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Kathryn Janeway stood alone on the beach, arms folded across her chest, feet shoulder-width apart, stance slightly swaybacked, watching the crew. From a distance of about ten meters, Chakotay, in turn, watched her. Her smile was lopsided, pleased, and he immediately thought about the thousands of times he'd seen her like this—on the sidelines, observing the crew at work with an almost maternal pride—and just as quickly realized that this could well be the last time he would. It wasn't her crew anymore. It wasn't their crew anymore. With every step ahead each one of them made, they were leaving something else—someone else—behind.

She smiled broadly at his approach and took the mug he offered.

"Could be a holodeck program on Voyager," he said, nodding to the scene before them.

She shook her head and took a deep breath of the damp, salty air, then let it out slowly and smiled. "Oh, no, Chakotay—no holodeck can recreate that." She squinted her eyes against the setting sun—which inflamed the horizon, painting the sea and sand in shades of red and orange and gold—and gestured to the panorama with a broad sweep of her arm. "No holodeck can recreate that—that shimmer in the light." She lifted the mug to her lips and inhaled the steam. "And no holodeck can recreate this." She took a sip and smiled her approval. "Currying favor with the Admiral, Commander?" she purred. "You know me too well."

Chakotay laughed heartily and they clinked their mugs together. "There's more where that came from," he said. "I've got a connection."

Her eyes lit up. "Really?" She took another sip, sighed appreciatively, and then raised her hand. "Don't give me the details," she said. "I don't want to know."

He grinned. "Nothing illegal," he said. He took a sip from his own mug and nodded, satisfied. "The grower's a viejo,an elder, in western Chiapas. Great storyteller—a hundred fifteen years old and he's never been recorded." Chakotay chuckled and shook his head. "He's a research source—I've been spending a lot of time with him, and when I leave, he sends me on my way with a kilo of coffee, freshly roasted."

"Be good to him," Kathryn said. "Keep the supply lines open." She grinned mischievously. "By the way, while we're on the subject of comestibles… I might have embarrassed Seven a little bit earlier. You'll probably hear about it." He raised an eyebrow and she shrugged, her face deadpan, but her eyes twinkling. "I told her not to overfeed you."

He almost choked on a mouthful of coffee. "Overfeed me?" He laughed and shook his head—he could imagine the conversation. "Seven must have been mortified."

Kathryn smirked. "She's going to make sure that you get adequate exercise." She cocked her head flirtatiously. "Better be careful, Commander," she said. "She's a lot younger than you."

Chakotay smirked right back at her. "Rumor has it the same warning could be given to you…"

"Rumor has what?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"How does The Captain's Whirlwind Romance sound?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Whirlwind romance," she said. "Sounds like the Captain's having herself quite a time."

"Oh, it certainly does," he agreed. "Something about a chance encounter at a gallery opening in Paris. No one's exactly sure what transpired, but within forty-five minutes of the Captain's arrival, both she and the artist—an Ilisian twenty years her junior—were nowhere to be found."

"Oh, that." Kathryn brushed it away with a wave of her hand. "I wouldn't over-dramatize it," she said. "The event was stuffy. We went for coffee."

"Yes, at a sidewalk café in a neighboring arrondissement—where you were still lingering at 0400."

She rolled her eyes. "It was good coffee."

Chakotay smirked. "I'm sure it was," he said. "There's also evidence that the Captain and the artist shared a romantic Valentine's Day excursion, but the destination is mysteriously unknown—the flight plan was classified."

"Rank has its privileges," she said with a sly grin. Impassively, she considered his face, as if she were studying the opposition in a diplomatic negotiation. Then she looked down and smiled a private, secret sort of smile. "You have to promise not to say anything to anyone," she said, looking up at him again. "Not Seven, not anyone. Not yet."

He raised an eyebrow. "Sounds serious."

"It could be." She blushed lightly and beamed. "The rumors are true," she said. "I won't tell you where we went, but it was very romantic." She cocked her head slightly to the left. "We've been seeing each other for three weeks, and I think 'whirlwind' is an apt description." She lowered her eyes and thought for a moment. "It's hard to explain… On Voyager, for the longest time, when I thought of home, Mark's was the face I'd imagine. Even after he could only assume I was dead, even after I wanted him to assume I was dead, I still held on." She smiled ruefully. "And when we made contact and I found that he had moved on…" She bit her lip, then set her jaw resolutely. "Like a lot of Starfleet captains, I decided that the job was incompatible with a family. And I was okay with it. I was. At least, I thought I was." She looked at him and chuckled. "Then the Admiral came back."

