DISCLAIMER: I do not own Star Trek Voyager or any of its characters.
A/N: Hey everyone! I started writing this idea after watching the Year of Hell in May 2020 during Lockdown, and I thought I should probably get round to finishing it... (Spoilers ahead if you haven't seen the episode!) This story begins right after Voyager crashes into the Krenim ship. An alternative ending, if you like. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and please excuse all the scientific techno-babble that most likely makes no sense. There'll be more chapters to come. Please read and review if you have the time. Would love to hear your thoughts. As always, enjoy :) x
CHAPTER 1 - IRIDESCENT
Dust floats in the thin air, a haze of molten bronze and iridescent midnight. Time reaches out with curious hands, only to withdraw into a timeless void, over and over again. The moment of impact; the fading of reality.
Flames burn in the expanse above, unfolding in great fiery cascades, retreating to a simmering electricity. Grey metal splinters outward to meet the unforgiving abyss where Voyager's tritanium hull had been ripped open by the temporal explosion that should have ended her life.
She has witnessed the end, endured every fragile second of its inerrant finality. And yet here she remains, splayed lifelessly on her back, watching time forever fold in on itself.
There is no sound save for her own laboured breathing, a silent prayer still heavy on her lips. Cold seeps through her bones, and somewhere deep in her chest a thready pulse thrums. In the still vastness of space, the remnants of the Krenim timeship dwindle away, its memory now fractured into a thousand infinitesimal pieces.
Bruised fingers reach out; she forces herself up into her command chair - or at least what's left of it. Sparks flare, loose cables and wires smoldering beneath the dim emergency lighting. Scanning the Bridge, the Captain finds little to fuel the remainder of her hope. The viewscreen is all but shattered, and the forward force fields fizz erratically as the power cells slowly begin to fail - the only barrier preventing her from being sucked out into space. She hasn't the means of accessing deflector control, or powering up the warp core. She hasn't the means to ensure her own survival. She can only pray that somewhere out there, in the immensity of the universe, another Voyager, a different Voyager, is journeying steadfastly toward home.
There are figures now, opaque shapes that shift and waver as ghosts. Memories of days long past. Fragments of timelines that never existed.
Lieutenant Paris sits at the con, navigating a ship rendered adrift in her own ephemeral existence. He spins round, smiles directly at her, grinning from ear to ear in his usual boyish manner.
Seven struts across the Bridge, her face marked with dust and smoke from a chronoton explosion. She stops at the Tactical Officer's station, a mirage of thoughts flitting across her features before she heads toward the Turbo lift, her Borg temper kept under close observation.
A wave of heat. The crushing sensation of impact.
Chakotay crouches beside her, hand outstretched, offering a birthday present she had too hastily dismissed. His face twists at her refusal, his disappointment bitter with understanding.
B'elanna races toward the engineering station, her uniform black with plasma burns, working desperately to manually access the damaged warp core.
Naomi, her eyes wide with excitement, stands to attention at her mother's side during her first tour of Voyager.
And in her chair, the Captain's chair: Harry, playing his clarinet on a quiet night shift, his feet crossed casually over the Commander's seat.
She cannot hear the mellow tune.
Soft fur brushes over burned skin, and for the first time in months Kathryn finds her lips twitching into the beginnings of a hollow smile. Molly sits obediently at her side, her tail wagging contentedly, gazing up at her with eyes she has not seen for many years.
"How did we end up here, hey, Mol?" She smooths over her dog's forehead with trembling hands, swallows the raw edges of her wavering voice. "Don't you worry, I'll be alright. Go on home now. Mark will be waiting for you."
The dog barks, but she does not hear it; the vision is already beginning to fade.
Seconds dissolve into hours. Realities morph and melt like snow beneath the rays of a burning sun. There is no stardate. No past. No future. Only the here and now, an ever-lasting, fleeting moment.
Another reality flickers and she looks up to see herself, a different Kathryn, standing on the command Bridge. Her hands are set on her hips, and she stares ahead with all the determination she can muster. Her uniform is crisp and clean, her hair swept back from a face free of physical pain. She gives an order to the helm, throws a reassuring smile over her shoulder.
Envy rises momentarily, followed by a disillusioned pride, and as Kathryn watches her, grieves over her, a deep remorse floods into her spirit.
When exactly had she stopped being this woman? When had she given in to the shell she has become?
The timepiece is cool in the palm of her hand, a touchstone amidst the unfolding chaos. The replicated metal is battered around the edges, and beneath the blackened glass the clock hand waits with anticipation, teetering towards an hour that will never come. She shoves it deep into her pocket, keeps it pressed tightly against her skin as a reminder. In the two hundred and fifty seven days since their first encounter with the Krenim, in the four years Voyager has spent in the Delta Quadrant, the Captain has grown accustomed to surviving. And now, in the face of an indeterminable existence, she is haunted by the knowledge that there is nothing more she can do.
Clambering over the tides of hull plates and crushed girders, Janeway wanders the Bridge aimlessly, breathing in thinning oxygen and poisonous gases. Dying lights flicker over the consoles, the displays cracked beyond recognition. Whatever power is left running through Voyager's veins will not last long.
