Title: From A Survivor
Disclaimer: All characters owned by Paramount Studios. No copyright
infringement intended.
Summary: Admiral Janeway's thoughts before her mission in Endgame. Spoilers.
This was a monster demanding to be written.
*
My ready room remains my sanctum, the one place I can generally escape the
public without neglecting
duty-or, at the very least, neglect duty in private.

Only problem is, they don't call these Admiral's haunts ready rooms, and this
one isn't exactly Voyager's.
It's a command closet...but Voyager's...that one had memories. It had a
thousand living holoprogrammes
bursting into life any given day, and a few in particular linger.

Seven, for instance. I'm sure the number of confrontations I had with our
resident former Borg in
Voyager's ready room doesn't bear counting, but the last...the very last...is
as vivid as the actual event.
We were a decade into our journey, and Seven was still slowly working herself
into our dubious niche of
humanity...ring finger first.

She and Chakotay had been married less than a month, and I frankly didn't care
to speak to either of
them alone for at least another. Starship captains do indeed get jealous. They
just don't like showing it,
or admitting it, until all is said and done and it doesn't matter anymore.

Both of them are dead. Who can I hurt?

Seven came to me early in the shift that morning, report in one implant-ridden
hand, the other clenched
behind her back. She had developed the habit when in my presence, hiding that
ring. I felt brief
annoyance...crewmen simply shouldn't fall to feeling pressured into hiding
things away from the captain,
however sensitive the hiding is. I forced myself to speak, evenly, amiably.
"Coffee, Seven? Harry
introduced a new blend to me..."

She shook her head, slowly, gingerly sitting.

I couldn't help but smile, albeit humorlessly. "You still haven't gotten used
to your humanity, have you?"

The eyes were calm, the unhindered brow lifting. "I suppose not."

"However the hell do you manage those spirit quests, then?" Even attempting to
visualize Seven in
Chakotay's favored meditative position was...well, quite amusing.

Her smile was tight, false. "I do not meditate. I believe attempting to end the
existence of one spirit
guide is enough. Do not tell Commander Torres of this, of course. I understand
that she desires as little
likeness to me as possible."

"Seven." I hated myself, then, for letting the unease show, for putting that
emptiness in her voice, the
expectation of scorn, of shunning. "Don't be absurd. We are your family."

"Yes." Quiet, thoughtful, the remark barely passed my ears. "As was the Borg
Collective." Then, catching
my gaze, she inclined her head. "Chakotay and I will be parents. We intend to
honor you as namesake."

"I am honored, then."

"No." Echo again, no inflection. "You are not, but your saying so is
admirable." And she left, with no look
back.

I could've called her back, I suppose, but the alienation would only have
turned to outright chill, and I
didn't feel up to dealing with it. I needed Seven at her best that day, and
chose to leave it be. Chakotay
apparently picked up on her mood, however, and decided otherwise.

"Just who do you think you are?"

I turned from the viewport as he entered...only moments later...meeting the
gaze of my subject of
reflection. His eyes were dark, burning, lips tightened into thin anger. "I'm
afraid you've lost me,
Chakotay." Damn deliberately too. What now? Hadn't the earlier gauntlet run
been enough?

"Oh, I did." Soft, lashing, the voice cut through the room. "And for once I
can't say I'm especially sorry for
it."

"This is about Seven."

"No. This is about you."

"Chakotay, what else do you want me to do? I married you to her. I work
alongside you every day and I
haven't forsaken her either, though God only knows getting through the walls
she's thrown up can, at
times, be a great deal like grinding teeth..."

"I'm your friend, Kathryn. I've known a few people who would've been grateful
for less than that."

"She's jealous?" Maybe the last word did come out a hiss, but what did he
expect? After coffee, I could've
dealt with this. After a few of Tom's jokes to ease the mood, I could've
handled it. No coffee, no jokes.
Just flat out mule-headed confrontation. He'd just have to handle it.

"I wouldn't put it that way. A little stressed. She's pregnant..."

"So she mentioned." I cut in. "And frankly, I'm a little appalled at the
timing. I can't chastise you for the
relationship, she is non-Starfleet and, by all definitions, a self-sufficient
adult, but I can and will point out
that trial runs are recommended before forging permanent bonds. I realize
you've been married a while
now and hope to have children, but it's a bit reckless at this point. I'm not
convinced Seven is settled into
the relationship yet and Voyager certainly isn't in an easy stretch of space at
the present time. This is a
warship, Commander, and lately it's more war than ship. We all have to consider
that."

He ignored the lecture. "She's pregnant, and you know that means certain
sacrifices on the part of the
rest of us. B'Elanna's empathetic enough to leave her alone, why can't the
captain?"

I suppose anyone else would've been two steps from the brig after that one, but
it's testament that I was
nowhere nearly immune to him as I'd have liked that Chakotay stayed put,
frowning down like one of
those imperturbable native legends of his. I merely clamped my retort back,
moderating my tones
instead. "I apologize if Seven, or you, Commander, feel that I've done
something-don't bother to tell me
details-to stress her. Your wife is my astrometrics officer. I am her captain.
As second-in-command, you
know very well that requires some degree of contact daily. I can't control the
rigors of service any more
than Seven can control any...paranoia...her hormones might be causing."

His lips quirked, grudgingly enough, I'm sure. "Don't tell her that."

"I'm sure Tom would be willing to empathize with you on the hazards of marriage
and pregnant spouses."

"Not on pregnant former Borg spouses. Even Paris is staying clear of her bad
side." He sat, hands
absently passing through his hair. "I'm sorry I barged in like that, Kathryn."