He started to interrupt her and she raised her hand. "I know. It's classified." She winked. "I won't tell TI if you don't." She paced the sand in a semicircle in front of him with a feline grace. "The Admiral gave me her reasons for doing what she did," Kathryn said, "and they were altruistic—on the surface, anyway. But going over it in my mind again and again, there was something else… She was doing it for herself and she might not have even been aware of it. But I was." She looked at him with the same fire and intensity he'd seen in their very first encounter. "She scared the hell out of me, Chakotay. I don't want to become her. And I could see myself…" She shook her head. "That night, at the gallery, I was standing there, formal, dignified, nodding to the other patrons, exchanging small talk, pseudointellectual chatter about the art—in other words, bored to tears. When Etan and I started talking, the connection was… electric. The air sparked between us. And I started to turn away." She laughed softly. "And then I thought of the Admiral. And I told him we should ditch the joint."

Chakotay chuckled and raised his mug. "Good for you," he said.

Kathryn smiled at him, then looked out to sea. "He's so different from anyone I've ever known… I'm not sure I understand it." She looked at Chakotay intently, as if she could find the words she was looking for in his face. Finally she shrugged. "I just decided to let go and see what happened." She grinned, slightly astonished, slightly dazed. "And it works."

He smiled broadly and gave her shoulder a squeeze. He'd watched her for seven years, as she isolated herself further with every casualty, every setback, every missed chance for a shortcut. Of all the crew, he knew best the load of guilt she carried—and he knew that even he didn't know the whole of it. There were some things that, close as they were, she'd never share with him, might not ever share with anyone. "Congratulations," he said. "I can't think of someone who deserves it more."

She looked at him pensively, a look she hadn't given him in ages, curious and longing and so close to saying "yes"—even though it was years since he would have asked the question. He wasn't surprised it brought back memories. "It never would have worked with us, you know," she said. "It wouldn't have lasted."

He nodded and smiled gently. "I know. And I'm grateful you saw that before I did, before we made a mistake that could have affected a whole lot of lives." He cupped her cheek in his hand. "What we have, this friendship… it's forever. I just want you to know that."

She nodded. "That goes for me, too," she said.

Behind her right shoulder the sun fell below the horizon and behind his the crew cheered and Harry Kim started tuning up and testing the audio. Kathryn turned to Chakotay and smiled. "Sounds like the entertainment's about to begin," she said. "And I promised the Doctor the first dance."

He smiled back at her. They'd never been ones to discuss their friendship, analyze it, try and figure it out—it just was. It worked. He offered his arm. "Well then," he said. "We should go."

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Seven had organized what was left of the food—placed it into the appropriate containers and wiped up a few spills. There hadn't been much for her to do—Voyager's crew was, for the most part, tidy—and all that was left was to consolidate it into piles for transport to Chakotay's base camp, where the other members of the dig crew would have it eaten long before she and Chakotay arrived there the next day. She had lingered over the task for as long as she could without feeling foolish, but she wasn't yet ready to rejoin the party. Lacking another chore with which to occupy herself, she sat on a bench, her hands clasped in her lap, alone in the dark.

When she was a child she was afraid of the dark—it was one of her few early memories. Now she welcomed it. Nocturnal human vision was less precise than that of other species. In the dark, she was human, her implants were hidden. In the dark, no one would see her cry.

"I've been looking for you," Chakotay said softly from the side. He sat next to her, took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his, searched her eyes with concern. "Naomi said she thought you looked upset."

Seven cringed. The child meant well, but how many others had seen her? She turned away from him, and although the night was still warm, she shivered.

He brushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear with his finger. "What happened?" he asked.

She swallowed hard, and then turned to face him. "The Doctor and I had a conversation," she said. "It did not go well."

He put his arm around her and drew her close. She knew that he'd known it would come to this, but he was kind enough not to say so. For every message Seven sent that the Doctor ignored, she would invent an excuse for him: he was preoccupied with his sentiency hearing, rehearsing for the opera, attending a medical conference, playing golf. All the while, she was avoiding the obvious—he was avoiding her. She was as delusional as he was. She chuckled at the thought.

Chakotay looked at her quizzically, but didn't press for an explanation. Instead he traced the slightly upturned corners of her lips with a finger and mirrored her smile. "That's better," he said.

Her smile widened as if he controlled it—a disconcerting ability he'd developed in recent weeks—and she shook her head. "This is absurd," she said. "I was enjoying this party. Participation in the preparations opened trajectories for conversation with the crew." Behind her were the lights and the music and the laughter, muffled.

"And you did a great job," he said. "People noticed, commented." He took her chin in his hand again and kissed her lightly. "And I thank you."

She blushed, pleased. "I enjoyed doing it." She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "I should not allow one individual to affect that enjoyment," she said. She thought she sounded convincing—now all that was left was to convince herself. She rose and offered him her hand. "I will tell you all about it later, if you like. Right now, we should rejoin the party."

