Fidelity

by

Plynn

Part Two – Seven

Stardate: 56877.73.

If I had thought my cortical processes to be compromised before, I was in error. My previous experience was insignificant in comparison to my current situation.

It has been four months since I returned to Las Cruces from Seattle, and in those months I have ceased to function at acceptable levels. I have been able to hide my condition with reasonable success, and I wake and work capably each day. It is a relief to leave my – our – home and submerse myself in transwarp theory, to focus all of my thought on precise calculations. It provides a much-needed distraction from the cognitive loop I find myself repeating every night. The hours between the time when I leave the lab and when I regenerate are inefficient and unproductive and I often feel angry at my lack of discipline. I will cease this pointless line of thought, I try and direct myself, but it does not often work. I think of Kathryn frequently.

She will not return my transmissions. No, that statement is inaccurate; she returns every one of my transmissions, unopened, and does not reply. I have even attempted to reach her through her unofficial channel, under the childhood designation given to her by her father, but she does not respond. After the first month of this treatment, I ceased my efforts. Kathryn has made it clear that she does not wish to speak to me, and that is the fact that has resulted in my impaired functioning. There are many things that I need to tell her, things that I should have said in Seattle but could not, conclusions that I have reached in the past one hundred and eighteen days. I have spent considerable hours analyzing my emotions – so many, now, and so intense – and my situation, and I can now verbalize the differences in how I feel for Kathryn versus how I feel for Chakotay. My attempts in the hotel were clumsy and inexperienced, and I do not think she understood. I believe she feels I simply wanted to copulate with her, and she finds that an insufficient reason for discontinuing my marriage. If she would listen, I could explain myself now but she has withdrawn from me so totally that I cannot reach her. 

Her silence has filled me with a dark fear - perhaps she does not feel the way I do. If she did, would she have left me so completely? Would the very same woman who pursued me into the heart of Borg space give up so easily? I find her actions on Earth to be contradictory to those of the woman and captain I knew aboard Voyager, and I cannot predict her responses as I once could. I consider other possible reasons for her actions, but this insidious thought becomes more persuasive and hard to ignore: she does not want me in her life, and without her in mine I feel smaller than ever before.

It is Saturday today, and while Chakotay looks forward to these ‘weekends’ I do not. I would be much happier in my office where I am not free to let my mind wander, but this human custom is one that Chakotay insists I adhere to absolutely. Between his schedule teaching ‘Comparative Religions of the Quadrants’ at Starfleet Academy and my own long hours at the Institute, we do not see much of each other during the week. He states that weekends are the only days that we can have ‘quality time’ and spend more than a few hours in each other’s presence, and I do not tell him that this is the precise reason I dread the transports home on ‘Fridays’.

Chakotay is a good man and a competent mate, but when we are together I am reminded with every breath that he is not who I wish to be with, and that I have made a grave error that I cannot seem to remedy. It causes a cold, hollow feeling in my abdomen that is completely unacceptable. Loss, I recognize. Regret. This is grief. Over the past eleven months I have often been astounded by my new capacity for heightened emotion, but there are times when the ache in my chest is so consuming that I contemplate contacting the Doctor and inquiring about replacing the inhibitor. It is only the memory of Kathryn’s limp hand upon my chest as she slept beside me and the overwhelming adoration I felt for her that stops me. I must believe I will feel that joy again, because I cannot accept the idea that I will live the rest of my life without it.

Or her.

“Want to go out to Aguirre Springs today?” Chakotay inquires over the remains of our breakfast. We sit in the small, sun-filled alcove off of the kitchen that I now know is called a ‘nook’, and I stare out of the arced stucco windows rather than look at him. The sky is bright, but it is deceptive and I know the November air will be cool in the high desert. “Might do you some good to get some fresh air, maybe take a hike.” I bring my eyes to meet his, and find them studying me with tenderness as he wipes his mouth with his napkin. He has commented on my loss of mass, and I know he worries about my erratic regeneration. He believes it is due to depression from adjusting to life off of Voyager, and he is partially correct. I long for the time when I spoke to her, saw her, and felt her intense presence every day. I had taken it for granted then, and now without it I feel as if I am drifting.

I do not feel any enthusiasm for his idea, but I know that if I do not agree he will become more concerned. “Acceptable,” I nod, and he beams at me, crinkling the lines gathered around his eyes and crossing his forehead that have deepened from the daily solar radiation. I feel a brief sensation of warmth in my chest at his happiness and the left corner of my mouth rises in a half-smile. I am glad that I have ceased his worrying for the moment, but the feeling fades quickly as another smile – this one accompanied by slate blue eyes – flashes through my memory. I drop my gaze to my nutritional supplement, and swallow against the tightening in my throat with force. Kathryn’s smile has always had a powerful effect on me, but I am caught unprepared by the mental image and I feel that horrible coldness in my stomach again. I push back from my unfinished drink, unable to complete it, and I drop my napkin next to the glass.

“I will prepare,” I mumble as I rise and head towards our bedroom to shower and dress.

Chakotay’s fingers encircle my right wrist as I pass his side of the table, however, and he squeezes gently. “Annika, we don’t have to go if you don’t feel like it.” I resigned to his use of my human designation long ago. Chakotay believes that using it will help me ‘fit in’ better on Earth, but it still sounds like a stranger’s name. He frowns, but his eyes show a trace of humor and he swings my hand slightly. “Don’t agree just to shut me up.” He pulls my hand to his face, looking up at me from his chair, and brushes his lips across the backs of my knuckles.

