Be Careful What You Wish For

by Barbara Watson

  Once again, Tom wasn’t as convinced, but this time he didn’t say so.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  The dig was going better than he had expected. They had already uncovered the outer walls of what had clearly been a primitive city. He was impressed by the stone formations—they were incredibly well-engineered for their day, and had no doubt kept the city’s residents safe from all sorts of real and imagined invaders.

  He hadn’t found ‘it’ though—the archeological treasure he knew was buried inside these walls. Truth be told, he didn’t even know what it looked like, though he had been seeking it out—uncovering it layer by layer—for over six years. Sometimes the quest had been frustrating, and he had considered giving up, changing his sights to something easier to reach. But a feeling in his gut told him that—if only he could dig deep enough—he’d have his prize, and the answers that came with it. Now, after so many years, he was close to a breakthrough. He was sure of it.

  His efforts paid off. In front of him, now, he could see it take shape: the outline of a small obelisk right in the heart of the city. He switched tools from the clumsy pick to a gentle brush, and began to work the ash and soil away from the delicate structure. As it was revealed to him, its beauty and grace overwhelmed him. It was even more lovely than he had dreamed, and more precious. Surrounded by the city’s hard, cold, stone walls, its fragility and power—and the contrasts they represented—took his breath away.

  He could see the opening now, a small door carved into its side, so well designed as to appear invisible to the untrained eye. He searched for the mechanism that might cause it to open, finally finding the lever. He pushed ever so slightly and it was revealed to him. What he had searched for so desperately was now in his grasp. He inhaled deeply and stepped inside...

  Their San Francisco apartment was always a mess. Neither spent much time there, and—when they did—it was usually just to catch their breath before changing directions. He would check in with the Federation Science Station whenever his findings were ready to publish. Each time Voyager was in spacedock, Kathryn would stop by on her way to Headquarters—or Indiana. They always seemed to be coming or going, often in different directions. Yet this was a happy time in their lives.

  Today, she would start a month-long layover while Voyager’s engines were refit. They had it all planned: a quick dinner with Tom and B’Elanna down on the Wharf, then he’d fly their shuttle to Bloomington for three long weeks on the farm. The last week would be a more traditional vacation on a Mexican beach. He knew their time together would fly by and he was anxious to get started.

  He checked the chronometer: it was nearly six o’clock. Kathryn was due back at five. Maybe he’d just missed seeing her come in. He walked through the apartment calling her name. No answer. He started to get worried. His wife was the most punctual woman in Starfleet. Where could she be?

  He walked out onto the terrace. For some reason, he could sense that she was in danger—no, in pain. She was hurt. He grabbed his jacket and ran down to the street. Where was she? He began calling her name. “Kathryn! Can you hear me? Kathryn!”

  “Kathryn!” Chakotay was mumbling her name as he woke up in sickbay, stiff and sore, but alert and aware of his surroundings for the first time in a week. The Doctor was there in an instant.

  “Good morning, Commander; or should I say good evening.” His patient was attempting to sit up and continued repeating, “Kathryn….” It only took a gentle push to urge him flat on his back once again. The doctor answered his patient’s unfinished question. “The captain is fine. I released her a few hours ago. Lieutenant Paris is bringing her up to speed on the damage to the ship. So just lie back down so I can finish examining you.”

  Chakotay did as ordered, his heart still pounding from his dream. It was so real: his archeological dig and the treasure it was about to reveal, the dream of their future lives, then the sense that Kathryn was in some kind of pain. Yet he knew the Doctor wouldn’t lie to him. “What’s our status?” he asked, hoping the answers would offer some clue.

  The EMH filled him in on the details: their less-than-successful mission, the damage to the ship, their casualties. As Chakotay listened, he imagined the impact this news would have had on Kathryn. He understood that she would be in pain right now, and in what ways. He was feeling it, too. As she had said on many occasions, this was their crew. He had lost good friends as well as colleagues, all under his command. He needed to talk to the one person who would understand their loss from this unique perspective.

  “I need to get out of here,” Chakotay said as soon as the doctor was through his examination. “Can you release me?” The EMH knew how a situation like theirs inspired a need in his human crewmates to take some kind of action, to find some way to feel less impotent against the circumstances they found themselves in. Yet, as a physician, he needed to ensure his patients’ complete recovery before he returned them to duty. He tried to find an equitable balance, but it was a struggle.

  “Your body has been through an incredible ordeal. Your muscles were severely weakened by the injuries you sustained in the accident. You’ll hardly be able to walk....”

  None of this mattered to the commander, “Then replicate me a crutch, but I’m getting out of here.”

  The doctor tried to delay him. “Fine. Let me get Mister Paris up here to help you, though. I’ll certify you for duty, but take it slowly. Your body needs time to rest and recover before you start crawling all over this ship.”

  Chakotay was nothing if not reasonable. “That’s a fair compromise, Doctor, thank you.”

