real possibility of saying good-bye.
We fall asleep like this, our bodies curled together.
When I wake, the holodeck is pitch dark.
"Tom?" I whisper.
"What is it?" his voice is groggy, still heavy with sleep.
"It's.," I look around. "Dark. Very dark."
"It's nothing, B'Elanna," he says. "It's just before dawn."
"How do you know?"
"They say that the darkest hour is just before the sun rises again," he mumbles.
I shift my weight so I'm lying almost completely on top of him. Our lips meet hungrily and his hands are suddenly everywhere as are mine.
We don't speak as our bodies mesh together, as he sinks deeply into me, his mouth nipping at my cheek. My hands rest on the small of his back as I inhale, memorizing his scent, the way his body fits mine so perfectly, and of course, the way his breath blows warm against my skin.
The sun comes up and we lie there, our hands intertwined, still not speaking.
At some point, Tom sits up, gets dressed and then holds his hand out to me. I understand instinctively and again, he grabs me by the waist.
"Whatever happens," he says. "It doesn't matter. I'll wait for you."
I touch his cheek gently, "I know."
We are still sticky with each other and I can smell myself on his skin. When we part ways at the holodeck door, I return to my quarters but I am reluctant to wash his scent off of me.
I shed my Starfleet uniform on the floor, kicking it out of the way as I slip out of bra and panties on my way into the bathroom. I activate the sonic shower, leaning against the wall, barely feeling the gentle pulses against my skin.
When I emerge, I don't look at my discarded clothes, but rather head to the closet and pull out the brown-red tunic and brown pants I discarded seven years ago.
I look in the mirror, hoping to see some of Starfleet left in me, but I have rejected that persona as easily as my now despised uniform.
I am ready when Chakotay appears at my door. Like me, he is no longer wearing his Starfleet uniform.
"Ready?" he asks in a low voice.
"Yes," I answer. And with those whom we had formerly called friends, still in their Starfleet uniforms, watching, Chakotay and I leave Voyager.

~ End Part I ~

Night

I think a part of me has always existed in a state of denial. Even when we were lost in the Delta Quadrant, a part of me refused to believe that going home might not be an option.
Chakotay says that stubbornness isn't necessarily a character flaw but then, he doesn't see what I see: a crew that has needlessly been put in danger time and time again and yes, some of those perilous situations could have been avoided.
Just admitting this last part is a big step for me and I wish I could tell everyone - Tom, B'Elanna, Tuvok, Neelix, Seven, the Doctor and Chakotay - that I was wrong so many times and I am sorry.
But right now isn't the time for apologies. Instead I am in my ready room, Chakotay and Tuvok sitting opposite me.
Chakotay has already discarded his Starfleet uniform in favor of more casual attire; I make no statement regarding this wardrobe change. After all, what is there to say? Sometimes silence speaks louder than words and Chakotay has already realized what lies ahead.
I know B'Elanna certainly has. I heard the challenge in her voice when we were on the Bridge and I wanted to tell her right there what I thought was going to happen, but I knew she would not listen.
"The Maquis are ready," Chakotay says in a low voice. I flinch at the use of the word "Maquis"; I associate that term with terrorists, not with the people who have served this ship loyally for the last seven years.
"A full security detail will meet you at the airlock," Tuvok says. My Vulcan friend shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
"I am sorry," I tell Chakotay. "I did everything I could to convince them that you, B'Elanna, the others - that all of this was a mistake. Unfortunately, the Federation has a memory like an elephant."
"Some things never change," Chakotay says. "It's all right, Kathryn."
"You don't need to worry about Admiral McArthur," I say. "We served together years ago. I was still an ensign, I believe, on Admiral Paris' ship. McArthur was first officer. He's a good man, Chakotay. He will do what's right."
"You trust him?" Chakotay's voice is very low so I have to strain to hear the words. I know what he's asking; he is questioning my willingness to let Federation authorities take custody of my Maquis crewmen.
"I do," I nod. "He, he does what's fair, Chakotay. And I have already put in a good word for you."
"That's very kind of you."
I get up from my chair and look out the windows at Starbase 87. It is the saddest space station I've ever seen; in fact, it looks like it has spent more time in the Delta Quadrant than Voyager has.
"There's nothing kind about it," I say in a harsh voice. "Chakotay, you and the other former Maquis were - are - a part of this crew. You served Voyager well," I lift my hand because I cannot find the words I need. "I will do everything I can, Chakotay. You can count on me."
Chakotay nods, "I'm sure of that."
I lean back against the wall, my hands clutching the slightly indented pillar on either side of my thighs.
"I searched the codes yesterday," I tell him. "I wanted to see if there was something I could do for you, maybe political asylum."
"Stretching a bit, are you, Kathryn?"
I nod, "It doesn't matter. I cannot do without the Federation's permission. I am sorry."
"It doesn't matter, Kathryn, believe me."
"And there is one more thing, Chakotay," I say. "If there is an inquiry about me and I want you, all of you, to be perfectly candid. Say what you need to say."
"An inquiry?" Chakotay raises an eyebrow. "What for?"
"You know there have been some situations that were less then... ideal. Circumstances that may not necessarily have complied with Starfleet or Federation regulations," I say delicately. "And then there have been the crew members who have died while under my command. All of this needs to be investigated. It's procedure."
"Too many procedures, if you ask me," Chakotay nearly growls.
I laugh halfheartedly. When we had started on this mission, I had said that we would be a Starfleet vessel, but what had we ended up with instead? Certainly not Starfleet and definitely not Maquis. Our one saving grace is that we are not like the crew of the Equinox, desperate and, in my eyes, guilty of the unforgivable.
"Don't forget the Seventh Guarantee," I say.
"I won't," Chakotay says. "They drilled that into our heads back at the Academy. Protection against self-incrimination. It may be too late for that, Captain."
"I didn't think this day would ever come," I am now talking more to myself than to Tuvok or Chakotay. "And now that we are here, it seems unreal that they would investigate a fifth of my crew. There may be a trial, Chakotay."
"A trial would be the logical conclusion given the Federation's view on the Maquis, but this is simply a questioning session," Tuvok begins but slowly starts to drift off. He looks at me and then at Chakotay, his lips drawn into a thin line. "I do think an exception could have been made in this case."
"I appreciate that, Tuvok," Chakotay says. He gets to his feet, takes a long look around, breathing in deeply. "I'm going to miss this. Really."
I extend my hand and Chakotay reaches forward to grasp it, his fingers brushing the back of my hand for a full second before his fingers weave in with mine.
"It was an honor to have you as my first officer," I tell him.
Chakotay nods and then he says, "I should go."
He glances at Tuvok who is now standing. They depart and I stay there, staring out of the window at the decrepit space station, wondering what I could have done differently.

****

The Federation questioners ask us to start at the beginning but I don't where that is. I could start with the day I was born, how I came into this world blue in the face with my maternal grandfather chanting over my mother in an effort to keep away the evil spirits who might harm the child. I could spin a tale about my boyhood days and dwell for a bit on the time I spent at a summer camp, learning how to tie knots and build a fire - skills that later aided me greatly in my future occupation as a Maquis terrorist. Or maybe, they would be more interested in my aborted career in Starfleet. I could tell them that one day, I realized that there were causes that meant more than a pip on your collar. And so I walked away from Starfleet, its stiffly starched uniforms and stifling rules and regulations that sucked the very soul out of me.
But no, they are not interested in any of that. And frankly, I'd be amused if they asked but these men and women are the type to take personal offense at any slight disregard of Starfleet, whether intentional or not.
And believe me, everything is intentional on my part.
There are four of them in this room. I did not get their names when they introduced themselves quickly, none of them making eye contact with me or B'Elanna as they spit out their information rapid-fire.
I think they place us on the same level as the Ghasa virus, which kills by attaching itself to the outer membrane of blood cells and then injects itself into the cell until the cell is forced to burst from the pressure.
The room is nothing to write home about either. It has four walls, a ceiling and floor, and all done up in tasteful gray with bright lights in each of the upper four corners. Two of the spotlights shine directly down on B'Elanna and me, and we sometimes have to blink to keep black spots from completely obscuring the faces of the four people seated in front of us.
B'Elanna hasn't said anything in an hour. She is quiet, not restless, and I don't know what she is thinking. Maybe it's better that I don't know.
Hell, I don't even know what I'm thinking. Sometimes, I'm thinking about dinner, which won't be much more than zero-gravity rations - the kind you have to drink from metallic packets - and other times, my thoughts drift to the mundane like the street where I grew up. And then, most painful of all, I think of Kathryn.
I see her chestnut-red hair brushing against her cheeks, her eyes looking at up at me from beneath her eyelids. I hear her low moans in my ear, and imagine her skin under my wandering fingertips.
I've figured out that the Federation, and by the associative principle, Starfleet also, wants to know about Kathryn, but they don't want to know about the Kathryn whom I've come to know.
They already know what they want to hear and they are only waiting for me to talk so they can condemn Kathryn legally for whatever they have already tried her for in secret.
When they are done with us, the Maquis, they will start on Kathryn. There will be no deals. We hand them Kathryn and win ourselves an all-expense paid trip to New Zealand or some other equally luxurious prison colony.
"Start at the beginning," one of them said and I know they are talking about Voyager.
I can tell you the date and time when I first beamed onto the Bridge, but I can't tell you anything more concrete than that; my time on Voyager is hopelessly fragmented, a kaleidoscope of memory, thought and experiences. Each piece is colored by emotion, tainted by disappointment and shattered by betrayal.
Nothing is coherent, nothing is linear.
I look over at B'Elanna; she is bent over her fingernails, examining the rough edges of her nails, sure sign of her nervousness.
In front of us, the four of them - I've already started to think of the Federation as "them" - sit, their fingers tapping against their PADDs.
"What would you like to know?" I ask.

****

I refuse to watch them march the Maquis off like common criminals. I have done everything to prevent their apprehension, everything, that is, short of getting down on my knees in front of the Federation brass, that is.
I do, after all, still have my pride.
The ship feels empty without them.
I wander the corridors, noting the abandoned stations once capably manned by Maquis officers.
They have not allowed me to see them either. I have asked, begged, pleaded... use whatever verb you'd like, I've done that.
And still the response is a stoic, "Not at this time, Captain."
"Will there be a trial?" I demanded.
"We have not made a decision about that yet, Captain. We're simply in the fact-gathering stage."
"If there is a trial, I want to be there."
And again, their faces cloud over, freeze into an inscrutable expression, and they shake their heads.
At least Tuvok has been able to see Chakotay and B'Elanna for short periods of time and he brings me back news.
"B'Elanna has threatened to cause bodily harm to at least one of the guards," Tuvok says as we walk through the rather barren corridors of Voyager.
"You're not serious," I have to chuckle. I can imagine B'Elanna, her eyes flashing and her every muscle tensing as she crouches, ready position, in anticipation of a fight.
"I'm afraid that I am."
"And Chakotay?"
"Calm."
That is not unexpected; even in the worst situations, Chakotay is irritatingly composed. Heat doesn't rise in his cheeks as it does in mine when faced with a desperate situation. He radiates self-possession and I envy that particular trait of his. I miss that.
I miss him.
"Have they begun questioning?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Without you?"
"They are talking about Voyager. I do not believe they are discussing the Maquis as of yet," Tuvok uses the word "discuss" with distaste.
"Then that will keep them busy," I shudder to think of what the Federation will learn of our seven years in the Delta Quadrant. I'm not ashamed, but I'm not sure that they will understand either.
"You have nothing to be concerned about," Tuvok says.
"You're wrong," I tell him.
"You are referring to your frequent violations of the Prime Directive."
We stop. All around us, the halls of Voyager are maddeningly bereft of life. Some of the crew from the lower decks have been given permission by Starfleet Command to leave the ship and explore the starbase. With their absence and that of the Maquis, Voyager no longer feels like the same ship.
"Yes," I nod.
"Circumstances dictate actions, Captain."
"Not always. We were supposed to be a Starfleet ship and sometimes, we strayed from our purpose. I would not be surprised if there was a court martial waiting for me. Perhaps, they are just trying to gather the necessary evidence."
"I do not think that that is a possibility."
"You're being a friend, Tuvok," I say gently. "I need you to be an advisor now. I need you to be rational and logical."
"What is your concern?"
"The Borg," I straighten myself, thrusting my shoulders back. "There is so much... I don't know where to begin."
"There is nothing to say," Tuvok says evenly.
"For you and me," I answer. "What about B'Elanna?"
Tuvok grows pensive. He has not thought about it but I have; B'Elanna has been remote, fidgety, since our return from the Borg cube. I have no doubt she forced Tom to marry her during a mood swing and for that reason I was reluctant to perform the ceremony. In truth, I have always felt the combination of Tom and B'Elanna is similar to dropping a piece of sodium in water and watching the silvery metal give off sparks and then eventually cause a minor explosion. So yes, I admit it - I did not want to marry them.
And the other thing that occurred to me is a little more shameful to admit; it is the fact that I do feel a bit possessive of Tom. I rescued him, I rehabilitated him, gave him a chance when no one else would and he, well, with his marriage to B'Elanna, he no longer needs me.
"Captain?" Tuvok asks. "What about B'Elanna?"
"What about her?" I snap. "She knew the consequences when she volunteered for the mission. The Doctor has offered her counseling. What more do you want?"
"You should have insisted," Tuvok says. "B'Elanna is still loyal to you, Captain, but I am concerned about her well-being. You should have insisted that she seek medical help."
"I can't force a horse to water, Tuvok. She didn't go."
"I do not know what kind of questions they will ask," Tuvok's face is pensive, concerned. "It is an unusual situation."
"Are you worried about B'Elanna specifically?"
"Since I do not understand the reason for the proceedings, I must evaluate all possibilities," he says. "It would illogical to do otherwise."
"The Doctor could make a recommendation," I say hastily. "They need to release B'Elanna because of her medical condition."
Tuvok looks at me, his face calm and expressionless as usual, but his jaw firm.
"I could recommend the same be done for you," he says in a low voice.
With that, he turns and leaves me in the corridor, alone and with my back against the wall.

****

There were twenty of us in the beginning. For a Maquis cell, that was pretty large; most Maquis cells numbered less than ten. The fewer people involved in an operation, the less likely the possibility of a leak.
I miss those days, miss the camaraderie. Rules and regulations sometimes take away the spontaneity of humanoid interactions. In Starfleet, you hide behind titles and codes of conduct; we didn't have that - only each other.
You get to know each other very well in the Maquis, only because there is no one else to talk to. Even then, trust is a very uneasy thing; alliances are ever-shifting, changing like the tides of the ocean. One day you believe so fervently in the cause, and then it's back to the Federation because you are tired of being cold, hungry, wounded and hunted. And then, when you are tired of the two-faced sanctimony of the Federation, you slip underground back to the Maquis.
Dark circles rim your eyes, giving unspoken testimony to long sleepless nights and your sole companion is a malfunctioning phaser rifle.
Tension grips your forehead, sometimes extending back down to your neck and into your back muscles. Jaws are tight, nasal passages congested and voices are hoarse from constant screaming. Sometimes, your eyes water from the smoke and your throat aches from the burns you feel but cannot see.
There were no medications, not really. We had a doctor or two, but they had no supplies. They would patch you up as best they could, sometimes slipping you a drop of Romulan brandy as they set your broken bones, and then it was back out into the darkness, biting down on your lip to hold back the moans of pain threatening to spill out.
So it wasn't fun. I can't even name one good time we had. There were no camp fires like the stories say, no trophies of Cardassian neck bones adorning our ships and there certainly weren't the orgies or pillaging the Maquis are allegedly infamous for.
Too often, we limped from raid to raid, just thankful we had survived to fight another day. We were all too often aware that the Federation was looking for us and that there were bounty hunters eager to snatch up even one of us.
But somehow, we were the lucky ones. We managed to evade capture, escape death a million times, and in the process, we learned to trust each other.
You want to know about us, so I'll tell you. Suder had a poker face, never could tell what cards he held. Gerron sings in the shower, Ayala can name all thirty-seven constellations in the Olmina system. Someday, when we have more time and we're talking about this over a cup of coffee, I'll tell you how Kurt Bendera saved my life in a bar-fight. He saved B'Elanna's life too, but that's another story also. He was a good man, didn't deserve to die the way he did, but I don't expect you to understand that.
John Carlson lost his family to a Cardassian raid while Starfleet hung back, unwilling to protect his wife and children. Chell talks too much but he can keep a secret. Ken Dalby, well, he has a temper, but there is intensity about him, a sense of purpose I find compelling.
There are so many others to name - Mariah Henley, Fiona Jackson, Devon Jarvis, Vin Janus, Kas Klym, Catherine McKenzie, Kevin O'Donnell, Tabor Dyns - good people, all of them. I will even go as far as to say that Michael Jonas and Seska had their moments; at the risk of sounding nostalgic, when those two were with me, as Maquis, they did not give me any reason to doubt them.
We knew what we were doing when we joined the Maquis. Don't think that the fight was in our heads for a single second, because it wasn't like that. You think we liked fighting for the sake of fighting? You think we really wanted to turn our backs on the Federation? But what no one understands is that we had no choice; you gave us no choice. The situation was very much like being a child and seeing your parents walking away, leaving you behind, never to return.
We fought because the Federation made a deal with Cardassia that we could not stomach. And when Cardassia moved in on us, robbing us of our homes, killing our families, raping our lands - if that happened to you, what would you do? Would you sit there placidly, knowing that the Federation - your government - would not protect you? Would you willingly pack up the lives you painstakingly carved out of the rough terrain of the border colonies and just go without even a single note of protest?
You know how we felt about our options, how we felt that fighting to protect our way of life was the only thing left to us, and soon the fight became the only reason for us to wake up each morning and take a deep breath. Another day alive would mean another day to fight, to actually take a stand for something we believed in.
It might be presumptuous of me, but I ask you - all of you - wouldn't you have done the same?

