2. Holly Caulfields POV

"I believe that if we are too strict with our students, and ..." he is too emotionally involved to properly articulate his case "...what's the word, too narrow-minded with them, that we'll have no, no, what's the word, no leverage. How can we keep a conversation going if we put them in straightjackets?!"

"A schooluniform is hardly a straightjacket." I say matter of factly. "In a University where the population is as homogeneous as yours, schooluniforms might be considered a move of true audacity." I take a quick look at the main entrance of Oxfords great foyer before I continue. "To dress in the Oxford tradition might even spark a sense of herritage. Not to mention, it would rid you of this whole dilemma of whether to let the Cardassians wear those rascist symbols."

"They are not rascist, they're a religious statement! I'm sure Mark would agree with me."

I give in and stop listening, I'm tired of smalltalk. There is no argueing with his whine induced determination anyway. I look around the crowded atrium and find Mark standing at the buffet. He's caught up in an animated conversation with some coworker. I mentally prepare myself for a long evening since he would usually be engulfed in endless discussions and fantastical anecdotes, oblivious to the fact that it's past campus curfue and that the hall is long deserted. More then once cleaners or caterers had kindly asked him and his group to take the function elsewhere. I wish he wouldn't do that but after all the years of living with me he still hadn't changed a bit -that is, aside from some grey hair, a stiffened back and a few lines around his eyes that could be considered to add sophistication to an already refined demeanor.

I raise my glass at him but go unnoticed.

She wasn't coming, that much was clear. Her awesome absence somehow gave her even more power; Mark had been physically ill when she was announced missing and now she didn't even show up at the opportunity to see him. Apparently, when two people love each other, the only thing needed to make them stop caring, is time. How sad.

I keep humming and nodding to fulfill the social chore of debating with Marks tipsy collegues; all fellow professors of the Oxford University. No one notices that my mind secretly wanders to the books back at home, waiting for me on the livingroom coffeetable. My books lie in the centre of our house; neglected, covered in dust and offering nothing but contempt everytime I walk past them. They catch me off guard everytime I sit down to watch a newsitem or kick off my heels after a long day of work. For a moment I'm back at the moment they first made their entry into my life.

Mark had been lying with his head on my lap, exhausted and desperate for consolation. He had just shared some of his encyclopedic knowledge of his long lost love. Namely that she so loved to read vintage books, preferably written by authors that were long dead and no sane person had ever heard of. In an attempt to win his affection and perhaps to also receive some of his charismatic attention, I told him that vintage books were exactly what I liked to spent my rainy sundays with. That very night he gave me the books that Kathryn had previously owned and would from then on be mere decorations on my livingroom coffeetable.

They are, I guess, still hers now that she is back from the dead.

Mark must've figured me out by now. Kind as he is though, he never once asked me why I never mentioned my supposed love for books again.

I had never liked hearing about Kathryn Janeway and yet I couldn't seem to get enough of the trivial facts Mark occasionally shared with me. Every piece of new information being like a forbidden fruit; unatainable, enchanting, annoying in its quasi-nonchalance and representing my shady fascination with this essential part of his existence. She had become an unavoidable entity that kept interfering with my life. An interfererence I had grown accustomed to. I would never ask him for it, as I'm supposedly too selfconfident, but I would be lying if I said I didn't treasure the little clues that Mark gave me. Clues that I felt where like the yellow brick road leading me straight into his heart.

Days strung into weeks and into months and our relationship had slowly developed into what it was today. As the years went by her presence in our household faded and the entity became more discrete -it never dissipated, for even if she wasn't often mentioned, the books were never moved. She was however, no longer the sole formula with which Marks enthusiasm and affection could be evoked.

That is, until we received word of their astounding survival, and she became, once again, everything I could never be: Kathryn Janeway.

In a pathetic attempt to bann her out of my imagination and pull her into reality I had hoped to meet her at this function. I had asked Mark to invite her, but as I had seen her appear on the IDS-Daily show this morning I realised that she probably wouldn't make it. Come to think of it, I wonder if he even actually invited her. In a fluke of impulsiveness I had visited the Presidium this afternoon, thinking she might be there awaiting the vote. I had imagined she would just be sitting in the lobby, quietly reading one of her precious books. I was going to walk up to her and introduce myself. I had even thought of a plausible excuse for my presence and was fully prepared to stage a delightful encounter. As always with those type of mental scenarios it had gone very differently. She had indeed been there to await the vote but she herself was nowhere to be seen. In her stead the Presidiumlobby had been packed with a legion of lobbyists, reporters, policymakers and non-human officials.

