STAR TREK - VOY - Endgame

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CHAPTER 1
FIREWORKS BROKE HIGH ACROSS THE INVERTED REFLECTION OF THE city lights on
black water. San Francisco Bay shimmered with colored streams and rediscovered the night sky. On the
newly refurbished Golden Gate Bridge, an icon so long established that no one could imagine these
waters without the great suspended structure, thousands upon thousands of spectators cheered at the
spectacular explosions in the sky. The city in its dazzling livery, millions of jewel-like lights bundled into
geometric shapes, began to flicker on and off from building to building in a coordinated tribute. Though
the bridge was old and the fireworks an ancient art, this was a supremely modern scene that could only
happen in a population center.
Out of the gauzy clouds the enormous cetacean body of the starship swept downward, almost touching
the teaming balustrades, only to rise at the last moment. The reflection of her nacelles glowed brightly in
the gunmetal water below as her oblong primary hull rose to blow the geodesic fireworks into a blizzard.
On the bridge, the crowd roared and waved their arms wildly.
The ship passed over their heads in a tidy maneuver, came about, and made another pass.
The starship looked somewhat old-fashioned now despite the patches of alien armor defiantly fixed to a
quarter of her hull area, and the other three-quarters scratched and scarred by turmoil. She was like an
old warhorse, still holding her head up despite her bleeding flanks and ratted mane.
"These should be familiar images to everyone who remembers the U.S.S. Voyager's triumphant return to
Earth after twenty-three years in the Delta Quadrant. Voyager captivated the hearts and minds of people
throughout the Federation, so it seems fitting that on the tenth anniversary of their return we take a
moment to recall the sacrifices made by the crew."
The newscaster wasn't very inspiring. Maybe he'd overre-hearsed.
Still, quite a show. That business of the city lights' flashing in a coordinated performance was a new thing.
Well, new ten years ago.
Ten years. Seemed like forty.
And twenty-six years in space, lost, toying daily with hopelessness, struggle, challenge, isolation . ..
whush.
Funny how the toughest tests in life could turn out to be the best part of life. The things people often said
they wanted most--peace and quiet, easy advancement, security-weren't really the most satisfying
experiences after all, or the ones that kept people together.
Thus, nostalgia. Kathryn Janeway found herself peeling back the pages of her life to that stressful quarter
century rushing at high warp through the Delta Quadrant, out of place, away from comfort, without help,
struggling by the day to keep a ship and crew together with a single ideal and making sure that ideal didn't
fade.
Had she been right or wrong to push them onward? There had been other civilizations they could've
joined, lived out a life on some nice planet, more fulfilled, have other careers, more family, a chance to be
captains themselves if they wanted. Maybe if she'd known then about the twenty-three years . . .
Oh, how old was that question? Older than the whole voyage, now. Old and shriveled. She'd combed
her hair with it every morning since the ship found itself propelled seventy thousand light-years into deep
space with no shortcut home. She'd made a decision and stuck with it. Why look back now?
But twenty-six years . ..
She picked up her old coffee cup, one of the last links to her great long struggle, and turned it a little to
avoid the chip in the rim. Six times she'd had to rescue this cup from attentive yeomen who wanted to get
her a new one.
"Earlier today in the Tri-Nebulas," the newscaster went on, "corruption charges were brought against a
Ferengi gaming consortium-"
"Computer, end display."
Janeway stood up from her Victorian couch and moved past the Bombay wicker table to the vast curved
window. In the soft glass she caught a faint echo of her silver-streaked hair and rather liked the image.
Maybe she was indulging herself with a touch of vanity, but other than the streaks, she thought she hadn't
changed that much. A few lines here and there-a few.
Beyond the reflection lay the always stunning expanse of San Francisco Bay and the bridge. This
fan-shaped wing of apartment buildings had been architecturally designed to give all residents this view. It
had become a favorite living space for many admirals who wanted to remain close to Starfleet Command
but not live on the grounds. To Janeway, though, the bridge and the
bay meant something more, she truly believed, than to all the other admirals. At least something different.
She hoped that after today it would still mean something good.
Invasion.
Another reunion.