****

My joints are tight, muscles ache. In the back of my mind, I remember... the voices.
And sometimes, if I concentrate, I hear the echoes of a scream reverberating in my mind.
There are no features to differentiate the faces, only the pitch of their voices, the intensity of their pleadings.
And I, who pride myself on the strength of my compassion, did not hear them.
There were some that were quiet, compliant, who understood that assimilation was inevitable, that it was less painful if they submitted. There were others who struggled, who fought until they were beaten and then we - the Borg - descended en masse upon that soft body and pierced it.
The part of me that still remembered Janeway, Kathryn, Captain, Voyager - her lips would move in silent mantra as her fingers did the bidding of the Collective.
"Forgive me," she would whisper as yet another drone added to the perfection of the Borg.
And somewhere, observing it all, the Borg Queen laughed.
I put my hand to my cheek, feel soft flesh and not Borg plated armor. I avoid mirrors, avoid them with desperation born of fear, aware that the shadow of the Borg Queen hovers over my shoulder, her lips sneering into a perpetual taunt.
I hold my hands out in front of me, testing each finger, marveling at how easily they move without the silver tubules streaking from mid-wrist to the tips of my fingers.
I asked Seven about them once, asked her if she noticed the constant presence of appendages on her body. She cocked her head to the side, her blue eyes very wide in her pale face, and she examined her own hand. She stroked the length of the tubules gently and then shook her head.
"No," she said. "I do not notice them. They are a part of me."
What was unspoken in our conversation was her fervent belief that I would accept what we had done and experienced without question and it would become part of me also.
I did not ask her about the screaming because I already knew the answer to that question; those nameless and faceless individuals have become a part of me, occupying every waking moment with the question of "how could you?" hovering on their lips.
I no longer have physical reminders of my time aboard the Borg cube; I only have the nightmares which hover in the darkest corners of my mind, threatening to spill out at any moment, threatening to rob me of any sanity I might still possess.
And then, what bothers me most, what comes up the most as I toss and turn in the night is a single question: Was I wrong?
Tom seems to think I was. His expression is a constant mixture of sullen insolence and disrespect. We talked only that once, when he accused me of single-minded stubbornness and it hurt, coming from Tom. Sometimes, I try to talk to him, maybe explain myself a bit, but instead his face turns inscrutable and I know he's not listening.
He has already made up his mind about what happened, about me. It may be too late to salvage my relationship with him, but it's not too late for the Maquis.
I owe them - Chakotay and B'Elanna - that much.

****

B'Elanna and I go way back. She won't tell you about how we met, but I will. The year was 2367, the setting - a freighter stocked with supplies for a Federation world. The Cardassians had it in their sights, and we, hungry for whatever we could get our hands for - anything to make a dent in this guerrilla war against the Federation - were there also.
You would be amazed - no, shocked - at how many people actually despised the Federation and didn't believe that it was a benevolent organization serving the good of the many. Even now, I still can't reconcile myself to the image of the Federation as a protector.
There were more Starfleet officers sympathetic to the cause of the Maquis than you would believe and it was because of them, we were able to board the freighter.
Casualties were high - mostly on the Cardassian side. I lost two people - Greg Kendall and Lisa Johnson. Somewhere in all of that smoke and blood, I caught sight of B'Elanna Torres.
My first vision of her was of a half-mad Klingon, fighting with every ounce of energy she had left. Her phaser aim wasn't great, but she had taken down a Cardassian or two.
"Stay where you are!" I exclaimed.
"Don't worry!" she shot back. "I'm not going anywhere."
There was a Gul - Tancret, I believe his name was - peeking back and forth around a corner and together, B'Elanna and I concentrated our fire on him. After about ninety seconds, the Gul fell heavily to the floor, his face flat against the wall, his arms outstretched.
I felt nothing as I stepped over his prone body. Not hate, not anger, not sorrow, not guilt. Nothing. Just nothing.
"You're coming with me!" I yelled to B'Elanna. "The ship, it's going to blow!"
"I don't even know who you are!"
"Does it matter?" I yelled back as sparks flew above my head. B'Elanna considered a moment and then followed me.
In the mayhem that issued back on my ship, the Liberty, I didn't get a chance to talk to B'Elanna much. Hell, I didn't even know her name.
I did notice, though, that she could fix anything. She flung herself into the repairs, often working late into the night when others were sleeping. I would watch from afar, shake my head, and then turn to other more pressing matters.
We hid in a nebula for repairs and one night, too exhausted to sleep, I wandered around the ship and found B'Elanna, sweating over some isolinear chips. Her short, curly brown hair was falling in her eyes, sweat and dust coating her cheeks, nose and chin.
For the first time, I took a good look at her. She was a thin slip of a girl then and not very tall. Her eyes were big and brown - almost too big for her face. And just above her lip, there was a small mole that self-consciously, she would try to cover up with a bit of make-up.
I didn't mean to bump into her, but in retrospect, that little bit of violence was what I needed to break the ice.
"Hey!" B'Elanna exclaimed. "Watch where you're going!"
"Sorry," I said. "I didn't see you."
"You should be more careful."
I tried to make small talk. And of course, there I learned the first rule about B'Elanna Torres: she doesn't small talk. In fact, she responded to most of my conversation with low grunts. At some point, she hurled her tool across the room, smashing it with admirable precision against a bulkhead; it crashed with a satisfying thunk.
"If only," she muttered as she got up to retrieve her now-dented tool.
"If only what?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"No, really."
"It wasn't a very nice thought."
"There aren't very many nice thoughts here," I reassured here.
"I was thinking about Starfleet," she said. "Thinking about how nice it would be to smash some of those pristine windows at the Academy."
"Don't like Starfleet much, do you?" I asked jokingly.
"No," she said. "All of their rules. They want you to be a certain way, want you to be fit their mold. It's... stifling."
"Sounds like Starfleet," I nodded. She tilted her head towards me, resting it on her hand. She looked, for a moment, strangely soft.
"You know about... Starfleet?"
"I lived Starfleet."
"And now?"
"Now?" I laughed. "Look at me."
She gazed up and down my frame, taking in the brownish-hued garments hanging off of my body; in the seven months since I had resigned from Starfleet, I had lost quite a bit of weight. Fighting Cardassians has a curious way of taking the edge of hunger away and increasing adrenaline so you are able to scale large cliffs in a matter of seconds.
"You left Starfleet," she said flatly. "You escaped."
"In a manner of speaking."
"You were there for a long time?"
"Yeah. Almost thirteen years."
"That's a long time. I couldn't do that," she said.
"I think you could," I said. "It's not such a bad thing."
"So now you attack supply freighters?" she asked. "That's an improvement?"
"I have my reasons," I countered. "What are yours?"
"I don't have any," B'Elanna responded. "Or maybe, I'm just looking for a fight."
"Sounds like you have a story to tell."
"Depends what you want to hear."
"How about your name?"
We faced off like that and finally, B'Elanna extended her hand.
"B'Elanna Torres."
"Chakotay."
"Just Chakotay?"
"Just Chakotay."
She was leaning against the wall and slowly, she slid down until she was sitting. I, so as not to tower over her, sat down also.
"So? Why are you here?" I asked.
"There's nowhere else to go," she said. "You helped the Cardassians destroy my freighter, remember?"
"No, I mean really," I said. "Why were you on that freighter?"
"I had nowhere to go," she repeated.
"I find that hard to believe."
"Believe it," she laughed harshly. "I was at Starfleet Academy until, oh, about three months ago."
"Did you graduate?"
"No," she shrugged. "I just left. It wasn't for me."
"Why?"
"Too many rules."
"You've said that."
"I fight," a smile slipped onto her face. "The counselors say I have violent tendencies. I break things too."
"Yeah?"
"But I can fix them better than anyone else," B'Elanna grinned with obvious pride.
"I can see that," I gestured at her work. "You've done a good job here."
"Thanks," she narrowed her eyes. "That's how I got out here, you know. Built my own ship and then when the warp coils gave out, I hitched a ride on that freighter."
"Built your own ship, huh? Impressive."
B'Elanna shrugged, "I wanted to see if I could."
"You obviously did."
"I'll do better next time."
I leaned forward and picked up one of the tools she had been working with it and ran my hands over it. B'Elanna leaned forward too and tipped her head sideways towards me.
"Chakotay. What kind of name is that?" she asked.
"Native American," I said.
"Ah," she said. "Is that why you have a tattoo?"
"Do you always ask so many questions?"
"Only when I'm interested in someone," B'Elanna rubbed her tongue over her lips. "You're Native American then?"
"Yeah."
"Klingon," she touched the ridges on her forehead. "But I guess you could see that. Half-Klingon, really. I mean, yeah, not really Klingon."
"It's getting late," I said. "Should be getting to bed. You ready?"
B'Elanna's eyes grew cold, "I'm not that kind of girl, Mr. Chakotay."
"And I'm not that kind of guy," I answered shortly. "I was just pointing out that you could use a little rest."
"Are you saying I don't know when to rest?"
"I'm saying that I need to rest," I flashed her a smile. "Are you coming or not?"
I got to my feet and held my hand out to her; she took it and in a surprisingly strong moved, pulled herself up.
"You never told me your reasons," she said.
"It doesn't matter," I answered.
"It does. If it means you gave up a career in Starfleet to hobble around the galaxy in this rattletrap, you ought to have a damn good reason."
The intensity in her eyes held my attention and without thinking, I touched her jaw slightly; she did not flinch.
"You must have heard of the treaty," I said. "The one between Cardassia and the Federation."
"I've heard a bit," she said. "The Federation has ceded some planets to Cardassia."
"My home world is one of those. Dorvan IV."
"Yeah?" the tone of her voice was surprisingly casual, but her eyes betrayed the concern.
"They killed my father."
B'Elanna's eyes grew wider. Her hand reached out, clutched my forearm.
"No." she whispered. "Who?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to you."
"Cardassians or the Federation, take your pick. The Cardassians did it, but the Federation stood by and let it happen. I... I couldn't stay in Starfleet. It didn't feel right, knowing that we had all the resources to protect my father and but did nothing."
B'Elanna's grip on my arm tightened.
"You're right," she said. "You have a reason."
I brushed away the smudge of dust on her cheek. I contemplated for a minute; I did not know anything about B'Elanna Torres, but I found her... fascinating; the quick spark of temper in her eye, the keen reflexes, but most of all, her audacity. Loved that. Loved that about her immediately.
"Do you want a reason?" I asked in a very low voice. "We could use an engineer on board. The ship's not much, but it gets the job done."
With characteristic B'Elanna aloofness, she replied, "Well, I don't have anywhere else to go right now. I suppose I could hang around for a while."
But the Maquis, you see, inspires a passion in people - even they didn't have a passion before they joined; that's what happened with B'Elanna. And I could see it, in the way she caressed those engines, coaxing every last bit of energy out of them. She cared what happened to us, cared about the cause and I suspect, she may have even learned to care a little for herself.

****

Alone. That's how I began my days in the Delta Quadrant and evidently, that's how I shall mark my return to the Alpha Quadrant.
No, that's not exactly right; when I left, I had Mark and Molly. Mark's married, happily I hope, and my dog, well, I hope someone somewhere is taking care of her the way I would.
My quarters, always immaculate - heaven forbid that a captain even dare to have a pillow out of place because you never know who is going to drop by - is especially repulsive to me as I stand in the center of muted grays and tired burgundies.
I lightly run my hand over table tops and shelves as I pass by, reveling in the sounds of PADDs and other odds and ends crashing to the floor.
I shed my jacket on the back of the sofa, knowing that no one will be by to share a Merlot tonight. On my way to the bathroom, I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; fascinated, I pause.
I see a pasty white face staring back at me, hazel eyes tinged slightly with green, and the hair, God, that hair - dry, brittle and thin, growing haphazardly in all directions. It is almost as if a chestnut-colored haystack is growing on top of my head, courtesy of the Borg.
The Doctor assures me that my hair will eventually revert to its shiny, bouncy, soft state and at the time, it did not matter because I saw Chakotay looking at me.
That first implant-free night, Chakotay ran his hands through my hair, his breath warm on my cheek, and his body curving against mine. He still found me beautiful and even with the remnants of my implants, he did not shrink away from me the way Tom did to B'Elanna at first and for that, I was grateful.
I shed the rest of my clothes and step into the shower. It takes a second or two to adjust the pulsing water to my specifications. Yes, I've forgotten how hot I like the water - almost scalding, something Mark would always complain about when we showered together - and how hard I like the pressure against my skin.
I stumble out, my muscles bruised but relaxed, and I lay on the sofa, wrapped only in the ivory towel.
Next to the sofa, there is the PADD, the one telling me that the Federation intends to detain Chakotay, Torres and the remaining Maquis members for questioning and perhaps, remand them for trial. I had received it in the days prior to our return to the Alpha Quadrant and after the initial read-through, I had tossed it aside, hoping that the message was a mistake, sent by accident, soon to be refuted once we arrived.
Once again, I was wrong.
I pick up the PADD and scroll through the list of charges levied against Chakotay's cell; the list, unfortunately, is endless: assault and battery, breaking and entering, burglary, civil disorder, larceny, robbery, manslaughter, terrorism, arson, conspiracy, destruction of property and finally, treason.
In the seven years we served together, I only asked Chakotay once about his life in the Maquis.
"What did you do?" I asked. We were enjoying dinner in my quarters in a thankfully peaceful interlude, sometime right after we discovered the Ares Four.
"Whatever it took," he responded. "Do we need to talk about this, Kathryn?"
"I would like to."
"I'd rather talk about what we found on the Ares," Chakotay said.
"You did enjoy that, didn't you?" I asked.
"Very much so. I guess there is still a bit of Starfleet left in me. Some of that so-called penchant for exploration?"
"We'll make a Starfleet officer of you yet."
"I thought I was already there."
I twirled some of my linguini around my fork and took a deep breath.
"Chakotay, I don't know when we're getting home or what's going to happen."
"But you're concerned."
"Yes. That's why I wanted to know."
"We were terrorists, Kathryn. Whatever falls under that definition."
"No, really. Specifics."
"I think what I said before sums it up nicely," he said evenly. "You wouldn't want to know. What we - B'Elanna, Henley, Chell, Gerron, the others - what we did, it may offend Starfleet sensibilities."
"Try me."
"There was one raid," Chakotay leaned back in his seat. "There was a remote Cardassian outpost, a supply base actually. Nerok Tor, actually. Medical supplies, I think. In fact, I think many of the supplies came from the Federation itself and that made us furious. We couldn't get basic medical supplies ourselves and here our government was giving the supplies to the enemy."
"So you led the raid?"
Chakotay nodded, "Yes. We leveled the outpost, burned it to the ground."
"Casualties?"
"Yes."
"Cardassian?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Estimates are anywhere from one hundred to one hundred and fifty. We didn't know for sure. Our sources weren't always as precise as we would have liked."
We sat there in silence, neither of us making eye contact. I took a deep breath.
"You're right," I said. "I don't want to know."
I look back at the list of charges and wonder how many Nerok Tors Chakotay has to his credit.
In addition, Chakotay has violated at least two of the Federation's General Orders.
I could argue that number two which reads, "No Starfleet personnel shall unnecessarily use force, either collectively or individually, against members of the United Federation of Planets, their duly authorized representatives, spokespersons, or designated leaders, or members of any sentient nonmember race, for any reason whatsoever," does not apply since Chakotay had left Starfleet prior to his Maquis days.
But then, there is General Order Nineteen: "Except in times of declared emergency, Starfleet personnel may under no circumstances convey personnel or material between planets or
planetary systems when there is reason to believe that said personnel or material may be used to conduct aggression. This order applies to independent worlds within the Federation as well as to Federation members."
Even if we ignore the fact - the defense - that Chakotay's Maquis cell was primarily composed of former Starfleet officers, all of them were - are - Federation citizens.
The precision of words damn Chakotay, Torres and the others.
The Federation's memory is long, casting shadows across the ground and putting everyone in its path into darkness. Old feelings die-hard and I doubt there is one top Starfleet official in the Federation with any sympathy towards the Maquis or even with the ability to understand why they did what they did.
And forgive me, even after all this time, I don't know that if I understand.

****

You always remember first encounters. I remember my first glimpse of Kathryn Janeway when I beamed aboard Voyager after the encounter with the Caretaker. She was standing on her Bridge, arms akimbo, and her rather youngish face still unmarked by the trials of command yet to come. My very first thought as I materialized on the Bridge was, "Damn, that's an ugly hairstyle."
Yet as I advanced towards her, I absorbed every feature of her face; those greenish eyes beneath perfectly manicured eyebrows and the delicate upsweep of her cheekbones. Kathryn Janeway, helmet hair and all, was a beautiful woman, and I, being a man, could not help but notice this all-important detail.
That's not to say that I had romantic thoughts at that very moment nor did I ever speculate on what the future of my relationship with this woman would be. And I never thought we would be lovers; that thought never occurred to me.
Instead, I was rather irritated by our - and I mean the Maquis here - position. We were decidedly at a disadvantage and most of the time, the Maquis did its best work when the odds were stacked against us. Not this time; Kathryn Janeway commanded a state of the art vessel and I, well, I had nothing.
I hated her for that. Hated her for that unconscious superiority which would occasionally slip into her voice when she spoke about Voyager and the people who manned this Starfleet ship.
And her inexperience. She had been captain of Voyager for barely a few weeks and already she had stranded the Maquis and her Starfleet officers in the Delta Quadrant and the most optimistic of analysis came back with a traveling time of seventy-five years back to the Alpha Quadrant.
I suppose I'm the last person to talk about the principle of the matter and following one's heart when it comes to morality; I left Starfleet when the Cardassians attacked my home world and I did many things that in retrospect, I find objectionable and morally repulsive.
And so I did not trust Kathryn Janeway. I did not trust her motives and I did not believe that she could truly command Voyager.
Not even when she called me into her Ready Room and poured me a cup of coffee - a beverage I could barely tolerate at the time.
"We need to talk about your presence on my ship," she said. And even then, her voice was very territorial, very possessive. But then again, if our positions were reversed, I imagine I would feel just as threatened.
I tried to feign nonchalance, leaning back in my chair - which incidentally was about a centimeter or two lower than hers - and trying to keep my features completely even and expressionless.
"We have a problem," she went on. "We are in the middle of the Delta Quadrant; it could take us years to get home."
"That's what Torres is telling me," I said easily. "Seventy-five to be exact."
"I'm sorry about your ship."
"She was a good ship. We went through a lot together."
"I've read your logs. and Mr. Paris, he has mentioned one or two escapades."
"I imagine he told you a lot. Anything to get off easy. That's his way."
"I know there is some bad blood between you and Mr. Paris, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Right now Voyager is our best chance of getting home," Janeway - and she wasn't Kathryn yet - said earnestly. "Mr. Chakotay, I'd like you to remain on board this ship."
It was a gracious offer; after all, she could have proposed to drop me, B'Elanna and the others on some planet here in the Delta Quadrant while Voyager continued on its way home. I sure Starfleet would have loved that - one more Maquis ship destroyed, its crew unable to further affect Starfleet's uneasy truce with Cardassia.
So Janeway's invitation of a ride back to the Delta Quadrant was indeed welcome and in a way, somewhat unexpected.
"Thank you," I said. "And my crew?"
"Also welcome," she said. "Of course, I would expect you all to function as part of this crew - Voyager's crew."
"Of course. We wouldn't dream of sitting around."
"And that brings me to another matter," she said. "This is a Starfleet vessel. We may be in the Delta Quadrant, far from Starfleet's influence, but I intend to run this ship in accordance to its charter. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly clear," I answered.
"Good," Janeway said. "And one more thing."
I looked at her in silence.
"I, I need a first officer," she said in a low voice. "I need Tuvok at tactical and I think that, you, you have the experience that I need in my first officer."
Our eyes met and Janeway was the first to blink.
"You have the Starfleet training," she said. "And you can help ease the transition between Maquis and Starfleet, not that I think there will be tension."
I wanted to laugh at this last sentence. This type of remark was typical of Janeway in the early days of our journey - naive and optimistic. Believe me, a few run-ins with the Kazon, Hirogen and the Borg completely obliterated this particular trait of hers.
"Will you do it?" Janeway pressed her palm down on the desk, focusing on the long, slender fingers fanning out.
"It's been a long time since I wore a Starfleet uniform," I mused. "Never thought I would again."
Janeway offered me that patient, mothering smile of hers. I would see that smile often as years went by and I grew to despise it - knowing that Kathryn Janeway thought she knew what was best for us without even asking us first.
"Now I need something from you," I said, surprising myself with my own boldness. "How do I know we won't be prosecuted the minute we get back into the Alpha Quadrant?"
Hunter looked at prey with frank honesty.
"You don't," she said. "I take my responsibilities very seriously, Chakotay. I assure you, I doubt that Voyager's initial mission will change once we get home."
I leaned back in my chair, rapping my fingers against the table. The cards were on the table and surprisingly, it did not bother me.
"I would be honored to serve as your first officer," I told her.