Numbed and overwhelmed by the beehive, a young boy, who had introduced himself to be Janeways promovendus, had been there and asked me...

"...Holly, are you allright?"

With a shock, I'm brought back to the Universityhall. Everyone within a five foot radius has fallen still and is looking at me.

"...y-yes." I stammer "Please, excuse me".

I decide to join Mark at the buffet. Maybe he can be sociable for two.

As I head towards him I´m interuppted by a cheerful voice "Miss Caulfield! I'd thought I'd see you here." For a moment I didn't recognise him. "It's Daniel." He says, "We talked at admiral Janeways pressconference today? At the Presidium? I'm here in her place actually, she wanted to come but passed over the honour to me, always busy, you know." Apparently he thought that was funny so I join in his laughter with a slight chuckle. "I wish I'd seen you sooner, miss, I was just on my way out. I want to catch the New York-Spain hoverline and still need to key in some codes at the admirals house. She keeps herself updated with Oxfords periodicals and was especially intrigued by an abstract concerning cortisol levels in Klingon fetuses. She asked me to bring her the authorisationcodes for some of the research published at this symposium, she had genuinely intended to attend-Oh look at the time, I really must be going." He laughs apologetically and turns for the exit.

I´m somewhat overwhelmed by his waterfall of words but manage to break out of it. "Wait!" I exclaim a little too loud, "Let me join you." He swings back around and raises his eyebrows in a puzzled look.

"I have a taxishuttle booked for the evening and I have some books to return to her." I gave him my warmest smile to seal the deal and, judging on the naive look on his face, he wasn't too worried about the sincerity of my motive.

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"Computer, lights at 20%" I say. Finally the house reveals itself to me.

This isn't what I had planned.

The display had shown the first correct digit of Janeways doorcode as Daniel put his finger on the keypanel. I remember I had wondered how long it would take before Mark would find I was gone. I had left him at the event without any explanation of my sudden disappearance. In fact, I hadn't given my brain the opportunity to form a single rational thought so without further thinking I had hurried after the boy.

I'm not usually an opportunist; safe and predictable regularities are what I prefer. That motto has proven itself time and time again. It should therefore, not have come as a surprise that when we boarded the taxishutle Daniel shared with me she wouldn't actually be home. Just my luck. Apparently Janeway was drowning in her duties as spokeswoman of the Fleet. He was going to log onto her computer and enter the exclusive keycodes needed to view the files.

I had felt like a criminal as I watched his fingers fly over the panel until the system gave an assuring beep and the heavy door moved away in a welcoming gesture. The house had opened itself to us but I hadn't yet accepted its invitation. Daniel had been too much of a responsible boy to let in some stranger so he had asked me to wait outside. I had felt like some pimply intern who wasn't allowed into the sanctum sanctorum but complied none the less.

The faint moonlight had given little away of the interior and my eyes still hadn't used to this nights darkness. I was grateful that the street was empty and that no one was there to witness the rediculousness of the situation.

I had assured myself I would feel better once I had dropped off Daniel at the hoover-station and rejoined Mark at the conference.

But that's not what had happened.

I hadn't programmed the taxishuttle to return to the symposium.

Instead I now found myself standing in her hallway after having used the code I had seen Daniel use before.

I don´t know what I had expected, but the house felt remarkably sincere.

Green walls complemented the withered wood of the floor and furniture. I had assumed it would be tidier. Along the long and broad corridor stood cabinets full of mementos. Photo´s of smiling children and intimate events were scattered along the walls along with coathangers, clocks and Voyager's dented dedication plaque.

I reach to touch it but my fingers linger hesitantly as I realise the historical value of this piece of scrapmetal. If this thing could talk it would probably have legendary stories to tell.

In the centre of the lefthand wall was a paper note that read ´I am not embarrased when you pick me up from school.' It was a childish scribble on some ticket or leaflet.

On one of the cabinets stood a red vase, it had an ugly pattern and the daisies it held were past their peak.

The interior didn't feel designed or overly thought through. Things just happened to stand where they were and had no appearance to keep up.

As I walk down the hallway every step produces the typical clack of heeled shoes on wood. It occurs to me that I was leaving wet footprints on the floor; it had been raining since I had returned to the house for the second time. It didn't matter anymore though. I had taken the dive into the deep and my anxiety was trickeling down off me much like the raindrops had before.

I notice the house has a specific smell. It´s not a bad smell, not at all, and it´s not a chemical one either, it's just distinct. I can´t quite pinn it down, like a realisation is about to come to me but is too stubborn to indulge me with the knowledge.

