TITLE: Encounter in the Borderlands (The Borderlands Trilogy #1)
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
PART: 1/3
CODES: J/C
RATING: G
DISCLAIMERS: Paramount owns the characters, the situations, and any other aspects of Star Trek: Voyager with real cash value. And if money is what you love, that is what you will receive…
SUMMARY: Sixteen years after Voyager's return to the AQ, Janeway encounters her former first officer. She's surprised to realize how much he's changed – and how much she hasn't.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: It looks as if, after all these years (and having gotten away from the pairing), I still had one more J/C story left in me. This story, as well as its sequel, "Return to the Borderlands," were written back in 1999, and have been slightly revised to bring them into line with series continuity. Story #3, "A Woman of the Borderlands," is brand-spankin'-new, and provides a long-needed conclusion to this storyline.

Encounter in the Borderlands
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring

"This is the Borderlands Merchant Ship Guyasuta. We have encountered an asteroid storm and taken heavy damage. We are facing possible life-support failure. Requesting assistance from any vessel within range. Repeat: this is the Borderlands Merchant Ship Guyasuta..." and the call repeated itself.

On the bridge of the U.S.S. Hastings, Admiral Kathryn Janeway jerked her chin up. The voice, that voice was so familiar...

"Hail the Guyasuta," Captain McMasters said. "Tell them we've received their distress call and are responding. We should reach them in — estimated time of arrival, Mister Avrial?"

"Six hours, forty-three minutes at current rate of speed," the Andorian answered.

"They may not have six hours and forty-three minutes, Mister Avrial," the captain said gravely. "Can you give me Warp Five?"

"With pleasure, ma'am. That will get us there in — thirty-five minutes."

"Much better. Do it."

"Chakotay," Janeway said, startled.

"Ma'am?" McMasters asked.

"That's who's making that distress call. Lieutenant Trapletti, put me through to the Guyasuta."

"Yes, ma'am." Obviously mystified, the communications officer made the connections.

Her heart beating a little more quickly, Janeway hailed the merchant ship in tones she hoped did not betray her anticipation. "Guyasuta, this is Admiral Kathryn Janeway aboard the U.S.S. Hastings. Captain Chakotay," and she used the title with certainty, for surely her former first officer would be the master of this vessel, "please respond."

The comm unit crackled to renewed life, though no image took shape on the viewscreen. "Kathryn Janeway?" The surprise and delight in Chakotay's voice were evident. "Admiral Kathryn Janeway? What the hell are you doing way out here, Admiral?"

"Well, I thought I was here for an inspection tour of the borderlands starbases. But it looks like I'm coming to your rescue instead." She couldn't keep the smile off her face.

"Wouldn't be the first time, would it?" She could almost hear his answering smile. "Marja," and this was obviously an aside, "can you give me visual?"

"Working on it, sir," said a young-sounding voice, slightly distorted with static. The viewscreen flickered, and there he was: Chakotay, as she hadn't seen him in — God, had it been almost thirteen years now? He'd changed, his once raven-black hair now streaked with gray and gathered into a long tail at the nape of his neck, the crow's-feet about his eyes deeper and more pronounced, his round face a little hollower, a little craggier. Though she knew he had not been a Starfleet officer in a long time, it still seemed very strange to see him out of uniform; he was dressed almost as she remembered him from their long-ago first meeting, in dark-striped shirt and long, leatherlike vest. More surprising even than that, her formerly dapper and clean-shaven first officer had — it would have been generous to call it a "beard" — thick black-and-gray stubble covering the lower half of his face.

His smile, though, was no different than it had ever been: brilliant, all-encompassing, a simple movement of lips and facial muscles lighting up his whole countenance and radiating warmth to everyone in visual range. Janeway's own smile widened in response.

Behind Chakotay, his small bridge was neat, organized chaos, with a handful of crewmembers working busily at an assortment of stations. All had slim straight bodies, most had dark, dark hair, and the few faces Janeway could see looked unlined and extremely young.

"It's good to see you again," Chakotay was saying warmly. "You look great."

