Voyager Treks

A/N: Welcome to my new story :) This is a series of "Short Treks" type stories of the Voyager crew, inspired by the events of Picard. So, if you haven't seen that, there may be some spoilers for the new series. That being said, this doesn't have anything to do with Picard, other than existing in the same universe. Hope that makes sense. Each chapter will be a short snippet in time of one of our main characters, and some of these "treks" will be more connected than others.

I'll be posting these more or less as I write them, with no particular schedule. If you want to be sure to keep up with the story despite the lack of schedule, add an alert and you'll be notified when a new chapter is posted.

As always, I own nothing of these characters or Star Trek and get no profit out of posting fun little snippets on a free website.

Onto the first tale.

Chakotay

Noumedi (Ivor III:VI)
Stardate 61057
January 1, 2385

Months away at high warp, the people of Earth were celebrating another New Year. On Noumedi, Governor Chakotay raised a glass of bourbon at his kitchen counter to mark the occasion. He was probably the only person on the colony of roughly 10,000 to notice. Occupational hazard of being governor, he thought. Nobody else had any reason to keep Earth calendars, because nobody else had to deal with the bureaucrats in the Federation Colony Services in Nairobi.

It was quiet, unseasonable night in the northern continent of the moon without seasons, thanks to the perfectly perpendicular axis, the kind of night that the farmers liked to joke that you can hear the maize growing. It was even quieter inside Chakotay's house. Malanie was on shift in the clinic, not that that made any difference anymore. Had it been a few months previous, he would have brought her dinner to share on quiet nights, but those days were over. It was an amicable split; Malanie was still young and wanted children, whereas Chakotay knew those days were behind him. And while he was certainly fond of her and enjoyed their time together, he no longer believed in the kind of all-encompassing love that she had desired since she was a child, and he suspected that she knew that.

He was taking another sip of the bourbon when he heard a soft knock at his door. He didn't rush to answer it; he knew that knock. That was Dr. Unthank's knock, and she wasn't there to talk to him.

He gave it another minute before he put his glass down and crossed to the door, and as expected, there was a steaming plate of food at his stoop. Something with lentils and maize—not the purple maize that made the inky black bourbon Noumedi was famous for, but the yellow corn of Dr. Unthank's garden. He took a deep breath and immediately identified at least three distinctive spices, although he knew there were more. The lentils and spices were undoubtedly replicated; Dr. Unthank liked to cook, so she replicated all the necessary ingredients and prepared them at her stove. The retired and widowed biochemist had raised three boys and still cooked as if she had four hungry men at home. Chakotay was more than happy to be the recipient of her leftovers. When she started leaving food for him, shortly after he arrived, he made the mistake of inviting her in to share the meal; she politely but firmly informed him that while she was happy to cook for people, she enjoyed the company of others only in small doses and preferred to spend most of her time, including her meals, alone. In the ensuing six years, he had still only gleaned small details of his neighbor's life: she was widowed, she had raised three sons, she had helped found Noumedi as the head distiller at the bourbon distillery, and like him, had blood of a Native American, although her tribe was significantly further north on the Pacific coast than where his own people had settled.

Chakotay removed a fork from his drawer and topped off his bourbon before settling in to the meal. "Computer," he said, "Do I have any messages?"

*You have one message,* the computer informed him. *Sender: B'Elanna Torres. Location: Mars.* He smiled; he had expected that. B'Elanna wrote to him weekly, like clockwork. She was the most reliable from his Voyager crewmates. Tom also wrote, although his messages tended to just be holos and videos of the kids, often without any sort of context. Harry occasionally checked in as he flew around the Federation on whatever ship he was serving on now, and it wasn't unusual to hear from Ensign—no, Lieutenant, junior grade now—Icheb, although those messages sounded a lot more like official reports than personal correspondence. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard from anyone else. Seven was doing something at the Daystrom Institute, and Kathryn… He pushed that line of thought aside.

"Play message," he instructed.

