Talent develops in quiet places, character in the full current of human life.
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The door to Kathryn Janeway's quarters chirps as she is finishing punching the requirements for their dinner into the replicator.
"Come in!" she calls, picking up the dish that duly materialises and turning to take it to the table.
"Sorry I'm late." Her first officer steps into the room with a smile and a dip of the head by way of apology. Seeing her with the food, he straight away slides into the chair at the table she has laid out, spreading the napkin there onto his lap with a small flourish.
"Not at all, Commander! I've just finished cooking us dinner." She flashes a smile at him as she sets the meal down, and he responds to her obvious good humour with a knowing twinkle in his eye and a waggle of his eyebrows at her use of the word "cooking". She grins back at him, rolling her eyes in mock annoyance at his gentle ribbing.
"A-ha. Well ... it er ... it looks wonderful!" he says, peering at the food sidelong, extending the playfulness, his dimples in evidence. "What is it?"
She makes a show of both ignoring his sarcasm and not answering his question. "Well, I hope it's worked. It's something I remember from when I was a child – an Indiana classic. I was in the mood for something comforting – I hope that's OK. My mother used to make it when I was very small if I pestered her enough! If I've done it right – I wasn't sure whether to make it vegetarian outright or use a meat substitute ..."
He looks up as she takes her seat after having poured them each a wine glass of water. "Thank you," he says sincerely, a smile on his lips. "It'll be perfect."
"And leave room for dessert!" she remembers, as they tap glasses in an unspoken toast.
"You've gone to a lot of trouble. What's the occasion?"
"It's been a good few days, hasn't it? I just wanted to celebrate that a little."
"Yes, it has. It's nice to not have the alien of the week breathing down our neck, the warp core stable and no holodeck malfunctions—"
"—or gel-pack viruses—"
"—subspace anomalies—"
—rifts in the space-time continuum."
"Ah-huh." They share a chuckle, nodding in unison.
"But," she says, halting her fork in mid swing, these thoughts putting her in mind of another, "the Talent Night coming up—" Her voice drops a little into the rasp that always produces an involuntary tingle in him as she affects mock seriousness. "—I think that's cause for concern."
"Any thought as to how you are going to trump your performance last year?"
"I don't think there's any way I can do that. The dying swan and actually dying? No, and I don't think anyone wants a repeat performance of that either!"
"Least of all me," he says with a lopsided grin, deliberately keeping his voice light, although he sees from the flicker in her eyes she comprehends his deeper feeling. She responds with a look that is the visual equivalent of a squeeze of his hand.
"No. No, I don't know what I'm going to do yet. What about you?"
"I've been thinking I might read something. A poem perhaps." He shrugs. "My real talents are more of the hands-on variety."
She raises an eyebrow and fires him a suggestive glance, but says only, "A poem!?"
"You are in a good mood!" He laughs at her happiness; it's so nice to see. "You know what I mean. And I don't want to do anything too dramatic; performance is not my strong suit."
At this, she gifts him a tip of her chin and another eyebrow raise; he ducks his head and blushes gently.
She lets herself revel in his handsomeness for a moment, sparkling at his reaction to her, before making the familiar, concerted effort to pull it back for both their sakes.
"Tom and Harry have been planning something for weeks with a couple of others, haven't they?" she says, taking a breath and deftly guiding him out of the cul-de-sac of their endless dance. She twirls her now-empty glass in her fingers by its stem. "Do you have any idea what they are up to?"
He shakes his head, and lets her see that he is appreciating the non-verbal moment between them before continuing on with her down their agreed upon narrow, platonic path. "No. Although I know they've been spending a lot of time on the holodeck."
"Nothing unusual there then!"
"I guess we'll just have to wait and see."
They eat in companionable silence for a while, both savouring the food – she and the replicator seem to have reached a truce – and the calm and quiet of their comfortable intimacy. They haven't had a lot of time or the inclination to do their dinners for a while, so this ease feels doubly nice to both of them; like the old days. When they are finished, he helps her tidy up before they relocate to the seat beneath the viewport.
"A glass of something?" she suggests.
"Sure, why not? It's nice to be up to date with everything for once; you're right, let's take advantage of that."
She fetches glasses and a bottle of red wine synthehol. Pouring them some, she sits down with an indulgent sigh.
"Here's to the quiet," she says, raising her glass to his.
"To the quiet," he replies with a grin.
Janeway makes a little noise of approval as she sips her drink, leaning back into the couch. "Close enough!" she opines. "Do you know, I don't think I remember what the real stuff tastes like."