The apartment was filled now with people, all kinds of people, human and alien, young and old, Starfleet
and otherwise-the surviving members of the Voyager's crew and their families. Thank God some of them
had enough time left to have families. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres, soft music, laughter, some smiles.
Janeway hovered behind the umbrella tree and watched as one of the kids approached Harry Kim and
tapped his arm, breaking a conversation he was having with somebody else.
Kim was a Starfleet captain now with his own starship, the only one of the remaining crew who had
pursued such command. The studious effort had taken him a while and grayed his hair, but he'd made it.
Oh, yes, Janeway had to admit to herself that she'd pushed a few buttons for him, and he had a leg-up
just from the Voyager's reputation. Why not?
"Hello," Kim said to the child at his elbow.
"What's your name?" the little girl asked.
"Harry. What's yours?"
"Sabrina."
"Naomi's daughter? You've gotten so big?"
"I don't remember you."
"I haven't been to one of these reunions in four years." Kim straightened, rather proudly. "I've been on a
deep-space assignment."
"For four years?"
Janeway smiled. To a child, this was eternity.
"Compared to how long I was on Voyager, it seemed like a long weekend. Can you find your mother for
me? I'd love to say hello."
The little girl nodded and merrily departed, giving Janeway her opening. She wanted to talk to Kim, but
only to him, not to a knot of smiling relatives trying to pretend they were having a great time-again.
"Here you are, Captain," she began, circling in on Kim with a fresh drink for him.
"Thank you, Admiral." Kim nodded toward the little girl. "I haven't seen her since she was a baby."
"It's amazing how fast you've all grown up," Janeway said.
Kim shrugged, then his smile faded. "How's Tuvok?"
"The same." She wanted to tell him the truth, but this was more gentle.
His expression suggested he knew more than he was saying. "I thought maybe I'd go see him tomorrow."
'That would be nice."
And it would be nice if we were more honest with each other.
"I'm sorry I missed the funeral," Kim went on. "I should've been there."
Janeway took his hand. "You were on a mission. Everyone understood." They looked at each other in
mutual discomfort, but with genuine affection too. "It's good to see you, Harry."
She started to say more, but her throat closed up. There was no clever way, after all. How could she tell
him she needed him and his ship out of her way?
This reunion was the tenth time she'd fielded these awful sensations, so much that she had come to dread
such events. People had been kind and generous, certainly ... she'd been given citation after medal after
doctorate after award, and each one diminished her sense of accomplishment. As she glanced around at
the
faces of her crew, her friends, the awareness of being a celebrated central figure in this great drama of
space exploration pressed her again with the feeling that she'd failed. She couldn't shake it.
Every time they had a reunion, they wanted to feel more like they were home, and every time satisfaction
slipped a little farther away. They'd been lost for twenty-six years, the prime of each of their lives. When
they'd returned, their families had grown, died, changed, forgotten, or dreamed of possibilities no longer
possible. The Voyager had done the impossible-it had come back from the dead.
The crew had stayed dead.
She had brought them back, but too late. Though she had dreaded this reunion, it galvanized her sense of
purpose. Her mission wasn't over.
CHAPTER 2
THIS PARTICULAR REUNION WAS MORE TROUBLING THAN THE OTH-
ers. Janeway moved away from Harry Kim without saying what she had planned to say. She'd given him
plenty of orders in the past and demanded he not question her judgment or plans, but today he was a
Starfleet captain and things were more complicated. He had a right to ask why. She wasn't ready to tell.
She floated about the room, attending everyone but not really engaging in conversation. She was going
through the motions. They all were.
Pretending to involve herself with a small crystal plate of munchies, she paused and watched as Tom
Paris went to answer the apartment door. In his New York casuals and with those silver temples, he had
a Dashiell Hammett look about him these days-she suspected he worked on it. Well, why not?
"Doc!" Paris exclaimed in an "about time" tone.
Through the door came Voyager's one-of-a-kind shipboard physician, looking exactly as he did the first
day he was activated. Holograms had that advantage-eternal life. Dressed in
civilian duds, the Doctor entered with a young woman on his arm, definitely a source of curiosity for
Janeway and everyone. After all...
