The BLTS Archive - Night
second in the Lines in The Sand universe
by Seema (seemag1@yahoo.com)

---

Date posted: 10/16/00

Feedback: Constructive feedback always welcome.

Archiving Information: ASC yes, everyone else please ask

Disclaimer: No profit/infringement intended. Characters & places belong
to Paramount.

Author’s Notes: A big thank you to Maud for her detailed research and
for letting me bounce ideas off of her. Thanks to Monica for the
comments and encouragement. Thanks to the JEWEL mailing list for coming
up with the little details.

This story was written rather haphazardly - because of its structure,
it wasn't written chronologically, but rather when I felt like writing
a certain section. In retrospect, it's probably not the best way to go
about writing a story, but may account for some unevenness in tone and
flow.

I also selectively disregarded "Pathways," with the exception of
borrowing Torres & Chakotay's meeting place and even there, I took
creative license.

---

I think a part of me has always existed in a state of denial. Even when
we were lost in the Delta Quadrant, a part of me refused to believe
that going home might not be an option.

Chakotay says that stubbornness isn't necessarily a character flaw but
then, he doesn't see what I see: a crew that has needlessly been put in
danger time and time again and yes, some of those perilous situations
could have been avoided.

Just admitting this last part is a big step for me and I wish I could
tell everyone - Tom, B'Elanna, Tuvok, Neelix, Seven, the Doctor and
Chakotay - that I was wrong so many times and I am sorry.

But right now isn't the time for apologies. Instead I am in my ready
room, Chakotay and Tuvok sitting opposite me.

Chakotay has already discarded his Starfleet uniform in favor of more
casual attire; I make no statement regarding this wardrobe change.

After all, what is there to say? Sometimes silence speaks louder than
words and Chakotay has already realized what lies ahead.

I know B'Elanna certainly has. I heard the challenge in her voice when
we were on the Bridge and I wanted to tell her right there what I
thought was going to happen, but I knew she would not listen.

"The Maquis are ready," Chakotay says in a low voice. I flinch at the
use of the word "Maquis"; I associate that term with terrorists, not
with the people who have served this ship loyally for the last seven
years.

"A full security detail will meet you at the airlock," Tuvok says. My
Vulcan friend shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

"I am sorry," I tell Chakotay. "I did everything I could to convince
them that you, B'Elanna, the others - that all of this was a mistake.
Unfortunately, the Federation has a memory like an elephant."

"Some things never change," Chakotay says. "It's all right, Kathryn."

"You don't need to worry about Admiral McArthur," I say. "We served
together years ago. I was still an ensign, I believe, on Admiral Paris'
ship. McArthur was first officer. He's a good man, Chakotay. He will do
what's right."

"You trust him?" Chakotay's voice is very low so I have to strain to
hear the words. I know what he's asking; he is questioning my
willingness to let Federation authorities take custody of my Maquis
crewmen.

"I do," I nod. "He, he does what's fair, Chakotay. And I have already
put in a good word for you."

"That's very kind of you."

I get up from my chair and look out the windows at Starbase 87. It is
the saddest space station I've ever seen; in fact, it looks like it has
spent more time in the Delta Quadrant than Voyager has.

"There's nothing kind about it," I say in a harsh voice. "Chakotay, you
and the other former Maquis were - are - a part of this crew. You
served Voyager well," I lift my hand because I cannot find the words I
need. "I will do everything I can, Chakotay. You can count on me."

Chakotay nods, "I'm sure of that."

I lean back against the wall, my hands clutching the slightly indented
pillar on either side of my thighs.

"I searched the codes yesterday," I tell him. "I wanted to see if there
was something I could do for you, maybe political asylum."

"Stretching a bit, are you, Kathryn?"

I nod, "It doesn't matter. I cannot do without the Federation's
permission. I am sorry."

"It doesn't matter, Kathryn, believe me."

"And there is one more thing, Chakotay," I say. "If there is an inquiry
about me and I want you, all of you, to be perfectly candid. Say what
you need to say."

"An inquiry?" Chakotay raises an eyebrow. "What for?"

"You know there have been some situations that were less then... ideal.
Circumstances that may not necessarily have complied with Starfleet or
Federation regulations," I say delicately. "And then there have been
the crew members who have died while under my command. All of this
needs to be investigated. It's procedure."

"Too many procedures, if you ask me," Chakotay nearly growls.

I laugh halfheartedly. When we had started on this mission, I had said
that we would be a Starfleet vessel, but what had we ended up with
instead? Certainly not Starfleet and definitely not Maquis. Our one
saving grace is that we are not like the crew of the Equinox, desperate
and, in my eyes, guilty of the unforgivable.

"Don't forget the Seventh Guarantee," I say.

"I won't," Chakotay says. "They drilled that into our heads back at the
Academy. Protection against self-incrimination. It may be too late for
that, Captain."

"I didn't think this day would ever come," I am now talking more to
myself than to Tuvok or Chakotay. "And now that we are here, it seems
unreal that they would investigate a fifth of my crew. There may be a
trial, Chakotay."

"A trial would be the logical conclusion given the Federation's view on
the Maquis, but this is simply a questioning session," Tuvok begins but
slowly starts to drift off. He looks at me and then at Chakotay, his
lips drawn into a thin line. "I do think an exception could have been
made in this case."

"I appreciate that, Tuvok," Chakotay says. He gets to his feet, takes a
long look around, breathing in deeply. "I'm going to miss this. Really."

I extend my hand and Chakotay reaches forward to grasp it, his fingers
brushing the back of my hand for a full second before his fingers weave
in with mine.

"It was an honor to have you as my first officer," I tell him.

Chakotay nods and then he says, "I should go."

He glances at Tuvok who is now standing. They depart and I stay there,
staring out of the window at the decrepit space station, wondering what
I could have done differently.

---

The Federation questioners ask us to start at the beginning but I don't
where that is.

I could start with the day I was born, how I came into this world blue
in the face with my maternal grandfather chanting over my mother in an
effort to keep away the evil spirits who might harm the child. I could
spin a tale about my boyhood days and dwell for a bit on the time I
spent at a summer camp, learning how to tie knots and build a fire -
skills that later aided me greatly in my future occupation as a Maquis
terrorist.

Or maybe, they would be more interested in my aborted career in
Starfleet. I could tell them that one day, I realized that there were
causes that meant more than a pip on your collar. And so I walked away
from Starfleet, its stiffly starched uniforms and stifling rules and
regulations that sucked the very soul out of me.

But no, they are not interested in any of that. And frankly, I'd be
amused if they asked but these men and women are the type to take
personal offense at any slight disregard of Starfleet, whether
intentional or not.

And believe me, everything is intentional on my part.

There are four of them in this room. I did not get their names when
they introduced themselves quickly, none of them making eye contact
with me or B'Elanna as they spit out their information rapid-fire.

I think they place us on the same level as the Ghasa virus, which kills
by attaching itself to the outer membrane of blood cells and then
injects itself into the cell until the cell is forced to burst from the
pressure.

The room is nothing to write home about either. It has four walls, a
ceiling and floor, and all done up in tasteful gray with bright lights
in each of the upper four corners. Two of the spotlights shine directly
down on B'Elanna and me, and we sometimes have to blink to keep black
spots from completely obscuring the faces of the four people seated in
front of us.

B'Elanna hasn't said anything in an hour. She is quiet, not restless,
and I don't know what she is thinking. Maybe it's better that I don't
know.

Hell, I don't even know what I'm thinking. Sometimes, I'm thinking
about dinner, which won't be much more than zero-gravity rations - the
kind you have to drink from metallic packets - and other times, my
thoughts drift to the mundane like the street where I grew up. And
then, most painful of all, I think of Kathryn.

I see her chestnut-red hair brushing against her cheeks, her eyes
looking at up at me from beneath her eyelids. I hear her low moans in
my ear, and imagine her skin under my wandering fingertips.

I've figured out that the Federation, and by the associative principle,
Starfleet also, wants to know about Kathryn, but they don't want to
know about the Kathryn whom I've come to know.

They already know what they want to hear and they are only waiting for
me to talk so they can condemn Kathryn legally for whatever they have
already tried her for in secret.

When they are done with us, the Maquis, they will start on Kathryn.

There will be no deals. We hand them Kathryn and win ourselves an all-
expense paid trip to New Zealand or some other equally luxurious prison
colony.

"Start at the beginning," one of them said and I know they are talking
about Voyager.

I can tell you the date and time when I first beamed onto the Bridge,
but I can't tell you anything more concrete than that; my time on
Voyager is hopelessly fragmented, a kaleidoscope of memory, thought and
experiences. Each piece is colored by emotion, tainted by
disappointment and shattered by betrayal.

Nothing is coherent, nothing is linear.

I look over at B'Elanna; she is bent over her fingernails, examining
the rough edges of her nails, sure sign of her nervousness.

In front of us, the four of them - I've already started to think of the
Federation as "them" - sit, their fingers tapping against their PADDs.

"What would you like to know?" I ask.

---

I refuse to watch them march the Maquis off like common criminals. I
have done everything to prevent their apprehension, everything, that
is, short of getting down on my knees in front of the Federation brass,
that is.

I do, after all, still have my pride.

The ship feels empty without them.

I wander the corridors, noting the abandoned stations once capably
manned by Maquis officers.

They have not allowed me to see them either. I have asked, begged,
pleaded... use whatever verb you'd like, I've done that.

And still the response is a stoic, "Not at this time, Captain."

"Will there be a trial?" I demanded.

"We have not made a decision about that yet, Captain. We're simply in
the fact-gathering stage."

"If there is a trial, I want to be there."

And again, their faces cloud over, freeze into inscrutable expressions,
and they shake their heads.

At least Tuvok has been able to see Chakotay and B'Elanna for short
periods of time and he brings me back news.

"B'Elanna has threatened to cause bodily harm to at least one of the
guards," Tuvok says as we walk through the rather barren corridors of
Voyager.

"You're not serious," I have to chuckle. I can imagine B'Elanna, her
eyes flashing and her every muscle tensing as she crouches, ready
position, in anticipation of a fight.

"I'm afraid that I am."

"And Chakotay?"

"Calm."

That is not unexpected; even in the worst situations, Chakotay is
irritatingly composed. Heat doesn't rise in his cheeks as it does in
mine when faced with a desperate situation. He radiates self-possession
and I envy that particular trait of his. I miss that.

I miss him.

"Have they begun questioning?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Without you?"

"They are talking about Voyager. I do not believe they are discussing
the Maquis as of yet," Tuvok uses the word "discuss" with distaste.

"Then that will keep them busy," I shudder to think of what the
Federation will learn of our seven years in the Delta Quadrant. I'm not
ashamed, but I'm not sure that they will understand either.

"You have nothing to be concerned about," Tuvok says.

"You're wrong," I tell him.

"You are referring to your frequent violations of the Prime Directive."

We stop. All around us, the halls of Voyager are maddeningly bereft of
life. Some of the crew from the lower decks have been given permission
by Starfleet Command to leave the ship and explore the starbase. With
their absence and that of the Maquis, Voyager no longer feels like the
same ship.

"Yes," I nod.

"Circumstances dictate actions, Captain."

"Not always. We were supposed to be a Starfleet ship and sometimes, we
strayed from our purpose. I would not be surprised if there was a court
martial waiting for me. Perhaps, they are just trying to gather the
necessary evidence."

"I do not think that that is a possibility."

"You're being a friend, Tuvok," I say gently. "I need you to be an
advisor now. I need you to be rational and logical."

"What is your concern?"

"The Borg," I straighten myself, thrusting my shoulders back. "There is
so much... I don't know where to begin."

"There is nothing to say," Tuvok says evenly.

"For you and me," I answer. "What about B'Elanna?"

Tuvok grows pensive. He has not thought about it but I have; B'Elanna
has been remote, fidgety, since our return from the Borg cube. I have
no doubt she forced Tom to marry her during a mood swing and for that
reason I was reluctant to perform the ceremony. In truth, I have always
felt the combination of Tom and B'Elanna is similar to dropping a piece
of sodium in water and watching the silvery metal give off sparks and
then eventually cause a minor explosion. So yes, I admit it - I did not
want to marry them.

And the other thing that occurred to me is a little more shameful to
admit; it is the fact that I do feel a bit possessive of Tom. I rescued
him, I rehabilitated him, gave him a chance when no one else would and
he, well, with his marriage to B'Elanna, he no longer needs me.

"Captain?" Tuvok asks. "What about B'Elanna?"

"What about her?" I snap. "She knew the consequences when she
volunteered for the mission. The Doctor has offered her counseling.
What more do you want?"

"You should have insisted," Tuvok says. "B'Elanna is still loyal to
you, Captain, but I am concerned about her well-being. You should have
insisted that she seek medical help."

"I can't force a horse to water, Tuvok. She didn't go."

"I do not know what kind of questions they will ask," Tuvok's face is
pensive, concerned. "It is an unusual situation."

"Are you worried about B'Elanna specifically?"

"Since I do not understand the reason for the proceedings, I must
evaluate all possibilities," he says. "It would illogical to do
otherwise."

"The Doctor could make a recommendation," I say hastily. "They need to
release B'Elanna because of her medical condition."

Tuvok looks at me, his face calm and expressionless as usual, but his
jaw firm.

"I could recommend the same be done for you," he says in a low voice.

With that, he turns and leaves me in the corridor, alone and with my
back against the wall.

---

There were twenty of us in the beginning.  For a Maquis cell, that was
pretty large; most Maquis cells numbered less than ten. The fewer
people involved in an operation, the less likely the possibility of a
leak.

I miss those days, miss the camaraderie. Rules and regulations
sometimes take away the spontaneity of humanoid interactions. In
Starfleet, you hide behind titles and codes of conduct; we didn't have
that - only each other.

You get to know each other very well in the Maquis, only because there
is no one else to talk to. Even then, trust is a very uneasy thing;
alliances are ever-shifting, changing like the tides of the ocean. One
day you believe so fervently in the cause, and then it's back to the
Federation because you are tired of being cold, hungry, wounded and
hunted. And then, when you are tired of the two-faced sanctimony of the
Federation, you slip underground back to the Maquis.

Dark circles rim your eyes, giving unspoken testimony to long sleepless
nights and your sole companion is a malfunctioning phaser rifle.

Tension grips your forehead, sometimes extending back down to your neck
and into your back muscles. Jaws are tight, nasal passages congested
and voices are hoarse from constant screaming. Sometimes, your eyes
water from the smoke and your throat aches from the burns you feel but
cannot see.

There were no medications, not really. We had a doctor or two, but they
had no supplies. They would patch you up as best they could, sometimes
slipping you a drop of Romulan brandy as they set your broken bones,
and then it was back out into the darkness, biting down on your lip to
hold back the moans of pain threatening to spill out.

So it wasn't fun. I can't even name one good time we had. There were no
camp fires like the stories say, no trophies of Cardassian neck bones
adorning our ships and there certainly weren't the orgies or pillaging
the Maquis are allegedly infamous for.

Too often, we limped from raid to raid, just thankful we had survived
to fight another day. We were all too often aware that the Federation
was looking for us and that there were bounty hunters eager to snatch
up even one of us.

But somehow, we were the lucky ones. We managed to evade capture,
escape death a million times, and in the process, we learned to trust
each other.

You want to know about us, so I'll tell you. Suder had a poker face,
never could tell what cards he held. Gerron sings in the shower, Ayala
can name all thirty-seven constellations in the Olmina system. Someday,
when we have more time and we're talking about this over a cup of
coffee, I'll tell you how Kurt Bandera saved my life in a bar-fight. He
saved B'Elanna's life too, but that's another story also. He was a good
man, didn't deserve to die the way he did, but I don't expect you to
understand that.

John Carlson lost his family to a Cardassian raid while Starfleet hung
back, unwilling to protect his wife and children. Chell talks too much
but he can keep a secret. Ken Dalby, well, he has a temper, but there
is intensity about him, a sense of purpose I find compelling.

There are so many others to name - Mariah Henley, Fiona Jackson, Devon
Jarvis, Vin Janus, Kas Klym, Catherine McKenzie, Kevin O'Donnell, Tabor
Dyns - good people, all of them. I will even go as far as to say that
Michael Jonas and Seska had their moments; at the risk of sounding
nostalgic, when those two were with me, as Maquis, they did not give me
any reason to doubt them.

We knew what we were doing when we joined the Maquis. Don't think that
the fight was in our heads for a single second, because it wasn't like
that. You think we liked fighting for the sake of fighting? You think
we really wanted to turn our backs on the Federation? But what no one
understands is that we had no choice; you gave us no choice. The
situation was very much like being a child and seeing your parents
walking away, leaving you behind, never to return.

We fought because the Federation made a deal with Cardassia that we
could not stomach. And when Cardassia moved in on us, robbing us of our
homes, killing our families, raping our lands - if that happened to
you, what would you do? Would you sit there placidly, knowing that the
Federation - your government - would not protect you? Would you
willingly pack up the lives you painstakingly carved out of the rough
terrain of the border colonies and just go without even a single note
of protest?

You know how we felt about our options, how we felt that fighting to
protect our way of life was the only thing left to us, and soon the
fight became the only reason for us to wake up each morning and take a
deep breath. Another day alive would mean another day to fight, to
actually take a stand for something we believed in.

It might be presumptuous of me, but I ask you - all of you - wouldn't
you have done the same?

---

My joints are tight, muscles ache. In the back of my mind, I
remember... the voices.

And sometimes, if I concentrate, I hear the echoes of a scream
reverberating in my mind.

There are no features to differentiate the faces, only the pitch of
their voices, the intensity of their pleadings.

And I, who pride myself on the strength of my compassion, did not hear
them.

There were some that were quiet, compliant, who understood that
assimilation was inevitable, that it was less painful if they
submitted. There were others who struggled, who fought until they were
beaten and then we - the Borg - descended en masse upon that soft body
and pierced it.

The part of me that still remembered Janeway, Kathryn, Captain,
Voyager - her lips would move in silent mantra as her fingers did the
bidding of the Collective.

"Forgive me," she would whisper as yet another drone added to the
perfection of the Borg.

And somewhere, observing it all, the Borg Queen laughed.

I put my hand to my cheek, feel soft flesh and not Borg plated armor. I
avoid mirrors, avoid them with desperation born of fear, aware that the
shadow of the Borg Queen hovers over my shoulder, her lips sneering
into a perpetual taunt.

I hold my hands out in front of me, testing each finger, marveling at
how easily they move without the silver tubules streaking from mid-
wrist to the tips of my fingers.

I asked Seven about them once, asked her if she noticed the constant
presence of appendages on her body. She cocked her head to the side,
her blue eyes very wide in her pale face, and she examined her own
hand. She stroked the length of the tubules gently and then shook her
head.