****

Hours pass slowly when you are waiting. I don't even know what I am waiting for, maybe a message from the Federation that this investigation of theirs is all a mistake and that Chakotay will be back at my side and B'Elanna will be back in Engineering. And then we will get the apologies and accolades I think - I know - we deserve.
Of course, that would be in a perfect world and unfortunately, I live here - wherever "here" might be at the moment.
The door chimes and I sit up, suddenly aware that I am still only wrapped in the towel.
"Who is it?" I call.
"Seven of Nine."
I sigh, "Give me a second."
My uniform is still lying on the floor of the bathroom and I pull on my gray T-shirt and black pants.
"Come."
Seven enters, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"I am bothering you," she says.
"No," I say. "Not at all.
She is still looking around, questions written all over her aquiline features.
"Sit, please," I indicate one of the chairs at the table. "Hungry? I haven't eaten yet."
"I do not require nutrition at this time."
"Then keep me company," I say. I walk up to the replicator and order tomato-basil soup and a hard-roll. "I could use the conversation."
"Lieutenant Paris mentioned that you had not been seen for some time. He was concerned."
Tom? Concerned? Now that was a surprise. But of course, he sent Seven to look on me; he wouldn't come himself and that said everything to me. He cared but could not bear to be near me.
"I just needed some time alone," I answer, bringing the food back to the table. Seven sniffs the air suspiciously and apparently, finding my food satisfactory, she settles back into her chair. "And there is nothing really left to do until Federation authorities allow us to leave the ship."
"Is there a reason why we are not allowed to leave?"
"Standard procedure whenever a ship returns from a deep space mission," I say easily.
"We have been docked for nearly twenty hours," Seven points out. I am amazed she doesn't point out to the minute how long we have been here. "The delay seems unusual to me."
I sigh, "There are some questions about. Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Torres."
"Their Maquis affiliation?"
"Yes."
"Why does it matter?"
Sometimes I think Seven of Nine is thirty going on five. Her utter lack of guile when it comes to human nature will be her downfall and it makes me uneasy about her future once we leave this ship.
I won't lie; I look on Seven as the child I do not have and like any mother, I delight in her accomplishments and grind my teeth at her obstinacy.
"If you commit a crime, punishment of one kind or another must follow," I answer carefully.
"Do you believe Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Torres have committed a crime?"
"Seven years ago, I did, yes."
"You do not any longer?"
"No. They are a part of this crew, a part of this family," I say with as much feeling I can muster. I put my spoon down. "What they did in the past, that is not relevant now."
"Starfleet believes it's relevant."
"Only because Starfleet is as unforgiving as it is rigid."
"What will happen to me?"
I fold my hands on the table, lean forward slowly, and make eye contact with Seven. I want her to know that I am sincere in whatever I say next.
"I do not know," I say truthfully. "They are interested in you, that I know, and they would like to know about you and your life as a Borg drone."
Seven cocks her head to the side, "I do not know what it left for them to know."
"You know Starfleet. They want to document everything," I laugh.
"Even me."
I sigh, "Yes, even you."
Seven meets my gaze straight on.
"You have encouraged me to explore my humanity," she says. "You have pushed me to become an individual."
"I have tried," I admitted. "Are you... pleased with your progress?"
"I am," she said quietly. "But I also have... feelings."
I look at Seven in surprise; many times, she would dismiss others, disregard their emotions as irrelevant.
"You're right," I answer. I reach across the table to touch the back of her hand, run my fingers over the metal tubules spanning the length of her hand from wrist to fingernail. "You aren't a science project. You never have been. I am sorry if I ever caused you to feel that way."
"I am not angry anymore," Seven says. "I was very angry when you would not return me to the Collective."
I laughed since I could now at the memory.
"Yes, I remember," I say. "You were like a teenager stretching the boundaries of what was allowed."
"I do not understand," she says.
"It's all right," I say. "Are you sure you're not hungry?"
Seven tips her head slightly.
"Your food... it looks appetizing."
"Let me get you some," I tell her. I replicate the same dinner - tomato soup and a hard roll plus a bit of salad - for her. She eyes the food with trepidation as I place it in front of her.
"Interesting," she says in much the same way Tuvok would.
"It's good. Comfort food."
"Comfort food?"
"When you don't feel well," I explain. "Sometimes you crave certain foods to make you feel better."
She spoons some of the soup into her mouth; her face contorts and then she smiles.
"It is good," she says.
"Good," I lean back in my seat. "Seven, I don't know what's going to happen. I'm as much in the dark as you are, but I promise - I will do everything I can to make sure you're treated, as you should be - as an individual."
Seven nods, "Thank you."
And I hope, unlike other promises I've made, this is one I will keep.

****

I find it difficult to talk about Seska. I think of her, remember those almond-shaped eyes and that deep red-brown hair slicked back from her smooth brow, and an itch develops at the back of my throat. My chest tightens and I have to inhale deeply.
It amazes me, after all this time, how Seska still affects me. I know that people think that I am hopelessly naïve, a poor judge of character, and yes, I did not see through Seska. Maybe I wanted to take her - and everyone else - at face value and believe that every word from their lips was the goddamned truth and nothing less.
I met Seska on one of our sorties into Cardassian territories. She had originally been on the Malina, a Bajoran freighter hijacked for Maquis use. The ship had sustained heavy damage and with the warp core in imminent danger of blowing, we had beamed the crew of the Malina to my ship.
Seska had caught my eye immediately. She was taller than most women onboard and she certainly towered over B'Elanna Torres. Seska also carried herself with an assuredness that I found refreshing and I loved the way her eyes sparked alternately with fiery temper and soft gentleness.
Seska always knew what she wanted; knew her needs and wants immediately and I fell into her "wants" category. I'd like to say I succumbed in a moment of incredible weakness, but it wasn't like that.
We were hidden in the caves of Alonius Prime, one of the few border colonies sympathetic to the Maquis. We had stopped off for supplies and to make much needed repairs.
"Everything is a disaster," B'Elanna declared flatly as we sat around a table, shoulders bent in to keep from shivering in the damp atmosphere of the caves. I already said this, but I want to reiterate that life as Maquis terrorists - as you call us - was never glamorous. Often we were cold, hungry, wondering if today would be our day to die. Certainly, we all walked around with a death wish; we each possessed a fatalistic attitude, thinking, "Yes, today is it. Today is the day Starfleet is going to aim that phaser cannon at us and that will be the end."
And of course, we wondered what the end would be like. Would it be quick and painless? Seska always advocated the self-destruction sequence, saying it was much better than the death by suffocation caused when you were sucked out of an airlock.
B'Elanna, on the other hand, preferred hand-to-hand ritualistic combat; there was no way our half-Klingon firebrand would ever commit suicide - she would die on her feet, with a phaser in one hand and a mek'leth in the other.
"A disaster?" Seska met B'Elanna's eyes straight on. "Could you possibly provide more information?"
And speaking of death, I think B'Elanna wanted Seska dead. I don't know what it was, but B'Elanna never liked Seska, not even for a half a moment. Maybe it just means that B'Elanna is a better judge of character than I am, but I prefer to think that it was more that they mirrored each other almost perfectly in terms of temperament.
"We've lost all flux capacitors," B'Elanna said coolly, directing her remarks at Tuvok and me, instead of responding to Seska.
Yes, don't look at me like that. Tuvok was there, and at the time, he was one of my more trusted colleagues; I figured that Vulcans didn't have the ability to practice deception. Again, I should have known better.
"Big deal, we can get more," Seska said.
"And the shield harmonics matrix is out of alignment," B'Elanna continued. I could see the heat rising in B'Elanna's cheeks as she pointedly tried to ignore Seska.
"Can we fix it?" I asked.
"It will take time," she said.
"We don't have time!" Seska snapped.
"Well, I'm telling you what's wrong," B'Elanna shot back. "You fly the damn ship without any flux capacitors and it won't even get off the ground. You don't think I'm working as fast as I can? If I say it's going to take time, it's going to take time."
"I think you're stalling," Seska said evenly.
"Seska," I said.
"B'Elanna has no reason to stall," Tuvok injected.
"Listen to the Vulcan, Seska. I'm telling you, the ship has problems, serious problems. I'm amazed we even survived this last raid. As it was, we limped our way here. We're lucky there wasn't a Cardassian patrol in the vicinity."
"It would have been a good day to die," Seska said without a tinge of irony in her voice. She got up, nearly knocking the chair over in abrupt movement. "I would rather die than spend another day in these damp caves! Prophets, the chill goes right to the bone. We'll all die down here from the cold."
"Seska," I said in an attempt to appease the angry Bajoran.
"Are you afraid?" B'Elanna's eyes were flashing. "It's good we found out now, isn't it, Seska? If you're afraid of what we're doing, then maybe you aren't in the right place. Maybe this isn't your battle."
"I'm Bajoran. This is my battle."
B'Elanna got up from her hair and rounded the side of the table, nearly colliding with Tuvok who had gotten up from his chair in an attempt to stop her.
"I'm watching you," B'Elanna breathed. "If I even see one thing that makes me stop and think twice, you better watch your back."
"B'Elanna," I said.
"I don't need to listen to this," Seska snarled at me. Her amber-tinged eyes snapped fire at me, her lips curling in anticipation of a fight, and her fists were clenched at her side. I won't lie; I found Seska fascinating at that moment.
We stood there for a mere second and then Seska thundered off in one direction and B'Elanna in the other, no doubt in search of her flux capacitors.
"I should check on. Seska," I said to Tuvok awkwardly.
"And I," Tuvok looked around. "I will attempt to find some kind of heat generator."
"Good idea," I said. And I'll be honest; in the entire time Tuvok was with us, the heat generator was the best suggestion he ever came up with.
I found Seska huddled in corner in the passageway furthest from where we had been meeting. Her teeth chattered as I came down the corridor, the little lantern flickering in my hand.
"I brought you a blanket," I said.
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry about B'Elanna. Her temper sometimes gets the best of her."
"She is rude, Chakotay."
I crouched down beside Seska, putting the lantern to the side, and then draping the blanket around her shoulders.
"She means well."
"This isn't her fight," Seska said, but some of the bitterness in her tone had already started to evaporate. "What is she doing here anyway?"
"What are you doing here?"
"That's different. I'm Bajoran."
I smiled, "We all have our reasons. Some, like yours, are as plain as the nose on your face. Others are a little more opaque."
"Are you always this...?" she fumbled a bit by her side, arranging the blanket more securely around her. "Are you always so cheerful?"
"No," I said. "But that wasn't what you were going to ask, was it?"
"No," she said. "What you said, it was silly, but sweet."
"Thank you."
She said, "Won't you sit down?"
I brushed the pebbles slightly aside with my fingers. "Sure."
The dampness seeped through my thin pants as I leaned back against the clammy stone walls. I shivered.
"Share my blanket?" she asked.
"Thanks."
"Are we ever going to get out of here?"
"I plan on it."
Seska glanced at me sideways, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing into tiny slits.
"B'Elanna doesn't like me," she said.
"You don't like her."
"Do you like her?"
I sighed, "Seska, this is not a popularity contest."
She inched closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine.
"Do you always avoid answering questions?" Seska queried.
I had to laugh, "When it is political to do so, I try my best."
"I thought so," and without asking, she rested her head on my shoulder. "I can't believe that only six hours ago, we were going down in flames. I thought, `this is it, I'm going to die.'"
"I thought the same. In fact, I wake up every morning and think that."
"You think we'll be fighting this fight for the rest of our lives?"
"I hope not."
"Sometimes I think this is going to last forever."
"That's optimistic."
"You think the Cardassians are going to cede an inch?" Seska asked. "Or what about the Federation? How many Federation vessels have you attacked recently? The Federation has a long memory."
"I prefer to not think about that," I said. "I like to think about why I'm doing what I'm doing."
Her hair was brushing my cheek and I shifted position awkwardly so I could wrap my arm around her. She was a stocky woman, big-boned and muscular - a rather unusual physique for Bajorans who tend to be more delicately built and slender. But at the time, she fit into the curve of my arm perfectly and I didn't think much more of her unusual stature.
What I admired most about Seska was her utter brazenness and her delicious sense of impropriety. She knew what she wanted and did not care what conventions had to be broken in order for her to get what she wanted.
Seska inched her hand up my thigh, and when I looked at her, her eyes were closed and her head tilted slightly back, her lips curled up in a half-crescent.
"Seska," I whispered. "What are you doing?"
"Shh," she said.
Slowly, she made her way to my waistband and I jerked when her warm fingers touched my cool skin. She was breathing calmly, but I could feel my chest tighten as her hand brushed over the hairs on my thigh. I knew I should protest; instead, I closed my eyes.
Later Seska stood up, looking pleased with herself. I could almost sense her thoughts, the unspoken words: "Could B'Elanna do that for you?"
She looked down at me, extended her hand and said coolly, "The others are probably wondering where we are."
"You're right," I stumbled to my feet, marveling at the weakness in my muscles.
We didn't talk about what happened then and we never really did ever; instead, we grabbed our furtive moments anywhere we could from the dark corners of an abandoned supply depot or in the damp leaves covering the ground of a rain forest.
And not once did I suspect. She was that good.
I do mean that - in more ways than one.

****

They are all in the holodeck. I know this because I wanted to call a staff meeting for no other reason than to alleviate the anxiety that is eating away at me as the minutes continue to tick away. But when I queried for their locations, the computer in its dismally unsympathetic voice informed me that Lieutenant Paris and Ensign Kim were on the holodeck and evidently, had been there for several hours.
I wanted to talk to someone, anyone, and Tuvok has been gone for the last three hours to monitor the proceedings against Torres and Chakotay.
And so Harry and Tom, it is.
I stand outside of the holodeck, wondering nervously if I should enter, and then, squaring my shoulders, I go in.
The scene is a garage and smells vaguely of gasoline. I see Tom's legs beneath the shining red car; Harry is sitting on a rather lopsided stool, watching with an expression of disinterest of his face. He immediately gets to his feet when he notices my presence.
"Captain!" he exclaims.
"At ease," I say. "I apologize for interrupting."
Tom pushes out from beneath the car; he is wearing that awful gray jumpsuit, his gray turtleneck peeking up from beneath the collar. His eyes, like everything else about him recently, are hard and unfriendly.
"Any word?" he asks, sitting up. "Can we get off this ship? Honestly, Captain, I would have preferred to stay in the Delta Quadrant if I had known our homecoming would be like this."
"Tuvok is on the station now," I say. "When he comes back, we'll know what is going on."
"Anything on Chakotay and B'Elanna?" Tom persists.
"Nothing," I frown. The silence from Starfleet on the fate of my two officers is loud and grating.
"Anything from my father? He hasn't responded to any of my messages," Tom says. His face crumples for a second and then rearranges itself into an expression of nonchalance - very similar to the face he wore during his first few years on Voyager, when he was trying so hard to pretend that the animosity directed towards him by the crew did not hurt him.
I knew better though. Tom Paris, consummate ladies' man, joker and gambler, has feelings and until B'Elanna Torres loved him, he never showed them.
I reach forward to touch his forearm, "No, Tom, there has been no word from your father, but that could also be because of the communications blockade."
"Captain, isn't that odd?" Harry asks from behind me. "It's almost as if we are the criminals."
"It's all part of protocol," I answer.
"That might work for Seven," Tom says. "But you can't fool us. What's going on?"
I sigh, "I won't keep anything from you, Tom, but I honestly don't know. Tuvok is the only one who is allowed to attend the sessions. When he returns, I will certainly ask him."
"Do you think they are investigating you?" Tom asks. His voice is nonchalant, but I pick up the faint tremor underlying his tone.
"It's a good possibility," I admit.
"If they are investigating you, what will happen to the rest of us?" Harry asks. He looks frightened; I don't blame him. Seven years ago, he was just starting on a brand new career, one that should have been full of promise. Who knows where Harry could have been if I hadn't lost us all in the Delta Quadrant?
"Nothing, I expect," I say easily, and I am as sure of this answer as I was about us getting home.
"They want to split us up," Tom says. "All of us."
"That's not true."
"I expect I'll be going back to New Zealand," Tom goes on. "The weather there is pretty nice; it won't be so bad."
"Don't be ridiculous," I say sharply. "Our previous arrangement stands. I have been assured of that. You have your freedom."
"And B'Elanna?" Tom demands. "What about her?"
"Tom," Harry says. "You heard the Captain; Starfleet hasn't been exactly forthcoming about its intentions."
"I promise you, Tom, I'll do everything I can for B'Elanna."
Tom scoots out completely from beneath the car and gets to his feet; his expression is hard.
"It may not be enough," he says.
"Tom," Harry says.
"What the hell," Tom says. He angrily stuffs tools into the metal case by his feet.
"What's going on?" I ask, bewildered by my helm officer's behavior.
"Don't you find it a bit odd that we are all still here on Voyager?" he asks, those bright eyes flashing. "Isn't it odd that no one except Tuvok can see B'Elanna and Chakotay? Not even you are allowed off of this ship. That doesn't make sense, Captain. There's something going on and I want an explanation."
"I don't have one."
"I didn't think so, no offense, Captain."
We make an odd group there in the holodeck and I regret my intrusion; no doubt Harry was counseling his friend. Tom's face has gone red, Harry is suddenly interested in a spot of grease on the floor and I simply feel uncomfortable.
"Tuvok to Janeway."
I take a deep breath, thankful for the interruption.
"Janeway here," I say, aware of Tom's curiosity and Harry's continued disinterest.
"I need to see you. Right away."
"On my way. Janeway out."
I turn to look at the two men before I exit.
"Tom, I will get you the answers you need," I tell him softly. He merely shrugs his shoulders.