  If he’d been slightly more self-aware, the Doctor would have also admitted his other reason for being reluctant to release the first officer: his sickbay would be empty for the first time since their crisis began. He’d have no distractions from dealing with his own grief, loss, and feelings of inadequacy at the deaths of so many friends. And he’d also have plenty of time to worry about the rapid disintegration of his relationship with a certain ex-drone.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Kathryn Janeway looked around her new quarters. They were smaller than she was used to, but she wasn’t complaining. In fact, she was grateful for all the work Neelix, Icheb, and Naomi had done in making a nice welcome for her. They had spent several hours, she could tell, gathering some of her personal effects from her devastated home on Deck 4. Her favorite chair, a few pieces of clothing, and her books were among the things they had salvaged. She also noticed a small crate of items from her ready room. She supposed she had Tom Paris to thank for that.

  Like Tom and B’Elanna, she was now living in an adapted space; her new home, on Deck 12, was formerly the crewmen’s reading room, with the bulk of the tables and chairs replaced by a standard double bed and a salvaged desk. It was off a secondary corridor, and she was glad for the seclusion. She was also glad for the view of space the room’s windows afforded her. The stars always helped her do her best thinking.

  Her walk around the ship had been painful. She was happy to see her crew, though she couldn’t help but notice how many familiar faces were missing. As much as she had been anxious to get out of sickbay and back to work, she was now equally grateful for this time alone. She had to figure out how they’d go on, how they’d make it past this tragedy that had cost them so much.

  She took a moment to change into one of the pieces of her clothing the crew had salvaged, a simple green dress she often wore when home alone for the evening. It was long enough to keep her bare feet warm when she tucked them up under her in her reading chair. She knew she’d be spending most of this evening curled up in that spot, and she wanted to make herself comfortable.

  She had dug out a specific PADD from the pile on her new desk, and spent the next few hours searching for guidance from a long-dead mentor. When she had first decided to seek her own ship, an old friend, Will Riker, had given her a text containing what he claimed was the ultimate source of wisdom for any Starfleet captain: Reflections on Command, by Admiral James T
. Kirk. She carried it with her to each posting, and she discovered that—while Federation life had changed so drastically since the book’s initial publication over ninety years earlier—the psychological burdens of command responsibility were very much the same. The book had become a good touchstone for her during her hardest moments as a captain.

  She had found Kirk’s advice most helpful during the past seven years in the Delta Quadrant. Until then, ‘Captain’ Kirk’s experiences had seemed a bit alien to her. His Enterprise had been one of the first ships to explore deep space. Often cut off from Starfleet Command for weeks or even months, Kirk and the officers of his time had been forced to make most of their decisions without counsel. They found Starfleet’s Prime Directive a bit of a moving target in those days, as they confronted unexpected situations that seemed to call for an improvisational approach. She and Admiral Paris had once enjoyed long conversations where they marveled at how often Kirk and crew had—in their minds—cavalierly ignored the Federation’s most important law. Janeway and Owen Paris were literalists where the Directive was concerned. Or, at least, she had been.

  Since Voyager was stranded so far from home, she had come to a more liberal interpretation of General Order One. So far away from the support and assistance of Starfleet, she had—like Kirk—come to see the Directive as an idealized but occasionally impractical concept. Yet she had also cared deeply about upholding the Federation principles she cherished. It had been a balancing act; she hoped Starfleet would come to agree.

  It wasn’t advice about the Prime Directive she was looking for this time, however. She searched the PADD for a different kind of wisdom, and found herself re-reading a chapter she had visited more times than she would have cared to remember during the last seven years. ‘It is an inevitability that every Starfleet captain will face: losing crewmen as a result of a command decision.’ The chapter was a thoughtful and eloquent essay on finding the courage to live with the death of a person under one’s command. In it, Kirk related several anecdotes from his career: a time when a young ‘Lieutenant’ Kirk had hesitated in firing at a deadly gaseous cloud, causing several junior officers to be killed as a result. Having to choose one of his two best friends for a dangerous scientific mission, never expecting the one he selected to survive the encounter. The very personal loss (however temporary) of one of those two friends during the Genesis Incident. Kirk had faced this situation many times in his long career. Somehow, he had always come through it.

  She always found herself coming back to a particular passage, an incident on an Earth-like planet where the Enterprise crew was captured and forced to fight in a Roman-style gladiator arena. Kirk had been required to make a difficult decision that might cost the lives of these same two officers—his dearest friends. He had tried to convince his captors and himself that this was an effortless choice. ‘I’ve had to select men to die before so that others might live…’ She reread this section several times, as Kirk revealed the pain that was hidden under those cavalier words. It was never easy to send someone to die—intentionally or accidentally. But the mark of a good captain was how one carried on in light of the loss.