"No," she said. "I do not notice them. They are a part of me."

What was unspoken in our conversation was her fervent belief that I
would accept what we had done and experienced without question and it
would become part of me also.

I did not ask her about the screaming because I already knew the answer
to that question; those nameless and faceless individuals have become a
part of me, occupying every waking moment with the question of "how
could you?" hovering on their lips.

I no longer have physical reminders of my time aboard the Borg cube; I
only have the nightmares which hover in the darkest corners of my mind,
threatening to spill out at any moment, threatening to rob me of any
sanity I might still possess.

And then, what bothers me most, what comes up the most as I toss and
turn in the night is a single question: Was I wrong?

Tom seems to think I was. His expression is a constant mixture of
sullen insolence and disrespect. We talked only that once, when he
accused me of single-minded stubbornness and it hurt, coming from Tom.

Sometimes, I try to talk to him, maybe explain myself a bit, but
instead his face turns inscrutable and I know he's not listening.
He has already made up his mind about what happened, about me. It may
be too late to salvage my relationship with him, but it's not too late
for the Maquis.

I owe them - Chakotay and B'Elanna - that much.

---

B'Elanna and I go way back. She won't tell you about how we met, but I
will. The year was 2367, the setting - a freighter stocked with
supplies for a Federation world. The Cardassians had it in their
sights, and we, hungry for whatever we could get our hands for -
anything to make a dent in this guerrilla war against the Federation -
were there also.

You would be amazed - no, shocked - at how many people actually
despised the Federation and didn't believe that it was a benevolent
organization serving the good of the many. Even now, I still can't
reconcile myself to the image of the Federation as a protector.

There were more Starfleet officers sympathetic to the cause of the
Maquis than you would believe and it was because of them, we were able
to board the freighter.

Casualties were high - mostly on the Cardassian side. I lost two
people - Greg Kendall and Lisa Johnson. Somewhere in all of that smoke
and blood, I caught sight of B'Elanna Torres.

My first vision of her was of a half-mad Klingon, fighting with every
ounce of energy she had left. Her phaser aim wasn't great, but she had
taken down a Cardassian or two.

"Stay where you are!" I exclaimed.

"Don't worry!" she shot back. "I'm not going anywhere."

There was a Gul - Tancret, I believe his name was - peeking back and
forth around a corner and together, B'Elanna and I concentrated our
fire on him. After about ninety seconds, the Gul fell heavily to the
floor, his face flat against the wall, his arms outstretched.

I felt nothing as I stepped over his prone body. Not hate, not anger,
not sorrow, not guilt. Nothing. Just nothing.

"You're coming with me!" I yelled to B'Elanna. "The ship, it's going to
blow!"

"I don't even know who you are!"

"Does it matter?" I yelled back as sparks flew above my head. B'Elanna
considered a moment and then followed me.

In the mayhem that issued back on my ship, the Liberty, I didn't get a
chance to talk to B'Elanna much. Hell, I didn't even know her name.

I did notice, though, that she could fix anything. She flung herself
into the repairs, often working late into the night when others were
sleeping. I would watch from afar, shake my head, and then turn to
other more pressing matters.

We hid in a nebula for repairs and one night, too exhausted to sleep, I
wandered around the ship and found B'Elanna, sweating over some
isolinear chips. Her short, curly brown hair was falling in her eyes,
sweat and dust coating her cheeks, nose and chin.

For the first time, I took a good look at her. She was a thin slip of a
girl then and not very tall. Her eyes were big and brown - almost too
big for her face. And just above her lip, there was a small mole that
self-consciously, she would try to cover up with a bit of make-up.

I didn't mean to bump into her, but in retrospect, that little bit of
violence was what I needed to break the ice.

"Hey!" B'Elanna exclaimed. "Watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't see you."

"You should be more careful."

I tried to make small talk. And of course, there I learned the first
rule about B'Elanna Torres: she doesn't small talk. In fact, she
responded to most of my conversation with low grunts. At some point,
she hurled her tool across the room, smashing it with admirable
precision against a bulkhead; it crashed with a satisfying thunk.

"If only," she muttered as she got up to retrieve her now-dented tool.

"If only what?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"No, really."

"It wasn't a very nice thought."

"There aren't very many nice thoughts here," I reassured her.

"I was thinking about Starfleet," she said. "Thinking about how nice it
would be to smash some of those pristine windows at the Academy."

"Don't like Starfleet much, do you?" I asked jokingly.

"No," she said. "All of their rules. They want you to be a certain way,
want you to be fit their mold. It's... stifling."

"Sounds like Starfleet," I nodded. She tilted her head towards me,
resting it on her hand. She looked, for a moment, strangely soft.

"You know about... Starfleet?"

"I lived Starfleet."

"And now?"

"Now?" I laughed. "Look at me."

She gazed up and down my frame, taking in the brownish-hued garments
hanging off of my body; in the seven months since I had resigned from
Starfleet, I had lost quite a bit of weight. Fighting Cardassians has a
curious way of taking the edge of hunger away and increasing adrenaline
so you are able to scale large cliffs in a matter of seconds.

"You left Starfleet," she said flatly. "You escaped."

"In a manner of speaking."

"You were there for a long time?"

"Yeah. Almost thirteen years."

"That's a long time. I couldn't do that," she said.

"I think you could," I said. "It's not such a bad thing."

"So now you attack supply freighters?" she asked. "That's an
improvement?"

"I have my reasons," I countered. "What are yours?"

"I don't have any," B'Elanna responded. "Or maybe, I'm just looking for
a fight."

"Sounds like you have a story to tell."

"Depends what you want to hear."

"How about your name?"

We faced off like that and finally, B'Elanna extended her hand.

"B'Elanna Torres."

"Chakotay."

"Just Chakotay?"

"Just Chakotay."

She was leaning against the wall and slowly, she slid down until she
was sitting. I, so as not to tower over her, sat down also.

"So? Why are you here?" I asked.

"There's nowhere else to go," she said. "You helped the Cardassians
destroy my freighter, remember?"

"No, I mean really," I said. "Why were you on that freighter?"

"I had nowhere to go," she repeated.

"I find that hard to believe."

"Believe it," she laughed harshly. "I was at Starfleet Academy until,
oh, about three months ago."

"Did you graduate?"

"No," she shrugged. "I just left. It wasn't for me."

"Why?"

"Too many rules."

"You've said that."

"I fight," a smile slipped onto her face. "The counselors say I have
violent tendencies. I break things too."

"Yeah?"

"But I can fix them better than anyone else," B'Elanna grinned with
obvious pride.

"I can see that," I gestured at her work. "You've done a good job here."

"Thanks," she narrowed her eyes. "That's how I got out here, you know.
Built my own ship and then when the warp coils gave out, I hitched a
ride on that freighter."

"Built your own ship, huh? Impressive."

B'Elanna shrugged, "I wanted to see if I could."

"You obviously did."

"I'll do better next time."

I leaned forward and picked up one of the tools she had been working
with it and ran my hands over it. B'Elanna leaned forward too and
tipped her head sideways towards me.

"Chakotay. What kind of name is that?" she asked.

"Native American," I said.

"Ah," she said. "Is that why you have a tattoo?"

"Do you always ask so many questions?"

"Only when I'm interested in someone," B'Elanna rubbed her tongue over
her lips. "You're Native American then?"

"Yeah."

"Klingon," she touched the ridges on her forehead. "But I guess you
could see that. Half-Klingon, really. I mean, yeah, not really Klingon."

"It's getting late," I said. "Should be getting to bed. You ready?"

B'Elanna's eyes grew cold, "I'm not that kind of girl, Mr. Chakotay."

"And I'm not that kind of guy," I answered shortly. "I was just
pointing out that you could use a little rest."

"Are you saying I don't know when to rest?"

"I'm saying that I need to rest," I flashed her a smile. "Are you
coming or not?"

I got to my feet and held my hand out to her; she took it and in a
surprisingly strong moved, pulled herself up.

"You never told me your reasons," she said.

"It doesn't matter," I answered.

"It does. If it means you gave up a career in Starfleet to hobble
around the galaxy in this rattletrap, you ought to have a damn good
reason."

The intensity in her eyes held my attention and without thinking, I
touched her jaw slightly; she did not flinch.

"You must have heard of the treaty," I said. "The one between Cardassia
and the Federation."

"I've heard a bit," she said. "The Federation has ceded some planets to
Cardassia."

"My home world is one of those. Dorvan IV."

"Yeah?" the tone of her voice was surprisingly casual, but her eyes
betrayed the concern.

"They killed my father."

B'Elanna's eyes grew wider. Her hand reached out, clutched my forearm.

"No," she whispered. "Who?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does to you."

"Cardassians or the Federation, take your pick. The Cardassians did it,
but the Federation stood by and let it happen. I... I couldn't stay in
Starfleet. It didn't feel right, knowing that we had all the resources
to protect my father and but did nothing."

B'Elanna's grip on my arm tightened.

"You're right," she said. "You have a reason."

I brushed away the smudge of dust on her cheek. I contemplated for a
minute; I did not know anything about B'Elanna Torres, but I found
her... fascinating; the quick spark of temper in her eye, the keen
reflexes, but most of all, her audacity. Loved that. Loved that about
her immediately.

"Do you want a reason?" I asked in a very low voice. "We could use an
engineer on board. The ship's not much, but it gets the job done."

With characteristic B'Elanna aloofness, she replied, "Well, I don't
have anywhere else to go right now. I suppose I could hang around for a
while."

But the Maquis, you see, inspires a passion in people - even they
didn't have a passion before they joined; that's what happened with
B'Elanna. And I could see it, in the way she caressed those engines,
coaxing every last bit of energy out of them. She cared what happened
to us, cared about the cause and I suspect, she may have even learned
to care a little for herself.

---

Alone. That's how I began my days in the Delta Quadrant and evidently,
that's how I shall mark my return to the Alpha Quadrant.

No, that's not exactly right; when I left, I had Mark and Molly. Mark's
married, happily I hope, and my dog, well, I hope someone somewhere is
taking care of her the way I would.

My quarters, always immaculate - heaven forbid that a captain even dare
to have a pillow out of place because you never know who is going to
drop by - is especially repulsive to me as I stand in the center of
muted grays and tired burgundies.

I lightly run my hand over table tops and shelves as I pass by,
reveling in the sounds of PADDs and other odds and ends crashing to the
floor.

I shed my jacket on the back of the sofa, knowing that no one will be
by to share a Merlot tonight. On my way to the bathroom, I accidentally
catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; fascinated, I pause.

I see a pasty white face staring back at me, hazel eyes tinged slightly
with green, and the hair, God, that hair - dry, brittle and thin,
growing haphazardly in all directions. It is almost as if a chestnut-
colored haystack is growing on top of my head, courtesy of the Borg.

The Doctor assures me that my hair will eventually revert to its shiny,
bouncy, soft state and at the time, it did not matter because I saw
Chakotay looking at me.

That first implant-free night, Chakotay ran his hands through my hair,
his breath warm on my cheek, and his body curving against mine. He
still found me beautiful and even with the remnants of my implants, he
did not shrink away from me the way Tom did to B'Elanna at first and
for that, I was grateful.

I shed the rest of my clothes and step into the shower. It takes a
second or two to adjust the pulsing water to my specifications. Yes,
I've forgotten how hot I like the water - almost scalding, something
Mark would always complain about when we showered together - and how
hard I like the pressure against my skin.

I stumble out, my muscles bruised but relaxed, and I lay on the sofa,
wrapped only in the ivory towel.

Next to the sofa, there is the PADD, the one telling me that the
Federation intends to detain Chakotay, Torres and the remaining Maquis
members for questioning and perhaps, remand them for trial. I had
received it in the days prior to our return to the Alpha Quadrant and
after the initial read-through, I had tossed it aside, hoping that the
message was a mistake, sent by accident, soon to be refuted once we
arrived.

Once again, I was wrong.

I pick up the PADD and scroll through the list of charges levied
against Chakotay's cell; the list, unfortunately, is endless: assault
and battery, breaking and entering, burglary, civil disorder, larceny,
robbery, manslaughter, terrorism, arson, conspiracy, destruction of
property and finally, treason.

In the seven years we served together, I only asked Chakotay once about
his life in the Maquis.

"What did you do?" I asked. We were enjoying dinner in my quarters in a
thankfully peaceful interlude, sometime right after we discovered the
Ares Four.

"Whatever it took," he responded. "Do we need to talk about this,
Kathryn?"

"I would like to."

"I'd rather talk about what we found on the Ares," Chakotay said.

"You did enjoy that, didn't you?" I asked.

"Very much so. I guess there is still a bit of Starfleet left in me.
Some of that so-called penchant for exploration?"

"We'll make a Starfleet officer of you yet."

"I thought I was already there."

I twirled some of my linguini around my fork and took a deep breath.

"Chakotay, I don't know when we're getting home or what's going to
happen."

"But you're concerned."

"Yes. That's why I wanted to know."

"We were terrorists, Kathryn. Whatever falls under that definition."

"No, really. Specifics."

"I think what I said before sums it up nicely," he said evenly. "You
wouldn't want to know. What we - B'Elanna, Henley, Chell, Gerron, the
others - what we did, it may offend Starfleet sensibilities."

"Try me."

"There was one raid," Chakotay leaned back in his seat. "There was a
remote Cardassian outpost, a supply base actually. Nerok Tor, actually.
Medical supplies, I think. In fact, I think many of the supplies came
from the Federation itself and that made us furious. We couldn't get
basic medical supplies ourselves and here our government was giving the
supplies to the enemy."

"So you led the raid?"

Chakotay nodded, "Yes. We leveled the outpost, burned it to the ground."

"Casualties?"

"Yes."

"Cardassian?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Estimates are anywhere from one hundred to one hundred and fifty. We
didn't know for sure. Our sources weren't always as precise as we would
have liked."

We sat there in silence, neither of us making eye contact. I took a
deep breath.

"You're right," I said. "I don't want to know."

I look back at the list of charges and wonder how many Nerok Tors
Chakotay has to his credit.

In addition, Chakotay has violated at least two of the Federation's
General Orders.

I could argue that number two which reads, "No Starfleet personnel
shall unnecessarily use force, either collectively or individually,
against members of the United Federation of Planets, their duly
authorized representatives, spokespersons, or designated leaders, or
members of any sentient nonmember race, for any reason whatsoever,"
does not apply since Chakotay had left Starfleet prior to his Maquis
days.

But then, there is General Order Nineteen: "Except in times of declared
emergency, Starfleet personnel may under no circumstances convey
personnel or material between planets or planetary systems when there
is reason to believe that said personnel or material may be used to
conduct aggression. This order applies to independent worlds within the
Federation as well as to Federation members."

Even if we ignore the fact - the defense - that Chakotay's Maquis cell
was primarily composed of former Starfleet officers, all of them were -
are - Federation citizens.

The precision of words damn Chakotay, Torres and the others.

The Federation's memory is long, casting shadows across the ground and
putting everyone in its path into darkness. Old feelings die-hard and I
doubt there is one top Starfleet official in the Federation with any
sympathy towards the Maquis or even with the ability to understand why
they did what they did.

And forgive me, even after all this time, I don't know that if I
understand.

---

You always remember first encounters. I remember my first glimpse of
Kathryn Janeway when I beamed aboard Voyager after the encounter with
the Caretaker. She was standing on her Bridge, arms akimbo, and her
rather youngish face still unmarked by the trials of command yet to
come. My very first thought as I materialized on the Bridge was, "Damn,
that's an ugly hairstyle."

Yet as I advanced towards her, I absorbed every feature of her face;
those greenish eyes beneath perfectly manicured eyebrows and the
delicate upsweep of her cheekbones. Kathryn Janeway, helmet hair and
all, was a beautiful woman, and I, being a man, could not help but
notice this all-important detail.

That's not to say that I had romantic thoughts at that very moment nor
did I ever speculate on what the future of my relationship with this
woman would be. And I never thought we would be lovers; that thought
never occurred to me.

Instead, I was rather irritated by our - and I mean the Maquis here -
position. We were decidedly at a disadvantage and most of the time, the
Maquis did its best work when the odds were stacked against us. Not
this time; Kathryn Janeway commanded a state of the art vessel and I,
well, I had nothing.

I hated her for that. Hated her for that unconscious superiority which
would occasionally slip into her voice when she spoke about Voyager and
the people who manned this Starfleet ship.
And her inexperience. She had been captain of Voyager for barely a few
weeks and already she had stranded the Maquis and her Starfleet
officers in the Delta Quadrant and the most optimistic of analysis came
back with a traveling time of seventy-five years back to the Alpha
Quadrant.

I suppose I'm the last person to talk about the principle of the matter
and following one's heart when it comes to morality; I left Starfleet
when the Cardassians attacked my home world and I did many things that
in retrospect, I find objectionable and morally repulsive.

And so I did not trust Kathryn Janeway. I did not trust her motives and
I did not believe that she could truly command Voyager.

Not even when she called me into her Ready Room and poured me a cup of
coffee - a beverage I could barely tolerate at the time.

"We need to talk about your presence on my ship," she said. And even
then, her voice was very territorial, very possessive. But then again,
if our positions were reversed, I imagine I would feel just as
threatened.

I tried to feign nonchalance, leaning back in my chair - which
incidentally was about a centimeter or two lower than hers - and trying
to keep my features completely even and expressionless.

"We have a problem," she went on. "We are in the middle of the Delta
Quadrant; it could take us years to get home."

"That's what Torres is telling me," I said easily. "Seventy-five to be
exact."

"I'm sorry about your ship."

"She was a good ship. We went through a lot together."

"I've read your logs. and Mr. Paris, he has mentioned one or two
escapades."

"I imagine he told you a lot. Anything to get off easy. That's his way."

"I know there is some bad blood between you and Mr. Paris, but that's
not what I wanted to talk to you about. Right now Voyager is our best
chance of getting home," Janeway - and she wasn't Kathryn yet - said
earnestly. "Mr. Chakotay, I'd like you to remain on board this ship."

It was a gracious offer; after all, she could have proposed to drop me,
B'Elanna and the others on some planet here in the Delta Quadrant while
Voyager continued on its way home. I sure Starfleet would have loved
that - one more Maquis ship destroyed, its crew unable to further
affect Starfleet's uneasy truce with Cardassia.

So Janeway's invitation of a ride back to the Delta Quadrant was indeed
welcome and in a way, somewhat unexpected.

"Thank you," I said. "And my crew?"

"Also welcome," she said. "Of course, I would expect you all to
function as part of this crew - Voyager's crew."

"Of course. We wouldn't dream of sitting around."

