RATING: PG-13
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is set somewhere in the late fifth season. Sorry if it strays from canon a little. My very first fanfic, PLEASE review....
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns all things Trek, including Voyager, etc.
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Captain Kathryn Janeway stretched out on the couch with a long, contented sigh. A glance around her quarters confirmed the impossible—she was alone.
But even this well-earned and far too long-awaited downtime could not be hers completely. She heaved another sigh, this time edged with resignation, and started scrolling through the large PADD in her hand. After only two minutes of scanning a lengthy tactical update, she let her eyes wander to the viewport beside her.
On the other side of the window, billions of stars spread far into the boundless expanse of the Delta Quadrant. Boundless. Lately it was seeming more and more like they never would reach an end of this unknown region. Daily it threw new challenges in their faces, as if daring them to give up. But they wouldn't, not ever, she promised herself, probably for the millionth time since they had been flung into this quadrant almost five years ago.
Five years…she closed her eyes, and in a few seconds, everything Voyager had been through flashed through her mind. If she had to sum it all up in one word, she would have to say "daunting." Hostile aliens, spatial anomalies, system failures, time travel—they had seen it all, and always managed to come out on top. Honestly, she didn't know how they had survived this long. Every day they faced a new obstacle that tested their abilities and fortitude. She could only pray that maybe, miraculously, this night could pass without some new catastrophe for her to worry over.
"Always expect the unexpected," Janeway murmured, opening her eyes to the stars that eternally twinkled outside her viewport. That was one rule everyone on Voyager knew from day one. No matter what they expected, something else was bound to happen, and unless they someday had grown adept for every possible circumstance, that something else always presented a problem that stretched their capabilities.
Janeway forced her attention back to the matters at hand. She quickly finished the tactical update, and laid it aside, picking up the ship status report. When her gaze fell on the second paragraph, she immediately sat up and focused her full attention on the PADD.
In the last seven months, Voyager has not encountered any species willing to trade for necessary supplies, nor have we had the opportunity to dock and resupply. Our food reserves are expended by 65.7 percent. While the current status of our provisions is not critical, Voyager will have to accumulate fresh supplies within the next three months, or the emergency reserves will have to be accessed. At the current rate, the depletion will reach the crisis point in approximately 4.2 months.
Janeway sat back and regarded the PADD distastefully, as if the device itself was causing her the anxiety she felt. True, it had been months since they had come across any species that answered their hails with anything but weapons fire. But she hadn't realized their supplies were going to run out so soon.
Just another worry to add the list. She took a deep breath and squeezed her tense neck and shoulder muscles. What she wouldn't give for a long, soothing massage right now. But massages were just one of the luxuries she couldn't afford as the captain. In fact, there were so many things she had to sacrifice… Stop it Kathryn, she reprimanded herself. Don't waste your time on self-pity. But she desperately needed to complain to somebody right here and now, just to get everything off her chest. Then maybe she could breathe again. She was suffocating here, underneath all this responsibility.
When did I start getting so depressed? Kathryn tossed aside the PADD that had caused this newest bout of self-evaluation and hugged her knees to her chest, lifting her eyes once again to the viewport. Outside, those stars went on twinkling so cheerfully—too cheerfully, she thought bitterly. As if they were mocking her. Anything and anybody could be lurking beyond that star, or that one…and with their luck, they would run into every one of those potential dangers. They had survived everything so far, but when would their good fortune run out?
She pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling another headache coming on. This was unusual – usually she got these headaches when there was something to stress about. Now there was nothing. But that was just it: there was nothing. And sometimes that could be worse than their normal hectic routine. It certainly gave her time to think, and brood…and she usually wound up depressed and isolated, like now.
No, she told herself firmly. She would not turn this into another guilt trip. Determinedly, she picked up a new PADD and concentrated on B'Elanna's engine report.
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Chief Medical Officer's LogStardate undefined
So far today has been a typically uneventful day in Sickbay. Ever since our last alien encounter, Voyager has fallen into a monotonous routine. The hours come and go, and I am left wondering if the Delta Quadrant had exhausted its seemingly infinite store of 'surprises' on our account.
I spent the morning analyzing gas samples taken from the nebula we passed yesterday. I treated two headaches and one case of acute functional dyspepsia brought on by Mr. Neelix's latest attempt at palatable cuisine. Once again I am grateful that as a hologram I have no dietetic needs.
The captain has suggested that I take some time off since my services haven't exactly been in demand lately. I suppose Mr. Paris can handle the occasional 'bellyaching' I have been attending to while I enjoy some well-deserved time on the holodeck.