He chuckles. "No, I'm not sure I do either; it's not something I miss though."
She wrinkles her forehead, considering. "What do you miss?" she asks after a moment. He looks at her a little quizzically, seeking clarification from behind his glass as he takes a drink. "I mean, other than your family, and people – the obvious."
"Hmmm. I miss ..." He thinks about it, rolling the bowl of the glass gently between his palms before setting it down on the coffee table and resting back into his side of the couch more comfortably, hands behind his head.
"I miss the night."
She leans forward with a soft smile, intrigued. "The night?"
"Night time is about being present ..."
"Ah, of course." A soft, knowing smile pulls at her lips.
"It's about being aware of all the life around you – the animals, the plants, the self. Up here ... space is not really night. Up here we just want to get somewhere, we're always on the move. You're always thinking about where you've been and where you're going. It's the same with the day. But ... at night ..." He stops for a moment to think of the right way to express what he means. "At night, you slow down. I think you can be who you really are and one with the world."
"That's beautiful, Chakotay." She shakes her head in wonder and admiration, taking another sip of synthehol.
He gives her one of his sweet, shy smiles, before reaching for his glass again. "What about you? What do you miss?"
"You know ..." She too takes a moment, tucking her legs up under herself, cocking her head to the side slightly in thought. "Other than the obvious things ... I think it's patterns; the patterns of life."
She observes him sit forward slightly, his eyes widening in gentle curiosity, waiting to see where she goes with it. "Such as?"
"Seasons, for example. The rhythms of our lives are marked by seasons, winter following autumn and spring following winter. And the rhythms within those that we use to mark the occasions of our lives – birthdays, celebrations like Christmas. They give shape to our life and mark progress, development. Oh, I know we mark those things on Voyager where possible. But they have less context here. Without them ... without them it definitely makes you feel less at home, less human in some ways."
"Yes, you are right." He smiles, nods. "That's not a bad looking idea either."
"Ah – both philosophers tonight!" she cries with a theatrical sweep of a hand. They bask in the warmth of each other's company. "When was the last time we had a night like this, Chakotay?"
He shakes his head. "I can't recall; too long ago. It's been a good while." He stifles a yawn. "But, it is getting late," he says, somewhat reluctantly standing. He extends his hand to her and she takes it, using him for balance as she gets up.
"Thank you for a lovely evening, Kathryn." He resists the urge to bring the hand still captured in his own to his mouth, and instead gives a little bow, with a touch of swagger rather than the seriousness it deserves, before releasing her.
"Thank you, Commander," she says as he straightens, her gratitude for both of his considerations, as well as their night. "I tell you what I miss—" She places a palm on his chest, her eyes shimmering. "—I miss this. Let's not leave it so long next time."
"No." He smiles and dips his head in agreement and farewell.
When he has gone, she sits back down and gazes out the viewport at the stars. The night and patterns, she thinks, her mouth sliding up into a warm, luxurious smile. How different she and he are, yet how complimentary. She sips the last of her synthehol and lets herself indulge in thinking about the gentle bliss of her and her first officer's evening together.
Oh, she suddenly remembers with a start, there was supposed to be dessert!
The next morning, she sleeps in. She wonders why the computer didn't wake her and makes a mental note to get B'Elanna to run a diagnostic. It takes a few moments for her to realise that this is not the only odd thing about the morning; she can't hear the white noise of the ship or pulse of the warp core either.
She sits up, grabbing for the robe haphazardly thrown over her bedside unit.
In fact, soon she realises she can't hear anything. Not her breathing, not the rustling of fabric and boots as she hastily discards the robe and opts instead to dress, not the soft shush of her steps on the carpet as she heads out.
In the corridor she pauses. Sickbay or bridge?
She taps her combadge before remembering she probably won't be able to hear it come to life; she doesn't. Lets out an irritated breath. Taps it again and speaks anyway.
"Janeway to bridge. I'm going to sickbay. Commander, you have the Con." Or at least that's what she thinks she says. Something else is strange: she didn't feel her throat vibrate with her words. She tries to make a sound, her hand at her throat. Nothing.
Maybe we spoke too soon about it being "quiet", she thinks wryly on her way to the Doctor.
She runs into an ensign on her way. He is flustered and clearly upset, nearly barrelling down the corridor towards her. When he sees her, he grabs at his throat with a hand, opens his mouth trying to say something, but it's clear he's affected by the same problem as she. Janeway shakes her head at him, shrugs her shoulders to show him she doesn't know what is going on yet, and indicates he should follow her.