"And that brings me to another matter," she said. "This is a Starfleet
vessel. We may be in the Delta Quadrant, far from Starfleet's
influence, but I intend to run this ship in accordance to its charter.
Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear," I answered.

"Good," Janeway said. "And one more thing."

I looked at her in silence.

"I, I need a first officer," she said in a low voice. "I need Tuvok at
tactical and I think that, you, you have the experience that I need in
my first officer."

Our eyes met and Janeway was the first to blink.

"You have the Starfleet training," she said. "And you can help ease the
transition between Maquis and Starfleet, not that I think there will be
tension."

I wanted to laugh at this last sentence. This type of remark was
typical of Janeway in the early days of our journey - naive and
optimistic. Believe me, a few run-ins with the Kazon, Hirogen and the
Borg completely obliterated this particular trait of hers.

"Will you do it?" Janeway pressed her palm down on the desk, focusing
on the long, slender fingers fanning out.

"It's been a long time since I wore a Starfleet uniform," I
mused. "Never thought I would again."

Janeway offered me that patient, mothering smile of hers. I would see
that smile often as years went by and I grew to despise it - knowing
that Kathryn Janeway thought she knew what was best for us without even
asking us first.

"Now I need something from you," I said, surprising myself with my own
boldness. "How do I know we won't be prosecuted the minute we get back
into the Alpha Quadrant?"

Hunter looked at prey with frank honesty.

"You don't," she said. "I take my responsibilities very seriously,
Chakotay. I assure you, I doubt that Voyager's initial mission will
change once we get home."

I leaned back in my chair, rapping my fingers against the table. The
cards were on the table and surprisingly, it did not bother me.

"I would be honored to serve as your first officer," I told her.

---

Hours pass slowly when you are waiting. I don't even know what I am
waiting for, maybe a message from the Federation that this
investigation of theirs is all a mistake and that Chakotay will be back
at my side and B'Elanna will be back in Engineering. And then we will
get the apologies and accolades I think - I know - we deserve.

Of course, that would be in a perfect world and unfortunately, I live
here - wherever "here" might be at the moment.

The door chimes and I sit up, suddenly aware that I am still only
wrapped in the towel.

"Who is it?" I call.

"Seven of Nine."

I sigh, "Give me a second."

My uniform is still lying on the floor of the bathroom and I pull on my
gray T-shirt and black pants.

"Come."

Seven enters, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"I am bothering you," she says.

"No," I say. "Not at all.

She is still looking around, questions written all over her aquiline
features.

"Sit, please," I indicate one of the chairs at the table. "Hungry? I
haven't eaten yet."

"I do not require nutrition at this time."

"Then keep me company," I say. I walk up to the replicator and order
tomato-basil soup and a hard-roll. "I could use the conversation."

"Lieutenant Paris mentioned that you had not been seen for some time.
He was concerned."

Tom? Concerned? Now that was a surprise. But of course, he sent Seven
to look on me; he wouldn't come himself and that said everything to me.
He cared but could not bear to be near me.

"I just needed some time alone," I answer, bringing the food back to
the table. Seven sniffs the air suspiciously and apparently, finding my
food satisfactory, she settles back into her chair. "And there is
nothing really left to do until Federation authorities allow us to
leave the ship."

"Is there a reason why we are not allowed to leave?"

"Standard procedure whenever a ship returns from a deep space mission,"
I say easily.

"We have been docked for nearly twenty hours," Seven points out. I am
amazed she doesn't point out to the minute how long we have been
here. "The delay seems unusual to me."

I sigh, "There are some questions about. Commander Chakotay and
Lieutenant Torres."

"Their Maquis affiliation?"

"Yes."

"Why does it matter?"

Sometimes I think Seven of Nine is thirty going on five. Her utter lack
of guile when it comes to human nature will be her downfall and it
makes me uneasy about her future once we leave this ship.

I won't lie; I look on Seven as the child I do not have and like any
mother, I delight in her accomplishments and grind my teeth at her
obstinacy.

"If you commit a crime, punishment of one kind or another must follow,"
I answer carefully.

"Do you believe Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Torres have committed
a crime?"

"Seven years ago, I did, yes."

"You do not any longer?"

"No. They are a part of this crew, a part of this family," I say with
as much feeling I can muster. I put my spoon down. "What they did in
the past, that is not relevant now."

"Starfleet believes it's relevant."

"Only because Starfleet is as unforgiving as it is rigid."

"What will happen to me?"

I fold my hands on the table, lean forward slowly, and make eye contact
with Seven. I want her to know that I am sincere in whatever I say next.

"I do not know," I say truthfully. "They are interested in you, that I
know, and they would like to know about you and your life as a Borg
drone."

Seven cocks her head to the side, "I do not know what it left for them
to know."

"You know Starfleet. They want to document everything," I laugh.

"Even me."

I sigh, "Yes, even you."

Seven meets my gaze straight on.

"You have encouraged me to explore my humanity," she says. "You have
pushed me to become an individual."

"I have tried," I admitted. "Are you... pleased with your progress?"

"I am," she said quietly. "But I also have... feelings."

I look at Seven in surprise; many times, she would dismiss others,
disregard their emotions as irrelevant.

"You're right," I answer. I reach across the table to touch the back of
her hand, run my fingers over the metal tubules spanning the length of
her hand from wrist to fingernail. "You aren't a science project. You
never have been. I am sorry if I ever caused you to feel that way."

"I am not angry anymore," Seven says. "I was very angry when you would
not return me to the Collective."

I laughed since I could now at the memory.

"Yes, I remember," I say. "You were like a teenager stretching the
boundaries of what was allowed."

"I do not understand," she says.

"It's all right," I say. "Are you sure you're not hungry?"

Seven tips her head slightly.

"Your food... it looks appetizing."

"Let me get you some," I tell her. I replicate the same dinner - tomato
soup and a hard roll plus a bit of salad - for her. She eyes the food
with trepidation as I place it in front of her.

"Interesting," she says in much the same way Tuvok would.

"It's good. Comfort food."

"Comfort food?"

"When you don't feel well," I explain. "Sometimes you crave certain
foods to make you feel better."

She spoons some of the soup into her mouth; her face contorts and then
she smiles.

"It is good," she says.

"Good," I lean back in my seat. "Seven, I don't know what's going to
happen. I'm as much in the dark as you are, but I promise - I will do
everything I can to make sure you're treated, as you should be - as an
individual."

Seven nods, "Thank you."

And I hope, unlike other promises I've made, this is one I will keep.

---

I find it difficult to talk about Seska. I think of her, remember those
almond-shaped eyes and that deep red-brown hair slicked back from her
smooth brow, and an itch develops at the back of my throat. My chest
tightens and I have to inhale deeply.

It amazes me, after all this time, how Seska still affects me. I know
that people think that I am hopelessly naïve, a poor judge of
character, and yes, I did not see through Seska. Maybe I wanted to take
her - and everyone else - at face value and believe that every word
from their lips was the goddamned truth and nothing less.

I met Seska on one of our sorties into Cardassian territories. She had
originally been on the Malina, a Bajoran freighter hijacked for Maquis
use. The ship had sustained heavy damage and with the warp core in
imminent danger of blowing, we had beamed the crew of the Malina to my
ship.

Seska had caught my eye immediately. She was taller than most women
onboard and she certainly towered over B'Elanna Torres. Seska also
carried herself with an assuredness that I found refreshing and I loved
the way her eyes sparked alternately with fiery temper and soft
gentleness.

Seska always knew what she wanted; knew her needs and wants immediately
and I fell into her "wants" category. I'd like to say I succumbed in a
moment of incredible weakness, but it wasn't like that.

We were hidden in the caves of Alonius Prime, one of the few border
colonies sympathetic to the Maquis. We had stopped off for supplies and
to make much needed repairs.

"Everything is a disaster," B'Elanna declared flatly as we sat around a
table, shoulders bent in to keep from shivering in the damp atmosphere
of the caves. I already said this, but I want to reiterate that life as
Maquis terrorists - as you call us - was never glamorous. Often we were
cold, hungry, wondering if today would be our day to die. Certainly, we
all walked around with a death wish; we each possessed a fatalistic
attitude, thinking, "Yes, today is it. Today is the day Starfleet is
going to aim that phaser cannon at us and that will be the end."

And of course, we wondered what the end would be like. Would it be
quick and painless? Seska always advocated the self-destruction
sequence, saying it was much better than the death by suffocation
caused when you were sucked out of an airlock.

B'Elanna, on the other hand, preferred hand-to-hand ritualistic combat;
there was no way our half-Klingon firebrand would ever commit suicide -
she would die on her feet, with a phaser in one hand and a mek'leth in
the other.

"A disaster?" Seska met B'Elanna's eyes straight on. "Could you
possibly provide more information?"

And speaking of death, I think B'Elanna wanted Seska dead. I don't know
what it was, but B'Elanna never liked Seska, not even for a half a
moment. Maybe it just means that B'Elanna is a better judge of
character than I am, but I prefer to think that it was more that they
mirrored each other almost perfectly in terms of temperament.

"We've lost all flux capacitors," B'Elanna said coolly, directing her
remarks at Tuvok and me, instead of responding to Seska.

Yes, don't look at me like that. Tuvok was there, and at the time, he
was one of my more trusted colleagues; I figured that Vulcans didn't
have the ability to practice deception. Again, I should have known
better.

"Big deal, we can get more," Seska said.

"And the shield harmonics matrix is out of alignment," B'Elanna
continued. I could see the heat rising in B'Elanna's cheeks as she
pointedly tried to ignore Seska.

"Can we fix it?" I asked.

"It will take time," she said.

"We don't have time!" Seska snapped.

"Well, I'm telling you what's wrong," B'Elanna shot back. "You fly the
damn ship without any flux capacitors and it won't even get off the
ground. You don't think I'm working as fast as I can? If I say it's
going to take time, it's going to take time."

"I think you're stalling," Seska said evenly.

"Seska," I said.

"B'Elanna has no reason to stall," Tuvok injected.

"Listen to the Vulcan, Seska. I'm telling you, the ship has problems,
serious problems. I'm amazed we even survived this last raid. As it
was, we limped our way here. We're lucky there wasn't a Cardassian
patrol in the vicinity."

"It would have been a good day to die," Seska said without a tinge of
irony in her voice. She got up, nearly knocking the chair over in
abrupt movement. "I would rather die than spend another day in these
damp caves! Prophets, the chill goes right to the bone. We'll all die
down here from the cold."

"Seska," I said in an attempt to appease the angry Bajoran.

"Are you afraid?" B'Elanna's eyes were flashing. "It's good we found
out now, isn't it, Seska? If you're afraid of what we're doing, then
maybe you aren't in the right place. Maybe this isn't your battle."

"I'm Bajoran. This is my battle."

B'Elanna got up from her hair and rounded the side of the table, nearly
colliding with Tuvok who had gotten up from his chair in an attempt to
stop her.

"I'm watching you," B'Elanna breathed. "If I even see one thing that
makes me stop and think twice, you better watch your back."

"B'Elanna," I said.

"I don't need to listen to this," Seska snarled at me. Her amber-tinged
eyes snapped fire at me, her lips curling in anticipation of a fight,
and her fists were clenched at her side. I won't lie; I found Seska
fascinating at that moment.

We stood there for a mere second and then Seska thundered off in one
direction and B'Elanna in the other, no doubt in search of her flux
capacitors.

"I should check on... Seska," I said to Tuvok awkwardly.

"And I," Tuvok looked around. "I will attempt to find some kind of heat
generator."

"Good idea," I said. And I'll be honest; in the entire time Tuvok was
with us, the heat generator was the best suggestion he ever came up
with.

I found Seska huddled in corner in the passageway furthest from where
we had been meeting. Her teeth chattered as I came down the corridor,
the little lantern flickering in my hand.

"I brought you a blanket," I said.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry about B'Elanna. Her temper sometimes gets the best of her."

"She is rude, Chakotay."

I crouched down beside Seska, putting the lantern to the side, and then
draping the blanket around her shoulders.

"She means well."

"This isn't her fight," Seska said, but some of the bitterness in her
tone had already started to evaporate. "What is she doing here anyway?"

"What are you doing here?"

"That's different. I'm Bajoran."

I smiled, "We all have our reasons. Some, like yours, are as plain as
the nose on your face. Others are a little more opaque."

"Are you always this...?" she fumbled a bit by her side, arranging the
blanket more securely around her. "Are you always so cheerful?"

"No," I said. "But that wasn't what you were going to ask, was it?"

"No," she said. "What you said, it was silly, but sweet."

"Thank you."

She said, "Won't you sit down?"

I brushed the pebbles slightly aside with my fingers. "Sure."

The dampness seeped through my thin pants as I leaned back against the
clammy stone walls. I shivered.

"Share my blanket?" she asked.

"Thanks."

"Are we ever going to get out of here?"

"I plan on it."

Seska glanced at me sideways, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing into
tiny slits.

"B'Elanna doesn't like me," she said.

"You don't like her."

"Do you like her?"

I sighed, "Seska, this is not a popularity contest."

She inched closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine.

"Do you always avoid answering questions?" Seska queried.

I had to laugh, "When it is political to do so, I try my best."

"I thought so," and without asking, she rested her head on my
shoulder. "I can't believe that only six hours ago, we were going down
in flames. I thought, `this is it, I'm going to die.'"

"I thought the same. In fact, I wake up every morning and think that."

"You think we'll be fighting this fight for the rest of our lives?"

"I hope not."

"Sometimes I think this is going to last forever."

"That's optimistic."

"You think the Cardassians are going to cede an inch?" Seska asked. "Or
what about the Federation? How many Federation vessels have you
attacked recently? The Federation has a long memory."

"I prefer to not think about that," I said. "I like to think about why
I'm doing what I'm doing."

Her hair was brushing my cheek and I shifted position awkwardly so I
could wrap my arm around her. She was a stocky woman, big-boned and
muscular - a rather unusual physique for Bajorans who tend to be more
delicately built and slender. But at the time, she fit into the curve
of my arm perfectly and I didn't think much more of her unusual stature.

What I admired most about Seska was her utter brazenness and her
delicious sense of impropriety. She knew what she wanted and did not
care what conventions had to be broken in order for her to get what she
wanted.

Seska inched her hand up my thigh, and when I looked at her, her eyes
were closed and her head tilted slightly back, her lips curled up in a
half-crescent.

"Seska," I whispered. "What are you doing?"

"Shh," she said.

Slowly, she made her way to my waistband and I jerked when her warm
fingers touched my cool skin. She was breathing calmly, but I could
feel my chest tighten as her hand brushed over the hairs on my thigh. I
knew I should protest; instead, I closed my eyes.

Later Seska stood up, looking pleased with herself. I could almost
sense her thoughts, the unspoken words: "Could B'Elanna do that for
you?"

She looked down at me, extended her hand and said coolly, "The others
are probably wondering where we are."

"You're right," I stumbled to my feet, marveling at the weakness in my
muscles.

We didn't talk about what happened then and we never really did ever;
instead, we grabbed our furtive moments anywhere we could from the dark
corners of an abandoned supply depot or in the damp leaves covering the
ground of a rain forest.

And not once did I suspect. She was that good.

I do mean that - in more ways than one.

---

They are all in the holodeck. I know this because I wanted to call a
staff meeting for no other reason than to alleviate the anxiety that is
eating away at me as the minutes continue to tick away. But when I
queried for their locations, the computer in its dismally unsympathetic
voice informed me that Lieutenant Paris and Ensign Kim were on the
holodeck and evidently, had been there for several hours.

I wanted to talk to someone, anyone, and Tuvok has been gone for the
last three hours to monitor the proceedings against Torres and
Chakotay.

And so Harry and Tom, it is.

I stand outside of the holodeck, wondering nervously if I should enter,
and then, squaring my shoulders, I go in.

The scene is a garage and smells vaguely of gasoline. I see Tom's legs
beneath the shining red car; Harry is sitting on a rather lopsided
stool, watching with an expression of disinterest of his face. He
immediately gets to his feet when he notices my presence.

"Captain!" he exclaims.

"At ease," I say. "I apologize for interrupting."

Tom pushes out from beneath the car; he is wearing that awful gray
jumpsuit, his gray turtleneck peeking up from beneath the collar. His
eyes, like everything else about him recently, are hard and unfriendly.

"Any word?" he asks, sitting up. "Can we get off this ship? Honestly,
Captain, I would have preferred to stay in the Delta Quadrant if I had
known our homecoming would be like this."

"Tuvok is on the station now," I say. "When he comes back, we'll know
what is going on."

"Anything on Chakotay and B'Elanna?" Tom persists.

"Nothing," I frown. The silence from Starfleet on the fate of my two
officers is loud and grating.

"Anything from my father? He hasn't responded to any of my messages,"
Tom says. His face crumples for a second and then rearranges itself
into an expression of nonchalance - very similar to the face he wore
during his first few years on Voyager, when he was trying so hard to
pretend that the animosity directed towards him by the crew did not
hurt him.

I knew better though. Tom Paris, consummate ladies' man, joker and
gambler, has feelings and until B'Elanna Torres loved him, he never
showed them.

I reach forward to touch his forearm, "No, Tom, there has been no word
from your father, but that could also be because of the communications
blockade."

"Captain, isn't that odd?" Harry asks from behind me. "It's almost as
if we are the criminals."

"It's all part of protocol," I answer.

"That might work for Seven," Tom says. "But you can't fool us. What's
going on?"

I sigh, "I won't keep anything from you, Tom, but I honestly don't
know. Tuvok is the only one who is allowed to attend the sessions. When
he returns, I will certainly ask him."

"Do you think they are investigating you?" Tom asks. His voice is
nonchalant, but I pick up the faint tremor underlying his tone.

"It's a good possibility," I admit.

"If they are investigating you, what will happen to the rest of us?"
Harry asks. He looks frightened; I don't blame him. Seven years ago, he
was just starting on a brand new career, one that should have been full
of promise. Who knows where Harry could have been if I hadn't lost us
all in the Delta Quadrant?

"Nothing, I expect," I say easily, and I am as sure of this answer as I
was about us getting home.

"They want to split us up," Tom says. "All of us."

"That's not true."

"I expect I'll be going back to New Zealand," Tom goes on. "The weather
there is pretty nice; it won't be so bad."

"Don't be ridiculous," I say sharply. "Our previous arrangement stands.
I have been assured of that. You have your freedom."

"And B'Elanna?" Tom demands. "What about her?"

"Tom," Harry says. "You heard the Captain; Starfleet hasn't been
exactly forthcoming about its intentions."

"I promise you, Tom, I'll do everything I can for B'Elanna."

Tom scoots out completely from beneath the car and gets to his feet;
his expression is hard.

"It may not be enough," he says.

