Equation

We have been waiting in line for the shuttle to Earth for over an hour, Gretta and her K'Tarian friend and I.  Mars is so crowded these days.  I don't know why people even bother to go back and forth any more.  The colony is practically indistinguishable from Earth now.

Oh, if you dig deeply enough, you can still see some reddish rock underneath the terra-forming.  And of course here you see a lot more of those long, lanky folks whose impossible height marks them as having been born on-planet.

But otherwise, whatever it was that used to be "Mars" is long gone.  I came here to work at the University almost twenty years ago.  And even then I was far too late to see much of the old Mars.  Still, I often feel sad about what's been lost.

Gretta gets exasperated when I say things like that.  She's been getting exasperated with me a lot lately.  It used to upset me for days when she did.  For a long time, I was afraid of losing her.  I couldn't believe she had chosen me in the first place.  She was so dynamic and sought-after, and I. . .well, I had always found myself more at home with algorithms and equations and properties than with people.

When Gretta pursued me -- and she did; I never would have had the nerve to approach her first -- I have to confess that I thought she was just making fun of me.  People had, when I was a kid.  Later, after I got sent to the special math academy, the teasing stopped.  But I remembered what it had been like.

My mother always thought that I had been damaged by it. "Margaret would be much more outgoing if it hadn't been for those dreadful children at the station school," she would tell her many visitors.  "We should never have had to send her there.  That's why I've worked so hard to get Starfleet to establish Fleet prep schools on every outpost, however remote."  She could go on about it for hours.

But the truth is, I never would have been outgoing.  I hadn't liked the teasing, but it hadn't hurt me much.  I've just always been comfortable with distance, personal and spatial.  I guess it never feels like distance to me.  With mathematics, you can touch the infinite, bring any distance close to you.  You can eradicate space.

Gretta gets exasperated when I say things like that, too. After we had spent our first night together, and I had been overwhelmed by the sharp, clean taste of her and by the exhilarating explicitness of her penetrating fingers (so perfect that they are "digits"), I had tried to tell her a little about my mathematics, about the sharp, clean symbols I use to make meaning.  I don't talk about them that way to many people, but I wanted to give her something of myself.

She wasn't interested, though.  "Oh, Margaret, would you just once forget about math?  This isn't about dry old numbers.  This is about two people, soft and warm and wet and *together.*  That's all we need."

I wanted her to understand.  Not numbers -- my mathematics isn't really about numbers.  It was the full, abstract, virtuous completeness of it that I hoped to show her.  But I also wanted to please her, so I didn't say anything further.

It's probably just as well.  Thinking back, I realize I wouldn't have had the words then.  And since then, well, lately I've come to see that we haven't been close for a long time.  Not close enough for me to share myself in that way any more, even if she cared to listen.

We've been together for ten years.  If I'm honest, I have to admit that we're with each other now simply out of habit. But we were happy for a long time.  At first it was such a joy and a surprise that things worked between us, as different as we are.  After a while, we fell into that "couple" pattern where you rub along together companionably enough, without thinking.  We've changed, though.  She gets exasperated with me a lot more often.

And it doesn't upset me now.

Still, I've been wishing I could have shown her something of the clarity that mathematics brings.  So many people think it's confusing or abstruse, but they don't understand.  The elemental simplicity of it, the purity, the clean elegance. You can start with numbers; then you move from their concreteness to perfect abstract wholeness.  It's a beauty like no other.  It's essence; it's pure form.  The ancients weren't so far off with their ideas about celestial spheres. With mathematics, you can make the circles complete.

"Margaret," Gretta's voice breaks in.  She sounds. . .exasperated.  "It's your turn, and it's been your turn for the last five minutes.  Would you please stop adding and subtracting or quantumizing or whatever you're doing and just pay a little attention to the real world?"

