Chapter Text
Starfleet delivered its worst news in a language Kathryn learned decades ago. When grief was processed through official channels it stood at attention, shoulders squared beneath its stiff dress uniform. Injury was translated to “adverse outcome” or “regrettable complication.” Death was rendered as “loss of life” or “status: deceased.”
Kathryn parsed the code before she finished reading the security flag; high priority, personal. She stood in her office, its stark grey walls decorated only by crisp shadows cast by the desk and a solitary chair. When Naomi Wildman visited once, she had raised her eyebrows and proclaimed with the authority of a captain and the concern of a ship’s counselor, “Aunt Kathryn, it doesn’t even look like anyone works here.”
The next morning, Samantha Wildman delivered a rectangular package from her daughter. It was wrapped in paper scattered with hand-colored stars - a frame Naomi had replicated, and inside it a print of a cat’s eye nebula. Kathryn kept it displayed on her desk, a constant viewport into the galaxy that she once travelled across.
Now it was noon, and Kathryn had returned from a lengthy policy session, the title of which she could not remember. The automated opacity of the large glass window was decreasing, and the sunlight’s bright glare made her temple throb. She squinted as she sat down, the PADD in one hand and a cup of cold coffee in another.
Classification: Starfleet Officer/Unauthorized Cybernetic Extraction
USS Coleman - Incident Report
Subject: Lieutenant Icheb
Her eyes skipped ahead, the text blurring around the one word she already knew she would find.
Deceased.
As she read the word, its edges split the back of her dry mouth. Though her fingers pressed against the screen, the PADD slipped in her hand before her brain registered its release. She caught it, but did not feel its weight.
Icheb. Standing in the Astrometrics lab, gesturing toward the star chart with the upturned palm of an ancient philosopher and explaining precision as though it were beauty.
Icheb. The cadet who sent her and Seven such comprehensive, prideful messages from Starfleet Academy that Kathryn joked they should commission him to write recruitment brochures. They read like love letters to the future. The science officer who had sent them a transmission after his first posting, the legs of his uniform just slightly too short. He spoke about each away mission with a quivering excitement he strained to contain, his cadence brisk and his eyes bright.
Kathryn’s hand tightened on the edge of the PADD that told her in a word - his future had ended. Her eyes moved to the top of the message, rereading what she had skipped. An unregistered facility at the edge of Federation space. That place out there with people that don’t belong to us. Physical trauma. No support available. A Ranger team arrived, too late.
Due to reprioritized resource allocation in the interest of Federation security, retrieval of remains is deemed non-viable.
His body was not worth the fuel to bring back. The forgotten cup in Kathryn’s hand clinked against the desk as her fingers loosened, and she slammed the PADD down. She heard the sharp intake of breath from the officer who had delivered the transmission. He remained standing inside the doorway, but would not meet her eyes. Kathryn looked back down at the PADD and rested her hand over it, because for a reason she did not understand she felt she owed its composite casing an apology.
The officer cleared his throat and his feet shifted, moving half a step closer before stopping.
“Admiral, following verified receipt of this transmission, CNC has requested your presence at 14:00 to -”
“When,” Kathryn said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “did this happen? And where?”
“Admiral, I apologize, there is incomplete intelligence due to jurisdictional complications -”
“What’s your name, officer?”
The officer reached up and attempted to adjust his collar, but the edge was still curled inward against his throat. When he swallowed, he reminded Kathryn of a young cadet preparing for his first debate class.
“Ensign Tovin, Admiral.”
“Ensign Tovin, you came to my office, in person, to tell me there isn’t anything else you can tell me?”
“Admiral, there was an additional message I was asked to convey, personally.”
Kathryn kept her hand pressed flat against the PADD, the coolness of the composite and glass fading. The pulse in her fingers surged with heat that traveled upward, warming her arms and sinking into joints and muscle. She stared at the officer until his eyes finally lifted.
“Which is what exactly?” Kathryn asked.
“That you will continue to exercise restraint, acting in a manner commensurate with your rank and years of valued service. That you will not allow any personal attachment to ex-Borg communities, operations or…individuals to -”
Kathryn stood, her knees tingling before they locked. She braced herself with both hands on the desk and leaned forward, pushing against the lacquered surface until she found the edges of her body.
The clean, two-tone chime of the office door was paired over years with the worsening of her day, and the officer standing here now was oblivious to the history of the role he occupied. Perhaps he would end his day competing in the scheduled Velocity tournament. Today Admiral Janeway threw me out of her office, he would say, as he dressed for the game later.
Ensign Tovin clasped uncalloused hands behind his straightened back.
“You’ve delivered your message,” she said. “You are dismissed.”
He glanced back at the door, but did not move.
“Admiral -”
“Ensign Tovin,” Kathryn said, “get out.”