Few people outside of Kathryn's own family would have addressed her so personally, and she felt a blush threaten to erupt. To forestall it, she teased, "I bet you say that to all the admirals who save your neck."

"Of course," he answered, pulling a solemn face. "Admiral Necheyev almost turned around and left."

Necheyev's lack of either humor or patience were almost legendary. Janeway shook her head, lips quirking. "So what seems to be the problem, Chakotay?"

Still mock-solemn, he said, "Well, I seem to have lost control of my sensors for about an hour, and we seem to have been overtaken by an asteroid swarm." The seriousness took on a real tone. "My hull's been compromised in a few places, and an energy junction was holed. We're having trouble maintaining power to life support, and my engineer says we won't have the energy to keep our structural force fields up indefinitely. You timed your appearance very well, Admiral."

"Glad I could help. Tell your people that, if they can hold things together for half-an-hour, the cavalry is on its way over the hill."

Chakotay snorted, shaking his head. "You forget I might not think of that as a good thing," he said wryly.

After a moment, and a mental flashback to one of Tom Paris's precious 20th-century holofilm programs — this one focusing on the 20th century's view of the past rather than of the future — Janeway remembered that, in the films at least, the United States Cavalry had generally arrived on the scene to fight "Injuns," an old pejorative meaning Indians, or rather, Native Americans. Chakotay's people. Shaking her head with an embarrassed little smile, she had to agree with her former first officer's assessment.

She still remembered the last time she had seen him, some thirteen years ago. Chakotay had been a Starfleet officer then, assigned as an instructor at Starfleet Academy.


When the Borg junction had brought Voyager back to the Alpha Quadrant, about two years previously, the rejoicing over their return had been great, both in Starfleet and out. Starfleet's still-recent victory in the Dominion War had been a costly one, resulting in the loss of hundreds of ships and many thousands of personnel. One ship's, any ship's, survival was something to celebrate.

In the first flush of jubilation, Janeway could have written her own ticket, claimed any position in the Admiralty that wasn't already occupied by a Dominion War hero. She had settled for a post in the Sciences department, one for which she would have been qualified even under ordinary circumstances. Her more extravagant demands were aimed at ensuring the welfare of her crew, particularly those on whom Starfleet might normally have felt less inclined to bestow its largesse: people like Seven of Nine, or Tom Paris. Or, of course, the Maquis.

Seven's value in Research and Development was as plain as the implants on her face. Though Starfleet could never accept her as an officer because of the security risk they felt her past represented, they made no obstacle to her becoming an employee of one of the civilian engineering firms with whom they contracted. As for Paris, Janeway never knew what offer he received, only that he refused it. After making his peace with his father — time and loss having mellowed the older Paris enough to make that possible — Tom took off for a colony world. And the Maquis...

None were imprisoned. Janeway and a small army of very expensive attorneys saw to that, pleading that the service the former terrorists (or freedom fighters, depending on one's politics) had rendered to Voyager more than proved their rehabilitation. The small handful of Bajorans in Chakotay's former crew were repatriated to their homeworld; after recent events, Bajor was, if not eager, then certainly willing, to take in anyone who had fought the Cardassians. A few others from Federation worlds were likewise restored to their birthplaces, which welcomed them with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

But most of the ex-Maquis had come from worlds in the Demilitarized Zone, worlds which had been heavily damaged, or environmentally compromised, or outright destroyed, by Cardassian bloodlust and Jem'Hadar firepower in the earliest stage of the Dominion War. Most of them had nowhere to go.

With perceptible reluctance, Starfleet tendered employment offers to Chakotay and to B'Elanna Torres, Voyager's only Maquis officers with Starfleet Academy training. Chakotay accepted his offer with apparent pleasure; B'Elanna, of course, went with Tom and their daughter. For the other Maquis, they offered transport to whatever available colony world, in the former DMZ or elsewhere, that would take them. Those few who could, returned to their homes in the DMZ; the rest tended to pick colony worlds as far from the Cardassian border — and from Earth — as possible. She heard from some of them occasionally, when transmission conditions permitted.