Birds twittered in perfect harmony and soft clouds rolled across the blue sky overhead as Voyager's EMH crouched down in the middle of the green. He eyed the distance between the ball and the hole with careful concentration, then stood and slowly circled the area. Three feet…four feet. Three feet five inches. The Doctor sighed. Maybe he should ask B'Elanna to alter his visual subroutines. It certainly would help his game. The thought of just asking the computer how far the ball was from the hole crossed his mind, but he shook his head. If he was on Earth right now, he wouldn't have such luxuries. Finally settling on a middling distance of three feet six inches, he stepped back to the ball and placed the head of his club behind the ball. This was a critical putt if he was going to make par…he couldn't afford to miss it. So, taking a deep breath, he pulled the club back an appropriate distance, and—
"Doctor."
The ball spun off the head of the club, completely missing the hole and landing a good two feet on the other side. The Doctor let out a frustrated breath as he watched it roll to a stop, sealing his loss. Maybe he would never break his own record.
"Doctor." Again the monotone voice called his name, and he lifted his eyes to who he knew was there. As expected, Seven of Nine stood a few feet off, looking at him with an annoying lack of comprehension or repentance for what she had just done.
"Seven," he acknowledged without even trying to conceal his frustration.
"Have I interrupted anything?"
The Doctor looked at the ball's unfortunate position and back at Seven's impassive expression. "No, nothing… Just the proverbial putt of a lifetime."
She did not answer, but glanced with slight inquiry over his outfit. White socks, checked pants, plaid jacket, striped beret sporting a rather overlarge pompom… Frivolous, garish. Obviously he noticed her disapproval. "This is a traditional outfit of golfers in the early twentieth century," he explained defensively.
"I trust their skill in the game was not as deficient as their taste in attire," she commented smoothly.
"I hope you aren't implying that I –" Her direct stare was enough to confirm his suspicions. He frowned, feeling the jab of wounded pride. "For your information, I believe this costume conveys a sense of artistic flair. It helps me get into the spirit of the game."
"I was not aware that 'getting into the spirit' required such…colorful means."
Now she was pushing his tolerance too far. He started to retort, but broke off as he detected a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. She was making fun of him, deliberately. "How did you acquire such a cutting sense of humor?" he grumbled as he turned away to drop his putter into the golf bag standing beside him.
"I believe I acquired it from you," Seven answered smoothly. "After all, you have been encouraging me to cultivate a sense of humor."
"A sense of humor, yes. But I never expected you to branch out into the field of rapier wit."
She merely lifted an eyebrow.
"So, I assume there is a logical reason why you interrupted at such an opportune moment. Or is this merely a social call?"
"I'm sorry if I interrupted your holodeck time. But we did have a dinner engagement, I believe."
The Doctor looked slightly flustered. "We did, didn't we?" He gave the golf ball a pained glance. "I suppose I can test my record another time. Computer, end program." The lush golf course faded into the dismal gray and yellow hologrid, and the Doctor's costume was replaced by his less "colorful" uniform. He smiled at Seven, who seemed slightly relieved, and gestured towards the exit. "Shall we?"
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"Now, let's see how this tastes." Tom Paris stared down at the sorry excuse for a piece of lasagna spread on the plate in front of him. It smelled enough like the real thing, but it looked more like the inside of a Ktarian digestive chamber. Something told him this wasn't going to be good. Tentatively he scooped up a helping on the fork and put it into his mouth. "Ugh, can't even get plain lasagna right!"
"What do you expect from a replicator?" Across the table from him, B'Elanna Torres took a sip of her coffee. "You shouldn't have wasted your rations."
"It was either that or Neelix's steamed leola root soufflé. I'd rather stomach this lasagna." He took another bite and forced a swallow.
"Enjoying yourself?" She surveyed his disgusted expression with obvious amusement.
Tom rewarded her with a warning glare, then something caught his attention. "Well, what do you know?" he said quietly.
B'Elanna followed his line of vision to the mess hall doors, where Seven and the Doctor had just entered together. "What?"
"This is the third time this week they've eaten lunch together," Tom explained, grinning as he watched them.
B'Elanna rolled her eyes. "They don't exactly eat 'together', Tom. Seven eats those disgusting nutritional supplements while the Doctor sits there and talks about himself." She smirked. "I don't know how she can stand it."
Tom glanced at her, not sure whether she meant the supplements or the Doctor's talk, but he suspected she meant the latter. He laughed. "The Doc's obviously carrying a torch for her…"
"I don't see why," B'Elanna muttered, watching Seven as she ordered her daily nutritional supplement at the replicator and carried it over to where the Doctor had sat down. "She's got no personality, and as far as I'm concerned she's just a walking Borg database packaged up in an impossibly perfect body."
"A wolf in sheep's clothing, huh?" He grinned at B'Elanna's glare. "Come on, B'Elanna, you've got to admit she's made some progress."
"She might say 'please' and 'thank you' once in a while but she's got a long way to go before she'll stop getting on my nerves." B'Elanna placed her coffee cup down with a sharp clink. "Sometimes I wonder if she really intends on becoming part of this crew."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not the only one who questions her actions. And how many times has she put this ship into danger? If you ask me the captain trusts her a little too much."