A moment or maybe a minute compressed into steps she heard but did not remember taking. She stood at the window behind her desk, forehead resting against the blue-tinted glass. Tall buildings, silver and luminous, rose high into the clouds, shuttles darting low over the bay. In the distance, she could see the faint red gleam of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Icheb was dead.
And then, as suddenly as his face began to form in her mind, a thought erased it. She remembered the title of the four-hour policy session she had returned from, “Building Consensus on Shared Terminology for Non-Federation Relief Recipients.”
A small bird landed on the ledge, neck tilting as it preened brown feathers. Its delicate legs were untethered by the wind, and she watched its body blow backward, falling for seconds before its wings extended.
Icheb was dead.
“Incoming message from -”
“Decline,” Kathryn said. “Computer, cease notification for incoming messages from Starfleet Command.”
“Specify duration.”
Kathryn closed her eyes as she exhaled. “Indefinitely.”
“Please clarify specified parameters.”
She turned from the window, fingers rubbing her sore temple.
“For the next 24 hours.”
Ensign Tovin’s words looped in her mind. “Exercise restraint.”
She picked up the PADD. The glass had cracked, but text still flickered. As she opened the message and attempted to reread it, the words decoded but no connections formed. She turned off the screen.
Kathryn placed one hand over her Starfleet combadge, the thrum of conduits and the console’s low hum underscoring the steady heartbeat beneath her fingers. One voice joined the loop of sound. She looked into the blue iris of the framed nebula.
“Seven,” Kathryn whispered.
The last transmissions Kathryn received from her were pre-recorded, bounced through decoy relays that obscured the sender’s location. She knew this meant Seven was communicating that she was alive, but could not tell her anything else. This news would filter through the Rangers until it reached her, likely a grotesque rumor. Perhaps it would be delivered as a cautionary tale, “ex-B officer killed for spare parts.” Kathryn would not leave her to hold this alone.
“Computer, priority transmission-” She stopped. This was not something she could do here.
She tapped her combadge instead.
“Kathryn Janeway to Lieutenant Commander Barclay.”
He responded immediately; she had known that he would.
“Admiral, I was just thinking of you. One of the cadets in my morning class used the term ‘Janeway variable’ and you’ll be flattered to hear -”
“Reg,” Kathryn said, “I need to meet. Today. It’s - ”
Her next words caught, voice breaking as she looked down at the nebula.
“Admiral? How can I help?”
“I have a Pathfinder Problem. And, from this point on, it’s Kathryn.”
There was a pause.
“I understand. Kathryn, I can meet you in 20 minutes. Our usual spot?”
“I'll be there. Janeway out.”
The channel closed. Kathryn sat down at the console, shoulders pressed against the high-backed chair. There was a loose thread on the cuff of one sleeve, and when she picked at the hanging loop it began to unravel.
“Computer, file leave request effective immediately. Authorization code Janeway-Alpha-7-5-6.”
“Specify duration.”
“Oh for god’s sake - 20 days.”
“Specify rationale.”
She picked up the framed nebula on her desk.
“Family emergency,” she said.
As she stood, her eyes settled on the printed Starfleet insignia that hung in every office, above the edge of its silver frame words unfurled: to the stars through hardship.
The doors of her office slid closed behind her, and Kathryn thought that if it would not have garnered undue attention, she would have run down the hallway.
Someone was running. She turned when she heard the snap of his boots against the tile floor.
Ensign Tovin’s feet skidded as he stopped, but he straightened his shoulders before he spoke.
“Admiral, CNC - they received your request, before you go - there are protocols - ”
When Kathryn spoke, her voice was steady, but she held the nebula so tightly its frame creaked in her hands.
“Ensign Tovin, the Lieutenant from the Coleman… he is - he was - one of mine.”
As a testament to his continued devotion to the crew of the USS Voyager, past and present, Reginald Barclay arrived first. He was sitting on the elevated edge of a burbling fountain, a blue insect with large, translucent wings perched on his outstretched finger.
“Kathryn!” He stood up as she walked across the dampened stone path.
“Reg, thank you so much. I know you’re busy -”
He shook his head. “Nonsense. You know family comes first.”
He held out his finger. “Speaking of which, they have a new addition to the herbarium. Papilio astrolucens. It means,” he said with the sort of excitement most people reserve for divine revelations, “star-shining butterfly.”
“Beautiful,” Kathryn said. She reached out, but it took flight, disappearing as it gained height.
They sat down.
“Before we continue,” Kathryn said, “I assume we are safe?”
“Of course,” Barclay said. “I’ve taken all the precautions. The office thinks I’m on my lunch break. And,” he gestured toward an inconspicuous purple mushroom growing in a patch of dense moss, “Aldea is functioning perfectly. I just checked. Nothing but the bio-electric energy of plants for anyone to read.”
