And today they tell me two things. One, that I've been exonerated, cleared of all charges. And two, that they want to make me an Admiral.
This morning I was summoned to meet with Admiral Necheyev in her office, during the time I usually go to my counseling sessions. When I arrived, Admiral Paris was already there. They asked me to sit down, then Necheyev told me the review board's decision: there wasn't enough evidence to justify Lessing's criminal case, so no formal charges would be filed.
Game, set and match, Janeway.
Oddly enough, Necheyev smiled as she told me. Both she and Admiral Paris looked at me expectantly, as if I should be happy, grateful. But instead I felt empty. Deflated. They'd taken away my last battle, my final challenge. No one else left for me to fight, no more obstacles in my path. Nothing. The journey was finally, officially over. Voyager was home, all my people were safe, and I'd been set free to... do what? The Admirals couldn't have known that as they handed me my freedom, I suddenly realized I had no idea what to do with it.
That's when Admiral Paris stepped up and made me an offer he thought I couldn't possibly refuse. A promotion, if I wanted it. He stood over me, beaming, his hand on my shoulder, and told me it was about time another Janeway wore an Admiral's bars. I could tell he was so proud, so pleased to be the one to make the official announcement to me. I forced a smile to my lips and allowed him to pull me up into his arms and hug me, just as he said my father would have done if he could have been there.
Then Owen graciously assured me that I wouldn't have to make a decision immediately, that I could take all the time I wanted to mull over my options. But I could see that he was convinced he knew exactly what my answer would be, as was Admiral Necheyev.
I only wish I was as sure.
I shake my head and take a sip from my scotch and soda -- my fourth one, I think. And not that replicated synthahol crap either, but real, honest to God single malt scotch whiskey, aged 25 years. The bottle of Balvenie Platinum Label arrived this afternoon with a note from Admiral Paris. "To celebrate," he'd written. Little did he know I would end up celebrating alone, here in my quarters. Pondering what my future has in store.
And what it doesn't.
"Admiral Janeway," I say aloud, trying out the title. It sounds odd. Like I'm talking about someone else. My father. Or perhaps...
That future me.
I suppose I should be grateful for the unique perspective I've been given. After all, how many people get the chance to glimpse their own future? How many people can say they've actually talked to it -- to her -- face to face?
I remember studying the Admiral when she first came on board Voyager and thinking that she didn't seem so very different from me, from the person I am now. Older, of course. And then there was that unfathomable decision to abstain from coffee. But she had that same air of confidence that I work so hard at maintaining. And certainly the same 'never-surrender' attitude. Eventually I began to see that there was something else, however. Something new. A... brittleness about her. As if she'd been wounded. Damaged. Transformed by invisible scars that refused to heal. Made cynical by the pain. And beneath it all, there was sadness. Such profound sadness. I suppose it was the natural consequence of a lifetime consumed by the struggle to get her people home, the decades spent watching friends suffer.
Watching loved ones die.
But that's not my future. Not any more.
I take a long drink from my glass. Do I really swagger that much, or is it something I'll develop with age? At least I know I'll stay in shape, even if I've got one damn unflattering uniform to look forward to if the fashion of her future becomes my reality. And I suppose it's nice to know I won't have to get used to a new hairstyle. I even kind of like my hair silver. I wonder what Seven thought of it...?
Poor Seven, reacting to my counterpart as if she were some hostile alien, taking her cue from me, of course. Knowing that I was suspicious of the Admiral, so acting the same. Not knowing how else to respond, especially when Admiral Janeway was staring at her like she was the ghost of some long-lost love. But that's exactly what Seven was to her, wasn't she? God, the naked, unbridled longing in that woman's eyes when she first saw my Seven... I almost felt uncomfortable witnessing it. Like I was intruding on something intimate, personal.
Raw.
Her sorrow, her anguish. Not mine. I don't have that pain to look forward to, do I?
No, I have my own.
"Seven of Nine is going to die." The words echo in my head, reverberate even now. "In the arms of her husband, Chakotay." But Seven won't be dying in the Delta Quadrant, the Admiral made sure of that. Being in the arms of her husband, however, that part is about to come true. Inevitably, inexorably true. I wonder why the Admiral even bothered to tell me? To prepare me, I assume. To let me know that Seven would one day belong to someone else. To assure me that no matter how much I thought it would destroy me, I could survive it. But I don't think knowing the future has helped me prepare at all. I think this may actually be worse, in fact. Knowing that the blow is coming has just made me cringe in anticipation of the agony that I'm about to feel. That I'm already feeling.
I look down at my bare feet propped up on the coffee table, and am intensely aware of the emptiness that surrounds me. The emptiness of my quarters. The emptiness of my ship. There's no use staying here anymore. My crew is gone, and all my personal belongings are packed away in boxes, ready to be moved, to be permanently transferred from Voyager. From my home.
Everything but the holo-image on the table, and a single data padd.
The holo-image is of my senior staff, gathered around me for Neelix's impromptu celebration of 'Ancestor's Day.' Some stupid holiday he'd invented just to cheer me up, to help me get over the revelation that all the impressive family stories I'd been told about my hero Shannon O'Donnell had been complete fabrications. I protested that I didn't see the point in honoring some ancestor who had done nothing of any particular importance in her life, who had certainly never lived the adventures that I'd been told, but Seven disagreed with me. She reminded me that Shannon had been an inspiration to me, and that was enough to make her very important indeed.
After that, I remember giving in to the Doctor's insistence for a 'family photo,' sitting as my staff assembled behind me. I then looked up and found that Seven had come to stand by my side as if that was exactly where she was meant to be. It felt so right, so perfect. And as we all raised our glasses in the toast that's pictured here, I actually believed it was true. We were more than just a Captain and her crew, more than just fellow officers -- we really were a family.