"Mr. Paris," the Doctor greeted merrily, and drew Paris into a particularly casual hug. "Where have you
been hiding yourself?"
"I've been busy."
"A new holonovel?"
Paris smiled, not without pride. "I'll be sure to get your input before I send it to my publisher. Aren't you
going to introduce me to your date?"
"Tom Paris," the Doctor said, beaming, "say hello to Lana, my blushing bride."
Paris couldn't control this particular expression. " You're married?"
"Tomorrow's our two-week anniversary," Lana said. A musical voice, for sure.
"Congratulations!" Paris absorbed the news, then huffed, "I guess my invitation got lost in subspace?"
"You should be flattered," the Doctor said. "We took a page out of your book and eloped."
Lana eyed her husband. "Joe has a real flare for romantic gestures."
"Joe?"
"I decided I couldn't get married without a name," the Doctor clarified.
Paris struck an expression. "It took you thirty-three years to come up with 'Joe'?"
"It was Lana's grandfather's name."
"Oh ... so you're not..." Paris looked at the girl, and from behind the couch Janeway buried a chuckle.
She'd had the same question and probably the same look on her face when she first
heard about this. What kind of a woman marries a computer-generated-
"A hologram?" Lana finished for him. "No."
The Doctor raised his chin. "Frankly, Mr. Paris, I'm surprised you'd even ask. I thought we were beyond
those sorts of distinctions."
"Are you kidding?" Paris lit up. "I think it's great! I'm in a 'mixed marriage' myself, remember?"
"Speaking of which, where is that wife of yours?"
Janeway took that as a cue and turned into the outer corridor of the spacious apartment. "They're looking
for you," she said.
In the corridor, B'Elanna Torres peeked out and gestured her closer.
"Why are you hiding back here?" Janeway asked.
B'Elanna eyed the doorway. "The Doctor's new 'wife.' How can he have a wife? I can't get used to it."
"As far as we can detect, he qualifies as a life-form. You know that."
"Oh, I know it... I just can't feel it yet. Do I have to get used to everything? Everything?"
"No, I suppose not. When did you get back?"
"Just this morning. I had to arrange for two special transports and one stowaway leg just to get here
tonight."
"Good thing," Janeway said. "If you'd missed the reunion, Harry would've started asking questions."
"Not to mention my loving husband, the curious Captain Proton. It always makes him nervous when 1
have to tap my Klingon blood."
"Don't tap his curiosity, whatever you do," Janeway warned.
B'Elanna eyed her. "You'll have to be careful too. There are rumors starting to flitter about those
conversions you're making
to your personal shuttle. You might have to make up a new story."
"Never mind the shuttle for now. It's almost finished anyway, and I'll have it moved before inspections.
What did you accomplish? Am I in?"
"The High Council had a lot of questions."
"What did you tell them?"
"The truth," B'Elanna said with a shrug, "with a Klingon twist. I told them my beloved former captain,
who saved my life many times in glorious battle, would consider it an honor to submit Korath's House for
consideration."
Janeway pushed down a twinge of worry. This couldn't be so easy. "Do you think it'll work?"
"I'm just the Federation liaison," B'Elanna downplayed, "but I'd like to think I have some influence. You
still haven't told me why you're trying to help Korath."
"He's an old friend."
Fibs, lies, deceptions, and redirections. How much could she protect her friends-the real ones-from what
she planned to do?
B'Elanna didn't buy it. "Would this 'old friend' have anything to do with the mission you sent my daughter
on?"
Janeway hid her misgivings in a smile. "Sorry, B'Elanna, but you know I can't talk about that."
Can't, won't-small distinction.
"Couldn't you at least have delayed it till after the reunion? She really wanted to be here."
"She'll be home soon," Janeway said, answering the question B'Elanna was actually asking. "I promise."
"May I have everyone's attention, please? Attention!"
A spoon clinked madly upon a champagne glass on the other side of the living room. Janeway and Torres
turned and stepped
out of their hiding place in the hallway, to see Reg Barclay quieting the gathering so he could make his
announcement. In his uniform, with the rank of commander, he seemed at ease in front of a crowd-quite
saying something for Reginald Barclay.
