Title: Coping
Rating: T
Author: Singing Violin
Series: Star Trek: Voyager
Summary: Chakotay suspects something terrible has happened to the captain, and he wants to help, but when he tries, he only makes things worse. Very dark, but not graphic.
Disclaimer: The Star Trek characters and universe are not mine.
Author's Note (Chapter 5): Sorry for the delay on this. I'd like to make the excuse that I was reading "Acts of Contrition," but let's be real here: I spent 20 minutes flipping through it, looking for J/C bits. Mostly I was just procrastinating. Thank you again to the lovely Lia Harkness, who still beta'ed this after being worn out by a grueling few days of RL! All remaining errors are mine. And continuing thanks to all of those reviewing, and those who have faved and followed the story. You're spurring me to continue! Also, next chapter soon. :)
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The more Chakotay read, the sicker he felt. Nearly every one of the ex-Starfleet women who had contributed a letter to the manifesto had mentioned the training, at least in passing. Some didn't say much, other than that it was an outrage, but others gave enough detail to make the commander feel guilty—not just for pledging his service, once again, to the same organization that had prepared and administered the course, but just for being male. He wondered, too, how he could have been so oblivious to the issue: even the grievances he'd seen, he hadn't paid enough attention to. He'd just assumed that they were all alike: Cardassians taking Federation worlds, and Starfleet doing nothing about it. He hadn't imagined there could be political and social problems within the Federation itself. Hadn't humanity evolved beyond that? Apparently not. Like a stone in his stomach, the weight of responsibility began to bear down on him, pushing him to act.
But how? They were tens of thousands of light years from Starfleet command. He didn't even know if anyone aboard Voyager besides the captain had even received the training. And she herself had said she would have modified it to include everyone—which was puzzling, given that it seemed to be ultimately harmful, especially to her—but that she lacked the authority to do so.
What he didn't get from the letters was who had decided it was a good idea to 'prepare' women to be violated and to deal with the aftermath, and which incompetent, or—he shivered at the thought—downright malicious members of the Starfleet leadership had come up with the content of the course.
One thing was for sure: the training had no intention of protecting women from harm, but rather teaching them to expect it, and when it inevitably happened, to consider it their duty to Starfleet to keep silent about it, ostensibly to protect diplomatic relations. It occurred to the commander that it might have all started with the Cardassians, who were known for their particular brand of brutality unleashed upon anyone they were fortunate enough to capture: if their victims had started coming forward en masse, Starfleet would have had political pressure to enter into a war for which it was unready, and which it might lose.
Chakotay was reminded of why he'd joined the Maquis in the first place: Starfleet wasn't willing or able to do what it took to protect its people: the Federation preferred to play it safe, and maybe that strategy would work eventually, as they'd build up the strength to destroy their enemies—or make peace with them, he thought, shuddering again—once and for all, but in the meantime, a lot of people were suffering, and the Federation was turning a blind eye, and even enlisting the help of the victims themselves to keep the proverbial windows shuttered. Brainwashing survivors into thinking they'd invited what had happened to them, and that it was all part of the job they'd signed up for. Starfleet women: trained, hard-working, brilliant...and being treated like two-credit Orion slave girls. It was no wonder they—or at least, those brave enough to question the wisdom of a powerful and reputedly peaceful organization including thousands of worlds and cultures—were crying out for justice.
But it got worse. There were indications that Federation enemies were not the only perpetrators of this practically-endorsed assault. One particular letter had struck him particularly hard: it was from a Bajoran named Ro Laren, who had served as an ensign aboard the Enterprise. She told of having her earring ripped forcefully from her ear by her commanding officer, and her tale only got worse from there: her ear was not the only one of her body parts bleeding by the end of the night. Unfortunately, her commanding officer—the one that had abused her—was the one to whom she was to report any issues. Instead of reporting the incident to the person who had made it happen, she'd joined the Maquis. And even then, she'd cited issues with the Cardassians and loyalty to her home world as her reasons for defecting. Only the letter was proof otherwise—and he strongly suspected, especially given that he had not seen it before—that she had not expected anyone to read it. It seemed the letters, while extremely enlightening to him now, were intended mostly as an outlet for the rawest of rage initiates harbored; the hope was that, if they could vent a little, they'd be less volatile. Even rebels needed some measure of order to function, and intense anger, while a useful motivational factor, could also be a serious impediment to structure.
At least he was able to console himself with the realization that in not publicizing this ample evidence of wrongdoing by Starfleet—perhaps in an effort to tackle more manageable and immediate issues—the Maquis were negligent too. He needn't feel badly about abandoning one organization for the other, either time: they were equally culpable. It seemed, it was a problem nobody was willing to tackle: it was easier to focus on external enemies, murder, and property rights than the disrespect and mistreatment of a subset of people within a supposedly-utopic union of diverse societies. And, he realized, an insistence on cultural tolerance might make it nearly impossible to object to such things, as anti-imperialism was written into the Federation's founding principles, starting with the Prime Directive.
Like dust after an explosion, frustration once again settled all around him, clouding his judgment. If neither the Federation nor the Maquis dared tackle the issue, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop this apparent epidemic of violence against women and the condoning thereof.
Or was there?
Suddenly he remembered the captain—and her inexplicable silence following her promise to contact Tuvok. He never had figured out why she hadn't followed through on her indicated intentions.
He could probably find out...if only he could get the captain to talk to him again.
One thing was for certain: he owed her an apology. Personally, for disobeying and distrusting her, and generally, on behalf of the Federation and all male-kind for unforgiveable crimes against her gender. And he intended to deliver it as soon as possible.
He tapped his communicator. "Chakotay to Captain Janeway."
No response.
"Computer, location of Captain Janeway," he demanded, his heart suddenly racing.
"Captain Janeway is in the ready room," the computer provided cheerfully.
Immediately, he had traversed the short distance between his office and hers, and was ringing the chime, with no more response than he'd gotten to his comm.
Now overwhelmed with apprehension, he overrode the door and entered without permission.
She was in the same place he'd left her: on the couch, in the dark. Now, however, her knees were drawn to her chest, and she seemed to be huddled into as tight a ball as she could manage. As he cautiously approached, he heard the chattering of her teeth, and noted that she was shivering violently.
He knelt down before her and spoke softly. "Kathryn?"
She turned towards him then, daggers in her glare. "Don't touch me."
He nodded. "I won't."
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