Insanity mingles with peace, searing heat floods over her fevered skin and her chest aches with the impossibility of it all.
Time is no longer relative.
Nothing is relative.
She stands in the doorway of the place that used to be her Ready Room, the doors wedged open, blast marks smothering the walls. Her uniform jacket hangs on the back of her dismantled chair, charred and torn, but it is hers nonetheless. A remnant of another life.
For a moment she considers it: the overwhelming loneliness. Her hand meets the remains of the desk and she sinks to the floor, alone amidst a sea of shattered memories. A scream builds in her chest, clawing for release, demanding she let go, to unleash the flood of emotion she has fought so hard to keep under control. There is no one left to hear her. No one to pity or console. But for all the stars suspended in the consuming darkness she cannot bring herself to let go, because doing so would mean sacrificing a piece of her soul.
Even here, now, at the end of all things, she hasn't the strength to cry.
Grief will come eventually, willing her to take its hand. But not yet. Not now.
A voice calls, familiar, a wisp of a memory.
"Captain."
Steady fingers curl around her wrists, warm and whole and alive. She closes her eyes, shuts out the temptation, the flicker of hope that burns steadfastly in her heart.
"You're not really here," she murmurs quietly, shaking him off. But his grip only tightens, his weight shifting closer.
"Kathryn, it's me."
"No."
She brings her hands determinedly over her ears, muffling the soft tone she has come to miss so terribly.
"Listen to me, Kathryn. You've got to come back. You've got to fight," he says, speaking to her in a manner only he can. Always compassionate, always firm, forcing her to focus, to confront what lies ahead. "Please, for all our sakes."
His fingers trace the burns that mark her cheek, smoothing her matted hair away from her face. He is gentle, kind, and she almost leans into his touch. The contact, however brief, is electrifying.
"This isn't the end," he promises.
She laughs bitterly.
"Isn't it?"
Metal grinds and twists in the dark, and all too soon he too fades away.
Stumbling over fallen debris, the Captain heaves herself up, a new and dangerous idea pushing itself to the forefront of her mind, clawing for dominance. The memory of him follows, begging her to return, to reconsider. But it's too late for that. She's already sacrificed herself. The ship. Sentenced her crew to an unknown fate.
There's nothing left for her to lose.
The Bridge warps and unravels, the ground fluctuating beneath her feet. At the edge of the deck she stops, standing beneath the shredded bulkhead. The force field crackles, inviting her in, offering an escape, and she stares at the emptiness with an indifferent gaze, hovering around the unthinkable.
One step is all it would take.
Slowly, curiously, Kathryn reaches out to touch the unstable barrier, mesmerised by the static that wraps around her fingers. And then she feels the cold, the utter limitlessness, and her gaze hardens once more. If this is hell she'd much rather wither away on board her ship than drift alone through the emptiness of space for all eternity. In all its desolation Voyager is still hers to command, and she will not give up that responsibility, even now. Her own words echo from beyond the expanse, words that have long been engraved on her soul: a Captain doesn't abandon ship.
"Kathryn, please." He stands some distance away, holding out his hand. "Come away from the edge."
She shakes her head, watching the Krenim ship implode and explode in the same moment.
"None of this is real."
She hears him step closer.
"I'm here. I'm real."
"No," she replies. "No, you're not, Chakotay. You're just a memory."
He smiles a little.
"Your memory."
"Yes."
"And what if I am?"
Darkness creeps in once more, and she determinedly begins to rebuild her crumbling walls.
"Then I'd rather you leave me be."
A console explodes. Silver sparks shower into the stale air. They freeze in mid-motion, suspended in a never-ending cycle of life and death.
"You can keep pushing me away, Kathryn," Chakotay says quietly, "but I know you. Remember? I know the reason you've begun to push everything and everyone away. It's so you don't have to bear the burden of emotion. So you don't have to feel." His fingers reach for hers, his voice like a single drop of rain caught in a maelstrom. "You say that none of this is real, but the fact is you do, you do feel, and no matter how hard you try to avoid those feelings there is no escaping them."
Finally she turns, giving into the pull of his voice. Months may have passed since she last laid eyes upon him but she hasn't forgotten his face, and she refuses to recoil from the way he looks at her. His gaze harbours an inconsolable rage, an untethered pity. He holds out his hand again, willing her to take it, to let go, but she hasn't the courage. She never has.
"You saved us, Kathryn," he whispers. "But who's going to save you?"
She blinks, and he is gone, his figure shrouded from view, lost in the eternal tempest.
Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this is her eternity. Trapped forever in a timeless moment. Or perhaps this too will pass, as all things must, and she will fade away into the grey beyond.
The air grows impossibly thin.
"You're a hard woman to find, Kathy."
Quiet footsteps meander through the wreckage. He takes up a stance beside her, observing the surrounding devastation with mock disbelief.
"You've really done it this time, you know."
She blinks at him, through him, and he stares back with wide brown puppy eyes that have witnessed more than she can possibly imagine.
"Q."