"Ten years ago tonight," Barclay began with a touch of drama, "this crew returned home from the longest
away mission in Starfleet history. Twenty-three years together made you a family ... one I'm proud to
have been adopted by. So let's raise our glasses-to the journey."
"To the journey!"
Around the room glasses clinked and smiles flickered.
Admiral Janeway raised her own glass too, but she didn't drink to that toast. She had one of her own.
"And," she began firmly, "to those of us who aren't here to celebrate it with us."
As around her the extended family of Voyager affirmed her sentiment, Janeway pressed her lips to the
glass and blocked the rest of her statement with a sip of champagne. Better buried in bubbles than
spoken yet...
May things change for them and for all of us, suddenly and soon.
CHAPTER 3
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN ... MEET THE BORG."
The Borg. Still, after decades, a terrorizing presence that had yet to be subdued. Some neighbors you
could live with. Others-
A Borg drone shimmered into formation at Commander Barclay's summons. Bulky and robotic, the
drone had just enough left of the humanoid element to be essentially paralyzing at first, second, and third
glance. They were a ghastly-looking bunch, the Borg, with their underlying living body infected with
mechanics, threaded with artifice down to the last fiber, until they didn't even need blood anymore.
Yet, there were those eyes . . . impenetrable, uninfluenced.
The old Pathfinder research lab, once used for radical communications to call out to the lost Voyager,
had been converted into a classroom. The Borg hologram rotated gracelessly before a cluster of Starfleet
Academy cadets on tiered seats. Some of the kids flinched at the sight-and it was indeed harrowing.
And even more for someone who had dealt with the Borg, as
Kathryn Janeway had. She sat on the dais while Barclay continued addressing his class.
"Over the course of this term, you're going to become intimately familiar with the Collective. You'll learn
about the assimilation process, the Borg hierarchy, the psychology of the hive mind."
Barclay paused, letting those words sink in, for they had great eternal significance even though they were
spoken quickly. Assimilation ... the hive . . . what a civilization!
Janeway repressed a shiver.
"When it comes to your performance in this class," Barclay went on, enjoying himself, "my expectations
are no different than those of the Borg Queen herself . . . perfection."
Several cadets laughed, breaking the sensation of impending doom always brought on by the sight of a
Borg, and the mere idea of their queen.
"This semester," Barclay continued, "we're very fortunate to have a special guest lecturer, the woman
who literally 'wrote the book' on the Borg. Admiral Kathryn Janeway."
Janeway smiled, but not because of the applause. Poor Barclay, always pontificating for effect-Janeway
hadn't really written a book. Didn't he know what "literally" meant? Oh, well, if he weren't trying too
hard, he wouldn't be Reg Barclay.
Speaking before groups of all kinds from students to Rotary Clubs, support leagues to historical
societies, had lost its gloss for her years before. The sheer redundancy of the questions quite effectively
offset the hero worship. Certainly she appreciated being treated so well, and understood the need of
others to focus their own dreams, their fears, and needs for a happy ending.
Ten years made for a lot of public appearances.
She stood up to the applause of the starstruck children of
Starfleet's near future. Before very long, these would be the helmsmen and spectrographers and analysts
and officers of the next batch of Starfleet ships spreading out into the settled galaxy to discover the new
and tend the established.
Most of them didn't even shave yet.
"Thank you," she said when the applause settled. "I'm glad to be here ... a question already, Cadet?"
One of the kids in the middle of the class had his hand up. He was glancing at his classmates. Janeway
recognized the symptoms of a put-up job.
"I suppose it could wait till after class, Admiral," the kid said skittishly.
"As they say in the temporal mechanics department," she encouraged, "there's no time like the present."
The kid turned a few colors and screwed up his daring. "In the year 2377, you aided the Borg resistance
movement known as Unimatrix Zero-"
"Sounds like someone's been reading ahead," Barclay commented.
Janeway glanced at him, then looked at the cadet. The kid had moxie, she had to admit that. "I thought
you had a question, Cadet."
"Yes, ma'am . .. when you informed the Queen that you were going to liberate thousands of her drones .
.. could you describe the look on her face?"
At first she didn't have a clue what that meant. Okay, she still didn't.