*Hey, old man,* B'Elanna's voice began, and he smiled at the familiar greeting. She had been a 19-year-old kid who was too damn good at fixing broken machines the first time she had referred to him as such, when he made his first attempt to recruit her to his crew. She had scoffed and said she had enough troubles of her own without adding his to the list; within two hours, she had been swearing at his warp core. Unlike that day almost two decades before, though, he was resembling the nickname, his once-dark hair now mostly gray. *Thanks for the bottle of bourbon, but next time, leave Tom's name off the shipping label. He got to it first—of course he did, he works from home—and tried to hide it from me. Don't worry, I made him pay for that.* There was a teasing note to her words that made him make a face; he knew what that tone implied, and even almost eight years after their wedding, he didn't need that mental image.

*Joey's walking, if you can believe that,* she continued. *Which makes him the youngest to figure out that trick. Eight months and change. I thought Tom was going to knock him back on his ass. I don't think we're ready for three mobile kids.* He smiled at that, because it sounded like a problem of their own doing. *Miral's excited about him getting big enough to play with more, but I think Aly was with Tom on not wanting him up and about. She's still not happy about not being the baby in the family anymore.*

"Computer," he interrupted. "Display last image from Tom Paris." A holo immediately appeared on his monitor; unlike most that Tom sent, this one was professionally taken, as he insisted on family pictures to send out as 'Christmas cards,' and like always, B'Elanna rolled her eyes but indulged him.

He didn't know if it was motherhood or civilian life that had finally relaxed B'Elanna, but whatever it was, it suited her. She had let her hair down—literally; she now wore her hair in dark waves that tumbled over her shoulders—and the smile on her face bore little of the hesitation or hostility she had once carried with her every day. Tom had lost more hair on top of his head and gained more on his face, and Chakotay was still amused by the fact that the former pilot's beard was more gray than blond. And then there were the kids. Miral was the only one he had ever seen in person, and she had only been an infant that last time. She looked more like her mother with every image and video Tom sent, down to the dark curls and seriousness she couldn't hide in her dark eyes despite the forced smile. Alyah—Aly—couldn't be more different, a cheesy grin on her two—no, three—year-old face, her sandy curls still having the feathery delicacy and disarray universal among toddlers, her green eyes bright. Joey was the baby, sitting up in the picture, Miral's arms around his waist to keep him in place, his eyes on his sister instead of the camera.

Three kids. How did they have three kids already? Wasn't it just yesterday that B'Elanna was glaring at him and lobbing hoverballs at him much harder than necessary because he was teasing her about her 'dalliances' with the pilot?

*Tom says hi, by the way,* B'Elanna's voice continued. *He's working on—*

*Incoming transmission from Starfleet Command, Earth,* the computer announced, cutting off B'Elanna's words.

Starfleet? That was unusual. Usually messages from Earth came from the Federation Colony Services. He hadn't had anything to do with Starfleet since they thanked him for his service and accepted the resignation they all but requested six years before. Not even the ship that had carried him from Earth to Noumedi had been a Starfleet vessel. He was tempted to ignore it, but that wouldn't be very professional of him. He was an elected official now; it was about time he acted like it. Even if that required another sip of bourbon first. "On screen," he said automatically, his words even going back to his Starfleet days.

It took him a moment to place Admiral Picard, and when he did, he blinked in surprise, wondering what such a senior officer would want with the governor of a minor colony known for nothing other than really good bourbon. And, if the hops farmers and brewers were successful, maybe soon good beer, too. "Admiral," he greeted cautiously.

*Governor Chakotay,* Admiral Picard acknowledged with a tilt of his head. *I hope this isn't an inconvenient time.*

"I was eating dinner, actually," Chakotay replied, barely biting back the 'sir' that had almost ended that sentence. He wasn't in Starfleet anymore; he was the governor of a colony that was only reluctantly still in the Federation at all.

*I apologize for the interruption,* the admiral said. *I've been told that Noumedi produces some of the most unique alcoholic beverages in the Federation.*

"If you want to place an order, Admiral, we have a Ferengi distributor," Chakotay said. "I can give you his contact information."