To occupy us while we wait in line, Gretta has been having us play her favorite game of choosing hapless bystanders and inventing personal histories for them.  Maala, her K'Tarian friend, always thinks up bloodthirsty scenarios, casting perfectly ordinary Fleet ensigns as Cardassian war criminals and describing bloody battles and dismemberments for every Klingon she sees.

Gretta always weaves sexual fantasies.  "That dapper Bajoran," she'll say.  "He's got his balls tied up in studded leather right now."  She knows that sort of thing makes me cringe.  I'm not very good at the game, if the point is to be as outlandish as possible.  I usually just try to figure out what people might really do or be.  I'm boring, I guess, and eventually Gretta stops making me play.

But this time she apparently wants to include me, so I glance around for a likely candidate.  Before I can find one, Gretta grabs my arm tightly and hisses, "Look!  My god, look.  I think it's Kathryn Janeway.  Damn!  It is Janeway.  I swear.  Look."

My first thought, of course, is that it's just part of the game.  Gretta knows that Kathryn Janeway is my one and only idol and has been ever since the Federation first found out that her ship Voyager was lost in the Delta Quadrant.  They were gone for seven years, and now they've been back for ten, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of Kathryn Janeway and take comfort from her existence.

I've never met her.  I could have, I suppose, by arranging to attend the same professional conference or something.  I thought about it, even decided to do it.  But her work is more in physics than in pure math, and, well. . .I just never found the right occasion.

So I know her only from news vids and other programs.  For months after Voyager returned, you couldn't turn on a vid screen without seeing her.  I had just gotten together with Gretta when they came back, and somehow my happiness got all tied up with images of Kathryn Janeway and the magic of what she had accomplished.  To be that bold and brave and determined. . .

And she's also a pretty fine mathematician.

Even though I'm sure Gretta is tricking me, I scan the crowd, just in case.  It seems silly to think that Kathryn Janeway would be on Mars waiting in line for the Earth shuttle, like anyone.  Or maybe it's not so silly.  Since she left Starfleet, she has tried to avoid attention.  She's practically disappeared in the last couple of years.  I miss her.

Then I see her.  Standing in line by herself, a bag over her shoulder.

As often as I think of her, as many pictures of her as I've seen, I doubt that I would have recognized her on my own. She is so much smaller than I would have expected.  Not short, exactly, but diminutive, with a narrow frame and thin arms and legs.  She's wearing something nondescript -- dark trousers and a dark tunic of some kind.  Her hair is short and smooth, the color muted and a little grayish.

But she's elegant, the way a perfect proof is elegant. Nothing is wasted; everything fits.  Her jaw is strong and tight, and her back is straight, and her head is high, and there's no question in my mind.  She's a captain.

"Gods, this is too weird.  I never quite believed she was real," Gretta is chattering.  "Come on.  Let's go over and talk to her."

"No.  Leave her alone," I say firmly.  It's not a tone I use often, but Gretta knows it well.  She stays where she is, although she can't help complaining.

"What's the matter with you?  This is your chance.  You've been mooning over this woman for years.  And now you could meet her, and you're just going to stand here?  That's so typical of you. . ."

I stop listening.  I try not to stare too obviously, but I can't take my eyes off Kathryn Janeway.  She's not diminished by being small.  I have the idea that if she wanted to, she could just turn herself on, and all of us around her would feel it, like an energy wave.

Or maybe I'm just projecting.  She's been part of my life for so long that it's hard to remember that I don't really know her.

It started for me all the way back when Voyager first managed to get a message from the Delta Quadrant to the AQ. The news agencies dredged up every scrap of footage they had on any member of the crew.  I saw my first clip of Captain Janeway on the same day we learned that the ship had survived.

It was some Starfleet recording of her being awarded the captaincy of Voyager.  It only took about two words from her before I was mesmerized by her voice and her confidence. From that minute on, I never doubted she'd bring them home.

The vid programs also ran simulations showing just how far away Voyager was and offered all these goofy analogies to help people relate the vast distances to something they could understand.  Silly stuff like how many of our solar systems you'd have to lay end-to-end to reach the DQ.