Was she missing something?
When in doubt, play smart. She broke a grin and smiled right at the kid as if she knew exactly what he
was fishing for.
The cue was right-the other cadets broke into laughter.
Whatever fraternity he was pledging for, he'd probably just guaranteed his membership. Janeway was
about to give him extra ballast by actually trying to describe what he asked for, but a Starfleet yeoman
drew her attention when he came into the classroom and hurried down the steps toward her. So much for
chitchat.
When the yeoman whispered to her and Janeway excused herself from the class, she thought this might
be a good lesson too-that speaking to a group of cadets was leisure, not mission, and that even an officer
without an assignment had priorities. She left without any more explanation and heard Barclay redirect his
students to nanotechnology, but felt his curious eyes tug after her.
They'd all understand, eventually, why her behavior had become so quirkish. Time would tell.
Once in her own office, a cluttered echo of her ready room on Voyager, she went immediately to the
desk monitor, whic h was flashing INCOMING MESSAGE CLASSIFIED.
Classified and time-sensitive. She touched the controls.
Instantly a youthful face replaced the words, a girl in her mid-twenties. Miral Paris, the daughter of Tom
and B'Elanna.
Janeway pushed down that last part, and forced herself to see a Starfleet ensign instead of practically her
own granddaughter.
"Sorry to pull you out of class, Admiral," Miral said quickly.
"Did you see it?" Janeway asked immediately.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And?"
Miral smiled conspiratorially. "It works!"
Janeway allowed herself a deep breath of relief-good news, great news.
"Korath has agreed to the exchange?"
Miral's smile fell away. "Yes..."
"But?"
"He's insisting on handing it over to you personally."
"I'll be there as soon as I can. Good work, Ensign Paris."
The girl nodded-now, there was hero worship.
The monitor blinked to a dark screen and the cryptic conversation ended like a snap. They were engaged
in dangerous games, and no mistake, but there was something engaging about all this.
Janeway settled back in her chair. She could easily have resisted, sent a message to Korath that Admiral
Janeway didn't just sally off to a Klingon stronghold at his first beckoning. She probably should've toyed
with him, led him on, made him believe she wasn't interested in dealing with him or helping him advance
his family's influence. He'd have known she was lying and he would've lied back at her and this could've
gone on for a while until they were both good and ready to lay things on the line.
No sense dragging out the inevitable. Korath knew what he wanted and Janeway did too. So they'd skip
over the general playbook and get right to the end zone.
The reunion was over. Miral had reported in. Korath was primed. Janeway's private shuttle was refitted
and ready to fire up. The key pieces were in place. She was thinking clearly and had retired all her
doubts long ago.
Just one more obligation.
The day was bright and spectacularly beautiful, as if nature had a proclamation to make. Each time
Janeway went outside on such a day, she found herself charged with justification. This, this, was why she
had driven so hard to come home, this spectacle of Earth, a blue diamond in a sea of stones. Earth was
the
jewel, the prize, the one planet against which all others constantly paled. Planets all over the cosmos
dreamed of being Earth someday. She had been to the Delta Quadrant, farther away than any human had
traveled, and she knew how rare such a place was in the greater galactic scheme.
She inhaled the sunlight, the velvety green lawn, and even the magnificent elongated building that seemed
to float upon the verdant sea. Well, she was here ... might as well go inside.
Anticipating the contrast, she steeled herself. These visits were never easy, mostly because they were just
visits. There was never progress.
Inside, the hospital made a charming attempt to be as cheerful and uplifting as a long-term medical facility
could be, taking every chance to appear less of a hospital. There were potted plants, both real and not,
children's paintings, and even a resident collie. The rooms were as homelike as such an arrangement
could provide, given that cleanliness was a factor and simplicity helped in that respect. There was
personalization without clutter, and the nurses and doctors generally wore street clothes rather than lab
jackets. Somehow the effort at not appearing to be a hospital tended to ram home the reality of the
place. People came here who had nowhere else to go, who needed so much minute-to-minute monitoring
that even the most loving of relatives couldn't provide enough attention.
Janeway easily cleared into the place through the residential security. She was a regular.