In the three years since their return to Alpha, Chakotay was one of the few of her former officers whom she actually saw on a regular basis. Since he worked within what he considered running distance of her office (she considered it aircar distance herself, but he loved to run), he thought nothing of showing up in her doorway of an evening, once or twice a month, just as she was closing up shop. "Busy tonight?" he'd ask casually. If the answer was "yes," he'd keep on jogging. If the answer was "no," he'd invite her to join him for dinner, usually at some little restaurant or another he claimed to have just discovered. In his company, she had become acquainted (or re-acquainted) with a wide variety of cuisines, from Louisiana Cajun, to Vulcan, and once, even to Klingon. Then, over coffee or tea or pejuta, they discussed recent events: who had heard from whom, and who was doing what, and what were the newest developments in her work, or in his. Then she'd drop him off at his bachelor flat, and not see him again until the next time he showed up on her doorstep, asking, "busy tonight?"

He never called ahead of time. Perhaps she should have been alerted the afternoon he did.

"Chakotay," she said, with surprise and some pleasure, seeing his image form on her desk monitor's screen.

"Kathryn," he said. He seemed tired, perhaps a little ill, dark eyes shadowed and cheeks hollower than usual. Tiny lines she had never noticed before creased the skin around eyes and mouth. "Are you busy tonight?" His voice was hoarse.

"Are you all right?" she asked involuntarily, the question jerked out of her by the evident changes in him.

"Fine," he said quietly, not managing his usual smile. "Are you busy tonight? We need — I need to talk to you."

"All right," she said, mystified.

"Rossi's?" The nearby Italian restaurant was a mutual favorite.

"All right. Eighteen-thirty?"

"Fine." With uncharacteristic abruptness, he signed off.

Disturbed by his aspect and his tone, she found it difficult to concentrate on her reports. Finishing up later than usual, she discovered she had no time to stop at her own apartment or change out of uniform, and barely time to make it to the restaurant.

He was there when she arrived, sitting at a small table already laid out with salads and drinks. Evidently he had taken the liberty of ordering for both — well, he knew well enough by now what she liked. From the looks of his own food and drink, though, he had barely touched either. Instead, he was looking off in the distance, at what she could not tell.

When his eyes came to her, he said softly, "Kathryn." He managed the smile that time, though there was a quality to it she could not quite interpret, something wistful and a little sad.

"Chakotay." She felt a little strain in the smile that formed on her own lips. "Are you all right?" she asked again, taking her seat, reaching over to touch one big hand where it rested on the snowy tablecloth.

He didn't move his hand away, but he didn't respond to the gesture in any other way, either. "Fine," he echoed his earlier response to her query, his expression turning a little guarded.

"You said you needed to talk to me."

"Yes." He averted his face for a moment, then brought his head back up to look directly into her eyes. "I'm leaving Starfleet, Kathryn."

She felt the breath burst out of her, as if knocked from her by a body blow in one of the boxing programs he was so fond of. "What?"

"I'm leaving Starfleet," he repeated levelly. "I'm resigning my commission."

"What?" she said again, stupidly, certain that she must have heard him wrong. Chakotay loved Starfleet as few who had served it all their lives loved it. With the end of the Dominion War, the politics that had separated him from the organization had been resolved, for better or worse. She had even managed to secure him the teaching position he'd said he wanted, so long ago. How could he — why would he — The questions passed her lips in a gasp. "How? Why?"

"It's not home any more, Kathryn." His look was steady, but there was something ineffably sad in the dark eyes that met hers. "It's not what I thought it was, once. Maybe it never was."

"I don't understand," she said, dimly afraid that she did, more afraid that she wouldn't be able to counter his reasons, whatever they were. How had she missed this change of heart?

He looked away again, his hand describing a circle in the air, then closing as if it were trying to grasp the right words. Finally, he said, "The Starfleet I wanted to join, back when I was a boy, was...freedom. Exploration. Progress." He snorted a little, humorlessly. "Everything I thought my homeworld wasn't." His hand tightened further in what looked like frustration, taking on the appearance of a fist. "And what Starfleet is now, is protocol, and backbiting, and politics."