By the time she reaches sickbay, she has five more crew in tow. The door opens without sound onto silent chaos. The EMH is bustling between the 30 or more people squeezed into the small area. She takes in the roiling wave of unease that is fast threatening to become something more. Some of the afflicted are attempting to pace in the crowd; others are just perched on biobeds trying to keep it together; but still more are clearly succumbing to their worry, crying and grabbing at their throats and ears in panic.
There is nothing like a group of people in the grip of rising fear.
She seeks out the Doctor, grabbing a PADD from his desk as she wings past. Approaching from behind, she reaches for his upper arm. At her touch, he whirls around from the biobed and the patient sitting there, irritation riddled across his face. His expression is rapidly put in order when he sees the raised eyebrows of his interrupter.
WHAT IS THIS? Janeway writes on her PADD and shows it to him.
He looks at her note and then back at her. He shakes his head to indicate he doesn't know. He grabs a PADD from the biobed and types rapidly, before holding it out to her.
AFFECTING EVERYONE. 100%.
You too? she mouths, already knowing the answer. He indicates yes.
He deletes his note and types something else: TESTS UNDERWAY.
Good, she mouths. ARE WE DEAF? she types into her PADD.
No, the Doctor mouths, No sound.
NOT MEDICAL? she types.
UNLIKELY TO BE he returns on his.
She puts a hand on his arm to thank him before quickly keying: CONTINUE TESTS. He cocks his head in understanding and returns to his patient.
Stepping into the centre of the room, Janeway puts one arm up into the air, palm open, calling for attention. She spins slowly to catch everyone's eye, repeating her gesture and mouthing Stop. She waits while those who have seen her and noticed her elbow their less aware comrades to attention.
When she's sure she's got all eyes on her, and everyone has stilled, she types a word, and holds it out, the line of her mouth firm, again turning slowly so everyone sees: STATIONS.
She watches the ripple of composure as it passes through sickbay, sees them straighten up. Uniforms are smoothed, faces recast: Starfleet reactivated. Each gives her an affirmative signal, gratefully taking some reassurance from her, and makes their way out.
Once the last afflicted crewperson has left, she heaves a sigh and turns her attention back to her PADD. She types a message and sends it using the captain's authorisation code to all PADDs and LCARs displays: ALL STOP. DUTY PERSONNEL TO STATIONS. YELLOW ALERT. SHIELDS DOWN. Within seconds the alert lights have begun their pulse. She gives a tight smile of approval. OK.
On the bridge, it is as eerily silent as it is elsewhere. Chakotay, as apparently unruffled and collected as ever, stands to attention when she enters, hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, and acknowledges her with his soft gaze. She observes his carefully arranged calm and notes, slowly assessing, that is clearly having a welcome effect on the undercurrent among the bridge crew – she can't help but notice some of them surreptitiously glancing his way and seeking comfort from his demeanour; she's done it herself on occasion — is doing it now, she sheepishly realises.
She brings two fingers to her forehead in a brief salute to him with a crooked smile, and they converse in their command shorthand of look to look. He nods in immediate understanding of the order conveyed and heads for Engineering, intentionally brushing her on his way past. As he glides by, she reaches for and squeezes his wrist, then surveys her domain more fully.
There doesn't appear to be anything of note on the view screen, just peaceful empty space and stars. She makes the rounds, asking via a PADD for reports to be sent to her, not even conscious of the effort she is making to ensure physical contact with each officer. When she reaches the command station and sits, many of the reports are already mutely pinging her display.
Nothing, nothing and nothing. Nothing appears to be working incorrectly; nothing has been picked up by short- or long-range sensors, subspace scans, or diagnostic routines. And according to the astrometrics reports, Voyager is where it is supposed to be and nothing in the vicinity is out of place. Everything appears — no, is — perfectly normal. Everything that is, except for the absence of noise, which, interestingly, none of the ship's systems has registered.
She keys a note into her console and sends it out: ALL SENIOR OFFICERS, BRIEFING ROOM, 0900H.
Chakotay and B'Elanna are the last to arrive, acknowledging Janeway as they take their seats.
The Captain holds up her PADD: THOUGHTS? DO WE KNOW WHEN IT STARTED?
She's met with shrugs and shakes of heads, except from Tuvok, who taps something into his PADD and holds it up: EXTERNAL TO VOYAGER.