"Tom," Harry says.

"What the hell," Tom says. He angrily stuffs tools into the metal case
by his feet.

"What's going on?" I ask, bewildered by my helm officer's behavior.

"Don't you find it a bit odd that we are all still here on Voyager?" he
asks, those bright eyes flashing. "Isn't it odd that no one except
Tuvok can see B'Elanna and Chakotay? Not even you are allowed off of
this ship. That doesn't make sense, Captain. There's something going on
and I want an explanation."

"I don't have one."

"I didn't think so, no offense, Captain."

We make an odd group there in the holodeck and I regret my intrusion;
no doubt Harry was counseling his friend. Tom's face has gone red,
Harry is suddenly interested in a spot of grease on the floor and I
simply feel uncomfortable.

"Tuvok to Janeway."

I take a deep breath, thankful for the interruption.

"Janeway here," I say, aware of Tom's curiosity and Harry's continued
disinterest.

"I need to see you. Right away."

"On my way. Janeway out."

I turn to look at the two men before I exit.

"Tom, I will get you the answers you need," I tell him softly. He
merely shrugs his shoulders.

---

I should have known, even given my close friendship with B'Elanna, that
I would be the last to know about her relationship with Tom Paris.

Maybe it was because I closed my eyes, refused to see the signs of an
infatuation morphing rapidly into something else. I convinced myself
that they were too different, or was it too alike? Whatever it was, I
did not see it, did not know.

After Voyager's crew served as guinea pigs for the nameless aliens -
yes, I know, but they didn't exactly introduce themselves - there was
no one on the ship who didn't know about Tom and B'Elanna. And I think,
B'Elanna felt a bit of guilt for not saying something to me first and
that's why she showed up at my door, a bit drained from a double-shift,
but still radiant in a way only B'Elanna can be.

"Come in," I said. I was lounging on the sofa in loose pants and shirt -
 comfortable clothes, perfect for unwinding.

"Hi," she said shyly from the door. I noted the bottle of wine in her
hand.

"Come in," I repeated, straightening. "What's going on?"

"I had this lying around," she said. "A rare bottle from Dorvan IV. How
does that sound to you?"

"Terrific," I said. "Let me get the glasses."

The vineyards on my home world, Dorvan IV, had never been known for
producing much by the way of wine. In fact, Dorvan's wines were
decidedly mediocre, most of the grapes sour and because of the constant
Cardassian attacks, never allowed to ferment in oak barrels long
enough. But still, I appreciated B'Elanna's gesture, for what it meant;
Dorvan's vineyards were long gone, burned to a crisp.

"It's a red," she said. "Merlot."

I wrinkled my nose.

"Yeah, I know," B'Elanna said. "But let's give it a shot, okay?"

I got the wineglasses out of a cupboard and put them on the table;
B'Elanna poured the wine.

"It's been a while," she said. "Since we talked, you and me."

"Yeah," I said. "It's been... busy."

And I wanted to kick myself for my stupid answer, for not putting more
thought into my words and for not saying what I really wanted to.

"How are you feeling?" B'Elanna asked conversationally.

"Okay," I said. "Still a little wobbly in the muscles."

"I know the feeling," B'Elanna said. "I felt slightly... out of
control?"

"That's one way of putting it," I raised my glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

I leaned back in my chair and sipped the wine.

"Not bad," I said. "Not quite as dry as I feared, but still bitter."

B'Elanna swallowed hard. "I'm glad you like it."

She put her glass down, "Chakotay, I didn't come here to drink wine
with you."

"I know," I said. "You just needed an excuse, though you never needed
one before."

"You're one of my best friends," she said sincerely. Actual warmth
seeped into her voice and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if this was
Tom Paris' work. "I should have told you about Tom."

"It would have been nice to hear it from you and not from Tuvok."

"Yeah," B'Elanna's eyes drifted to a spot on the wall directly above my
head. "I guess I wasn't sure, didn't know what everyone would think."

"Does it matter?"

"I don't want people to think I've lost my head."

"You have though, haven't you?"

B'Elanna's lips parted slightly and then she smiled.

"Yes," she said. "I didn't think... didn't imagine that it would be
like this. I never imagined that Tom would... care back."

I pushed my empty wineglass away and leaned back in my chair.

"You know what I think about Tom Paris," I said. "He's irresponsible,
dangerous, never serious about anything. B'Elanna, I'm worried about
you. He won't take care of you the way," and I took a deep breath here.
I wanted to finish the sentence, say, "won't take care of you the you
deserve to be taken care of," but I couldn't. I looked at B'Elanna,
noted that her eyes had a gleam to them that I had never seen before; a
glitter of an emotion that I never thought I would see in her eyes.

"I know the risks," B'Elanna said earnestly. "I know what Tom is like
and it doesn't matter. My eyes are open and I'm not under any
illusions. Maybe it will work, maybe it won't. All I know is that when
I'm with him, the rest of the world blurs and I see only him. I could
be making a mistake but it's my mistake to make, Chakotay."

"I don't want you to get hurt, B'Elanna. Tom Paris has that reputation.
He," I couldn't finish. Visions of Tom's past conquests flitted through
my head and I hated to think of B'Elanna as just another notch on Tom's
belt. "I just want you to be careful."

"Believe me," B'Elanna said. "I pushed him away as much as I could. He
got to me, Chakotay, and I don't know how. On day, he was this annoying
itch and then suddenly, he was there, under my skin. I couldn't stop
thinking about him, even looked forward to spending time with him. And
I'm sorry. There were times when I wanted to tell him something even
before I wanted to tell you. I think that's when I knew. And yeah, I
know what Tom's reputation is like and I'm not going to delude myself
and think that I'm the one who is going to change him."

Our eyes met for an uncomfortable second; I was the one who looked away
because I knew that I would not see in B'Elanna's eyes what was
reflected in mine.

"As long as you know," I said.

"I know," she whispered, heavy inflection laid on the last word. She
laid her hand on top of mine. "I know, Chakotay."

We sat there in awkward silence for a little while and then B'Elanna
got up, nearly knocking over her chair in the process.

"I've got to go," she said. "Um, Tom."

"Yeah," I said.

"Good night."

"Good night."

B'Elanna vanished into the corridors of Voyager, the doors hissing shut
behind her. I looked at the half-empty wine bottle; maybe finishing it
would put me in a deep, dreamless sleep, safe from the nightmarish
image of B'Elanna lying in Tom Paris' arms and his hands on her skin.

---

"What is it?" I meet Tuvok en route to my quarters. He looks perturbed -
 or as perturbed as a Vulcan possibly can. I wonder if he is thinking
about his wife, wondering about his children; or maybe he is single-
minded, thinking only of the task ahead. "How are Chakotay and Torres?"

"They are being interrogated," he says in that flat voice. I sigh; it
was not the answer I wanted. I wanted to know how they were; were they
well-fed? Were they being well taken care of? Were they sleeping at
night? How were they feeling?

And these were answers that Tuvok would be unable to provide me.

"What are they being questioned on?" I ask, deciding to sidestep the
issue of Chakotay and Torres' well-being for right now.

"Everything," Tuvok says. "From the moment they arrived on Voyager
until the day we returned home."

"Anything in specific?"

"No, I have yet to discern a pattern. They were interested in Seska."

"Of course. Who wouldn't it be? She caused us no end of problems," I
say. I remember Seska, as I last saw her - her long red hair flowing
down her back, her Cardassian ridges prominent above her eyes, and in
her arms, cradling the child she claimed was Chakotay's. "What do you
think the Federation intends to do with the Maquis?"

"I do not believe the outcome will be positive. The Federation, and by
association Starfleet, has not forgotten the crimes of the Maquis,"
Tuvok says, his voice evenly modulated. He indicates the door to my
quarters. I enter the pass code and we enter. Tuvok sits stiffly in the
armchair, but I let decorum go for the time being and sprawl on the
sofa.

"There is a certain faction intent on prosecuting them to the full
extant of the law," my friend continues.

"After all they have done for Voyager? I couldn't have asked for a
better first officer than Commander Chakotay."

"They have yet to ask about their contributions to Voyager," Tuvok says
flatly.

"What about B'Elanna? Without her, we would have never survived.
Voyager wouldn't have lasted a minute in the Delta Quadrant without her
expertise."

"Lieutenant Torres has yet to speak. They do not seem interested in
questioning her."

"But they have her and Chakotay both? Why? Has something happened to
Starfleet while we were gone?"

Tuvok shrugs.

"I do not know," he answers with maddening equanimity. "But there is
something else. They will allow you to attend the questioning tomorrow."
My mood brightens immediately.

"What?"

"Tomorrow," Tuvok nods. "They said you can be present."

And I know, from the tone of Tuvok's voice, that it cannot be good. My
stomach churns and I feel the beginnings of a headache threatening
behind my temples and at the nape of my neck.

"I'll be there," I say hollowly. "Tell them... tell them I will be
there."

Tuvok pauses; there is something more and he finds it difficult to
begin. And somehow, I know where he is going with this question.

"They are asking about your relationship with Commander Chakotay,"
Tuvok says quietly.

"That's none of their business."

"Nonetheless, the question was asked."

"Damn them!" I lean forward on the table, dropping my head. "Is nothing
sacred?"

"Apparently not."

"Good lord," I said. "I don't believe this. If they want to put me on
trial, then they should. There is no reason for this... farce. No
reason to detain B'Elanna and Chakotay if it's me they want to know
about."

"I have yet to discern their true motivations," Tuvok says. "I am
unable to extrapolate their intentions where Voyager and the Maquis are
concerned. I confess, I find the whole proceedings to be illogical."

"I imagine they are on a fishing expedition," I say. "They are simply
looking for something, anything. Why, I cannot say."

"I do not know either," says Tuvok. "But it makes me uneasy."

I straighten up, feeling the strength return to my backbone. I nod at
Tuvok's remark, grateful that he feels the same trepidation that I do.

"I know the feeling," I tell him.

The two of us head down the corridor towards the messhall; I could
really use a cup of coffee.

The messhall is full when we get there; bored crew members are chatting
listlessly or playing variations of chess, derata and other strategy
games.

Neelix greets us when we enter.

"Captain, Mr. Vulcan," he says.

"Coffee, hot," I tell him, not bothering to specify anything else;
there is a dull pounding in my head, one that only coffee can relieve.

"Coming right up, Captain."

Tuvok and I find an empty table in the furthest corner of the messhall.
Through the windows, we can see a bit of the starbase and the workers
tethered to the hull.

"It will take years to repair the damage from the war," I muse.

"The war did leave both sides badly decimated," Tuvok agrees.

Neelix brings the coffee over.

"Did you want something, Commander?" Neelix asks.

"I am fine."

"It's quiet in here, Neelix," I say.

"I have tried my best," he says. "The crew is concerned about their
Maquis friends."

"That's surprising," I say. "Considering the tensions prior to our
arrival in the Alpha Quadrant."

"Uncertainty does that, Captain," Neelix sits down next to Tuvok. "The
Maquis withdrew into themselves because they were unsure of their
reception in the Alpha Quadrant and what that would mean for their
Starfleet comrades. They were unsure whether their friendships would
survive what was to come."

"So rather than facing that, they chose to cut the ties themselves?" I
ask.

"Yes," Neelix nods. "That is my impression. It would help, Captain, if
you spoke to the crew and reassure them that the Maquis will be all
right."

I look down at my coffee mug.

"Captain?" Neelix asks. "They will be all right, won't they?"

"I hope so," I tell him. "But I know they will be grateful for the
support of their friends. That much I'm sure of."

"But you don't know for sure that everything is going to be all right?"

I look at Tuvok whose lips have drawn into a thin line. I've seen that
expression many times during our long friendship.

"For what it's worth, Neelix," I reach across the table to cover
Neelix's hand with mine. "I'm glad you decided to stay with us. I think
we could all use a morale officer."

---

The first time we made love, there were candles. It was right after
Kashyk and the music playing in the background was not Mahler.

"Grieg?" I asked after a couple seconds of straining. Kathryn nodded.

"Yes," she said. "Were you expecting something else?"

She was challenging me, wanting me to bring up Kashyk, but I shook my
head.

"This particular composition," I said. "I just... never mind."

Dinner was not unusual for us; we ate together quite frequently,
usually to discuss private personnel matters that could not be brought
up in public.

This night, she had dimmed the lights, lit the candles, and the table
was set with silverware and china I had never seen before.

"Looks good," I said awkwardly. "Smells good too."

Kathryn smiled, indicating the chair opposite her.

"Have a seat," she said.

"What is for dinner?" I asked.

"Hmm... we start with a Caesar salad," she said, spooning some Romaine
lettuce into my place. "And then follows a tomato basil soup. The main
entrée is a creamy pesto linguini and then, chocolate mousse to finish
off."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Should be," Kathryn ladled soup in my bowl. "I replicated them using
Chef Lanzetti's recipes."

"Chef Lanzetti," I smiled. "I remember. Right outside of the Academy
grounds. Best Italian food outside of Italy."

"That's right," Kathryn said, seating herself in front of me. She was
wearing her gray T-shirt and black uniform pants, but a tiny glint of
silver chain peeked from beneath the circular neck of the shirt. "And
the wine... a Merlot from 2369."

"A good year," I said approvingly.

"You know your wines," she said, her voice dropping low and throaty.
She poured the liquid into the crystal wineglasses by our plates. "This
does seem like an indulgence, doesn't it?"

"A bit, but everyone is allowed once in a while."

"Including a captain?"

"Especially a captain," I smiled.

"So," she leaned back in her chair, her right shoulder slightly
forward. "Do you think I was wrong about Kashyk?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," she rubbed a finger along the edge of her glass. "But
I wonder... what if? Would it have been so terrible?"

"Depends what you're talking about," I answered lightly.

She leaned forward, her hands on her thighs, her chin thrust earnestly
forward.

"I suppose you're right," and then she laughed a little schoolgirl's
laugh.

I finished my salad and put the bowl aside and then started in on the
soup.

"This is excellent, Kathryn," I said sincerely.

"Thank you," she smiled. And then, a shadow crossed her face. "It had
been so long, Chakotay."

"I know the feeling."

"You at least had... Seska," she said this last name with a bit of
disgust.

"Not really," I answered. "Not since coming aboard Voyager."

Janeway held up a hand, "Really, Chakotay, your personal affairs are
none of my business."

I put my fork down, almost ready to argue with her. After all, she was
the one who had brought Seska up, not me.

"I suppose if you never suspected Seska, then it wasn't so bad that I
didn't suspect Kashyk of duplicity... at first," she said pensively. "I
did figure it out, Chakotay, and still, I played him. Played him as he
played me."

I twirled linguini around my fork.

"Fresh pesto," I said. "Now that's quite the achievement."

"Aeroponics," she beamed. "Fresh basil. I had a few small plants
before... before we ended up here."

She said the word "here" with the same disgust she reserved for Seska.
In the candlelight, Kathryn Janeway's hair took on a golden-red tint
and I loved the way the light reflected off of the gentle waves just
above her ear.

Of course, these were sentiments I would never share with Kath -
Janeway - her.

We continued eating in silence and I only lifted my head once to
comment on the music.

"Not Grieg anymore," I said. "Chopin."

"Very good," she said as harsh piano chords sounded in the
background. "Do you know which one?"

"Hmm. `Raindrops,' perhaps?"

"I never knew you were a connoisseur of romantic music," Janeway
drained her glass of the last of the wine. She tipped her head back,
revealing a long expanse of white neck. I could see the longitudinal
lengths of ligaments running from just below her jawbone and
disappearing into the small hollow at the junction of her clavicle
bone.

"I had a friend... at the Academy," I paused. "Elise."

"Elise?" Janeway blinked a couple times, her long lashes fluttering
girlishly. Damn if she wasn't flirting.

"Elise," I confirmed. "She played the piano. A virtuoso. Her father,
however, had other plans for her. I think she eventually became a
science officer on the Valiant."

"You don't know for sure?"

"No," I answered. "We didn't see each other for very long."

"Just long enough to pick up some Grieg and Chopin?"

"Among other things," I smiled.

Janeway got up, pushing her chair back so hastily that it nearly tipped
over.

"Computer, play Janeway selection theta nine," she said harshly.

Startled by her abrupt mood swing, I got up from my chair.

The music filling the captain's quarters very different than the
previous selections. This was a vocal piece, a smooth tenor filling the
air.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A favorite of the Doctor's," Janeway said. "It's called `Someone to
Watch Over Me.'"

"Sounds... interesting."

"You don't care for it?"

"It takes some getting used to."

"I think the singer is Bajoran."

"Now that's something different."

We were now only inches away from each other, and without thinking, I
reached up and tipped her chin up slightly so that we were looking
directly into each other's eyes.

Janeway - no, Kathryn - slipped her arms around my neck, pressing her
cheek against the scratchy wool of my uniform. My own arms slipped to
her back, and then down lower... as far as a first officer could
possibly dare.

I don't know the exact second her lips first met mine and I can't even
really recall the sensation of skin against skin; I wish it were more
memorable, but it wasn't. It was almost like a flutter of wind, barely
detectable, and I would wonder if the kiss - as I thought of it - had
even happened.

Somehow, we tumbled onto her bed in a tangle of legs and arms, panting
heavily. How we undressed, I don't know, but before long, there was
nothing between her skin and mine and my lips were against that throat
I had not so long ago admired.

I think at one point I might have said her name, might have said
Kathryn, but again - like everything else - that too might be a figment
of what I wanted.

Later, we lay side by side, neither of us touching. She had pulled up
the sheets, covering her breasts, and her hands were folded neatly on
her stomach.

I didn't know what to say. I mean, what do you say? Starfleet doesn't
cover this in its classes, doesn't tell you what to do in the minutes
after... the minutes after you made love to a superior officer.

What was I supposed to say?

"Red alert, Captain? Loading phaser banks. Ready to fire on your mark."

But then, as Seven would say, the comparison was flawed. Or was it?

I waited for her to speak for, wanted her to speak first.

Kathryn turned her head slightly, her eyes lolling all the way to the
left.

"I will see you at breakfast then?" she asked. "At 0700 hours?"

I cleared my throat, "That sounds good."

I got up, got dressed, and I was keenly aware of her eyes on me,
sweeping the length of my body.

I left and knew that the evening had been no accident. She had planned
it from beginning to end and it didn't matter who it had been that
night. Kashyk or me, or even Tom or Harry, you name him, it didn't
matter that night to Kathryn Janeway.

I knew it from the music.

Grieg's "Erotic."

I never stood a chance.

---

The interior of Starbase 87 is not any more inviting than the outside;
in fact, access is restricted in general, and if I look out of the
corners of my eyes, I can see the gaps in heavy metal plating that
separates us from the cold vacuum of space.

