Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager and all things Starfleet belong to Paramount. No infringement intended.

Summary: Another take on the future following Endgame.

Safe Harbor

by Mizvoy

Chapter 1: Breakup

Captain Kathryn Janeway had been through long days in the Delta Quadrant, days when she wasn’t sure the ship would survive intact, when she couldn’t promise that the crew wouldn’t perish, when she’d been forced to face failure and keep going anyway, day by day. She’d always had her single goal—to serve her crew no matter what the cost—and that dedication had sustained her through hell itself. She never thought she’d long for those days to return.

The three weeks since their return to Sector 001 seemed like an eternity. She missed having an overriding goal—getting her crew home—and the constants of her ship, her crew, her routine to bolster her flagging faith. Here, she was pulled in a dozen directions at once.

Yesterday, for example, she’d spent the entire day sifting through the most recent evaluations, Chakotay’s evaluations, of her Starfleet crew, trying to determine the best fit for their next assignments. She’d faced one hundred eleven recommendations, of which she’d completed maybe a fourth. And, with each one, she felt as if she were sending a member of her family away forever.

Today she had been through a series of impossible meetings starting at 0630. She’d spent the first two hours discussing the Maquis portion of her crew, currently in “protective” custody at a minimum security prison camp in New Mexico. In the settlement of the Dominion War, the Federation had agreed to turn over for prosecution any war criminals who had committed “atrocities” against the Cardassians. They’d gone round and round about Chakotay and his crew. Could they be considered war criminals when their actions took place before the war began? Were their actions “atrocities” or were they simply acts of desperation against an evil and oppressive government? And should they be prosecuted for their open disregard for Federation policies that had ultimately brought on a devastating war? In spite of her impassioned defense of them, nothing was resolved, and she left the meeting with a pounding headache and a dark cloud over her head.

Her brief thirty minute stay in her office had been filled with a communication from Tuvok on Vulcan. The procedure with his family to correct his mental state had hit serious complications caused by the assimilation he’d gone through the previous year, and his recovery was in question. Kathryn had nearly burst into tears, but for the Vulcan’s sake she’d managed to keep control of her emotions. She had hoped that Tuvok’s situation, of all the unresolved issues she’d faced, would go smoothly. Plus, she felt guilty that his participation in her assault on the Borg had compromised his recovery. He’d ended the communication reassuring her, when she knew she should have been comforting him.

From there, she’d gone to a technical meeting on Voyager’s failed slipstream drive. The engineers had discovered evidence of tachyon emissions in the sensor logs, indicating an apparent disruption of the time continuum prior to Admiral Janeway’s more recent flouting of the temporal prime directive. They’d discovered Harry and Chakotay’s rescue of the ship from a disastrous test of the slipstream drive. “How many times have you relived your future?” they asked her, as if she could answer a question like that. After wrangling for nearly three hours, she’d been ordered to undergo a third psychiatric evaluation to look into her apparent “propensity” to alter time when things didn’t work out to her satisfaction. The headache increased and the cloud over her head darkened.

She’d left the meeting in a rush in order to beam to Paris for an audience with the Federation president, an informal dinner reception designed to acquaint President M’Angles with the Federation’s modern “Marco Polo.” For two hours she fielded the usual questions about the Delta Quadrant, about the wonders she’d seen, about what the Federation’s priorities should be if and when regular travel there could be established. She’d been so conscious of the diplomatic demands of her audience that she’d forgotten to eat the elaborate meal prepared for her. She promised herself some soup as soon as possible and took an analgesic for her headache.

She barely had time to change out of her dress uniform when she returned to San Francisco. She attended a blessedly short meeting during which Tom Paris’ sentence was officially commuted, the first good news of the day. She wanted to talk to him about his plans for the future, since he wasn’t welcome to continue in Starfleet, but his hearing was immediately followed by a long discussion on the EMH’s program. She gave Tom a small wave as he left the room.

Starfleet claimed the EMH as their property, much as they had once claimed Data, the android, and proposed decompiling his program for further study. Lewis Zimmerman was his usual abrasive self in demanding that the program be returned to him as the EMH’s creator, while the EMH was poignantly dramatic in defending his rights as an individual. Kathryn couldn’t help but wish she could download some of her doctor’s improved personality into his creator. All this was followed by a shouting match regarding his mobile emitter. Starfleet engineers were convinced that they could replicate the technology if they could just disassemble the device, an idea studied and rejected years earlier by B’Elanna Torres as impossible. She’d concluded, and Kathryn had agreed, that their science simply hadn’t reached an appropriate level of sophistication to duplicate the delicate device. The argument over who really “owned” the emitter would not soon be resolved.