She nods in agreement, motions for him to go on.
ADVISE RUN SUBSPACE SCANS AGAIN.
Yes, she acknowledges.
He deletes this rapidly and types again.
CROSS CHECK THESE AGAINST ALL SENSOR AND DIAGNOSTIC REPORTS.
Kim taps out a message of his own: WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FOR?
Janeway gives him a firm nod – We'll know, she mouths, then types: WHEN WE FIND IT.
She motions at B'Elanna and Chakotay.
Chakotay shares a glance with the chief of engineering, taps something down then faces his PADD towards his captain: MINOR FLUCTUATIONS IN WARP CORE POWER 2324H. EVERYTHING ELSE NORMAL.
B'Elanna confirms with a dip of her head and a message of her own: WITHIN PARAMETERS, BUT IT'S THE ONLY THING OF NOTE.
Janeway purses her lips affirmatively.
B'ELANNA, PARIS – START CROSS CHECKING FROM 2200H YESTERDAY ON. ADVISE ANY MORE FLUCTUATIONS.
She erases that and writes another: HARRY, SEVEN – DETERMINE WHEN IT BEGAN.
And finally: PEOPLE WILL WORRY. WE NEED TO KEEP CALM – WILL GET WORSE THE LONGER THIS LASTS. COMMANDER, TUVOK, NEELIX – MAKE THE ROUNDS.
She looks around them as they wait for her dismissal command. She can't help but notice it has started already, the tightness in most of her officers' faces conveying their growing discomfort. The loss of a sense or means of communication can be frightening and in a group situation ... She takes a breath: One thing at a time, she advises herself.
Paris holds up a finger.
She motions him on with a hand.
TALENT SHOW = MIME SHOW? he holds up on his PADD.
Janeway rolls her eyes and long blinks her derision. NO SHOW, she returns.
He feigns an arrow to the heart, and she can't help but smile. LETS JUST FIX THIS FIRST, she types.
Dismissed, she mouths and her team dissipates. She rests her chin on a hand, one finger absently tapping her mouth as she thinks.
An hour passes, two. In her ready room, Janeway works her way through the reports that keep coming in, painstaking raking them for anything, any little blip that might shed some light on why sound has just ... vanished. Although it hasn't been long, as much as she tries not to think about it, she is starting to notice the weight of the silence. It is cloying and inescapable; like being submerged, and, as with being underwater, there is that feeling of not being able to breathe. The pulls at the neck of her turtleneck to unsettle the restriction in her lungs that suddenly lodges there, and flaps her latest PADD down on her desk with what would have been a thwack.
She notices suddenly the black of a uniform jacket front of her, and looks up to find her first officer standing there. She makes a noiseless – obviously – grunt of annoyance. How long have you been there? she mouths. He shrugs and grins. Not long.
WHAT IS IT?
EVERYTHING OK FOR THE MOMENT, he types on his PADD.
She nods.
SOME CREW FRACTIOUS.
Aren't we all. KEEP A LID ON IT.
He tucks his chin in acknowledgment. Reaches and touches her hand for a second. She sighs and feels her irritability level drop a few notches.
I'm OK.
He smiles softly.
They share a look and he turns to leave. She goes to call after him before remembering she can't. Thank you, she mouths anyway to his retreating back.
On the evening of the third day of silence, she pores over yet another pile of diagnostic reports in her quarters. The trapped, drowning feeling that the lack of sound has generated is a shadowy companion, accompanying her everywhere, and the pressure it exerts, pressing down inexorably, is becoming increasingly hard to bear.
She had read about the effects of sensory deprivation at the Academy, of course; all of them had. But it is another thing entirely to experience it. She struggles not to chastise herself for feeling so uneasy; tells herself it is an irrational response to the mere loss of a sense – especially in this case, when there is no apparent threat to life. But even this feeling contributes to her restlessness, her ability to focus.
Janeway tries to examine the rise of panic sifting and skirting in herself, and knows it must be the same for all of them. And with it now being several days of soundlessness, the current of disquiet — quite the appropriate term, she decides — they are caught up in is starting to feel more like underground rapids straining to reach the surface.
Sleeping, eating, working, especially interacting – everything normal has been made peculiar and unfamiliar. It's almost like being in a gothic holonovel, she muses – but without the sanctuary of make-believe ... and therefore rather appalling, if she is completely honest with herself. Rattled at the train of her thoughts, she flexes her neck, raises and drops her shoulders a few times, trying to release the tension there. She experimentally kneads into a trapezius with the fingers of one hand, but finds her own touch inadequate to the job, and exhales in frustration.