“Aldea?” Kathryn said, the absurdity of Barclay’s statement reaching even her, “you - you named it?”
He shrugged. “It isn’t every day that I develop an environmental noise seeder that camouflages itself so well I can leave it planted near a fern for 3 years undetected.” He paused, then added, “I…I suppose I was proud.”
Kathryn gave him the best imitation of a smile she could manage. “You should be,” she said.
She squeezed her hands together, and felt her rehearsed words loosen and disorganize in her mind. Her gaze drifted to the curved glass wall, where droplets of moisture condensed and then tumbled down the panes. Beneath the heel of her boot, the crushed stem of a Moba leaf stained the water-darkened pebbles. When she slipped a stray curl behind her ear, the wet, vegetal scent of humid air wafted past.
“Do you smell that?” Kathryn asked, inhaling deeply. “It’s going to rain.”
“Petrichor,” Seven said, extending her upturned palm over the balcony railing. “Organic compounds in the soil are released as aerosols.”
The sky darkened, and a brisk breeze pulled loose hair from behind Seven’s ears. As Kathryn reached out, the first rain drops beaded on the railing. Seven tilted her cupped hand, and the droplets gathered there clung to the tritanium like jeweled adornments.
She smiled.
“Do you want to go inside?” Kathryn asked, a soft laugh catching. “There’s going to be…more of it.”
“I have never experienced tactile exposure to liquid precipitation before,” Seven said. “I would prefer to -”
The clouds shuddered, and rain broke in a cold rush, droplets darkening their hair. Beneath her transparent shirt, the curves of Seven’s body reminded Kathryn of a sculpted marble goddess.
Seven turned toward Kathryn, her damp curls swaying as she laughed.
“Kathryn?” Barclay asked, “what - something’s wrong isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Kathryn looked back at Barclay. “Icheb,” she said, “he - he’s -”
A small child ran past, his blue shoes squeaking across the stones. The word remained in her mouth, lodged behind her tongue.
“Bora, there’s no running in the gardens,” a tall woman said, clutching her side as she pursued him. “You’ll scare away the Koi before we get to the pond!”
Kathryn tried again, but this time she could not even repeat his name. She picked up the purple leaf that had drifted into her lap, rubbing her thumb across its waxy skin.
Barclay’s eyes widened. “What? When? How? I - I thought he was on leave?”
“I think it was recent,” Kathryn said. “I was informed there was incomplete intelligence when I asked.”
Barclay shook his head.
“He was a Starfleet officer,” he said, quietly. “I don’t understand -”
“It didn’t happen in Federation space,” Kathryn said. “There’s a faction of the Orion Syndicate, The Silver Ring. They traffic cybernetic implants -”
Barclay’s fingers tightened around the edge of the stone ledge where they sat. He turned away.
From the nearby Moba groves, Bora’s laughter scattered. As Kathryn looked into the fountain’s basin, her face shifted beneath the rippled water.
“I’m so sorry, Kathryn,” Barclay finally said.
“Reg…he was found by the Rangers.”
“Of course…You need to go to her.”
“Yes,” Kathryn said. “I already filed leave and I know where I can get a ship. But -”
“I can help you. You have the codes she left?”
“Reg, she hasn’t updated the beacon location in six months,” Kathryn said. “I do have another idea - it won't get me to her, but it might point me in the general direction.”
“What is it?”
Kathryn took a breath, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a combadge, its shield dulled with age, unlike the one that gleamed on her chest.
“Is that -”
“Voyager,” Kathryn whispered. “She’ll have it. She always keeps it close.”
Unbidden, the memory sharpened in her mind before she could continue.
Seven sat at the kitchen table, sunlight braided into hair that fell loosely over her shoulder. She wore a blue shirt with baggy sleeves and turned over her old Voyager combadge, thumb rubbing back and forth across the delta shield as if it were a magic relic.
Kathryn stood by the replicator, holding two cups of coffee.
“If we are ever separated,” Seven said, “you will insist on knowing where I am.”
“Of course I will,” Kathryn replied. “Don’t pretend that bothers you.”
Seven’s lips twitched. “The badge still carries a distinct transponder signature. Theoretically, it could be still isolated.”
“So you’ll keep it on you,” Kathryn said.
“I already do,” Seven said, raising her eyebrows.
Kathryn stumbled, the cups tipping forward. Hot coffee dripped down her wrists-
“Kathryn?”
She opened her eyes, unaware she had closed them.
“I’m sorry,” she said, blinking until her vision cleared. She opened her hand, and the crushed leaf fell into the water. She rubbed her stained palm against the stone.
“Don’t apologize,” Barclay said, “and don’t worry - well, about this at least. I’ll point you in the right direction.”