I know that I could take this opportunity to nod, and to say that I am too tired. He would smile but it would be touched with sadness, and he would tell me to get some rest. He would spend the day checking on me, solicitous but unobtrusive, and I would be left to my thoughts. He only wishes to make me happy but does not understand how it can be accomplished, so he simply supports me. I believe he cares a great deal for me, and a hike in the nature preserve is a small sacrifice if it eases his mind.

I place my palm against his cheek, and shake my head. “No, it will be pleasant. Perhaps the sun will ‘do me some good’,” I parrot, and watch the smile return to his eyes. “But I cannot hike in my robe, Chakotay, so I must dress.” His tattoo crinkles as his eyebrows rise, and he seems to consider the idea carefully. He tugs my wrist gently, and pulls me to sit across his legs. He places my arms around his bare shoulders, and his hands wrap around my waist. I stifle a sigh at the glimmer I see in his dark eyes.

When Chakotay and I were first intimate, I attributed my weak response to my Borg physiology; the Collective considered such reactions to be irrelevant, and they were suppressed. However, even after the removal of my cortical node’s fail-safe device my reactions were not what I had anticipated. They were not the strong – if only half-remembered – emotions I experienced in Unimatrix Zero, and so I considered my experiences with Axum to be unique to the environment. I was greatly disappointed, but I approached our interactions with curiosity, attempting to form a hypothesis, and Chakotay was always patient with me. Over time I simply accepted that, while I would not gain much enjoyment from the activities, they were an important part of being married. Our copulation was not unpleasant, and I did not wish to fail so I made every attempt at success. He was happy, and it was sufficient.

But, after I received Kathryn’s message, I began to question my conclusion. I had always felt vaguely unsettled in her presence but not unpleasantly so, and the suggestive wording of the verse had stirred that familiar feeling, now unrestrained by the inhibitor. As I studied the lines, the meaning behind them and the implication that she was speaking them to me, I had felt a shock of arousal so strong that I had to lower myself into a chair. She desires me, I realized, and immediately I felt my nipples stiffen against my blouse. My imagination has never been one of my strongest traits, but I was consumed for weeks with thoughts of Kathryn’s mouth, her hands, and her voice. My heart beat painfully when I imagined what the skin of her back would feel like under my hands and lips, and I wondered how the hollow of her throat would taste. I wanted to know the pressure of her heels in the small of my back, and the weight of her above me. And then I discovered it all in Seattle.

I had been waiting in the lobby of the hotel for 3.49 hours watching for any sign of her arrival and silently rehearsing various things I wished to say to her, because I suspected I would only get one chance. I was attempting to refine my usually blunt phrasing when suddenly there she was, standing at the back of the waiting crowd at the lift. I had rarely felt so focused or so physically aware in all of my existence, and as I stepped up behind her I called her name softly and noted her sharp intake of air. Her voice in reply, so low between us, stole my breath and I found myself unable to speak. Her hair was darkened with rain and swept up into a loose knot, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the back of her exposed neck. I found my bearings and inhaled slowly to calm my racing heart, but as I did my enhanced olfactory receptors picked up the most intoxicating scent. It was a blend of a spicy, expensive perfume and the barest hint of an alluring musk that stimulated my salivary glands. It wasn’t until I saw Kathryn’s face in the lift’s reflective doors that I could identify that rich tone; she was aroused. The rational portion of myself lost the ongoing struggle at that precise moment.

She began to speak after we entered her suite, but I was moving before I was even aware of it. Our first kiss was all the evidence I required. What I felt for her was so powerful, so very different, from my experiences with Chakotay or Axum, and I was swept up in the full fury of my awakened awareness. I could not get enough of her under my hands, or mouth, at once. The sound of her voice and her throaty moans, the grain of the skin on the backs of her thighs, the humid warmth of her breath on my neck – these things I remember with eidetic intensity. Our first encounter was electric and overwhelming, but it was the unhurried hours afterward that taught me the depths of my love for the compact woman. I found myself releasing tears, overcome with the urge to laugh and cry at the same moment. I remember pulling her body closer atop me, as if trying to push her into my heart, to assimilate her through my very skin. I have never been as whole as I was when I felt Kathryn fall asleep, sated and languid, on my chest.

I knew then that my systems were most definitely not suppressed – far from it – and that I was simply not physically or romantically attracted to Chakotay. While that realization satisfied the scientist in me, and I was glad to have an answer, it has made the past four months very difficult. She is gone, and wants no contact with me. I do not wish to remain here, knowing that I cannot return the love he has for me, but at this time I cannot be ‘one’. I do not have the strength currently to exist alone, and I feel absolutely inadequate. I know that I am being fundamentally unfair to Chakotay by remaining, but a future without Kathryn looms like the pure blackness of the Void. At least here, I am two. I am needed, and I am loved. I once thought such things to be irrelevant, but I have learned a great many things this past year.

