Threads

As I run my hands along the railing, I wonder about the differences. The bridge seems familiar enough.

I turn around and smile at Harry, Lieutenant Harry Kim.

I thought he might drop out to catch up on old acquaintances, and he did for a while. But just like me, Harry feels the pull of incurable wanderlust. The space affinity. Odysseus setting out to sea again, knowing what dangers await him and that he might not return. A restless soul, some would say, but I'm not spiritual.

Tuvok is manning Security. I catch his eye thinking that this man, too, has left a lot behind.

'Old friend, Vulcans do have a certain age advantage.'

He doesn't smile back, but he raises his brow in acknowledgment. His presence is more comforting than I care to admit.

Up front, I see the back of another Lieutenant Kim's head. "Mrs. Kim," I say without revealing my amusement. "Take us about."

Harry's always had a thing for blondes, and Jane is pretty. She's a hard-headed woman, though, and I wonder about the name exchange business. Well, to each his own. Or her own, in this case.

~*~*~

The nebular is vast, a multi-coloured cloud covering the entire screen.

'Seven would love this!' I think as I stare at the diversity of atoms, then 'Seven *will* love this', because Seven is here. She arrived half an hour ago.

It makes me nervous just to think of her. That's unusual, as few things make me nervous and people tend not to be among them. Yet I have to go down to Astrometrics; I have to see her, have to touch her. Not because anything ­ or anyone ­ could make me, but because I haven't seen her in three months. And that's a lot for a woman with no time to lose.

How did she manage to get reassigned or even to arrange for a transfer to the far end of the quadrant? I guess I don't want to know. After a decade in the Delta Quadrant, I came to the conclusion that some things just happen.

"Commander, you have the bridge."

My first officer nods in acknowledgement. Strange, the fact that it isn't Chakotay, that this ship is not Voyager. How can I feel comfortable yet out of place?

~*~*~

I arrive in Astrometrics to find a beautiful woman in the uniform of a science officer.

"Seven..."

"Annika." she rebukes, keeping her eyes on her readings just to tease me. "Seven." I insist, pushing her against the console.

Why do I still call her that? I don't do so in public. People would think it strange if they heard me, who pushed her in the direction of humanity, still using her Borg designation. It just feels right. It's how I came to think of her. Not 'Borg' or 'Human', not 'woman'. Just Seven ­ an individual making categories irrelevant.

I don't think she minds.

I tear at her neck, feeling the pips and ripping them from her collar. I want to turn her back into something, I don't know what.

"Captain." she says, using her cool voice that makes everything sound scientific.

Fuck the 'commanding officer' part.

I've had so much time on my hands ­ time waiting for dignitaries to arrive, for judges to pass their judgements, idiots to hold their speeches or just generally for something to happen ­ I actually bothered reading Starfleet's rulebook on relationships. 389 pages full of bullshit. And what does it boil down to?

Don't compromise duty. Don't lower crew morale. Don't get pregnant.

Why couldn't they have summed it up in these three sentences?

I'm not going to get pregnant. I wanted to, sometime ago, but it's a little late for that now. And Seven? Well, I can't make hernot accidentally anyway. And I'm not sure I'd want to. Or if she would. It's something we haven't talked about.

As for the rest...I've never compromised duty; I don't see why a sexual relationship should change that.

I arrive on the bridge, shortly thinking that maybe they'll know, maybe they'll smell but then again, they don't know me. And Tuvok generally keeps things to himself. Harry probably doesn't want to consider it.

I vanish into my ready-room, postponing my grin until the doors have closed behind me.

Ah, my desk is overflowing with PADDs. I never thought I could love hating this so much. I sit down, revelling in my reluctance to do the work, taking pride in my discipline to do it nevertheless.

Boring, most of them. Repair reports. Crew schedules. Transmission logs. This is well-practiced routine.

While casting a sidelong glance at the remaining PADDs, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection on their polished surfaces. It makes me aware of how everything in this room reflects on me as a person.

My art and antiques ­ relics from the past ­ which I used to display in my old ready-room.

The two pictures I took with me from Earth. One from Indiana where I grew up ­ an old holoimage since nothing looks the way it used to when I was young. The other from my family: Mom and her partner, Phoebe, two cousins and Uncle Harold standing in front of an old mansion. I don't remember where they took it.

And then of course, there's my showcase. The absurdity of its appearance makes me laugh. I never imagined I'd possess such a thing. The case displays all kinds of decorations and medals. They're what's left now that I've signed my waiver. I don't need to brag, but Starfleet is at odds with my 'underemployment'. They need to show the world how honoured I am. Only the world doesn't really see. There are no pictures taken in my ready-room; not if I can help it.

Then why don't I get rid of the showcase?

I look again at my distorted reflection. Ah, Kathryn, you're just an old fool!

~*~*~

We have analysed the nebular. So much data, even more than Voyager could have offered. I have yet to get used to that idea.