Tuvok and Chakotay have taken turns prowling the decks with a security team, doing their best to keep people calm and focused. Her first officer, unsurprisingly, has had more success with this than Tuvok, whose preternatural level of cool is beginning to add insult to the injury of people's agitation.
Voyager is simmering.
It starts in the mess hall – of course it does: lots of tired, fretful people unable to speak their minds crammed into a room where Neelix is serving ... leola root stew.
At the counter, Paris turns from the chef and regards the plate on his tray with a mixture of distaste and resignation, raising his gaze to Harry's, who is next in the queue. The ensign shrugs, the corner of his mouth tipping up in tacit agreement.
A crewman jostles past them a bit closely and the corner of his tray catches the arm of Harry's uniform jacket. Harry braces as the tray flips and Harry and Tom and the others queuing watch in rapt horror as the viscous meal on board plunks up in a slow-motion wave, skims the edge of the tray as it is lurched to vertical, and then lumpily slicks down Harry's front. Feeling suddenly as green as the verdurous meal he is now wearing, Harry looks up at the crewman – Jarvin – who merely glowers at him in response. Too roughly, Jarvin pushes his now-empty tray at the ensign, losing his balance as he does so, stumbling to the side inelegantly and into Tuvok, who is next in line. Tuvok's hand reaches out to the man's shoulder to steady him, and to Tom's and Harry's dismay, Jarvin rounds on him, fist raised, for some reason seeming to believe the Vulcan is trying to inflict his nerve pinch. Chakotay, who happens to be behind Tuvok, attempts to get between the riled Jarvin and the Vulcan, his hands flying out to separate the two.
There is a bright silver flash in the air between them all as they tussle, and Tuvok adroitly swivels to miss the fork that has been launched from the other side of the room.
And then, like a cork released from a ferment, the mess hall erupts.
When Janeway hauls her senior officers – Tom, Harry, and Tuvok and Chakotay (Tuvok and Chakotay!) – in front of her afterwards to ask who started it, why her mess hall is now a delightful shade of leola root stew and how a simple scuffle has landed several crew in sickbay with assorted injuries, she doesn't know whether to laugh, cry or despair.
Standing in front of her in a row, unable to make a sound, covered in bits of stew and assorted condiments, they each take a finger and mutely point it at another.
Overcome by the ridiculousness of the situation, Tom's lips contract, his cheeks trembling with the effort of restraining his amusement. He looks at Tuvok. Tuvok catches Chakotay's eye. Harry bites his lip, sees Tom's expression, and it is all over – silent laughter ripping from them all in a great release. Tuvok alone remains still, one eyebrow raised in the Vulcan equivalent of a guffaw, Janeway surmises. And she, overtired, over everything, finds herself unable not to give in to the tide, shaking her head at them in exasperation, unable to do anything but break into an irked chuckle.
Forehead to palm for a second, she waves them off with her unburdened hand.
She feels a kind weight on her shoulder. When she looks up, Chakotay lifts his hand from her and shows her his PADD:
IT HELPED, CAPTAIN.
She gives him a withering look.
He erases that and types: IT DID. Her scowl bores into him. FEEL BETTER? he risks.
She calls up her irritation but is forced to relent. Yes, she gives, reluctantly acceding, smiling at him dryly. NOW GO AND GET CLEANED UP, she punches in.
He's glad her poor PADD is inanimate.
Indeed, he wasn't wrong, Janeway observes as she makes her way down to sickbay an hour or so later to check on the victims of the mess hall incident. The news of the fracas seems to have travelled fast; the faces of those she passes in corridors carry a look of some consolation, an ease that hasn't been present for a while. The power of levity, shared levity – should never be underestimated. Thank you for reminding me of that, Chakotay.
Everything under control in sickbay, she hesitantly wonders whether she should brave the mess hall herself, her stomach protesting from lack of attention; she vaguely tries to remember when last she ate. She had coffee an hour or two ago, perhaps this morning ...
A touch to her arm.
Commander. He is spick and span, all cleaned up; almost shiny, she thinks, unable to resist looking him up and down.
He mimes eating, making it a question with a raise of his chin, and offers her his arm. She shakes her head at him querulously; does she look hungry? How does he do that? She takes his arm and they head towards the turbolift.
He studies her without her knowledge, notices the stiffness in her shoulders and her absent-minded stretch of her neck as they walk. There is always tension in those places, but he notes this current strange endurance test seems to be particularly wearing for her.
