Berkeley, California
January 2379
"All right, the master console has been updated, and here's your copy of the new door codes," Shelly, our housing agent, says as she hands Tom the PADD. "Now, Captain, if I can get your acknowledgment of the housing agreement, I'll leave you two to get settled."
I press my thumbprint on the offered PADD and hand it back. She takes a quick look and stuffs it in her bag. "If you need anything, or have questions, please call," she says cheerily, then pauses. "I hope I'm not being rude but I'm curious: Starfleet has housing on base and several apartment buildings in the city. Wasn't anything available?"
A tricky question with a tricky explanation. Living in any 'Fleet housing right now is too much like living on Voyager. We openly wear our rings here, but we're still discrete, still on guard around others, still ignoring the speculation and the whispers.
But this little house in Berkeley, tucked into a quiet street near the university, just might allow us to finally be Kate and Tom — another couple bundled in hats and raincoats at the market or the takeout counter, or out walking the dog.
Tom, bless him, bails me out. "Fleet housing's available," he says, "but every news outlet and photographer in the quadrant knows where it is and has it staked out. "The same thing is happening to our families," he continues. "Starfleet had to send security to my mother-in-law's house in Indiana because the Sheriff's Department couldn't handle the crowd."
"We're gambling that no one will think to look for us here," I add. "I understand we're the big news right now, but I'd like to look out the window without someone trying to take my image, or go outside without people shouting questions at me."
"Oh my God," Shelly gasps. "I can't imagine." She pauses. "You know, we do have properties designated as private listings. Under the circumstances, this one certainly qualifies. In fact, I'll get that done today."
Shelley leaves, and we just stand there, grinning at each other like a couple of fools. Finally, Tom throws his arms open.
"Look at this! Our house!" he exclaims. "This is our house!"
I can't stop my laughter from bubbling up … then again, why would I want to stop it?
"Our house," I agree as he pulls me into his arms.
At least for now …
ooo
February 2379
"Now that is a beautiful ship," Tom sighs. "Reminds me of the Delta Flyer."
"It does," I murmur back as the salesman heads our way. "Venture class, right?" I ask when he greets us.
"It is," he agrees. "Starfleet commissioned them at the start of the war." I nod. "I remember there was disagreement over the need for a new scout ship," I murmur to Tom as the salesman's eyebrow pops up.
"That's a fairly new ship; how did you get it?" I ask to keep us on track.
The salesman shrugs. "Starfleet put 150 of these out for surplus after the war, all damaged. My partner and I took a chance, bought half of them, and fixed them up. We sold most of them to Fed Science and Daystrom; a few more went to the big universities. I'm told they make good science ships. The ones I have left are available for lease, or lease-to-buy," he says, waving at the ship.
"Can we take a look inside?" Tom asks. The salesman nods. "Sure, but I do have to ask: Are you in the market or just looking? Ma'am, it sounds like you have a Fleet background, but generally, I won't lease these to private owners; most aren't certified to handle this type of ship. Could I get your names? Run a quick check?
We assure him of our intentions and introduce ourselves. His jaw drops at my name. "Janeway … Voyager! I'm sorry, I should have recognized you both."
"I'm happy that you didn't," I quip.
"Intrepid class certification; well, yeah," he murmurs as he looks through the licensing database. "I apologize again; you two obviously are more than qualified." He stands up. "She's a great ship; I think you'll like her."
ooo
"I've lost my mind, haven't I?" I ask as we leave the dealership with the lease agreement.
"Nope, I'd say you're finally finding yourself," Tom drawls.
I'm not sure what I'm feeling: A symptom? A reaction? Rebellion? Whatever it is, it's been building since our return. I made it through the hearings mostly unscathed. Got most of what I wanted for my crew. I have a shiny new Vice Admiral's bar, and a high-level post in Operations when I return from leave.