  She thought for a moment about Tuvok and Harry Kim. She had known Tuvok for much of her adult life. He had been a part of her extended family long before he served as her chief security officer. She had been sent on this assignment to rescue him, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Her mission, she now knew, would fail. And Harry had been her pet project, her young protégée, hand-picked and fresh out of the Academy when he came under her command. She had been advised against choosing a raw graduate for an important position like ops, but she saw something in Harry that couldn’t be ignored. The young man was a brilliant engineer, yet he was thoroughly self-effacing, and had an eagerness to succeed that she knew would help him past his inexperience. Besides, they were only going on a three-week tactical mission—or so she thought. Truth was, Harry had become a gifted officer on his way to a bright career. He had saved them all from life-threatening situations on a regular basis. Lately, he could also talk her into seeing his point of view on almost any topic. And he had become a dear friend. She knew now that Voyager would be his first and last posting. It broke her heart.

  Her senior staff had functioned as a team for so long, she couldn’t imagine living with these two gaping holes in their ranks. She couldn’t stop thinking about these men, and the other crewmen who wouldn’t be making it home. And she thought, too, about their families. Somehow, she didn’t think Admiral Kirk alone would be enough to get her though this.

  She put down his book and walked to the replicator. Coffee might not help, but it couldn’t hurt.

  As she passed the desk, she could now see what was in the crate from her ready room. Her antique microscope—over six hundred years old—had survived with minimal damage, as had several others of her prized artifacts. She was about to continue on when she saw it, wrapped gently in a piece of fabric. Her lucky teacup. Her token symbol to herself that they’d all make it home safely. Surrounded by all this destruction, this fragile china cup had survived. She picked it up and examined it for cracks or chips or any sign it had been through this devastating accident. There were none.

  Before she could stop herself, she hurled it across the room and into the bulkhead where it shattered into hundreds of pieces.

  The door chime sounded just a moment later. She tried to regain her composure as she answered. “Come in.”

  Her first-officer had heard the cup breaking as he approached. When the doors opened, he stuck his head in to make sure he wasn’t walking into the line of fire. “I’m unarmed, is it safe to come in?” he said half-seriously.

  Seeing him was the medicine her wounded soul needed, “Chakotay.” It was the only word she could say.

  He knew instantly that he had correctly guessed the toll their ordeal had taken on her. The doctor had warned Chakotay of her injuries, of her initial problems remembering the past few weeks, and her reaction when she had learned of the deaths of her friends and colleagues. The EMH hadn’t wanted to release the commander from sickbay—his recovery had been miraculous, but was still incomplete—but Chakotay knew he needed to get to her side. Tom authorized his release, and told him where to find her new quarters. He didn’t waste a moment getting there.

  Now he walked—with the assistance of a cane—to her side. She saw the crutch and it shook her out of herself. “I told the doctor to notify me when you woke up. Are you alright?” He was at her side now.

  “Just some residual muscle weakness—the Doctor says I’ll be dancing in a few weeks.” He reached his hand to her face and pulled her eyes to meet his. “Are you alright?”

  She understood that he was asking about more than her physical health. “I don’t know,” was all she could say.

  He pulled her into a tight embrace, and the tears came as soon as she felt his arms around her. He could feel her body wracked with sobs—a kind of full-body weeping he suspected was the outlet for almost seven years of pain and grief.

  When he felt her regaining her composure, he pulled back from their embrace just enough to look at her face. He leaned in gently and kissed her cheeks, which were wet with tears. “It’s going to be alright,” he said to her softly. “Everything is going to be alright.”

  She pulled back and turned away to wipe her face. She was embarrassed—she never broke down this way, ever. He could sense her discomfort. “Kathryn, it’s alright. You should let it out. It’s not healthy to keep that bottled up inside you.” She was walking to the couch as he spoke. He moved to join her. There was something he needed to know. “I spoke with the Doctor. He said you had some memory loss after you woke up.”

  She had stopped crying and was sitting quietly with a pained, dark look in her eyes. “Yes. I didn’t remember the accident—or anything else from the past month. But—unfortunately—it all came back to me.”

  He looked down and away before he asked his question. “So, you remember...our deal, then?�
��

  She smiled. Like she had that night on the beach, she took his hand and linked her fingers in his, then mimicked the words he had spoken just a little over a week before. “Of course. I’m counting the days.”

  He separated his hand from hers and moved it up to brush the hair out of her eyes. “You can stop counting,” he said softly. “I’m prepared to turn in my resignation tonight.”

  She turned to face him, but her expression was not what he had expected. “Why? Why now, before we get home?”

  He took her hand again. “Because you and I need each other to get thought this. We’ve suffered a terrible loss, Kathryn. We need to be there for each other, not just as captain and first officer. I need you. And I think you need me.”

  She was undeterred, “You can’t do this. This crew needs you, too. They’ve been through so much, Chakotay. And the next few weeks will be pivotal for the Maquis. If they see you leave Starfleet now....”

  She was right and he knew it. He’d be sending the wrong signal at the worst possible time. “Alright, I’ll put off handing you my resignation. But we’re going to have to amend our agreement, then—because I have no intention of leaving you alone tonight.”