I still do not wish to fail, and I endeavor to maintain Chakotay’s happiness, but I find the act of copulation tedious at best and depressing at worst. Now that I know what it could be, I am painfully aware of what it is not. I have begun to find ways to avoid the prospect, and I know that it has not gone unnoticed. He considers my lack of interest to be another symptom of depression, and I have not disputed it. As in all things he does not pressure me, but he still makes the attempt. Sometimes I acquiesce, if only because it means he will not bring it up again for a short while and I am ‘let off the hook’, as B’Elanna might say. But each time I do, I feel a swollen sense of pain in my chest like a parody of my revelation with Kathryn, and I must disguise the tears in my eyes as happiness. Today will not be one of those times.

“Maybe I was too hasty … we could stay in,” he suggests, and I feel his palm slide up the gray silk covering my back. He leans forward to kiss me and I allow it, if only superficially. There is no reaction in my body, and no urge to pull him closer. Instead, I place my meshed palm against the smooth skin of his chest, and hold him in place as I pull back and rise. For a moment I worry that he misunderstands and is going to follow me into the bedroom, and I give a small shake of my head. Chakotay blinks, and dips his chin slightly. “Better bring a sweater, it could be a little chilly.” I hear the note of disappointment in his voice that he tries to cover and I turn away, retreating to the sonic shower.

I am a terrible wife to this man. He deserves better than a Borg in love with someone she cannot have, but who clings to him because he is the last recognizable thing left in her world.

-------                                                                 --------                                                       -------

Stardate: 56971.91.

The first anniversary banquet in celebration of Voyager’s surprising return to the Alpha Quadrant is a gala event. Every member of the former crew who is not currently assigned to a deep space mission has been granted leave in order to attend, and a large majority of the non-Starfleet members have been able to come, as well. The grand ballroom at Headquarters is filled near to overflowing with familiar faces and many layers of Starfleet ‘brass’, as Chakotay calls them. The lavishly decorated room is a sea of white dress uniforms and formal attire, and the air hums with laughter and live, jazz-like music from the stage. It is overwhelming in the extreme, and I am glad for Chakotay’s hand between my bare shoulder blades.

As soon as we enter the room and make our way to our table, I search for the Admiral. I know she will attend. Had the dinner been less formal she would have made her excuses and declined, but this is an official event and she will be expected. If there is anything that Kathryn holds dear it is her Starfleet duty. Chakotay leads the way to a large, circular table near the front of the room, and I notice it has been reserved for the senior staff. Only Tom, Tuvok and his mate T’Pel are seated, and as pleasant as it is to see them I feel a sharp pang of disappointment.  

“Chakotay, Seven!” Tom Paris waves and motions us to our seats with a wide grin. Having declined an official reinstatement to Starfleet Tom has abandoned the formal uniform, and he is dressed in an odd suit that I recognize as being styled after the men’s fashion of his favorite era: the early twentieth century. It consists of dark gray trousers and jacket, over a cream colored shirt with a crimson strip of fabric that lies underneath the collar and is knotted at his throat. It looks very uncomfortable, which may be why the knot is loose and the first shirt button undone. On any one else it would look ridiculous, but Tom carries it well. “You guys just get here?” he asks, and grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and presents them to us as we sit to his left.

Chakotay nods and accepts the drink. “Quite the turnout. Where’s B’Elanna?” he asks, and I take my glass, surveying the room over the rim.

Tom dips his head in the direction from which we approached, and shrugs. “She started talking shop with Carey and my eyes started to cross. Warp field harmonics aren’t much for stimulating party chatter, if you ask me.” He grins and leans back in his chair, making a show of looking at every inch of my gown and unbound hair. He whistles between his teeth and asks, “Hoping to break some hearts tonight, Seven?”

His remark is more accurate than he might suspect, and I cannot stop the faint blush that spreads across my cheeks. I did choose the dress hoping to get a reaction, but it is only one heart I hope to affect. The material is a silky fabric a shade darker than the plum biosuit I wore in the Delta Quadrant, and held up with little more than elastic and ‘Borg ingenuity’. It falls in folds between my breasts, and flows down along the line of my hips to flare out below my knees, ending just above my ankles. I found it aesthetically pleasing, and Tom’s reaction gives me hope that Kathryn will, as well.

I allow the corner of my mouth to twitch upwards, and I raise my optical implant. “Only yours, Tom Paris.” He pantomimes being shot in the chest, and my smile broadens. Chakotay and I have spent a substantial amount of time with Tom and B’Elanna over the past year. Our status as ‘the other couple’, as well as Chakotay and B’Elanna’s long history, has led us to a heightened social relationship with the married pair. I am often surprised by how much I appreciate Tom’s playful company in particular, and our banter has relieved some of my anxiety. “Has the rest of the senior staff arrived?” I ask, and I hope my voice does not sound too eager or betray the specific member I have in mind.

Tom nods and turns, searching the room for a moment. “Well, Harry’s here, but he’s caught up with his family. I ran into the Doc over near the band,” he states, gesturing with his thumb. “I’m pretty sure he was trying to badger the piano player into letting him have a turn during dinner since he won’t be eating.” I nod, and I am hunting for a way to ask about Kathryn when Chakotay asks, himself.

“Is the Admiral here yet?” There is a note in his tone that makes me tilt my head ten degrees to the right, and I notice that he is scanning the crowd as well. Naturally, Tom knows to whom Chakotay refers. My husband has also been affected by Kathryn’s withdrawal from our lives, though he treats it with the same frustrating acceptance he does everything else. “She must have her reasons, and she has to be very busy,” is all he has said about the subject. He has been unwilling to elaborate or speculate further, and the quiet sympathy I feel toward him is disconcerting.

