Interlude

"Can I ask you a question, off the record? If things had happened differently, and we were on the Maquis ship now instead of Voyager, would you have served under me?"

"One of the nice things about being Captain is that you can keep some things to yourself."

Your answering smile is tight. I can see that you are unsatisfied by my response, but it's been one hell of a day and for now it's the only answer I am willing to give.

We turn to leave Engineering — and our new Chief Engineer — behind us. Our ship is in good hands, and I know now that while I may question your methods, I can trust your judgment, at least where our crew is concerned. It occurs to me that perhaps I should take a second look at some of your recommendations for placement of the Maquis. Maybe I dismissed several of your suggestions prematurely.

Our working relationship needs to improve, and fast. I am on the verge of inviting you back to my quarters for a slice of replicated pie and an informal chat, when a searing pain lances through my head. I stumble as if the stairs and deck had turned to ice beneath my feet. A blinding light hits me full in the face and as quickly as it came, the pain recedes. I stare at the light, dumbfounded.

That light shouldn't be there.

I feel your hand grasp the back of my uniform. You steady me in the face of that light. Intellectually I know I should be alarmed by the light's very presence, but instead I find myself relishing its warmth, basking in its dazzling glow. I want to turn and look at you but I cannot tear my eyes from the light. "What's happening?" I ask.

Your voice answers, but it has an echo that, like the light itself, shouldn't be there. It is both your voice and not your voice, and I do not know if your words emanate from your throat or from inside my head.

"You're getting closer, Kathryn," you say.

"Closer to what?"

"To that which you seek. You must keep trying."

The light intensifies and I move toward it, guided by your hand at my back.

Part 2

The next time I wake up, these are the things I know for certain:

1. You have not left my side since the Doc sedated me prior to the myriad brain scans he wanted to perform. Others have come and gone — many others, some I know, some I do not — but you have stayed.

2. The song you are singing is known to me. Its lilting melody falls easily on my ears, its rhythm sends a familiar tingle to my fingertips, but I do not know the words or the language. I know that I once knew these things, but I do not know now.

3. Your voice is different when raised in song. Higher, happier. I know this deep in my bones, although I do not know why.

4. I do not know the child's voice that intertwines with yours.

5. You are an outstanding father.

When I wake up the second time, these are the things that I know.

I open my eyes. The room has changed. The square of blue sky beyond the window has given way to a red-gold sunset and I know we are on a planet, although I do not know which one.

You have moved your chair to a far corner of the room. There is a child seated on your lap. The child has its — her — back to me, and I watch the two of you play for a time. The song has elaborate hand motions that accompany the words. I think it must be about a baby bird, because the two of you make fluttering motions with your fingertips that soon give way to wild flaps as the song's tempo and volume increase. Your voices rise to a gleeful, shared crescendo, and you both laugh. The girl wraps her arms around your neck and you hug her tight, your eyes closed, your face pressed against her wavy brown hair.

I do not know this child.

I did not know you were a father.

The personnel record and intelligence report I read a few weeks ago in preparation for this mission did not indicate that you had surviving family apart from one sibling, a sister listed as "Missing."

I struggle with this paradox, this certainty that you have no children and no wife juxtaposed with the knowledge that you are a kind and patient father, a warm and affectionate husband. I stare at the image before me of you holding a young child close to your broad chest, your arms wrapped around her whippet-thin body, your hands smoothing over her curls. The light from the fading sunset falls on the silver band you wear on your left ring finger. The light sends a dazzling ray onto the walls of this sterile, unfamiliar room. I'm both mesmerized by the brilliance and saddened by its significance, and I do not know why.

"You remembered all the words that time," you say to the child. "I'm proud of you."

The child claps her hands. "Again!" she exclaims.

The child begins to sing, but before she can complete the first few words of the song, you stop her. "Look," you say. "Auntie Kathryn is awake."

I turn my head on the pillow just as the child whirls around to face me.

She is beautiful.

Her brown hair falls in ringlets to her shoulders. Her smile is wide and joyful. Her dark eyes show an intelligence and curiosity beyond her years. Her perceptive gaze, as much as the faint ridges on her forehead, marks her indelibly as the child of B'Elanna Torres. The girl scrabbles down from your lap and prances across the room to my bedside, and I fight back conflicting emotions that I cannot explain.

"You missed dinner, Auntie," she says. "But we saved you some coffee ice cream."

I force a smile. "Coffee ice cream is my favorite."

She nods. "I know. Daddy said to save you some, so I did."

"Thank you. That was kind of you." I want to ask the child her name, but I am afraid to frighten her. She seems to know me and yet I am certain I have never seen her before in my life. My eyes flick up to yours. "Your Daddy has taught you very well."

You frown and start to respond, but the door hissing open behind you distracts us all.

B'Elanna Torres enters, and I gasp. She is…changed. She is far older than I know her to be, fuller at breast and hips. She carries a second child in her arms, a sleeping child whose fists are clenched beneath his chin and I wonder with a jolt just how far back my amnesia reaches, and just how much I have forgotten. She presses an affectionate kiss to your cheek and thanks you for watching the little girl, then she turns to look at me. "Lieutenant Torres?" I say.

She smiles. "Yes. You remember me?"

"Yes." I tip my head toward the child who is now crossing the room to her mother, and the one in her arms. "But I'm not sure…"

B'Elanna nods her understanding. As you cross the room to join us, she lowers the baby so that I can see his face, so like his sister's. "This is Tobias John. He's six months old." She smiles at her daughter. "And that holy terror is Miral. Miral Kathryn, age four."