They allowed Tom to accompany me, in addition to Tuvok; for this small
favor, I am grateful, though I figure the Admiral - Tom's father - must
have had something to do with it.

Tom is visibly agitated, occasionally running his hand through his
blond hair; the tresses stand awkwardly on end right about his
forehead, giving him that boyish quality that we women find so damn
charming.

Tom and I walk shoulder to shoulder with Tuvok a step or two in front
of us. It is quiet here, very few personnel anywhere to be seen.
Not for the first time, I wonder at the parsimony of our welcome. Tom
glances over at me and I pause, waiting for him to speak.

"The war," he says. "We won."

Tuvok's eyebrows arch up and then fall back down. His lips tremble
slightly as if he is going to speak, but instead he sucks in air,
hollowing out his cheeks, and then lets it out in soft sigh.

"That is what the history books will say," I answer carefully. "The
Federation won the Dominion War when Cardassia broke the alliance and
joined us."

"You know," Tom looks around at the deserted storefronts and the debris
piled against the walls. "When my children ask about the Dominion War,
I'm not going to be able to tell them anything. Won't be able to share
with them anything that is not already in a history book. They'll ask,
and I'll have to answer that I spent the whole damn war in the Delta
Quadrant."

There it is, that silent accusation again. My shoulders stiffen; I do
not know how to answer Tom's statement and I don't think he is
necessarily looking for anything from me anymore. Truth be told, I
don't think Tom needs me anymore. He has validated himself in his
father's eyes and he has B'Elanna to comfort and coddle him. What he
does with his life now is completely up to him; he no longer needs to
be rescued or rehabilitated.

"Your experience in the Delta Quadrant was unique," Tuvok says without
irony. Again I look at my old friend, wonder what exactly is going
through that analytical mind of his. We have talked, once or twice,
about our experiences on the Borg cube, but Tuvok never dwells on the
emotional aspect of our assimilation; he merely points out that our
motives were justified, our mission solid.

Tom's face softens and for a moment, I am reminded of a cocky young man
telling me brashly, "Hell, I'd be the best pilot you could have."

Impulsively, I squeeze Tom's arm.

"Our experiences, our studies," I say. "It will add so much to the
Federation's database of knowledge. Perhaps some of our..." I pause as
I notice a Starfleet delegation heading towards us.

Until this moment, I have been grateful for the lack of obvious
Starfleet security. But as the cliché says, all good things eventually
must come to an end as I make quick note of the phasers attached
securely to hips.

Admiral Rodney McArthur leads the group; his lips drawn into a straight
line, his eyes unsmiling.

"Captain," he says crisply. "I am sorry I was not there to meet you
when you came aboard."

"It's good to see you again, Admiral."

"It's been a long time, Kathryn," his voice softens as he says my name.

I take his proffered hand and add a bit of a squeeze, hoping he
remembers our camaraderie for the one year we served together under
Owen Paris. "Everyone is very eager to hear of your adventures in the
Delta Quadrant. You truly fulfilled Starfleet's mission: going where no
one has gone before."

I nod, biting my lip so that the words - "what have you done with
Chakotay and B'Elanna" - won't slip out prematurely.

"And this must be Tom Paris," McArthur says. "Your father is very proud
of you, boy."

Tom draws himself up straight, visibly offended.

"I would like to talk to my father," Tom says. "Is he here?"

"He is on his way," McArthur answers. "He was, um, delayed on his way
out from San Francisco. Ongoing negotiations with various parties,
reconstruction efforts, you know, the usual fallout after a war."

"Looks like this station took a beating," I observe.

"Yes, we were in the thick of it," McArthur says. "Those were some
rough days, but it makes you appreciate the peace that follows much
more. Come, let's go. We don't have much time."

We follow McArthur through the corridors, the security delegation
following discreetly behind us. As we go deeper within the heart of the
station, I notice that the walls are cleaner, the damage less obvious.
Sterility permeates the air, the signs that the oxygen recyclers are
working at full capacity.

"Admiral," I hurry to catch up. "Where are we going?"

"Commander Tuvok mentioned that you wanted to attend the trial of the
Maquis," McArthur says coolly.

"Trial?" I stop. "I thought you were just investigating them, asking
some questions."

"Kathryn, you should know better."

"They served on my crew, ably I might add, for seven years! I couldn't
have asked for a better group of people. I can't believe you - the
Federation, Starfleet - would put them on trial after everything we -
they - have been through."

"Believe me, Kathryn, we considered all of what you are saying,"
McArthur says in a soothing voice. "But we can't ignore that a crime -
many crimes - were committed against Starfleet personnel and Federation
protectorates. They are terrorists."

"Were," I correct him icily. "Were terrorists. The war is over,
Admiral, and they served their time. Believe me, the Delta Quadrant was
no picnic. We suffered plenty when we were there."

"We're aware of that. Chakotay has been quite forthcoming with his
information. He's a nice fellow, Kathryn. You did well to pick him to
serve as your first officer, though frankly, I must question your
judgment in picking a Maquis soldier before looking at a member of your
Starfleet-loyal crew."

Tom's cheeks are red now and out of the corner of my eye, I see Tuvok
place a restraining hand on Tom's shoulder.

"The death count was too high, Kathryn," McArthur says again in that
irritatingly condescending voice. "We looked at the numbers and we
looked at the cost estimates. Again, someone had to be held responsible-"

"So you're going after my people?" I ask flatly.

"Your people?" McArthur laughs slightly. "Seven years ago, Kathryn, you
went after them. Your mission was to retrieve the Maquis ship and bring
back Tuvok. I would say you were successful, wouldn't you?"

With that, he turns and continues walking. My cheeks are flaming, my
heart thumping so fast that I feel it will leap right out of my
ribcage.

"What does he mean?" I whirl on Tuvok, much to the irritation of the
guards standing directly behind.

"Captain," Tuvok's eyes hold an obvious warning for me.

"They've already made their decision," Tom says flatly. "They probably
didn't even listen to a word the Commander or B'Elanna had to say; they
had already made up their mind and they kept us locked up on Voyager
until it was too late for us to do anything at all."

"Tuvok," I say. My Vulcan friend, so incapable of lying and so
unwilling to show emotion, closes his eyes for a brief second before
nodding his head.

---

How did I get along with the others? That's an interesting question. At
the beginning, it was Janeway and Tuvok versus B'Elanna and me. Harry
and Tom, they were usually together. What a pair those two were - one
utterly clueless and the other hardened beyond his years.

I envied the trust Janeway had - has - in Tuvok. There were times when
she confided in him and I wanted her to talk to me instead; after all,
I was her first officer.

Even after we became lovers, there were times when we clashed and she
would go to Tuvok; he could make the same recommendation as me but she
would give him more weight. The fact that she sometimes relied on Tuvok
more than me made me furious.

I was always aware of the differences in the way Janeway viewed me, but
it came to a forefront when we made that alliance with the Kazon. Call
us crazy, but we were out of our minds at that time, concentrating on
survival. The Prime Directive is all well and good, but we Maquis, we
didn't choose to die for the Prime Directive; that's Starfleet's
imperative. So that's why I pushed Ka- Captain Janeway - to make the
alliance and in typical Janeway fashion, she didn't listen to me.

My reasoning was very simple; we had spent several weeks being pounded
by the Kazon mercilessly. Three people - including my friend Bandera -
had died in the attacks and the Doctor and Kes were already working
around the clock monitoring those who weren't lucky enough to die the
first time the Kazon attacked us. And I told Janeway then that this was
like being in the Maquis, that I had been a good Starfleet officer, but
it was time to try something new. And I hinted that maybe it was time
to take a Maquis-approach to the situation.

I might as well have been talking to a brick wall.

The Captain's mind was already made up and dammit, she was going to
stick to Starfleet protocol, even if it meant we were going to perish
out in the Delta Quadrant.

I didn't realize how important the Prime Directive was to Kathryn
Janeway until Bandera's memorial service. After we dissipated, I
witnessed Hogan and Jonas talking to Janeway and while I did not hear
Hogan's question, I did hear the Captain's response. She said, very
clearly, "I'll destroy this ship before I let any of its technology
fall into Kazon hands."

And then, as she was walking out of the room, she turned to me and
said, "How's that for the Maquis way, Commander?"

I tell you, honestly, that I hated her in that moment. Truly I did
because much as I admired her principles and her loyalty to the
Starfleet establishment, I couldn't see how a guiding directive could
possibly help us in a quadrant where death seemed to lurk in nebulas
and star systems.

And I took that moment to try and make her understand. After almost two
years in the Delta Quadrant, how could she not understand the very real
fear paralyzing the crew? How could she not understand the repugnance
of following the orders of an establishment that was seventy-five
thousand light years away?

She asked me if I agreed with the Hogan's suggestion about giving
technology to the Kazon and of course I said no. And I honestly
believed that while Hogan's thoughts reflected those of the crew, his
suggestion was not the best way for Voyager.

And that's when I plowed forward and told her exactly what I was
thinking, what her crew was thinking.

"But you have to realize that the Starfleet protocols you've locked
onto are ideals many of the Maquis resent the hell out of. Your
principles aren't necessarily theirs. Can we find something in between
we can all find satisfactory?" I asked.

The coldness in her eyes scared me and I had a vision of being
immediately chucked out of the nearest airlock; well, suffocating in
space was surely quicker and less painful than knowing that we were a
sitting target for the Kazon.

"You have a suggestion? Make it," she snapped at me.

"Make an alliance," I said. And then I got her, reminding her of all of
the promises she had made to us in the past, the promises to get us
home. You can't send a ship of bodies back to the Alpha Quadrant. And I
asked her, straight-out, "Are you really making your decisions with the
best interests of the crew at heart?"

And she just stared at me for a moment and I could tell she was trying
to counter my words with something more powerful and pull out some
obscure Starfleet rule that would allow her to make such cavalier
decisions.

"I'm going to talk to Tuvok," she said flatly.

"Fine," I shot back,.

It was then I realized how little she trusted me and how much more she
depended on Tuvok. I don't know what happened in their conversation,
only that they had one, but when she came out, she was amiable to the
alliance, but only because Tuvok had talked her into it.

I think it was Harry who made the comment about trying to find Seska
and the whole idea of seeing her and remembering her - it was repulsive
to me, but B'Elanna and Tom thought it was a good idea and apparently
it sounded like Janeway thought so also.

She even said as much to me, mockingly.

"You can't have it halfway, Commander. If you play with the pigs, you
can't complain about getting dirty," she said.

The remark rankled at me and sometimes, when we would argue about we
needed to be done in a situation, I would remember this, our aborted
alliance with the Kazon and how much work it took to get us there.

And so, yes, the path to Janeway's confidence, it took a while. It
wasn't easy and we clashed many times, more times than I can possibly
count. And underlying every single on of those arguments was her
overwhelming distaste for anything Maquis, anything which did not fall
into a Starfleet protocol book.

I do have to say, in her defense, she did what she thought was right
for the crew. Her heart was in the right place even if her head was not.

---

It has only been a couple days, but it feels like forever since I last
saw Chakotay and Torres. In the harsh light of the interrogation room,
they both look wane, their skin slightly tinged with yellow. Both of
them are dressed in civilian clothes, circa 2371 - the year we vanished
into the Delta Quadrant.

"I want to talk to them," I hiss to McArthur. He holds up one finger.

"You have a minute," and from the tone of his voice, I know he means
sixty seconds exactly. I cross the room, hoping desperately that I can
bridge the distance between us. I only look back once when I notice

B'Elanna's eyes widen and then her expression crumples; security guards
hold Tom back.

"Are you okay?" I whisper to Chakotay, not willing to give McArthur and
the others the pleasure of hearing my conversation with the man I still
consider my first officer and best friend.

"Tired," he says in an equally low voice. He nudges B'Elanna and she
reluctantly turns to look at me.

"Are they treating you well?" I ask.

"Standard Starfleet brig," Chakotay says. "Bad food, uncomfortable bed,
noisy. Feels like the Academy in a way."

"Only no homework," B'Elanna says in monotone, her eyes still fixed on
Tom. "I want to talk to him, Captain. Can you...?"

"I'll do what I can."

B'Elanna grabs at my sleeve, "They want to know everything, Captain."

"You can be honest," I assure them both.

Chakotay tips his head slightly, "Kathryn, no."

"I don't regret any of it," I tell him. "You don't need to worry about
me. Do what you have to do to get out of here."

"Compromise our principles. Is that what you're saying?"

"If you have to, yes."

"You're advocating lying," Chakotay points out. Our eyes meet and I
want to, in front of all of these people, reach out and touch his
cheek. I want to trail my fingers down the sharp angle of his chin,
down his neck, and trace a line of kisses along the lines of his
clavicle bone. I settle instead for a pat on his shoulder and a swift
clutch at B'Elanna's hand.

"Captain," McArthur's voice is sharp and crisp behind me. I sigh,
feeling unbelievably tired by these games. No doubt Chakotay and
B'Elanna feel the same.

"We will begin the questioning in one minute," McArthur says
quietly. "Now, we know about the Equinox from your logs, but I
understand that there was some... dissension between you and your first
officer."

"He was only doing his job," I lash out. "He was only doing what he
thought was best for me, for Voyager."

"Yet you confined him to quarters. Did you not trust him, Kathryn?"

"No, it wasn't that, not at all," I answer. "He was..."

"He was what, Kathryn?"

I stare back into those steely blue eyes, searching for the man who had
taught me, albeit badly, to play dom jott. There is no trace of him to
be seen in the stern lines crossing his brow. It is obvious that the
war years treated Rodney McArthur badly, but I do not understand his
animosity towards the Maquis.

"He was... right," I say forcefully. "I was afraid of that. Afraid that
everyone would see what a terrible mistake I was making and the he was
right."

McArthur points out a steel-backed chair, sans cushions, very similar
to the ones Chakotay and Torres are occupying.

"You have always had a soft spot for the downtrodden, Kathryn," he
says. "Your kindness is also your greatest fallacy; you are unable to
see the truth even if it masquerades in the guise of true evil."

I want to speak more, but I see Tuvok, his index finger against his
lip, and I notice that Tom is no longer in the room.

"Where is Lieutenant Paris?" I cannot help but ask.

"He has been removed," McArthur says. "I do not know what kind of ship
you ran, Kathryn, but I assure you, disrespect for a senior officer is
not to be tolerated at any level."

I look back at Chakotay, see him run a comforting hand over B'Elanna's
back.

"He loves her," I tell McArthur.

McArthur gazes at me, a sudden mixture of pity and contempt swirling in
those blue eyes.

"That is a pity," McArthur says quietly.

---

It's odd to talk about the Equinox; most of the time, the Captain and I
would sidestep what happened during that time, mostly because it was
too painful to discuss for so many reasons. I really think, in some
ways, it was a turning point for Kathryn and I.

For the most of our journey, I agreed with her. I clashed with her on
the Kazon alliance because I thought she was wrong, applying her
morality in a place where it did not belong; Kathryn is nothing if not
highly principled.

This... this was different. This was personal. She was going after
Ransom with a vengeance that frightened me greatly; my feelings for
Kathryn aside, I felt she was putting Voyager in a position of greater
danger - sacrificing us to salve her own aching sense of right and
wrong.

Most of what happened, you have in her logs. I tried to keep mine
brief, but she was amazingly honest in hers. What happened with Noah
Lessing, about that risk she took, almost killing the man, that really
did happen.

I remember, standing there, pleading with her to acknowledge the man's
loyalty to Ransom and she still bludgeoned on, seemingly unaware of the
fissure threatening to suck us all out into space.

When we talked about what happened later, in calmly modulated voices
overlying the fury we both were feeling, my heart was pounding so hard,
I swear, I thought it was going to jump right out of my ribcage. And it
honestly took all of my courage to speak with her that afternoon. Can
you believe it? I led raids on Cardassian outposts without blinking and
yet I found it difficult to talk to Kathryn Janeway that day without
feeling that lump growing thicker in my throat.

"You almost killed that man today," I began.

"It was a calculated risk and I took it."

"It was a bad call," and I stood there, unable to believe even my own
audacity.

"I'll note your objection in my log."

"I don't give a damn about your log! This isn't about rules and
regulations. It's about right and wrong. And I'm warning you - I won't
let you cross that line again."

I don't know what I was thinking, but I was her first officer and I had
a job to do. I wondered, in the silence hanging between us, did I go
too far? Or wasn't it the job of every first officer to challenge the
Captain if she did something he felt was out-of-line?

But I knew when she opened her mouth, that I had made the wrong
decision, had contradicted her one too many times.

"Then you leave me no choice. You are hereby relieved of duty until
further notice."

The coldness in her voice startled me. Was this the same woman who had
been lying next to me only three nights previously? I saw nothing of
the Kathryn I knew in the woman standing in front of me. All those
qualities I admired in her - her stubborn streak, her integrity, her
staunch principles, and her fidelity - had manifested themselves into
something... insane.

So I tried one more time, hoping to appeal to some part of her that
still remembered what it was like to care.

"What's happened to you, Kathryn?"

And then she truly wounded me.

"I was about to ask you the same question," Janeway responded.

When you are relieved of duty, it's too painful and humiliating to face
the rest of the crew; so, in general, you spend it quarters, drinking
coffee and thinking.

I'll be honest - Kathryn frightened me. Her desire, her drive, to be
bring Ransom to justice reminded me of Javier from the classic Terran
novel "Les Miserables."

The significance hit me as I lay in bed, eyes focused on the ceiling.

He was a Starfleet captain, crippled by his circumstances, and forced
by desperation into forsaking all that Starfleet held dear. And I
wondered if in Ransom, Janeway saw a portent of the future, a
devastating picture of what Voyager could become if we didn't get out
of here soon.

And even with that reasoning, I still could not forgive her.

Later Tuvok told me that Janeway had offered up the Equinox to the
Ankari if they would stop their attacks on Voyager. And despite his
admonishments, despite his warnings that they would kill Ransom and his
crew, Janeway proceeded with the deal, her callousness matched only by
her ruthlessness.

And I knew it then, knew both Tuvok and I were outclassed, outmatched.
You see, even though you consider me a criminal, I do have a sense of
decency, a sense of what is right and wrong. I'm not saying that
Kathryn doesn't; I truly believe that somewhere she thought she was
doing the right thing - carrying out her duties as Starfleet dictated.
But I didn't like what happened to her and neither did Tuvok.

We had much to repair on Voyager; half of our systems were destroyed or
malfunctioning and there were many injuries. But all of that was
physical - we could repair injuries easily with a pass of the dermal
regenerator and we could replicate more components to fix Voyager.

But I wasn't sure of Kathryn, wasn't sure that I could follow her
blindly and put my trust in her as I once had.