Without escort she saw herself through the pleasantly curved corridors, through the garden area and into
the north wing. Without even thinking she went to the third door on the left and before she knew it she
was there. She pressed the coded locking mechanism with her thumb. The mechanism took her finger-
print, bleeped happily, and opened the door panel. She stepped into the near-darkness.
In the room a single candle softly glowed, casting a very faint coloration on the floor, which was
patterned with discarded pieces of paper. Hundreds of them. Each piece of paper was crammed with
handwriting, numbers, indecipherable encryptions, and carefully executed shapes. There were papers on
top of other papers, weeks' worth of frustrated calculations. The candleglow caught the edges of the
papers, some curled, some crumpled.
In the middle of the carpet a man's form crouched on both knees, back arched, elbows to the carpet.
The furious scratch of a pencil on paper was the only sound in the room.
They'd tried music, but he hadn't liked it. Videos, movies, ship logs, travelogues... he'd rejected every
attempt to ease his obsessions. All he wanted was the candle, the paper, and a pencil. Not a pen. A
pencil.
Janeway stood at the doorway, daylight from the hall windows flooding the entryway.
"Hello, Tuvok."
It was hard to sound normal, casual, not patronizing.
'The light."
"Sorry . . ." She stepped away from the door. The panel closed behind her, locking out the sun, the hope,
and any hint of change.
Only now did he look up at her. His Vulcan features were aged, but not so much with time as stress.
Unlike the stoic logician he had once been, settled and steady, secure in his identity and purpose aboard
Voyager, he was easily confused and anxious, his eyes lost, his mouth bracketed with tension.
"I know you..." he spoke, disturbing himself with his own voice.
'That's right," Janeway said. "I'm your friend. Kathryn Janeway. Remember?"
His gaze hardened with skepticism. "You're an impostor."
Janeway's stomach knotted up. She'd come here on a final kind of whim, to get the strength to fulfill her
plans. It was working.
"No, Tuvok," she insisted. "It's me."
"Admiral Janeway visits on Sunday. Today is Thursday. Logic dictates you are not who you claim to be."
Pleased with his conclusion, Tuvok turned again to whatever he was scrawling on his piece of paper.
Well, he had her with that one. This wasn't her usual day, and like a religious tribute she had kept
scrupulously to her Sunday visits. Almost everyone else did too, including Tuvok's own family. They had
all worked out a specific schedule of visitation and no matter how they felt from day to day, they stuck to
their assigned dates and times. Why?
Because Tuvok took his only comfort in regularity, in patterns and dependable, repetitive habit.
Spontaneous visits, no matter how enthusiastic, had sent him into fits of panic and weeks of rejection.
The only thing that had calmed him down was a set schedule.
"How are you?" she asked.
"I'm close to completing my work," he told her, his eyes on the paper.
So nothing had changed here either.
Janeway sat down in the nearest chair, hoping he might take her cue and stop crouching like a frog on a
lily pad. "I'm glad to hear it."
He kept his nose to the paper. "It's difficult with so many interruptions."
"I'm sorry. Would you like me to leave?"
Tuvok contemplated the question as if it were complicated, and made a royal decision. "You may stay."
Janeway watched him for a few seconds. She could indeed have sat here all night and he might not
acknowledge her again, having welcomed her into his delusions and accepted her as a fixture. She'd tried
that a couple of times-just sit and wait, give him a chance to start a conversation. He never seemed
obligated.
The pencil continued to scratch on the paper. The markings were unrecognizable, almost hieroglyphic.
From what dark grotto in his disturbed mind had he dredged them?
She wondered if she should ask. Would he tell her?
Would it help?
She had come here today to stiffen her spine, to remind herself of the painful parts of success, of the
losses her small family had sustained, and of the failure that everyone else saw as a victory. Her resolve
toughened as she sat here, watching one of her best friends sink deeper and deeper into a black lonely
pit. If she had any lingering doubts about what she had to do, this visit smashed them.
"Tuvok, there's something I need to tell you," she began. "It's very important."
The pencil continued scratching.
"I'm going away," she continued. "I may not see you again."