Once the meeting ended, Kathryn was escorted to Admiral Hayes’ office for an interview concerning Seven of Nine. Seven had been under constant surveillance since their return, even now that she had moved to Sweden to live with her aunt, and Hayes was convinced she was a security risk. “The Borg queen,” he reminded her, “often visited her while she underwent regeneration. She’s a tool of the collective and not to be trusted.” He recounted the numerous times Seven had endangered Voyager and the crew, and although Kathryn defended her actions vigorously, she could tell that Hayes would not be dissuaded. While he didn’t threaten Seven directly, Hayes implied that the Federation would soon have Seven in custody for close observation and debriefing, including a restriction on her freedom and possible medical “explorations.” Kathryn’s blood ran cold.

She left his office exhausted, weak with hunger, and filled with self- righteous fury. As she made her way out of the building, she wished she could show Admiral Janeway what a disaster this early return was for her beloved crew. The Equinox Five, as they were called, had already been charged with capital crimes for their grisly work in the Delta Quadrant; they would probably spend the rest of their lives in prison. The Maquis were under arrest, awaiting possible extradition to Cardassia. Seven of Nine was in danger of dissection. The doctor’s future was an unresolved battleground. Tuvok’s certain cure had been jeopardized by her own actions with the Borg years earlier. And the rest of her Starfleet crew was being systematically taken from her by reassignment.

She was waiting for the turbolift and rubbing her aching temples when Owen Paris called to her from his office. She reluctantly joined him there, hoping that her former mentor would treat her as Kathryn, not Captain Janeway. Her spirits were low and she needed a friend.

He replicated them both a light supper and a pot of coffee, listening as she filled him in on her few brief trips to visit her mother in Indiana, her efforts to locate a new apartment, her handling of the press and fans who dogged her every public appearance. Once she’d eaten, she felt better, relaxed and ready for a nap, when Paris revealed his true agenda.

The Admiralty had spent the last three weeks pouring over her official logs and had found a series of “questionable” decisions. In the next few days, she should expect to be confronted with these decisions and ready to defend her actions. She’d been waiting for this, of course. She’d known at the time that many of her decisions were marginal, even questionable, but she’d hoped to have at least a few other issues resolved before her own predicament demanded attention.

Paris systematically covered the eight most seriously “flawed” decisions under scrutiny and listened as she explained her thinking to him. As he had so many times in her career, he guided her with pointed questions, helping her understand the issues that were of particular importance to the admirals on the review board, the buzz words to use, the phrases to avoid. The coffee grew cold on the table as they talked, until, at last, Paris announced that they’d done enough, that they’d resume the conversation tomorrow.

Bleary eyed, Kathryn stumbled into the quadrangle as she made her way toward her office building. It was past midnight, and the full moon was a small round disk high in the sky. She stopped in the fragrance of the garden to study the familiar constellations. How she wished she were out there somewhere, anywhere, and away from this red tape. She noticed the flickering lights of McKinley Station, where Voyager was being studied and disassembled, and she felt a wave of remorse and regret wash over her. She toyed with the idea of beaming to the ship, of sequestering herself in her ready room, of filling the tub in her quarters with a bubble bath. She missed her ship and her crew. Her family.

Most of all she missed Chakotay. Reading his familiar writing the day before had reminded her of all the work they’d done together, all the times they’d talked and strategized. She needed a friend, someone to listen to her, to help her think through all this bureaucratic gobbledygook and come up with a reasonable plan of action. How many times in the last seven years had they quietly stepped aside on the bridge for a quick conference, even as the ship was under attack? He would turn his back to the crew, shielding their conversation, and she’d stand close to him and talk quietly. They’d never failed to find a way out of their predicaments, never failed to find common ground, and she needed his help tonight more than ever. She wasn’t sure she had the courage to face another day.

Archer Hall was dark, but she managed to find her way to her office, entering without even turning on the lights. She’d taken just a couple of steps when she heard a soft snore and a sigh. A thrill of fear went down her spine until she reminded herself where she was—in the heart of the Federation and the middle of Starfleet headauarters. She thought perhaps her secretary had fallen asleep on the sofa. She called for minimal lights and froze in place.

Sprawled on the sofa in familiar civilian clothing was Chakotay, fast asleep and snoring softly. For a brief moment, Kathryn considered crawling onto the sofa next to him and burrowing into his warm, soft sweater. She could imagine his arms encircling her as she drifted off to sleep, surrounded by his familiar smell and the quiet murmur of his voice, a safe harbor.

Instead, she pulled a blanket out of the closet and draped it over him, taking a PADD out of his nerveless hand that she assumed he’d brought it for her review. He shifted slightly, but didn’t awaken, so she settled into the overstuffed chair beside the sofa, snapped on her reading light, and looked at the PADD. Immediately, she was fully awake.

The PADD contained the conclusion of the Maquis issue, one that must have been hammered out since her meeting early this morning. The Maquis were to plead guilty to their prewar insurrection and accept a commuted sentence for their “time served” on Voyager. So much for getting them reimbursed for their work, she thought angrily. As convicted felons, none of them could remain in Starfleet, although they could find gainful employment somewhere in industry, she was sure, but the thought of losing so many of her crew forever brought tears to her eyes. Chakotay, B’Elanna, Ayala, Chell, and nearly three dozen others from her crew would never serve with her again. Neither would Tom Paris, or, perhaps Tuvok. Only she and Harry Kim from the senior staff remained on active duty. The one bright spot of the document was that the Federation would not classify the Maquis as war criminals and would not turn them over to the Cardassians. Such compassion.