“I haven’t seen her.” Tom shrugs, but I notice him eyeing both Chakotay and myself. Mr. Paris is far more perceptive than he would ever admit, and more discreet than many would expect. 

I am eager to change the subject, but both Tuvok and T’Pel are, of course, disinterested in idle conversation. Fortunately, Harry Kim arrives and the table’s attention shifts as he greets everyone. “Seven!” he exclaims, and I see Tom’s mouth twitch into a brief smirk. Harry takes his seat, directly across from me, and leans forward on his crossed forearms. “How have you been?” he asks with an enthusiastic smile. Earth, apparently, has been good for him and he possesses a confidence that was not present one year ago.

“I am…” I pause, choosing the word with care, “fine, Harry.” I return his smile, and I hope it does not seem forced. “And you?”

He indicates the second solid pip attached to his dress uniform, and the pride in his eyes is obvious. “Senior Lieutenant,” he says unnecessarily. “I’ve been posted to the Rhode Island. We’re headed to DS9 next week, and then it’s hello Gamma Quadrant.”

This surprises me, and I am not the only one. “Your acceptance of such an assignment is unexpected, Lieutenant,” Tuvok intones. “Your enthusiasm to reach the Alpha Quadrant was well known aboard Voyager.” Once, while traveling back to Earth, I overheard B’Elanna comment that if Ensign Kim could ‘get out and push’ we would cut our travel time in half, so I do not dispute Tuvok’s claim.

Harry laughs and shrugs his shoulders. “I know. I never thought I’d want to be a part of another exploratory mission. I can’t explain it.” He pauses, and his eyes seem to lose focus. “I guess I just miss being out there on our own, with nothing certain from day to day. The Alpha Quadrant seems a little … tame … these days.” He shrugs, but he is met with knowing nods and one raised Vulcan eyebrow. It seems I am not the only one having difficulty adjusting.

Tom adroitly shifts the mood of the conversation. “Tame? Hardly. I’ll have to introduce you to my crew,” he insinuates with a leer, and I suspect his manner would be far different were his wife present. “You’d be surprised by all the people behind those racy holonovellas.” He winks, and when Harry raises an eyebrow he continues. “In fact, one time we were mocking up the swamp scene in ‘Varro Vacation’ and when the main stand-in bent over backwards…”

I stop listening to the story halfway through, and stiffen in my chair. Kathryn is here.

It is her laugh that alerts me to her presence five meters behind us, and it takes every portion of my self-control not to turn towards her even as I feel Chakotay twist in his seat. The sound shivers down my spine, and the air feels sucked from my lungs as her voice rises again, this time joined by that of B’Elanna, and I immediately identify her footsteps as the pair approaches the table. I am stunned at my sudden and intense desire to escape; I have waited for her, counted on her presence, but now that she is here I feel flushed and frightened and about to bolt.

“I wasn’t aware that olan’vora caused priapism, Tom,” Kathryn interjects in dry response to some part of his puerile story, and I allow myself to turn and memorize her appearance. I am surprised to see that she has cut her hair, and returned to the jaw-length style she adopted not long after I was disconnected from the Collective. It falls in soft layers around her cheekbones and ears, and I remember its silky texture with painful detail. The look is especially striking coupled with her dress whites. The sharp lines of the high-cut coat emphasize her narrow hips, and my mouth goes dry as I suddenly remember those same bare hips surging upwards under my hands and mouth. I turn away and take a much-needed swallow from my champagne, attempting to force the eidetic images – as well as scents, sounds, and tastes – from my mind. Irrelevant. 

“That’s why it’s called holofiction,” Tom replies, and winks at the newly arrived Admiral. “Interested? I’ll even sign the datapak.” B’Elanna cuffs the back of his head as she passes behind him and takes her seat to his right.

Kathryn rolls her eyes as she takes her seat one hundred and thirty degrees to my left, between Tuvok and Harry, and greets everyone gathered with a brilliant smile. We nod politely to one another, but I notice that she does not meet my eyes. Instead, she looks just below my chin and I see her throat move as she swallows. “Seven,” she acknowledges in a modulated tone.

“Admiral.” I do not trust my voice to any more than her title, and I gather all of my will. I must not react. I can feel my pulse pounding in my throat and my cortical node erroneously senses danger, increasing the flow of nanoprobes to the muscles in my arms and legs. Ready to fight or flee, I feel unsure and defensive and I am unwilling to reveal any sign of my inner turmoil.

There is a period of reconnection and ‘small talk’ but I acknowledge none of it as I surreptitiously study Kathryn. Her hair captivates me as she shifts to speak, red-gold highlights flashing in waves more brown than auburn, but there is a hint of hollow under her cheeks and her eyes are set marginally deeper in her face. I assume she appears happy and relaxed to most, but they do not see the new creases between her brows or register the sagging line of her shoulders. They do not notice the torn, ragged edge of her right thumbnail as she gesticulates, or hear the exhaustion in her exceptional voice. Concern mixes with my unease, and I wonder if it is her new position taking this toll on her or something else entirely.