"Don't drag the captain into this, B'Elanna. She's probably the only one who sticks by Seven, who really believes in her."
"Well she can have her then. I for one am not going to stand by and let that blond statue…" She faded off as Tom began throwing frenzied glances towards the other side of the room, gesturing wildly with his eyes. "Tom, what…?" She realized too late that Seven was headed straight for their table, in even, measured paces, a hard expression on her face.
"Lieutenant," Seven greeted B'Elanna coolly, seemingly ignoring Tom. "I suggest that if you harbor complaints about my character you express them directly to me instead of talking about me when you assume I cannot hear."
B'Elanna's eyebrows flew up and she looked uncharacteristically guilty, and surprised. "How could you know what I was talking about? I was barely whispering."
"Whispering," Seven repeated incredulously, but let it pass. "Perhaps you have forgotten that I posses superior auditory abilities. I suggest you do not attempt to discuss me behind my back anymore."
Tom took in the proceedings with visible amusement. He was trying his best not to laugh, but when Seven turned to him, any and all mirth disappeared from his expression.
"Lieutenant Paris, you too took part in this conversation. I am holding you at fault also, although you did attempt to…defend me." She hesitated, again facing B'Elanna. "I was beginning to doubt my initial impressions of you but now I can see that I was correct."
"And just what was your initial impression of me?" B'Elanna challenged, leaning back in her chair to look the tall woman directly in the eye.
Seven clasped her hands behind her back in a characteristic stance. "You are unpredictable, easily angered and aroused, and have a violent disposition. Your volatile temper makes you hard to get along with professionally and socially."
She wasn't being intentionally insulting, just completely honest, but nevertheless the truth of her words stung. B'Elanna could feel her Klingon anger rising in full force. "Unpredictable? Violent?" she snapped, eyes flashing. "You have no room to talk. Let me tell you something, Seven, I was beginning to doubt my 'initial impression' of you, too. But you really are just as arrogant, cold, conceited—"
"B'Elanna…" Tom rounded the table and tried to pull her out of her chair. "Let's go."
"No, Tom, this time I've really had it!" She turned back to Seven. "You wanted me to talk about you right to your face, then all right, you got it. You may think you're deceiving us with your 'efficiency' and your expertise but you can't fool me that easily. You were Borg and that's all you'll ever be!"
"B'Elanna!" Tom shouted, grabbing her arm. "That's enough!"
She shot him a furious glare, but bit her tongue, arms crossed stubbornly over her chest.
Tom looked from one to the other, not knowing who to side with. Seven looked more surprised by B'Elanna's outburst than anything, and B'Elanna was practically seething with rage. He had never known she disliked the ex-Borg that much. If he sided with Seven, B'Elanna would probably never speak to him again, but on the other hand Seven could be a formidable enemy, especially because of how close she was with the captain. He was still pondering the dilemma when the Doctor stepped up to them.
"Well, I see Seven's little speech didn't exactly help the situation."
"Help?" B'Elanna snorted. "She started it! Why—"
"B'Elanna!" Tom took her arm again, earning him a dangerous look, but he didn't care. This had to stop. "Come on." He pulled her away from Seven, towards the mess hall exit, giving Seven an apologetic glance before they disappeared through the doors.
The Doctor studied Seven's carefully guarded expression and felt a twinge of sincere holographic sympathy.
"Your advice was flawed," Seven said calmly, turned her head to look at him.
"I was trying to help you. Confronting an issue like gossip will familiarize you with dealing with personal problems."
"I have gained no experience," she countered coolly. "Instead I have made a permanent enemy of Lieutenant Torres. It will greatly hinder our already sensitive professional relationship."
"I'm sorry, Seven," the Doctor apologized earnestly. "I was only trying to help."
"No doubt. But I fail to see how this situation can be rectified." She was truly at a loss, despite her collected exterior. A poor professional relationship would hinder their efforts when they had to work together in Engineering. It would make them less efficient.
The Doctor smiled. "Why don't you go tell her you're sorry?"
"Sorry?" Seven lifted an incredulous eyebrow. "Given Lieutenant Torres's incensed emotional state I doubt such an action would be advisable at this time."
"Just give her time to cool off," he advised quietly. "I'm sure she'll come around soon enough."
Seven gave a slight nod, and started back for their lunch table. The Doctor followed with a soft sigh. She still had so much to learn about human interaction.
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"B'Elanna, what got into you in there?" Tom asked in disbelief as soon as the mess hall doors closed after them.
She stopped and leaned back against the wall, avoiding his inquisitive eyes. "I don't know," she muttered, still angry. "It's just…I don't know!"
"I know you and Seven don't get along but I've never heard you blow up on her like that."
"Well now you have!" B'Elanna snapped, pushing herself away from the wall and stalking off down the hall, leaving Tom to stare after her in complete confusion.
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