He nudges her as they pass a couple of crewmen.
What?
Look at them.
She lets her gaze follow his line of sight. One crewman has taken the other's hand as he lip-reads the other's words.
Chakotay squeezes her elbow, and she looks back up at him.
Watch, he suggests, turning his head to indicate she should regard everyone else they pass.
As they progress down the corridor, and then on to the next deck down, she takes note. Touches; lingering eye contact; reduced personal space. The missing sound is beginning to have other effects. And she becomes aware that she has been behaving similarly.
Her face softens and she looks to her first officer, the corner of her mouth turning up.
Chakotay presses her hand before releasing it as they reach their destination.
"Mess hall" being the operative term, she decides, barely able to contain her pique as she takes in the crew cleaning up the aftermath of the food fight.
It is a different world, this soundless one. And all the more uncanny in their equivalent of night.
In Kathryn's quarters, Chakotay hesitates for just a second before heading to her where she sleeps, wondering again at this situation which has permitted him unannounced entry to her private space. The lights are on, set to around 80 per cent – she, like himself, and probably many others, has been preferring to sleep with them on lately – and not just for practical reasons such as the one for which he is here now.
In her bedroom, he pauses before disturbing her, uncomfortable with the necessary intimacy; even though he has had to do this several times recently, it still feels intrusive, not to mention cruel. Tiredness has seeped itself into her over the past 10 days of silence. Even as she sleeps, it retains its hold on her, leaving its mark in the tone of her skin and even, he notices, the position she sleeps in, as his eyes trace the curve of her beneath the covers, her body held taut even at rest.
He clears his throat, reorganises his mind into more professional dimensions and reluctantly reaches for her shoulder to gently rouse her, then holds out a PADD, diplomatically averting his eyes a little to give her privacy as she moves from one state to another.
WE KNOW WHAT IT IS. BRIEFING ROOM?
Her eyes widen as she surfaces and absorbs the message. She nods and flings back the blankets. He tries not to notice how she looks in her nightgown. He turns his back to her, lifts a hand to tell her he'll meet her on the bridge and retreats.
She glances around the table. Aside from the tiredness, there have been changes in them all — more smiles than should be expected for one – but perhaps this is due to the finding.
WHAT HAVE YOU FOUND?
Chakotay types: WE ARE IN A DIFFERENT DIMENSION.
Janeway shifts in her seat, the surprise on her face not quite covering the shock she feels. HOW?
TINY DIMENSIONAL RIFT, B'Elanna punches out on her PADD.
HOW DID WE PASS THROUGH? WHEN?
B'Elanna shakes her head. SEEMS FLEXIBLE. OCCURRED WHEN THE WARP CORE POWER FLUCTUATED.
Kim holds up a hand then types rapidly into his PADD. UNRELATED TO FLUCTUATION – COINCIDENCE THAT IT OCCURRED AT THE SAME TIME – SO WE NEARLY MISSED IT.
HOW DO WE GET BACK? Janeway queries.
NOT SURE YET, BUT WE NEED TO GO BACK TO WHERE WE WERE WHEN THE FLUCTUATION OCCURRED, B'Elanna returns.
Janeway brings her hands together in front of her on the table. She nods at her team. Thank you, she mouths, good work. Mr Paris –? He dips his head, understanding her order. Thank you everyone. Dismissed.
The universe never ceases to amaze.
The science is scienced over the next half-day or so as they travel back to where they presume the rift to be, and a possible way back is planned out. Between B'Elanna, Chakotay, Seven, Ensign Wildman and herself, they have determined that, given the ease with which they passed through it the first time around, simply pushing back into the small tear – like a needle propelling through fabric – should allow them to pass back into their own dimension. The theory seems ludicrously simple, and she hopes that, just for once, it will be that easy.
SLOW TO ONE QUARTER IMPULSE, Chakotay instructs Paris from his console as they approach the coordinates of their location when the warp core fluctuation occurred.
AYE, comes the response, and he feels the almost imperceptible stutter of the ship as its impulse engines take over from the warp drive, something he is not sure he's ever noticed before.
Chakotay looks to Janeway. She is lost in the view screen, brow furrowed ... Turning to look himself, he is unsurprised to see it display a big lot of nothing.