I raise my glass in a salute mimicking the one captured by the holo-image. "To my family." I take a sip of my drink, then lean forward and slap the picture, turning it face down on the table with a loud thwack. "Where the hell are they now?" I mutter.
Probably in Arizona, getting ready for a wedding.
My hand slides across the table to seize my data-padd, then I settle back with it into the cushions. A quick glance at the screen tells me I have 22 messages waiting to be accessed. Twenty-two messages that I haven't opened, read, listened to or watched -- one for each day that I haven't been in contact with Seven of Nine. I pull up the first one, but only so the single identifying image is shown: Seven in her blue bio-suit, staring at me, a slight smile in her eyes, a glint of hope, the silent confidence that her message will be answered immediately. But I don't answer it. I don't even play it. Instead I cycle through the rest of the messages, one after the other, watching as that smile disappears. The frustration that replaces it. The worry. The confusion. And finally, in the message I received this morning, the pain. The accusation. It's an image of Seven in a pale lavender blouse standing in some room I don't recognize, with bright sunlight glinting on her hair. Arizona sunlight, no doubt.
I don't have to open these messages to know what they say. The first few of them, the good Doctor took it upon himself to inform me as to their content. He volunteered information about the wedding, details about where and how the ceremony would be held, and how upset Seven was becoming that she hadn't heard from me. But that was before he started actively scolding me about not talking to her, before I had to instruct the computer to make me unavailable to him as well.
As for the rest, I'm sure I can imagine what's included in the messages just by the look on Seven's face. This one -- number 14. Seven in her brown bio-suit, standing near her alcove in Cargo Bay 2 with her head tilted to the side. She's asking if I'm busy with the investigative panel, if that's why I haven't contacted her. And this one, number 19. The one where her brow is furrowed in that familiar little frown. She's asking why I'm ignoring her now when I never have before, no matter what the crisis.
But I don't have any answers for her, so I don't even allow myself to hear the questions.
I cycle back through the messages to the third image, the one where she is wearing my favorite plum bio-suit and the hope in her eyes is only just starting to shade towards concern. As if it has a mind of its own, my covetous thumb runs over the picture, tracing the curves that I'll never know, that I'll never be allowed to touch. My friend. My love. My Seven. Except she's not my Seven at all. Not anymore. She's Chakotay's. His lover. His fiancé. And tomorrow, she'll be his wife.
I'm surprised I don't bleed. I feel that I should from the wound in my chest -- the great gaping hole, the inky black chasm that is all that's left of where my heart used to be.
I've lost her.
I toss the data padd onto the table, watching as it clatters across to the very edge, then take another large gulp of my scotch and soda. I drink to remember. I drink to forget. I drink until I'm numb, every part of me. Everything but my mind, which is still so frustratingly active. She must have wanted Chakotay for a long time. Months, even. From back when she was playing around with that damn hologram of him.
Did she think I didn't know what she was doing then? Did she think she could keep anything hidden from me? There was nothing, nothing about Seven of Nine that I didn't keep tabs on. Captain's privilege. Or maybe just Captain's dementia. I always knew what she was doing, and who she was doing it with. I even managed to convince myself that my concern was noble, that I only had her best interests at heart. That I wasn't really behaving like some sad, middle-aged woman obsessed with a subordinate half her age.
So when Seven started spending all that time in Holodeck 2 -- forty-nine hours in 6 days, to be precise -- of course I had to find out why. After all, her work had started to suffer to the point that she even neglected her duty. And at a time when Voyager was trapped in an alien munitions range, I needed Seven at her post at all times, ready to calibrate our sensors on-the-fly so any arbitrary explosions from the surrounding warheads could be detected and avoided. I most certainly did not need her playing around with simulations in the holodeck while my ship was in danger. So I took it upon myself to use my command overrides and a few intricate decryption codes to find out exactly which holoprograms were preoccupying her time. I was convinced that I had to do it for Voyager's sake, and for Seven's. Something was obviously wrong, and as her mentor I needed to know what the problem was before I could assist her. That was my rationale, at least. Or, more accurately, my rationalization.
So I ran her program.
Saw her holographic crew quarters. Met the Chakotay hologram in full-on date mode. Tried not to be sick.
But seeing it did at least help me understand her behavior. And it made me feel such compassion for her, for what she was going through. I knew from personal experience what it was like to try to escape reality in the arms of a hologram, how seductive that world of unconditional acceptance can be. I also knew how deeply mortified Seven would be if she knew someone had found out her secret.
So I called her to my ready room. Told her I knew how much time she'd been spending in the holodeck, but made no mention that I knew anything more than that. Reminded her that whatever she was doing, her first responsibility must always be to Voyager. I wanted to give her the opportunity to turn to me, to confide in me of her own free will. If she had confessed, I was going to tell her how much I empathized, that I would always be there for her, that I would help her through this, and through any other personal problems she might have. But instead she lied and told me she'd been working on the simulation of a new gravimetric array. So what did I do? Said the project sounded intriguing, and that after the crisis was over, I'd be happy to take a look at her experiments.
God, I even offered to 'lend a hand.'
Her reaction? She ran away. Refused my help.
Turned me down.
I throw back the rest of my drink with one gulp, stand up, and wait a moment for the swaying to stop before I lunge ahead.
Can I blame her for refusing me, when she had no idea what I was really offering?