At this he surprised her by looking up. Did he understand? Were there thirty seconds of sanity in there
for her to make him understand? His dark eyes flickered with the candle's flame as if to say / must forbid
this.
Janeway forced herself not to expect more.
"Commander Barclay and the Doctor will continue to visit you," she said. "They'll bring you anything you
need."
He seemed to be fighting for reason, to respond to the real
problem she had just put before him, but then lost it before he got a good grip. "The Doctor comes on
Wednesdays . . . Commander Barclay's visits are erratic."
A frown crossed his face suddenly, sharply. He knew that was the wrong answer, the wrong angle of
thought. Like a boy casting a line into rapids, he'd lost the direction of what he was fishing for.
But Kathryn Janeway had gotten what she had come here for.
She stood up quietly, careful not to rustle a single paper with her feet, and moved toward the door.
"Goodbye, Tuvok."
The pencil continued its scratchings. They say to never look back, but she did.
Last-minute second thoughts. She banished them with vigor.
It'd been a long time since she had packed to go away. One trait common to most Voyager alumni was
the lack of wanderlust.
She laid out a few items of clothing the way she had back in her days of undercover work-the toughest
fabrics, the simplest cuts, the least fussy necklines.
"You must be the only doctor who still makes house calls," she commented.
A few steps away, the Doctor produced a medical tricorder and began scanning, but wi th an attitude.
"What are your symptoms?" he asked.
She looked up. "I'm perfectly fine."
"For thirty-three years, you've fought me every time you were due for a physical. Now you ask me to
give you one ahead of schedule?"
He bobbed his brows at her with a you're-sick-or-else delivery.
"I'm taking a trip," she told him. "I just wanted to get our appointment out of the way before I left."
Lies, lies. Had to admit, she was getting better at it.
"That's all?" he prickled.
She managed not to nod. "That's all."
Accommodating what he perfectly well knew was a red herring, he eyed his tricorder and uselessly
reported, "The good news is, you're as healthy as the day I first examined you."
"Hm. Well, now that that's out of the way," she said with a gesture, "have a seat. We didn't get to talk
much at the party."
"No ... I suppose we didn't."
"So how's married life?"
Wasn't this silly? She knew, he knew, and still they continued.
"Wonderful," the Doctor accommodated. "You should try it."
She laughed. "I think it's a little late for that."
Thoughts surged back of her long-ago beau, Mark, and those lighthearted days many years ago, just
before Voyager's ten-minute mission that had turned into twenty-six years. Funny- she'd thought she was
"mature" then, possibly too mature for marriage, for a whole new start, and she had turned Mark down
twice. We'll talk about it later... don't complicate things... let me get this next assignment out of the way,
and maybe then...
In fact she'd been young in those days, younger than she knew, the captain of a starship with a crew even
younger. As she gazed back for just an instant, she recalled how senior and settled they had all believed
themselves, as if nothing could go wrong or send them on a fool's mission.
Imagine.
"Marriage is for the young," she said, forcing herself out of her musings. "Like your wife."
"I can only hope," the Doctor commented, "she ages as gracefully as you have. I, of course, will be the
same handsome hologram twenty years from now that I am today."
Janeway smiled. What could she possibly say about that? Could she talk about facing life together-at the
same pace?
No point. The Doctor was a whole brave new world unto himself. Those troubling details were for his
wife to hammer out.
"I've been meaning to ask you," she began again, "are you familiar with the drug called 'chronexaline' ?"
A little surprised, the Doctor nodded. He seemed to understand that this was the real reason he had been
summoned here by her flimsy cover.
"We've been testing it at Starfleet Medical," he said, "trying to determine if it can protect biomatter from
tachyon radiation."
She stopped fiddling with her duffel. "And?"
He looked directly at her. "It's very promising. Why do you ask?"
Ah, the slow dance.
Or a jig. "I need two thousand milligrams by tomorrow afternoon."
This time she really did surprise him.
"Why?" he asked.
"That's classified."
She was asking for his trust, a long-range act of faith, a ridiculously illegal cooperation based on nothing
but their mutual past. A few seconds ticked by.
"Will you get it for me?"
"Of course, Admiral. You'll have it by 0900."
