Winter's Child, continued.

There was a ringing silence.

Tom was the only person I'd ever asked outright, and he'd told me then that he didn't know how to ask. But he must have figured it out, because in his voice I heard a challenge, and he was willing to break her privacy and solitude for it. And yet, I couldn't help thinking that he already knew the answer. His voice was so calm, so sure, and from her rigid posture I knew my mother suspected the same.

Still, she didn't answer. I knew her well enough to imagine the way she would clench her jaw and the lidded gaze she would level on Tom, but I could also imagine how vulnerable she was underneath. All eyes were fixed on her or Tom, all but four: Chakotay's, and Naomi's. The former commander was staring at her hands on the table, unable or unwilling to enter into their contest of wills. And Naomi looked directly at me.

She was leaning against the far wall; in the Alpha Quadrant she might have been a cadet, but here she was still a teenager and a civilian, outside the staff meeting. Her expression was sad, and her lips quirked into a smile when my eyes met hers. She ran a hand over her cranial spikes, then tucked a stray coppery wisp behind her ear. It was one of her nervous quirks, but the deliberation with which she turned her gaze on Chakotay made it somehow momentous. I looked back at her, uncomprehending, but she nodded toward him again, and bit her lip.

I studied him, trying to connect the two in my head: this somber, dark-eyed man and Naomi's Ktarian spikes. He was marked by sorrow just as we were; it was written in the lines on the muted gold of his skin, the grey in his hair, the wrinkles etched between his eyes, and he sat with an intense stillness just then. I took in the square line of his jaw, the contours of his profile. And then I understood.

High cheekbones, broad shoulders, wide brow; his left hand resting on the table's edge was strong and solid. My own hands cradled Miral's head, the slender fingers so like my mother's, the open palm always such a mystery.

It wasn't possible, and yet, as the seconds stretched, I searched him. I noticed in him my ears, the quirk of my eyebrow, the suggestion of my dimpled cheeks. The gentle creases around his mouth, the flare of his nostrils – it was all familiar. The more I looked, the more and saw, and I had to wonder how no one had noticed that I was growing up with Chakotay's features. I finished the sentence B'Elanna had begun on the bridge: how could she not have seen this before?

I nodded again to Naomi across the room, and she pursed her lips in an uncertain smile. I couldn't look back to the silent standoff; it was only a matter of time before someone turned to me, and I knew that it would be obvious to anyone who knew me well, Tom or Joe or Maddie or B'Elanna, that my world had changed. After fourteen years choosing silence, this accidental knowledge seemed like the worst of betrayals, and her stubborn refusal to tell even now made her fragile privacy that much more my responsibility.

Zayek's gentle touch broke into my panic. "Bea," he mouthed, the sharp angles of his face sharper in the dim corner. "Are you – "

"It's him," I breathed, abruptly gathering up the baby and handing her to Zayek. Utterly bewildered, he raised Miral to his shoulder, supporting her with one arm and reaching out to grab my hand with the other. "No," I said, more loudly. "No, I – "

But there was nothing I could say without breaking her silence. Everyone was turned toward me, their expressions startled and sad, everyone except my mother, who still hadn't moved. I stood, and without thinking retreated, squeezed out through the frozen doors and almost ran across the bridge.

I wasn't thinking; there was nothing to think about. I knew who my father was, and as I slipped into the garden, pushing myself between the cargo containers, I tried to suppress that knowledge. It was cold, and my hair was uncovered, but I didn't shiver, because I was working to forget the set of his jaw, the curve of his lips. The earth brown of his eyes.

I knew who my father was, but hidden among the green leaves I tried my hardest not to; it was the only thing my mother had ever asked of me.

It was ten minutes before I heard footsteps in the corridor. I closed my eyes against the bright lamps and thought firmly, I won't tell. Even if it's her, I won't talk about it. All she ever asked was that she be enough for me, and she had been. I wouldn't ask her any more.

But it wasn't her; it was Tom who pushed his way between the leaves, offering me a blanket as he sat down. I stared directly ahead, at the delicate buds of a cornflower, and with a sigh he draped the grey polymer fabric over my knees. He slipped in the narrow space and thudded abruptly to a seat, but he just leaned up against the cargo container.

"You asked me once, Bea, whether I ever guessed. You wanted to know why your mother wouldn't tell you or anyone else about – about someone she loved enough to have a child with." I hugged my knees tighter, still not looking at Tom. "I didn't know then, and I couldn't imagine why she wouldn't tell you, but I think I can now. Do you still want to know?"

Against my will, I shivered and glanced at him. In the bright light of the garden, his eyes shone blue, and I couldn't face the sympathy I found there. I said nothing.

"I think you should hear the one story your mother can't tell you, and I think you should know that she were able, she would have told you a long time ago." He shifted slightly, and clutched his sleeves down around his hands for warmth. "It's not the kind of secret you keep because it hurts people, or it's against the rules to tell. And it's not the kind you keep because it embarrasses you. Nothing could make us respect Kathryn less, and she knows that.