Another 12 hours have passed in this great pool of silence; he's sure he won't be able to handle it here much longer. Although there is no real reason for it at all, he feels stifled, and breathing seems difficult. A glance at Kathryn and the set of her jaw, muscles there knotting and pulsing, knowing that a part of her is berating herself for their inter-dimensional journey, more time wasted, and he's sure she won't be able to handle it for much longer either.
He shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a long, deep breath, reaching down into himself. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales ...
There, that's better. He opens his eyes and reaches across to touch Janeway's forearm.
She jumps slightly, whipping her head around at the interruption.
Sorry, she mouths, coming back to him.
It's OK. He smiles softly, calmly, and sees the strain in her relent a little. We're nearly there.
She nods, gives him a stiff smile in return, then taps through the next orders via her console.
BRACE, ALL HANDS, she sends out finally, and almost the instant she does, the ship lurches forward and stops, lurches forward again, then stops, and finally with a buck that almost kicks those standing off their feet, those seated out of their chairs, there is a vast, violent – luscious – audible POP! that reverberates through bone and sinew as they traverse the rift. There is suddenly plenty of sound, but it warbles and ricochets around the ship like some kind of 20th-century record playing at the wrong speed – and perhaps backwards. And then another POP! and jerk of the ship and then the blessed, blessed noises of the heart beating, breath leaving lungs, skin skimming fabric, the beeps and chirps of the ship's systems – all these noises rising from the silence as if someone is turning the volume up.
Chakotay takes a deep breath and it is so loud that his hands are covering his ears before he realises what he's doing. He catches sight of Janeway, straightening from being bent over herself in abject relief, and then as she flings herself back in her chair, head back and puffing out her cheeks in a huff of relief. She turns to look at him with a broad, open-mouthed grin.
All around the bridge, the crew slowly turn to face their command team.
Nobody can bring themselves to say a word.
In fact, it is a long time — several days — before people start talking again properly.
The tiniest noises are everything. The whirs, pulses, creaks of the ship. Breathing. Heartbeats.
They all feel it.
Her attention alerted by her first officer during those quiet days in the other dimension, Janeway finds herself drawn to observing the interactions between her crew more closely than ever before. She notices people trying to maintain the closeness established during their time in the silent space. When it begins to dissipate as speech is recalled as the primary mode of communication, she feels a loss she never expected to feel.
The experience has left an imprint on all of them, though. There is a difference – a new quality of gratitude and empathy – in the way the crew interact with each other now. Not to mention a thorough appreciation for all the senses. The holodecks have been booked solid ever since their return to their own dimension, and anticipation at the rescheduled Talent Night is fairly bubbling through the ship. Even she is looking forward to it.
Chakotay has been strongly affected by their return to their own dimension, she knows; he always is by such things. Sitting next to him on the bridge, she observes the wistfulness apparent in her first officer as, out of the corner of his eye, he watches Harry and Ayala joking over something, no eye contact, a good metre or two between them. But then Harry seems to remember – looks up at the ensign directly and gives him a sound grin, and Ayala reaches out and touches Harry's wrist.
She returns her attention to Chakotay. Saving him in her own way, she quips, "Ready for tonight?" the sound and feel of her own voice still a surprise to her.
He turns to look at her, clearly still with the ensigns. "Yes?"
"Is that 'yes' you're ready or 'yes' you didn't hear what I said?" she teases, leaning towards him on the armrest of her chair.
He chuckles. "Ah – both?"
A corner of her mouth curls up. "Well, I'm not sure I'm ready ..." she says nonchalantly, not deigning to explain what she is talking about. He returns her gaze, trying to appear knowledgeable.
She narrows her eyes, continuing her light play. "No, there's not been much time to prepare."
"Oh—" the penny finally dropping and a flash of relief crossing his face, "—the Talent Night!"
She grins at him.
He frowns at her. "Yes, I'm ready."
"Oh, Commander, surely it's not that bad!"
"Like I said ... performance ... not my greatest talent."
She looks at him askance, from under her lashes, batting them. "Let me be the judge of that." He raises his eyebrows. "And, of course, the rest of your audience," she adds a little offhandedly, not relenting her gaze.
He presses his lips together and fires her a quick smirk before pretending to study his console as though his life depends on it.
They enter her quarters at the end of a shared laugh, eyes glittering and amusement and joy blushing on their skin.
"That was wonderful!" she says, finally comfortable again with her voice, enjoying the hum in her throat and the note on the air, unfurling her silk scarf from about her shoulders with a swish and dancing it over her coffee table, listening to the soft shiver of the fabric as it slithers into a pile.
"Yes, it was."