*That won't be necessary, thank you,* Admiral Picard said, an amused smile on his face. *I am somewhat involved in the business myself. My family has a vineyard and winery in France. Perhaps one day we can meet and sample each other's wares.* Chakotay didn't respond to that, because one of the highest ranked officers in Starfleet wasn't calling him to talk about wine or bourbon.

Sensing his reticence, Picard got down to the point. *The Romulan sun is in the process of supernova,* he said, and that time, Chakotay wasn't able to keep the surprise from his face. Or his suspicion, because he realized a beat later that there was no need for a Starfleet admiral to be telling him this. Sure, Noumedi was closer to Romulus than Earth, but still more than several light-years away from either. It would take years, if ever, before any radiation resultant from a supernova would reach Noumedi. *Our astrophysicists have suspected it for a few years now, but it was recently confirmed by the Romulans. They've requested the Federation's assistance in relocation.*

"This is interesting, Admiral, but you're going to have to spell out what this has to do with Noumedi."

Picard smiled slightly, as if amused by the impatience of a small child, and Chakotay had to fight to keep his annoyance from showing. He hadn't realized how patronizing the Federation was until he listened to a Starfleet captain try to explain why the colony where he had grown up, where his family still lived—had still lived—was destroyed by Cardassians. *How many ships does Noumedi have?* he asked, that annoying habit of asking a question to avoid asking the real question.

"Not enough to relocate the entire population of Romulus," Chakotay replied, and that time, Picard gave a chuckle and held up his hands.

*That is not why I'm calling,* he assured the governor. He hesitated, and then said, *The effects of the impending supernova have made it impossible to grow the grains needed to make Romulan Ale on Romulus,* he said. *Meterological and soil analysis conducted by our scientists indicate that Noumedi—*

"You want to move the Romulan Ale industry to Noumedi," Chakotay interrupted, and damn if he wasn't proud of how even he was keeping his voice, even as his blood was boiling. This was why the colonists on Noumedi wanted nothing to do with the Federation. Why the hell did they have samples of Noumedi soil or meteorological studies on file, and why the hell had they tested it for suitability for Romulan Ale without asking anyone?

Despite the fact that Noumedi had only been founded after the destruction of Ivor Prime by the Borg twelve years before, almost none of the inhabitants were first generation colonists. Almost all of them had been displaced from their homes; some by disaster, most by war or the arbitrary redrawing of lines on a map. These were people who had been constantly moved at the whims of the Federation, constantly trying to scratch out some sort of living in the soil of whatever planet the Federation had relocated them to. It was only by accident that they discovered that the soil and water on Noumedi was ideal for the purple maize that gave Noumedi bourbon its distinctive flavor and black-and-oil color. For this admiral to call him out of the blue and interrupt his dinner to tell him that they would be displaced again in favor of some Romulans looking to make their own booze was beyond hubris; it had the potential to start another Maquis rebellion. And he knew Noumedi was not the only colony occupied by citizens who would take up arms at the slightest provocation.

*In a manner of speaking,* Admiral Picard replied.

"No," Chakotay informed him.

*No?* Picard echoed, as if he hadn't heard him.

"No," he repeated. "The citizens of Noumedi have no interest in playing whatever part you see for us in this goodwill mission with the Romulans. Most of us were victims to that twenty years ago when the games were being played with the Cardassians, and we won't do it again. If you're looking for another place where they can grow their grains and make their ale, find a place that doesn't already have 10,000 people on it."

*I believe you misunderstand, Governor,* Admiral Picard said in a calm voice that only made Chakotay more annoyed. *I do not want to displace anybody. What I am suggesting is a partnership, for a number of farmers and brewers to join the people of Noumedi, not to take over the settlement.*

"A number," Chakotay echoed. "And just what might that number be? We have 10,000 Federation citizens here—" technically a lie; about 40% of their population was Bajoran, and he certainly didn't care enough about Federation immigration laws to ask how many of them were on a Federation colony legally— "and we're not interested in becoming an oppressed minority on a Romulan settlement."