Kathryn nodded. “Thank you. I just need to stop by my apartment and grab a few things -”
“Consider it my highest priority. I’ll have the coordinates within the hour. I’ll send them to you on an encrypted channel through,” he pointed to the combadge she was still holding, “this.”
“Reg -”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said, holding up his hand. “Icheb, we spoke often. I won’t pretend it’s the same, but -”
“You earned your Voyager field commission years ago,” Kathryn said.
Kathryn extended her hand, but when Barclay grasped it she pulled him close and pressed her face against his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I’d say good luck,” he said, “but according to my students the ‘Janeway variable’ shifts impossible odds in your favor.”
“I’ll take every bit of luck,” Kathryn said. “Tell your students I didn’t learn to beat the odds. I just began ignoring them.”
They broke apart.
“Then good luck.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You will find her.”
As Kathryn cleared her throat, she felt a tickle and turned her head. The butterfly had landed on Kathryn’s shoulder, where it beat its fragile wings against her neck. They both watched it for a moment before it lifted and was lost again in the canopy of Moba trees.
The herbarium was only a few blocks from her apartment, and Kathryn knew her body would not tolerate the hurry and crush of the transit corridor, especially in the afternoon on a sunny day when it seemed every Academy cadet had a romantic lunch date planned on the Presidio lawn.
So she did something that she could not remember doing in years; she walked home, only the framed nebula and a calibrated tricorder Barclay had given her before she departed - with the affectionate insistence of a grandmother not allowing you to leave without freshly baked cookies - in the bag that was slung over her shoulder.
The transport lanes thrummed and whooshed overhead, and the measured steps she took felt meditative. She focused on the way her feet drummed a beat on the ground beneath her, on the cadence of her breathing. As she walked, she kept one hand curled protectively around the combadge in her pocket, irrationally fearing it would slip away if she loosened her grip.
The fog sensor on her block was malfunctioning again, and the soft swell of grey haze that hung in the air swallowed her body. When she entered her apartment, she navigated the space with precision, not pausing to remove her boots. There had been years when returning home was disorienting. Kathryn knew Seven was halfway across the quadrant, sending daily messages that repeated a mantra of safety, purpose and commitment. Yet at first she still expected Seven would be in their apartment. From behind the kitchen door, Kathryn heard her humming. If Kathryn turned the corner, Seven would be there, her creased Ranger jacket replaced with the short red apron. Bridget’s black-speckled tail would be thumping against cool tile, and the warm room smelled of rosemary. When Kathryn watered the herbs, she expected to see Seven barefoot on the balcony, face upturned as she sought the patterns of familiar stars in an overcast sky. As Kathryn woke each morning, she reached toward the cold pillow as though Seven would be sprawled across twisted sheets, the lines around her lips softened by deep sleep. Now, she knew each room was empty.
She sat down on the unmade bed, adding to her opened bag several pairs of pants from the slouching pile on the floor. When she tugged at the grey sleeve peeking from beneath her nightstand, she found her missing Starfleet Academy sweatshirt. She rubbed the coffee stained cuff before tossing it back. Kathryn walked to the closet, reaching past her own clothing to the shirt that hung between a sheer silk robe and a pair of patched overalls. She pulled it off the hanger and changed into it, the long sleeves loose and warm around her wrists. As she hung her uniform jacket in its place, the pips adorning the collar’s edge winked once in the late afternoon sunlight.
The medkit the Doctor had given them for Christmas. Naomi’s nebula. Barclay’s tricorder. The bag felt too light, as though testifying to the truth she had long known but not accepted; everything she needed was somewhere else.
Kathryn sat down at her kitchen table with a PADD. She could only do this as a recording, anything more would exhaust what little composure she had left, and there was too much of the journey remaining. She stared at the chair across from her own, and thought that she could not remember the last time someone had sat there. It was an observation that steadied her.
“Secure channel,” she said. “Encryption level Omega-Seven. Recipient: Captain Chakotay.”
The computer beeped in acknowledgement. She looked at the face reflected back at her on the screen and did not recognize it.
“Audio only,” she added.
It beeped again.
“Chakotay,” she began, “Icheb is -” For the second time that day, the word remained in her mouth. Gone. She had always disliked the word because it implied a certainty of destination she no longer believed. Dead. The word was too clean. This was not a result of a shuttle accident or a prolonged illness. He had been taken. Mutilated. Murdered. She cleared her throat.
“Computer, delete message and restart.”
“Chakotay,” Kathryn swallowed, glancing at the empty chair as though it were the last physical thing in her universe. “I should be telling you this in person. We lost Icheb. I’m sending you the transmission I received.”
She straightened her back and felt the rungs of the chair press against her spine.