"No, Bea, it's the kind that you keep because you're afraid. Love is like that, you're afraid it's true or that it's not, and either way it'll hurt more than you can stand. I think your mother never told because she thought that way she'd never have to face the hurt."

"But she is hurt." The words escaped me; I was disarmed by his openness. The idea that my mother was pretending away her pain shook me, because I'd never known anyone who faced the truth the way she did. "She doesn't say it out loud, but she is, Tom, about – him, and about the crash – and –"

"I know that. I didn't say that it always worked." A deep breath. "The other thing about love, Bea, is that it's a lousy secret. It always gets out. You made her tell."

"I didn't!" I buried my head in my arms. "I didn't say –"

"Not today, Bea," he said hurriedly, reaching out and putting his arm across my shoulders. "Kathryn didn't say a word, and you didn't tell her secret for her. That's not what I mean.

"No, from the day she knew she carried you, the fierce way she loved you, that told us. Kathryn would have loved any child in her care, but there was something in the way she studied and sheltered you – you were her last link to something more important than any of us guessed, and she couldn't hide it." He held up a hand, stilling my protests. "It wasn't your fault. Not at all. And she could have told us, and given us the chance to be there for her."

"But she didn't. She never – she never said – "

Tom sighed. "No. She let out half her secret – that she had lost something very, very precious to her – but she never named it."

"Why not?"

He didn't answer right away, but pursed his lips and stared unseeing into the leaves. "Let me start from the beginning. I don't think you can understand why it was so hard for her to say the words aloud without knowing a little about her past.

"Your mother – she's Starfleet to the core. Her career was always the most important thing to her, I'd bet, and when she talks about the upholding the principles of the Federation, she really means it, in a way I think only the best captains do. It's what always mattered to her, and it's what she chose.

"I was a 'Fleet brat too; my dad was an admiral, and I'm sure I attended just as many stuffy functions as she did as a kid. But I can just imagine it: while I was sneaking under the table to tie shoelaces together, bored out of my mind, her eyes were shining. She wanted to be one of those admirals, one of those captains they told stories about, who'd matched wits and torpedoes with the enemies of humanism and decency, and won. I didn't know her before Voyager, but I'm guessing that she laid everything she had on the line to become that kind of captain.

"She lost her father, early in her Starfleet career; I don't remember her, but I was a teenager, and I remember the state funeral. It probably shook her to pieces, but she pulled herself together by loving the Federation that much more. After all, if he wasn't around to be Admiral Janeway anymore, then she could be, couldn't she? And when we got stranded out here, she lost everything again, her home and her family and her fiancé, but there's Starfleet, and Starfleet principles. And she held on to them for dear life."

I turned my head to see him better; he was examining his hands in the bright light, nervously clenching his fist. "She was faced with a dilemma, though, because her crew was hardly a Starfleet crew. How do you hold together a ship full of renegades and rebels? I'll never know how she managed it, but she put them in uniforms and made them love her so much they didn't mind. And then – the Maquis leader. He wasn't willing to fit so neatly into the Starfleet mold, and he fought her every step of the way, even as he saluted her as his captain.

"The first time he beamed onto the bridge, Bea, the tension between them was palpable. They were enemies, yes, bound by a common catastrophe, but they expected that. But they respected each other from that first moment. And, I don't know, maybe this is inappropriate, but I'd gotten to know Chakotay a little when I was with the Maquis, and I could see the surprise, the attraction he felt when he met the captain sent to bring him in. She was tiny, beautiful, full of fire. He suppressed it, but for just a second it flickered in his eyes.

"And Kathryn needed a friend. She couldn't bear all those principles without someone to back her up, hold her up, hear her fears. And – he was there. He saw her as close to unguarded as she gets, and I think he loved her for it. That wasn't much of a secret, but none of us realized how far it went; he saw her strength and her weakness, and he loved them. It wasn't too long before he stopped fighting."

"But why didn't he tell her?"

"Because there were rules, Beatrice. 'The captain of a vessel in deep space shall not under any circumstances pursue a romantic or sexual relationship with a subordinate officer,'" he quoted in his best stuffy admiral voice. "Starfleet had already thought of all that, and remember, your mother lived by Starfleet. Even if he told her, she never could have reciprocated. And I think that even though the words may never have been said, that her trust and friendship gave way, and she barely noticed when she started loving him back."

"Tom." I shrugged his arm from my shoulder, and twisted around to face him. "Come on. This is like – like the novels we burn for fuel. They love each other and never say a word?"

"It's crazy, right? Except, what else could they do? As the only Starfleet captain in the Delta Quadrant, your mother clings all the more fiercely to each and every rule. And more than that, being in love makes you weak and stupid and open to pain, and those are all things captains can't afford to be. She probably kept him at arm's length, ended every revelatory conversation before it began, and pinned her pips on straight every morning."