And what the hell did I think I was offering her, anyway? Did I even have any idea? Was I planning to tell her about my own humiliating experience with holographic love, and how delusional it can make you when you're lonely and the actual object of your desire is forbidden? Or was I just going to present myself to her as some sort of... test subject? "Come here, baby. I've got an experiment for you that I guarantee you won't ever forget--"
OW! Damn it!
I look down at my left pinky toe, already turning red from being flipped backwards by my clumsy, drunk-ass foot ramming into the coffee table. I lean down and push the table out of my way, knocking the data-padd to the floor as I do. Damn stupid coffee table! Now I really need that drink for medicinal purposes, to take the edge off the pain in my foot. I hobble over to the counter and pour myself another scotch, straight up this time, then come back and lay down on the couch. I nurse my drink on my chest, and turn a cushion over to prop up my foot so I can study the damage. It will be purple by morning, I bet. I try to wiggle my toe, and cry out. I may have even broken it. Good. Now this, this is familiar. Comforting almost. Physical pain. It gives me something to focus on. And the sharpness of it is so much more preferable than this terrible dull ache.
* * * * * *
It's dark.
There's a sheen of putrid green fluorescence lighting the metallic chamber, and the air is thick, humid, filled with steam and smoke. The Borg Queen is before me, gasping, writhing, her face contorted in agony as she dies. I try to smile at my victory, but my own face twists into a grimace as I feel the same virus tearing through me, killing me. I'm sliding downwards, down...
The air... so thick, so hot... my lungs are stinging... too hard to breathe... I hear the pounding that I had thought was the ship's engines begin to build, and I realize that it's my heart. Beating, shaking my chest with the force it... slowing... slowing... coming to a stop.
And so I die.
I feel my... soul, my spirit, whatever's left of me, rising, drifting upwards like the smoke that fills the room. Then a hand, reaching for me. Definitely Borg. I hear her voice calling, whispering to me: "I've been waiting for you, Captain..." But I am not afraid. I want to see her, I want to know. I have to. I feel myself reaching out--
Brrrr-eeep! What the--? I wake with a start, and the glass rolls off my chest to land on the floor with a clunk. Thank God it was empty. Well, mostly. I watch helplessly as the last of the scotch spreads into a fist-sized stain over my left breast. "Computer..." I start, but my voice comes out a dry croak. I cough and try again. "Computer, what time is it?"
"The current time is 1252," it responds.
I press a hand to my achy, fuzzy head, closing my swollen eyes against the too-bright lights. "No, not on Voyager. On Earth. What time is it on Earth?"
"Please specify region and time zone."
"Umm... North American Continent... Mountain Standard time zone."
"Earth Mountain Standard time is 0852," it says. Still plenty of time to get dressed, get to earth by 1300.
Get to Seven's wedding.
Brrrr-eeep! Oh yeah -- the noise that woke me up. The chime from my door. "Computer, identify the person in the hallway outside of my quarters." Could it be Seven? Coming to tell me she's changed her mind, that she's called it off with Chakotay--
"The person in the hallway is Counselor Deanna Troi." Deanna? What the hell is she doing here? Maybe she's come to say goodbye before heading back to the Enterprise. After all, there's no use in her hanging around here now that I've been exonerated. Oh, and promoted too. Mustn't forget that.
I swing my legs over the side of the couch to properly greet my visitor, only to feel a sharp spasm of pain shoot upwards from my foot. I look down at the cause, to find my toe is swollen to three times its normal size and the surrounding skin has turned an alarming shade of mottled red and purple.
Damn.
No socks or shoes in sight, so I reach behind me, searching for the throw that I keep on the back of the couch, hoping I forgot to pack it. Ah, there it is. I quickly wrap myself up in the blanket so I'm covered from my feet all the way up to my shoulders. "Come," I call out, running a hand through my hair. Then I remember the empty scotch glass, and manage to kick it under the couch just as the door opens completely, revealing the Counselor. "Counselor Troi. This is a surprise."
"Hello, Kathryn." Deanna smiles as she enters. "Did I wake you?" she asks, immediately noticing my disheveled appearance.
"Not at all," I lie, and wave her to the chair across from me. "Please, have a seat." I barely give her the chance to get settled before I ask, "What brings you to Voyager?"
"You didn't show up for your counseling session yesterday or this morning. I decided to come check on you, to see if you were alright."
"I'm fine. But didn't you hear? I've been cleared of all charges."
"I heard," she nods. "I also heard that you're going to be promoted."
"If I accept it," I shrug, feeling the muscles connecting my neck and right shoulder clench in protest. "So, no offense, but I guess that means you're out of a job now."
"Actually, it doesn't. Admiral Paris has asked me to continue counseling you for as long as I think necessary."
What does that mean -- as long as *she* thinks necessary? "But... what's the point?" I frown, trying to work through what she's saying. "The Lessing case is over."
"True, but as I tried to tell you when we began your counseling, our sessions have never been linked to that investigation."
"Then what the hell have they been about?" I exclaim.
"Your re-acclimation, nothing else. There was never any other hidden agenda. The truth is, Admiral Paris has been concerned for you, with how you would react to your return to Earth," she explains. "It was at his personal request that I took a leave of absence from the Enterprise to help you through this transition, to counsel you as you cope with no longer being Voyager's Captain."
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, wishing I had something to dull the ache in my head. Not to mention the throbbing in my foot. "Let me get this straight. You really haven't been reviewing my performance as an officer?"
"No, I haven't."
"And this is all because Admiral Paris was 'concerned' about me," I mutter.
"Precisely."
"So what you're telling me then..." I growl, turning to look at her fully, "is that you tricked me into agreeing to be counseled."