I intended to protect my ship from the scientific vultures, and I wanted to defend her against all successors. I failed to do the first, and I always knew the latter was unrealistic.

So now they're taking Voyager apart, bulkhead by bulkhead, studying any and all of our modifications. B'Elanna's helping in the process. I've no idea how she can stand it.

Maybe leaving Voyager behind was cowardly of me. Maybe I should have stayed, even when I had to accept that my influence is too small and desires change nothing.

Losing her pains me. After all, she is part of me. Or am I part of her? Still, life must go on. It does so pretty well, considering the circumstances.

~*~*~

A young Ensign is manning Ops. I imagine seeing myself through his eyes as I'm pacing the bridge with my arms akimbo. I look sober, I know. And stern. I have been told so many times.

My voice is rough, lower than your average human female. I rasp a little, for effect, as I give my orders. The Ensign is pink around the ears. I think he might have a crush on me. Or maybe he's just nervous. Harry used to be like that.

I sit down in my chair and I remember with painful clarity how I tried to be Admiral for thirteen months and six days. I taught at the Academy. I didn't drown in paperwork or smiling people or alcohol. I learned all their rules of social interaction and proper conduct. And then, at a reception filled with unbearably strait-laced, high-ranking officers I almost cracked. I've never been so close to telling them exactly what I think of it all.

I went to the brass right afterwards. I informed them I couldn't do it, that I needed to be back on the bridge. That I needed to give orders, not sit around being an institution.

I wasn't sure if Starfleet really needed me as an icon. We were public heroes, all of the former Voyager crew, but the media circus had begun to ebb away after the first year. And the 'fleet had many acclaimed officers... Still, I tried blackmail. Give me a ship or I'll resign. They wanted time to think it over.

But they didn't take much time. All attempts at talking me out of it seemed half-hearted at best. I passed a formal petition, talked to a dozen counsellors and twice as many dignitaries, but one month later my demotion was through. I still can't believe how little resistance I met.

Funny they gave in so easily. Or maybe...maybe they didn't. Maybe it's just that Owen Paris knows what he owes me...

I hardly smile at my pun. Still, my counsellor looks up with a puzzled expression. Great, I have a personal mood detector.

I should avoid thoughts like that in the presence of a Betazoid, but I hate being reminded that I'm not entirely unlimited and by myself. Starfleet assured me the counsellor's here for my own safety and mental wellbeing. Truth is they're keeping an eye on me. I wonder what for.

Well, I'll get used to it. I got used to so many things; one gentle dark-haired man more will not make a difference. We have our first appointment later this afternoon. I've avoided meeting him in private since we left earth, but I couldn't talk my way out of it any longer.

At least he comes to my ready-room. I can't stand the idea of letting a stranger into my quarters.

~*~*~

I offer him coffee and I'm immensely pleased that he accepts. Finally, someone who's not going to lecture me on the bad influence of too much caffeine on my nervous system.

We sit opposite each other, both holding on to our cups.

"I have been ordered to profile you, but I'm still bound to my oath of confidentiality," he openly informs me, which I find surprising.

"So...do I have anything to fear?"

"Not much scares you," he states. "And you certainly don't fear me."

'Bright boy.'

"You're just at odds with what I represent," he continues. "Which I think you don't have to be. You've made a wise decision."

'A wise decision now, is it?' "I know many people who wouldn't agree with that..."

"I'm not 'many people'." I stare him down but he doesn't waver. Impressive.

We sit in silence for a few moments, then he finally looks away. I put the cup to my face and inhale deeply.

'They have given me my life back', is what I'm thinking, but what I say is that I'm more at peace with myself than I've ever been.

"Well of course this isn't Voyager," I add, feeling almost guilty. "And all those years in the Delta Quadrant..." I trail off and he doesn't push it.

This is not as bad as I thought it would be.

"Maybe I will never feel at home," I say, not sure if it bothers me. "But this is my ship... My command. My responsibility."

"Your love."

I give him my lop-sided grin to hide my irritation ­ which is probably useless. And realizing that, I shake my head. It would only be fair if I could read his thoughts as well. But then again, I don't want to know what people think. About me or anything else.

"That," I reply, "is none of your business."

"I understand. My apologies, Captain." Half closing his eyes and with his dreamy expression, he smiles just like Mark.

Mark. The man that used to stand for everything I was removed from, everything I wished to return to. By the time I received his first letter in the Delta Quadrant, the wish had turned into a conviction independent from him. Now I see how much more I liked *missing* Earth than actually *being* there.

Jerol must have picked up on my melancholy. He takes a breath, preparing to speak, but I interrupt him.

"I want to be alone now."

He accepts it without a word of protest. I might even come to like him.

When he's gone, I walk over to my viewport and stare out at the stars. This at least, always feels as familiar as breathing, no matter where I stand.

~ End ~