****

I should have known, even given my close friendship with B'Elanna, that I would be the last to know about her relationship with Tom Paris. Maybe it was because I closed my eyes, refused to see the signs of an infatuation morphing rapidly into something else. I convinced myself that they were too different, or was it too alike? Whatever it was, I did not see it, did not know.
After Voyager's crew served as guinea pigs for the nameless aliens - yes, I know, but they didn't exactly introduce themselves - there was no one on the ship who didn't know about Tom and B'Elanna. And I think, B'Elanna felt a bit of guilt for not saying something to me first and that's why she showed up at my door, a bit drained from a double-shift, but still radiant in a way only B'Elanna can be.
"Come in," I said. I was lounging on the sofa in loose pants and shirt - comfortable clothes, perfect for unwinding.
"Hi," she said shyly from the door. I noted the bottle of wine in her hand.
"Come in," I repeated, straightening. "What's going on?"
"I had this lying around," she said. "A rare bottle from Dorvan IV. How does that sound to you?"
"Terrific," I said. "Let me get the glasses."
The vineyards on my home world, Dorvan IV, had never been known for producing much by the way of wine. In fact, Dorvan's wines were decidedly mediocre, most of the grapes sour and because of the constant Cardassian attacks, never allowed to ferment in oak barrels long enough. But still, I appreciated B'Elanna's gesture, for what it meant; Dorvan's vineyards were long gone, burned to a crisp.
"It's a red," she said. "Merlot."
I wrinkled my nose.
"Yeah, I know," B'Elanna said. "But let's give it a shot, okay?"
I got the wineglasses out of a cupboard and put them on the table; B'Elanna poured the wine.
"It's been a while," she said. "Since we talked, you and me."
"Yeah," I said. "It's been... busy."
And I wanted to kick myself for my stupid answer, for not putting more thought into my words and for not saying what I really wanted to.
"How are you feeling?" B'Elanna asked conversationally.
"Okay," I said. "Still a little wobbly in the muscles."
"I know the feeling," B'Elanna said. "I felt slightly... out of control?"
"That's one way of putting it," I raised my glass. "Cheers."
"Cheers."
I leaned back in my chair and sipped the wine.
"Not bad," I said. "Not quite as dry as I feared, but still bitter."
B'Elanna swallowed hard. "I'm glad you like it."
She put her glass down, "Chakotay, I didn't come here to drink wine with you."
"I know," I said. "You just needed an excuse, though you never needed one before."
"You're one of my best friends," she said sincerely. Actual warmth seeped into her voice and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if this was Tom Paris' work. "I should have told you about Tom."
"It would have been nice to hear it from you and not from Tuvok."
"Yeah," B'Elanna's eyes drifted to a spot on the wall directly above my head. "I guess I wasn't sure, didn't know what everyone would think."
"Does it matter?"
"I don't want people to think I've lost my head."
"You have though, haven't you?"
B'Elanna's lips parted slightly and then she smiled.
"Yes," she said. "I didn't think... didn't imagine that it would be like this. I never imagined that Tom would... care back."
I pushed my empty wineglass away and leaned back in my chair.
"You know what I think about Tom Paris," I said. "He's irresponsible, dangerous, never serious about anything. B'Elanna, I'm worried about you. He won't take care of you the way," and I took a deep breath here. I wanted to finish the sentence, say, "won't take care of you the you deserve to be taken care of," but I couldn't. I looked at B'Elanna, noted that her eyes had a gleam to them that I had never seen before; a glitter of an emotion that I never thought I would see in her eyes.
"I know the risks," B'Elanna said earnestly. "I know what Tom is like and it doesn't matter. My eyes are open and I'm not under any illusions. Maybe it will work, maybe it won't. All I know is that when I'm with him, the rest of the world blurs and I see only him. I could be making a mistake but it's my mistake to make, Chakotay."
"I don't want you to get hurt, B'Elanna. Tom Paris has that reputation. He," I couldn't finish. Visions of Tom's past conquests flitted through my head and I hated to think of B'Elanna as just another notch on Tom's belt. "I just want you to be careful."
"Believe me," B'Elanna said. "I pushed him away as much as I could. He got to me, Chakotay, and I don't know how. On day, he was this annoying itch and then suddenly, he was there, under my skin. I couldn't stop thinking about him, even looked forward to spending time with him. And I'm sorry. There were times when I wanted to tell him something even before I wanted to tell you. I think that's when I knew. And yeah, I know what Tom's reputation is like and I'm not going to delude myself and think that I'm the one who is going to change him."
Our eyes met for an uncomfortable second; I was the one who looked away because I knew that I would not see in B'Elanna's eyes what was reflected in mine.
"As long as you know," I said.
"I know," she whispered, heavy inflection laid on the last word. She laid her hand on top of mine. "I know, Chakotay."
We sat there in awkward silence for a little while and then B'Elanna got up, nearly knocking over her chair in the process.
"I've got to go," she said. "Um, Tom."
"Yeah," I said.
"Good night."
"Good night."
B'Elanna vanished into the corridors of Voyager, the doors hissing shut behind her. I looked at the half-empty wine bottle; maybe finishing it would put me in a deep, dreamless sleep, safe
from the nightmarish image of B'Elanna lying in Tom Paris' arms and his hands on her skin.

****

"What is it?" I meet Tuvok en route to my quarters. He looks perturbed - or as perturbed as a Vulcan possibly can. I wonder if he is thinking about his wife, wondering about his children; or maybe he is single-minded, thinking only of the task ahead. "How are Chakotay and Torres?"
"They are being interrogated," he says in that flat voice. I sigh; it was not the answer I wanted. I wanted to know how they were; were they well-fed? Were they being well taken care of? Were they sleeping at night? How were they feeling?
And these were answers that Tuvok would be unable to provide me.
"What are they being questioned on?" I ask, deciding to sidestep the issue of Chakotay and Torres' well-being for right now.
"Everything," Tuvok says. "From the moment they arrived on Voyager until the day we returned home."
"Anything in specific?"
"No, I have yet to discern a pattern. They were interested in Seska."
"Of course. Who wouldn't it be? She caused us no end of problems," I say. I remember Seska, as I last saw her - her long red hair flowing down her back, her Cardassian ridges prominent above her eyes, and in her arms, cradling the child she claimed was Chakotay's. "What do you think the Federation intends to do with the Maquis?"
"I do not believe the outcome will be positive. The Federation, and by association Starfleet, has not forgotten the crimes of the Maquis," Tuvok says, his voice evenly modulated. He indicates the door to my quarters. I enter the pass code and we enter. Tuvok sits stiffly in the armchair, but I let decorum go for the time being and sprawl on the sofa.
"There is a certain faction intent on prosecuting them to the full extant of the law," my friend continues.
"After all they have done for Voyager? I couldn't have asked for a better first officer than Commander Chakotay."
"They have yet to ask about their contributions to Voyager," Tuvok says flatly.
"What about B'Elanna? Without her, we would have never survived. Voyager wouldn't have lasted a minute in the Delta Quadrant without her expertise."
"Lieutenant Torres has yet to speak. They do not seem interested in questioning her."
"But they have her and Chakotay both? Why? Has something happened to Starfleet while we were gone?"
Tuvok shrugs.
"I do not know," he answers with maddening equanimity. "But there is something else. They will allow you to attend the questioning tomorrow."
My mood brightens immediately.
"What?"
"Tomorrow," Tuvok nods. "They said you can be present."
And I know, from the tone of Tuvok's voice, that it cannot be good. My stomach churns and I feel the beginnings of a headache threatening behind my temples and at the nape of my neck.
"I'll be there," I say hollowly. "Tell them... tell them I will be there."
Tuvok pauses; there is something more and he finds it difficult to begin. And somehow, I know where he is going with this question.
"They are asking about your relationship with Commander Chakotay," Tuvok says quietly.
"That's none of their business."
"Nonetheless, the question was asked."
"Damn them!" I lean forward on the table, dropping my head. "Is nothing sacred?"
"Apparently not."
"Good lord," I said. "I don't believe this. If they want to put me on trial, then they should. There is no reason for this... farce. No reason to detain B'Elanna and Chakotay if it's me they want to know about."
"I have yet to discern their true motivations," Tuvok says. "I am unable to extrapolate their intentions where Voyager and the Maquis are concerned. I confess, I find the whole proceedings to be illogical."
"I imagine they are on a fishing expedition," I say. "They are simply looking for something, anything. Why, I cannot say."
"I do not know either," says Tuvok. "But it makes me uneasy."
I straighten up, feeling the strength return to my backbone. I nod at Tuvok's remark, grateful that he feels the same trepidation that I do.
"I know the feeling," I tell him.
The two of us head down the corridor towards the messhall; I could really use a cup of coffee.
The messhall is full when we get there; bored crew members are chatting listlessly or playing variations of chess, derata and other strategy games.
Neelix greets us when we enter.
"Captain, Mr. Vulcan," he says.
"Coffee, hot," I tell him, not bothering to specify anything else; there is a dull pounding in my head, one that only coffee can relieve.
"Coming right up, Captain."
Tuvok and I find an empty table in the furthest corner of the messhall. Through the windows, we can see a bit of the starbase and the workers tethered to the hull.
"It will take years to repair the damage from the war," I muse.
"The war did leave both sides badly decimated," Tuvok agrees.
Neelix brings the coffee over.
"Did you want something, Commander?" Neelix asks.
"I am fine."
"It's quiet in here, Neelix," I say.
"I have tried my best," he says. "The crew is concerned about their Maquis friends."
"That's surprising," I say. "Considering the tensions prior to our arrival in the Alpha Quadrant."
"Uncertainty does that, Captain," Neelix sits down next to Tuvok. "The Maquis withdrew into themselves because they were unsure of their reception in the Alpha Quadrant and what that would mean for their Starfleet comrades. They were unsure whether their friendships would survive what was to come."
"So rather than facing that, they chose to cut the ties themselves?" I ask.
"Yes," Neelix nods. "That is my impression. It would help, Captain, if you spoke to the crew and reassure them that the Maquis will be all right."
I look down at my coffee mug.
"Captain?" Neelix asks. "They will be all right, won't they?"
"I hope so," I tell him. "But I know they will be grateful for the support of their friends. That much I'm sure of."
"But you don't know for sure that everything is going to be all right?"
I look at Tuvok whose lips have drawn into a thin line. I've seen that expression many times during our long friendship.
"For what it's worth, Neelix," I reach across the table to cover Neelix's hand with mine. "I'm glad you decided to stay with us. I think we could all use a morale officer."

****

The first time we made love, there were candles. It was right after Kashyk and the music playing in the background was not Mahler.
"Grieg?" I asked after a couple seconds of straining. Kathryn nodded.
"Yes," she said. "Were you expecting something else?"
She was challenging me, wanting me to bring up Kashyk, but I shook my head.
"This particular composition," I said. "I just... never mind."
Dinner was not unusual for us; we ate together quite frequently, usually to discuss private personnel matters that could not be brought up in public.
This night, she had dimmed the lights, lit the candles, and the table was set with silverware and china I had never seen before.
"Looks good," I said awkwardly. "Smells good too."
Kathryn smiled, indicating the chair opposite her.
"Have a seat," she said.
"What is for dinner?" I asked.
"Hmm... we start with a Caesar salad," she said, spooning some Romaine lettuce into my place. "And then follows a tomato basil soup. The main entrée is a creamy pesto linguini and then, chocolate mousse to finish off."
"Sounds wonderful."
"Should be," Kathryn ladled soup in my bowl. "I replicated them using Chef Lanzetti's recipes."
"Chef Lanzetti," I smiled. "I remember. Right outside of the Academy grounds. Best Italian food outside of Italy."
"That's right," Kathryn said, seating herself in front of me. She was wearing her gray T-shirt and black uniform pants, but a tiny glint of silver chain peeked from beneath the circular neck of the shirt. "And the wine... a Merlot from 2369."
"A good year," I said approvingly.
"You know your wines," she said, her voice dropping low and throaty. She poured the liquid into the crystal wineglasses by our plates. "This does seem like an indulgence, doesn't it?"
"A bit, but everyone is allowed once in a while."
"Including a captain?"
"Especially a captain," I smiled.
"So," she leaned back in her chair, her right shoulder slightly forward. "Do you think I was wrong about Kashyk?"
"Does it matter?"
"I suppose not," she rubbed a finger along the edge of her glass. "But I wonder... what if? Would it have been so terrible?"
"Depends what you're talking about," I answered lightly.
She leaned forward, her hands on her thighs, her chin thrust earnestly forward.
"I suppose you're right," and then she laughed a little schoolgirl's laugh.
I finished my salad and put the bowl aside and then started in on the soup.
"This is excellent, Kathryn," I said sincerely.
"Thank you," she smiled. And then, a shadow crossed her face. "It had been so long, Chakotay."
"I know the feeling."
"You at least had... Seska," she said this last name with a bit of disgust.
"Not really," I answered. "Not since coming aboard Voyager."
Janeway held up a hand, "Really, Chakotay, your personal affairs are none of my business."
I put my fork down, almost ready to argue with her. After all, she was the one who had brought Seska up, not me.
"I suppose if you never suspected Seska, then it wasn't so bad that I didn't suspect Kashyk of duplicity... at first," she said pensively. "I did figure it out, Chakotay, and still, I played him. Played him as he played me."
I twirled linguini around my fork.
"Fresh pesto," I said. "Now that's quite the achievement."
"Aeroponics," she beamed. "Fresh basil. I had a few small plants before... before we ended up here."
She said the word "here" with the same disgust she reserved for Seska.
In the candlelight, Kathryn Janeway's hair took on a golden-red tint and I loved the way the light reflected off of the gentle waves just above her ear.
Of course, these were sentiments I would never share with Kath - Janeway - her.
We continued eating in silence and I only lifted my head once to comment on the music.
"Not Grieg anymore," I said. "Chopin."
"Very good," she said as harsh piano chords sounded in the background. "Do you know which one?"
"Hmm. `Raindrops,' perhaps?"
"I never knew you were a connoisseur of romantic music," Janeway drained her glass of the last of the wine. She tipped her head back, revealing a long expanse of white neck. I could see the longitudinal lengths of ligaments running from just below her jawbone and disappearing into the small hollow at the junction of her clavicle bone.
"I had a friend... at the Academy," I paused. "Elise."
"Elise?" Janeway blinked a couple times, her long lashes fluttering girlishly. Damn if she wasn't flirting.
"Elise," I confirmed. "She played the piano. A virtuoso. Her father, however, had other plans for her. I think she eventually became a science officer on the Valiant."
"You don't know for sure?"
"No," I answered. "We didn't see each other for very long."
"Just long enough to pick up some Grieg and Chopin?"
"Among other things," I smiled.
Janeway got up, pushing her chair back so hastily that it nearly tipped over.
"Computer, play Janeway selection theta nine," she said harshly. Startled by her abrupt mood swing, I got up from my chair.
The music filling the captain's quarters very different than the previous selections. This was a vocal piece, a smooth tenor filling the air.
"What is it?" I asked.
"A favorite of the Doctor's," Janeway said. "It's called `Someone to Watch Over Me.'"
"Sounds... interesting."
"You don't care for it?"
"It takes some getting used to."
"I think the singer is Bajoran."
"Now that's something different."
We were now only inches away from each other, and without thinking, I reached up and tipped her chin up slightly so that we were looking directly into each other's eyes.
Janeway - no, Kathryn - slipped her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek against the scratchy wool of my uniform. My own arms slipped to her back, and then down lower. as far as a first officer could possibly dare.
I don't know the exact second her lips first met mine and I can't even really recall the sensation of skin against skin; I wish it were more memorable, but it wasn't. It was almost like a flutter of wind, barely detectable, and I would wonder if the kiss - as I thought of it - had even happened.
Somehow, we tumbled onto her bed in a tangle of legs and arms, panting heavily. How we undressed, I don't know, but before long, there was nothing between her skin and mine and my lips were against that throat I had not so long ago admired.
I think at one point I might have said her name, might have said Kathryn, but again - like everything else - that too might be a figment of what I wanted.
Later, we lay side by side, neither of us touching. She had pulled up the sheets, covering her breasts, and her hands were folded neatly on her stomach.
I didn't know what to say. I mean, what do you say? Starfleet doesn't cover this in its classes, doesn't tell you what to do in the minutes after... the minutes after you made love to a superior officer.
What was I supposed to say?
"Red alert, Captain? Loading phaser banks. Ready to fire on your mark."
But then, as Seven would say, the comparison was flawed. Or was it?
I waited for her to speak for, wanted her to speak first.
Kathryn turned her head slightly, her eyes lolling all the way to the left.
"I will see you at breakfast then?" she asked. "At 0700 hours?"
I cleared my throat, "That sounds good."
I got up, got dressed, and I was keenly aware of her eyes on me, sweeping the length of my body.
I left and knew that the evening had been no accident. She had planned it from beginning to end and it didn't matter who it had been that night. Kashyk or me, or even Tom or Harry, you name him, it didn't matter that night to Kathryn Janeway.
I knew it from the music.
Grieg's "Erotic."
I never stood a chance.

