The BLTS Archive- In Her Own Image
by Sylvia Tremblay (poutinette@canada.com)

---

Disclaimer: They ain't mine, except for Sian O'Riordan, who I created
as a bit character for a Doc/7 story I wrote before the Fair Haven
stories aired.   Who knew he'd be so indispensable?  I love
Irishmen--more uses than a Swiss Army Knife.

Please note:  If you have no sense of humour vis a vis a) Irish
politics or b) organized religion, don't read any further.  These are
fictional characters (hopefully in the proper historical context) that
do not necessarily speak for the author, and I warned ya, so there.
Nasty PC mail will get the big raspberry.

On Irish geography: I did a good bit of research for this story, and
the geography mentioned in the Vger episodes is NOT consistent.  I
won't get into details, but suffice it to say I put the bloody town
where I wanted to, using some of the Vger references and not others,
because to use them all would have put me nowhere in Ireland.

Thanks are at the end of Part 8.  Please read these if you read
nothing else.

---
Why must we love where the lightning strikes, and not where we
choose?

-Theodore Sturgeon
---

A darkened pub was a wonderful place to think.

Michael Sullivan knew this from experience, for he had been doing a
great deal of thinking lately.  Most of his late night thoughts--and
damn it all, most of his daylight thoughts--had been of Katie.  He
could not resolve himself to call her Kathryn.  Kathryn would never
run through the fields with her hair all tumbled, or laugh that deep,
free laugh he came to expect from Katie.  But when he had visited her
that time on her ship, she seemed the same to him, even though
outwardly she appeared to be a completely different person.  True, the
uniforms they all wore were stark and functional, and he was unused to
seeing a woman in breeches. Nevertheless, he felt it suited her
somehow, her with her purposeful, endearing stride and slender legs.
There was no disguising her more physical feminine attributes, or her
spirit's strange combination of vulnerability and strength, even under
all of that authority and mannish clothing.

That usually set him thinking of Chakotay, the hatchet-faced man with
the tattoo who called her "Captain" yet gave off an air of
possessiveness, as if he felt Katie needed protection from Michael.
That man seemed to belong at Katie's side, in a way he never would.
Was it simply because the other man was from her time, or was it
something deeper?  Michael had expressed his doubts to her as they
toured her marvelous vessel, and she had smiled her sweet smile and
told him it didn't matter, but he was still uncertain.  What did she
want with him?  He would never be a dashing explorer; it was his
brothers who had spent time in America, birds of passage seeking cash
to send home.  Eventually they had broken away, spinning from their
orbits to careen over the world, one as a merchant seaman on the new
ironclad ships and another losing touch with the family as he
travelled farther and farther West, in search of a place to lay his
bones.  The wanderlust would not infect him, not at this point in his
life.  He had been born here, grew up here, and now he enjoyed his
position as unofficial mayor, arbiter of minor disputes and  trusted
friend of all.  He presided over the pub his father had left to him,
played the uncle with his sister's children in the next town on Sunday
afternoons, and was as happy as he had a right to be.

At least he had thought so until Katie had breezed into his pub.  Had
it only been four months ago?  Time lost all meaning when he was with
her, and not only because she was from some far distant era almost too
fantastic to imagine.  When he sat with her on the hills overlooking
the town, watching the peace settle over her face and the weight lift
from her shoulders, he could forget the passage of time, forget that
he was forty-two and had nothing left to offer her.   He could forget
the old man's ache in his ankle, the result of a mishap with a coal
cart three winters ago.  He could forget the years spent walling off
his heart against any and all potential invaders, until it seemed the
most natural thing in the world to reach out and pull her to him,
feeling her soft, warm skin under his fingers and her breath against
his mouth.

Michael uttered a soft curse and shook his head to clear it.  He
turned the book she had given him over in his hands, its dark, dull
surface absorbing the flickering light.  She had spoken of Twain's
novel as a love story, but it was the most chilling, violent tale he
could remember reading.  Was it her century's idea of a happy ending,
or did women of any time still look for romance whenever they could?
Smiling, he set the book on the table and stood, putting an end to his
woolgathering, at least for now.  After all, the glasses and mugs
would not wash themselves.  He turned away from the soft glow of the
peat fire and--

She stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the wooden
frame.  He was surprised to see her wearing her uniform; except for
that one other time, she had always dressed as one of them when she
came to visit.  Finding himself shamelessly studying her form in the
daring costume, he forced his mouth to form words.

"For a second there, I felt sure I'd conjured you."

She lifted an eyebrow.  "Black magic, or white?"

He grinned, a little foolishly, he thought.  "I don't think I'd better
answer that one."  Sobering, he nodded toward the bar.  "You're just
in time for washing up."

"Lucky me," she deadpanned, but there was a gleam in her eye as she
moved to join him.  Plucking the huge pot of near-boiling water off
the cast iron stove in the back room, he dumped its contents into the
stone sink.  "This is a bit of an antique," she observed, her fingers
caressing the smooth, worn kirkstone.

Tearing his gaze from her hands, he told her, "It was put there by my
grandfather when he built this place.  When it cracks, I'll buy one of
those new copper jobs."

"Maybe even enamelled steel," she teased.

He held his hand to his heart in feigned shock.  "D'ye think I'm made
of money?" he cried, and was rewarded with her deep laugh, and a
slightly undignified snort.  It was obvious she had had a hellish day,
but there was no need to speak of it, only the need to ease if from
her.

Eyeing her critically, he asked, "Do those sleeves roll up?"

"Not particularly well."

Michael grunted at that.  "I suppose you'll be drying, then."  Handing
her a towel, he dug out the Lever soap and set to work.

---

Afterwards, she seemed disinclined to leave, and he certainly had no
wish for her to go, so he put out the peat fire and led her into the
back room, which served as his parlour and his refuge.  It was not at
all fancy, occupied only by the stove, one massive, slightly worn,
overstuffed armchair, a low table, and a sideboard covered with the
valued heirlooms of three generations of Sullivan women.  No one but
himself had been in this room since his father had died.  He was not
sure why he had finally brought her in here tonight, unless it was the
fact that he needed to know if she belonged in the room.

She was hesitant at first, realizing that this was a private place and
unwilling to intrude, but slowly her explorer's heart won out over her
reticence.  Soon he was telling her of this piece of linen and that
piece of glassware, recounting bits of family history he would have
sworn he'd forgotten.  Then her eyes lighted on the small portrait
sitting in a silver frame on the sideboard.  "Your sister?"

"That's Siobhan.  We were to be married."

"What happened?" Her voice was nearly a whisper.

"She was over in America three years to earn money for her family--a
service job.  After two years, the letters stopped coming."  He picked
up the frame.  "They told us she died of the influenza.  It was common
enough in those bloody slums."  His eyes assumed a faraway look.
"Half a lifetime ago it happened, and I still remember her da coming
to tell me. I knew what he was going to say from the way he walked
toward me."

"I'm so sorry.  I know how you feel, a little."  When he turned toward
her, startled, she shook her head.  "He's not dead.  We were
just--separated, and things ended."  Sighing, she laid the porcelain
bowl on the sideboard and faced the window, looking out as if she
expected an answer in the blackness.  "My ship has been lost for a
long time now. We're very far from home, and some days even I wonder
if we'll ever get back.  And if *I* start to have doubts, that could
mean we never will."

Michael forced his hands to stay at his sides.  "How is it you can be
lost and still find your way to us time and again?"

He thought he saw her shoulders tighten.  "Our technology can
accomplish some things more easily than others," she admitted
enigmatically after a moment.  Turning to him, she searched his face.
"I know it's terribly late, and you must be tired.  Do you mind if I
sit with you by the stove for just a few minutes more?"

He gazed down at her upturned face; she was such a tiny thing, really.
"Stay as long as you like, Katie-girl.  I'll just get another chair--"

"That one looks big enough for two," she blurted, and Michael froze
where he stood.  Her small hand closed around one of his, and he
allowed himself to be led to sit, as if under one of her faerie
spells.

She stood above him, an unfathomable expression on her face. "How're
your knees?" she finally drawled.

Finding his voice at her cheeky comment, he growled, "They're old, but
they're not so bloody old that they can't take a wisp of a woman. Come
on, then," he invited, trying to cover his astonishment.  For weeks
now, since their brief, idyllic affair, she had been physically, if
not entirely emotionally distant, as if she were fighting with herself
for some reason. Before he could reflect on this turn of events, she
was settled in his lap, and reflection became impossible.  His arms
closed around her instinctively, and she curled up into a ball, her
hands twisted in his shirt and her face buried in his neck.  The
intense contact after weeks of yearning only to touch her hand, her
cheek, was overpowering.