Behind her the moon was rising, near and full. The band segued into a new song; Harry Kim's clarinet took the melody. "Blue moon, you saw me standing alone…" Seven joined in, barely audible but perfectly in tune.

Chakotay stood and faced her. He'd recently showered and changed—his hair was still damp and his skin smelled of soap and forest rain. He wore a pair of loose black pleated trousers and a white guayabera made of fine cotton with a line of suns embroidered in white the length of the shirt on either side of his chest. Although it was unnecessary, she adjusted his collar, and continued tracing with her finger, his throat to the hollow between his clavicles, and his chest down to the first fastened button. She looked into his eyes. He cupped her face in his hand and lightly brushed her lips with his thumb. Seven had known love before, but with Axum it had been an emotional bond only—in their world, a virtual construct, there was no flesh against flesh. There was nothing to compare to this: the smell of him, the taste of him, the heat from his fingers that left her hungry for more. She closed her eyes and sighed, and smiled. "We should go," she said softly.

He nodded. "You're right." He offered his arm and grinned. "I'll see if I can't pick up the pace of the proceedings."

The band was finishing the song as Chakotay and Seven rejoined the festivities, and Harry immediately noticed their arrival from the small stage. "Now you show up," he said into the microphone. "When the song's over." He turned and addressed the crew as a whole. "Seven was supposed to sing that, guys. She's really good."

Chakotay looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Seven bowed her head and blushed. "I told him no such thing. As a matter of fact, I told him that I would not sing the song."

"So you do know it."

"Not well."

"I'd like to be the judge of that," he said.

She smiled shyly. "You are persistent. I require practice. Another time, perhaps."

"I'm holding you to that," he said with a grin.

They joined Icheb, who was standing with Tom and B'Elanna, and exchanged greetings with Admiral Paris, who was holding Miral and looking more like a genial grandfather than a flag officer at Starfleet Command. Harry beckoned Chakotay to the stage, and he lightly caressed Seven's cheek before continuing in that direction. Seven watched him go, while Icheb watched her watching him.

Seven looked at the young man and raised her eyebrow expectantly. "If you have something to say," she said, "please speak freely."

Icheb frowned and considered his response for a moment. "I believe the Commander's intentions are honorable," he said at last.

Seven tried—not entirely successfully—to suppress a smile. "I concur," she said, then peered at him with curiosity when he said no more. "Is there something else?"

He frowned and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I worry about you," he said at last. "You don't act like yourself when you're with him."

Seven bristled, then immediately chided herself for overreacting. Although he was enthusiastic about their arrival on Earth and his joining his class at the Academy, she knew that the adaptation to this new environment was no easier for Icheb than it was for her. She smiled gently. "Perhaps you think that I am not being myself because you have never seen me involved in a romantic affiliation."

He considered this, then nodded his agreement. "I don't want you to be hurt," he said. "Just be careful. That's all."

She smiled again. She was a careful woman—even a casual acquaintance would describe her that way—and she considered it an attribute in most situations. But then she thought of the Captain, and her response to Seven's questioning one of her command decisions. Seven turned to Icheb. "Sometimes," she said, "you must simply 'go with your gut.'"

Icheb frowned his confusion. "I fail to see what one's digestive…"

Seven chuckled, interrupting him. "It is a Terran idiom. It means that you should trust your instincts." She smiled at his skeptical gaze. "I have learned that there is a certain amount of chaos inherent in any relationship between two individuals," she said. "If you are too careful, you many miss an opportunity entirely." She thought of her brief reunion with Axum. "Once I almost did." She looked at Icheb. "I do not intend to repeat that mistake—I will not miss this opportunity."

Icheb watched her silently, challenging her, and Seven finally shrugged—she knew that he enjoyed it when she gave in first. "And if I am hurt, then you can comfort me," she said.

"That isn't funny," he said, scowling.

Chakotay finally reached his destination and climbed the step to the stage, where Harry handed him a microphone. Seven knew what the object was—she had practiced with the technology when she rehearsed the song with the band—but to Chakotay it was apparently unfamiliar. Harry pantomimed speaking into the object and Chakotay complied, immediately generating a high-pitched shriek that was excruciatingly painful.

Harry bent over to speak into his own mic, which was set to the level of the bell of his clarinet when he was playing. "Chell, check the levels on that. Commander, just keep talking."

"What is this?" Chakotay asked.

Harry bent to his mic again. "It's a microphone, sir—twentieth century amplification technology," he said.

"May I ask why?" Chakotay looked at the crew and rolled his eyes, then turned back to Harry again and smirked. "Is there something wrong with twenty-fourth century technology?"