"No," Deanna protests, "that's not what I meant at all--"
"Isn't it? You knew I thought our sessions were about the Lessing case -- you let me believe that. Now you're telling me that I've been spending an hour with you every day simply because someone else thought I needed help 'coping' with being home?" My voice begins to rise, to rumble in my chest. "To make sure that I feel like I'm supposed to after seven years in the Delta Quadrant?" I lean forward, not caring that the blanket falls from my shoulders to reveal my alcohol-stained shirt. "Tell me Counselor, exactly how does Starfleet think I'm supposed to feel? What emotion am I supposed to be projecting right now?"
"Kathryn, I assure you, there are no preconceptions as to what emotions you should be experiencing--"
"The hell there isn't! Obviously you people have it all worked out. So why don't you just quit with the mind games and give me the damn rule book that says what it is I'm supposed to feel!" I demand. "Stop wasting my time, and tell me exactly what I need to do to get you to leave me the hell alone!"
Deanna lifts her chin so she's looking down her nose at me, her bearing stiff, regal. "If you truly wish for me to leave you alone, there is an alternative," she declares frostily. "Your orders are to undergo counseling for the foreseeable future, but whether that counselor is me or not, is another matter entirely. If you sincerely feel that our sessions are a waste of your time after all these weeks, then I will happily tell Admiral Paris to get someone else to take over your case. Perhaps some other counselor will be better equipped to put up with you and your obstinacy!"
I'm surprised by her vehemence, and unaccountably pleased. I think I like her mad. But I really didn't mean to offend Deanna, so I do something that very few people have ever seen me do. I apologize. Or at least I come as close to an apology as I ever get. "I didn't mean to insult you," I say, forcing a self-effacing smile to my lips. "But you must understand my frustration. I have no idea what's expected of me here. But I'd rather not have to start over with another counselor at this point, if I can avoid it." I reach across the coffee table and lightly touch her knee. "I'd like to continue with you, if you're agreeable."
"I will think about it," she answers, her expression still cool.
"Fair enough." I lean back against the couch and deliberately change the tone of my voice to a lilt. "So, I've heard that Picard can be quite stubborn himself at times. Does that mean you get bonus credits for dealing with all the 'obstinate' Starfleet Captains?"
"No." Then the corner of her mouth lifts slightly. "But perhaps I should." I'm glad to see that her anger apparently dissipates almost as quickly as it appears.
"I'm betting you regret ever taking on this particular captain," I comment wryly, pushing the blanket further down until it bunches in my lap.
"Actually, I don't regret it all," she admits. "I have enjoyed the opportunity to get to know you, and I have been quite pleased with the progress we've made."
Good. That sounds promising. Now let's see if we can't speed up that progress.
"I have to admit, I haven't completely hated getting to know you either." Deanna recognizes that I'm teasing her, and returns my playful smile with one of her own. "But I believe we have a bit of a situation here," I say. "I'm sure you want to get back to the Enterprise as soon as possible. As for me, I'm tired of having the minutiae of my life examined ad nauseum on a daily basis. What can we do to expedite things, so you and I can both get on with our lives? In other words, what exactly are you looking for from me? Maybe I can get there quicker if I know what the goal is."
"It's not that simple. It's not something I can just put into words."
"Try," I prod.
"I'm not sure if I can. But if you insist..." Deanna allows her voice to trail off as she stands. "Do you mind if I have a cup of coffee first?"
"Only if you get me one too." She must have read my mind, because I'd kill for a cup right now. My tongue feels like someone came in during the night and wrapped it in a wool sock, and my throat is so parched it hurts.
As Deanna turns to the replicator, I suddenly realize I left the scotch open on the counter. Damn, I forgot all about that. There's no way she won't notice it. But as she passes the nearly empty bottle all she does is raise an eyebrow. No pointed comments, no probing questions.
Thank God for small miracles.
A moment later she's back, leaning over the coffee table to hand me my mug. "May I sit by you?" she asks.
Plenty of room on the couch, so I nod. As Deanna rounds the table, her shoe comes into contact with something on the floor. She leans down, and I feel my breath catch as I recognize the object she picks up -- the data padd with Seven's messages. The Counselor gives it only a perfunctory glance before joining me on the couch, but once she is seated she turns the padd over and studies it carefully. Seven's image still fills the screen, and as Deanna looks at it I struggle not to snatch the padd away from her. Finally she lowers it into her lap and tilts her head towards me.
"First, I have a question for you. Something that has been bothering me," Deanna begins, taking a sip from her coffee. This is it -- she's finally going to ask me about my relationship with Seven, I'm sure of it. The data padd is a dead giveaway-- "When your counterpart came back from the future, why did she choose that particular time to return to?"
I stare at the Counselor a moment. She wants to talk about my counterpart? Not Seven? Fine with me, except I can't quite wrap my addled brain around what she's asking. "I'm not sure I understand what it is you want to know."
"Statements indicate that the device that the Admiral used to travel back in time was incredibly precise. What I want to know is, why did she choose to return to *that* specific moment in Voyager's past?"
I take a long, thankful gulp of my coffee before answering. "Because that's when we encountered the nebula with the Borg transwarp hub, and the passageway back to the Alpha Quadrant," I explain patiently.
"If I'm not mistaken, you had actually passed the nebula by approximately 3 days' journey when she arrived, hadn't you?"
"Yes, but the time it took to return to the nebula was used to enhance Voyager's shields with the newer Borg-resistant technology," I remind her. I really have no idea where Deanna could be going with this, unless she just needs to satisfy her curiosity. Fine with me, as long as she remembers to grant me absolution in the end, to bless me and tell me to be counseled no more.