"Well, but...you're on Earth now." She understood something of that particular aggravation, having spent many days dealing with deskbound admirals jealous of their privileges and eager to exercise their petty tyrannies. "Of course it's all politics here. Maybe what you need is to get back out in the field, Chakotay," she said in what she hoped was an encouraging voice. He couldn't leave Starfleet. He couldn't leave..."It would be different if you were on a —"

"I've tried to transfer," he said, an edge to his voice. "I've been refused. Twice." That took the wind out of her sails, and she simply looked at him, in disbelief. He snorted again, and looked back at her, the grief she'd seen earlier mingling with something cynical and old that she had never before seen in his countenance. "I made an appointment with Admiral Marotta in Personnel, and asked him why. He told me —" Chakotay's lips compressed into a line. "He told me I should be glad I was in Starfleet and not in jail, because if it were up to him I wouldn't have had the option. And he said he wouldn't force any line officer to serve beside a traitor."

Kathryn's jaw dropped. When she'd recovered from the astonishment and outrage sufficiently to find words, she said sharply, "Go over his head! He's only one —"

"No, Kathryn," Chakotay answered with quiet finality. "He's not the only one who feels that way. Have you read what the latest history texts say about the Maquis?"

"No, I..." She was at a loss to respond, and didn't think it mattered anyway; he was all-too-obviously not going to be dissuaded from his intent to leave. Defeated, she murmured, "Where will you go? What will you do?"

"I don't have anything to hold me on Earth." He searched her face, as if he were looking for something. Evidently he didn't find it, for he continued: "B'Elanna's said I could stay with her and Tom for a while."

He had told B'Elanna before he had told her

Then Kathryn realized just how long it had been since he'd mentioned having a personal conversation with anyone other than her. In all their time on Earth, she could not recall his ever mentioning any friends, other than their few former shipmates who still remained on-planet.

"I still have most of my back pay from Voyager," he was going on, unaware of her internal commentary. "Maybe I'll make a down payment on a ship. B'Elanna says they need ships and pilots out in the borderlands. Mostly for supply runs, I suppose."

The region called "the borderlands" was near the galaxy's rim, so far from the Federation's core that Starfleet barely patrolled it. Something thickened in Kathryn's throat at the thought of his taking up residence in that distant place, and she almost said, impulsively, "Stay." But what could she do, what could she give him, that would be enough to hold him here in the face of everything else?

Instead, she said, "Don't you go getting involved with some new version of the Maquis." Though she tried to make a joke of it, the words fell flat.

The corners of his lips quirked upward then, in a smile that never reached his eyes. "I'll try to stay out of trouble."


True to Janeway's word, the cavalry "came over the hill" in time to assist a certain Native American and his crew. When next the admiral spoke to her former first officer, it was to request permission for a repair team to board the Guyasuta.

"I think that can be allowed," Chakotay said gravely, exactly as if there had been some chance he'd refuse the help he'd sought. (But then, as she recalled, he'd always had a strange sense of humor.) "And will you be joining them, Admiral?"

"I didn't think merchant ships submitted to Starfleet inspections," she answered with a smile.

"Inspections, no," he said. "Visits, yes. Some of my crew would love to meet you, Admiral."

"Then I'd love to come aboard, Captain."

"We'll be looking forward to it."

Janeway returned to her quarters just long enough to pack a shoulder bag, before reporting to the transporter room with the repair team. If they were a little surprised at having such august company, they were well-trained enough not to show it.

Chakotay met them in Guyasuta's transporter room, accompanied by a young member of his crew who looked somehow, improbably, familiar. The former commander greeted Janeway with a broad smile and a handshake that reminded her of the strength he'd usually kept well-hidden. (He was so big, close up. How had she forgotten that?)

"And this," he was saying, gesturing to the slim, dark-haired girl beside him, "is my engineer. Admiral, you remember Miral?"

The name struck a familiar chord, and of a sudden Janeway made the connection. "You're Miral Paris!" she said in surprise. The last time Janeway had seen her in person, this young woman had been a baby, but she had seen many holos and 2-D flat photos of Miral and her siblings since then, courtesy of Admiral Owen Paris. Wide brown eyes, high cheekbones and faint forehead ridges marked the girl as her mother's daughter, but her height was her father's; she was long-legged and nearly as tall as Chakotay.

