For The Last Time
By Michelle Marquand

"Kathryn, for the very last time, I�m telling you to get down here," Gretchen Janeway had had a bellyful of her oldest daughter�s delay tactics.  She heard the auburn haired fourteen-year-old sigh with disgust, slam her book shut, and hurl herself off the bed.

"Coming, mother," she curtly replied.  "Just once I�d like to read a book cover to cover without being nagged," she muttered, just loud enough that her mother could hear her.

Gretchen planted her hands on her hips, glaring at the recalcitrant teenager.  "Young lady, no one objects to your reading, but it�s a little much to expect to go undisturbed when you�re reading War and Peace.  It is a bit long, as I recall."

Captain Kathryn Janeway sighed wistfully, remembering her mother.  Why did I have such a smart mouth all the time?  All I cared about was my damned books, my math, my science, my future.  What I wouldn�t give to have back the time I should have taken with Mom.  And now I probably won�t make it back in time to see her at all. All those years Daddy was gone, off chasing the stars, and Mom just wanted us to have a stable home, to spend time with us.  And I couldn�t be bothered.  God, I would gladly be bothered now, Mom.

She examined the framed photograph of her mother and sister, wishing with all her might that she could see them both again.  Oh, the scolding she would get for her failure to sleep regularly, eat properly, and for letting herself be so isolated.  Phoebe wouldn�t scold, but she would certainly give the Captain a sarcastic earful.  Mom would scold.  Mom would fuss.  Mom might even yell a little.  Especially if they could meet Seven.  Kathryn could hear it now.

"Kathryn, that poor girl just adores you, and you act as if she isn�t alive.  Get off your high horse, girl, and admit you love her."

Phoebe wouldn�t be so gentle.  She�d say something more like "Seven loves you, though God only knows why she would, considering how you treat her.  You don�t deserve her, Katie."

Janeway sighed, finishing her glass of wine.  Mother�s Day was this weekend, and it would be the sixth year in a row she had missed the traditional Mother�s Day dinner at the farmhouse in Indiana.  Indiana. Rolling fields of corn and soybeans as far as the eye could see, and in the gray hours before morning deer with haunting brown eyes and soft muzzles stealthily wandered the long rows of crops, nibbling the tasty green shoots and soft yellow kernels.  The smell of soil after a Spring rain, the petunias blooming around the porch, the sighing sound of the leaves rustling in the breeze in the evening. Home.  Another thing she had neglected to appreciate.  In fact, she had disdained the agricultural park where she grew up, featuring herself much too sophisticated and 24th Century for the old ways.  Now she would gladly trade all the PADDs, tricorders, and sensor arrays for a home grown tomato from her mother�s garden, red and juicy, sliced and salted.  Her mouth puckered just thinking about that tangy flavor.  And what she wouldn�t give for a big bowl of hoppin� jack, her mother�s specialty: black-eye peas, ground beef, red bell peppers, onions, sour cream, and cheese, all cooked together so that the peas could absorb the other flavors.

All those people who had seemed so important to her in high school and later at the Academy, the ones she�d snubbed her family for, the ones she so wanted to impress?well, she could hardly recall a face of even one, and very few names.  Yet she had spent every free moment with them, while her family waited patiently for her to take an interest in their company.  While they were waiting, she was off on her first starship, the proud science officer, strutting in her uniform and her pips, a favorite of Admiral Owen Paris.  She remembered thinking she had followed in her father�s footsteps, and feeling somehow that her father had done significant things, great things, while her mother merely existed to support those ambitions her father held dear.  Kathryn Janeway was destined for the same great things, none of which involved crops, putting up preserves, keeping house, or raising children.

Only now could she discern that it was her mother, all along, who had accomplished the great achievements of the Janeway family, not her father, and certainly not her.  All the scientific inquiry and knowledge and crosscultural exchange paled in comparison to the practical value of  making a home.  Home, where hard work yielded tangible rewards, and diplomacy was rarely needed.  Home, where sleep came easily, deeply, dreamlessly, and insomnia was something that happened to �other� people.  Home, where nobody gave a damn if you were a Starfleet Captain or a stable cleaner, and there was no protocol or formality.  Only acceptance and love, a comforting hand to hold when trouble found you, people who were aware of your flaws but were willing to overlook them.

Home was where she could bring Seven, and not worry about whether she could fit in, because Seven would be loved simply for loving Kathryn. No one would ask about what it was like to assimilate people, or how much of her body was human as opposed to cybernetic, and no one would cower in her presence, because if Kathryn trusted her, so would they. Even Starfleet for all its technology and purported tolerance of diversity had yet to create an atmosphere where Seven could be who she was without being treated like a freak or an opportunity to learn how to defeat the Borg.  But home with her mother and sister, Seven would simply be Seven, the woman she loved, the partner she would cherish for life.

If they ever made it home, maybe she would tell Seven how she felt.