"I needed so much to be here tonight.  Thank you," she whispered, her
lips brushing against the underside of his jaw.

"I could tell when you walked in," he managed, amazed he was capable
of coherent speech.  "And if I didn't then, I surely do now."

He could feel her smile against his stubbled skin, and his pulse
rocketed.  "I suppose this would be a terribly immodest position to
anyone in 1895."

"I don't imagine you're doing it too often on the bridge of your grand
ship in 2372, either," he countered.

Her voice was small.  "No, I don't imagine I am."  He felt her
withdraw a little, and begin to gather herself as he had seen her do
so many times when she was preparing to return to her world.  This
time, though, instead of letting her leave with a smile and a wave, he
only held her tighter.

"Hush," he told her gently.  "Just--let it go.  Let it all go, for as
long as you can."

"Time is not on our side," she sighed, though she did relax slightly.

"Just like Sandy and the Boss," he observed.  "Were you trying to tell
me something?"

"I don't want you to be hurt," she admitted, leaning back to look in
his eyes.  "I can't offer you most of the things you might be
expecting--things you would normally have a right to expect."

"What am I expecting, Katie?  I'm expecting to run my pub, live out my
life, and be buried in the church yard on the hill.  Anything above
that is more than I ever had a hope of getting."  He shook his head
and pushed a lock of chestnut hair out of her eyes.  "You've enough
people to worry about.  I'm not a member of your crew."   Cupping her
chin to draw her closer, he murmured, "If I were, you'd be after
court-martialing me for this."  And with that, his mouth descended on
hers.

Offering up a silent prayer that she would not withdraw from him now,
Michael slid his hand around to the back of her head to bury it in her
hair.  He could feel her palms flattening against his chest but they
did not push him away, and when he pulled back slightly to graze her
lower lip with his teeth, he was encouraged by a low moan.  Already
feeling fairly pleased with himself, he nearly crowed with triumph
when he felt her run the tip of her tongue over his upper teeth and
sensuously demand entry. He could recall the Father thirty years ago
telling the boys of the parish to beware of women who knew that trick,
for only whores and Frenchwomen knew to kiss a man like that.   If
that were true, it made him bloody sorry he hadn't been born a
Frenchman.

Eventually his rational mind surfaced, gasping for air and clutching
at the last shreds of his chivalry.  Breaking the contact, he took her
face between his hands and looked deeply into her eyes.  "Katie," he
breathed, "I know it's my fault for startin' this, but if we keep this
up, I may not be able to stop it."  He leaned his forehead against
hers. "You're turning this broken down old wreck of a man into a randy
lad who's still wet behind the ears."

"From where I've been sitting, that fact was already charmingly
apparent," she observed huskily.

He felt his face flush to what was no doubt a lovely shade of crimson.
"Woman," he chuckled, "you'd test the virtue of a saint.  And I'm no
saint.  I've been dying to touch you like this for weeks now, but I
could tell you weren't sure of me, that you needed time."

She shook her head sadly.  "Not of you, Michael.  I wasn't sure of
me."

"Now that is a surprise, coming from you."  Regarding her tenderly, he
traced the strong line of her jaw with his thumb.  "I remember the
first time you walked into my pub. You were like no woman I'd ever
seen, carrying your head so high and standing like a warrior queen,
all fire and steel.  I wondered how I could capture this fianna
creature before she disappeared back into the book of tales she'd come
from, capture her and bind her to my world, if only for a little
while. And in the next minute I wondered what had come over me, for
I've never been a man to want fire in his life.  I was content with
the earth under my feet, and now I'm not sure if I'm still on solid
ground.  It's you who've captured me, in the end."  He fixed her with
an intense gaze.

"I know now you might never be able to love a plain and simple
publican. You're after grander things, things I can't even begin to
imagine.  But if it's my lot in life to love a woman I can't tame,
I'll take it--as long as that woman is you."

"Oh God," she whispered, almost to herself.  "Oh God.  This wasn't
supposed to happen." Shakingly she raised her hands to his face, and
her fingers caressed his lips.  "When did it become so real?"  And
then her mouth joined with his, and there were no more words.

---

Afterward he would remember the night as one constant, fluid movement,
from the moment they climbed the stairs, racing like foolish children,
to the moment they collapsed together, her limbs melting into his.
The sounds returned to him too, combining with sense memory to produce
intense, brief flashes:

His big hands skimming her back, her arms, her stomach, alighting
nowhere, undecided, until she begged him to *choose*.

Her soft-hard little mouth following the revelation of bare skin from
navel to neck as she slowly peeled his undershirt from him. *Not bad
for an old man*, she observed, and he grabbed her round the waist and
tumbled her under him until they were both laughing like inmates of
Bedlam.

The quiet that descended as he pushed her uniform off her shoulders,
her back arching in slow motion as he lowered his head to her breasts.

Her fingernails deliberately, playfully grazing his lower abdomen
before reaching for the buttons of his trousers.

Whispering her name over and over until it became a litany.

The indescribable sensation of her body surrounding his, and the low,
sweet sound she made when they finally began to move.

*You're changing the elements that make me up.* The thought coming
unbidden as he felt her wrapped around him, as though her skin
touching his could perform some strange alchemy.  Her small hands
flying up to stop his mouth, making him realize he'd spoken aloud.

Hearing his name stretched on a keening wail that carried him along
with her into oblivion.

---

Later, much later, stroking her hair, too keyed up to sleep, he cursed
himself when she stirred.  "I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered.

"It's okay.  I was just dozing."  She stretched, cat-like, her legs
tangling with his.   "You're so warm," she observed, and Michael asked
her why she sounded surprised at that.

Her response was to rise from the bed and walk to the window.  He had
never seen or even imagined a woman so unconcerned about her nakedness
before a man.  The moon had risen, the soft glow through the sheer
curtains silhouetting her beautiful, rounded curves.  "What do you
expect to see out there?" he queried, curious at the hint of fear in
his question, as though some part of him believed she was preparing to
disappear in a moonbeam.

He could tell she was thinking over her answer, but whether it was to
make it more honest or more evasive, he wasn't sure.  Finally she
murmured, "I'm looking for a sign to tell me what to do with Michael
Sullivan."  Her voice was strangely sad, and his fear intensified.

Attempting a smile nonetheless, he chuckled,  "If you'd told me that
earlier, I'd have made up a big bloody sign and nailed it to the
window hours ago."

She returned the smile, and began to walk back to the bed.  "And what
would it have said?"

When she was close enough to touch he took her hand in his and drew it
to his lips.

"'Love him,'" he told her simply.

Michael heard her breath hitch in her throat, saw a dozen emotions
flit across her face, too quickly to be recognized fully.  After a
moment, she joined him again under the covers and proceeded to make
love to him in ways he hadn't even known existed.

As sleep finally claimed him he managed a last, barely coherent
thought:

*That wasn't exactly what I meant.*

---

"That bastard will be getting his comeuppance.  Mark my words."

Michael stood in his pub on Monday afternoon trying to look interested
in the conversations going on around him.  He nodded sagely at Milo's
comment, and when the other man turned away to rail at another patron,
he leaned in close to speak quietly to Seamus Driscol.  "What is he on
about now, then?"

Seamus stage-whispered back.  "He's off to the Land Court tomorrow.
Old man Kilkenny tried to raise his rent last month."

"He pays the lowest rent of anyone in the eastern part of this
county."

"Aye, and he says it's because he's after takin' the landlord to the
Court every year."

Michael shook his head.   On a normal day, he usually enjoyed hearing
about the little intrigues and quibbles of the residents of Fair
Haven, no matter how foolish.  But today was not a normal day, not for
him.   She had come back to him last night, and if that was possible,
it followed that nothing was impossible.  It was as though his tiny,
cramped universe had tilted over on its side and cracked wide open,
spilling its contents everywhere.   His life was no longer a foregone
conclusion, his path no longer stretched our before him in a straight,
narrow line.  If he had any sense left, he reflected, he'd be scared
as hell.

Looking down at his hands, he realized sheepishly that he had been
polishing the same glass for the last ten minutes or so, and wisely
decided to set it on the counter before he wore it down to a
paperweight.  He hadn't really expected her to be there when he awoke;
he had no experience of the military, but he knew it was probably
inimical to discipline for the captain to be seen sneaking down the
back stairs in the wee hours.  Still, he wished he could have kissed
her awake, made her breakfast, and spent the rest of the morning
learning every inch of her beautiful body in the light of day.

Just as Michael was about to descend into another protracted daydream,
Tom Paris and a huge fellow about Michael's age with an overgrown red
beard walked into the pub, both of them looking somewhat bleary-eyed.
Milo intercepted them before they could find a table, and with much
gesturing engaged Paris in what Michael imagined to be a fairly
one-sided conversation.  Soon, though, the younger man made good his
escape, and the Voyager crewmen sank gratefully into the first
available chairs.