Dinner arrives, and it is with great dismay that we all study our plates. Someone, obviously an individual who did not spend years lost in the Delta Quadrant, decided it would be nostalgic to prepare various recipes with our former staple, leola root. There is a sliced and dressed raw leola ‘salad’, and some sort of baked, stuffed version that smells as if a bundle of aromatic herbs had been boiled in a Bolian’s undergarment. If there is anything worse than fresh leola root, it is synthesized leola root. ‘Offensive’ does not do the dishes justice, and as if on cue several hands reach for the basket of plain rolls in the center of the table.

News of the meal’s failure must reach the staff quickly, because it is not long before the plates are removed and replaced with a sweet cake, mercifully without the ever-present tuber as an ingredient.

“So, Harry,” Tom queries over his dessert, “are you still seeing that musician? What was her name again … Leyna?”

Lieutenant Kim chuckles, and corrects him. “Reyna, and not exclusively, no.” The blush that would have instantly filled his face when we first met is nowhere to be seen, and Harry just shakes his dark head. “Not with this mission coming up. We’re going out for a minimum of two years, and we’re not serious enough for either of us to wait that long.”

“That’s my boy!” Tom’s encouragement is halted when B’Elanna snorts, and Kathryn emits a husky chuckle at his shocked expression. “What? It’s a very mature decision!”

The engineer rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that you want ‘inspiration’ from whatever exploits he has, right? Like you don’t have ‘Gamma Goodies’ or Kahless knows what half-written in your head already.”

Tom gives his wife a broad smile, caught. “Come on, ‘Lanna. I’m a happily married father – if I can’t live vicariously through Harry, how will I keep my public entertained?” She snorts, but gives him a fond look as she pats his cheek just a fraction harder than usual.

Apparently ‘off the hook’, Tom turns his interrogation on a much more dangerous target. “So, I notice you came stag.” He leans forward on the table and Kathryn’s right eyebrow inclines. I puzzle over the comment’s meaning, and discern that Tom must be ‘teasing’ the Admiral. Mr. Paris is currently consuming his third drink, and is clearly enjoying the benefits of being outside of the command structure.  “I could make a fortune in the underground ‘novel market if I took half the requests I get, so don’t tell me Starfleet’s poster girl doesn’t have to beat ‘em off with a stick.” This is new information to me, and I decide that Tom Paris and I will be having a lengthy discussion about these requests. Soon.

Kathryn favors him with narrowed eyes and a half smile while she toys with the stem of her second flute of champagne.  “You know what an Admiral’s schedule is like, Tom,” she manages to not answer, and she gives a small wave with her slim-fingered left hand.

“No one special, Kathryn?” Chakotay asks, and I repress a sudden, surprising urge to strike him.

“I didn’t say that.” Her tone is mild, and she peers into the remains of her glass. When she looks back up at him, her eyes are gray and unreadable. “I’m just good at missing opportunities.” Chakotay drops his head for a brief moment, and I notice him hiding a hint of a smile. I wonder if he thinks she is referring to him.

I stare at her, intent. I need to look into her eyes; I need to see the truth, but she will not meet my gaze. Doubt worms its way into my abdomen. Kathryn is a remarkable, intelligent and beautiful woman, eminent and charming – it is only logical that she would have many suitors, as Tom suggested – and while I want to believe she is speaking of me, I cannot assume that am the only possibility. The idea is distressing in the extreme, and I force it from my mind before it can twist my stomach any further.

“Well, don’t miss too many,” Chakotay advises. “Married life might agree with you. I know it’s done wonders for me.” He places his right hand upon my left where it rests next to my plate, and manipulates my wedding band in an unconscious gesture with his thumb. His hand is heavy, the fingers broad and smooth, and I tense against the impulse to pull away. I stare at the dark hair dusting his knuckles, aware of his increased heart rate through the slightly moist palm of his hand, and puzzle over why Chakotay speaks so highly of our union. It is hardly ideal, or even acceptable, but he does not seem eager to acknowledge that fact. I decide he does not wish our friends – or perhaps just Kathryn, specifically – to know that his marriage is a passionless failure, and I cannot fault him.

“It suits you both,” Kathryn replies, and her quiet voice is nearly lost in the ongoing dissonance of the room. I look up and, for the first time since arriving, she meets my eyes but I am met with her full command composure. There is no sense of the woman I held, trembling and exposed, in my arms

“Seven!” The voice at my right ear makes me flinch, and I tear my eyes from Kathryn’s to pin them on the new arrival. I immediately soften my facial expression, and I smile with genuine affection.

“Naomi Wildman. I am gratified that you were able to attend.” She wraps her arms around my neck, and hugs me with exuberance. As I return the embrace, I am impressed by her growth over the past year. Now nine years of age, the half-Ktarian girl has grown point-four meters and appears to be approximately thirteen by human standards. “I did not think the Goddard was in this sector.”

Naomi shrugs. “We weren’t going to be, but a call came from Starfleet and delayed our mission. Mom didn’t say why, just that the orders had come ‘from the top’.” I look back at Kathryn immediately, but all she offers in return is a subtle, soft smile directed at her former ‘assistant’ who is greeting Voyager’s former senior staff members. “C’mon,” Naomi presses, and pulls at my arm. “Come say hi!”

I agree, hoping that a short respite might clear my senses. Samantha Wildman looks well, and I am pleased to learn that she and Greskrendtregk are expecting another child. Naomi proceeds to inform me about her school work and extra activities aboard the science vessel her family now calls home, and I spend a few minutes listening to a story about a three-legged Barsek from Eredonia Prime she tried to smuggle into her bedroom. It isn’t until Samantha asks about Chakotay that I look back towards our table and find Kathryn has departed. I answer in a vague manner and excuse myself, scanning the room as I go, and a quick-moving, auburn-headed shape catches my attention.