It hits me that this isn't some modern admirals villa. This is Kathryns home. Hers and her family's. This is a house that is actively lived in, it forms the setting for lives daily struggles and is full of imperfections, hopes, dreams, personal knick-knacks and specific smells; a place where children grow up and parents grow old.

No one will notice wet footprints and no one will check the alarmlogs.

I reach heavy bifold doors on my left hand side, the wooden panels of which are adorned with colourful stained glass. Moonlight cascades through the ceilinghigh kitchenwindows and subsequently trickles through the intricate design of the stained glass, resulting in a playful patern of light squares on the hallway floor. It takes strength to slide open the tall doors as I step into the spacious kitchen. A bright holographic multimedia panel is still active. "Repeat last playback" I command.

A good, or rather great morning and a warm welcome to IDS-Daily News. It is oh-nine-hundred hours and the chronometer keeps ticking as we countdown to what may be the long awaited answer to the Federations financial crisis.

As Janeway starts talking I stand in the kitchen. Lost and unsure of what I will do next. I move back into the hallway and into the livingroom-area that faces the bifold kitchendoors. A dimmed light jumps on and reveals a huge fireplace in the centre of the room, a large globe -ancient by the brownish and withered look of it- a book caroucel and two walls completely covered in bookcases. I walk over to the nearest one and tilt my head to read some of the titles.

Janeway keeps talking in the background.

... is now 160% of the maximumdebt as formulated by the Bureau of Economic Stabilty and will have to be brought back to 120.5% over a course of 7 years. It is not the goal to make Kronos save it's liquid assets, but rather to...

I pick a book at random and silently curse myself for doing so. I myself can't get past the first few pages of the tough stories and preffer the idea of reading over the actual reading itself. The intricate relief on the cover feels smooth under the touch of my fingers. The Catcher in the Rye it reads. Pushed between two bookcovers is a pair of boxing gloves. Apparently the man of the house takes an interest in the violent sport. I sigh, amused at the cliché.

Another insight into Janeways new love interest is offered by a framed picture standing on a large decorated chest. It depicts Kathryn Janeway raising her glass at the photographer and a tall dark man, whispering something in her ear while affectionately burrying his nose in her hair. Being the unwelcome spectater that I am, the display of intimacy causes an akward wave of selfconciousness to take over me. I quickly slide my finger over the screen to shuffle to the next picture. It shows the same man and a boy, both undoing skis. Another shows Janeway sleeping in a rocking chair on a porch, a dog is sitting at her feet with his head laid lazily on her lap. An endearing photo is one where the tall dark stranger, much younger still, is sitting next to an old, crippled man who seems to be amused by something the dark stranger said and is plucking away at his clothes. I slide for the next image.

A tension spurts through my arms and into my chest as I stand frozen with my eyes locked on the photo. She has a picture of Mark. He's sitting next to her on a lawn with a brown labrador spread nonchalantly between them. They're smiling at the photographer. It's an old picture; Mark is less grey and Janeway is still in her captains uniform. Still, the image had been kept all this time and wether it was considered a relic, a joyful memory or just something she had had of earth while being on her awful journey, seeing Marks face in this dreamlike house, amongst things belonging to a world so unrelated to mine, feels like a betrayel.

Suddenly I feel deflated and dissapointed. Dissapointed with the house for being so unwilling to assure me of Janeways plainness. Dissapointed with myself for wanting to be assured of that. I look around the dimlit room and wonder what I am going to tell Mark, back at the conference.

My chain of thought is interrupted by a loud beep coming from the kitchen. I can still hear Janeway talk, but she had altered her tone. This time, her voice has more variations to it. I stand up and walk back into the hallway where I hold my breath in order to not miss a word she says.

'We already reached a majority after the first vote, B'Ellanna will be pleased. I just wanted to let you know that it looks like I'm able to join you and the kids after all. I'll try and contact you directly, but if you hear this before you leave then don't wait for me, I don't want you to miss out on your sisters festivities because of me. I'll be packing some things and I should be with you on DS9. See you soon. Janeway out.'

Suddenly, there's a muffled sound on the other side of the front door. My stomach turns at the realization that I am about to get caught.

Looking around me, I briefly consider hiding but figure that being found while in hiding would be even more embarrassing. There is no excuse for my presence and I brace myself for what's about to come.

The muffled sound grows louder and an ear-splitting crack echoes through the hallway. I cringe but take a few steps toward the door. I move my face closer to the entrancepanel. These are no ordinary sounds.

A loud bang startles me and I nearly slip on the smooth wooden floor. I weigh my options and choose to hide after all. As akward as it would be to get caught, I consider it safer to keep my presence a secret for now and buy time to seize up whoever is about to join me in these surreal, forbidden rooms.