The girl grinned at Janeway with a brash cheeriness that showed she had inherited more than height from Tom Paris. "Admiral Janeway, I'm so glad to meet you," she said warmly, in a strong alto startlingly like B'Elanna's. "Mom and Dad talk about you all the time."

"Your grandfather talks about you all the time, too," Janeway answered, recovering from her surprise. "He said you were studying engineering. But you're young to be a working engineer, aren't you? If I recall, you're only sixteen."

"That's right," Miral said cheerfully. "But I've been working with engines since I was a little girl."

"We don't have a lot of formal education on Metzlan," Chakotay put in. "Most of our young people learn their professions as apprentices. Miral qualified as a journeywoman just after her last birthday, and B'Elanna says she's one of the best she's ever trained."

"I'm sure she is," Janeway answered gravely, causing the girl's grin to widen further.

"Miral?" Chakotay prompted gently.

With obvious reluctance, the girl turned away from Janeway, to the waiting repair crew. Gathering them up with professionalism beyond her years, she led them from the transporter room. "Let me show you where we're having trouble..."

Janeway looked after them, reminded with a sudden pang of Miral's mother making assignments to her own Engineering staff, so many years ago. "It looks as if she shows a lot of promise," she said, to cover the sentiment. "Will she get any formal training?"

"Probably," Chakotay answered, also looking after the young girl, something almost paternally proud in his expression. "She really is one of the best and the brightest. After we make a few more trips, Tom and B'Elanna will probably petition the Colonial Council to send her away to school, and I'll testify on her behalf. I think they'll send her." He made an after-you gesture toward the door. "Would you like the cook's tour?"

"Certainly." She preceded him through the exit, at his direction turning left down a small length of corridor. "So your colony pays for her education?"

"If she agrees to stay on Metzlan for the first decade after she graduates."

That seemed an unnecessary shackle on a bright young woman. "You know her grandfather would be delighted to send her to school."

"We try to take care of our own," Chakotay answered quietly.

"Perhaps she could apply to the Academy."

Chakotay stiffened. "I'm sure she could."

Janeway wasn't sure precisely what she'd said to offend him, but something in his tone, in his posture, recalled an early argument she'd had with him, about B'Elanna Torres. She could almost hear his impassioned words: "She's the best engineer I've ever known! She could teach at the Academy!"

She shook her head to clear it of the memory, saw her former first officer shaking his head as well. "Shall we start with the bridge?" he asked, in a more normal voice.

"Let's," she said, relieved, and they took the turbolift to the command center.

The rest of the tour proceeded without incident. Guyasuta proved to be an older vessel, though obviously carefully maintained; Janeway wondered if it was the same ship Chakotay had spoken of wanting to buy back when he'd first decided to move to the colonies. It was small by starship standards, and about mid-sized for a civilian freighter, with most of its interior devoted to capacious cargo holds, filled at the moment with an odd mix of medical supplies, electronics, and farm equipment. Including Chakotay himself, the crew numbered only fourteen, most of them looking no older than Miral. Janeway shook hands with all of them, including Miral's brother Miguel, an apprentice pilot, and as much a compact copy of their father as Miral was an elongated version of their mother.

The tour concluded in the captain's cabin, a tiny room that would have fit within the refresher of Janeway's quarters on the Hastings. The only pieces of furniture were a narrow bed, a desk just big enough to bear a monitor and control board, a small nightstand, and a wall-mounted counter with a couple of chairs. It was to these last that he led her, popping open a drawer beneath the counter to reveal a small cache of cookies that looked homemade. "Still a cook, I see," she remarked.

"Still like to eat," he returned cheerfully. "Help yourself. Let me see what I can offer you to drink."

She smiled. "I brought my own." Setting her shoulder bag up on the counter, she undid the catches and unloaded the contents: a large, thermally-insulated flask of dark Columbian coffee, flavored with cream and sugar, just as he liked it.