"Just don't do it again, Commander." Somehow, though, the sharpness dwindled
into tiredness. "And
since you are here, we'd better move on to related, more official matters. The
Fen Domar are visiting."

"The Fen Domar hate Borg."

"The Fen Domar hate everyone. Borg are just a little higher on the list. Given
what the collective has
done...assimilated a third of the population, harnessed nearly all
technology...I can't especially blame
them. I do, however, fear for Seven. It would be better if she remained in your
quarters until they leave."

"You think they'd actually attempt something on Voyager?" He leaned forward
until I could practically
touch the furrows of the tattoo.

"I think a diplomatically rouged face can hide a great many scars."

He stood, nodding. "She won't be happy with the idea, but an order will hold
her. In the meantime, we
can arrange a meeting planetside...shift them away from Voyager as often as
possible. Play diplomatic
hardball."

"Kiss the hand that feeds you before they strangle you?"

He left me to mull the option, but I had to recognize the wisdom in his
idea...the Fen Domar were a
powerful, perhaps too vengeful, race. Their territory was an expanse of rough
space...and we were right
in the middle of it. We had to go through, none of us were willing to take long
routes anymore. I also
didn't anticipate a smooth passage if they took a disliking to us, and letting
them know of seven was
simply out of the question, and entirely too dangerous...for all of us.

And yet she disobeyed us.

Seven was a grown woman. By all means, my logs declared it so, and she ought to
have known it. I didn't
ask a great deal of her in those days, but I expected obedience. If not
obedience, respect for Chakotay.
Hell, he was her husband. She could've considered that, but, with her usual
childlike resoluteness, she
reached her conclusions and made her decisions without either of us.

She went planetside, enlisted assistance in beaming down after Chakotay and the
away team had left by
shuttle. The rest is in the logs, and I don't care to go into detail. She and
the child she carried paid for
that misjudgment with their lives.

End book.

Never.

The real story always picks up, soars on broken wings, with those left behind.

Death, the last voyage, the longest, and the best. So said a man named Thomas
Wolfe. For Seven's sake,
I certainly hope so. For Chakotay's sake, I pray so. They were both lost to us
that day.

He left, left Voyager, left me, left B'Elanna, left the Maquis rank bar on his
desk and a decades worth of
duty for Tom Paris to pick up in his place. I'd like to say I understood. How
can I? I don't run from
grief. I don't consider the staying a strength. I simply can't run. He could.
There's no gray-scale of
understanding between humans on issues such as grief and death. We each deal in
our own way.

Perhaps he sought just that, solitude, distance. For three years, we supposed
he had found it.

Chakotay came home, older, less alive. Just as with his departure, he didn't
bother to mark the occasion
with a hailing, just steered the battered little shuttle back into shuttlebay
during routine cargo loading
and strode right back into the ready room, sitting down as if he'd never left.

I was startled, certainly, and though security had given warning, if not halted
him, I found myself faintly
amazed by the face to face contact. God, he looked tired, and old...old
war-horse, that's the term Torres
would use. At the time, there were no terms, simply a hand grasp and whisper.
"Three years, Chakotay."

"I realized that it's time to put Seven to rest." His eyes darkened, lost in
distances I didn't even attempt
to travail. "Her stasis pod, I assume it's still kept up?" At my nod, a faint
smile rose. "I want a ceremony.
A Starfleet one, and you at it's head. She idolized you, in her way...it was
only a sign of her maturation
that things eventually fell as they did between you. She struggled so hard...I
think the marriage was
more than a commitment to Seven. She wanted proof that she was needed, desired.
I probably failed to
live up to her high expectations of marital bliss, and that only made her more
determined to heal the
damage. She was a good wife. I believe she would have been a good mother. She
had enough love to
give...that she needed to give someone. After she was gone...it's been a long
while since I've cared about
anything beyond that loss. Pain is a bitter, bitter aloe, Kathryn. Guard
yourself in the future. It makes you
do incomprehensible things..."

"I won't ask you what you've done, for I know well enough what they did to you.
I just ask you to stay,
Chakotay. This ship needs you. I need you. And we all need you to keep Seven
with us, if only in
memory."

His smile was pained, quirky. "I've nowhere else to go, Kathryn. Voyager is
home. Seven would want me
here."

"I can't give you your position back. Tom earned his place. Helm, however..."

"I was one of the best pilots in the Alpha Quadrant." The tones approached
humorous. "Of course, that
was the Alpha Quadrant."

"That's where we're headed." What to say? I wanted to throw myself into his
arms...did he realize what
the years had done to us all? I supposed not. Chakotay was back, but there was
a distance, a reserve, an
almost detached air. He kept his sanctum, and his word, and stayed.

We made it home.

He had a Starfleet ceremony, and I was at the head of it.

And somehow, if I can change it all...the honor doesn't mean a damned thing.

*
From A Survivor- Adrienne Rich

The pact that we made was the ordinary pact
Of men and women in those days
I don't know who we thought we were
That our personalities
Could resist the failures of the race
Lucky or unlucky, we didn't know
The race had failures of that order
And that we were going to share them
Like everybody else, we thought of ourselves as special
Your body is as vivid to me
As it ever was, evenmore
Since my feeling for it is clearer
I know what it could do and could not do
It is no longer
The body of a god
Or anything with power over my life...
...and you are wastefully dead
Who might have made the leap
We talked, too late, of making
Which I live now
Not as a leap
But a succession of brief, amazing movements
Each one making possible the next