I wondered if we would ever put things back together and I'll be
honest, there were times when I saw her and remembered Lessing and what
happened in the cargo bay. And then I would imagine her coldly offering
up the Equinox crew in return for our lives.

The same fury would bubble up inside of me, though I bit back my words,
hoping my anger would not spill out inappropriately.

And one night, when she stopped by my quarters to pick up a duty roster
PADD she did ask me about it.

We stood there in my quarters, and she wouldn't look at me. Instead,
she focused directly on the PADD, nodding.

"Looks good," she said. "Efficient."

"As soon as Ayala and Vorik are out of sickbay, I'll add them," I
said. "It's a little thin in some areas right now."

"You got all the shifts covered to the minimum regulation," Janeway
commented.

"I tried my best," I said. "I've got B'Elanna working back to back
shifts, getting this ship back together after what the Ankari did to
it."

She took a deep breath and looked at me, "I am sorry."

Her cheeks flushed pink and she raised her eyes to meet mine. I admire
her courage for saying those three words; apologies do not come easy to
Kathryn Janeway.

"That came out of nowhere," I told her.

"I've been thinking about it for days now," she said. "Thinking about
what happened and I've been listening to my logs. It is...
unforgivable. I should have listened to you, to Tuvok. Instead,
instead, I was, I don't know what I was doing."

"You were doing what you believe was right," I told her. "But you were
wrong."

"I know," Kathryn answered. "I replay every second over and over in my
head and still, I don't understand. I followed protocols, Chakotay. I
followed the rules. He was the one who violated everything Starfleet
stands for. How could I be so wrong?"

"You make the mistake of applying a set of rigid rules to every
situation. Sometimes, you have to work outside of the boundaries," I
told her gently. "Do you want to sit down?"

"I'm not staying."

We stared at each other. I took the chance, reached my fingers out and
brushed her cheek.

"I know what you're afraid of," I said. "You're afraid of becoming like
him."

"That won't happen, as long as Starfleet guides us."

"At some point, Starfleet was guiding him. We're a long way from home,
Kathryn. It's easy to forget."

Kathryn bit down on her lip, nodding slowly.

"It's all right," I said. "You... I've told you before. Sometimes you
have to relax, Kathryn. It's not always black and white - there is
gray."

"This is my ship," she said in that firm voice, putting me directly in
my place. "I want you to remember that."

Our gazes met and I thought for a moment that she would soften; I was
wrong. Her eyes were hard, cold and brittle and involuntarily, I
shuddered.

"I remember it," I said. "Daily."

And again, that silence. She turned, headed for the door, and then I
called out after her, "Kathryn... what happened with Ransom? That
wasn't the Maquis way."

She turned, only for a second, our eyes meeting, and the light caught
an unfamiliar glitter in her eyes. She shrugged and disappeared into
the corridor.

I sat down and covered my face with my hands. And I'm not ashamed to
admit it, but I cried that night.

---

I listen to Chakotay's carefully modulated voice, my stomach churning
as he speaks. His eyes are focused straight ahead and he doesn't even
look at me. And afterward, they lead B'Elanna and Chakotay out, leaving
me with McArthur.

"What are you going to do with them?" I ask.

"If they are found guilty, they will be sent to Alonius Prime,"
McArthur says.

"A border colony," I say. "Why not Earth? Why Alonius Prime?"

"It seems fitting," McArthur says. "Alonius played host to the Maquis
countless times; it was a staging ground for many of their raids. It
seems only natural we should send the Maquis survivors back there."

"How many survivors? I understood the Maquis were completely destroyed?"

"I would say less than two dozen remain," McArthur says. "With the
Maquis on your ship, it brings the count nearly to fifty."

"Out of hundreds," I murmur.

"You've grown soft, Kathryn."

"Not soft," I snap back. "These people - these Maquis whom you so
cavalierly dismiss - they served on my crew. Doesn't that count for
anything at all?"

"There is no statute of limitations on their crimes," McArthur leans
forward, taking my chin in his fingers. I jerk away.

"No concession for time served or good behavior?"

"We don't do things that way. You know that."

"Well, why not? It seems ridiculous to me that the contributions that
these people have made to Voyager and to the overall Starfleet mission
mean nothing to you."

"You don't understand. The list of their crimes, especially those
against Chakotay, is quite long. Trespassing, robbery, assault,
manslaughter, vandalism, mutiny. I could go on, Kathryn, but must I? If
we let these people go, then we are sending a message to other
terrorists that this type of behavior is allowed, even condoned, and
then we would have anarchy on our hands. We must draw a line in the
sand, Kathryn. We cannot tolerate this kind of behavior, no matter what
has happened in the time between the actual crime and the apprehension
of the criminal."

I shake my head.

"I do not believe you," I tell him. "I can't believe you would be so
uncaring. These people lost everything when the Federation and
Cardassia created the DMZ. Wouldn't you fight too?"

"Your Commander Chakotay said the same thing earlier," McArthur
smiles. "He had such potential in Starfleet; command suits him."

"You didn't answer my question, Admiral."

The sharpness in my voice startles my old mentor.

"Wouldn't you fight also?" I ask. "If your places were reversed."

"I would not resort to murder," he shoots back. "There is no need to
glamorize the Maquis movement, Kathryn. They are murderers, plain and
simple, and they deserve to go to prison for their crimes."

"So you have already made your judgment?" I ask. "You have already
decided that they are guilty? So this investigation of yours, this
questioning... it's all a farce?"

"You know we strive to be fair."

"I know what the Federation strives for. What do you want out of this?
It's not like you to be vindictive, Admiral."

"Kathryn."

"I want an answer. Is this another Star Chamber? Try in secrecy and
then, when no one is looking, you execute them or imprison them without
interference? That is not how we do things, Admiral. At least not in
the Starfleet I remember and certainly, not the way the Federation
courts run."

"You are overreacting. Chakotay mentioned that you tend to take matters
a bit personally."

"You're damn right I'm taking this personally! This is my crew you're
talking about! You won't even listen to what they have contributed to
Voyager. We would not have survived without them!"

We stand there, inches apart, nostrils flared. I am breathing unevenly,
nearly exhausted by my tirade.

"I have nothing more to say," I tell him. "But believe me, by the time
I get back to San Francisco -"

"You're not going back to San Francisco," he says. "I was going to tell
you."

"What?" the possibility of not seeing home distresses me. To see San
Francisco, to walk in Starfleet's headquarters, to talk to Boothby -
these are the things I have been looking forward to ever since we
learned that the Alpha Quadrant was within our reach.

"You will be reassigned," McArthur says. "The Dauntless. You will serve
as Captain. It is a deep space mission. It could take anywhere from two
to five years to complete."

"What?"

"It's the perfect mission for you, Kathryn. There are some spatial
phenomenon in the Cateris system and it's relatively unmapped," he goes
on genially.

"What about Voyager?"

"It's an old ship, and out of regulation also-"

"It got us home."

"I understand you have some feeling about that ship, but keep in mind -
it is Starfleet's ship, not yours."

"You're sending me away," I say. "You don't want me to interfere, do
you?"

"It's a great career move, Kathryn. You have potential. Your seven
years in the Delta Quadrant ill-served you. You should be making up for
lost time; we recognize that fact. I will have a full crew roster for
you in a few days and then you will go to Deep Space Nine to meet up
with the Dauntless."

Deep Space Nine. I bite my lip back. Where Voyager's mission began.

"Can I consider this... offer?" I ask.

"Of course," McArthur smiles broadly.

"And if I don't choose to captain the Dauntless?"

"Well, it would be a misfortune, of course, but we would understand. It
may be a while before another posting would become available."

"I would be willing to wait. I've been thinking about going to Indiana,
spending some time in Bloomington, on the farm. It would be nice to
have a break."

"You're not understanding me, Kathryn. Simply put, if you want to
captain another starship, you should take this opportunity now."

"I don't mind," I tell him again.

His eyes harden, "Kathryn, you know I care about you and I will be
honest. There have been some question about your actions in the Delta
Quadrant."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mr. Chakotay has mentioned an incident or two that we find slightly
suspicious," he continues. "Perhaps your alliance with the Kazon bears
further investigation."

"I have been straight forward about everything that has happened. There
is no reason to question Commander Chakotay about those incidents. I'll
tell you everything you need to know.

"There are sufficient instances where you violated the Prime
Directive," McArthur says. "I pushed for you, Kathryn, and I made some
enemies, but I didn't want your career to be ruined. This is a good
opportunity for you. Take it."

"You want me out of the way."

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to."

"There are plenty of up-and-coming officers who have not been lost in
the Delta Quadrant nor have they violated the Prime Directive. The
decision is yours, Kathryn."

We stare at each other and his expression is properly contrite.

"So what you're proposing is my own command in return for my silence
over the fate of the Maquis?" I ask finally.

"I do not care for the way you summarize my offer," McArthur's upper
lip curls in distaste. "But since we understand each other, I think you
have caught the essence perfectly. You will let me know, won't you?"

I nod slowly. I watch my old mentor gather up his PADDs in silence. He
seems uncomfortable with my presence, but I continue to watch him. A
second later, his com badge beeps.

"Gilles to McArthur."

"Go ahead, Ensign."

"Admiral Paris has arrived."

"Thank you. McArthur out."

McArthur turns to me.

"I won't be able to join you and the Admiral for dinner, Kathryn;
something has come up. But I will see you to his quarters."

And I hear the iron beneath this last sentence; it's a command, not an
invitation - I will see Admiral Paris for dinner regardless of my own
wishes - and I will go nowhere else except to the Admiral's quarters.

And without really thinking, I ask McArthur the same question Chakotay
asked me so long ago, "What has happened to you, Admiral?"

He looks at me, unblinking and unflinching.

"Ask me when this is over, Katie," he says. "Ask me then."

---

Every battle has faded into a distant memory. Some lasted just minutes
and others lasted for days, weeks, months. But in reality, one battle
is very much like another and it's hard to differentiate what happened
where and when or why. The orders come automatically.

"Red alert!"

"Fire at will!"

"Shields at maximum!"

"Evasive maneuvers!"

Sometimes it was farcical. What? The Kazon again? Didn't we just fight
them last week? Or maybe for a chance of pace, we trade shots with the
Krenim. After a while, it just didn't matter. You really didn't even
know what you were fighting for anymore, only hoping that the phaser
banks were full and ready to go.

After a while, you don't even hear the red alert klaxon anymore; it's a
part of daily life. You get used to life support going off-line or the
bulkheads being blown away. The shields never cooperated, no matter how
often B'Elanna tried to coax every last bit of energy into them. There
were constant ruptures on the decks and the inertial dampers were often
off-line. The constant pounding was enough to drive even the most
stable of individuals crazy.

And somehow we managed to hold it together. Held Voyager together, held
each other together.

It was enough to drive anyone crazy.

The hardest was the Hirogen.

The battle was over even before it began; they targeted our shields,
pummeled us with their superior fire power and then those scaly
reptilian aliens were on our ship. I was not on the Bridge when they
beamed on, but in Engineering, working with B'Elanna and the others to
get the weapons back on line.

"This isn't working!" B'Elanna yelled at Carey. "Try again. This time,
adjust the modulation frequency by point two microns. And hurry! We
don't have time!"

The words weren't even out of her mouth when the doors slid open and
the Hirogen hunters arrived, pushing Paris and Janeway in front of
them. Tom had an ugly bruise across his cheek and the Captain's hair
was mussed, but otherwise she was unhurt.

"Put your weapon down, Chakotay," Janeway ordered as one of the Hirogen
grabbed B'Elanna away from the console.

"Hey!" B'Elanna screamed, giving the Hirogen one of her best right
hooks. The Hirogen snarled and fired his phaser; B'Elanna crumpled and
we all stared at her prone body in shock.

"That was not necessary," Janeway said angrily as Tom struggled with
his captor, earning a punch to the face. By now, the Hirogen had all
congregated in Engineering, and I noted the arrivals of Tuvok and
Harry. Tuvok looked fine, but Harry's nose was bleeding and I could
make out some puffiness around his left eye. He noted B'Elanna's still
body with some shock, but no sounds came from his slightly parted his
lips.

"It doesn't have to be this way," Janeway tried again. "We can work
something out. Just tell us what you need."

They ignored her.

"Get the Doctor," one of the Hirogen ordered. "And start the gas."

Those words, they were the last I remember before I woke up in the
World War II simulation.

These holodeck simulations - from brutal inquisitions to major world
battles to primitive hunts - went on for weeks, but I don't remember
any of it. I wish I could remember. God, I wish I could.

All I knew is that I hurt. Every joint in my body, every muscle, every
nerve - parts of my body I didn't even know I had.

And I hated - this was what was the worst of it all - I hated being
that helpless.

Harry, Seven and the Doctor were primarily responsible for helping us
get free; somehow Harry managed to jury-rig Seven's cortical implant to
jog her memory, to free her of the Hirogen's control. Then Ka -
Janeway - she took on the Hirogen, hobbling around her ship on a
wounded leg, and managed to get them to surrender.

She did go back on the Prime Directive that one time and you're going
to have to forgive her for that.

Janeway gave them the holodeck technology.

She did it to save us.

The Hirogen are hunters. They need prey. Without prey, their culture is
destroyed, their reason for being gone.

The holodeck gave them a new way of preserving their culture without
actually killing.

When I asked Kathryn about it later, she simply shrugged.

"What was I supposed to do?" she asked. "Let them have my ship?"

"I never thought you'd share technology with them. You wouldn't with
the Kazon."

"This was different."

"How so?"

"They were simply trying to preserve a way of life," Janeway said.

"You violated the Prime Directive."

"I'll take it up with Starfleet when we get back."

I smiled at her.

"Don't look now, Kathryn, but you're changing."

"Changing?" her eyes narrowed.

"You did something that we in the Maquis would have done."

I remember her smile then as she reached forward and patted my shoulder
in a gesture of solidarity.

"We do bring out the best in each other, don't we?" she asked.

"Sometimes," I said. "I think you made the right decision here."

"I'm glad I have your support. It's hard to command a ship and know you
don't have your first officer's support."

"You always have it," I said sincerely. "Except when I think you're
making a mistake."

"So this deal, it wasn't a mistake?"

I shrugged.

"It's done now, right? We'll have to wait and see."

Janeway nodded, leaned back in her chair, and tapped her fingers on the
desk.

"Do you ever wonder what's out there for us, Chakotay?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"I'm fascinated," she said. "But at the same time, I want to get home
alive. We've already lost too many people, Chakotay."

"So you're going to do what it takes?" I asked, trying to read between
the lines.

"I've made a promise," she said. "Some days, it's hard to get out of
bed and know that I'm letting nearly 150 people down each day we're out
here."

"No one blames you and no one holds it against you."

"That doesn't change my resolve. We're getting home, Chakotay."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"The ship's taken a lot of damage. I don't know how much longer
B'Elanna can hold her together. I'm damn tired of hearing the reports."

"As am I."

Janeway leaned forward again so that our faces were barely inches apart.

"I don't want to go through something like this again," she said. "We
spent weeks acting out different battle simulations, getting killed
over and over again, and what did we gain from it? Nothing, nothing at
all. Just some scars that we cannot recall how we got."

"So you're damning the Prime Directive?"

"Don't misunderstand me, Chakotay. The Prime Directive is our guiding
principle. Voyager is still a Starfleet ship."

"But?"

"I'm prepared to be flexible," her lips curved up. "If you have a
better way, Chakotay, you have to tell me. I promise I won't turn away
and I promise to listen. I think we've had enough. Don't you?"

I only had to look at the phaser burns on walls, evaluate the wounded
in sickbay and note the damage to the port nacelles to answer that
question.

"Yes," I said. "I've had enough."

---

Admiral Paris is thinner than I remember; more lines cross his
weathered face than I care to see. Yet he is warm and affectionate as I
enter his quarters.

"I'm just getting settled," he says. "It's a long trip, you know. And
I'm not young anymore."

"Don't say that. You look wonderful."

"Thank you. Have a seat, Kathryn. Something to drink? I brought up a
Chardonnay from Napa. I remember you liking that."

"I do, thanks."

"It's been a great year for the wines," he says conversationally. He
pours the wine and hands me a goblet. I take a moment to look around.
Quarters at Starbase 87, even for an Admiral, are sparse. The carpet is
gray with a maroon pattern woven into it. Furnishings are old and worn
and there are no amenities, no artwork and certainly no luxuries.

"That's good to hear," I tell him.

"It's good to have you back, Kathryn. Wasn't ever sure you'd make it
back. So many obstacles, so many things that could go wrong."

"Yes," I sip my wine. "This is wonderful, Admiral."

Paris sits in front of me.

"How is Tom, Kathryn?"

"He is good, sir," I answer. "He did some magnificent flying out in the
Delta Quadrant. Got us out of a sticky situation more than once."

"I'm glad to hear of it. I wasn't sure that he'd become anything.
apparently he has turned himself around," Paris' eyes are shining; I
have no doubt he is genuinely proud of his son. "You only want the best
for your children, Kathryn. You want them to succeed and you want them
to be proud of their accomplishments. Somehow, Tom and I never saw eye
to eye on that. I made some mistakes with him and God knows, he did his
best to push the rules. But even when I was most upset with him, I
still loved him and I was always, always proud of him."

"Even after Caldik Prime?" I ask without thinking. Paris meets my gaze
head on.

"That... was an unusual circumstance," he says. "Tom went too far. Even
then, it's hard for any parent to feel anything less than dismay. I
said some things I probably shouldn't have and I pulled away when my
boy needed me the most. I do regret that. Don't think I don't. I
wondered what I had done wrong, why he couldn't be more like me and
then, while he was gone, I realized that it was probably wrong of me to
expect a mirror image of myself."

"You would be proud of him," I say sincerely. I am touched by Owen
Paris' words. In general, he is not a person given to verbosity and
where Tom is adventurous and open, the father is more private, more
closed-off.

"I have ordered dinner," Paris says. "Traditional Bajoran. I hope that
is all right with you."

"Sounds marvelous."

Paris leans back against his chair, "You look well, Kathryn. A bit
tired, but on the whole, you look well."

I feel the blush rising in my cheek, "Thank you, sir."

"I knew you'd bring them home. If there was one thing I was certain of,
it was that you would bring Voyager home."

"I never had any other intentions, sir. There were times when I thought
we would have to settle on some planet, but always, I had my mind set
on home."

"So Chakotay is telling us."

I lean forward, "Please tell me about what's going on. I talked to
Admiral McArthur and I'm disappointed in the proceedings."

"There are some, Kathryn, who cannot forget the betrayals of the
Maquis. Chakotay is the biggest fish they have been able to get their
hands on. They couldn't get Eddington, so now they have Chakotay."