"And very much needed. Night cap?"
"Mm-hmm." He flops onto the couch beneath the viewport, discards his jacket and bowtie and loosens the first button of his shirt, his and her garb in response to the inevitable 20th-century theme of the night as organised by their helmsman.
"You were marvellous," she says as she heads to the replicator, a way to avoid him seeing the rather too lascivious look she has in her eyes at the sight of him thus arrayed, arms stretched along the back of the seat, legs askance. "I don't know what you've been worried about. Your reading was ..." She pauses and shakes her head slightly, not sure how to express how much it had touched her. "What a beautiful poem," she settles on instead.
"Thank you. That discussion we had during our last dinner reminded me of it."
"I guessed that," she says over her shoulder, before turning back with two tumblers of caramel-coloured synthehol in hand, treacherous eyes becalmed. "You could have written it; that poet was a man after your own heart."
"You weren't so bad yourself. What made you decide to go with that particular ... er ... talent ...?" He lets his words trail off.
"Stop it!" she gasps out, laughing with embarrassment as she passes him his drink. "We will never speak of it again! I didn't have time to come up with anything proper, as you well know!"
He makes a show of rearranging his features into a mask of seriousness. "Of course," he says gravely.
She tsks at him good-naturedly as she swoops down onto her own end of the seat, enjoying the whisper the navy sequins of her dress make as they shush and flick against each other. She sips at the smoky liquid in her glass, the reflection of the fluid flashing in her blue eyes.
"We have something special here, don't we? Our crew?"
"Yes, we do."
She leans forward, places a hand on his knee. "Thank you, Chakotay, for opening my eyes this past while. That soundless dimension has had such an impact on everyone — me included. But I may not have noticed just how much until you pointed it out."
He gives her a smile. "You would have noticed, because this crew means so much to you. But, when it's stressful, it's hard to see past that." He shrugs. "I wanted to show you that it wasn't all bad; relieve some of your worry. I thought that might help."
She shakes her head in gentle amazement and appreciation for this man. "Honestly, Chakotay, you always know ..."
He flashes a grin in that self-conscious way she knows so well. The shyness he displays with her she always finds peculiarly humbling, given he is otherwise usually so assured and at ease, and it always provokes a startle of emotion in her.
"I couldn't do this ... without you," she says quietly, channelling the restlessness into giving his knee a final squeeze, before leaning back and taking another sip of her drink, her eyes full of something she can never say with words. She lets her head fall back a little further than is comfortable, revealing the glorious length of her white neck to him for a moment before straightening.
I wonder if she knows how beautiful she is. He lets the thought reach his eyes as he gazes at her and leaves it there long enough for her to be unable to ignore it.
"I wanted to ... I wanted to ask you to dance with me tonight, when Tom and Harry's band played that song," he says softly.
She gives a small start, and brings her eyes to meet his. Neither fails to notice the small quiver that runs through her. The band had played several songs, but she knows which one he means: the one that ended the evening, obviously selected with a mind to Voyager's recent inter-dimensional foray. She remembers their eyes briefly meeting during the chorus.
"'Enjoy the Silence'? Appropriate—" she laughs "—also lovely. Tom told me afterward that the original version wasn't exactly the ballad they made it tonight. I liked very much their arrangement; I can't imagine it another way."
"Yes, that's the one." His dimples appear. He puts his tumbler down and stands up, extending his hand. "Will you dance with me now?" he asks, his voice darkling.
Her lips part and she gives a little nod. She reaches for his hand and lets him help her rise.
He takes a breath, and she steps to meet him, her right palm sliding into his left, her other to his shoulder as she feels his come to rest lightly at the small of her back.
She lets him begin to lead them in their dance, very slowly moving around in the clear space of her quarters. The rhythm is like the shifting of nature, the pattern of seasons that she loves so. And in the moment, she takes pleasure in the small things: the notes of their breathing, the hasp of palm against palm, their scents mingling, the taste of the lipstick she is wearing, the white noise of the ship humming around them. It is their music.
She lets her head come home to rest on his chest and she feels rather than hears the sigh that moves through him.
She understands what he meant when he said he misses the night.
only one
only one
time existed
and there, of all I have seen in the world
in my own house at night, next to the winter sea,
was waiting for me
the smell
of the deepest rose,
the heart cut from the earth,
something that invaded me like a wave
breaking loose
from time
and it lost itself in me
when I opened the door
of the night.
— from "Ode to the Smell of Wood", by Pablo Neruda