It's funny, but Kathryn and her crew never seemed far away to me.   I could close the distance with little trouble -- mathematically, anyway.  Once, after I had been working a lot of late nights at the University, I had an almost mystical glimpse of the beautiful string of equations that could fold space for them, like a giant cradling them in his hand and just reaching over to set them down on Earth's doorstep.

If that's what they wanted.  It was foolish, I suppose, but sometimes I preferred to think that they would stay in the mysterious Delta Quadrant, all of space open before them. It suited her, I thought, that expansiveness.

But that was a long time ago.  Janeway resigned from Starfleet only about a year after Voyager returned.  No one really knew why, or at least, those who knew didn't say. The official Starfleet news agency blandly cited a "personal decision," and the Fleet brass threw her a huge, Admiral- filled formal gala.  Even the President of the Federation showed up.  I remember thinking that she looked detached in the vid feeds, like she was already someplace else.  Gretta just laughed at me.

There were rumors, of course, about dark deeds she had done in the DQ and about Starfleet forcing her to quit.  I don't know.  It could be true.  But people always seem to need horror stories.  Maybe she just wanted out.

Afterward, she had any number of offers from prestigious universities and institutes.  As far as the news ever reported, she has since lived a retiring, academic sort of life and has stayed resolutely out of the limelight.  Other members of the Voyager crew have been far more visible, like that little Talaxian and his cookbook.

Still, right now, I can't help thinking how odd it is that there stands Kathryn Janeway, just meters away from me, and no one even notices her.

Finally, the line of people is starting to move, and she moves, too, switching her bag to her other shoulder.  I find myself intensely hoping that I'll be able to sit where I can see her.  But the line is going faster, and suddenly I've lost her.

I hear an annoyed snort at my elbow.  It's Gretta.  "God, Mags, don't you want to sit near her?  What are you waiting for?  Come on."  She drags me forward, abandoning Maala, snaking us in and out of the crowd.  Within seconds, I'm only two people behind Kathryn, and we're in the shuttle, and she's taking a seat.  Gretta leads me to the facing row on the other side of the aisle and grins at me.  I feel a rush of my old affection for her.

Kathryn looks toward the window during the lift-off. There's a stillness about her - she's not shifting around or adjusting her clothes or doing any of the usual "settling down" things.  After a few minutes, she takes a PADD out of her bag and starts reading.  I'm irrationally disappointed. The news once reported that she liked to read printed books. I realize I have been hoping she had one with her.

I wonder if she minds the contrast, that she's just a passenger on a cramped shuttle when she once commanded the stars.  Now that I can see her face clearly, I recognize how much time has passed since I first saw the vid of her taking charge of Voyager.  Her hair is grayer than it appeared when we were outside.  She's only in her fifties, and she's got good bones, but her skin shows creases now, with lines linking her nose and mouth and crinkles near her eyes.

It's a face that has really lived, and I don't think I've ever seen her look more compelling.  The tackier news services used to call her "the beautiful Captain Janeway," trying to make some sort of glamour symbol out of her.  Of course, I've always found her really attractive, but I never considered her beautiful.

I'm changing my mind.

So is Gretta, in her own way.  She leans over to me and whispers, "God, hasn't Janeway ever heard of facial DNA repair?  You know they say that half the people on that ship were in love with her and that she fucked most of them. Hard to believe now, isn't it?"

She peers more closely at Kathryn and continues, "Well, maybe not.  There was the big thing with that Borg, too. Yeah, on second thought, I bet Janeway used to be one hot little phaser."

I don't answer.  There's something I know about Kathryn Janeway and "that Borg," something I've never told Gretta or anyone.  I think of it now, as I've done hundreds of times. About five years ago, I was sitting in my office reading the text of an address Janeway had given at some conference on quantum singularities.  One of my colleagues wandered in and looked at the PADD.  I wasn't too happy to see him; he sometimes had an interesting perspective on things, but his stories were always meandering and endless.