I should be over the moon, to use an old expression. But all I want to do is run away …
"Part of me feels like a fraud; that I don't deserve that bar," I told Tom when I finally explained myself. "The rest of me wants to ditch everything and leave."
He considered for a moment, then nodded. "I disagree on the bar: I think you deserve it. But leaving is a great idea. Let's go."
"But I don't run from things," I argue. "That's not me, and it's why I don't understand this."
"Well, let's not call it running away," he says evenly. "Call it a sabbatical, a vacation, or a mental-health break.
"Look, honey, you haven't had a decent rest in nearly eight years," he continues. "And yes, you're finally getting substantial leave, but what really pisses me off is that 'Fleet just locked you into Operations. You're not being allowed to think about what you want, or where you can best contribute. And I think you know that, or you wouldn't want to run."
I sat back, not sure what to think as Tom went on. "We can go anywhere, do whatever we want. We know how to sail; we can drive around North America, Europe, or wherever; get a ship and wander the Alpha quadrant. And when you're ready, we can come back here or settle somewhere else."
And then something clicked … "A ship. I'd like a ship," I told him. "As strange as it sounds, I want to get reacquainted with the Alpha Quadrant."
ooo
"You know, I do feel that I'm being selfish," I say when we get home. "I feel like I'm preventing you from finding what you want to do."
"Nah," he scoffs. "It will be easier for me once you're settled."
He's quiet, and I don't know what he's thinking. "You know," he finally says, "it's been a long time since I gave any thought about what I want to do. I let my father push me into Starfleet; after that, I just reacted to whatever situation I was in. I'm damn lucky things turned out the way they did, but right now, we both need a break."
ooo
Oakland Shuttleport
March, 2379
It's what? 2100, 2200 hours, I muse as Molly and I briskly walk through the drizzle that's settled over the shuttleport holding lot. "Come on baby," I urge, "this is your last chance to go outside for a while."
Molly gets the message and heads toward a patch of grass near the fence. As I wait, I idly wonder if anyone at Voyager's homecoming party has noticed that the guest of honor has fled.
ooo
I wouldn't call the party a failure. It was nice to have some closure to our journey. But I could have done without it being a Starfleet Event. The empty speeches were tolerable, but after two hours of making nice and deflecting questions about my plans, I was about to vomit into a punch bowl.
We did have a distraction: Chakotay and Seven were across the room, his arm securely wrapped around her waist. "Kahless," B'Elanna muttered to me. "Is he afraid she's going to run away?"
"Well, knowing Seven, I wouldn't rule that out," I whispered back as B'Elanna nearly choked on her drink.
A glance at the chronometer: Ah yes, time to set our plan in motion. If anyone noticed, I was headed to the restroom down the hall. What they couldn't see was the oh-so-conveniently placed side door that opened onto an alley — where Tom and Molly were waiting in a hovercar.
ooo
I hustle Molly back to Row 26, where our ship, the Viator, waits in the shadows.
Something settles in me as I open the hatch and step inside. "There you are," Tom calls as I guide Molly into her crate. "A little help with the pre-flight checklist, and we can be on our way."
I slide into the other seat and get to work. With the checklist complete, Tom hits the controls, and I feel the engine rumble to life — or is that the butterflies that have taken over my stomach?
We arrive at the launch platform, and Tom looks over at me. "Ready?"
Only twice in the past two years have I been so certain about a decision. One was ordering Tom to take Voyager into that transwarp corridor. The other was agreeing to marry him. This one may be just as important.
"Do it!" I order, which makes him laugh.
All right then. First stop: Alpha Centauri" — an invitation from Tom's mother, who left Owen when Voyager was declared lost, and moved to a beachfront condo in the capital city.
Then the uncertainty starts to creep back. "You know, after that, I have no idea."
"That's why we're going," he reminds me as the ship glides into space. "Wherever we end up is fine, whether it be in Berkeley or somewhere else. As long as we're together, we'll be home."
Pathfinder August 2376
Workforce, august 2377
Threshold, May 23 2372