“I’m going to find her,” Kathryn said. “This time I’m not waiting. I’m leaving today, before they convene a committee to build consensus…Before someone decides I need a more permanent reminder to exercise restraint -”
She paused, giving him the silence he would need to hold the weight of what she wasn’t saying. She wondered where he would be when he received it, and hoped it was somewhere he could stare out into the stars.
“I’ll send updates if I can,” she said, “but if you don’t hear from me right away… assume I’m where I need to be.”
“Let the others know. Remember him together.”
“And… if this leads where I think it will,” she added, “then you know which letter I may finally be ready to send.”
“Janeway out.”
She set down the PADD. There was a time when the light that spilled into the windows illuminated somewhere she thought of as home; now, it only showed more clearly where the dust had settled. The shallow grooves from Bridget’s teeth on the leg of the kitchen table. A dent in the replicator from Kathryn’s dropped fist. A faded mural Phoebe had painted across the backsplash, its edges unfinished.
The message to her sister was shorter, and she delayed delivery until the following morning, more to provide processing time for Chakotay than from concern she would disrupt Phoebe’s schedule. She was likely ensconced in her Bloomington studio, midway through what she referred to as “the triptych of the youngest daughter.”
“Phoebe, you were right. I’m going to her. Chakotay will have more information. I love you.”
She placed her Starfleet combadge on the table. Its burnished shield caught the sun and it glinted like treasure. She lifted her bag over her shoulder and walked to the door, not bothering to turn around or pause again as she left.
She did not tell him she was coming, partially because she did not trust that the channels of communication available to her were private, and partially because she knew he would be there.
“Admiral,” Tom greeted her, out of habit. “I mean, Kathryn, sorry,” he corrected quickly, wiping his hands on what Kathryn had learned were not pants but genuine denim blue jeans. He didn’t ask why she was there, but rubbed his neck and looked closely at her face before holding the door open for her and stepping back.
She entered his carefully curated living room, the wood panelling glowing in the sunlight that filtered through windows hung with lace curtains. Tom Paris had fought for nearly every piece of furniture, and certainly the “knick knacks;” a reproduction, bright red Victrola turntable (“Tom, we can ask the computer to play any song we want!”), a bulky wooden console with a screen in the middle (“Where else are the girls going to watch their cartoons?”), walls lined with real, paper books (“It’s a fire hazard!”). He had fought for it, but B’Elanna had learned to love nearly all of it.
There was a painting hanging above the couch that Kathryn had not seen before. It looked like a family portrait. Tom and B’Elanna stood at the center, each of them with their arms around a daughter. Their smiles were imperfect and joyous, and looking at it made Kathryn’s chest tighten.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Tom said, following Kathryn’s gaze. “B’Elanna told Laura that she thought she might be the first member of the family in generations to have hands gentle enough to use watercolors and of course she took it as a personal challenge.”
Kathryn smiled. “She’s talented. They both are, Tom. You’ve done so well.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Can I trouble you to record that before you leave?”
“Tom, I can’t say much, but I need a ship. Something sturdy, nothing traceable,” she paused, “or too flashy.”
“Ok.” Tom’s smile did not fully mask his curiosity. She watched each question form in the slant of his mouth and the furrow between his eyes, but knew he cared too much to ask them. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said, “ but Kathryn…you couldn’t possibly afford me. Luckily, I still operate on the old Voyager credit system.”
Kathryn almost smiled again. “And what’s that, Lieutenant Paris?”
“You need it,” he said. “And you’re in luck. I can have something ready right away. Pell is out back helping me.”
His voice dropped, although they were the only two people in the room.
“We had some…difficulty with the acoustic scrambler. Luckily our neighbors can't tell the difference between the sound of an exploding plasma manifold and a holographic chicken.”
“Lead the way,” she said. And this time she did smile.
The hanger did not look impressive, and certainly did not look large enough to contain what Kathryn knew was inside. It was made of white, corrugated metal and there was a large, neon sign above the door that read “Tom’s Garage.” Harry had given it to Tom as an anniversary present, and B’Elanna had reciprocated with an impassioned lecture on how anniversary presents should be for both parties involved.
A stout Bolian wearing coveralls that looked like they had recently survived a fire was crouched near the door, a hyperspanner in his grease-smudged hand. He was wearing two large black discs over his ears.
“Pell,” Tom said, as they approached. He did not respond. They were close enough now that Kathryn could hear that Pell was singing to himself, moving his head to match a chaotic rhythm only he could hear.
“Sorry,” Tom said, turning toward Kathryn. “I introduced him to headphones and Miral introduced him to Klingon grunge.” He knelt down and pulled one of the discs back from Pell’s head. Kathryn heard a powerful, low vibration that tickled the soles of her feet, and deep kick drums that pounded through a chorus of raspy, guttural screams.
“Pell!” Tom shouted.
Pell stood, pulling the headphones down so they rested around his neck. “Uh - sorry, Tom.”
