The BLTS Archive- When Only Memory Remains
by monkee (wiecek@earthlink.net)

---

Archive: ASC and BLTS

Disclaimers: Paramount owns Star Trek Voyager and all of its
characters. This depressing tale, however, somehow came from me.

Author's Note: This is a dead Janeway story -- and even worse, it's a
dead J/C story. It's depressing. You have been warned. It is a sequel
of August's 'Capture', which really needs to be read first.

This story is, of course, for gus. Because it was the only way that I
could get a happy ending out of her. And because if it weren't for the
darkness, how would we recognize the light?

---
"Remember everything," she said, "when only memory remains."

Counting Crows 'Ghost Train'
---

Tuvok said that I was the logical choice. It's been a month since her
death and I asked him if he would go through her personal effects. It
is time. We can convert her quarters into much needed living space for
other crewmembers. But he said that as Captain Janeway's closest
friend, it would be more logical for me to do this. His words
surprised me. She and I...we weren't close at all. Not anymore. How
could he not know that? I thought that HE was her closest friend. Now
I have to wonder -- was she close to anyone? I honestly don't think
so.

How can anyone live like that?

When it became obvious that she and I were never going to be
romantically involved, we did try for a while, with varying degrees of
success, to be close friends. Ultimately though, it was just too hard.
It was a charade that even she couldn't maintain -- not with
what-could-have-been constantly hanging in the air between us. We
continued to function fairly smoothly as a command team, but
personally, we drifted apart. I can't even remember the last time we
had a substantial conversation that was not about the ship. It must
have been over a year ago.

Morale on the ship right now is low. Especially with our 'morale
officer' in the midst of another spiritual crisis. Neelix was with her
when she was killed. The two of them were on a shuttle mission -- and
they got caught in a plasma storm. She died instantly when the console
in front of her exploded. But Neelix had to sit on that ship for six
hours afterwards waiting for rescue. He's been badly shaken by the
experience. I need to go talk to him, I know, but it's difficult for
me to help the others through their grief when I am feeling
so...ambivalent. Well, not ambivalent, exactly, but...

I'm having a hard time separating my public grief from my private
grief. I'm aware that the crew is watching me -- on the bridge, in the
messhall, whenever her name comes up. I'm struggling to come up with
the proper balance of muted mourning and understanding comfort, but
it's difficult. It's not a façade, exactly, but it's not
really...natural...either.

For me the most disturbing thing is that I can't seem to muster up
much genuine sadness when I'm alone, either. I've done several
mourning rituals, but I don't feel a connection to her spirit at all
-- it's like I'm just going through the motions.

I do miss her. I guess that I should. But I lost her years ago, and
did my mourning then.

I find myself wondering when she realized that it was gone. The
...something...that was between us, even for several years after we
left New Earth. Something like...possibility? Hope? But you can only
hold onto a tenuous abstraction like that for so long before it begins
to slip away from you. I can't even pinpoint an exact moment when I
knew for sure that it had happened. But I'll bet that she could.
That's the way she was.

I know that in addition to their grief, the crew is feeling some
uncertainty now. They have doubts about me. I'm not offended -- I have
a few doubts myself. Kathryn's drive is what got us this far -- her
relentless, at times even obsessive, determination to get home. And
her accomplishments as Voyager's Captain were impressive by any
standards. In only eight years, we have covered more than half of the
distance to home. And a community has developed here, under her
leadership. There are people on this ship who are at home here, who
are happy here. Unfortunately, she wasn't one of them. And neither am
I.

I just had no intention of living this way. This endless journey,
constant turmoil and stress, never a time to just...be. I'm not sure
what kind of life I ever envisioned for myself. I've had no control
over the things that have shaped my life in the last decade -- first
the Cardassians and the Maquis, now Voyager. I can't even remember
what it was like to live on a planet permanently -- to feel the ground
beneath my feet, to smell soil and rain and life, to look up and see
the sun, or the moon.  But if it were up to me, I would end this
journey now. Find a place to settle and just live the rest of my life
with some semblance of normalcy. I know that I have an obligation to
this crew. Her obligation, really, transferred now to me. Many of the
non-human members of the crew have longer life spans, and have good
reason for wanting to continue the journey. But from now on, when we
come to an uninhabited planet that isn't in some kind of war zone, I
intend to ask for a vote. Do we stay, or do we continue on? I'll leave
it up to them. Maybe, someday, this can end.

---

There's nothing more depressing than going through somebody's things
after they've died. The absolute silence in the room is haunting. And
it's brutal, having to decide if the objects that had meaning to her
will have any meaning to someone else. Some of it is obvious. I've
packed a lot of her things up for her family, of course. Gifts that
she received over the years from crewmembers can be returned to the
giver. But the saddest thing is the pile in the middle of the room of
things that will be put into the recycler. There's such a finality to
that pile. I force myself to be practical. Kathryn would, if she were
doing this.

Still, my heart sinks when I open her closet door. Clothes are the
hardest things of all. Perhaps it's the way they hang there, eternally
waiting for her to return and step into them so that they can spring
to life. I can remember her wearing all of these things -- every one
of them -- at various ships' functions over the years. Sighing, I put
aside a uniform for her family -- then I gather up the rest for the
recycling pile.

I find it at the very end of the rack, behind everything else. The
sight of it actually makes me a little light-headed, and I sit down on
her bed. It is the blue dress that she wore on New Earth.

She never once wore it after we returned. I actually had it in my head
that she'd accidentally left it behind. Somehow, I found that a
comforting notion. That it was still hanging in the otherwise empty
closet in the shelter on the planet that was to have been our home.
But here it is, in my hands, wrinkled from having been crushed up
against the wall. I can't possibly throw it away -- yet when I look at
it, it seems like it wasn't even hers. It seems like it must have
belonged to a different woman entirely. In a way, I guess it did.

I have a picture of Kathryn from New Earth. She wasn't aware that I'd
even taken it, and I never did tell her about it. For years, it was my
most treasured possession -- but now...well, I know I still have it,
somewhere. In it, she is seated, leaning against a tree. Her eyes are
closed and she's turned her face upward to feel the warmth of the sun.
She is beautiful in that picture. I fold the dress up carefully. When
I return to my quarters, I'll find the picture and box them up
together. I'll keep them as a reminder of how rich our lives could
have been, if only...

If only we'd never left that place.

If only she'd channeled just a little bit of her formidable
determination into trying to make it work after we did get back.

What would she change if she could? I guess it's pointless to
speculate.

I'm about to turn away from the closet when something catches my eye.
When I investigate, I discover a canvas, facing the wall in the very
back. I turn it around -- and find myself. It's a painting of me. I'm
seated at a table in what appears to be some kind of open-air
restaurant. The sky above me is a burnished orange color. My hand is
resting halfway across the table and is unfinished. And there is an
empty space across from me. I'm struck by the distant expression on my
face. Bitter. Resigned. I scrutinize it carefully, but I can't
remember the time or the place. It bothers me. Why did she paint it?
Why didn't she complete it?

I wish there were a date on it. As far as I know, she hasn't painted
anything in years. But I would like to have known when she last cared
enough about me and what we lost to put it to canvas.

I've kept most of her better pieces for her family, but this one is
unremarkable and unfinished. I certainly don't want it. I can't
remember anything about it, but it makes me feel...empty.  I put it on
the pile in the middle of the room to be recycled.

I pick up the folded dress and walk to the door. I take a last look
around the room and shake my head in sorrow.  I order the lights off
and walk out the door, leaving the boxes and the pile in the middle of
the room in darkness.

And only memory remains....

---

The End