"Rough night, gentlemen?" enquired Michael as he strolled over to
them.

"Rough week, more like it," the helmsman replied.  "We visited a
planet that didn't like us very much."

"Hush, now," the other man hissed at Paris.  Michael's ears pricked up
at the sound of his voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Paris smiled.  "Michael Sullivan, meet Sian
O'Riordan, Voyager's exobiologist.  He studies the alien life we
encounter." Turning to a surprised O'Riordan, he told him, "It's okay.
The people of Fair Haven know where we're from.  They understand we're
just visiting from our ship, from the future."

The tall man nodded at this slowly, taking it in.  "Oh.  Well, that
would seem to be against the Prime Directive, but all right, then."
Smiling, he stood to shake Michael's hand.  "Pleased to meet you,
Mister Sullivan."

"And you.  You're from Ulster, if I'm not mistaken."

"You're right there.  County Armagh, to be precise."

"Are they still having the riots and such up there in your time,
then?"

O'Riordan traded what Michael thought to be a rather odd look with
Paris.  "Well, not for a while now.   We've sorted things out since
the twentieth century."

"Ah.  So times get worse before they get better, eh?"

"A bit."  He still looked uncomfortable with the situation for some
reason, and the publican in him resolved to put him at ease.

"As long as you won't be telling me they've done away with good Irish
stout in the twenty-fourth century."

The big Ulsterman warmed to that topic.  "No, they most certainly have
not."

"Then you won't be saying no to the taste of my brew," Michael
replied, and at the answering grin from O'Riordan, headed for the bar
to pour him a draught.  Mission accomplished, as the space men would
say.

---

An hour before last call, Michael watched while O'Riordan led the
regulars in a hearty rendition of "Wild Colonial Boy".  Not bad for a
fellow who had been a skittish knot of nerves when he first walked in.
Paris had long since returned home to his woman, and Harry Kim had
come and gone earlier with Maggie in tow.  Absently, he wondered if
anything would come of that pairing; Kim was a nice enough lad, but
Maggie was the home-and-hearth type of girl, as most every girl in
Fair Haven was.  In the end, she'd choose a man who would settle down
here on Earth, and sooner or later that would leave Harry alone and
back on his ship.

Thinking of Voyager turned Michael's musings to what Katie might be
doing tonight.  He was faring better as the evening wore on; it had to
have been a full twenty minutes now since he'd thought of her last.
Although he hadn't lied to her last night about all of this being more
than he hoped possible, he couldn't help wishing she was free to come
home to him every night.  He was never one to think much about the
issue of working women; Irish women took paid jobs when and where they
had to, and there was not much fuss about it one way or the other.
Once married, of course, those men who could afford it preferred their
wives to tend the house, and their husbands.  If he were to consider
it now, though, he had to admit that she seemed as suited to what she
did as he was to the job of publican.  He would not want her to give
up such a vital part of herself, even though she risked death every
other day, perhaps even on this planet Paris had mentioned.  It
suddenly occurred to him that if something had happened a bit
differently last week, she might never have made it back to him at
all.

The full force of that thought took a few seconds to reach him, and
when it did he swiftly pushed it away.  Life experience had taught him
the hard way that there were no guarantees of happiness.  When it
came, he resolved to be thankful.  There was no use dwelling on the
misery, particularly misery that hadn't yet darkened his door.

"Michael m'lad!  Join us in a toast!"  Pouring himself a shot of
Bushmill's, he complied with O'Riordan's booming request.  The
red-haired man raised his mug.  "To Eire: may she live on until the
stars turn cold."  When he brought it to his lips, however, he was the
only one, for the rest of the room sat in stunned silence.  The
Ulsterman stopped in mid-swallow.  "What'd I say?" he asked quietly.

Michael knew that it was not what he had said, but how he had said it.
The space man from the future had spoken in Gaelic.

"You know the Irish."  Milo's voice actually quavered.  It was the
first time Michael could recall the hard-edged old Fenian betraying a
trace of sentimentality.

"Aye," O'Riordan nodded.  "I'm a bit out of practice, of course, bein'
the only one on the ship--" He trailed off, hushed by the pervasive
silence.

Then Colm McHugh stepped forward.  A young man who was making his way
as a railroad clerk, Michael recalled he had begun taking the Irish
language classes offered by the Gaelic League.  Like many of the young
people hereabouts, he grew up speaking only English, his parents
probably ashamed to speak anything else.  For as long as Michael could
remember, Irish was regarded as the language of poverty, the language
of the Famine, best forgotten.  The idea that it was something to take
pride in, something to be celebrated, was still new and strange to
most. "Do many in your time speak it, then?" the lad asked cautiously.

O'Riordan thought the question over.  "A little over half of us who
were raised in Ireland, I'd say."

"Sweet Jesus," Milo swore softly, shaking his head.  "Not one in
twenty of us in this part of the County.  Not one in twenty."

"The next time you visit," Colm ventured, "could you bring books?  And
perhaps teach us how to pronounce some of the--"

"Now, Colm, settle down.  Mister O'Riordan didn't come here to be a
schoolmarm."

"No, it's all right," the Ulsterman smiled, nodding at Michael.
"Thanks, but I wouldn't mind.  It'll keep me in practice."  He
chuckled.  "Though I'll have you all talking like Northerners."

"As long as you're not after turnin' us all into Protestants!" shouted
Seamus, and the pub erupted in laughter.

---

He stood there with his bare toes curling in the sand and wondered if
love was just another form of insanity.

"Come on!  The water's fine!"

"The Irish Sea in the middle of May is *not* fine," contradicted
Michael primly.  The full moon illuminated the strand and the gentle
waves, and allowed him to watch her from a safe distance.  The
madwoman had already tried to splash him once.  Now she waded
contentedly in the surf, her dress hiked up to her knees.

"It's positively tepid!" she called, an alluring grin on her face.  He
marvelled at the combination of intrepid space ship captain and
mischievous twelve-year-old that seemed to inhabit her without
apparent conflict.

"Ah, so is that why me toes are falling off the end of me foot?"

"I had no idea you were so unadventurous," she scoffed.  "To think a
man who was willing to brave the land of the spirit folk is afraid of
a little water..."

"As it happens, I used to take a dip here from time to time--and in
the dead of winter, too.   But I was only a lad--"

"And now you're too old and decrepit.  I understand."

Michael sighed.  He knew exactly what she was doing, but there was no
way out of it after that.  He started back down the beach toward her,
his hands moving to the buttons on his shirt.  "Unless you can conjure
yourself up some dry clothes, woman, you'd better start undressing.
But you don't have to worry about the purity of me intentions, because
once I hit this blasted water you won't be getting any courting
tonight."

---

"Dry clothes *and* a fire.  I love your technology."   A roaring
bonfire was unusual for the beaches around Fair Haven, as any wood
that washed ashore was removed in short order by the local residents. 
But Katie had summoned one quickly enough after emerging screaming
from the surf.   He nuzzled her hair affectionately as he sat behind
her on a blanket, his arms wrapped around her, his legs splayed on
either side of hers, but she was not terribly responsive. She was
still slightly irritated that he had been able to outlast her.

"Shut up and hold me tighter."  Perhaps more than slightly, amended
Michael.

"If I held you any tighter you'd be inside me."

"Then just shut up."

"You space women are wicked touchy."  Pinching her upper arms
playfully, he observed, "There isn't any fat on you, that's your
problem. You need to bulk up a little before taking on the Irish Sea
again."

"I need to wait for August before taking on the Irish Sea again."  She
shook with laughter rather than with cold.  "I haven't attempted
anything that stupid since I was a teenager.  You make me do the most
foolish things."

"I make you--!  That's a bit out of kilter, isn't it?"

"Not really."  She paused for a moment as if gathering her thoughts.
"I was getting to the point, before I met you, where I felt like I was
losing pieces of myself.  I used to have the opportunity to relax
every once in a while, to just let go, usually with Mark, sometimes
with my sister when I got home, because they were never part of
Starfleet, part of that whole hierarchy.  I haven't had a chance to
escape it for over six years, and I was starting to wonder if I had
ever had anything else inside me but the qualities needed to be a
starship captain."

"The ability to play silly buggers not being one of them, I suppose,"
observed Michael in a sympathetic tone.  "What were you like as a
girl?"

She chuckled.  "Skinny.  Precocious.  A little odd.  Usually you could
find me either attempting something that would get me injured or
sitting with my nose in a book of physical science.  Or poetry."