"But wouldn't it have been just as reasonable to come 3 days *before* the transwarp hub? What was the importance of coming 3 days after?" she asks, seeming to be genuinely perplexed. "Was there any significant event in that time period that the Admiral wished to preserve?"
I frown, a bit perplexed myself. Why *didn't* she come three days earlier? Or three weeks earlier? Or hell, three months earlier, before Lieutenant Carey was killed. What happened in those few days that was so important? What was different? Suddenly I flash on a moment in my ready room, me sitting there drinking coffee just as I am now, casually asking Chakotay if he wanted to go to lunch. But he refused my invitation and said he already had plans, which was odd indeed. I know now that he had plans with--
Seven of Nine.
He was meeting her for lunch. It was their third date. I know this because the Doctor cried on my shoulder when Seven told him she had finally chosen to 'experiment with her emotions' with someone other than him. How else would I have known what was going on with her, since Seven refused to tell me herself? How else would I have known that she had decided to stop playing around in the holodeck and move up to the real Chakotay? And how else would I have known the terrible secret those initial experiments with my holographic First Officer had revealed? That her emotional development had been crippled by a Borg fail-safe device? That if not deactivated, the device could even kill Seven if she actively sought to feel strong, overpowering emotions?
If not for the Doctor, I wouldn't have known that Seven had decided to undergo the procedure to deactivate her emotional inhibitor. I wouldn't have known when her appointment was scheduled, and I wouldn't have been able to secretly monitor her condition as one of the Borg's last insidious obstacles to her burgeoning humanity was finally removed. And I wouldn't have been able to watch over Seven as she recovered, waiting until the very last moment, refusing to leave until I saw her begin to waken and I was sure she was going to be alright.
Afterwards I returned to the bridge, my heart aching, knowing that Seven was now free to fully pursue her relationship with Chakotay. My shift was long over, but I chose to continue working rather than return to my quarters and obsess over where Seven would go when she recovered, what she would do. It was then that Tuvok broke into my thoughts, telling me the sensors were picking up on tachyon radiation that was being generated by the formation of a temporal rift--
Oh my God.
The temporal rift.
I put down my mug with a shaking hand, hoping Deanna doesn't notice the slight rattle the porcelain makes as it contacts the coffee table, my mind feverishly forming a pattern out of what had seemed to be random, unrelated events.
Admiral Janeway came through that temporal rift less than 2 hours after Seven's procedure. Less than 2 hours after Seven of Nine chose to finally experience the full spectrum of human emotions, and not just the muted version her inhibitor had allowed. At the very moment that, for the first time in her adult life, Seven gained the ability to feel passion, ecstasy.
Love.
And within a matter of days, Voyager would return to the Alpha Quadrant. To a place where Kathryn Janeway would no longer be Seven of Nine's Captain. Where nearly all the obstacles that had forced me to keep my distance from her would essentially disappear -- all the rules, the regulations, the duty and the guilt. Almost everything.
Everything but one.
I hear the Admiral's voice again, the words slamming into my midsection like well-placed fists. "Seven of Nine is going to die. Three years from now. In the arms of her husband... Chakotay." I see it all there in the Admiral's face, in *my* face. The pain, the sadness, but now I recognize something else as well -- a deep, heartrending regret. The remorse that filled her voice as she added, "...And you will never be the same."
Why the hell didn't I realize this sooner? Why didn't it occur to me?
Admiral Janeway wasn't just telling me to save Seven. She was telling me to save myself. That's why she gave me that glimpse into my future -- the life she had spent knowing Seven loved someone else. A life spent wondering 'what if.' The Admiral was warning me that if I didn't change things, one day I'd look in the mirror and that old, somber face staring back at me would be my own, filled with that same agonizing regret.
But the Admiral couldn't tell me that outright -- she would know that I'd never agree to her plan if there was even a hint that I could benefit from it, that my own potential happiness was at stake. But I would agree to change the future for Seven. And for Tuvok. And for the rest of my crew. Hell, even then I still insisted on taking one last swipe at the Borg despite the fact that it endangered our chances of making it home alive. So, to ensure our chances for survival, Admiral Janeway finally volunteered to confront the Queen on her own, to allow herself to be assimilated so her body could be used as the delivery agent for the neurolytic pathogen. The Admiral then managed to trick the Queen into infecting herself with the pathogen, allowing us to slip through the transwarp hub and make our triumphant return to the Alpha Quadrant, just as the hub was destroyed.
Taking Admiral Janeway along with it.
It was a noble act, one of self-sacrifice. But was it also an attempt to give me, her younger self, the life that she'd been denied?
A life with Seven.
But... could such a thing have even been possible? Could I have ever had a life with her? Not if she was in love with Chakotay. But there is a part of me that's egotistical enough to think Seven may have felt something for me too, at least at one time. An attraction, if nothing else. I recall the conversation we shared in Master da Vinci's studio after she'd seen the Omega Molecule. How we sat side by side in front of the fireplace, much closer than I should have allowed, the holographic flames creating the illusion of warmth at our backs, the thigh brushing against mine creating a very real warmth inside me. The intensity in her eyes as she looked at me and talked about perfection. What if I had told Seven what I was thinking then? What if I had said I wanted to kiss her? What if I had tried? Would she have let me?
Now I'll never know.
I've squandered every chance I've ever had to explore the possibilities between us, and wasted these last few pivotal weeks by staying on the sidelines, watching as Seven's relationship with Chakotay progressed, never saying anything, never doing anything. Letting him have her without so much as a fight--
"Kathryn?" Deanna prompts. I look up, suddenly realizing that I've been staring at the data padd in her hand for what must have been several minutes.