“Damn them all,” she said, tossing the PADD on the table in anger, forgetting that Chakotay was asleep just inches away.

“You’re finally back,” he said, his dark eyes fixed on her as he raised himself up on his elbows. “I was afraid you’d go straight home and I’d miss you.”

She smiled. “Home? What’s that? I’ve slept right here in this chair most nights. Coffee?” She stood up and made her way to the replicator.

“Tea. I see you’ve read the settlement.”

“Is that what you call it? A settlement?”

He sat up on the sofa and took the tea from her. “I’ve told you all along, Kathryn, that we weren’t afraid to face the music for what we’d done as Maquis. At least . . .”

She cut him off. “If you’re going to tell me that at least you won’t be in a Cardassian prison, please don’t. That wasn’t going to happen, Chakotay.” She regarded him over the rim of her cup. “You realize that you can’t claim your rightful salary for your seven years on Voyager if that time is considered ‘punishment.’”

“I never expected to be paid.”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling in frustration. “What are you going to do? You don’t even have enough money to buy a ticket to your sister’s on Dorvan.”

“She already sent me the money.”

Kathryn’s eyes widened. “You’re leaving.”

“Tomorrow. Well, actually, in about six hours. I thought about sticking around in case Starfleet wanted to debrief me, but they’ve made it quite clear that the word of a felon isn’t trustworthy.” He paused. Kathryn stared at him in disbelief.

She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What about Seven?”

“I talked to her earlier today. She’s coming with us.”

“Us?”

“All the Maquis are coming with me to Dorvan V. So is Tom Paris. We’re going to settle there, see what we can do to help.”

She managed to close her mouth and swallow. “Seven is under house arrest,” she reminded him.

He smiled. “There are ways to get around that. She’s a Federation citizen, after all, and she hasn’t been charged with a crime. I’ll make sure she leaves too quickly for the legal system to stop her.”

Kathryn felt sick to her stomach. She stood up and walked to the huge windows overlooking the gardens and pressed her hands and her forehead against the cool glass. For a moment, she imagined the glass giving way and her body falling through the cool night air until she met with oblivion, with a sweet and permanent release. “At least you came to tell me goodbye.”

He stood behind her left shoulder, where he always stood, and she could see the concern on his face reflected in the dark mirror of the window. “I’ll never tell you goodbye, Kathryn.”

She let her arms fall to her side and leaned back against his solid body, her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed. He could see the myriad emotions on her face in the reflection—grief, longing, fear, loneliness. He realized that he hadn’t considered what she’d been through since their return. He could tell she was exhausted, worried, angry. “Yes. I’ll see you again,” she echoed.

“Do you need me to stay?”

Immediately, she pulled away and turned to face him. He could see tears in her eyes as she studied his face, and he let her see his devotion to her in his eyes. “Dear, loyal Chakotay,” she said, smiling sadly. “I once told you that I couldn’t imagine a day without you. Remember that? I still can’t. Of course I need you to stay. I need you, but, I know that you can’t stay here. You can’t stay in Starfleet, and I can’t leave.” She took his big hand in her two small ones. “Go, Chakotay, and be happy. I’m a big girl, you know, and I’ll be fine.”

“Will you?”

She nodded and dropped his hand, heading for her desk. “I’ve set up a central mail center so all the Voyager crew can post messages to each other. So there’s no excuse not to keep in touch.” She keyed up the information and downloaded it onto a PADD, which she studied with undue fascination. “You know, the Maquis group will be the only large portion of Voyager’s crew that stays together. I envy you that.” She looked up and held the PADD out toward him. “Take care of them.”

“You know I will.”

They stared at each other across the desk. There was so much that needed to be said between them, so much that was unsettled, and yet there were no easy answers. Tears filled Kathryn’s eyes and she looked away. “I can’t do this,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

He circled the desk and took her into his arms. She melted into him, hungry for his warmth, his support, his friendship, and he buried his face in her hair. She was still the most fascinating woman he’d ever met, and perhaps the most noble. They were both in tears as they pulled each other close. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Kathryn. You’ll always be my friend.”

“Me, too,” she answered, her voice muffled. They were content to stand there for long minutes, but soon the mixture of exhaustion and overwhelming emotion took its toll, and Kathryn actually dozed off as Chakotay held her.

He looked down at her drooping head and picked her up in his arms, gently placing her on the sofa and draping the blanket over her. She was fast asleep. She looked younger, peaceful, and very beautiful. He knelt beside her and brushed the hair from her face, leaning forward to briefly fit his lips against hers. “I love you, Kathryn. I’ll always love you,” he whispered.

And then he was gone.