****

The interior of Starbase 87 is not any more inviting than the outside; in fact, access is restricted in general, and if I look out of the corners of my eyes, I can see the gaps in heavy metal plating that separates us from the cold vacuum of space.
They allowed Tom to accompany me, in addition to Tuvok; for this small favor, I am grateful, though I figure the Admiral - Tom's father - must have had something to do with it.
Tom is visibly agitated, occasionally running his hand through his blond hair; the tresses stand awkwardly on end right about his forehead, giving him that boyish quality that we women find so damn charming.
Tom and I walk shoulder to shoulder with Tuvok a step or two in front of us. It is quiet here, very few personnel anywhere to be seen.
Not for the first time, I wonder at the parsimony of our welcome. Tom glances over at me and I pause, waiting for him to speak.
"The war," he says. "We won."
Tuvok's eyebrows arch up and then fall back down. His lips tremble slightly as if he is going to speak, but instead he sucks in air, hollowing out his cheeks, and then lets it out in soft sigh.
"That is what the history books will say," I answer carefully. "The Federation won the Dominion War when Cardassia broke the alliance and joined us."
"You know," Tom looks around at the deserted storefronts and the debris piled against the walls. "When my children ask about the Dominion War, I'm not going to be able to tell them anything. Won't be able to share with them anything that is not already in a history book. They'll ask, and I'll have to answer that I spent the whole damn war in the Delta Quadrant."
There it is, that silent accusation again. My shoulders stiffen; I do not know how to answer Tom's statement and I don't think he is necessarily looking for anything from me anymore. Truth be told, I don't think Tom needs me anymore. He has validated himself in his father's eyes and he has B'Elanna to comfort and coddle him. What he does with his life now is completely up to him; he no longer needs to be rescued or rehabilitated.
"Your experience in the Delta Quadrant was unique," Tuvok says without irony. Again I look at my old friend, wonder what exactly is going through that analytical mind of his. We have talked, once or twice, about our experiences on the Borg cube, but Tuvok never dwells on the emotional aspect of our assimilation; he merely points out that our motives were justified, our mission solid.
Tom's face softens and for a moment, I am reminded of a cocky young man telling me brashly, "Hell, I'd be the best pilot you could have."
Impulsively, I squeeze Tom's arm.
"Our experiences, our studies," I say. "It will add so much to the Federation's database of knowledge. Perhaps some of our..." I pause as I notice a Starfleet delegation heading towards us.
Until this moment, I have been grateful for the lack of obvious Starfleet security. But as the cliché says, all good things eventually must come to an end as I make quick note of the phasers attached securely to hips.
Admiral Rodney McArthur leads the group; his lips drawn into a straight line, his eyes unsmiling.
"Captain," he says crisply. "I am sorry I was not there to meet you when you came aboard."
"It's good to see you again, Admiral."
"It's been a long time, Kathryn," his voice softens as he says my name. I take his proffered hand and add a bit of a squeeze, hoping he remembers our camaraderie for the one year we served together under Owen Paris. "Everyone is very eager to hear of your adventures in the Delta Quadrant. You truly fulfilled Starfleet's mission: going where no one has gone before."
I nod, biting my lip so that the words - "what have you done with Chakotay and B'Elanna" - won't slip out prematurely.
"And this must be Tom Paris," McArthur says. "Your father is very proud of you, boy."
Tom draws himself up straight, visibly offended.
"I would like to talk to my father," Tom says. "Is he here?"
"He is on his way," McArthur answers. "He was, um, delayed on his way out from San Francisco. Ongoing negotiations with various parties, reconstruction efforts, you know, the usual fallout after a war."
"Looks like this station took a beating," I observe.
"Yes, we were in the thick of it," McArthur says. "Those were some rough days, but it makes you appreciate the peace that follows much more. Come, let's go. We don't have much time."
We follow McArthur through the corridors, the security delegation following discreetly behind us. As we go deeper within the heart of the station, I notice that the walls are cleaner, the damage less obvious. Sterility permeates the air, the signs that the oxygen recyclers are working at full capacity.
"Admiral," I hurry to catch up. "Where are we going?"
"Commander Tuvok mentioned that you wanted to attend the trial of the Maquis," McArthur says coolly.
"Trial?" I stop. "I thought you were just investigating them, asking some questions."
"Kathryn, you should know better."
"They served on my crew, ably I might add, for seven years! I couldn't have asked for a better group of people. I can't believe you - the Federation, Starfleet - would put them on trial after everything we - they - have been through."
"Believe me, Kathryn, we considered all of what you are saying," McArthur says in a soothing voice. "But we can't ignore that a crime - many crimes - were committed against Starfleet personnel and Federation protectorates. They are terrorists."
"Were," I correct him icily. "Were terrorists. The war is over, Admiral, and they served their time. Believe me, the Delta Quadrant was no picnic. We suffered plenty when we were there."
"We're aware of that. Chakotay has been quite forthcoming with his information. He's a nice fellow, Kathryn. You did well to pick him to serve as your first officer, though frankly, I must question your judgment in picking a Maquis soldier before looking at a member of your Starfleet-loyal crew."
Tom's cheeks are red now and out of the corner of my eye, I see Tuvok place a restraining hand on Tom's shoulder.
"The death count was too high, Kathryn," McArthur says again in that irritatingly condescending voice. "We looked at the numbers and we looked at the cost estimates. Again, someone had to be held responsible-"
"So you're going after my people?" I ask flatly.
"Your people?" McArthur laughs slightly. "Seven years ago, Kathryn, you went after them. Your mission was to retrieve the Maquis ship and bring back Tuvok. I would say you were successful, wouldn't you?"
With that, he turns and continues walking. My cheeks are flaming, my heart thumping so fast that I feel it will leap right out of my ribcage.
"What does he mean?" I whirl on Tuvok, much to the irritation of the guards standing directly behind.
"Captain," Tuvok's eyes hold an obvious warning for me.
"They've already made their decision," Tom says flatly. "They probably didn't even listen to a word the Commander or B'Elanna had to say; they had already made up their mind and they kept us locked up on Voyager until it was too late for us to do anything at all."
"Tuvok," I say. My Vulcan friend, so incapable of lying and so unwilling to show emotion, closes his eyes for a brief second before nodding his head.

****

How did I get along with the others? That's an interesting question. At the beginning, it was Janeway and Tuvok versus B'Elanna and me. Harry and Tom, they were usually together. What a pair those two were - one utterly clueless and the other hardened beyond his years.
I envied the trust Janeway had - has - in Tuvok. There were times when she confided in him and I wanted her to talk to me instead; after all, I was her first officer.
Even after we became lovers, there were times when we clashed and she would go to Tuvok; he could make the same recommendation as me but she would give him more weight. The fact that she sometimes relied on Tuvok more than me made me furious.
I was always aware of the differences in the way Janeway viewed me, but it came to a forefront when we made that alliance with the Kazon. Call us crazy, but we were out of our minds at that time, concentrating on survival. The Prime Directive is all well and good, but we Maquis, we didn't choose to die for the Prime Directive; that's Starfleet's imperative. So that's why I pushed Ka- Captain Janeway - to make the alliance and in typical Janeway fashion, she didn't listen to me.
My reasoning was very simple; we had spent several weeks being pounded by the Kazon mercilessly. Three people - including my friend Bendera - had died in the attacks and the Doctor and Kes were already working around the clock monitoring those who weren't lucky enough to die the first time the Kazon attacked us. And I told Janeway then that this was like being in the Maquis, that I had been a good Starfleet officer, but it was time to try something new. And I hinted that maybe it was time to take a Maquis-approach to the situation.
I might as well have been talking to a brick wall.
The Captain's mind was already made up and dammit, she was going to stick to Starfleet protocol, even if it meant we were going to perish out in the Delta Quadrant.
I didn't realize how important the Prime Directive was to Kathryn Janeway until Bendera's memorial service. After we dissipated, I witnessed Hogan and Jonas talking to Janeway and while I did not hear Hogan's question, I did hear the Captain's response. She said, very clearly, "I'll destroy this ship before I let any of its technology fall into Kazon hands."
And then, as she was walking out of the room, she turned to me and said, "How's that for the Maquis way, Commander?"
I tell you, honestly, that I hated her in that moment. Truly I did because much as I admired her principles and her loyalty to the Starfleet establishment, I couldn't see how a guiding directive could possibly help us in a quadrant where death seemed to lurk in nebulas and star systems.
And I took that moment to try and make her understand. After almost two years in the Delta Quadrant, how could she not understand the very real fear paralyzing the crew? How could she not understand the repugnance of following the orders of an establishment that was seventy-five thousand light years away?
She asked me if I agreed with the Hogan's suggestion about giving technology to the Kazon and of course I said no. And I honestly believed that while Hogan's thoughts reflected those of the crew, his suggestion was not the best way for Voyager.
And that's when I plowed forward and told her exactly what I was thinking, what her crew was thinking.
"But you have to realize that the Starfleet protocols you've locked onto are ideals many of the Maquis resent the hell out of. Your principles aren't necessarily theirs. Can we find something in between we can all find satisfactory?" I asked.
The coldness in her eyes scared me and I had a vision of being immediately chucked out of the nearest airlock; well, suffocating in space was surely quicker and less painful than knowing that we were a sitting target for the Kazon.
"You have a suggestion? Make it," she snapped at me.
"Make an alliance," I said. And then I got her, reminding her of all of the promises she had made to us in the past, the promises to get us home. You can't send a ship of bodies back to the Alpha Quadrant. And I asked her, straight-out, "Are you really making your decisions with the best interests of the crew at heart?"
And she just stared at me for a moment and I could tell she was trying to counter my words with something more powerful and pull out some obscure Starfleet rule that would allow her to make such cavalier decisions.
"I'm going to talk to Tuvok," she said flatly.
"Fine," I shot back,.
It was then I realized how little she trusted me and how much more she depended on Tuvok. I don't know what happened in their conversation, only that they had one, but when she came out, she was amiable to the alliance, but only because Tuvok had talked her into it.
I think it was Harry who made the comment about trying to find Seska and the whole idea of seeing her and remembering her - it was repulsive to me, but B'Elanna and Tom thought it was a good idea and apparently it sounded like Janeway thought so also.
She even said as much to me, mockingly.
"You can't have it halfway, Commander. If you play with the pigs, you can't complain about getting dirty," she said.
The remark rankled at me and sometimes, when we would argue about we needed to be done in a situation, I would remember this, our aborted alliance with the Kazon and how much work it took to get us there.
And so, yes, the path to Janeway's confidence, it took a while. It wasn't easy and we clashed many times, more times than I can possibly count. And underlying every single on of those arguments was her overwhelming distaste for anything Maquis, anything which did not fall into a Starfleet protocol book.
I do have to say, in her defense, she did what she thought was right for the crew. Her heart was in the right place even if her head was not.

****

It has only been a couple days, but it feels like forever since I last saw Chakotay and Torres. In the harsh light of the interrogation room, they both look wane, their skin slightly tinged with yellow. Both of them are dressed in civilian clothes, circa 2371 - the year we vanished into the Delta Quadrant.
"I want to talk to them," I hiss to McArthur. He holds up one finger.
"You have a minute," and from the tone of his voice, I know he means sixty seconds exactly. I cross the room, hoping desperately that I can bridge the distance between us. I only look back once when I notice B'Elanna's eyes widened and then her expression crumple; security guards hold Tom back.
"Are you okay?" I whisper to Chakotay, not willing to give McArthur and the others the pleasure of hearing my conversation with the man I still consider my first officer and best friend.
"Tired," he says in an equally low voice. He nudges B'Elanna and she reluctantly turns to look at me.
"Are they treating you well?" I ask.
"Standard Starfleet brig," Chakotay says. "Bad food, uncomfortable bed, noisy. Feels like the Academy in a way."
"Only no homework," B'Elanna says in monotone, her eyes still fixed on Tom. "I want to talk to him, Captain. Can you...?"
"I'll do what I can."
B'Elanna grabs at my sleeve, "They want to know everything, Captain."
"You can be honest," I assure them both.
Chakotay tips his head slightly, "Kathryn, no."
"I don't regret any of it," I tell him. "You don't need to worry about me. Do what you have to do to get out of here."
"Compromise our principles. Is that what you're saying?"
"If you have to, yes."
"You're advocating lying," Chakotay points out. Our eyes meet and I want to, in front of all of these people, reach out and touch his cheek. I want to trail my fingers down the sharp angle of his chin, down his neck, and trace a line of kisses along the lines of his clavicle bone. I settle instead for a pat on his shoulder and a swift clutch at B'Elanna's hand.
"Captain," McArthur's voice is sharp and crisp behind me. I sigh, feeling unbelievably tired by these games. No doubt Chakotay and B'Elanna feel the same.
"We will begin the questioning in one minute," McArthur says quietly. "Now, we know about the Equinox from your logs, but I understand that there was some... dissension between you and your first officer."
"He was only doing his job," I lash out. "He was only doing what he thought was best for me, for Voyager."
"Yet you confined him to quarters. Did you not trust him, Kathryn?"
"No, it wasn't that, not at all," I answer. "He was..."
"He was what, Kathryn?"
I stare back into those steely blue eyes, searching for the man who had taught me, albeit badly, to play dom jott. There is no trace of him to be seen in the stern lines crossing his brow. It is obvious that the war years treated Rodney McArthur badly, but I do not understand his animosity towards the Maquis.
"He was... right," I say forcefully. "I was afraid of that. Afraid that everyone would see what a terrible mistake I was making and the he was right."
McArthur points out a steel-backed chair, sans cushions, very similar to the ones Chakotay and Torres are occupying.
"You have always had a soft spot for the downtrodden, Kathryn," he says. "Your kindness is also your greatest fallacy; you are unable to see the truth even if it masquerades in the guise of true evil."
I want to speak more, but I see Tuvok, his index finger against his lip, and I notice that Tom is no longer in the room.
"Where is Lieutenant Paris?" I cannot help but ask.
"He has been removed," McArthur says. "I do not know what kind of ship you ran, Kathryn, but I assure you, disrespect for a senior officer is not to be tolerated at any level."
I look back at Chakotay, see him run a comforting hand over B'Elanna's back.
"He loves her," I tell McArthur.
McArthur gazes at me, a sudden mixture of pity and contempt swirling in those blue eyes.
"That is a pity," McArthur says quietly.

****

It's odd to talk about the Equinox; most of the time, the Captain and I would sidestep what happened during that time, mostly because it was too painful to discuss for so many reasons. I really think, in some ways, it was a turning point for Kathryn and I.
For the most of our journey, I agreed with her. I clashed with her on the Kazon alliance because I thought she was wrong, applying her morality in a place where it did not belong; Kathryn is nothing if not highly principled.
This... this was different. This was personal. She was going after Ransom with a vengeance that frightened me greatly; my feelings for Kathryn aside, I felt she was putting Voyager in a position of greater danger - sacrificing us to salve her own aching sense of right and wrong.
Most of what happened, you have in her logs. I tried to keep mine brief, but she was amazingly honest in hers. What happened with Noah Lessing, about that risk she took, almost killing the man, that really did happen.
I remember, standing there, pleading with her to acknowledge the man's loyalty to Ransom and she still bludgeoned on, seemingly unaware of the fissure threatening to suck us all out into space.
When we talked about what happened later, in calmly modulated voices overlying the fury we both were feeling, my heart was pounding so hard, I swear, I thought it was going to jump right out of my ribcage. And it honestly took all of my courage to speak with her that afternoon. Can you believe it? I led raids on Cardassian outposts without blinking and yet I found it difficult to talk to Kathryn Janeway that day without feeling that lump growing thicker in my throat.
"You almost killed that man today," I began.
"It was a calculated risk and I took it."
"It was a bad call," and I stood there, unable to believe even my own audacity.
"I'll note your objection in my log."
"I don't give a damn about your log! This isn't about rules and regulations. It's about right and wrong. And I'm warning you - I won't let you cross that line again."
I don't know what I was thinking, but I was her first officer and I had a job to do. I wondered, in the silence hanging between us, did I go too far? Or wasn't it the job of every first officer to challenge the Captain if she did something he felt was out-of-line?
But I knew when she opened her mouth, that I had made the wrong decision, had contradicted her one too many times.
"Then you leave me no choice. You are hereby relieved of duty until further notice."
The coldness in her voice startled me. Was this the same woman who had been lying next to me only three nights previously? I saw nothing of the Kathryn I knew in the woman standing in front of me. All those qualities I admired in her - her stubborn streak, her integrity, her staunch principles, and her fidelity - had manifested themselves into something. insane.
So I tried one more time, hoping to appeal to some part of her that still remembered what it was like to care.
"What's happened to you, Kathryn?"
And then she truly wounded me.
"I was about to ask you the same question," Janeway responded.
When you are relieved of duty, it's too painful and humiliating to face the rest of the crew; so, in general, you spend it quarters, drinking coffee and thinking.
I'll be honest - Kathryn frightened me. Her desire, her drive, to be bring Ransom to justice reminded me of Javier from the classic Terran novel "Les Miserables."
The significance hit me as I lay in bed, eyes focused on the ceiling. He was a Starfleet captain, crippled by his circumstances, and forced by desperation into forsaking all that Starfleet held dear. And I wondered if in Ransom, Janeway saw a portent of the future, a devastating picture of what Voyager could become if we didn't get out of here soon.
And even with that reasoning, I still could not forgive her.
Later Tuvok told me that Janeway had offered up the Equinox to the Ankari if they would stop their attacks on Voyager. And despite his admonishments, despite his warnings that they would kill Ransom and his crew, Janeway proceeded with the deal, her callousness matched only by her ruthlessness.
And I knew it then, knew both Tuvok and I were outclassed, outmatched.
You see, even though you consider me a criminal, I do have a sense of decency, a sense of what is right and wrong. I'm not saying that Kathryn doesn't; I truly believe that somewhere she thought she was doing the right thing - carrying out her duties as Starfleet dictated.
But I didn't like what happened to her and neither did Tuvok.
We had much to repair on Voyager; half of our systems were destroyed or malfunctioning and there were many injuries. But all of that was physical - we could repair injuries easily with a pass of the dermal regenerator and we could replicate more components to fix Voyager.
But I wasn't sure of Kathryn, wasn't sure that I could follow her blindly and put my trust in her as I once had.
I wondered if we would ever put things back together and I'll be honest, there were times when I saw her and remembered Lessing and what happened in the cargo bay. And then I would imagine her coldly offering up the Equinox crew in return for our lives.
The same fury would bubble up inside of me, though I bit back my words, hoping my anger would not spill out inappropriately.
And one night, when she stopped by my quarters to pick up a duty roster PADD she did ask me about it.
We stood there in my quarters, and she wouldn't look at me. Instead, she focused directly on the PADD, nodding.
"Looks good," she said. "Efficient."
"As soon as Ayala and Vorik are out of sickbay, I'll add them," I said. "It's a little thin in some areas right now."
"You got all the shifts covered to the minimum regulation," Janeway commented.
"I tried my best," I said. "I've got B'Elanna working back to back shifts, getting this ship back together after what the Ankari did to it."
She took a deep breath and looked at me, "I am sorry."
Her cheeks flushed pink and she raised her eyes to meet mine. I admire her courage for saying those three words; apologies do not come easy to Kathryn Janeway.
"That came out of nowhere," I told her.
"I've been thinking about it for days now," she said. "Thinking about what happened and I've been listening to my logs. It is. unforgivable. I should have listened to you, to Tuvok. Instead, instead, I was, I don't know what I was doing."
"You were doing what you believe was right," I told her. "But you were wrong."
"I know," Kathryn answered. "I replay every second over and over in my head and still, I don't understand. I followed protocols, Chakotay. I followed the rules. He was the one who violated everything Starfleet stands for. How could I be so wrong?"
"You make the mistake of applying a set of rigid rules to every situation. Sometimes, you have to work outside of the boundaries," I told her gently. "Do you want to sit down?"
"I'm not staying."
We stared at each other. I took the chance, reached my fingers out and brushed her cheek.
"I know what you're afraid of," I said. "You're afraid of becoming like him."
"That won't happen, as long as Starfleet guides us."
"At some point, Starfleet was guiding him. We're a long way from home, Kathryn. It's easy to forget."
Kathryn bit down on her lip, nodding slowly.
"It's all right," I said. "You. I've told you before. Sometimes you have to relax, Kathryn. It's not always black and white - there is gray."
"This is my ship," she said in that firm voice, putting me directly in my place. "I want you to remember that."
Our gazes met and I thought for a moment that she would soften; I was wrong. Her eyes were hard, cold and brittle and involuntarily, I shuddered.
"I remember it," I said. "Daily."
And again, that silence. She turned, headed for the door, and then I called out after her, "Kathryn... what happened with Ransom? That wasn't the Maquis way."
She turned, only for a second, our eyes meeting, and the light caught an unfamiliar glitter in her eyes. She shrugged and disappeared into the corridor.
I sat down and covered my face with my hands. And I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I cried that night.