*A few hundred. No more than a thousand,* Picard replied. *I understand that this is a big ask. And it is an ask; we will not move anybody without the approval of the Noumedi colonists. Talk it over with your council or your advisers, and let me know your decision.*

"My council is more stubborn than I am," Chakotay warned. "I'll tell them about your proposal, but don't expect an approval."

*I await your decision, Governor,* Admiral Picard said with a nod before signing off.

As promised, he brought up Admiral Picard's proposal at the council meeting the following night, and his fellow members of the council took it about as expected. It took less than a minute for them to change the topic of conversation from 'do we allow the Romulans?' to 'how do we leave the Federation?'

"I was at work at the distillery when the earthquakes started on Yurdyuva." Everyone stopped talking to face Dr. Unthank, whose eyes were still on her omnipresent knitting, as if she was talking to herself. "We evacuated the building quickly. Everything was lost, of course, except our lives. Javi wasn't so lucky. He was teaching. The gymnasium collapsed, and he ran in to see if there were any students he could save. He never came out. Nothing we had built survived that day. An entire colony of rubble. Those of us who made it off the planet with our lives and the clothes on our backs were the lucky ones. Or not, depending on your perspective." A few beats of silent knitting. "The Federation gave a dozen or so colonies to the Cardassians and left their citizens to fend for themselves. The Dominion War left several planets uninhabitable." She finally looked up at them, her big dark eyes searching the council members before returning to her knitting. Her fingers hadn't paused in their ministrations. "We were all refugees. Where would any of us be if we hadn't ended up here?"

"They're going to send us Tal Shiar disguised as brewers," Powe Dina complained.

"You operated a Resistance cell. Governor Chakotay had a Maquis ship," Dr. Unthank pointed out. "There aren't too many clean hands on this colony. Let the Tal Shiar come. Let them report back to their superiors that all of you former 'freedom fighters' have turned in your phasers for plows and fermenters. Maybe they will do the same."

As usual, Dr. Unthank was the smartest person in the room.

They reluctantly agreed to allow a Romulan survey team, and then they would make a decision about whether or not to accept the 'few hundred, not more than thousand' Romulan refugees after meeting with the survey team.

Two weeks later, Chakotay stood on the southern continent with a few of his fellow council members, watching the small Romulan ship approach. He realized he was tense, as if prepared for battle, and forced himself to relax, to breathe.

They aren't coming to attack you, he reminded himself.

The ship landed, and a minute later, the rear hatch opened. Chakotay had met a few Romulans, all in his years as a Starfleet officer; they all had the same haircut and the same horrible clothes, and it took this meeting on Noumedi soil to realize that that was a uniform and not representative of the Romulan population. For a second, he felt a little silly and wondered what the Romulans thought of Federation fashion if all they saw were Starfleet officers.

"I'm Governor Chakotay," he greeted, stepping forward and offering his hand. "Welcome to Noumedi."

"Tai," the first Romulan who stepped off greeted, accepting the handshake. He wore comfortable clothing, the type you would expect of someone who spent his days in a brewery, or in a field. "The rest of my team: Yourak, Ela, and Lina. We've all been in the ale business for a number of years."

Chakotay didn't catch the rest of Tai's speech despite his best effort, his eyes continuing to drift over to Lina. There was something about her that was familiar, even though he was sure he had never set eyes on her before. If nothing else, the dark copper hair that fell in thick coils to a bob was pretty distinctive, but it wasn't the hair that had captured his attention. It was her eyes. They weren't on him; they were out on the horizon, on the blue of the distant mountains. There was fear in them—fear for her planet, for what would happen, he didn't know—but there was something else, too. There was a strength, a determination, a tilt of her jaw that told him that, whatever would happen in her life, she was going to face it straight on, and he realized that that was what was familiar. He knew that set of the jaw, that strength, from other women who had worn it.

And he knew that everything was going to be okay.