"I wish I had known you then.  But then, I couldn't have, could I?"
He felt her shiver against him slightly.  "I mean, seeing as how we're
from different centuries and all."  He stared up at the sky.  "You
must see such wonders.  Here I just read they found canals on Mars and
now you tell me there are people living up there.  It's a pity I'll
not live to witness any of it."

She half-turned in his arms.  "Would you want to?"  The question held
a hint of surprise, he thought.

"Think I'd be scared to death by all the marvels of the modern world?"
he replied, smiling.  "Do you suppose my poor old heart would just
give up?"  After a moment, he added seriously, "I used to believe I
was pretty set in my ways, but I'm not so sure any more.  Your
ship--it's like nothing I could have dreamed.  But I want to know more
about it, yes.  I want to know what we have to look forward to."

At this, she turned completely around to face him, her expression hard
to read in the flickering light.  "What would you do if you found
yourself in the twenty-fourth century?"

He smiled, confused by her sudden earnestness.  "Well, now, I'm not
without certain talents.  I could become a wandering rent boy,
offering my services to the lonely lovelies of the Navy."  A raised
eyebrow was the only response he received to this.  "I don't
understand you, Katie. Are you asking me what I would do if it were
possible for me to live in your time?"

She hesitated, then looked away. "No," she murmured.  "There's no
point in asking, is there?  It's impossible."  Her descent into
melancholy was even more confusing for being totally against her
character, but he chalked it up to the late hour and the exhaustion
caused by the swim.

Michael reached up to caress her cheek, and her gaze rose to meet his
again.  "It's no use, lass.  You won't be convincing me anything is
impossible when you're here with me."  Slowly, giving her the chance
to pull away if she wished, he lowered his mouth to hers.  Her kiss
was gentle, tasting of salt and of a feeling he didn't dare hope to
name.

When they finally broke apart, the expression on her face made his
pulse jump crazily.  "Stand up and close your eyes," she whispered.
He did so and felt her take his hand.  "Computer," she called out to
the air, "maintaining current character, initiate Cydonia program
three."

As soon as she had spoken her gibberish, Michael sensed the world
somehow shift around him.  "What did you do?"

"Is your poor old heart up for a little travel?"

"Out with it, woman," he growled, only slightly afraid to open his
eyes.

"They never actually found canals on Mars.  But they did find these,"
she said, squeezing his hand.

Michael opened his eyes.

And found himself standing at the base of an ancient, crumbling
pyramid that reached higher than any mountain in Ireland.

After a moment of stunned immobility he stumbled forward, dragging her
laughing behind him.  Reaching out with his free hand, he touched the
rough, solid red stone.  Turning to her, he saw the mischievous spirit
of the wild little girl blended with the woman's emotion he'd seen
earlier in her eyes.  And he realized that any wonders she might ever
show him would pale before what he saw in her face at that moment.

Michael cocked his head and smiled.  "Not bad," he drawled teasingly,
"but would you be having anything newer?"

She narrowed her eyes in mock-challenge.  "Close your eyes," she
ordered.  He watched her for a few seconds more before complying this
time.

---

"Sian!"

"What now?" O'Riordan griped cheerfully, casting a look at Michael as
he dragged his bulk out of the pub chair he had been occupying.
Ambling to the door, he yelled out into the street.  "Liam!  Was it
you calling, lad?"

Michael could discern only a mumble, then the words "hurling match" in
the voice of the youth outside.

"I will in me arse!  Bloody sons of bollix!  You nearly beat the shite
out of me last week with your dozy sticks and now you want to do it
again!" roared the Ulsterman.  Then a shrill, indistinct cry, and,
"Sorry, Mrs. O'Donlan.  Yes, I know it's the Lord's Day.  Yes, I am a
heathen. Thank you, ma'am."  Another pause.  "Yes, all right, Liam,
I'll be along directly."  Shaking his head, he ducked back inside.

"Those lads'll be the death of you yet," laughed Michael.

"No doubt.  Hurling's gone out of fashion in my time, so I never got a
chance to play it much."

"D'ye think it's wise to start it at our advanced age?" he asked
drily, returning his attention to the history book O'Riordan had
brought him.

"Speak for yourself, now.  I've just been married and I feel more in
my prime than when I was a spotty little sod of twenty.  Besides, I've
heard you've no cause for complaint yourself," he added, eyeing the
publican meaningfully.

Michael's head snapped up.  He had never spoken to a soul of his
relationship with Katie, assuming she would not want anyone in her
crew to find out about it.  As casually as possible, he murmured, "I
don't know what you mean."

"Ah, it's all right, man, you've no need to worry about protectin' the
lasses' virtue any more, they look to it themselves.  We're on a
bloody small ship, and on a bloody long voyage.  Those of us that
know, we're happy for the Captain.  She's the best commander you could
ask for, but if I'd been in her place I'd have gone mad with the
loneliness years ago. You're good for her, and that's the truth."

Michael sat, flabbergasted for a moment, then nodded.  "That's good to
know," was all he could think to say.

"Listen, I'm off to me own wake," O'Riordan sighed, grimacing
painfully.  Gesturing at the pile of books and the contraption Michael
now knew as a dataPADD scattered over the table, he asked, "Would you
mind this lot for me while I'm out?"

"No trouble."

After the door closed behind the Ulsterman, Michael sat for several
minutes processing this bit of news.  Did Katie know their secret was
out?  Was that why she had been so standoffish?  If so, what had
changed?  Were people truly as broad-minded in the future as O'Riordan
seemed to be?  Michael finally shook his head and ordered his brain to
concentrate on his book, not on questions he couldn't answer. 
Perhaps he would ask Katie the next time he saw her...no, he decided
almost immediately.   There was no need for that; he could think of
better things to do when they were together.  Realizing he was wearing
an evil grin as he remembered the swim of the other night, he had to
admit the other man was right.  He didn't feel so bloody old as he had
before he met her.

Certainly, the one-man education program that O'Riordan had set up in
the village was also contributing to that youthful feeling.  In the
past three weeks, Michael had soaked up books written in Irish,
histories of the island since 1895, and listened to the language
"tapes" spoken by the odd little PADD, which was not much bigger than
a small book and no thicker than a pane of glass.  The thing had been
a sensation in the village from the time it first appeared, and the
pub was now packed on Sunday evenings for the Irish lessons provided
by O'Riordan and his talking machine.  The pleasing female voice it
emitted could translate faster than the Ulsterman and answer questions
like a live human being. The space men had tried to explain how it
worked to Michael, and he was fascinated by the idea that something
man-made could seem to possess intelligence.  Some of the older folk
called it blasphemy, but he was willing to learn as much as he could.
After all, the twentieth century was not so far away.

The twentieth century was the subject of the book he was currently
reading, and despite the riveting content, he was having a hard time
getting through it.  There was a great deal of strife ahead, some of
the worst of it in the next twenty years or so...and to think the
century would end with the killing of women and children.  Parnell
would be spinning in his grave to know that his dream of Home Rule
would one day turn to bombs and bloodshed.  Surely, the history of
Ireland had hardly been peaceful til now, but things had been looking
up, what with the landowners losing their power, education and
economic standards rising, and the hope of some measure of
independence still alive. Michael had asked O'Riordan if there was
something that could be done to change the march of time, but the
fellow had told him that wasn't possible, and if it was, it could end
up making a worse mess of the world than anyone could predict.  The
important point to remember was that Eire survived, and Irish men and
women would one day explore the stars with the rest of humanity.

It was hard to think on such a grand scale for long, however, and
Michael's thoughts soon turned to Fair Haven itself.  What would
happen to the village and its people in the coming centuries?  He had
read several books of general and Irish history, but none of them had
mentioned his home, which he supposed was not surprising.  It was
barely a dot on the map today, and it was unlikely to become a boom
town anytime soon.  His gaze strayed to the PADD resting on the table.
He knew that it could do more than speak Gaelic; he had seen O'Riordan
and Paris tinkering with it on numerous occasions. Michael's
observations of them had revealed that it could also be used to find
information from the machine that ran the ship, called the Computer.
How much would the Computer of a space ship know about the history of
Ireland?

There was one way to find out.  Setting his book down, Michael reached
for the small contraption.  He grew momentarily annoyed with himself
when he realized he had snuck a glance at the door, like a child
pilfering a biscuit before mealtime.  No one had directly told him not
to use it, but they may have been justified in assuming he wouldn't
know how to work it.  Of course, there was no guarantee that he *did*
know how, but he was game to give it a try.

He began by pressing several spots on its smooth black surface until
it rewarded him by lighting up. Once that happened, it was relatively
easy, for the directions were plainly written in English.  Fingering
the delicate machine with care, he finally managed to produce a line
which said, "Access Ship's Computer".  He touched it gingerly.