He sat on the couch with his hands on his tricorder.
For a moment she thought he might know more than he was
saying, or at least suspect more. Then, as she gazed at him, she realized he was extending that secure
chain of trust. She didn't really have any command authority over him anymore. Apparently she didn't
need it.
"Thank you," she said. She closed her duffel bag and put it near the door. "I'm taking my private shuttle.
Deliver the package to receiving at the Oakland Shipyard. If anyone asks, I'm on vacation."
The Doctor pivoted, still sitting. "Space leave, Admiral?" She smiled. "Yes, space leave. Take care of
Tuvok."
CHAPTER 4
BORG GRAPHICS SCROLLED ACROSS A MONITOR SCREEN AT HIGH
speed. Quick glimpses of the Borg cube schematics shot by, ferociously complex and yet recognizable,
and suddenly a blend of intersecting warp corridors skated by in patterns of light and mismatched
indecipherables.
After hours, the Pathfinder Lab was dimly lit, with only a few worklights on along the walkways between
the tiers. Anything more would attract attention from the security scans.
Even after all this time and experience dealing with the Borg, the images rushing past on the screen were
processed by Kathryn Janeway's mind more as a recurring nightmare than useful data she was
downloading for a purpose.
When the computer shut the screen down and announced, "Download complete," Janeway flinched as if
someone had struck her.
"This should be everything you need," Reg Barclay said as he handed her the padd with all the operative
information stored neatly inside.
She had no idea what else he might've stored in the device, but suspected there was more than what she
had just seen, anything he could think of that might be of use in a clandestine mission.
"The shuttle?" she asked.
"Waiting for you at the Oakland Shipyard," he confirmed. "I wish you'd let me come with you."
"Sorry, Reg, but this is my mission. Besides, if you leave, there won't be anyone to teach those cadets
about the Borg."
She was joking. Or was she?
Barclay didn't seem to think so. "I made you some fresh tea for the trip. Not the replicated stuff." He
handed her a thermos from under his console desk.
Wasn't this ridiculous? Grown-ups who had known each other for years upon years, gone through times
both terrible and glorious, dealt with forces and peoples unknown to any of their kindred, and all they
could talk about to each other was tea and who was getting married and frivolous beatings around the
bushes. There was more to be said and everyone knew it. They weren't happy. They were home, but
they weren't at home.
The fractured excuse for conversation galvanized Janeway's sense of purpose and slayed her last
lingering doubt. She had to do something, even if it were something crazy.
She took the thermos out of Barclay's hand and rewarded him with a gaze of honesty.
"Thank you," she said, "for everything. I wouldn't have been able to do this without you."
Barclay forced a little smile. "Don't remind me."
"Any final words of advice for your old captain? Wait-don't tell me. I'm being impulsive. I'm not
considering all the consequences. It's too risky."
Anything else? There was more, plenty, all of which she would be saying to anyone else about to go off
on this wild quest. As Janeway stared down at the reason for her sudden determination, the wind blew
across the grass and fluttered it on Chakotay's name, carved over the dates of his birth and death, on a
flat polished piece of marble.
She thought about talking to herself more, using him as an excuse, but instead knelt on the moist grass
and touched the stone.
"Thanks for the input, but I've got to do what I think is right." Her voice faltered. She fought to get it
back. "I know it wasn't easy living all these years without her, Chakotay ... but when I'm through, things
might be better for all of us. Trust me."
What kind of officer was she? Choked up, doubtful, troubled, alone . . .
The sensation of being alone struck her in the chest. Her longtime first officer was gone, her friends either
dead or disengaged from each other, and now she was doing what she had always admonished the
others never to do-go off alone, unsupported. How easy it would've been to call Paris, Torres, Doc, and
摘要：

CHAPTER1FIREWORKSBROKEHIGHACROSSTHEINVERTEDREFLECTIONOFTHEcitylightsonblackwater.SanFranciscoBayshimmeredwithcoloredstreamsandrediscoveredthenightsky.OnthenewlyrefurbishedGoldenGateBridge,aniconsolongestablishedthatnoonecouldimaginethesewaterswithoutthegreatsuspendedstructure,thousandsuponthousandso...

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