This time was different.  I've had a soft spot for his ramblings ever since.

"You know, I saw her once.  Janeway," he said, sitting down. "About six months after she left Starfleet.  It was at that huge inter-planetary meeting on wormholes. All the big names were there plus the usual rabble.  The place was packed. One afternoon, I was standing back out of the way, waiting for someone, and who should I see coming down the hall but Janeway and that Borg."

"Her name is Seven," I said.  I hate when people call her "that Borg."

"Yeah, well, it was pretty widely known by then that they were quite an item.  She made a lot of people nervous, that Borg.  I've always wondered if it was because of her that Janeway left the Fleet.  Anyway, the two of them were just walking, and nobody was really paying any attention to them. They stopped not far from me, and the Borg -- I mean, Seven -- said, 'I will return by 1800 hours.'   And they kissed goodbye."

He stopped, and I was about to say, "That's it?" when I realized that he hadn't finished.  He talked a lot, but he wasn't very articulate; he was having a hard time finding his words.

"I mean, just a kiss goodbye.  It only took a second.  No big production; people do it all the time.  But. . .I've never forgotten it.  Most couples just give a peck, you know?  Especially if they're going to see each other in a few hours.  But with them, it was more.  Janeway touched the tips of her fingers to the - to Seven's face, and Seven slipped her hand under the back of Janeway's jacket and pulled her close.  It wasn't meant to be sexy or anything. It was just like they needed a little skin contact.  It was. . .I don't know, tender.  Does that sound stupid?  They were both so aware of each other, and I. . .I sort of envied them."

He sat for a minute and then looked up, embarrassed. "Listen to me babbling.  Pay no attention to me, Margaret. I'm an idiot.  I never say things like this to anyone but you."  He laughed, a little shamefaced.  "Well, I'll let you get back to your reading."

I've kept this story to myself, like a present I can unwrap in solitude.  Often I think about it when I'm with Gretta, think about Kathryn and Seven and their goodbye kiss.  I love that they weren't perfunctory.  At least not then.

They aren't together now.  Two years ago, there was this brief notice in the news transmissions that the famous Seven of Nine was leaving on an extended deep space mission.  I was surprised that so little was made of it.  But I suppose Seven no longer makes people nervous.

It was right after she left that Kathryn dropped out of sight almost completely.  She hasn't published much since, and I know I haven't seen her on any of the conference feeds.

So now she's alone.  I assume.  I wonder if she's sorry.

I decide that I need to use the facilities.  Gretta snickers as I get up.  I know she thinks I just want to walk past Janeway.  And I do.  For some reason, I'm dying to know what she's reading.

On my way back, I saunter very slowly so that I can check her PADD.  It's covered with symbols.

I'm just sitting down when it hits me.  It's *my* most recent theorem.  Mine.  Kathryn Janeway is reading something of mine.

Now I'm almost hyperventilating.  Gretta leans over to me again.  Exasperated.  "This is ridiculous, Mags.  Listen, you're a grown woman; act like it.  Go over there and speak to her."

I shoot Gretta a glance.  She's smirking; she doesn't believe I'll do it.  I stand, partly just to see the look on her face.

And partly because Kathryn Janeway is reading my theorem.

I step over to her seat.  "Excuse me?  Dr. Janeway?"

She looks up enquiringly, warily.  I hear myself speak as if from a distance.

"I couldn't help but notice that you're studying my theorem. I'm Margaret Garrett."

Her smile lights up her eyes and the space around her and me.  "Are you indeed?" she says, sounding pleased.  "What luck."  Her voice is the same liquid smoke that I first heard all those years ago.

She motions to the chair next to her.  "Please.  Join me. If you'd like."

"I would," I say, and sit down.  Gretta is staring.

Kathryn Janeway looks at me, her face alive with interest. She says, "I'd love to talk with you about your theorem.  It's beautiful."

She understands.  Yes.  Beautiful.

The End