"I don't understand what's going on. It's not even a trial, yet they
have already made up their minds on a verdict?"

"Their minds were made up the day you went after the Maquis raider,"
Paris says gently. "Wasn't yours? Did you believe they were guilty?"

"Yes, at first, but then I got to know them."

"But you still thought some of their methods were wrong?"

"Yes," I answer. I remember all of the times when Chakotay would
propose the "Maquis Way" as a solution to a problem and how distasteful
I would find the suggestion. "But I never thought condemning them en
masse to Alonius Prime would be the answer."

"It is a token gesture," Paris says. "I think."

"You think?" I raise my voice slightly but before he can answer, the
door chimes.

"That would be our food," Paris gets up. "Excuse me, please."

A slight throb builds in my right temple; I lean forward, put the
wineglass down and cover my face with hands. After a moment, Paris
touches my shoulder.

"Come eat," he says.

We sit at the table and he serves us both. The hasperat smells
wonderful. In addition, there is a wild field green salad and rolls.

"Have you had a chance to talk to Tom yet?" I ask.

"Not yet," Paris frowns. "Something about a communications blackout
with Voyager?"

I sigh, "So it's not just us. There is something odd going on."

"I think they want to take care of the Maquis question before anyone
raises an issue," Paris says.

"McArthur already offered me a posting on the Dauntless in return for
my compliance."

"That doesn't sound like Rodney."

"It's true."

"That's not how we do things. I will talk to him."

"I just want to know why the secrecy? What are people afraid of?"

Paris sighs.

"I know, Kathryn, that you take the ideals of Starfleet and therefore,
the Federation, very personally. Would it surprise you to know that
there are others who don't?"

"At this point, nothing would surprise me. What are you talking about?"

"During the formation of the DMZ, there were promises made that were
not kept," he says. "Many of the Federation's top officials were
involved."

"Who were these promises made to?"

"The settlers on the border colonies."

"Were they made in writing?" I ask.

"Some of the promises, yes."

"Was McArthur involved?"

"I doubt it. He was not part of those negotiations. He's not the type
to do anything like that."

"What kind of promises?"

"Some settlers were promised that they would not have to give up their
homes."

"That I knew. Chakotay said something to that effect once," I
answer. "What else?"

"They were also promised Starfleet protection in return for a price."

I put my fork down and wipe my lips with the linen napkin provided.

"That's extortion," I whisper. "Federation citizens have a right to
protection."

Paris nods, "And in this case, the Federation let these citizens fend
for themselves. The protection was offered covertly by a group of
Starfleet officers interested in advancing themselves."

"Were they Maquis?"

"No, in general, they frowned on the Maquis movement. They did not
believe in it. In that way, they did support the interests of the
Federation, which at this particular time, was peace with Cardassia.
But they did see the opportunity to advance themselves and they took
it. More wine, Kathryn?"

"No." I stand up and wander over to the windows. From the corner of my
eye, I can see Voyager in space dock. "How misled we were, Admiral. We
advocate peace with Cardassia to be in the best interests of the
Federation."

"Except for those living in the DMZ," Paris says. "That was the whole
problem, the whole reason why the Maquis existed. General Order Six,
which normally offers Federation citizens priority protection if
requested in an emergency situations, was effectively ignored."

"And so when some Starfleet officers offered them that protection?"

"The settlers jumped on it," Paris nods. "Some of them wiped out their
life savings."

"Those officers could be court-martialed," I say. "It's a violation of
everything Starfleet stands for. We don't charge for our protection if
we can, by law, offer it."

"You're right," Paris nods. "But we don't know who these officers are.
Unfortunately, most of the people who could tell us are dead. The
others are missing, presumed dead."

"Chakotay would know."

Paris joins me at the window, the wineglass still in his hand.

"I think you've answered your own question," he says quietly. "There
are forces at work here that you cannot possibly control, no matter how
hard you try."

I lean back against the window, crossing my arms against my chest.

"I've always rebelled against the idea that the Federation could be
anything less than good."

"You've always had that blind streak, Kathryn. You've always preferred
to see the good rather than the evil that could lie beneath. I've
always admired that trait of yours."

"So much good it's done me," I answer. "Admiral, I have to know their
names."

"I wish I could help you," the Admiral answers. "I've told you
everything I know. You'll have to ask Mr. Chakotay."

"They won't let me talk to him, not really. I'm amazed they're letting
me talk to you."

"I asked," he says. "Rodney and I go back a long way. Besides, I have a
rather personal reason why I wanted to spend time with you. I want to
know about my son."

"He doesn't have to return to New Zealand, does he?"

"No," the Admiral says. "The earlier condition stands. He's free to do
as he likes."

"Well, that's a relief," I say. "Tom will be glad to hear that; I think
he was worried about it. People have a way of forgetting promises once
made."

"Believe me, no one was going to forget this promise. I made sure of
it."

"Good. Thank you."

"So?" the Admiral questions eagerly. "How is he?"

"Tom's doing well," I say. "You'd be proud of him. He's settled down
nicely, just got married-"

"Married?" Owen Paris' eyes grow large. "Who?"

"B'Elanna Torres."

"The Klingon Maquis engineer."

"You know her then?"

"Only from her record," Paris says. He points to a stack of PADDs on a
side-table by the sofa. "Those are yours, Kathryn, so you can see
exactly what charges are levied against the Maquis."

"Thank you. I'll give them to Tuvok," I say.

"It makes for some fascinating, if not chilling, reading," Paris
comments. "I think you'll be surprised."

"Surprised?"

"Read and find out," he says. "I don't think the Federation is entirely
wrong in putting them on trial, given the scope of their crimes."

"Whatever is on those PADDs is seven years old," I answer. "They are
different people now and contributed greatly to getting us home. That
has to mean something."

"We in the Federation have never been very good at looking at the gray
areas," Paris comments. "I suppose you could offer up their loyal
service as a detail."

"I thought you could put in a good word for them, especially now that
one of them is your daughter-in-law."

There is silence, an unmistakably tense silence as the Admiral
considers my request.

"Please," I say. "For Tom."

The Admiral paces, pauses, his hand on the sofa and then turns to face
me.

"I never thought," he says, "that it would be like this."

"Like what?" my voice is unnecessarily sharp and impatient.

"With Tom," he says. "I suppose I should be grateful that he settled
down."

"He's come a long way."

"In the back of my mind, I always thought he would marry Jessica
Marlowe."

"Who is she?"

"Bruce Marlowe's daughter," he says. Bruce Marlowe captained the
Venture during the battle of Wolf 359; he and his crew of 250 were
among the casualties lost during that terrible day. I had known Bruce
briefly; he had been at the Academy at the same time as I was, though
two years ahead. Later, we had served together under Owen Paris. "They
dated on and off for four or five years, right up until Caldik Prime.
Always liked Jessica, thought she was good for Tom. Calm, very
competent, restrained and good pedigree too. Her mother was Barbara
Marlowe."

"The professor. Temporal mechanics," I remember.

"Yes," Paris looks down at his hands. "I guess I should have known.
Jessica was too good for him and I know he never realized that.
Shouldn't have let her go."

I bite my lip, wondering what to say next. Sing B'Elanna's praises? And
if so, what to say? There was certainly nothing I could compliment
about her pedigree; the admiral had already shown his bias in that
respect and I want so much to say something that will flatter B'Elanna,
and not put her into those neat little categories - Klingon, engineer,
Maquis - that people automatically slot her into. Yet, that is
B'Elanna, unique and utterly complex, warring with herself and everyone
around her.

"B'Elanna. she was one of the people most responsible for getting us
home. She could, um, fix anything. Has this uncanny ability to pull
rabbits from her hat," I say finally.

"I'm sure," Paris says. "None of Tom's brief letters through the data
stream mentioned her. Was it sudden?"

I shake my head.

"The wedding was sudden, but not them. They, they have been together
for a while. He," I pause, hating myself for the sudden tinge of
jealousy which rankled in the back of my mind. "He loves her."

"I wanted someone stable for him," Paris says. "Someone who could calm
him down, make sure something like Caldik Prime didn't happen again."

"He's changed," I point out for the umpteenth time. "He's not the same
person you remember, Admiral."

"And I have you to thank for that," Paris heaves a great sigh. "I
wouldn't even give him a second chance, yet you did. I appreciate it,
Kathryn. Appreciate what you've done for him."

He sighs again, those broad shoulders slumping slightly. He turns to
face me, running his hand through his almost snow-white hair.

"It's late," he says. "I should get you back to Voyager."

"Sounds good," I say. Already, I'm longing desperately for the comforts
of Voyager. I pick up the PADDs and head for the door. Out in the
corridor, Paris indicates the way.

"Kathryn," he says. "Whatever happens, I'm going to do my best to stop
it."

"Thank you."

"You understand that there are things out of my control?"

"I know that."

"Decisions are made by people and they don't necessarily share the
relevant information with me."

"I know."

"I'm too close to this one, Kathryn. I need you to understand that."

"I know," I repeat. "You don't have to explain. I understand."

"I guess I got what I wanted," his eyes are cloudy and he stares
straight ahead.

"News about Tom?" I smile.

"Yes."

"You could see him in person," I suggest. The Admiral nods.

"I will," he says. "Maybe in the morning. I do have some things I need
to take care of first."

"I would think you would want to see your son before all else."

"You know how Starfleet is," Paris laughs nervously. "There are some
things that cannot wait."

I put my hand on his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

"I need to ask a favor," I say.

"What?"

"Will you do something for Chakotay and B'Elanna?"

He takes a minute before answering; we are almost at Voyager before he
puts his hand on my forearm, stopping me.

"I will talk to Rodney," he says. "But it might be too late."

"At least a fair trial," I plead.

"I will do what I can."

"Don't condemn them before hearing what they have to say."

"It might be easier to negotiate with the Borg."

This time, I stop him and I look him straight in the eye. "I've done
that, Admiral. When I was in the Delta Quadrant, I did what I had to
do."

We walk a bit more and then I'm at the airlock. Paris runs his hand
through his hair again, a nervous gesture I remember from years ago.

"Good night, Kathryn," he says quietly.

I'm halfway through the door when Paris calls after me.

"Kathryn?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Is... is Tom happy?"

There are so many ways I can answer this question. In my presence, Tom
is nothing less than sullen and unresponsive - a far-cry from the cocky
young man who first came onto Voyager seven years previously. But when
I think of him with B'Elanna, when he looks at her and thinks no one
else is watching, I know the answer to the Admiral's question.

I nod, "Yes, he is. B'Elanna, she has a lot to do with that."

Paris nods and then points to the door; I get the hint and it's back to
Voyager I go.

But before I can sleep, there is something I have to do.

"Janeway to Tuvok."

"Yes, Captain?"

"I have some information here," I look down at the PADDs. "Looks like
the charges against the Maquis. Can you meet me in my quarters?"

"I'm on my way."

And for the first time since leaving McArthur, I feel a small measure
of hope.

---

Ah, the Borg. How did I know that was coming next?

I suppose everyone wants to know how we went up against the Borg
countless times and managed to come out ahead every time.

Hell, sometimes I want to know how too.

I still wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, and thinking that
there is a Borg lurking around every corner.

And you know, some days, they were everywhere. Damn if they aren't
prolific. But I suppose if you don't have a nine month gestation period
and all you have to do is assimilate a planet or two to grow, then it's
easy to be everywhere.

Our first hint of the Borg came on Sakaari. The inhabitants of that
planet lived underground, which both confused and interested us. It
didn't take us long to find the exoskeleton of a drone, hidden in the
bushes. I remember looking at Kathryn and saying, "What do you think?"

She looked at me, her lips drawn into a straight line, her eyes going
to and fro quickly. I could tell she was thinking of Wolf 359; I mean,
who wouldn't? At that battle, there was an entire armada of Starfleet
ships up against the Borg and yet, the casualties were extraordinarily
high. And here we were, in the Delta Quadrant with no friends, and the
Borg could be anywhere.

We had gone up against the Kazon and the Hirogen with some degree of
success but maybe our number was up. Maybe it was the end for Voyager.
I could tell that the Captain was perturbed by our discovery but she
cautioned me not to say anything to anyone else.

"It could be a fluke," she said. "It has been years since the Borg were
here. I doubt they are hanging around. Sensors haven't picked up any
trace of them."

"I hope you're right," I told her sincerely. Still, as I stared down at
the remains of the Borg drone, the hairs on the back of my neck stood
up.

I didn't like it, didn't like it at all.

And within a few weeks, we were face to face with the Borg. Our choice
then was not easy - the Borg or Species 8472.

With the Borg, there was the omnipresent threat of assimilation; the
thought of their long tubules piercing flesh sent shivers down the
spine. On the other hand, Species 8472 regularly ate Borg for breakfast.

"Not a good situation, no matter how you look at it," I told
Kathryn. "Let's find another way."

"No," she said. "Going through Borg space is the quickest way home."

"Dammit, Kathryn, don't let your emotion cloud your judgment, not this
time. The risks don't outweigh the benefits. We could be a ship of Borg
drones before this is over."

"What do you suggest? Going around would add several more years to our
journey, if not more."

"How about settling down here in the Delta Quadrant? Can you consider
that option? Maybe we could avoid either species. Living here is
preferable to assimilation."

"I've noted your objection," she said coldly. And I knew that tone of
voice, icy and pure iron; had heard it a million times in the past, in
a variety of situations, when she was obviously disregarding my advice.
Janeway's hand grasped the back of the chair - almost as if looking for
support - her fingers nearly bloodless from exertion.

"You're not going to do it," I said quietly.

"There's another way."

"Which is?" I asked.

Her eyes, cold and hard, focused off into the distance and I knew I
wasn't going to like what she was about to propose.

"I've come up with a plan," she said. "The best of both worlds. It
would help us and it would help the Borg."

"What is it?" I queried. Already, I could feel the muscles in my neck
tightening and a pain developing right above my left eye.

The Captain had decided to go with a Borg alliance much to my dismay.

I gave Kathryn the fable - maybe you know it - about the scorpion and
the fox. The fox and the scorpion make a deal: the scorpion can cross
the river on the fox's back. Once on the other side, the scorpion
stings the fox; when the fox asks why, the scorpion simply
responds, "You knew what I was before we made the deal."

And so it was with the Borg.

They sent us Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix One, as their
representative. Even then, the Borgified Annika Hansen, possessed a
haughtiness and a sense of superiority. An intelligent scorpion
perhaps, but deadly all the same.

Confrontations eventually all blur together, blending and bleeding
colors and lines into a hazy illusion of what was. I do not remember
words much, only actions and feelings, and I remember staring down at
Kathryn as she lay unconscious in sickbay. I squeezed her hand, hoping
against hope, that the warmth from my body would flow into hers; I was
wrong. She lay there silent, having gambled with the Borg and lost.

At least that was my interpretation. She had taken a risk, had been
wrong, and now I was in command, and I had to do what was best for
Voyager.

So I whispered, "Forgive me," and then let go of her hand.

To countermand and contradict your commanding officer is never easy;
thirteen years in Starfleet prior to the Maquis had drilled a certain
sense of obedience into me. But I was angry that we had been pushed up
against a wall; getting away from the Borg would now be as easy as
squeezing water out of a turnip. And so I broke the Alliance with the
Borg.

In retrospect, I broke the alliance because I didn't want to form it in
the first place; I thought Kathryn was wrong and here was my chance to
put it right.

I was wrong. When she woke and I had to explain my actions, I really
thought it was over for us then. Really thought that there was no way
to restore our working relationship and that she would go back to
trusting Tuvok over me again.

We did find a way, though, to work together and not let our
individuality destroy us - but my conscience still continued to plague
me. I had never directly disobeyed the Captain's orders before -
disagreed, yes - but never disobeyed. And I wanted her to know how much
I regretted losing her trust, but not what I did.

So after we severed Seven's link to the Collective - and that's another
issue entirely - I went in search of the Captain, finally locating in
her the holodeck, writing out her logs with feather and ink.

It was an odd scene, bereft of the technologies of the twenty-fourth
century yet comforting and cozy.

"Am I interrupting?" I asked.

"Not at all. I'm just finishing up my log."

"The old-fashioned way," I commented.

I wanted to get as far away from bio-implants and fluidic space and...
this feels more human somehow."

"I hate to spoil the mood. It's going to take at least two weeks to get
remove all of the Borg modifications, but B'Elanna says some of the new
setups work better than the previous technology."

"Leave them. How is our passenger?"

Of course, there were so many ways to answer this question. Mentally, I
wasn't sure. In a way, we had amputated Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct
to Unimatrix One, from the only family she really knew. It had been a
necessary step, but not one that I felt very comfortable about. And
only time would tell how we would adjust to having a former Borg drone
on board and how she would adjust to us.

I only hoped that the drone - hadn't quite come to think of her as
Seven yet - could forgive us and understand why we did what we did.
Even if we couldn't understand

"The doctor says she's stabilizing. Her human cells are starting to
regenerate," I said.

"I wonder what's left underneath all that Borg technology," Janeway
said. "If she can ever become human again."

"You're planning to keep her on board."

"We pulled the plug. We're responsible for what happens to her now."

"She was assimilated at a very young age; the Collective is all she
knows. She might not want to stay."

"I think she might. We have something the Borg could never offer...
friendship."

I grabbed the back of one of the high-backed chairs, thinking how so
recently I had betrayed my friendship with the Captain.

"I want you to know that disobeying your orders was one of the most
difficult things I've ever had to do."

Her gaze was warm, understanding, and I could see that she no longer
held any rancor towards me.

"I understand. And I - respect the decision you made, even though I
disagree with it. What's important is that in the end we got through
this, together. I don't ever want that to change."

"Agreed."

"Good. Well. I think it's time we got back to our bridge."

"No argument there."

"Computer, end program," Janeway called out. The Renaissance room
melted away and was replaced with the grided sterile walls of the
holodeck. "You're not really comfortable with the idea of having the
drone remain on the ship, are you?"

I let her exit the holodeck first before answering the question.

"It's the same as having a Cardassian serving aboard a Federation
starship," I said carefully.

"Not the same thing at all," Janeway said.

"What if she wants to return to the Collective?"

"I don't think that will happen."

"That's optimistic, isn't it? We want to return home, don't we? To our
families and friends? Why wouldn't it be the same for her?"

"I suppose we'll deal with that when she recovers. It will work out,
Chakotay." Her fingers brushed the back of my hand lightly. "And for
what it's worth, I know it took a lot for you to disobey my orders. You
wouldn't have done it if you didn't believe you were doing what was
right for this ship. I can't fault you for that."

"So I'm forgiven?"

Janeway smiled, "This time, yes."

And I looked at her, "There won't be a next time, Kathryn."