"I'm sorry, I was lost in thought. Did you say something?"
She places her empty coffee cup on the table beside the holo-image I turned over last night. "Only that you must be very proud of her."
"Who?" I feign ignorance, praying that I haven't inadvertently telegraphed my feelings to the Counselor.
"Seven of Nine," she says, waving the data padd slightly to indicate the image on the screen. "I've heard that she is getting married today."
"She is." My answer is curt, to the point. Dismissive. End of subject, let's move on.
"It must be very fulfilling for you. Like watching a member of your family get married. Like watching a--" Don't you say it, don't you dare say it! "--daughter grow up."
My smile is stiff. Flinty. But it's there. "She's an important member of my crew, and a good friend. But I certainly do not consider her to be my daughter."
Deanna nods slightly in silent acceptance of this declaration, and stands. "Would you like some more coffee?" she asks, picking up her own cup and heading for the replicator.
"No, thank you," I say. She's still holding that padd, damn it. Why won't she put it down? "Do you need to reference my padd to remember how to make it?" I ask, trying to sound casual, teasing.
"What?" Deanna looks down at the data padd in surprise, almost as if she didn't realize she was still holding it. "No, not at all," she says. The Counselor starts to place it on the counter by the bottle of scotch, then stops. "You know, this says you have 22 unopened messages," she comments, glancing up at me. "Do you want me to play them for you?"
"No!" I strangle out, leaning forward in my seat. "Don't!" I try to smile to cover my distress. "Really, I'll open them later."
"But six of these are marked 'urgent.'"
"Then those will be the first ones I open," I say. "After you're gone."
"I understand," she nods. "These must be very personal messages if you don't want to share them with anyone else."
"They are not 'personal messages!'" I protest instinctively. "They're just not important--"
"Then you don't mind if I play one?" Deanna asks, and before I can say anything else she's activated one of the files.
I hear Seven's voice, clearly. "Captain, I am growing concerned that you have not answered my most recent messages to you..." I hear the slight tremor that no one else would detect but me. The sense of hurt. Of worry. "Commander Chakotay has speculated that you have received unfavorable news from the investigative panel, and that this is the reason for your silence..."
"Turn it off," I whisper.
"...but I do not accept this theory," Seven continues. "I am confident that you will be exonerated. I have begun to worry, however, that something else may be wrong. Please contact me as soon as possible to let me know whether there is anything that I may do to help you, or if my concern is unfounded..."
I'm on my feet before I realize it, the blanket sliding all the way down my body, pooling on the floor around my ankles. "Turn it off!"
Deanna frowns. "But the message is almost finished--"
"I said turn it off!" Another millisecond and I'm across the room, grabbing the padd from Deanna's hand, just in time to see the last few moments of Seven's message:
"...I hope to hear from you soon, Captain. Please."
I stop the player and turn away from Deanna, reflexively pressing the padd to my chest as if I can hold Seven to me, as if I can comfort her in some way. Oh God. Her sad, hurt face. I've worried her, caused her pain. And for what? She never even mentioned the wedding.
And she said 'please.' Not once, but twice.
Silently I limp to the window, trying to put some distance between me and Deanna, but the Counselor follows a step behind me. "I am sorry to have invaded your privacy like that, Kathryn," she is saying. "But I didn't realize playing that message would upset you so much."
The hell she didn't.
I pretend to study the hull of the USS Speranza, the only thing I can see from Voyager's position in dry dock, hoping against hope that if I ignore her she'll just go away and leave me alone. But Deanna doesn't take the hint, and instead joins me at the window. I can feel her staring at me, dissecting me. "Are all of those messages from Seven of Nine?" she asks after a moment.
"Yes," I answer softly.
"And you hadn't opened any of them?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Like she said," I answer gruffly. "I've been busy."
"But the investigation is over now. And you still haven't answered her," Deanna points out. "You haven't even made an attempt to find out what she wants. What could possibly be contained in those messages that would make you distance yourself from a member of your crew like this? What is it, Kathryn? Why are you avoiding Seven of Nine?"
I run a hand through my hair. I should just throw Deanna out, tell her to go to hell. But I'm so damn tired of fighting. And what's the point now anyway? Nothing matters anymore. Not after today. "I thought she wanted to ask my advice," I finally admit.
"About what?"
"Her wedding," I rasp.
"And you didn't want to discuss that with her?"
"No."
"Why not?" Deanna asks. "Aren't you happy for her?" She waits a moment, then adds, "Don't you want her to be happy?"
I turn to Deanna. "Of course I do!" Shut up. "Of course I want her to be happy. I--"
SHUT UP!
I inhale sharply, stopping myself. I almost said it. I turn back to the window and wrap my arms across my chest, hugging the padd to me, my posture defensive, as if I could somehow hold back the truth that's fighting for release.
I can't say it. Not out loud. The hull would breach, the ship would be destroyed, and I would lose her forever.
But I've already lost her.
Deanna is waiting, watching the silent battle that's raging inside me. But even in her silence it seems like she's poking, prodding relentlessly, trying to drag a confession from me. Finally she breaks the quiet spell that has fallen between us and says, "What is it, Kathryn? Tell me."
"I can't," I whisper.
"You have to tell someone, don't you see? It's tearing you apart." Deanna is staring at me with those big, compassionate eyes as she places a hand on my shoulder. "Tell me, Kathryn. Tell me about Seven of Nine."
What is there to tell about Seven of Nine? She is the Earth, the stars, my everything... Instead I say, "Do you have any idea why we're here, Counselor?"