****

I listen to Chakotay's carefully modulated voice, my stomach churning as he speaks. His eyes are focused straight ahead and he doesn't even look at me. And afterward, they lead B'Elanna and Chakotay out, leaving me with McArthur.
"What are you going to do with them?" I ask.
"If they are found guilty, they will be sent to Alonius Prime," McArthur says.
"A border colony," I say. "Why not Earth? Why Alonius Prime?"
"It seems fitting," McArthur says. "Alonius played host to the Maquis countless times; it was a staging ground for many of their raids. It seems only natural we should send the Maquis survivors back there."
"How many survivors? I understood the Maquis were completely destroyed?"
"I would say less than two dozen remain," McArthur says. "With the Maquis on your ship, it brings the count nearly to fifty."
"Out of hundreds," I murmur.
"You've grown soft, Kathryn."
"Not soft," I snap back. "These people - these Maquis whom you so cavalierly dismiss - they served on my crew. Doesn't that count for anything at all?"
"There is no statute of limitations on their crimes," McArthur leans forward, taking my chin in his fingers. I jerk away.
"No concession for time served or good behavior?"
"We don't do things that way. You know that."
"Well, why not? It seems ridiculous to me that the contributions that these people have made to Voyager and to the overall Starfleet mission mean nothing to you."
"You don't understand. The list of their crimes, especially those against Chakotay, is quite long. Trespassing, robbery, assault, manslaughter, vandalism, mutiny. I could go on, Kathryn, but must I? If we let these people go, then we are sending a message to other terrorists that this type of behavior is allowed, even condoned, and then we would have anarchy on our hands. We must draw a line in the sand, Kathryn. We cannot tolerate this kind of behavior, no matter what has happened in the time between the actual crime and the apprehension of the criminal."
I shake my head.
"I do not believe you," I tell him. "I can't believe you would be so uncaring. These people lost everything when the Federation and Cardassia created the DMZ. Wouldn't you fight too?"
"Your Commander Chakotay said the same thing earlier," McArthur smiles. "He had such potential in Starfleet; command suits him."
"You didn't answer my question, Admiral."
The sharpness in my voice startles my old mentor.
"Wouldn't you fight also?" I ask. "If your places were reversed."
"I would not resort to murder," he shoots back. "There is no need to glamorize the Maquis movement, Kathryn. They are murderers, plain and simple, and they deserve to go to prison for their crimes."
"So you have already made your judgment?" I ask. "You have already decided that they are guilty? So this investigation of yours, this questioning. it's all a farce?"
"You know we strive to be fair."
"I know what the Federation strives for. What do you want out of this? It's not like you to be vindictive, Admiral."
"Kathryn."
"I want an answer. Is this another Star Chamber? Try in secrecy and then, when no one is looking, you execute them or imprison them without interference? That is not how we do things, Admiral. At least not in the Starfleet I remember and certainly, not the way the Federation courts run."
"You are overreacting. Chakotay mentioned that you tend to take matters a bit personally."
"You're damn right I'm taking this personally! This is my crew you're talking about! You won't even listen to what they have contributed to Voyager. We would not have survived without them!"
We stand there, inches apart, nostrils flared. I am breathing unevenly, nearly exhausted by my tirade.
"I have nothing more to say," I tell him. "But believe me, by the time I get back to San Francisco -"
"You're not going back to San Francisco," he says. "I was going to tell you."
"What?" the possibility of not seeing home distresses me. To see San Francisco, to walk in Starfleet's headquarters, to talk to Boothby - these are the things I have been looking forward to ever since we learned that the Alpha Quadrant was within our reach.
"You will be reassigned," McArthur says. "The Dauntless. You will serve as Captain. It is a deep space mission. It could take anywhere from two to five years to complete."
"What?"
"It's the perfect mission for you, Kathryn. There are some spatial phenomenon in the Cateris system and it's relatively unmapped," he goes on genially.
"What about Voyager?"
"It's an old ship, and out of regulation also-"
"It got us home."
"I understand you have some feeling about that ship, but keep in mind - it is Starfleet's ship, not yours."
"You're sending me away," I say. "You don't want me to interfere, do you?"
"It's a great career move, Kathryn. You have potential. Your seven years in the Delta Quadrant ill-served you. You should be making up for lost time; we recognize that fact. I will have a full crew roster for you in a few days and then you will go to Deep Space Nine to meet up with the Dauntless."
Deep Space Nine. I bite my lip back. Where Voyager's mission began.
"Can I consider this... offer?" I ask.
"Of course," McArthur smiles broadly.
"And if I don't choose to captain the Dauntless?"
"Well, it would be a misfortune, of course, but we would understand. It may be a while before another posting would become available."
"I would be willing to wait. I've been thinking about going to Indiana, spending some time in Bloomington, on the farm. It would be nice to have a break."
"You're not understanding me, Kathryn. Simply put, if you want to captain another starship, you should take this opportunity now."
"I don't mind," I tell him again.
His eyes harden, "Kathryn, you know I care about you and I will be honest. There have been some question about your actions in the Delta Quadrant."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mr. Chakotay has mentioned an incident or two that we find slightly suspicious," he continues. "Perhaps your alliance with the Kazon bears further investigation."
"I have been straight forward about everything that has happened. There is no reason to question Commander Chakotay about those incidents. I'll tell you everything you need to know.
"There are sufficient instances where you violated the Prime Directive," McArthur says. "I pushed for you, Kathryn, and I made some enemies, but I didn't want your career to be ruined. This is a good opportunity for you. Take it."
"You want me out of the way."
"I didn't say that."
"You don't have to."
"There are plenty of up-and-coming officers who have not been lost in the Delta Quadrant nor have they violated the Prime Directive. The decision is yours, Kathryn."
We stare at each other and his expression is properly contrite.
"So what you're proposing is my own command in return for my silence over the fate of the Maquis?" I ask finally.
"I do not care for the way you summarize my offer," McArthur's upper lip curls in distaste. "But since we understand each other, I think you have caught the essence perfectly. You will let me know, won't you?"
I nod slowly. I watch my old mentor gather up his PADDs in silence. He seems uncomfortable with my presence, but I continue to watch him. A second later, his com badge beeps.
"Gilles to McArthur."
"Go ahead, Ensign."
"Admiral Paris has arrived."
"Thank you. McArthur out."
McArthur turns to me.
"I won't be able to join you and the Admiral for dinner, Kathryn; something has come up. But I will see you to his quarters."
And I hear the iron beneath this last sentence; it's a command, not an invitation - I will see Admiral Paris for dinner regardless of my own wishes - and I will go nowhere else except to the Admiral's quarters.
And without really thinking, I ask McArthur the same question Chakotay asked me so long ago, "What has happened to you, Admiral?"
He looks at me, unblinking and unflinching.
"Ask me when this is over, Katie," he says. "Ask me then."

****

Every battle has faded into a distant memory. Some lasted just minutes and others lasted for days, weeks, months. But in reality, one battle is very much like another and it's hard to differentiate what happened where and when or why. The orders come automatically.
"Red alert!"
"Fire at will!"
"Shields at maximum!"
"Evasive maneuvers!"
Sometimes it was farcical. What? The Kazon again? Didn't we just fight them last week? Or maybe for a chance of pace, we trade shots with the Krenim. After a while, it just didn't matter. You really didn't even know what you were fighting for anymore, only hoping that the phaser banks were full and ready to go.
After a while, you don't even hear the red alert klaxon anymore; it's a part of daily life. You get used to life support going off-line or the bulkheads being blown away. The shields never cooperated, no matter how often B'Elanna tried to coax every last bit of energy into them. There were constant ruptures on the decks and the inertial dampers were often off-line. The constant pounding was enough to drive even the most stable of individuals crazy.
And somehow we managed to hold it together. Held Voyager together, held each other together.
It was enough to drive anyone crazy.
The hardest was the Hirogen.
The battle was over even before it began; they targeted our shields, pummeled us with their superior fire power and then those scaly reptilian aliens were on our ship. I was not on the Bridge when they beamed on, but in Engineering, working with B'Elanna and the others to get the weapons back on line.
"This isn't working!" B'Elanna yelled at Carey. "Try again. This time, adjust the modulation frequency by point two microns. And hurry! We don't have time!"
The words weren't even out of her mouth when the doors slid open and the Hirogen hunters arrived, pushing Paris and Janeway in front of them. Tom had an ugly bruise across his cheek and the Captain's hair was mussed, but otherwise she was unhurt.
"Put your weapon down, Chakotay," Janeway ordered as one of the Hirogen grabbed B'Elanna away from the console.
"Hey!" B'Elanna screamed, giving the Hirogen one of her best right hooks. The Hirogen snarled and fired his phaser; B'Elanna crumpled and we all stared at her prone body in shock.
"That was not necessary," Janeway said angrily as Tom struggled with his captor, earning a punch to the face. By now, the Hirogen had all congregated in Engineering, and I noted the arrivals of Tuvok and Harry. Tuvok looked fine, but Harry's nose was bleeding and I could make out some puffiness around his left eye. He noted B'Elanna's still body with some shock, but no sounds came from his slightly parted his lips.
"It doesn't have to be this way," Janeway tried again. "We can work something out. Just tell us what you need."
They ignored her.
"Get the Doctor," one of the Hirogen ordered. "And start the gas."
Those words, they were the last I remember before I woke up in the World War II simulation.
These holodeck simulations - from brutal inquisitions to major world battles to primitive hunts - went on for weeks, but I don't remember any of it. I wish I could remember. God, I wish I could.
All I knew is that I hurt. Every joint in my body, every muscle, every nerve - parts of my body I didn't even know I had.
And I hated - this was what was the worst of it all - I hated being that helpless.
Harry, Seven and the Doctor were primarily responsible for helping us get free; somehow Harry managed to jury-rig Seven's cortical implant to jog her memory, to free her of the Hirogen's control. Then Ka - Janeway - she took on the Hirogen, hobbling around her ship on a wounded leg, and managed to get them to surrender.
She did go back on the Prime Directive that one time and you're going to have to forgive her for that.
Janeway gave them the holodeck technology.
She did it to save us.
The Hirogen are hunters. They need prey. Without prey, their culture is destroyed, their reason for being gone.
The holodeck gave them a new way of preserving their culture without actually killing.
When I asked Kathryn about it later, she simply shrugged.
"What was I supposed to do?" she asked. "Let them have my ship?"
"I never thought you'd share technology with them. You wouldn't with the Kazon."
"This was different."
"How so?"
"They were simply trying to preserve a way of life," Janeway said.
"You violated the Prime Directive."
"I'll take it up with Starfleet when we get back."
I smiled at her.
"Don't look now, Kathryn, but you're changing."
"Changing?" her eyes narrowed.
"You did something that we in the Maquis would have done."
I remember her smile then as she reached forward and patted my shoulder in a gesture of solidarity.
"We do bring out the best in each other, don't we?" she asked.
"Sometimes," I said. "I think you made the right decision here."
"I'm glad I have your support. It's hard to command a ship and know you don't have your first officer's support."
"You always have it," I said sincerely. "Except when I think you're making a mistake."
"So this deal, it wasn't a mistake?"
I shrugged.
"It's done now, right? We'll have to wait and see."
Janeway nodded, leaned back in her chair, and tapped her fingers on the desk.
"Do you ever wonder what's out there for us, Chakotay?"
"I'm afraid to ask."
"I'm fascinated," she said. "But at the same time, I want to get home alive. We've already lost too many people, Chakotay."
"So you're going to do what it takes?" I asked, trying to read between the lines.
"I've made a promise," she said. "Some days, it's hard to get out of bed and know that I'm letting nearly 150 people down each day we're out here."
"No one blames you and no one holds it against you."
"That doesn't change my resolve. We're getting home, Chakotay."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"The ship's taken a lot of damage. I don't know how much longer B'Elanna can hold her together. I'm damn tired of hearing the reports."
"As am I."
Janeway leaned forward again so that our faces were barely inches apart.
"I don't want to go through something like this again," she said. "We spent weeks acting out different battle simulations, getting killed over and over again, and what did we gain from it? Nothing, nothing at all. Just some scars that we cannot recall how we got."
"So you're damning the Prime Directive?"
"Don't misunderstand me, Chakotay. The Prime Directive is our guiding principle. Voyager is still a Starfleet ship."
"But?"
"I'm prepared to be flexible," her lips curved up. "If you have a better way, Chakotay, you have to tell me. I promise I won't turn away and I promise to listen. I think we've had enough. Don't you?"
I only had to look at the phaser burns on walls, evaluate the wounded in sickbay and note the damage to the port nacelles to answer that question.
"Yes," I said. "I've had enough."