He looked over at Kathryn.
“Admiral! Welcome! If this is about the noise complaint -”
“Pell, we’ll need The Proton ready to leave within the hour and,” Tom’s voice again dropped lower, “long distance package.”
“Ah, right.” Pell nodded knowingly. “Give me 10 minutes,” he said, settling the headphones back over his blue ears.
They entered the hanger together, and Tom paused at the threshold, both thumbs hooked into the worn belt loops of his denim jeans. An ancient bi-plane was suspended above them, and perched atop one set of red and white wings Kathryn noticed a large Flotter doll, its blue legs fastened with strips of polymer bonding tape.
There were vintage 20th century cars, some missing doors or wheels, others completely stripped to their metal skeletons and lifted on blocks. On the rear wall, Kathryn saw a shuttle panel hanging like a flag, the once silver composite now dingy. She knew its name before she read the words, now barely visible, scripted at the edge, Delta Flyer. She walked to it as though pulled by a magnet, running her hand along the metal, fingers dipping against the curve of dents.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she said, “but I’m so glad Harry was able to steal it.”
Tom laughed. “I promise I won’t repeat it.”
He beckoned for her to follow him, and she walked over to where a large, domed mass sat at the center of the room, covered by a colorful tarp that Laura had once used as a dropcloth. He pulled it off with the flourish of a magician revealing his final trick.
“One of my most reliable ladies,” he said softly, almost reverent. He patted the silver hull. “Miral and I worked on her together.”
He handed her a PADD. “All the registration information, access codes and specs are here. Pell will bring her out for you in a minute. Miral used her a few days ago for a flight test, so she’s fueled up and ready to go.”
Kathryn reached for it, and for a moment he did not let go. Their hands touched.
“Thank you. I’ll take good care of her,” she said.
She met his gaze and saw the questions, the concern that deepened the lines around his narrowed eyes. “Chakotay will know more,” she said. “He’ll be in touch soon. Be ready. It’s…about one of ours. You’ll need to be there for one another.”
Tom swallowed. He let go of the PADD.
“Give B’Elanna and the girls a hug from me.”
“You’ll find her, Kathryn.”
“Tom -”
“You will.”
He accompanied her through the rear doors, pausing to touch the old shuttle panel. He tapped it three times before laying his palm flat against the battered surface.
“B’Elanna says they’re silly human superstitions,” Tom said. “But I’ve always thought we built our own survival out there. I never walk past without saying ‘Thanks,’ even if I’m just talking to myself.”
Kathryn reached into her pocket, closing her fist around the delta shield, its points pressing into her palm.
“It’s not a superstition if it works,” she said.
There was a sharp crackle, and Kathryn looked up to watch as the hanger ceiling dissolved, the forcefield yawning open against the cloud-mottled sky. They walked together through the yard, the shuttle’s high-pitched, harmonic whine filtering through the chorus of a Klingon grunge song thumping from the open hanger.
“Something to distract the neighbors,” Tom yelled. His eyes widened. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”
He jogged toward the back porch, turning once to make sure Kathryn was still there.
“Don’t leave without saying goodbye!”
She nodded, “I’ll be here!”
Kathryn stood near the makeshift shuttle pad, which by its very existence certainly violated a handful of local ordinances if not Starfleet regulations. There was what looked at first like a pillar leaning sideways against the wall of a smaller outbuilding, and then she recognized the protruding tusks of the Targ totem Laura had been carving. The paint spattered dropcloth covering it reminded Kathryn of a starfield. Small luminescent bulbs, strung below the eaves of the garage, began to glow. The sun was about to set now, and as she closed her eyes to fall into the faint breeze that moved through the air, she heard a chime from the Voyager badge. She pulled it out of her pocket.
“Janeway here.”
“I found her - well, like you said, I got you close enough. I’ll send you the coordinates. It’s near Fenris. It’ll probably take a few days, but when you get close enough you should get the beacon signal.”
Kathryn held the badge to her chest with both hands. She took a deep breath.
I’m coming.
“Reg, I can’t begin -”
“Kathryn. I told you. Thank me by finding her. I’ll keep this channel open if you need anything, for as long as I can. Barclay out.”
A gust of wind lifted, and a strong vibration traveled through the ground. She turned to watch the shuttle landing. She could now see the name, painted in tall red letters across the side, The Proton.
“Kathryn!”
Tom was jogging back, holding something in his hands.
“I know you’re in a rush…the girls wanted to give you this for Christmas, but…”
They exchanged a look that acknowledged she was unlikely to be there for Christmas.
He handed her a massive bag. It was black with a gold seal that read “Delta Dawn Premium Blend.”
“Just in case there isn’t coffee in any of the nebulas.”
Kathryn took the bag. She laughed, only once, and felt it catch in her throat and threaten to turn into something heavier.