"But couldn't she just – "

"No, she couldn't. Not Kathryn. Think about it: Starfleet principles have held her together her whole life. What happens if she gives them up for him?"

I slipped the blanket around my shoulders as I thought. "Well, if loving him isn't enough, she might fall apart." I folded my arms. "Starfleet captains don't fall apart either, do they?"

"Nope." He offered me a rueful smile. "That's the thing that scares her the most. She kept an iron grip on her principles, even if it broke her heart, because it kept her from losing control. To admit that she was human enough, ordinary enough to love someone – well, I think she was afraid that it would make her too human to be the kind of captain that her ship needed."

"And she never told anyone else for the same reason. But – Tom, I'm not a little kid. She must have told him sometime, or I wouldn't be here."

He laughed out loud, and pulled me up against him in a crushing hug. "You don't miss a thing. You really are just like Kathryn." He ran his fingers through his hair, which was longer and shaggier than Starfleet would have allowed. "I've been thinking about that, and my best guess is that the night before we turned on the drive, she invited him to dinner. She expected to be home the next day, to have her family and friends and support again, and to not need her rules so badly to survive. I think – I think she broke them early."

"She told him?"

"That's for her to say. Something happened that night, though, and you were the result. She was tense and excited on the bridge that morning, but we never would have guessed it was anything more than the prospect of Earth. And then… everything fell apart around them."

"The crash."

"Yeah." He bit his lip and let out a heavy breath. "I was the first one conscious on the bridge, and when she woke up his name was the first thing she said. 'Chakotay,' she said, and then she turned to me and told me to raise him, but the power grid was already down and the comm. relays were crushed. She had gambled, admitted the truth, and she lost." He shook his head, his eyes wide. "She was alone. And worse, she needed to be captain more than ever."

That I understood; I'd seen firsthand the duty she believed she had to her crew. "So she kept it to herself. She never told anyone."

"No, she never did. God, imagine it! There she is, laying out a hundred of her crewmen, and there's one loss she feels more sharply than all the rest. But she couldn't mourn him! She couldn't scream and tear her hair out and sob the way I would if I lost B'Elanna. The few survivors were dying, Naomi lost her mother, we lost Neelix, we lost everyone. She couldn't stop pushing us forward, carrying us through our fear and bullying us through our grief. That was her job, and she wanted to do it." He dropped his face into his hands. "She's the best captain I've every served with, because she wants to support and protect her crew far beyond what Starfleet demands."

I nodded slowly; that was the mother I knew. "And then me."

"Oh, Bea, then you." He raised his head again, and his blue eyes were crinkled in a sad smile. "When she called me in for that physical, I couldn't believe it. Your mother had dodged every appointment with the doctor she'd ever had. I only got a few minutes of tricorder readings, since we hadn't figured out how to charge anything yet, but when I read her elevated hormone levels and turned the scanner towards her abdomen – I thought she was going to hit me." I laughed, and he stared at me in mock disbelief. "Words I never thought I'd say. 'Captain, you're pregnant.'"

"Did she hit you?" I asked, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.

"No. She took it very calmly, just said, 'That changes things, doesn't it?' But it didn't change anything. She stayed the captain as best she could, and we let her, because she needed it so badly. Except – we knew, Bea. We knew that she had lost someone who she trusted that much."

"And you didn't guess who."

"Seems silly, but we just couldn't imagine her like that with anyone; she'd played the role of stern captain too well. And she was so determined, Bea; she didn't know who else to be. So we never forced her hand and – well, we didn't guess because we didn't try. We welcomed you without questions. "

I shook my head. "Didn't you wonder?"

"Of course. But if it was my curiosity or Kathryn's well-being – I don't know, Bea, it seemed better not to intrude. And how do you ask her a question she doesn't want to answer? I've never known, and it's been twenty years." He looked at me over his steepled fingers. "We should have seen it, though. His coloring, his smile… you never see what's staring you in the face."

We sat still for a minute, the cold metal of the cargo containers against our backs. Tom was shivering, but I wasn't ready to go back yet. Finally, I asked very softly, "Does he realize, Tom?"

"Chakotay? He must." He turned to face me, and reached out to tuck a curl behind my ear. "He's been reliving that night, and the nightmare that followed, for fifteen years, and you were the one thing he never thought to hope for. But you – you're every inch Kathryn's daughter, and what's more, his. He must realize, Bea."

I couldn't reconcile the defeat in his voice with his words. He finally had an answer to the question that I had only asked once; I had a father, and he was alive. What was there to be sad about? But then, a dead and icy Voyager was all I'd ever known, and I couldn't understand the burden of fifteen years wasted time, of what might have been if not for one miscalculation, of what could have happened if my mother hadn't kept her secrets so well.