Kathryn laughed.

"Don't count on it, Commander," she said. "There's always a next time."
And with the Borg... damn, they were always around the corner, lurking,
always with something new to taunt us.

You asked about the operation to infiltrate the Borg cube. Yes, I was
opposed to that too, because it would mean sure assimilation for the
Captain and anyone she chose to take with her. Kathryn insisted it was
part of a plan that would help the Borg find their individuality.

"What if the neural suppressant doesn't work?" I asked her as the two
of us planned the operation.

"That's a chance I'm willing to take."

"What about the psychological effects? Assimilation... it's not like
regenerating broken skin or a broken bone. It's an invasive procedure."

"I'm aware of that."

"You don't agree with Borg philosophy," I said. "What if you have to do
something... something you disagree with?"

"Are you talking about assimilation?" she asked evenly.

"Yes."

Janeway leaned across the table, her hands folded neatly in front of
her. "I have considered all of the ramifications of what we're doing
here, Chakotay. Don't think I haven't."

"I'm not, but I am concerned. As your First Officer..."

"And more," she slipped in.

"And more," I allowed myself a small smile. "As your First Officer and
your friend, I'm having a hard time with this decision of yours. And
believe me, it's purely selfish and self-serving."

"I thought so," she said quietly. "Voyager is yours, Chakotay. If
something happens to me, promise you'll get this crew home."

"You know I will."

"Do what you have to."

"There's no doubt about that."

"I think that's all," she said quietly. "Do you have anything else?"

I nodded.

"Come back," I said. "Don't make yourself too comfortable over on that
cube."

Janeway grinned, the first real smile I had seen from her during this
entire meeting.

"You can count on it," she said.

It took us three months to get them back. Three months is an eternity,
especially when you don't know what's going on. We had no idea, for
most of that time, if they were even alive or if they were functioning
as part of the Collective or if they even retained an iota of their own
personalities, that individuality we put such a high value on.

When they - Tuvok, B'Elanna, Kathryn - did return, I had to brace
myself, try not to flinch, as I stared at their armored bodies. And I
couldn't see how they could possibly be the same again, how they could
even go back to their pre-Borg lives without any psychological effects
at all.

Tuvok was the quickest to recover, no surprise, given his exceptional
meditative abilities and emotional control.

Kathryn, outwardly, she was fine. That commanding tone of hers was back
within days, those hardened eyes, the set of her jaw - that was all
there. At night though, I would find her in the mess hall or on the
holodeck, staring into space or drinking bottomless cups of raktajino.

On one such occasion, I dropped by her quarters and found her curled up
on the sofa, a blanket pulled tightly around her shoulders.

"Can't sleep," she said as I sat down next to her.

"I can call the Doctor," I offered. I picked up one bare foot and
slowly began to massage the sole, my fingers moving up her calf.

Kathryn leaned her head against the sofa back, her eyes half-open.

"Don't," she said.

"You have to get some rest."

"I try. I tried counting sheep yesterday and today, it was hot milk."

"You need a sleep aid."

"I don't think that's going to help."

"You want to tell me about it?"

And that's when she began, her voice very low, halting with just the
barest hint of emotion.

"I was wrong," Kathryn said. "I was so intent on eliminating the Borg
threat, that I didn't think of the consequences. I probably should have
listened to you more."

I shifted to take her other foot into my lap.

"That feels good, Chakotay," she said. "I didn't realize how cold a
Borg cube could be."

"It's not something you think about."

"And loud. Very loud. The voices never stopped. And it amazed me
because there were never any discussions about anything; decisions were
made and carried out efficiently. All of those voices, they never
debated anything - they simply communicated what we were to do. Some
days, I could resist and I know B'Elanna and Tuvok could too, but other
days, damn, it was hard."

"What's bothering you?" I asked.

"The assimilations."

I dropped her foot, gently, of course, and sat back. Kathryn shrugged
her blanket-covered shoulders.

"There was a child," she said. "Maybe five years old? He was my first
one. His name was Devin. I remember thinking that this was wrong, but I
could not control my own limbs. He screamed, Chakotay, screamed for his
parents and then in pain. And finally, he was silent."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't know how I'm going to explain any of this to Starfleet."

"Exactly the way you just did."

"It doesn't get easier. You know how the saying goes? The first one is
always the hardest? Each assimilation after that little boy, they got
harder and harder. I don't know how many there were. B'Elanna won't
talk about it and Tuvok, well, Tuvok refuses to speculate."

"How many do you think there were?"

"Hundreds," Kathryn said. "I don't know. There was no scoreboard, no
count of how many planets we ravaged and added to our own perfection."

"Our?"

Kathryn's lips turned up into a sad smile and she reached for my hand,
clasping it between both of hers.

"I can't help it," she said. "I miss the voices."

I pulled her into my arms, and she snuggled up against my chest, her
own arm against my stomach, the other grasping at my hand.

"Please tell me," she whispered. "Tell me I'm not Borg."

I kissed the top of her head, smoothed hair back from her brow. I knew
she wasn't ready for more, so I tightened my embrace.

"Chakotay?" Kathryn's voice was more desperate, more
plaintive. "Please."

"You're not," I said.

But I don't think she believed me. Hell, I didn't even believe me. But
we stayed that night on the sofa, curled into each other.

I would like to think that for that night, the demons stayed away.

---

When we were going through dead space, I found it difficult to move, to
generate enthusiasm for anything. When they marched the Maquis off of
Voyager, that same ennui grabbed my muscles and I felt absolutely
powerless. But armed with the PADDs of information, now that was
something.

I settle in my quarters and after gulping down a cup of hot French
roast, I summon Seven, Harry, Tuvok and Paris to my quarters.

They arrive promptly, all of them wearing expressions of varying
degrees of curiosity for my late-night invitation.

"I thought you were still on the starbase," Tuvok says as he settles
into the chair opposite mine.

I gestured to the PADDs in front of me.

"Courtesy of Admiral Paris," I say. Tom's eyes widen and I feel a tinge
of sympathy for the young man; he has yet to speak with his father.

"How is he?" Tom asks, careful to keep his tone painfully neutral.

"He looks good. Asked about you," I answer. "He is proud of you, Tom.
Maybe you will get a chance to catch up later."

Tom nods and then picks up a PADD.

"What are these?" he asks.

"These," I say, "are the criminal records of the Maquis. More
specifically, the list of crimes attributed to the Chakotay cell."

"Sounds rather glamorous when you put it that way," Harry tries to
joke; Tom turns on his friend vehemently.

"It wasn't glamorous," Tom says. "It was a hard life. They were
fighting against insurmountable odds and they never gave up."

"Hey," Harry holds up a hand. "I got that. It just has been a long time
since I thought of Chakotay or B'Elanna as Maquis."

"Indeed," Tuvok says. "It is difficult to reconcile what is on these
PADDs with the people we have served with for the past seven years.

I look at Seven who is intent on her PADD, her eyes darting back and
forth as she scans the material. Her brow wrinkles ever so slightly and

I can just hear the question formulating in her head.

"Seven?" I ask.

She lifts her head, "Yes, Captain?"

"Do you have any questions?"

"No," she says. "I am simply surprised. I did not realize that
Commander Chakotay had so many... acts of sabotage against his name."

"The things you learn about people," Tom says in a hollow voice. "Did
not know that they led the attack on the USS Malinche. Five Starfleet
officers dead."

"You should know," Harry says. "You were with them for a bit."

"Not very long. Managed to get myself captured on the first mission I
was assigned to. Damn, thought I was a hotshot pilot and I get myself
captured."

"Don't beat yourself up," Harry says. "It was a long time ago."

"I wish I hadn't let them down," Tom says. "Maybe things would have
been different."

"Different in what way?" I ask.

"I don't know," he says. "I always wonder what would happen if you
could change one moment in your life and I would change that one. I
suppose I would still be with the Maquis."

"Dead or in prison," Harry puts in helpfully.

"Harry," I say.

"We wouldn't be here," Tom says. "You needed me, Captain, to help find
the Maquis, and without me, we would never have been caught in the
Badlands or met the Caretaker."

"What could have happened is irrelevant," Seven says. She points at the
PADD. "This is an irrelevant discussion. It does not help Commander
Chakotay or Lieutenant Torres."

I look over at Tom; he is holding his PADD loosely, not really paying
attention to any of its contents. I get up and cross the room and kneel
by his side. Without thinking, I put my hand on his knee; he flinches.

"Tom," I say quietly. "Let's take a walk, okay?"

He nods. I look at Tuvok, Harry and Seven.

"Keep going over the records," I say. "We have to be prepared for any
and all accusations."

Out in the corridor, Tom's face is impassive.

"What do you want?" his tone is belligerent.

"I want to talk to you. We haven't had the chance and it is my fault. I
apologize."

"Nothing for you to apologize for. You've been busy."

"I've been avoiding you. There's a difference, Tom."

"Why now?" he asks.

"You blame yourself for a lot, don't you?" I ask quietly. "And I want
that to change."

"That's a tall order, Captain. I seem to leave nothing but trouble in
my wake."

"That's not true."

"I manage to mess up everything," he says. "You don't see it because
I'm just another rehabilitation project to you, another person you
cured of terminal incorrigibility. I'm sure my father thanked you for
that."

"You're not a project."

"You treat Seven like a science project."

"There is some truth in what you're saying, unfortunately."

"You like that," he says. "You like to take control of people and mold
them according to your expectations."

"I don't like to look at it in quite that way."

"It's what you do," Tom says. "I am grateful, Captain. You gave me a
chance when no one else would, but at the same, it's very easy to
resent the same opportunity."

"I can understand that."

"I was serious back there when I said if I could go back and change a
single moment," he says. "If only I hadn't been cocky and had just
completed the mission like Chakotay had ordered, none of this would
have happened."

"You don't know that."

"What about B'Elanna?" I ask.

Tom's face softens and for the first time in months, he shows some
emotion. He purses his lips and stares glassily off into the distance.

"Yeah," he says.

"You didn't mess up with B'Elanna," I remind him. "I think you were
good for her."

"I try so hard, but it doesn't always work," he says. "I can't get to
her, no matter how hard I try. And then when she tries to help me, I
close up. I'm afraid that I'll ruin her too, just like I do everyone."

"You don't ruin people, Tom. You just think you do."

"B'Elanna wanted to stay in the Delta Quadrant. I'm starting to think
she had the right idea."

"You can't run away from your problems."

We stand there in the corridor, Tom and I, facing each other.

"You're still angry with me," I tell him. "And that's all right."

"I can't help myself," Tom answers. "I try to evaluate everything that
has happened from every angle and I still can't reconcile myself. I
look at B'Elanna and I realize she isn't the same person she was before
the Borg Cube and I think, in time, she will be all right. But what if
she's not?"

"I'm sorry, but I had to do it. And B'Elanna volunteered. You forget
that fact sometimes. She wanted to go."

"B'Elanna admires you. Hell, we all do. There isn't anything we
wouldn't do for you, Captain, even assimilation."

"That's good to hear," I say cautiously. "But I do see the pitfalls of
such... admiration."

"It doesn't mean that we are prepared or that we can handle the
aftermath."

"I understand that."

"Sometimes, I can't help but think that the high road isn't always
necessarily the best one and then I'm never sure why for once why can't
we let others fight their own battles? Why do we have to get involved?
It doesn't seem right to me, and it's something I've never been able to
understand."

"I think I can see the dilemma," I tell him. "And I'm not sure that I
understand either."

"That's the problem," Tom says. "It's all right to bend the rules
sometimes. It's all right to let things go."

"What if we eradicated the Borg threat? What would you say then?" I
shoot back. "Wouldn't that be beneficial to the Federation and other
non-allied worlds?"

"Yes."

"Then you can't say there wasn't some benefit in what we did."

"I am an individual, a selfish one. I can't help it. I know what it was
like during those days when you were gone, and the uncertainty was
excruciating."

"I'm sorry for that."

"I suppose it doesn't matter now," he says gloomily. "We don't even
know what's going to happen. Hell, they wouldn't even let me talk to
B'Elanna. I just wanted to make sure she was okay and they wouldn't
give me thirty seconds with her."

"Tom," I say quietly. "B'Elanna has Chakotay. He will see her through."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

In that moment, I have complete clarity. I see Tom, not as a brash
pilot or a late blooming protégé, but rather as someone who, when
placed in a desperate situation, did the best he possibly could. I see
a young man, perhaps outwardly confident, but insecure in his
relationships and feelings.

And I curse myself for not seeing it before.

"You're jealous of her relationship with Chakotay," I state flatly.

Tom is taken aback and he literally takes a step away from me. I don't
say much, only wait for him to respond.

When he does speak, his voice is hoarse. "Yes, I am. Is that wrong?"

"No. I understand completely."

"I want to be there for her," he says. "I want her to be there for me,
but instead we run away from each other. I was hoping to make it up to
her this time by being there and standing by her. Now she's going to
think I left her too."

"She won't," I say with certainty. "You're not like that, Tom. You
aren't the man you used to be and B'Elanna knows that. I know it. It's
important to me that you know that."

Suddenly, the ship rocks. We both reach out, brace ourselves against
the wall, but I still have to take a step forward to steady myself.

"What is that?" Tom asks as he regains his balance.

"I don't know. Janeway to Tuvok."

"Tuvok here."

"What's going on?"

"It appears there was an explosion on the station."

"We're on our way. Go to red alert," I command. I look at Tom. "Tom,
we'll continue this discussion another time. You can't blame yourself
for everything. You know that, don't you?"

He shrugs, apparently not convinced. "If you say so."

The red klaxons sound and we both break into a run, heading up to the
Bridge.

---

Brigs are never comfortable. If you are lucky, they - meaning the
security guards - will provide a blanket, maybe some reading material.

It's impossible to sleep, because there is no soundproofing, and you
can hear every clank and clang on the station.

I sit up on the bench that also passes for a bed and stare across to
the cell where B'Elanna is lying, curled into a fetal position, her
chin resting on her folded hands.

The lone guard is reading, his feet propped up on a stool.

I try to compose my thoughts, trying to anticipate what questions they
will ask next. I do not want to give too much away so I've kept many of
my answers as vague as possible, hoping they can fill in the blanks
with the details from logs.

I am concerned about Kathryn, wondering how much damage I've done to
her career. I do not think I've told them things they don't already
know or suspect. I hope for leniency for Kathryn, but it may be in
vain; I look at those stern Federation faces, utterly devoid of
expression, and I shudder.

The Kazon-Nistrim seem almost brotherly in comparison.

The starbase shudders, jolting the security guard out of his
complacency. Apparently, forgetting protocol, he erupts out of the
room. B'Elanna sits up.

"What's going on?" she calls out.

"I don't know," I stand up and make my way to the force field holding
me in; B'Elanna does the same. The first night we were locked in here,
B'Elanna had paced all night, and occasionally, had thrown herself
against the security barrier. Eventually subdued, she had slept, but I
had stayed awake, watching to make sure she didn't harm herself
further.

The starbase shudders again, throwing both of us to the ground; I roll
against the force field, wincing at the jolt of energy that passes
through my body.

"Are you all right?" B'Elanna calls.

"Yes," I get to my feet. The red klaxon rings throughout, echoing
through the empty corridors.

"Do you think they know we're down here?" B'Elanna shouts over the din.

Her question is answered as five or six guards, plus the original
security guard, enter the Brig. They efficiently release the force
fields, slap manacles on our hands.

"Is that really necessary?" I ask.

"Orders, sir," one of the guards, a petite redhead responds. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?" B'Elanna asks.

"The station is being evacuated."

"Why?"

"There is a meltdown in the main reactor core," is the curt answer.

"Have you tried reducing the temperature through the fusion relays?"
B'Elanna struggles briefly with the guard who has clamped his hand on
her upper arm. "Or running coolant through the induction modulators?"

The redhead guard looks at B'Elanna as if the half-Klingon is speaking
Breen.

"I can help," B'Elanna insists.

"Our orders are to evacuate all personnel," the redhead
says. "Including prisoners."

They hustle us through the corridors, pushing, pulling, prodding us
through them.

"Hey!" B'Elanna shouts at one point.

The starbase is a flurry of action, a far cry from orderly
Starfleet/Federation evacuation protocols.

"What about Voyager?" I ask. "Can we contact our ship?"

"There is no time," the redhead responds.

"You are getting on my nerves," I tell her. She doesn't respond.

"What about the others?" B'Elanna asks. "Henley, Gerron, Chell, Dalby,
Tabor? What about them?"

"They are being similarly evacuated. You will see them soon."

"Where are we going?"

"Too many questions. Move!"

They push us through an airlock and onto a waiting shuttle. There are
already two pilots aboard and the doors slam close behind us.

B'Elanna struggles to her feet, no mean achievement without the use of
her hands, and then makes her way to the front.

"What's going on?" she asks angrily.

The pilots, a little more friendly than the security guards who
escorted us here, bring up a blueprint of the station.

"The reactor core finally gave out," one of them says. "It was only a
matter of time."

"The station is unsafe," B'Elanna states. "It should not have been
operational."

The pilots don't respond to B'Elanna's statement. Instead they request
that she sit down since we have clearance to leave.

"We don't want to be here when it blows," the pilot on the left
says. "The shuttle won't be able to stand the shock waves."

"What about Voyager?" I ask.

"I don't know anything about that. Please sit."

The pilots go through the pre-departure protocols and then docking
clamps are released and the shuttle is on its way to...

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"We have our orders, sir."

"Which are?" B'Elanna asks.

"We cannot tell you."

"Terrific," B'Elanna rolls her eyes. "What can you tell us?"

The pilot twists around and says, "Your ship, Voyager, it hasn't left
the station yet."

B'Elanna closes her eyes, leans back against the wall, doesn't say
anything. I take a deep breath.

"They will leave, B'Elanna," I say softly. "Don't worry. Tom will be
fine."

"A reactor meltdown, that will cause a cascade reaction," she says. "It
will be an explosion of enormous proportions. Voyager has to be able to
outrun it."

"They'll do it."

B'Elanna doesn't answer.

"Hey," I call out. "Can one of you release our hands? This is
uncomfortable."

"Sorry. We have our orders," the answer, while negative, is delivered
in a sympathetic tone.

"If they say that one more time," B'Elanna says under her breath.

"B'Elanna," I say. "There are some things we can control; this isn't
one of them."

"It's making me crazy," she says. "Where are they taking us? Why can't
they tell us anything?"

"Orders," I say snidely.

B'Elanna snarls at me and I shrug off her anger. There's not much we
can do; the pilots are not forthcoming with information. Our hands,
literally, are tied. I settle back. It's going to be a long ride.

---

continued in the third story in the Lines in The Sand universe 'The Darkest Hour'