He sniffed deeply as she opened the flask, and a slow smile shaped on his own face. "Mmm. You always did know where to get good coffee."

"Rank hath its privileges." She pulled a couple of mugs out of the bag and filled them with the fragrant beverage. "Enjoy." Passing one to him, she raised the other to her own lips, and they drank in a companionable silence that felt surprisingly like old times. She sampled a cookie, found it delicately sweet and delicious. "Mmm. You haven't lost your touch."

"Thanks."

She took another cookie. "So is this your private stash, or do you share it with your crew?"

"Sometimes." He popped another cookie into his own mouth. "They're good kids."

"Kids' being the operative word." She nibbled at her treat. "Is it just me, or are they really all about sixteen years old?"

"Pretty much." He held up a hand — she guessed, to forestall the objections he anticipated. "They're trainees. Mostly journeymen, a few apprentices."

"No —" she tried to remember the rank progression for such systems — "master craftsmen?"

"Aboard? Only me." He shrugged. "Technical expertise is at a premium on Metzlan, so those of us who have technical educations and field experience end up taking on a lot of trainees. Mostly it works out pretty well."

"Mmm hmm," she said noncommittally, thinking privately that it hadn't worked very well for him today. If Hastings hadn't picked up his distress signal...

"And of course," he added, "the master craftspeople, like B'Elanna, supervise the critical maintenance when I take Guyasuta home."

That was somewhat reassuring. "So you see a lot of B'Elanna?"

"Yeah." He took another swallow of his coffee, a blissful expression momentarily stealing into his eyes. "After all, I am part of Paris Shipping."

Janeway's jaw dropped, and her coffee mug was suspended in mid-air for a good fifteen seconds. "You work for Tom?"

"I work with Tom," he corrected, punctuating the words with another swallow of coffee. "I'm an investor. When I first came out here, he was trying to get the business off the ground, but he was short on capital and pilots. I was in a position to help with both, so I did. And here I am."

"And here you are," she echoed. Tom must be short of pilots even now, she thought, if his partner was still doing field work — especially given Chakotay's skill at administration.

"One of these days I'll have my replacement trained," he added, as if he'd heard her thoughts. "Then I'd like to spend a little more time planetside."

"Spacesick?" she asked lightly.

"Homesick," he rejoined. "I miss my daughter."

Time stopped.

She knew she was staring at him, but couldn't help it. Of course, she had been foolish to think that the beard, the clothes, his job, were all that had changed about him... He looked steadily back. "Your daughter?" she said, at last.

"Lanaya." He got up from his chair, took the few steps to his nightstand, and retrieved a framed 2-D flat photo from its perch. Returning, he handed the picture to her.

A pretty young girl looked back at her with Chakotay's chocolate eyes and infectious smile. She was six or seven, no more, small and slim, with long black hair braided down her back and a soft cloth doll clutched in her little hands. "She's beautiful," Janeway said, which was no more than the truth. "Is she with...your wife now?" The words felt strange in Janeway's mouth, but she knew that her former first officer was not the type to father a child on a woman he didn't love enough to marry. His wife...a woman he loved...

"She's with Tom and B'Elanna," he said quietly. "Her mother, my wife, is dead."

"My God," she said, shocked out of her discomfiture. "How?"

He looked away, but not before she caught the flash of pain in the brown eyes his daughter had inherited. "Childbirth."

"But no one dies in —" No one dies in childbirth any more.

"We don't exactly have state-of-the-art medical care here," he said, his voice low. "She just — something went wrong. Nakeema lost too much blood. Tom and the midwife did everything they could, but..." He was still not looking at her, but Janeway did not need to see his eyes to see the frisson of tension that ran through his body. "She wanted a dozen babies. Nakeema's tribe, she said. We used to joke about it."

After a moment, he straightened his shoulders and returned his gaze to her. His eyes were dry, but pain, like a distant shadow, still lurked in their depths. "Anyway, now it's just the two of us."