"Working," the contraption informed him primly.  Michael's hands
jerked at this, but he kept a grip on it.

"Computer," he ventured, for he had heard the other men call it by
name, "I would like to know about the history of Fair Haven, Ireland."

"No such location exists."

"It bloody well does.  You're in it, aren't you?"  The PADD said
nothing to this, and he smiled.  "No use arguing with a machine.  How
about County Wicklow, then?"

The little box beeped approvingly, and the surface changed, showing
several options: *County Wicklow, Ireland, Earth, Sector 001--Social
History--Political History--Economic History,* and so on.

"Looks detailed enough," murmured Michael.  "All right, can this thing
show me a map?"

"Specify location and time period."

"South-east Ireland, ah, circa 1900."

Another beep, but this time the surface did not change.  Michael
stared at it for a moment, wondering with a sinking heart if he had
inadvertently broken it.  Then he looked up and nearly jumped out of
his skin.

The map was floating in the air approximately a foot off the end of
his nose.  When he felt his heart rate approach normal, he reached
out...and put his hand through the map.  It was some sort of twenty-
fourth century magic lantern show, nothing to worry about. Withdrawing
his hand slightly, he traced the line of the Dun Laoghaire railway
down the coast.  Bray was there, and Wicklow, Arklow, Enniscorthy,
Wexford--not surprising, as they were all good-sized towns or cities.  
He ran his finger northwards again, finding the little inlet just
south of Bray on whose shores Fair Haven rested.

He stared at the map.  There was a town there, but it was not Fair
Haven.  "Greystones?" he asked aloud.  Could they have renamed the
town in five years' time?  "Computer, tell me about this place," he
commanded, impaling the town with his finger.

"Greystones, county Wicklow, Ireland, current population fifteen
thousand, three hundred.  A small seaside resort centre near the
capital of Dublin--"

"What was it called in 1895?"

The PADD considered the odd question for a split second longer than
usual.  "The name of the town has not changed since the seventeenth
century."

Michael was not sure how long he sat there, staring at the ghostly
apparition before him, his mind a complete blank.  Finally, a word he
had heard Kim say came to him: *malfunction*.  It was possible for
these machines to be wrong, he knew that.  Perhaps this was just a
malfunction. He set the box down on the table before him, for he
noticed his hands were shaking slightly.

"Computer, remove map."  The ghost disappeared obediently.  How had
they said it?  "Computer, display all references to Fair Haven."

The PADD took several seconds to digest this, then obligingly vomited
a brightly-coloured list onto its surface.  There were five Fair
Havens, four of them obviously on some planet other than Earth, for
they were followed by designations such as "Northern continent, Beta
Arcturus III." He knew he was not living in outer space, so he ignored
these. The fifth one caught his eye.

"Computer, what is a 'holodeck program'?"

The machine began to speak.

---

He sensed rather than heard her come in.

"Looking for a little company, Mister Sullivan?" she drawled, poking
her head in the parlour door.  His gaze took her in: her
brandy-coloured hair was perfectly in place despite the late hour, her
eyes a bit tired but still sparkling with mischief.  Seeing her
convinced him of something he already suspected.  Try as he might, he
could not force himself to hate her.  And there was certainly no way
in hell he could stop loving her.

"Sure.  Take my spot," he offered gallantly, springing to his feet
before she could protest and edging past her to retrieve another chair
from the main room.  When he returned, she was sitting a little
stiffly, watching him.  His heart twisted in his chest at the trust he
saw in her eyes, and he almost laughed aloud at the sensation.  So
lifelike.

"Sorry I missed the Irish class tonight.  There was a small crisis in
Engineering I had to look after."  She paused, searching his face,
then forged ahead.  "How was it?"

Michael set the wooden pub chair facing hers and lowered himself into
it. "I wouldn't know, actually.  I took a walk along the strand
tonight."

Making an obvious effort to appear relaxed, she inquired, "Out
strolling with another lass?"

He smiled genuinely at that.  "Would that have made you jealous,
Katie-girl?"  The smile faded; suddenly, he needed to know.  "Would it
honestly?"

She considered his question.  "Yes, it would," she admitted finally,
her expression mirroring a bit of the surprise he felt at her words.

Michael only nodded at this, however, for he was preoccupied with
trying to calm his racing thoughts.  Until she breezed in, he had a
fairly clear idea of what he was going to say.  He might have known
her presence would mix him up and send all his fine plans straight to
the devil.

He was returned sharply to reality by the touch of her hand on his.
"Michael, I took a walk myself before I came here tonight.  I did some
thinking about us, about our relationship."

She paused to study his reaction.  Outwardly, he tried to provide her
with none, but inwardly, he felt his stomach lurch.  Was she going to
end it, then?  Had the unnaturalness of it finally become too much to
stand?  "Go on," he muttered gruffly.

Undeterred by his tone, she leaned forward in her seat.  "I was
thinking about how one-sided this has all been from the beginning.
You've taken the most risks, you've told me time and again how much 
you love me, yet you've never made any demands.  I'm not such a prize
as you may have thought when I was Katie O'Clare, but even that hasn't
scared you off.  In contrast, I've been completely selfish from the
day I met you.  I only see you when and if I need to, and I've never
told you how I feel."

She shook her head.  "I've said in the past that I can't give you some
of the things you might be expecting, and that's partly true.  I can't
marry you or have children with you, and what I do makes it impossible
for me to say what will happen in the future."  Reaching out, she took
both his large hands, what she could of them, in hers.  "The times
I've spent with you have been some of the happiest I've had in a very
long time. You can't know what it means to me to be able to relax, to
get out from under the weight of the braid on my shoulder.  Not that
I'd give up being Captain, but--" her voice dropped to a whisper--
"it's been nice to be able to tell someone how heavy that braid can
get."

Michael felt himself start to shake, and fought to suppress it.  "What
is it you're trying to say, Katie?" he growled, wishing fervently that
she would just finish it.

She smiled wryly, misinterpreting his impatience.  "I'm taking a long
time to lead up to a simple point, I know.  I wanted to explain why
it's been hard for me to sort out how I really feel.  I didn't want to
confuse this with gratitude for what you've done for me."

"Confuse what with gratitude, damn it?" he demanded, his civility
exhausted.

She laughed then.  "I've botched it, haven't I?  Lack of practice, I
imagine.  I'm trying to tell you I'm falling in love with you, you
hotheaded Irishman."

It was so far from what Michael had expected to hear that he sat
completely numb for several seconds.  Then the rage came out of
nowhere and blindsided him.  "So we're back to playacting, are we?"

Her eyes narrowed as she struggled to understand.  "I don't--"

"Jesus, woman!" he shouted, shooting to his feet to get away from her
touch, her gaze, to attempt to regain some semblance of rationality.
"D'ye expect me to believe you could ever love me?"

When she next spoke, the temperature in her voice had dropped.  "I'm
not in the habit of saying that often.  Or of saying it lightly."

"Then you must be mad."

"Why?"

"Because," he thundered, "sane people do not fall in love with
holograms!"

He watched as shock was replaced by understanding on her face. Then,
after a moment, she leaned back into the padded comfort of the
armchair and regarded him unflinchingly.  "Believe me," she said with
a grim look, "the same thought had occurred to me more than once."

It was the second time in as many minutes she had managed to shock him
senseless, although this time it completely disarmed him.  The anger
drained out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving him feeling bone
tired.  "I'll give you this, lass," he breathed, collapsing back into
the wooden chair, "you can take anything that comes and then some.  I
wish I had that in me."

"When did you find out?"

"This afternoon."

"Then you've had one hell of a day.  Do any of the others know?"

"No, and they won't be hearing it from me.  Do you think I would wish
this on anyone?  To know that you're kin to a steam engine or light
bulb or any other man made thing?  To know that this town's not built
on solid ground but hurtling through space in the belly of your ship?
To know that everything you thought was real or ever held dear is a
lie?" She said nothing to this, but neither did she look away.  "If I
ask you some questions, will you answer them?"

"I'll answer whatever you want."

"How long ago was Fair Haven created?"

"About four and a half months ago."

"Who made it?"

She hesitated for a split second.  "Tom Paris designed it."

"So he's my da, is he?"  He chuckled at the thought, then sobered.
"If this ship or the Computer that runs it are destroyed, will Fair
Haven be lost?"

"Yes.  Voyager has the only copy of Fair Haven that exists."

"Copy!" exclaimed Michael.  "Of course, it makes sense.  Just like a
book--they're for recreation too."  His voice grew rough.  "Is that
what all this is for you?  A bit of recreation?"

Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, then spoke.  "In my
time--our time--we use the Holodeck as an escape, a way to let off
some of the pressures of living and working in space.  And this crew
is under more pressure than most.  Many of us may not live to see our
loved ones again."  Her gaze dropped away from his face.  "Some of us
use it for sex.  I never have.  That doesn't make me better or more
virtuous than anyone else, I know.  I just was never all that
interested in using the Holodeck for--that particular brand of escape.

"I won't lie to you.  I met you, spoke with you, and I found you
attractive.  Physically attractive.  I don't know why this time was
different from the thousand other times I've been on the Holodeck.
Maybe I was simply too damn tired of being alone.  But I came back to
see you."

He smiled slightly despite himself, remembering.  "Those bloody rings.
And the arm wrestling!  I thought you were having me on when you first
suggested it."

"Do you remember anything else about that night?  What I was wearing,
perhaps?"

Michael considered it, wondering why it could be important.  "No, I
don't," he admitted finally.

"I was wearing my uniform."

He stared at her.  "You couldn't have been.  The first time I saw it
was on the ship."

"Do you remember why I left?"

Mild annoyance betrayed itself in his tone.  "No.  What does it matter
now, Katie?"

She sighed, rose to her feet restlessly.  "Nothing.  Except it proves
you're not the same as you were when you were first--created, and
that's why..."   She shook her head angrily.  "I don't know why I'm
still trying to salvage this.  But you have to understand you're no
longer a typical hologram.  None of the Fair Haven characters is;
they're aware of what happens around them, they know when we try to
make changes to the program now.  That's how you were able to find out
that the Voyager crew weren't what they claimed to be.

"And you--well, I'm not an expert on Holodeck programming.  But I do
know that no one made you the way you are right now, at this moment.
Call it alchemy or evolution, but you are more than the sum of your
parts.  You are a nineteenth-century man, for all intents and
purposes, yet you are comfortable with wonders such as starships and
time travel."  Her gaze grew tender, and she made no attempt to hide
it.

"When you stood there on my ship staring out at the stars, the sheer
sense of wonder in your eyes told me you were no longer
the--'recreation' you were designed to be."

"What am I, then?" he asked.  "I'm still a soulless thing, aren't I?
But if I am, why do I feel the blood running through my veins?  Why do
I feel hollow whenever you're not with me?  Why do I feel so damned
happy when you so much as touch my hand?  Why do I feel--anything at
all?"

"That's another bit of wizardry I can't explain."  Sighing, she leaned
wearily over the back of the armchair.  "Maybe it would be better for
you to return to the way things were, before I came.  But I won't be
the one to make that decision for you."  Her eyes still on him, she
spoke to the air around her.  "Computer."  Michael heard the same
faint beep he had heard the PADD make.  "Give Holodeck character
Michael Sullivan access to his programming history and subroutines.
Allow him full control over his matrix."  Another obedient beep.

"What have you done?"

"You can now access the parts of the main computer that control your
program.  Just speak to it the way I just did, and if you need help it
will tell you what to do, don't worry.  The first thing you might want
to find out is what your life used to be like--before I arrived."  She
took a deep breath before continuing.   "You're going to see I made
some changes initially, and that I haven't for some time.   That's
because I was forced to realize I was trying to control this
relationship just as I've become accustomed to controlling everything
else for the past six years."

Michael was trying desperately to keep up with all of this.  "You're
telling me I can change myself back?"

She nodded.  "You won't be aware you're a hologram.  You'll live your
life and be happy."

"Without you."

"Yes."

"Is that what you want?"

Her eyes became opaque, unfathomable.  "This isn't about what I want.
It's about you and your right to choose your own path."

"You'll let me go if that's what I decide?"

She could only nod, and he found himself rising to close the distance
between them.  He saw the tension in her body drain out of her as his
hands encircled her upper arms, and then she swayed into his embrace.
After a long while, he murmured, "I'm sorry for the things I said."

Her voice was muffled against his chest.  "What things?"

"You do love me, don't you?"

"Only a little.  I don't want you to think I'm crazy."

He laughed then, and felt her arms tighten round him in response
before she let go.  Her hand reached up to touch his lips, but she
made no move to kiss him.  "I'll miss you," she whispered.

"Katie, I haven't made up my mind yet."

Her eyes held his for one more moment before she headed for the door.
At the entrance to the parlour she half-turned, her gaze on the wall.
"I remember the night you first started asking questions about me. My
first thought was, *I just came here for a little harmless fun.  Why
did it have to get so complicated?*  And instead of arguing any
further or telling you the truth, I ended the program, walked out and
ordered Tom to fix things.  It wasn't until you were standing on the
Bridge that I was reminded of how much I enjoy--complications.  And
surprises." She smiled.  "A good friend told me that romance came from
the unexpected, and damned if he wasn't right.  I didn't expect you to
be able to handle the idea of Voyager, I didn't expect you to love
Kathryn Janeway as much as you could Katie O'Clare...and I certainly
didn't expect it to no longer matter to me that you were a 'man-made
thing'.  But I can understand why it would matter to you.  You don't
deserve that kind of complication, Michael.  I won't blame you if you
decide to--simplify things."

And then she was gone.

---

The next day, Michael asked a friend who kept the pub for him on
occasion to take over for two weeks.  He figured it would take at
least that long to make his choice.  Heading for the interior, he
visited with another friend, a farmer who owned a small shepherd's
cabin high on the southern slope of the hill overlooking Fair Haven.
It was isolated enough that he could think without interruption.
Being around the sights, sounds and people of the town he thought had
been his birthplace was becoming increasingly difficult.

About a week into his sojourn, the fresh morning air beckoned him to
take a hike up to the summit.  He was still amazed at his physical
reactions to things; his limbs felt tired, his heart pounded, his
lungs took in great draughts of oxygen as he climbed.  Was it all an
illusion? And if it felt so real, did it matter that he knew it
wasn't?  Reminding himself that he was walking to clear his head, not
to clutter it, he redoubled his efforts to reach the top.

Two hours later, he was standing on a rock outcropping offering a
spectacular view of the Wicklow Mountains.  At the coast, spring was
in the air, but here there was still a definite nip up here; he was
glad to have brought his old woolen bawneen, a gift from his aunt
nearly a decade ago.  He chuckled to himself at that thought, for he
could picture her, hear her voice, yet she had been dead these five
years. Tom Paris had done well.  Or was the complexity of his
experiences and memories as much a product of the marvellous Computer
of the ship?  Or was he to thank Katie for at least some of it?

It had taken a couple of long days and sleepless nights to reconcile
himself to what she had done.  At first, his Irish spirit had railed
against being tinkered with like a piece of clockwork.  She had
changed him, changed his life, if he could call it that, to suit her,
even to the point of changing him from a married man to a bachelor.
He had no memories of this Frannie that Tom had created, even when he
was able to get the Computer to conjure her for him.   It had been
frightening to see a deactivated hologram standing there like some
sort of undead creature, its eyes hollow and unseeing.  Did he ever
look that way?  Would he again if he returned to his previous
incarnation?  No, he told himself, for Katie had assured him he would
be happy, and he could not be happy like that.  But he would not have
the same personality, the same curiosity and level of education she
had given him.  It was hard to imagine he had ever been functionally
illiterate; would he want to return to that?  Like it or not, her
changes had made him what he was now, and that was a damn sight more
interesting than he had been before.

Finally, he resolved to forgive her for whatever she had done at the
beginning of their relationship.  Besides being the Christian thing to
do, he realized her actions were as much a testament to her own
vulnerability as his.  She had needed someone to share her life with,
and for whatever reason she had picked him.  Loneliness was no crime.

Today, though, he was determined to shake off the weight of his
thoughts, if only for a little while.  Digging out the bread and
cheese he had brought, he sat down to eat.  Michael wondered, not for
the first time, if he even needed to eat; after all, there was no
danger of a hologram dying of starvation.  Or was there?  If he jumped
off this cliff right now, he would not die of broken bones and
internal bleeding, but would he cease to exist nevertheless?  Were
there rules to this place just as there were rules to the real world?
He smiled to himself as he realized it was going to be difficult to
spend any amount of time in blank-minded contemplation of the scenery.

"It's a fine day for a climb, isn't it?"

Make that very difficult.  "Pull up a rock and make yourself at home,
Father," he invited the visitor in as friendly a tone as he could
manage.

"I won't stay long.  Brannon told me where you had gone, and I wanted
to make sure you were all right."

"Tending to the lamb that's gone astray, are ye?"

The other man sat heavily beside Michael.  He was not dressed in his
priestly robes but in a black and teal uniform similar to Katie's.
His gaze took in the scenery before he spoke.  "It's a habit--no
religious pun intended.  On board Voyager, I'm the ship's doctor, and
occasionally the unofficial counsellor."