She stepped forward and hugged him.
“Thank you, Tom. I…thank you.”
“Go,” he said, gently pushing her toward the shuttle. “Go get her Kathryn.”
“Isn't that what people on this ship do? They help each other?" Though his face blurred in the memory, Icheb’s voice was clear. He spoke urgently, his body pitched forward, hands braced on the edge of the console in Sickbay as though it were a lectern. Even as a boy, before he could articulate the feeling, he had understood love as action.
The Proton pierced the atmosphere, the sky darkening until the indigo gradient shifted into blackness. Beneath her, the Earth’s curve was familiar enough that she imagined, absurdly, holding the planet in her cupped hands, white clouds swirling above the blue oceans. She leaned forward in the command chair, as if her weight would add to the shuttle’s momentum and allow it to continue to accelerate. A small figurine of a Klingon woman wearing a bikini top and a skirt made of dried grass bobbed above the conn. She didn’t know if that was Miral’s touch…or Tom’s.
She placed her Voyager badge on the console and entered an encryption code. The coordinates Barclay sent began to transmit. A grid flickered once, then etched the screen. There, just beyond the edge of Federation space, was an intermittent pulse. The old Voyager channel pinged, physical evidence of a promise that she worried had been forgotten.
“There you are,” she whispered, and she laid in the course with steady hands.
Earth disappeared from view, her hands dropping the planet into darkness. She engaged warp and looked out into the rushing lanes of distorted stars, their tails of light whipping past the viewscreen. It was not tension that raised her shoulders or straightened her back, it was formation. Three sensations, two constants, one action. She imagined the flame of Tuvok’s meditation lamp flicking its yellow light against the walls of her quarters.
The weight of her forearms against the console, her sleeves shifting slightly on the polished chrome edge. How the soles of her boots pressed against the deck. The rich, sweet smell of Delta Dawn that filtered through the bag nearby.
The deep thrum of the reactor. The needle on the analog gauge installed just below the Klingon hula warrior that redundantly measured gravity stabilization.
Kathryn accessed the navigation tolerance metrics and adjusted the acceptable drift variance by a tenth of a percent. One action.
She began to track the cadence of her breaths, because if she focused on the cycles, memories would remain jagged and unformed, held at the boundary of awareness.
Weight. Pressure. Breath. Action. The mantra synchronized with the reactor’s thrum and became its own rhythm.
Kathryn had not noticed at first, but soft music had begun to play, cymbals that sounded like rain pattering against the roof of the family farmhouse and piano that was light and warm. Tom, she thought, definitely Tom. She did not turn it off. It provided structure and predictability to a silence that otherwise would have welcomed thoughts that had no strategic value.
Kathryn allowed herself finally to lean back, the firm cushion compressing beneath her shoulders. Voyager had carried them for years, and the question Kathryn was asked most often by curious cadets and incredulous officers was, “how did you keep going?” In the beginning she had not known how to explain it. The question was not about warp core maintenance or the navigational controls. It was Harry’s mother, handing him a warm bowl of soup in a kitchen that smelled like ginger, Kathryn rubbing Molly’s ears, fingers brushing silky fur, Samantha Wildman watching whales breach on the horizon, her daughter wide-eyed in her lap. The memories had anchored them to one fixed point, and had guided them home like an unquantifiable force. Now, as The Proton held its course, she felt it once more. The journey home was never about returning to coordinates.
The pre-programmed soft jazz soundtrack that began to play when she engaged warp for the first time was not the only surprise. The console had drawers with glossy red knobs. In one, she found a star chart, its raised waxy lines drawn by a young child. In another, several “compact cassette tapes,” each labeled in bright purple lettering, in an assortment of languages. She recognized French and Klingon. The alert system had been modified to emit a variety of anachronistic sounds, including a harsh klaxon that engaged once when she passed too close to a debris field and a soft, two-note harmonica trill that signaled the completion of routine status checks. She found a small, domed button on the replicator panel that showed a striped receptacle with amorphous clouds rising from the top. The text said “POP.”
She remembered standing underneath the arched windows of DaVinci’s studio, afternoon light warming her skin. A gentle breeze lifted, and above the platform curved wooden stairs spiraled upward, where the paper wings of an unnamed machine whispered as they shifted.
“I’m trying,” Kathryn said, gesturing toward the shapeless clay.
“What are you trying?” DaVinci asked.
“Well,” Kathryn said, “I was aiming for…something resembling a face.”
“Katarina,” DaVinci said, “that is your mistake. The artist must have the universe in their mind to make anything with their hands.”
She could picture B’Elanna raising an eyebrow, hear her exasperated comments about redundancies and lack of precision. The Proton had not been built, it had been created by people remembering the universe.