From my peripheral vision, I see Kathryn cutting her way through the crowd. She is angled towards the primary entrance and is clearly intent on exiting the room. I am caught unaware by an abrupt surge of anger; I am tired of her always running, always disengaging, and I am maneuvering to intercept her before I even realize I am moving.

“If you had been this adept at fleeing in the Delta Quadrant, Voyager could have avoided many incidents.” My voice is low, and the epinephrine-laden nanoprobes that shoot through my blood make it quiver. I throw the words at her retreating back as she passes through the main ballroom doors, my frustration with her behavior rising exponentially with each step.

She stops, and spins on her booted heel. The Admiral meets my eyes squarely, without blinking, and her voice is controlled. “I’ve gotten better at recognizing lost causes, Seven.” She bites off each word, and then flicks her eyes over a nearby group of loitering junior officers. “And this is neither the time nor the place for this conversation.” She continues on her previous course, stalking past two Ensigns and a Lieutenant who are now intently not looking at either of us. I can feel a muscle in my jaw twitch and I follow, relentless. She will not ignore me, I decide with every ounce of determination in my body.

She hurries down a broad, dimly lit hallway leading away from the ballroom and towards a bank of office lifts. She is just as intent on her retreat as I am in my pursuit, and it’s only my irritated voice that stops her. “Damn it, Kathryn, wait!” The expletive is unusual for me, but so is the level of agitation I am currently experiencing. “Please, stop.”

She halts abruptly a meter ahead of me, and I can see her hands clenching as they hang beside her legs. She presses her palms into the sides of her thighs, then folds her arms and faces me with her most impassive look. “There’s nothing to say, Seven. Nothing’s changed, has it?” I feel my molars grind together at the bland accusation in her tone.

“How would you propose to know, exactly,” I stare at her, unflinching, “when you’ve not spoken to me in months?”

“My schedule…” she hedges, but I interrupt and step closer.

“Irrelevant.” I shake my head. “Your work does not prevent you from speaking to me, or acknowledging my existence, yet you refuse to do either.” She will answer me.

Kathryn does not speak for multiple seconds, and when she does the exhaustion I heard earlier has returned. “You don’t need me, Seven. You have Chakotay.”

“Unacceptable.” Her brows knit and her posture continues to tighten. “Your presence in my life is far more valuable,” I attempt to explain, but Kathryn interjects.

 “Oh? Well, I notice you’re still married. And if that display in there was any indication, so does your husband.”

“It is not the same,” I insist, grasping for the appropriate words. “From the beginning, I have sensed that some piece of data was missing. Every interaction with Chakotay seemed to lack an element that would make it viable, but I could not identify it.” I fight the urge to reach out and hold onto her biceps and keep her from escaping, and I attempt to soften my tone. “I believe I found the missing piece four months ago, in Seattle.”

Kathryn emits an abrupt noise from the back of her throat. “Is that what I was, some variable? An experiment in attraction? Well, Seven, you satisfied your curiosity,” her voice quavers, almost as if she is suppressing a small laugh, and the sound is weary. “And how. Glad to have been of service.” She turns in dismissal, and takes three strides towards the lifts. Anger rises in me, swift and sharp, and I follow after her. Do I mean so little to her that she can walk away yet again?

“And what were your motives? Was it just lust to you, Kathryn?” I swallow hard, and I can feel moisture race down my right cheek to drip from my jaw. “Was it just a challenge? Perhaps that is why you avoid me, because you have achieved your goal and I am no longer relevant.” This halts her advance and, eyes blazing and with an emphatic finger jutting at my breastbone, she whirls on me and steps so close I can feel her exhalations on my skin.

“Seven, I have loved you far longer than you know. It has never been just lust for me, God damn it!” The words are torn from her in a rough whisper, but the vehemence of her curse carries across the hall. Her revelation does not escape me and I wait for her to continue, to explain her actions, but the sound of a clearing throat behind me draws both of our attentions.

Voyager’s former Chief Engineer regards us as we stand within each other’s space: me, my face streaked with drying tracks and Kathryn, her forehead intensely furrowed and her left index finger being pointed at my chest from a base of white knuckles.

“B’Elanna. What do you require?” I ask, hoping my blunt nature and the tone of my voice encourage her to keep moving. They do not.

She looks between Kathryn and myself, and folds her arms over her chest. “Tom and I were just leaving, and I heard arguing.” A quick look toward the main exit reveals the back of Tom Paris, retreating with haste and abandoning his wife to her foolhardy venture. “Everything okay?”

Kathryn straightens, and drops her accusatory digit. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but yes.” Her eyes have gone steely and flat, and she rakes the half-Klingon with an icy look. “We were finished. Good to see you, B’Elanna. Excuse me.” She turns, strides down the hallway, and boards the near-instantly summoned lift. As soon as the doors slide closed, B’Elanna releases an explosive breath I hadn’t noticed her holding, and turns to face me.

“What the hell was that all about?” she prods, but I shake my head.

“I do not wish to discuss it.” I swipe at my right cheek and attempt to wipe away the evidence of my hurt and frustration.