Michael sliced off another hunk of cheese.  "With all due respects, I
don't think anyone in this little corner of Ireland will be needing
the services of either doctor or priest any time soon.  We're a
healthy lot, and our souls sure as hell don't need tending."

"Are you certain of that?"  The tone of the question was understanding
rather than challenging, and Michael met the other man's gaze for the
first time.

"I wouldn't think I'd have to tell you that a man-made contraption has
no soul, Father."

The doctor nodded slowly at this.  "So you do know.  I suspected as
much."

"Katie didn't send you to check up on me?"

"She didn't speak with me directly, but she did send me in a way.
Mister Paris and I have both invited her to come with us to Fair Haven
this week and she's turned us down.  That in itself would not be
completely irregular, but something told me to have a look at your
program."

"To see if she'd mended me again?"

The doctor eyed him carefully.  "I wasn't sure what I was looking for.
But when I saw you'd been given control over your own matrix, I could
figure out who probably gave it to you."  He paused for a moment, then
asked, "Have you decided what you're going to do?"

"No.  Whenever I think I'm close to it, I find I'm back where I
started."

"Ah, yes.  To erase or not to erase;  that is the question."

Michael snorted at that.  "And they let you counsel people, do they?"

"I wasn't trying to be flippant.  That is the choice before you, and
it's one no human can make for you, because forgetting is not so
convenient--or so irreversible--for them.  It's not just a question of
whether to erase, though, but what to erase.  Do you realize that you
can take or leave bits of yourself as easily as you would pick up or
discard pieces of clothing?  How many beings of flesh and blood can
remake themselves so easily?"

"It's a lot harder than it looks, believe me.  Choosing a life's not
as simple as choosing a bloody wardrobe.  And up until a few days ago,
I never would have dreamed my life was only a spark in the guts of
some machine, or that it could be changed on a whim."

"That's true," acknowledged the doctor.  Sighing, he admitted,  "I
suppose I can only empathize with you up to a point.  After all, I've
been aware from the time I was first activated that I was a hologram."

It took Michael a full five seconds for the other man's last statement
to sink in.  Finally he spluttered, "Are you trying to tell me
everyone on this poxy ship is a hologram?"

"Hardly.  I'm the only member of the crew with that--distinction."  At
Michael's stunned silence, he continued.  "You're imbued with Irish
history; let me impart a bit of photonic history.  Holograms have been
in existence as crude entertainment for over a century, but the
technology to make them interactive and adaptable is no more than
thirty years old.  We can now perform various functions; I am what is
known as an Emergency Medical Hologram, which is in use when there is
no doctor available, or when extra sick bay assistance is needed. When
the human doctor was killed, I became the chief medical officer aboard
Voyager, and over the years I've acquired many of the rights and
privileges any sentient being would be afforded."

The Irishman's brow wrinkled.  "Sentient?"

"Sentience is measured by several tests, but the general criteria are
intelligence, adaptability, and self-awareness.  It means that an
individual or a species is capable of determining its own fate, and
there are Federation laws that protect its right to do so."

"Is that what Katie was doing, then?  Following the law?"

The doctor shook his head.  "Holograms aren't generally accepted as
sentient, and certainly not through any precedent of law;  I'm
regarded by most people as a unique case.  Nor is the Captain the type
of person to let the feelings she has for you influence her
decisions."

"What do you know about Katie's feelings for me?"  Michael demanded
sharply.

The other man smiled slightly.  "Not a great deal.  She came to me for
advice after she'd decided to end your relationship--or rather, she
got my advice after I prodded her to open up.  She told me she had
become 'romantically involved with a hologram', and was quite
surprised by it."

"Why did she want to end it?"  He remembered that day as if it were
yesterday, the sensation of sinking in his gut as she told him she
couldn't see him any more.  She hadn't given him a reason then.

"I think she was put off by the fact that she could change you so
easily, and frankly by the fact that she didn't see you as 'real'.  I
suggested she stop changing you, and it would seem she took my
suggestion to heart. I would also hazard a guess that she no longer
sees you in the same light."

*When did this become so real?*  The memory flashed unbidden in his
brain, or whatever he had that passed for a brain.  "She told me she
was falling in love with me," he heard himself say aloud, then
silently cursed himself for his indiscretion.  He hoped the doctors of
this century were still expected to keep their mouths shut.

The other man chewed on this for a while, then answered, "That's
interesting."

"It's bloody daft is what it is.  And whenever I think about staying
the way I am now, I remember that and think how much better it would
be for her to go back to what I was--a mulchie Paddy stereotype--and
never see her again."

"Why is it such an insane idea that she could have feelings for you?
Because you're a bartender and she's a Captain?  Or because you're a
hologram and she's flesh and blood?"

Michael shot him a look.  "I'd say the second one is a bit more
important, wouldn't you say?"

The doctor's sympathetic brown eyes became gray with anger.  "In human
history, there are too many examples of that kind of thinking. People
thought a difference in economic class or skin colour or the church
they went to was a barrier to any kind of common feeling.  They
thought they could rank their fellow man on some kind of continuum
that placed certain ones above others."

"Don't you think I know that?" he spat.  "Christ, man, I saw it with
my own eyes the last time I went to England.  'No Irish or dogs
allowed.' You're preaching the wrong sermon; this business isn't
anything like that."

"I admit this is a little unusual in one respect.  Most people like to
put themselves at the top of the heap.  You're the first one I've met
who's eager to put himself at the bottom."   While Michael was still
digesting this, the doctor sighed and rose to his feet.  "I didn't
come here to make your choice more confusing, but I hope you'll
consider all the variables before you do anything irreversible.
There's a whole universe out there you'll never have a chance to know,
and I think you're more interested in it than you'd like to admit.
There's also a woman out there you're obviously in love with, because
you're willing to become something you no longer want to be in order
to make her happy."  He paused, then added, "But you should make sure
that's what she really wants, or needs, before you do."   Reaching for
a device on his arm, he removed it and handed it to Michael.  "When
you're ready, put this on and say, 'Computer, exit.'  Then just walk
out the door.  Her quarters are on deck three."  With that, he nodded
and headed back down the hill. Michael turned the contraption over in
his hand as he watched the clouds chase each other mindlessly across
the sky.

---

He could tell from the look the passing crewman gave him that knocking
on her door was probably the wrong thing to do.

Michael had finally decided after yet another sleepless night to
follow the Doctor's advice and visit Voyager  for a second time.  He
was still unused to thinking of his world as existing inside the
starship; to him, the corridors of this vessel were still alien
ground.  But then, Fair Haven was no longer truly home either.  His
universe was simultaneously expanding and contracting and as the sands
shifted beneath him there was only one constant left.

That constant now stood before him in the doorway in a leaf green
silken robe that barely reached her knees, charmingly blinking back
sleep.  She cocked her head slightly as her eyes focused on him, and
he felt his insides turn over.  He knew he must look bloody ridiculous
in one of her own crew's uniforms, but he figured it would make him
less conspicuous as he blundered about searching for her quarters.

Wordlessly, she stepped aside to allow him to enter, and he forced his
feet to move forward, the door automatically whooshing shut behind
him.  Looking around him, he saw a somewhat Spartan room, not bare of
adornment but lacking personal reminders of loved ones or oft-visited
places.  Did she keep all of that locked away in a drawer or in some
closely guarded compartment of her heart?   Were the ingredients that
made her spirit unique in danger of disappearing under the weight of
her terrible responsibility to the people on this ship? More
importantly, was he the one she needed to keep that spirit alive in
the stiffly-held body of the starship captain who now faced him?

"I never thought it would be this late here," he began lamely.  "I
didn't mean to wake you."

"It's not that late," she rasped.  "I was up 'til oh-four hundred for
the last couple of nights and the Doctor ordered an early bedtime."

"Ship's business?"

She hesitated for a fraction of a second.  "Partly."  His heart leapt
foolishly and he fought down a visible reaction. *She's not lost any
sleep over you, you dozy eejit.  Calm yourself.*

"Well, the important thing is you're tired and I shouldn't keep you.
I only wanted you to know I've made a decision."

Her body seemed to stiffen even more, if that was possible.  "Please,
sit down," she managed formally.  He followed her lead, joining her on
the chesterfield.  After an uncomfortable silence, she ventured,
"Don't tell me you've decided to join up."

Startled, Michael looked down at his costume, then smiled slightly.
"No, I was never cut out for the military life."  To the air, he said,
"Computer, give me me old clothes back."  He watched as the uniform
was replaced instantly by a more familiar shirt and trousers.
"Better?" he asked, holding out his arms.

"You looked fine before," she murmured graciously.