Again, I must force a smile to mask the tears I want to shed. "They are beautiful, Lieutenant. Congratulations." I turn to you and swallow against the lump in my throat. "And to you, Commander. You have a beautiful family."

B'Elanna draws a sharp breath and looks up at you. Your eyes are so sad that I want to rise from this bed, I want to reach out and take you in my arms, but I do not know why. "These are not my children," you say in a soft, broken voice. "B'Elanna is not my wife."

I try to reconcile your words with the warm and intimate tableau before me. I know you are a father and a husband. I know this. And yet I also know that when last I spoke to you before…before the accident, you were neither of these things. You were Commander Chakotay, former Maquis Captain, former enemy to the Federation, my new First Officer and ally.

I also struggle to understand my profound relief. Am I relieved because I have no sticky shipboard fraternization problem to worry about, or because B'Elanna Torres is not your wife?

I rub my forehead with my fingertips.

"Are you all right?" you ask. "Should I go get the Doc?"

"No. I'm all right. Just…confused."

You pour a glass of water from the pitcher on my bedside table. "Here you go, Kathryn," you say. "Don't try too hard. It'll come."

"Will it?" I ask.

You and B'Elanna both nod and smile. "Just give it time," B'Elanna says.

The door hisses open again and Lieutenant Paris ambles through. To my astonishment, the little girl Miral sprints across the small room and flings herself into Tom's waiting arms. "Daddy," she shouts, and I cannot help but smile up at you.

You chuckle in return. "It's less shocking than it seems," you say. "They're good for each other."

"I'll take your word for that," I reply.

Tom and B'Elanna make their goodbyes with a promise to visit "Auntie Kathryn and Uncle Chakotay" again soon and prepare their children to go home — and I somehow manage to refrain from asking exactly where "home" is for them — while I observe the organized chaos of their familial life. I miss them when they are gone. In the now-quiet room, you pull your chair back to my bedside.

"Did the EMH find anything in his scans?" I ask.

"Nothing he wasn't expecting. No sign of stroke or seizure, anyway, and nothing that would explain the amnesia beyond migraine and mild head trauma. He firmly believes your memories will return in a few days without any other intervention." You shrug. "He says you can get up, eat something, even go home if you feel up to it."

"'Home,'" I repeat. "I'm half afraid to ask exactly where my home is." I meant it to be a joke, but your expression goes blank and I instantly regret the words. "Chakotay…"

You give your head a small shake. "What's the last place you remember calling 'home'?"

"Voyager," I say. "My quarters. Before that, my townhouse in San Francisco."

"Where you lived alone?"

I nod and sit up in bed. "Me and my dog. She was due to have puppies. Just before we entered the Badlands, I asked Mark to…" Mark. Oh dear God, Mark.

You slump forward again, elbows on knees, head bent low.

I was engaged to Mark when we entered the Badlands. I am no longer engaged to him. I know this. I know this with terrible certainty.

Your hands are knotted together and I stare at the plain silver band you wear. Beneath the blanket, I clench my own left hand into a tight fist, not yet ready to see what I know I will see there. My heart hammers in my chest as if I had just run the Academy marathon.

"Where are we, Chakotay?" I whisper. "How much time have I lost?"

You sit back in your chair. "Tell me again about the last thing you remember."

"We were in Engineering. I was there to observe B'Elanna. You found me there and accused me of checking up on her. We talked about the crew and you asked me…you asked…"

The sound you make is not quite a chuckle, not quite a sob. "I asked if you would serve under me."

"Yes."

"Kathryn, how long ago was that for you?"

I frown. "Days? A week?"

You sigh and hold your hands out to me. "Feel like getting up?"

"Why?"

You nod toward the window. "You need to see something."

I reach for you, still willing myself not to look at my own hands, and you steady me as we walk to the window. A step away, I hesitate. "Are you afraid?" you ask.

"No," I reply. "Maybe…apprehensive. But not afraid."

We step together to the window.

The scene before me is one I know well: The sun setting over the grounds of Starfleet Headquarters, and beyond HQ, the Golden Gate. I know I should be astonished. Maybe I am. But I am also strangely unsurprised.

"We made it," I breathe.

"Yes."

I drink in the glorious sight. "When?"

"Four years ago. Almost five, actually."

I turn to stare up at you in disbelief. "And that day in Engineering?"

"Almost twelve years ago."

The shock I feel is paradoxically both profound and somehow distant, as if I lived through our homecoming and moved past it long ago. "We were out there for…for seven years?"

"Yes."

Seven years, and twelve years since my last coherent memory. Twelve years in which so much has surely changed. Chakotay has aged. I have aged. Mark and I are no longer engaged.

Twelve years in which B'Elanna Torres and Tom Paris married and had two children. Are there more? There must be. There must be other married couples among us, other families.

Twelve years.

I place my hands on the windowsill and lean my forehead against the glass. Finally, heart still beating fast, I look down at my hands. A minute passes, then another. I reach back and grasp your left hand in my right and raise it to rest on the windowsill. In the fading light of the California sunset, I match the plain silver band on your hand with the one on my own.

When I can breathe again, I slide my fingers into the spaces you make for them and tug you forward until I can feel the warmth of your body at my back. "Chakotay?"

"Yes?"

"Who is Eddie?"

-End of part 2-