****

Admiral Paris is thinner than I remember; more lines cross his weathered face than I care to see. Yet he is warm and affectionate as I enter his quarters.
"I'm just getting settled," he says. "It's a long trip, you know. And I'm not young anymore."
"Don't say that. You look wonderful."
"Thank you. Have a seat, Kathryn. Something to drink? I brought up a Chardonnay from Napa. I remember you liking that."
"I do, thanks."
"It's been a great year for the wines," he says conversationally. He pours the wine and hands me a goblet. I take a moment to look around. Quarters at Starbase 87, even for an Admiral, are sparse. The carpet is gray with a maroon pattern woven into it. Furnishings are old and worn and there are no amenities, no artwork and certainly no luxuries.
"That's good to hear," I tell him.
"It's good to have you back, Kathryn. Wasn't ever sure you'd make it back. So many obstacles, so many things that could go wrong."
"Yes," I sip my wine. "This is wonderful, Admiral."
Paris sits in front of me.
"How is Tom, Kathryn?"
"He is good, sir," I answer. "He did some magnificent flying out in the Delta Quadrant. Got us out of a sticky situation more than once."
"I'm glad to hear of it. I wasn't sure that he'd become anything. apparently he has turned himself around," Paris' eyes are shining; I have no doubt he is genuinely proud of his son. "You only want the best for your children, Kathryn. You want them to succeed and you want them to be proud of their accomplishments. Somehow, Tom and I never saw eye to eye on that. I made some mistakes with him and God knows, he did his best to push the rules. But even when I was most upset with him, I still loved him and I was always, always proud of him."
"Even after Caldik Prime?" I ask without thinking. Paris meets my gaze head on.
"That... was an unusual circumstance," he says. "Tom went too far. Even then, it's hard for any parent to feel anything less than dismay. I said some things I probably shouldn't have and I pulled away when my boy needed me the most. I do regret that. Don't think I don't. I wondered what I had done wrong, why he couldn't be more like me and then, while he was gone, I realized that it was probably wrong of me to expect a mirror image of myself."
"You would be proud of him," I say sincerely. I am touched by Owen Paris' words. In general, he is not a person given to verbosity and where Tom is adventurous and open, the father is more private, more closed-off.
"I have ordered dinner," Paris says. "Traditional Bajoran. I hope that is all right with you."
"Sounds marvelous."
Paris leans back against his chair, "You look well, Kathryn. A bit tired, but on the whole, you look well."
I feel the blush rising in my cheek, "Thank you, sir."
"I knew you'd bring them home. If there was one thing I was certain of, it was that you would bring Voyager home."
"I never had any other intentions, sir. There were times when I thought we would have to settle on some planet, but always, I had my mind set on home."
"So Chakotay is telling us."
I lean forward, "Please tell me about what's going on. I talked to Admiral McArthur and I'm disappointed in the proceedings."
"There are some, Kathryn, who cannot forget the betrayals of the Maquis. Chakotay is the biggest fish they have been able to get their hands on. They couldn't get Eddington, so now they have Chakotay."
"I don't understand what's going on. It's not even a trial, yet they have already made up their minds on a verdict?"
"Their minds were made up the day you went after the Maquis raider," Paris says gently. "Wasn't yours? Did you believe they were guilty?"
"Yes, at first, but then I got to know them."
"But you still thought some of their methods were wrong?"
"Yes," I answer. I remember all of the times when Chakotay would propose the "Maquis Way" as a solution to a problem and how distasteful I would find the suggestion. "But I never thought condemning them en masse to Alonius Prime would be the answer."
"It is a token gesture," Paris says. "I think."
"You think?" I raise my voice slightly but before he can answer, the door chimes.
"That would be our food," Paris gets up. "Excuse me, please."
A slight throb builds in my right temple; I lean forward, put the wineglass down and cover my face with hands. After a moment, Paris touches my shoulder.
"Come eat," he says.
We sit at the table and he serves us both. The hasperaat smells wonderful. In addition, there is a wild field green salad and rolls.
"Have you had a chance to talk to Tom yet?" I ask.
"Not yet," Paris frowns. "Something about a communications blackout with Voyager?"
I sigh, "So it's not just us. There is something odd going on."
"I think they want to take care of the Maquis question before anyone raises an issue," Paris says.
"McArthur already offered me a posting on the Dauntless in return for my compliance."
"That doesn't sound like Rodney."
"It's true."
"That's not how we do things. I will talk to him."
"I just want to know why the secrecy? What are people afraid of?"
Paris sighs.
"I know, Kathryn, that you take the ideals of Starfleet and therefore, the Federation, very personally. Would it surprise you to know that there are others who don't?"
"At this point, nothing would surprise me. What are you talking about?"
"During the formation of the DMZ, there were promises made that were not kept," he says. "Many of the Federation's top officials were involved."
"Who were these promises made to?"
"The settlers on the border colonies."
"Were they made in writing?" I ask.
"Some of the promises, yes."
"Was McArthur involved?"
"I doubt it. He was not part of those negotiations. He's not the type to do anything like that."
"What kind of promises?"
"Some settlers were promised that they would not have to give up their homes."
"That I knew. Chakotay said something to that effect once," I answer. "What else?"
"They were also promised Starfleet protection in return for a price."
I put my fork down and wipe my lips with the linen napkin provided.
"That's extortion," I whisper. "Federation citizens have a right to protection."
Paris nods, "And in this case, the Federation let these citizens fend for themselves. The protection was offered covertly by a group of Starfleet officers interested in advancing themselves."
"Were they Maquis?"
"No, in general, they frowned on the Maquis movement. They did not believe in it. In that way, they did support the interests of the Federation, which at this particular time, was peace with Cardassia. But they did see the opportunity to advance themselves and they took it. More wine, Kathryn?"
"No." I stand up and wander over to the windows. From the corner of my eye, I can see Voyager in space dock. "How misled we were, Admiral. We advocate peace with Cardassia to be in the best interests of the Federation."
"Except for those living in the DMZ," Paris says. "That was the whole problem, the whole reason why the Maquis existed. General Order Six, which normally offers Federation citizens priority protection if requested in an emergency situations, was effectively ignored."
"And so when some Starfleet officers offered them that protection?"
"The settlers jumped on it," Paris nods. "Some of them wiped out their life savings."
"Those officers could be court-martialed," I say. "It's a violation of everything Starfleet stands for. We don't charge for our protection if we can, by law, offer it."
"You're right," Paris nods. "But we don't know who these officers are. Unfortunately, most of the people who could tell us are dead. The others are missing, presumed dead."
"Chakotay would know."
Paris joins me at the window, the wineglass still in his hand.
"I think you've answered your own question," he says quietly. "There are forces at work here that you cannot possibly control, no matter how hard you try."
I lean back against the window, crossing my arms against my chest.
"I've always rebelled against the idea that the Federation could be anything less than good."
"You've always had that blind streak, Kathryn. You've always preferred to see the good rather than the evil that could lie beneath. I've always admired that trait of yours."
"So much good it's done me," I answer. "Admiral, I have to know their names."
"I wish I could help you," the Admiral answers. "I've told you everything I know. You'll have to ask Mr. Chakotay."
"They won't let me talk to him, not really. I'm amazed they're letting me talk to you."
"I asked," he says. "Rodney and I go back a long way. Besides, I have a rather personal reason why I wanted to spend time with you. I want to know about my son."
"He doesn't have to return to New Zealand, does he?"
"No," the Admiral says. "The earlier condition stands. He's free to do as he likes."
"Well, that's a relief," I say. "Tom will be glad to hear that; I think he was worried about it. People have a way of forgetting promises once made."
"Believe me, no one was going to forget this promise. I made sure of it."
"Good. Thank you."
"So?" the Admiral questions eagerly. "How is he?"
"Tom's doing well," I say. "You'd be proud of him. He's settled down nicely, just got married-"
"Married?" Owen Paris' eyes grow large. "Who?"
"B'Elanna Torres."
"The Klingon Maquis engineer."
"You know her then?"
"Only from her record," Paris says. He points to a stack of PADDs on a side-table by the sofa. "Those are yours, Kathryn, so you can see exactly what charges are levied against the Maquis."
"Thank you. I'll give them to Tuvok," I say.
"It makes for some fascinating, if not chilling, reading," Paris comments. "I think you'll be surprised."
"Surprised?"
"Read and find out," he says. "I don't think the Federation is entirely wrong in putting them on trial, given the scope of their crimes."
"Whatever is on those PADDs is seven years old," I answer. "They are different people now and contributed greatly to getting us home. That has to mean something."
"We in the Federation have never been very good at looking at the gray areas," Paris comments. "I suppose you could offer up their loyal service as a detail."
"I thought you could put in a good word for them, especially now that one of them is your daughter-in-law."
There is silence, an unmistakably tense silence as the Admiral considers my request.
"Please," I say. "For Tom."
The Admiral paces, pauses, his hand on the sofa and then turns to face me.
"I never thought," he says, "that it would be like this."
"Like what?" my voice is unnecessarily sharp and impatient.
"With Tom," he says. "I suppose I should be grateful that he settled down."
"He's come a long way."
"In the back of my mind, I always thought he would marry Jessica Marlowe."
"Who is she?"
"Bruce Marlowe's daughter," he says. Bruce Marlowe captained the Venture during the battle of Wolf 359; he and his crew of 250 were among the casualties lost during that terrible day. I had known Bruce briefly; he had been at the Academy at the same time as I was, though two years ahead. Later, we had served together under Owen Paris. "They dated on and off for four or five years, right up until Caldik Prime. Always liked Jessica, thought she was good for Tom. Calm, very competent, restrained and good pedigree too. Her mother was Barbara Marlowe."
"The professor. Temporal mechanics," I remember.
"Yes," Paris looks down at his hands. "I guess I should have known. Jessica was too good for him and I know he never realized that. Shouldn't have let her go."
I bite my lip, wondering what to say next. Sing B'Elanna's praises? And if so, what to say? There was certainly nothing I could compliment about her pedigree; the admiral had already shown his bias in that respect and I want so much to say something that will flatter B'Elanna, and not put her into those neat little categories - Klingon, engineer, Maquis - that people automatically slot her into. Yet, that is B'Elanna, unique and utterly complex, warring with herself and everyone around her.
"B'Elanna. she was one of the people most responsible for getting us home. She could, um, fix anything. Has this uncanny ability to pull rabbits from her hat," I say finally.
"I'm sure," Paris says. "None of Tom's brief letters through the data stream mentioned her. Was it sudden?"
I shake my head.
"The wedding was sudden, but not them. They, they have been together for a while. He," I pause, hating myself for the sudden tinge of jealousy which rankled in the back of my mind. "He loves her."
"I wanted someone stable for him," Paris says. "Someone who could calm him down, make sure something like Caldik Prime didn't happen again."
"He's changed," I point out for the umpteenth time. "He's not the same person you remember, Admiral."
"And I have you to thank for that," Paris heaves a great sigh. "I wouldn't even give him a second chance, yet you did. I appreciate it, Kathryn. Appreciate what you've done for him."
He sighs again, those broad shoulders slumping slightly. He turns to face me, running his hand through his almost snow-white hair.
"It's late," he says. "I should get you back to Voyager."
"Sounds good," I say. Already, I'm longing desperately for the comforts of Voyager. I pick up the PADDs and head for the door. Out in the corridor, Paris indicates the way.
"Kathryn," he says. "Whatever happens, I'm going to do my best to stop it."
"Thank you."
"You understand that there are things out of my control?"
"I know that."
"Decisions are made by people and they don't necessarily share the relevant information with me."
"I know."
"I'm too close to this one, Kathryn. I need you to understand that."
"I know," I repeat. "You don't have to explain. I understand."
"I guess I got what I wanted," his eyes are cloudy and he stares straight ahead.
"News about Tom?" I smile.
"Yes."
"You could see him in person," I suggest. The Admiral nods.
"I will," he says. "Maybe in the morning. I do have some things I need to take care of first."
"I would think you would want to see your son before all else."
"You know how Starfleet is," Paris laughs nervously. "There are some things that cannot wait."
I put my hand on his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.
"I need to ask a favor," I say.
"What?"
"Will you do something for Chakotay and B'Elanna?"
He takes a minute before answering; we are almost at Voyager before he puts his hand on my forearm, stopping me.
"I will talk to Rodney," he says. "But it might be too late."
"At least a fair trial," I plead.
"I will do what I can."
"Don't condemn them before hearing what they have to say."
"It might be easier to negotiate with the Borg."
This time, I stop him and I look him straight in the eye. "I've done that, Admiral. When I was in the Delta Quadrant, I did what I had to do."
We walk a bit more and then I'm at the airlock. Paris runs his hand through his hair again, a nervous gesture I remember from years ago.
"Good night, Kathryn," he says quietly.
I'm halfway through the door when Paris calls after me.
"Kathryn?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Is... is Tom happy?"
There are so many ways I can answer this question. In my presence, Tom is nothing less than sullen and unresponsive - a far-cry from the cocky young man who first came onto Voyager seven years previously. But when I think of him with B'Elanna, when he looks at her and thinks no one else is watching, I know the answer to the Admiral's question.
I nod, "Yes, he is. B'Elanna, she has a lot to do with that."
Paris nods and then points to the door; I get the hint and it's back to Voyager I go.
But before I can sleep, there is something I have to do.
"Janeway to Tuvok."
"Yes, Captain?"
"I have some information here," I look down at the PADDs. "Looks like the charges against the Maquis. Can you meet me in my quarters?"
"I'm on my way."
And for the first time since leaving McArthur, I feel a small measure of hope.

****

Ah, the Borg. How did I know that was coming next?
I suppose everyone wants to know how we went up against the Borg countless times and managed to come out ahead every time.
Hell, sometimes I want to know how too.
I still wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, and thinking that there is a Borg lurking around every corner.
And you know, some days, they were everywhere. Damn if they aren't prolific. But I suppose if you don't have a nine month gestation period and all you have to do is assimilate a planet or two to grow, then it's easy to be everywhere.
Our first hint of the Borg came on Sakaari. The inhabitants of that planet lived underground, which both confused and interested us. It didn't take us long to find the exoskeleton of a drone, hidden in the bushes. I remember looking at Kathryn and saying, "What do you think?"
She looked at me, her lips drawn into a straight line, her eyes going to and fro quickly. I could tell she was thinking of Wolf 359; I mean, who wouldn't? At that battle, there was an entire armada of Starfleet ships up against the Borg and yet, the casualties were extraordinarily high. And here we were, in the Delta Quadrant with no friends, and the Borg could be anywhere.
We had gone up against the Kazon and the Hirogen with some degree of success but maybe our number was up. Maybe it was the end for Voyager.
I could tell that the Captain was perturbed by our discovery but she cautioned me not to say anything to anyone else.
"It could be a fluke," she said. "It has been years since the Borg were here. I doubt they are hanging around. Sensors haven't picked up any trace of them."
"I hope you're right," I told her sincerely. Still, as I stared down at the remains of the Borg drone, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
I didn't like it, didn't like it at all.
And within a few weeks, we were face to face with the Borg. Our choice then was not easy - the Borg or Species 8472.
With the Borg, there was the omnipresent threat of assimilation; the thought of their long tubules piercing flesh sent shivers down the spine. On the other hand, Species 8472 regularly ate Borg for breakfast.
"Not a good situation, no matter how you look at it," I told Kathryn. "Let's find another way."
"No," she said. "Going through Borg space is the quickest way home."
"Dammit, Kathryn, don't let your emotion cloud your judgment, not this time. The risks don't outweigh the benefits. We could be a ship of Borg drones before this is over."
"What do you suggest? Going around would add several more years to our journey, if not more."
"How about settling down here in the Delta Quadrant? Can you consider that option? Maybe we could avoid either species. Living here is preferable to assimilation."
"I've noted your objection," she said coldly. And I knew that tone of voice, icy and pure iron; had heard it a million times in the past, in a variety of situations, when she was obviously disregarding my advice. Janeway's hand grasped the back of the chair - almost as if looking for support - her fingers nearly bloodless from exertion.
"You're not going to do it," I said quietly.
"There's another way."
"Which is?" I asked.
Her eyes, cold and hard, focused off into the distance and I knew I wasn't going to like what she was about to propose.
"I've come up with a plan," she said. "The best of both worlds. It would help us and it would help the Borg."
"What is it?" I queried. Already, I could feel the muscles in my neck tightening and a pain developing right above my left eye.
The Captain had decided to go with a Borg alliance much to my dismay. I gave Kathryn the fable - maybe you know it - about the scorpion and the fox. The fox and the scorpion make a deal: the scorpion can cross the river on the fox's back. Once on the other side, the scorpion stings the fox; when the fox asks why, the scorpion simply responds, "You knew what I was before we made the deal."
And so it was with the Borg.
They sent us Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix One, as their representative. Even then, the Borgified Annika Hansen, possessed a haughtiness and a sense of superiority. An intelligent scorpion perhaps, but deadly all the same.
Confrontations eventually all blur together, blending and bleeding colors and lines into a hazy illusion of what was. I do not remember words much, only actions and feelings, and I remember staring down at Kathryn as she lay unconscious in sickbay. I squeezed her hand, hoping against hope, that the warmth from my body would flow into hers; I was wrong. She lay there silent, having gambled with the Borg and lost.
At least that was my interpretation. She had taken a risk, had been wrong, and now I was in command, and I had to do what was best for Voyager.
So I whispered, "Forgive me," and then let go of her hand.
To countermand and contradict your commanding officer is never easy; thirteen years in Starfleet prior to the Maquis had drilled a certain sense of obedience into me. But I was angry that we had been pushed up against a wall; getting away from the Borg would now be as easy as squeezing water out of a turnip. And so I broke the Alliance with the Borg.
In retrospect, I broke the Alliance because I didn't want to form it in the first place; I thought Kathryn was wrong and here was my chance to put it right.
I was wrong. When she woke and I had to explain my actions, I really thought it was over for us then. Really thought that there was no way to restore our working relationship and that she would go back to trusting Tuvok over me again.
We did find a way, though, to work together and not let our individuality destroy us - but my conscience still continued to plague me. I had never directly disobeyed the Captain's orders before - disagreed, yes - but never disobeyed. And I wanted her to know how much I regretted losing her trust, but not what I did.
So after we severed Seven's link to the Collective - and that's another issue entirely - I went in search of the Captain, finally locating in her the holodeck, writing out her logs with feather and ink.
It was an odd scene, bereft of the technologies of the twenty-fourth century yet comforting and cozy.
"Am I interrupting?" I asked.
"Not at all. I'm just finishing up my log."
"The old-fashioned way," I commented.
I wanted to get as far away from bio-implants and fluidic space and... this feels more human somehow."
"I hate to spoil the mood. It's going to take at least two weeks to get remove all of the Borg modifications, but B'Elanna says some of the new setups work better than the previous technology."
"Leave them. How is our passenger?"
Of course, there were so many ways to answer this question. Mentally, I wasn't sure. In a way, we had amputated Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix One, from the only family she really knew. It had been a necessary step, but not one that I felt very comfortable about. And only time would tell how we would adjust to having a former Borg drone on board and how she would adjust to us.
I only hoped that the drone - hadn't quite come to think of her as Seven yet - could forgive us and understand why we did what we did.
Even if we couldn't understand
"The doctor says she's stabilizing. Her human cells are starting to regenerate," I said.
"I wonder what's left underneath all that Borg technology," Janeway said. "If she can ever
become human again."
"You're planning to keep her on board."
"We pulled the plug. We're responsible for what happens to her now."
"She was assimilated at a very young age; the Collective is all she knows. She might not want to stay."
"I think she might. We have something the Borg could never offer... friendship."
I grabbed the back of one of the high-backed chairs, thinking how so recently I had betrayed my friendship with the Captain.
"I want you to know that disobeying your orders was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do."
Her gaze was warm, understanding, and I could see that she no longer held any rancor towards me.
"I understand. And I - respect the decision you made, even though I disagree with it. What's important is that in the end we got through this, together. I don't ever want that to change."
"Agreed."
"Good. Well. I think it's time we got back to our bridge."
"No argument there."
"Computer, end program," Janeway called out. The Renaissance room melted away and was replaced with the grided sterile walls of the holodeck. "You're not really comfortable with the idea of having the drone remain on the ship, are you?"
I let her exit the holodeck first before answering the question.
"It's the same as having a Cardassian serving aboard a Federation starship," I said carefully.
"Not the same thing at all," Janeway said.
"What if she wants to return to the Collective?"
"I don't think that will happen."
"That's optimistic, isn't it? We want to return home, don't we? To our families and friends? Why wouldn't it be the same for her?"
"I suppose we'll deal with that when she recovers. It will work out, Chakotay." Her fingers brushed the back of my hand lightly. "And for what it's worth, I know it took a lot for you to disobey my orders. You wouldn't have done it if you didn't believe you were doing what was right for this ship. I can't fault you for that."
"So I'm forgiven?"
Janeway smiled, "This time, yes."
And I looked at her, "There won't be a next time, Kathryn."
Kathryn laughed.
"Don't count on it, Commander," she said. "There's always a next time."
And with the Borg... damn, they were always around the corner, lurking, always with something new to taunt us.
You asked about the operation to infiltrate the Borg cube. Yes, I was opposed to that too, because it would mean sure assimilation for the Captain and anyone she chose to take with her. Kathryn insisted it was part of a plan that would help the Borg find their individuality.
"What if the neural suppressant doesn't work?" I asked her as the two of us planned the operation.
"That's a chance I'm willing to take."
"What about the psychological effects? Assimilation... it's not like regenerating broken skin or a broken bone. It's an invasive procedure."
"I'm aware of that."
"You don't agree with Borg philosophy," I said. "What if you have to do something... something you disagree with?"
"Are you talking about assimilation?" she asked evenly.
"Yes."
Janeway leaned across the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "I have considered all of the ramifications of what we're doing here, Chakotay. Don't think I haven't."
"I'm not, but I am concerned. As your First Officer..."
"And more," she slipped in.
"And more," I allowed myself a small smile. "As your First Officer and your friend, I'm having a hard time with this decision of yours. And believe me, it's purely selfish and self-serving."
"I thought so," she said quietly. "Voyager is yours, Chakotay. If something happens to me, promise you'll get this crew home."
"You know I will."
"Do what you have to."
"There's no doubt about that."
"I think that's all," she said quietly. "Do you have anything else?"
I nodded.
"Come back," I said. "Don't make yourself too comfortable over on that cube."
Janeway grinned, the first real smile I had seen from her during this entire meeting.
"You can count on it," she said.
It took us three months to get them back. Three months is an eternity, especially when you don't know what's going on. We had no idea, for most of that time, if they were even alive or if they were functioning as part of the Collective or if they even retained an iota of their own personalities, that individuality we put such a high value on.
When they - Tuvok, B'Elanna, Kathryn - did return, I had to brace myself, try not to flinch, as I stared at their armored bodies. And I couldn't see how they could possibly be the same again, how they could even go back to their pre-Borg lives without any psychological effects at all.
Tuvok was the quickest to recover, no surprise, given his exceptional meditative abilities and emotional control.
Kathryn, outwardly, she was fine. That commanding tone of hers was back within days, those hardened eyes, the set of her jaw - that was all there. At night though, I would find her in the mess hall or on the holodeck, staring into space or drinking bottomless cups of raktajino.
On one such occasion, I dropped by her quarters and found her curled up on the sofa, a blanket pulled tightly around her shoulders.
"Can't sleep," she said as I sat down next to her.
"I can call the Doctor," I offered. I picked up one bare foot and slowly began to massage the sole, my fingers moving up her calf. Kathryn leaned her head against the sofa back, her eyes half-open.
"Don't," she said.
"You have to get some rest."
"I try. I tried counting sheep yesterday and today, it was hot milk."
"You need a sleep aid."
"I don't think that's going to help."
"You want to tell me about it?"
And that's when she began, her voice very low, halting with just the barest hint of emotion.
"I was wrong," Kathryn said. "I was so intent on eliminating the Borg threat, that I didn't think of the consequences. I probably should have listened to you more."
I shifted to take her other foot into my lap.
"That feels good, Chakotay," she said. "I didn't realize how cold a Borg cube could be."
"It's not something you think about."
"And loud. Very loud. The voices never stopped. And it amazed me because there were never any discussions about anything; decisions were made and carried out efficiently. All of those voices, they never debated anything - they simply communicated what we were to do. Some days, I could resist and I know B'Elanna and Tuvok could too, but other days, damn, it was hard."
"What's bothering you?" I asked.
"The assimilations."
I dropped her foot, gently, of course, and sat back. Kathryn shrugged her blanket-covered shoulders.
"There was a child," she said. "Maybe five years old? He was my first one. His name was Devin. I remember thinking that this was wrong, but I could not control my own limbs. He screamed, Chakotay, screamed for his parents and then in pain. And finally, he was silent."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't know how I'm going to explain any of this to Starfleet."
"Exactly the way you just did."
"It doesn't get easier. You know how the saying goes? The first one is always the hardest? Each assimilation after that little boy, they got harder and harder. I don't know how many there were. B'Elanna won't talk about it and Tuvok, well, Tuvok refuses to speculate."
"How many do you think there were?"
"Hundreds," Kathryn said. "I don't know. There was no scoreboard, no count of how many planets we ravaged and added to our own perfection."
"Our?"
Kathryn's lips turned up into a sad smile and she reached for my hand, clasping it between both of hers.
"I can't help it," she said. "I miss the voices."
I pulled her into my arms, and she snuggled up against my chest, her own arm against my stomach, the other grasping at my hand.
"Please tell me," she whispered. "Tell me I'm not Borg."
I kissed the top of her head, smoothed hair back from her brow. I knew she wasn't ready for more, so I tightened my embrace.
"Chakotay?" Kathryn's voice was more desperate, more plaintive. "Please."
"You're not," I said.
But I don't think she believed me. Hell, I didn't even believe me. But we stayed that night on the sofa, curled into each other.
I would like to think that for that night, the demons stayed away.