She had not been alone on a ship in over a decade, and had forgotten how solitude could feel less like loneliness and more like concentration with purpose. The first rule was simple, but crucial: the ship comes first. If she allowed herself to remain unengaged for too long, her mind would relax and a memory would slip free. That was a risk she could not take in open space. So there was a checklist that she followed with the discipline of the starship captain she would always be. Systems integrity checks, warp field stability calibrations, sensor sweeps. It was evident that The Proton had been built by the daughter of a chief engineer; there was little actual maintenance that needed to be performed, but the ritual of routine was as essential as the environmental control system.
The next rule was equally important: sleep comes second. This was more difficult, but she knew that her body was an instrument that needed to be kept calibrated. She did not rest for herself, she rested for Seven. For Icheb. For what was to come. She rewarded herself when she woke from these short naps with strong cups of Delta Dawn. Tom had even installed an old fashioned percolator beside the replicator. The first time she opened it, there was an instruction manual printed on paper and folded inside the filter tray. When she pulled it out, she saw one of Laura’s comics - a picture of Neelix, holding a steaming cup of what the text at the bottom identified as “even better than coffee substitute.” It made her laugh, a sound which startled her, because she did not recognize at first where it had come from.
She did not allow herself to sit for too long in the command chair, because otherwise she watched the grid so closely that it did not appear to move. In the absence of sensor alerts, she checked it once every four hours. Kathryn did not pace, she remained regulated through repetitive, measured movement. It was fifteen steps from bow to stern, thirteen if she had just drank a cup of coffee. When a memory began to crest, or she felt heat rise behind her eyes, fifteen steps. A set of isometric holds, palms pressed against the bulkhead or deck. Another fifteen steps. She knew it would be less effective to try to prevent certain thoughts, so instead she acknowledged them, breathed, and walked. This was not erasure, it was containment.
In accordance with Reginald Barclay’s careful calculations, the trip should have taken four days. Tom and Miral’s “hot rod” carried her to the edge of the grid by the morning of the third day. The Proton dropped out of warp, the Klingon warrior’s hips tilting slightly. Kathryn placed her empty cup on the console as the last, lazy notes of a saxophone faded. She felt her back straighten again. Weight. Pressure. Breath. Action.
“Alright,” Kathryn said.
She had not rehearsed the instructions since she left, because they had been kept behind a threshold by counted steps and cycled breathing. Now, she held the memory as though it were an orb of hand-blown glass. She did not close her eyes, because Kathryn heard Seven’s voice clearer when she looked at the stars.
“If you need to find me, if something goes wrong, do not waste time. Do not attempt to improvise. This is the only way. Complete the sequence exactly as I have taught you.”
Kathryn had assumed following directions would provide comfort, but her fingers hovered just above the screen, because by using the code - by activating the beacon - she was finally admitting that something had gone wrong. She entered the cipher key and a trajectory pulsed on the screen, illuminated like the cone of a radar sweep. It was a direction, not a map, a safe lane of authorized warp vectors that guided her forward like a silver thread through the darkness.
“I’m coming,” she whispered, and this time she could not look away from the navigation screen. She sat with her palms pressed at the edges of the console, and though she still counted her breaths, the pattern was interrupted by the pulse she felt quickening.
Within a few hours, The Proton crossed into Ranger controlled space and the comm pinged with an incoming hail, audio only.
“Unidentified vessel, this is Fenris Ranger encrypted channel Theta-Nine responding to beacon activation, clearance Seven-Seven Annika. You are authorized for corridor access. Do not deviate from the plotted course. Maintain encrypted communication.”
“Confirmed,” Kathryn said, “This is -”
“We know who you are, Janeway.” The voice paused. “We see you. Keep following the signal. When you reach the final marker we will guide you the rest of the way.”
The channel closed.
Kathryn saw the curve of a planet, its copper surface marred by deep trenches, a slate-blue ocean barely visible beneath a dense brown haze. The klaxon sounded, and Kathryn saw two ships slide into formation on either side of The Proton. Another channel opened, a clear voice following brief static, “Ranger patrol to incoming vessel. Identity visually confirmed. Welcome to our space. Maintain formation.”
Before Kathryn could respond, a second voice followed, its pitch lower but distinctly female.
“She is here.”
For the first time in nearly seventy-two hours, Kathryn watched her hands tremble. She clasped them together until the movement stilled. Not “Seven of Nine,” not “Commander.” Just she. The beacons were personalized, and the Rangers knew that they were only activated in those moments when a journey to that person was the only thing that mattered.
Kathryn had only spoken three words to another person during her voyage, and now as she spoke another her voice echoed, its cadence jarring and unfamiliar. She felt the edge of an abrupt laugh, then her breath left in an exhale that was too shaky. She blinked, and the stars blurred.
“Aknowledged,” she said.