"So do you," he told her, trying not to become distracted from his
purpose and failing miserably.  God, but she was beautiful.  If this
was to be the last time he would ever see her, he wanted to savour it
for all it was worth.  "Do all women in this century dress for bed
like that, then?"

"I don't know.  I haven't gone to bed with many women."  Her eyes held
a hint of mischief under the sadness and uncertainty, and it was all
he could do to keep from pulling her to him.  Sighing, he realized he
could not prolong this any further.

"I've decided to let you choose, Katie."

Michael watched the various emotions play across her face, a face
which so far tonight had been almost perfectly stoic.  Disbelief
emerged, then fear, then, briefly, anger, then the Captain's mask
again.

"I won't take away your rights after I've given them to you."

"You haven't.  I'm exercising my right.  I choose for you to decide."

She shook her head vehemently.  "I can't do that."

"Why not?  You make life and death decisions every day.  This one is a
hell of a lot simpler, because there's not much evidence that I'm even
alive now.  Either way, it's not as bad as all that.  I can go back to
the way I was, a happy, ignorant sod, or I can know what I am and take
all that comes from it, the good and the bad.  Hell, the Doctor and I
may even start a rebellion when we get back to Earth.  Milo would be
proud of me."

"You must have a preference," urged Katie.

"I do.  But your preference is more important."

"Your being a hologram--"

"--has nothing to do with it.  I thought about it a long while, after
the Doctor came to speak with me.  He made me see that I was measuring
myself against you and coming up short, and I just don't know enough
about what I am yet to do that.  I don't want you to decide because I
think you're better than I am.  I made a choice in my mind, but if
it's going to go against yours, I'll change it."

"But why?" she whispered.

He had sworn to himself he wouldn't touch her, but at this he had to
take her hands in his.  Bringing them slowly to his lips, he murmured
soothingly, "You know, don't you Katie-girl?  You know."  He watched
in the dim starlight as her eyes brimmed with tears which stubbornly
refused to spill over onto her cheeks.  "You've heard me say it often
enough.  It's the only thing I've been sure of these past few days,
and it's the only real thing I have to give you.   I want what will
make you happy, more than I want the wonders of those stars out there,
or the knowledge of grand literature, or the certainty that I'm
standing on solid Irish ground.   Do what your heart tells you to do,
love."

The tears did begin to fall then.  "I don't know if I can hear my
heart any more, Michael."

The pain in her words shocked him, but he tried to smile for her.
"It's there, lass.  I've heard it, and it's a strong one."

When she didn't answer him, he took that as his cue.  Reaching up to
brush the wetness on her cheek, he gave her one last look and gathered
himself to stand.

"I feel like I'm betraying them."  The hollow voice halted him, and
the words made his pulse beat with a faint but tangible hope.

"Who?" he inquired calmly.

She gestured at the air around her.  "My crew.  I've always told
myself I have to live for them until we get back.  They're all that
matters."

"Of course they're important to you, and well they should be.  You're
the Captain, and they all think you're a damned fine one.  But you'll
be no good to them if your soul turns to dust before you reach home.
When your heart dies, their hope dies with it.  Don't you see?"

"It's not as simple as that," she stated, her tone flat.  "If I'm to
be an effective leader under these conditions, I have to put certain
parts of me--up on the shelf.  The person I am when I'm with you isn't
compatible with what I have to do on this ship, Michael."

"Hogwash."

Her head snapped up.  "What?"

"You heard me."  He stood angrily and began to pace, the room suddenly
close and confining.   He sensed the cause was lost, but he was game
for one last stab at it.   "Don't tell me the bloody English are
running the officer training schools now.  Where did you get that
foolish notion that a leader needs to carve herself up like a
Christmas turkey to get the job done?  You can't ask these people to
follow you if you're less than human, not on the kind of journey
you're on."  As he watched her sit on the couch and draw further in on
herself with every word, the answer finally dawned on him.  It was so
simple he was surprised he hadn't seen it from the beginning.  "If
you're bent on turning yourself into a machine with no feeling, it's
not for them, woman.  It's for yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, then I'll make it plainer for you.  You're acting like a
coward." That got her, Michael thought elatedly as he saw her eyes
catch fire. She sprang to her feet and strode over to him.  "You have
no right--"

"I've every right.  You've no secrets from me, and you'll have to pull
the plug to shut me up.  But I think you're brave enough to hear this
first.  You've been on this ship for six years, responsible for all
these lives, without a moment's peace.  It's a terrible burden, and
while I wouldn't wish it on anyone, you're the one in a million who
could take it on.  But you're also the kind who feels for her people,
and I imagine you've lost a few since you've been out here.  Somewhere
inside you, you've decided to save yourself, turn off the emotions,
conserve energy for the long trip home.  But you're not going to make
it on one engine, Katie.  You need all of yourself or you'll be lost
forever."   He reached out to grasp her shoulders, which were now
shaking noticeably.  "You changed me because you needed someone to
find you, to try to keep you whole before that happens. Don't give up
now, love.  I've found you."

She said nothing, just stared at him with huge, red-rimmed eyes.  Then
the shaking in her body increased until she broke down into great,
racking, liberating sobs and he led her to the bedroom to cover her
with blankets and hold her for long hours.

---
Epilogue
---

The shooting pain in his back jolted Michael awake at about three in
the morning.

"Bollix," he breathed softly when he felt her stir in his arms.  "I'm
sorry, love, but this bed is a torture."

"It's going back and forth between your old shapeless mattress and
this one that's making your back hurt," she mumbled.  Levering herself
up on her elbows, she brushed a few unruly strands of hair from her
face. "You know, you could fix that ache pretty easily."

"I'd thought of that.  But if I start by mending small things, I'll
move on to bigger ones soon enough.  And in no time at all I won't be
able to recognize myself."

The starlight from the windows was just bright enough for him to see
her eyes, now intently focused on his.  "You never told me what you
thought of--what I did to you.  How I changed you."

He considered his words for a long moment.  "I won't lie to you.  I
was angry at first, but then I gradually got around to accepting it.
It's what people do with holograms all the time.  Why should I have
been any different?"

"I would never think of doing it now," she told him, her voice low.

"I know," he replied seriously.  Then a wicked grin lit his features.
"After all, I'm close to perfect."

Katie snorted.  "Hardly.  That snoring is enough to wake the residents
of the next star system."  She yelped and swatted at him when he
reached under the covers to pinch her bottom, and for a minute they
both collapsed in tired, foolish laughter.  As he tried to catch his
breath, Michael had a strange thought.

"Did it ever strike you that the things you changed in me were the
things you were afraid of losing in yourself?  That maybe you were
trying to hold a mirror up to see what you were missing?"

She appeared to consider this.  Finally, she drawled, "That would make
falling in love with you a fairly narcissistic proposition."

The corner of his mouth twitched.  "Downright incestuous."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if Tommy-boy is me da, that would make you me m--" The vicious
shove caught him off-guard, nearly sending him over the edge of the
bed.  Recovering quickly, he grabbed at her arms and pinned her
beneath him.  "Fianna banshee," he growled, leaning in for a swift,
passionate kiss.  Releasing her, he sat up and reached for his shirt.
Inspecting the portable emitter on his sleeve, a perfect copy of the
Doctor's, he marvelled briefly at the technology that made him
possible.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to Fair Haven and my shapeless mattress.  You don't need me
keeping you up with my tossing and turning."

"You're right."  A warm hand trailed down his back, making his muscles
twitch in a more pleasant fashion.  "There are better ways to keep me
up."

He twisted around to look at her.  The mischief was in her for sure,
along with all of the other pieces of the puzzle that was Katie.
Everything fit, nothing was missing, and his spirit--for she made him
believe he possessed one--his spirit overflowed with love for her.
Whatever else might be an illusion, whatever else was in store for
him, he knew that feeling was real, and that it would last.

Aloud, he managed, "I might know a few of those."  She smiled a sweet,
crooked smile and took his hand, and he gave himself up to the magic
she wove.

---

The End

---

Thanks: To Jim no. 1, for all of his help and patience in putting up
with my many rewrites; to Jim no. 2, Jim Wright of Delta Blues fame,
whose fabulous reviews were instrumental to getting this thing done;
to Fintan McKeown, whose performance was such fun and got me thinking 
(always dangerous) about writing Michael's story;  to Neil O'Byrne, 
whose Dublin slang dictionary (http://homepage.tinet.ie/~nobyrne/
slang.html)  allowed me to inject a few Irishisms in the dialogue; 
and to the great people on ASC who answered my nitpicky questions. 
Tell me what ya think, gang, but J/Cers please don't flame me too
much.  I love Chakotay too! (Or I could if he were personally
delivered to my home...)