****

When we were going through dead space, I found it difficult to move, to generate enthusiasm for anything. When they marched the Maquis off of Voyager, that same ennui grabbed my muscles and I felt absolutely powerless. But armed with the PADDs of information, now that was something.
I settle in my quarters and after gulping down a cup of hot French roast, I summon Seven, Harry, Tuvok and Paris to my quarters.
They arrive promptly, all of them wearing expressions of varying degrees of curiosity for my late-night invitation.
"I thought you were still on the starbase," Tuvok says as he settles into the chair opposite mine.
I gestured to the PADDs in front of me.
"Courtesy of Admiral Paris," I say. Tom's eyes widen and I feel a tinge of sympathy for the young man; he has yet to speak with his father.
"How is he?" Tom asks, careful to keep his tone painfully neutral.
"He looks good. Asked about you," I answer. "He is proud of you, Tom. Maybe you will get a chance to catch up later."
Tom nods and then picks up a PADD.
"What are these?" he asks.
"These," I say, "are the criminal records of the Maquis. More specifically, the list of crimes attributed to the Chakotay cell."
"Sounds rather glamorous when you put it that way," Harry tries to joke; Tom turns on his friend vehemently.
"It wasn't glamorous," Tom says. "It was a hard life. They were fighting against insurmountable odds and they never gave up."
"Hey," Harry holds up a hand. "I got that. It just has been a long time since I thought of Chakotay or B'Elanna as Maquis."
"Indeed," Tuvok says. "It is difficult to reconcile what is on these PADDs with the people we have served with for the past seven years.
I look at Seven who is intent on her PADD, her eyes darting back and forth as she scans the material. Her brow wrinkles ever so slightly and I can just hear the question formulating in her head.
"Seven?" I ask.
She lifts her head, "Yes, Captain?"
"Do you have any questions?"
"No," she says. "I am simply surprised. I did not realize that Commander Chakotay had so many... acts of sabotage against his name."
"The things you learn about people," Tom says in a hollow voice. "Did not know that they led the attack on the USS Malinche. Five Starfleet officers dead."
"You should know," Harry says. "You were with them for a bit."
"Not very long. Managed to get myself captured on the first mission I was assigned to. Damn, thought I was a hotshot pilot and I get myself captured."
"Don't beat yourself up," Harry says. "It was a long time ago."
"I wish I hadn't let them down," Tom says. "Maybe things would have been different."
"Different in what way?" I ask.
"I don't know," he says. "I always wonder what would happen if you could change one moment in your life and I would change that one. I suppose I would still be with the Maquis."
"Dead or in prison," Harry puts in helpfully.
"Harry," I say.
"We wouldn't be here," Tom says. "You needed me, Captain, to help find the Maquis, and without me, we would never have been caught in the Badlands or met the Caretaker."
"What could have happened is irrelevant," Seven says. She points at the PADD. "This is an irrelevant discussion. It does not help Commander Chakotay or Lieutenant Torres."
I look over at Tom; he is holding his PADD loosely, not really paying attention to any of its contents. I get up and cross the room and kneel by his side. Without thinking, I put my hand on his knee; he flinches.
"Tom," I say quietly. "Let's take a walk, okay?"
He nods. I look at Tuvok, Harry and Seven.
"Keep going over the records," I say. "We have to be prepared for any and all accusations."
Out in the corridor, Tom's face is impassive.
"What do you want?" his tone is belligerent.
"I want to talk to you. We haven't had the chance and it is my fault. I apologize."
"Nothing for you to apologize for. You've been busy."
"I've been avoiding you. There's a difference, Tom."
"Why now?" he asks.
"You blame yourself for a lot, don't you?" I ask quietly. "And I want that to change."
"That's a tall order, Captain. I seem to leave nothing but trouble in my wake."
"That's not true."
"I manage to mess up everything," he says. "You don't see it because I'm just another rehabilitation project to you, another person you cured of terminal incorrigibility. I'm sure my father thanked you for that."
"You're not a project."
"You treat Seven like a science project."
"There is some truth in what you're saying, unfortunately."
"You like that," he says. "You like to take control of people and mold them according to your expectations."
"I don't like to look at it in quite that way."
"It's what you do," Tom says. "I am grateful, Captain. You gave me a chance when no one else would, but at the same, it's very easy to resent the same opportunity."
"I can understand that."
"I was serious back there when I said if I could go back and chance a single moment," he says. "If only I hadn't been cocky and had just completed the mission like Chakotay had ordered, none of this would have happened."
"What about B'Elanna?" I ask.
Tom's face softens and for the first time in months, he shows some emotion. He purses his lips and stares glassily off into the distance.
"Yeah," he says.
"You didn't mess up with B'Elanna," I remind him. "I think you were good for her."
"I try so hard, but it doesn't always work," he says. "I can't get to her, no matter how hard I try. And then when she tries to help me, I close up. I'm afraid that I'll ruin her too, just like I do everyone."
"You don't ruin people, Tom. You just think you do."
"B'Elanna wanted to stay in the Delta Quadrant. I'm starting to think she had the right idea."
"You can't run away from your problems."
We stand there in the corridor, Tom and I, facing each other.
"You're still angry with me," I tell him. "And that's all right."
"I can't help myself," Tom answers. "I try to evaluate everything that has happened from every angle and I still can't reconcile myself. I look at B'Elanna and I realize she isn't the same person she was before the Borg Cube and I think, in time, she will be all right. But what if she's not?"
"I'm sorry, but I had to do it. And B'Elanna volunteered. You forget that fact sometimes. She wanted to go."
"B'Elanna admires you. Hell, we all do. There isn't anything we wouldn't do for you, Captain, even assimilation."
"That's good to hear," I say cautiously. "But I do see the pitfalls of such... admiration."
"It doesn't mean that we are prepared or that we can handle the aftermath."
"I understand that."
"Sometimes, I can't help but think that the high road isn't always necessarily the best one and then I'm never sure why for once why can't we let others fight their own battles? Why do we have to get involved? It doesn't seem right to me, and it's something I've never been able to understand."
"I think I can see the dilemma," I tell him. "And I'm not sure that I understand either."
"That's the problem," Tom says. "It's all right to bend the rules sometimes. It's all right to let things go."
"What if we eradicated the Borg threat? What would you say then?" I shoot back. "Wouldn't that be beneficial to the Federation and other non-allied worlds?"
"Yes."
"Then you can't say there wasn't some benefit in what we did."
"I am an individual, a selfish one. I can't help it. I know what it was like during those days when you were gone, and the uncertainty was excruciating."
"I'm sorry for that."
"I suppose it doesn't matter now," he says gloomily. "We don't even know what's going to happen. Hell, they wouldn't even let me talk to B'Elanna. I just wanted to make sure she was okay and they wouldn't give me thirty seconds with her."
"Tom," I say quietly. "B'Elanna has Chakotay. He will see her through."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
In that moment, I have complete clarity. I see Tom, not as a brash pilot or a late blooming protégé, but rather as someone who, when placed in a desperate situation, did the best he possibly could. I see a young man, perhaps outwardly confident, but insecure in his relationships and feelings.
And I curse myself for not seeing it before.
"You're jealous of her relationship with Chakotay," I state flatly.
Tom is taken aback and he literally takes a step away from me. I don't say much, only wait for him to respond.
When he does speak, his voice is hoarse. "Yes, I am. Is that wrong?"
"No. I understand completely."
"I want to be there for her," he says. "I want her to be there for me, but instead we run away from each other. I was hoping to make it up to her this time by being there and standing by her. Now she's going to think I left her too."
"She won't," I say with certainty. "You're not like that, Tom. You aren't the man you used to be and B'Elanna knows that. I know it. It's important to me that you know that."
Suddenly, the ship rocks. We both reach out, brace ourselves against the wall, but I still have to take a step forward to steady myself.
"What is that?" Tom asks as he regains his balance.
"I don't know. Janeway to Tuvok."
"Tuvok here."
"What's going on?"
"It appears there was an explosion on the station."
"We're on our way. Go to red alert," I command. I look at Tom. "Tom, we'll continue this discussion another time. You can't blame yourself for everything. You know that, don't you?"
He shrugs, apparently not convinced. "If you say so."
The red klaxons sound and we both break into a run, heading up to the Bridge.

****

Brigs are never comfortable. If you are lucky, they - meaning the security guards - will provide a blanket, maybe some reading material. It's impossible to sleep, because there is no soundproofing, and you can hear every clank and clang on the station.
I sit up on the bench that also passes for a bed and stare across to the cell where B'Elanna is lying, curled into a fetal position, her chin resting on her folded hands.
The lone guard is reading, his feet propped up on a stool.
I try to compose my thoughts, trying to anticipate what questions they will ask next. I do not want to give too much away so I've kept many of my answers as vague as possible, hoping they can fill in the blanks with the details from logs.
I am concerned about Kathryn, wondering how much damage I've done to her career. I do not think I've told them things they don't already know or suspect. I hope for leniency for Kathryn, but it may be in vain; I look at those stern Federation faces, utterly devoid of expression, and I shudder.
The Kazon-Nistrim seem almost brotherly in comparison.
The starbase shudders, jolting the security guard out of his complacency. Apparently, forgetting protocol, he erupts out of the room. B'Elanna sits up.
"What's going on?" she calls out.
"I don't know," I stand up and make my way to the force field holding me in; B'Elanna does the same. The first night we were locked in here, B'Elanna had paced all night, and occasionally, had thrown herself against the security barrier. Eventually subdued, she had slept, but I had stayed awake, watching to make sure she didn't harm herself further.
The starbase shudders again, throwing both of us to the ground; I roll against the force field, wincing at the jolt of energy that passes through my body.
"Are you all right?" B'Elanna calls.
"Yes," I get to my feet. The red klaxon rings throughout, echoing through the empty corridors.
"Do you think they know we're down here?" B'Elanna shouts over the din.
Her question is answered as five or six guards, plus the original security guard, enter the Brig. They efficiently release the force fields, slap manacles on our hands.
"Is that really necessary?" I ask.
"Orders, sir," one of the guards, a petite redhead responds. "Let's go."
"Where are we going?" B'Elanna asks.
"The station is being evacuated."
"Why?"
"There is a meltdown in the main reactor core," is the curt answer.
"Have you tried reducing the temperature through the fusion relays?" B'Elanna struggles briefly with the guard who has clamped his hand on her upper arm. "Or running coolant through the induction modulators?"
The redhead guard looks at B'Elanna as if the half-Klingon is speaking Breen.
"I can help," B'Elanna insists.
"Our orders are to evacuate all personnel," the redhead says. "Including prisoners."
They hustle us through the corridors, pushing, pulling, prodding us through them.
"Hey!" B'Elanna shouts at one point.
The starbase is a flurry of action, a far cry from orderly Starfleet/Federation evacuation protocols.
"What about Voyager?" I ask. "Can we contact our ship?"
"There is no time," the redhead responds.
"You are getting on my nerves," I tell her. She doesn't respond.
"What about the others?" B'Elanna asks. "Henley, Gerron, Chell, Dalby, Tabor? What about them?"
"They are being similarly evacuated. You will see them soon."
"Where are we going?"
"Too many questions. Move!"
They push us through an airlock and onto a waiting shuttle. There are already two pilots aboard and the doors slam close behind us.
B'Elanna struggles to her feet, no mean achievement without the use of her hands, and then makes her way to the front.
"What's going on?" she asks angrily.
The pilots, a little more friendly than the security guards who escorted us here, bring up a blueprint of the station.
"The reactor core finally gave out," one of them says. "It was only a matter of time."
"The station is unsafe," B'Elanna states. "It should not have been operational."
The pilots don't respond to B'Elanna's statement. Instead they request that she sit down since we have clearance to leave.
"We don't want to be here when it blows," the pilot on the left says. "The shuttle won't be able to stand the shock waves."
"What about Voyager?" I ask.
"I don't know anything about that. Please sit."
The pilots go through the pre-departure protocols and then docking clamps are released and the shuttle is on its way to...
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"We have our orders, sir."
"Which are?" B'Elanna asks.
"We cannot tell you."
"Terrific," B'Elanna rolls her eyes. "What can you tell us?"
The pilot twists around and says, "Your ship, Voyager, it hasn't left the station yet."
B'Elanna closes her eyes, leans back against the wall, doesn't say anything. I take a deep breath.
"They will leave, B'Elanna," I say softly. "Don't worry. Tom will be fine."
"A reactor meltdown, that will cause a cascade reaction," she says. "It will be an explosion of enormous proportions. Voyager has to be able to outrun it."
"They'll do it."
B'Elanna doesn't answer.
"Hey," I call out. "Can one of you release our hands? This is uncomfortable."
"Sorry. We have our orders," the answer, while negative, is delivered in a sympathetic tone.
"If they say that one more time," B'Elanna says under her breath.
"B'Elanna," I say. "There are some things we can control; this isn't one of them."
"It's making me crazy," she says. "Where are they taking us? Why can't they tell us anything?"
"Orders," I say snidely.
B'Elanna snarls at me and I shrug off her anger. There's not much we can do; the pilots are not forthcoming with information. Our hands, literally, are tied. I settle back. It's going to be a long ride.

~ End Part II ~