Deanna frowns, obviously struggling to follow my train of thought. "Do you mean in an existential sense, or--"
"I mean, do you know why we're here on Voyager, right now. Why Voyager and her crew are home."
"My understanding is that your counterpart from the future came back to help you defeat the Borg and bring Voyager home to the Alpha Quadrant nearly 20 years early--"
"That's only part of the story," I interrupt, glancing at her. "You see, it's because of Seven. It was always about Seven. Admiral Janeway came back for her."
"I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"Of course you don't. How could you? This wasn't something I put in my official logs, or even my personal ones, for that matter." I sigh, rubbing my hand over my forehead. "Haven't you wondered exactly how my counterpart persuaded me to go along with her plans? What she said that made me agree to break all the temporal laws of God and man?"
"I must admit to a certain curiosity."
My mouth twists into a grimace. "Then by all means, let me satisfy your curiosity. You see, my counterpart revealed something about the future, something that was destined to happen in my own timeline if I didn't take drastic measures to change it. Something she knew I could not allow to happen. The one thing she knew I would never, ever accept." I laugh bitterly. "After all, she had certainly never accepted it. Once she got Voyager home -- even before then, I suspect -- changing the past became her obsession, her sole purpose in life..." I allow my voice to trail off as I stare out the window.
"Kathryn?" Deanna prompts.
I turn to the Counselor, face her squarely. "She told me... that Seven of Nine was going to die in the Delta Quadrant. Three years from now."
Deanna digests this revelation slowly. "So... you are saying that the Admiral came back to save her?" I nod, look away again. "Your counterpart must have cared a great deal for Seven."
"Oh, surely you've guessed it's more than that," I answer, my voice low. "Isn't it obvious? She was in love with her." The words, once spoken, seem to take on a mass and weight of their own, hanging suspended between us like an un-detonated torpedo. "It really is quite a touching story," I add sarcastically, desperate to diffuse the silence. "Full of tragedy, self-sacrifice, and undying, unrequited love. All terribly romantic."
"I see." I can feel Deanna's eyes on me, studying me, assessing me. "And you?" she prods delicately. "How do you feel?"
I close my eyes and take a breath. "The same." I wait for the disaster that I'm sure will strike, but there are no red alert claxons, no sudden explosions. Only the burning glow that engulfs my chest, making me ache, making me feel.
A moment passes, maybe two before Deanna speaks again. "I take it you've never told Seven." A statement, not a question.
"Of course not. I was her captain." I hardly recognize my own voice. It's raw.
Defeated.
"But you are not her captain now."
"It's too late." I hobble back to the couch, my bruised foot glaringly evident, but thankfully Deanna doesn't comment on it. "I've waited too long," I say as I sink into the cushions, the data padd still pressed to my chest.
The Counselor follows and sits beside me, her gaze dark, penetrating. "How can you be so sure?"
"She's getting married today. I'd say that's the very definition of 'too late,'" I snort.
"You still have time. Go to Seven. Tell her."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not? What's stopping you?"
"Didn't you hear me? She's getting *married* today," I say miserably. "My feelings for her are a moot point. She's obviously in love with Chakotay."
"People get married for many different reasons. Love is only one of them. Has she told you that she is in love with him?"
Of course she has... Hasn't she? My mind races back through the conversation we had under the willow tree, when Seven told me about Chakotay's proposal. Did she ever say anything about love...? "No," I admit. Then again, it's not like I've given her the opportunity to confide her feelings to me since, now have I? "But it really doesn't matter what she has or has not said to me," I say, shaking my head. "Nothing changes the fact that she's going to marry him."
"But if she doesn't love him--"
"I don't know what she feels for the man!" I snap. "But she's obviously attracted to him. She made a holographic version of him months ago, for God's sake. Experimented with it before moving up to the real thing!"
"Kathryn, almost everyone uses holographic characters to explore their sexuality at some point. It's perfectly natural, especially for someone with as little experience as Seven."
And sometimes even for mad captains who try to deny inappropriate feelings for crewmembers by losing themselves in holodeck fantasies. But of course I don't say that out loud.
"None of that is real, however," Deanna continues. "As for whatever it is that Seven is feeling, you and I both know that attraction and love are two very different things. It is the nature of attraction to be... ephemeral. Fleeting. Fickle. You can be attracted to more than one person at a time, and you can be attracted to them for many different reasons. There is the physical reason, of course," she says, the words making me wince. "Then there are the social reasons -- the need for companionship, stability, even acceptance. For someone as emotionally immature as Seven, attraction could easily be mistaken for love. It may even be enough to justify marriage. But that doesn't mean that she and Chakotay are compatible. It doesn't mean that the marriage will last."
Lord knows, I've never thought of them as 'compatible.' In fact, until just a few months ago I thought they could barely stand each other-- "There's something you don't know," I say quietly. "About the other timeline. Admiral Janeway told me something else -- that Seven and Chakotay would be married."
This news doesn't seem to faze Deanna at all. "But did she say that they would be happily married?"
I think about that look in the Admiral's eyes when she told me about Seven's fate, the sense of loss and profound regret that was palpable. Could that regret have been for something else as well? Is it possible...? Could it have also been for the life that Seven led before she died? "No, she didn't," I finally admit.
"Then forgive my ignorance -- I admit that temporal mechanics was never my strong suit -- but haven't all the events of the other timeline been irrevocably altered by the actions you and your counterpart took?"
"That was kind of the point."
"Then doesn't that mean that absolutely nothing from the Admiral's timeline should be considered a fait accompli? That not only have the circumstances leading to Seven's death been changed, but all the other events in her life as well?"
"I suppose," I mumble.