“Look,” B’Elanna mutters, her shoulders tense. “I don’t know what’s up with you two, but I can make a pretty damn good educated guess.” She holds up a calloused palm when I open my mouth, so I close it. “Chakotay and I talk, Seven. I know she hasn’t spoken to either of you much since we got back. And, even less since the wedding.” Her inflection on the last word is heavy.

“Should you have a point, B’Elanna, I advise you to reach it.” I am growing uncomfortable with this conversation, and I feel suddenly aware of our exposed position in the hall. We are no more than fifteen meters from the ballroom entrance, and traffic is moderate. While my argument with Kathryn was conducted in generally low tones – aside from the curse that drew B’Elanna our way – our body language had made it clear that we were having an emotional discussion. I know Kathryn will not be pleased with our lack of decorum, and the thought unexpectedly warms a substantial contrary streak in me.

B’Elanna throws her hands up in the air, and sighs heavily. “Just … settle it, Seven. Whatever it is, whatever issue is keeping the three of you at red alert, just settle it.” Her hands land on her hips and she inhales slowly. When she speaks again, her tone is noticeably more confrontational. “Chakotay is my friend. I don’t want to see him hurt, but this isn’t healthy. None of you are happy – in fact, I’d go so far as to say you’re all completely miserable. So,” she negotiates, “either work this out and settle it, or I’m going to start asking everyone questions they really don’t want to answer.” Her eyes narrow on the threat, and I know she is serious; her implied suspicion of infidelity has clearly inflamed her sense of honor. Perhaps Tom is not the only perceptive partner in their marriage. 

I lift my chin one centimeter, and then nod once. My attention fixes on the wall beyond her right shoulder and I must swallow before I can speak. “I will try, B’Elanna. I do not wish for anyone to be in pain.” I meet her eyes again and I steady myself with a deep breath.

“I think it’s too late for that,” she growls, “but the only way for a wound to heal is to dress it.” She leaves without waiting for a response, her gait stiff and quick.

I remain alone in the hall as I attempt to regain control of my shifting emotions. Kathryn’s voice is repeating in my head: “Seven, I have loved you far longer than you know.” Have loved. Still loves. Kathryn loves me, I extrapolate, yet she avoids me. She believes I am in love with Chakotay and she does not think I return her feelings. My conclusion impacts me like shattering glass and I march towards the lifts, determined to correct her error. I arrive on her floor, and locate her office without difficulty. The door is sealed from the inside and my eyes close in irritation.

“You can let me in,” I call, “or you can explain to Starfleet why your door’s interface was penetrated by Borg technology.” My voice is without emotional intonation, and carries easily through the material between us. “You have ten seconds to decide.” A pause, and then there is a heavy thud that impacts the interior wall just to the left of the door. The volume and resonance suggest that the object was metallic and roughly three kilograms in weight, but before I can hazard a guess as to its identity the doors slip open and admit me.  As I enter and approach the center of the room I step over a bronze bust of the Maestro and, mystery solved, I fold my hands behind my back and force myself into a more confident posture.

The Admiral stands behind her desk, with her palms resting wide and flat against the cherry wood top. Her head hangs forward as if she is looking at her own reflection in the polished grain, and her breathing is slightly accelerated. “Damn it, Seven, you’ve got no right –“ she growls at my intrusion, but I cut her off; I will be heard.

“I am in love with you.”

She looks up sharply, and the accusation is clear in her eyes before she can speak it aloud. “Then why?” She leans forward, pressing her hands against the desktop. “Why Chakotay?”

“He pursued me.” The answer is unimpressive, but accurate. “I understood what he wanted, and I concluded he would be an acceptable mate,” I explain, but the words feel empty. I shift, and drop my eyes to the gold piping across her chest. “Faced with a choice between being alone, and attempting an essential human interaction with Chakotay, I felt it was a logical decision. However,” I amend as I see her stiffen, “I did not have the relevant data to come to such a conclusion. It was what I thought was expected of me, but I was mistaken.”

Kathryn eyes me, frowning and incredulous. “No one expected you to jump into a marriage, Seven! I never thought…” she trails off, and I take the opportunity to step closer to her desk. I rest the fingertips of my left hand on the beveled edge, and I breathe deeply when I catch a hint of her evocative scent.

“I love you, Kathryn.” I hold her eyes and let my words resonate before I speak again. If only my emotions were something I could hand to her, something tangible she could inspect, this would be easier. I do not often express myself so openly and I can only hope she will understand. “I have loved you for a long time, but your increasing emotional distance led me to believe you did not reciprocate. When you sent me the poem it accessed a piece of me I thought I had lost, and it was as if I were given a key component to an impossible equation.” My voice is unsteady now, and I have trouble raising the volume above a murmur as I feel tears approaching. “Whatever questions I had were answered in your arms. I know now that I have made a grave error in judgment by marrying Chakotay,” I admit, and I shake my head from side to side. “There is no comparison. It would have been a very different year had I chosen more carefully, and I worry I have damaged … us.”

The silence that follows is poignant and Kathryn’s eyes shimmer, dark and blue, in the dim office lighting. “Everyone makes mistakes, Seven.” Her voice has taken on a soft register I recognize instantly, and I very nearly shiver. The anger has bled from her voice, and has been replaced with a tenderness I have missed with all my being. “Fortunately, they’re rarely permanent.” She steps carefully around the side of her desk and she lets her weight rest fully on each foot before slowly stepping again, appearing lost in thought. When she reaches the front, she leans her right hip against the edge an arm’s length away and regards me with her arms folded. “Had you chosen differently,” she begins in a cautious but curious voice, “where would you want to be now?”