"It's a twentieth century beach party, sir," Harry said. "That's the theme you gave us—we're just being authentic." He grinned. "If it makes you feel better, we did throw up a few twenty-fourth century forcefields to improve the acoustics."

Chakotay laughed and looked back at the crew. "Admiral Paris," he said. "We're honored you could join us. Bet you didn't know that you had a Starfleet crew so adept at such obsolete technology."

"Thanks to his son," Captain Janeway called out.

Admiral Paris and Tom both laughed, and Admiral Paris slapped Tom on the back in a jovial manner. Tom blushed, but he still looked wary to Seven, as if he had to think twice before trusting his father, even about something as inconsequential as sharing a laugh.

"I'm going to make this brief," Chakotay said to the crew. "No stories tonight." There was some cheering and he laughed. "Glad to know you've enjoyed them all these years. In that case, my people have a story…"

Good-natured groaning followed and Chakotay grinned.

"He's playing with you guys," Tom Paris shouted. "Don't encourage him."

Everyone laughed, Chakotay the hardest of all.

After a moment, he raised his hand to quiet them. "I want to thank you all for coming," he said. "We had one hundred percent turnout. At one point early on, forty-seven people transported in within two minutes. For those of us who were already here, that was…" He grinned and shook his head. "It was nice." The crew applauded and some emitted raucous whistles and cheers. Chakotay looked directly at Tuvok. "Commander Tuvok was fashionably—although uncharacteristically—late, however we'll forgive him, since he arrived on the transport from Vulcan this afternoon." He smiled. "Glad you could make it, Tuvok. It's good to see you."

There was another round of applause. Tuvok raised an eyebrow and nodded, his face, as always, impassive. It had been rumored that he was ill, although no one—with the exception of the Doctor and possibly the Captain—knew the details. He looked well and Seven hoped that his presence here meant that his health had improved.

"Some special thanks," Chakotay continued, "to the people who really went above and beyond and made this happen—and on very short notice." He turned to Harry. "Our Entertainment Director, Harry Kim, and his band the Kimtones." The crew applauded as Chakotay looked out in Seven's direction. "Our Recreation Coordinator, Tom Paris. And last, but not least, our Executive Chef, Seven of Nine…"

The appellation startled her—she hadn't used the truncated Borg designation since they'd returned to Earth, and already it sounded foreign, as if it no longer belonged to her. "Seven" was her name—she preferred that to "Annika"—but "Seven of Nine" sounded out of place. She caught Chakotay's eye, and he appeared to read her consternation.

"Annika Hansen," he said, correcting himself.

The crew applauded, and those near her patted her on the shoulder and shook her hand and thanked her for a job well done. Other crewmembers moved through the crowd distributing glasses and bottles of chilled champagne.

Chakotay chuckled. "It's amazing—it took four people to organize, and the combined efforts of the entire crew to actualize what Neelix used to pull off by himself." He looked at Reg Barclay and the Pathfinder team. "Thanks for everything you've done, and we know you won't stop until we've got a permanent comlink to the Talaxian colony—the first Federation planet in the Delta Quadrant."

"By the end of the year," Admiral Paris called out. "That's an order." Reg Barclay swallowed hard and the crew cheered wildly.

Lieutenant Mulcahey handed some glasses and a bottle of champagne to Chakotay on the stage, who in turn poured glassfuls for the band. When he had finished, he stood at center stage, raised his own glass, and waited for the crew to quiet. He looked at Captain Janeway, grinned broadly and winked, then out at the crew. "We did it," he said.

The crew cheered, and he raised his glass again. "And it's over." He shook his head and paced a few steps in either direction. "Hard to believe. Our individual journeys will go on, but the one we shared, that's done." He grinned. "But it was one hell of a ride."

Seven looked around her. Chakotay's speech was having the desired effect—many eyes shone brightly, reflecting the lights off threatening tears. Seven knew that her own were among them. Some of these people she would never see again—and she would miss them. There was an obstruction in her throat that would not go away, even when she swallowed. She looked at Icheb, who raised an eyebrow and looked as if he were about to tease her, then changed his mind and put his hand on her shoulder instead.

Chakotay quieted the crowd with a wave. "When I was thinking about what to say tonight, I kept coming back to something Harry said about two months ago—at a senior staff meeting so most of you weren't privy to it. But it was good and we need a toast… So, Harry, would you do the honors?"

Chakotay put his mic near Harry's mouth so he wouldn't have to crouch. "What did I say?" Harry asked. Then he laughed, looked out at the crew and shrugged apologetically. "Wouldn't you know? My one moment of eloquence in seven years…" He looked at Captain Janeway, who was almost doubled over with laughter, then he paused and smiled broadly. "I do remember the gist of it, though. Short and sweet." He raised his glass and looked out at his crewmates. "To the journey," he said.

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