At a loss, Janeway looked at Lanaya's picture again, seeing this time the traits the girl must have inherited from the unknown mother: the high cheekbones, the delicate bone structure, the fine eyebrows. "She's beautiful," she said again, hearing the hollowness in her own voice. What must it be like for him, to look at this girl's face and see the reminders of the woman he had...loved...the woman he had lost?

"Yes, she is." At the odd note in Chakotay's voice Janeway looked back up at him, to see that he too was gazing at the picture of his daughter, tender pride in his expression despite the lingering trace of grief. He reached out, touched the image with a fingertip, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of his full lips.

It occurred to her suddenly that Chakotay was grayer than men of around sixty usually were, back in the Federation, and much grayer than she would have expected from his appearance when she had known him not much more than a decade before. And was that a trace stiffness in the movement of his hand? From a long-ago crisis on Voyager, she seemed to recall learning that age-related arthritis problems were common to his line.

In their Tuesday-afternoon lunches, Owen Paris had expressed pride in his son and in Tom's growing business, yet, in view of the Paris family predisposition to heart problems, he had also been concerned that Tom should be so far away from "civilization."

We don't exactly have state-of-the-art medical care here...Chakotay had said.

How can he do it? she thought, with a little surge of fear. How can he take this kind of chance with his own health, his own mortality? It wasn't as if, after his Nakeema's death, he didn't know the risks.

As if in answer, she heard the words he had said, so long ago: I don't have anything to hold me on Earth. Here in the borderlands, he had a home, and a place, and a child, and he had known what it was to be loved.

If on Earth, he had known what it was, to be —? Could things have been different for him?

For her? What is there for me, on Earth? Tuesday lunch with Admiral Paris, Sunday evenings with her nieces, afternoons of paperwork and nights of dull diplomatic receptions and Admiralty dinners. Not much, not enough...

But she could not look on Chakotay, on this stranger with his beard and his long hair and his civilian clothes, and even think of the might-have-beens. He was too changed, and she...she was too much the same, too much still "Admiral-formerly-Captain Janeway," with her short, efficient hair and her neat uniform and her Starfleet protocols. Surely it was far too late now, to think of bridges between their disparate worlds. Too late...

She realized that Chakotay was looking at her, an all-too-familiar concern on that unfamiliar face. "Kathryn?" he asked gently.

The colonist, the widower, the aging man was worried about her! Shaking her head to clear it, she said softly, "I'm fine. I'm just — I'm sorry about your wife." Sorry about a lot of things.

"Thanks." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but the intercom on his wall whistled. Walking over to it, he touched a button and the channel opened. "Yes?"

"Chakotay, we're about finished down here." Miral Paris's voice sounded every bit as young as Janeway knew the girl was. "If you'd like to come and have a look?"

He sighed, looking at Janeway, frustration clearly written in his strong features. "I'm sure it's..." Janeway shook her head, waved him on with a hand. "I'll be there in a minute, Miral." He closed the channel, turned back to his guest. "Kathryn —"

From somewhere, she found a smile. "I know, Chakotay. You have your work to do, and I have mine." She closed the coffee flask, set it back into her bag. He drained his mug and handed it to her, watched as she set it in the carryall. "You go ahead," she said, all the reassurance she could muster in her voice. "I can show myself out."

Still looking dissatisfied, he nodded with visible reluctance. "Well, now that you know where I am..." Half an offer.

"I won't be a stranger." Half an answer. Leaning up on tiptoe, she placed a kiss onto that bearded cheek. "Goodbye, Chakotay."

His hand closed lightly over her shoulder. "Goodbye, Kathryn." After a moment's hesitation, he turned and left the cabin.

Janeway looked around the spartan little room, taking in the narrow bed with its geometric-print spread, the little desk with its even smaller computer, the counter and its scattering of cookie crumbs. Last of all, the picture of a young girl, Chakotay's legacy from a different world, a different life, than any he and she had shared.

Gathering up the shoulder bag, she walked out of his quarters and to his transporter room, to beam back to her own world and her own life.

She wondered if she would ever see him again.

END

Try not to think about what might have been
'Cause that was then
And we have taken different roads
We can't go back again
There's no use givin' in
And there's no way to know
What might have been

"What Might Have Been," Little Texas