"So what's stopping you?" Deanna's voice is frustrated, almost angry. "Why don't you quit feeling sorry for yourself and go to Seven, talk to her before it's too late?"
"Because it would be wrong!" Wouldn't it...? "I can't just walk up to her as she's about to get married and say, 'Oh, by the way, I'm hopelessly in love with you, have been for years. Best wishes for you and Chakotay!' I can't traumatize Seven like that on her wedding day. It would ruin it for her!"
"And have you thought that perhaps the day will be ruined for Seven if you *don't* tell her?" Deanna nods to the data padd that I still clutch in my hand. "Listening to that message, it is obvious that she has feelings for you."
"Of course she does. I'm her Captain," I say bitterly.
The Counselor shifts on the couch, angling her body towards me. "Kathryn, you had asked that I refrain from using my abilities during our sessions, and until now I have honored that request. But hearing that message..." she shakes her head. "I am certain that Seven of Nine's feelings for you go far beyond those of a crewman for her captain. I sense that she cares for you, very deeply. The question is, how can you be sure she's making the right decision today, when she's never known of your feelings for her?"
I lean forward and place the data padd on the table, face-up, then sit back in the "v" formed by the arm and backrest of the couch, maneuvering myself as far away from Deanna as possible. "Seven knows I care about her," I state, crossing my arms over my chest.
"But does she know how much? Does she have any idea that you're in love with her?" When no answer is forthcoming, she sighs. "Your emotions are such an incredible source of strength for you, Kathryn, don't you know that? They are the basis for your compassion, your empathy, your sense of justice. By denying your feelings for so long... I can only imagine the toll that it has taken on you. The inner turmoil you've had to face alone, with no outlet, no release because of the constraints you placed on yourself--"
"I did what I had to do," I say tightly. "What was necessary to get my people home."
"And you succeeded admirably," Deanna says, her voice softening. "But you said it yourself -- now it's time to move on with your life. Earlier you asked me to tell you what it is that I want from you, what it would take for me to think you no longer needed my counseling. What I want is to see the real Kathryn, the one that you've kept hidden for the past seven years, come alive. You've restrained your emotions to such a degree that the only thing you allow yourself to be is a Starfleet Captain. I want to see you set the woman inside you free, to allow 'Kathryn Janeway' to wield the same strength of will that 'Captain Janeway' is famous for." Deanna places her palm flat on the sofa cushion between us, leaning closer. "Do you know the one thing that everyone says about you, Captain?"
That's easy. Love me or hate me, they all say the same thing. "That I never give up without a fight," I mumble.
"Then don't give up now! For once, bring that bullheaded, never-surrender attitude to bear on your personal life!" Deanna pauses, waiting for my reply, but when I say nothing she adds, "If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for Seven. This situation has the potential to be very dangerous for her."
A derisive bark of laughter bursts from my throat. "I'd hardly describe a wedding as being 'dangerous,' even one to Chakotay."
"Isn't it? Emotionally dangerous, that is? The intricacies of adult relationships can be hazardous enough for those of us who have years of experience, just imagine what it must be like for someone who has only recently gained the ability to feel emotion. How confusing it must be, how frightening. How tempting it would be to commit to the first person that shows an interest, without realizing that there are other, more desirable options. Seven could be on the verge of making a terrible mistake today, one that will have lasting repercussions for all involved," Deanna declares, leaning so close she's in danger of invading my personal space. "You may be the only person who can stop her, Kathryn, the only one who can save her." I surreptitiously try to back away from the Counselor, but I'm trapped against the armrest. "Please, be honest with yourself. In the time that you have been close to Seven of Nine, has it never occurred to you that she might have strong feelings for you? Have you never wondered what those feelings are?"
"Whatever she feels, I'm sure it's only because I've been her mentor, her friend," I protest, although I can hear a note of hesitancy creeping into my voice.
"That's certainly a possibility. But is it even your call to make? I know that you have been proud of Seven, pleased with her progress, her development as a human being. Yet now that she is confronted with one of the most important personal decisions she has ever faced, you insist on treating her like a child, incapable of making up her own mind. By not revealing that you are an option, you have essentially made the choice for her, haven't you?" Deanna points out. "Don't you think it would be better if Seven were given the chance to decide her future for herself? Hasn't she earned that right? Stop trying to protect her from the truth. Tell Seven how you really feel."
I'm frowning, shaking my head. "I'm just not sure..."
"What is there to be sure about?" she demands. "Nothing in life is sure. There are no guarantees. Despite what you think, there really is no rulebook for how we should feel!" Then the Counselor shifts gears and flashes a mischievous smile at me. "And even if there was one, I have no doubt that you'd throw it out an airlock and come up with a whole new set of rules to fit your own agenda," Deanna teases. "No offense, of course," she adds, inclining her head slightly.
"None taken," I answer dryly.
"Don't you see, Kathryn?" Deanna clasps my knee, her demeanor becoming serious again. "You're running out of time -- you have to do something now, or you'll never forgive yourself. You have to seize the possibility! Give yourself a chance!" Then, more softly, "Give Seven a chance."
The words seem to reverberate through me as I stare down at the coffee table and the image that still looks back at me from the data padd:
Seven's sad, hurt face, frozen on 'please.'
Abruptly I rise to my feet and straighten my stained, Starfleet-issue t-shirt. "If you don't mind, Counselor, I really do need to start getting ready."
Deanna stands as well. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't have time to explain at the moment," I say gruffly, then arch one eyebrow. "But as you so eloquently said, my time is running out. If I'm going to be seizing any possibilities, it has to be now."
Deanna smiles, touches my arm and squeezes it. "Good luck."