I am not expecting the question, and I answer with the first honest reply that comes to mind. “Underneath you, on this desk.” I do not get many opportunities to surprise her, and I revel in her sudden expulsion of breath and flushed cheeks. She recovers quickly, however, and studies me with a raised eyebrow. Her eyes track along my neck and linger at the line of my gown where it dips between my breasts before continuing down. When she completes her visual tour and meets my eyes again I am startled by width of her pupils. The heated appraisal leaves me light-headed, short of breath, and wondering how I could ever desire anyone else.

“I meant in a more general sense,” Kathryn notes in a husky tone, “but that’s as good a place to start as any.” She holds my gaze for a long moment, her heart unguarded in her eyes, and I feel as if I am leaning in her direction without taking a step. “Seven, I do love you and I have wanted to be near you so desperately.” Her voice has taken on a minor tremor, and she shakes her head. “But I just can’t. I can’t do this to Chakotay. He deserves better.”

The guilt in her voice claws at my abdomen. “And what of you? What do you deserve?” I reach up with my right hand and brush the hair from her forehead, soaking in the sensation of the locks against my skin, and I drop my fingers to rest just below her cheekbone. “What do I deserve?” She leans into my touch and I move forward, intent on feeling her lips beneath mine just once more, but there is a chirp at her office door as someone requests entry.

Kathryn flinches away from me, and I sigh as I clasp my hands behind my back and wonder if we will ever manage to finish this conversation before my implants decay. “Computer, who as at the door?” she queries, controlled.

“Professor Chakotay.” The computer’s neutral tone does not properly reflect the tumult of emotions I see in Kathryn’s eyes at this moment, and I have the sudden sensation of the floor and earth disappearing beneath my feet. I am Borg, I remind myself in alarm. Borg do not panic.

The Admiral blinks and runs her hands down her jacket front, snapping the hem with a sharp tug as she straightens her posture. She sets her shoulders and takes a steady breath before calling, “Come.” I watch her face smooth into impassivity and I will myself to match her exterior control even as my heart attempts to exit my chest through my ribcage.

Chakotay steps in, but neither of us looks his way. “Kathryn, I –“ he begins in a hesitant manner, but when he registers my presence he pauses. “Oh, Annika, good. I thought you might be here.” He glances between us both, taking in the vice-like clench of her jaw, the line of my tensed shoulders, and the unbroken look between us. “B’Elanna said she saw you two arguing out in the front hall. She said I should come and find you.” I sense his eyes concentrating on my face, but I maintain eye contact with Kathryn as she braces her hands on her hips.

She speaks before I can. “Everything is fine. Seven and I were just having a … philosophical discussion. We just happened to be having it loudly,” she says, cool and clipped. Her warning glare is subtle yet it bores directly into me like a challenge. I remain silent, but I can feel my nostrils flare and my head incline in a reflexive retort.

The Admiral’s command slips from her eyes for 1.38 seconds and the resulting glimpse of emotion behind the mask causes my skin to flush. There is a possibility that the breach might be overlooked, but Kathryn also unconsciously licks her bottom lip. It is barely a glimpse of tongue, but in combination with the searing flash of arousal in her eyes it freezes Chakotay in place, his mouth half-open around his next question. I also cannot help but notice that my nipples are also visibly erect through the fabric of my gown.  In this one second that seems to hang, silent and laden, I have a stray recollection of a story about a straw and a camel’s back.

“What exactly is going on here?” His voice is menacing and low; while he may be a patient man, he is no fool.

Kathryn stiffens for an instant, but shakes her head and breaks our connection. “It’s noth-…” she begins to deny, but her voice disappears when she meets his eyes. I do not know what she sees there and he doesn’t speak, but she pales and folds her arms across her chest in a deliberate manner. She holds his gaze for a long moment before moisture begins to well in her lower lids, and she whispers, “Take your wife home, Chakotay.” Kathryn’s voice is harsh, and she strides with haste out of the door without looking back at either of us.

I stand stunned and silent, staring at the dent in the wall next to the exit. The moment feels fragile, and I am hesitant to move in any direction. Many seconds pass before Chakotay speaks, and I am unprepared for the amount of anger in his voice. “Something you’re not telling me, Seven?” His use of my Borg designation suddenly reminds me of his treatment when I arrived on Voyager, and I feel as if I am shrinking, small and solitary.

Distrust, I identify. Suspicion and repulsion. Unexpected relief courses through me. It is done. He will no longer wish to continue our marriage, and for once the idea fills me with elation rather than fear and loneliness. Now that I know Kathryn loves me I feel a sense of direction for the first time in months despite the fact that she has, once again, fled from me. Her reaction is irrelevant; it was based on her guilt regarding my marriage, which I intend to discontinue immediately. It is too late to avoid Chakotay’s pain now, and the cause must be addressed. B’Elanna was right – this is the only way the injury will heal. My course is obvious.

“Yes,” I state and turn my body towards him, and I see him flinch at my direct agreement. I brace myself and meet his eyes with a firmness of purpose I have not felt in far too long. “We must ‘talk’.”