Disclaimer: Paramount owns Voyager, Janeway, and Chakotay. The story is mine.

Note: This story occurs about one year after Voyager’s return.

“Ha’as Kaattala Ha’attaan” (The Weaver’s Hands)

by mizvoy

“These alien words, Kathryn, are simply impossible,” Phoebe Janeway complained as she thumbed through the flyer for the grand opening of the Delta Quadrant exhibit at the Phoenix branch of the Starfleet Museum. “Like this one,” she pointed at the words at the top of a page and tried to pronounce them phonetically, “Ha’as Kaattala Ha’attaan. Is that right? Are you supposed to pronounce the apostrophe? Or does it mean a pause? And the asterisk? Is that a click?”

Kathryn Janeway glanced at her sister and shook her head in amusement. Phoebe had just beamed in from Indiana, and Kathryn, who had met her at the transport station, was now negotiating their way through the heavy Phoenix traffic. “My advice is just to do the best you can. Those aliens are at least thirty-five thousand light years away. Who’s going to correct you?”

“Well, I’m assuming that somebody wrote this down so the pronunciation could be imitated, right? I mean, what if the captain had to beam down and meet one of the . . . ,” she paused to consult the pamphlet, ” . . . Weavers? They can’t let you mispronounce a word and call somebody a flying targ, can they?”

Kathryn chuckled. “The universal translator handles most of those problems. But, you’re right. There’s a definite phonetic system for writing the sounds down appropriately, and there are a few cultures that demand a ritual greeting in their own language. Chakotay took care of the historical archives on Voyager, and he had an entire team that helped him, including a very talented linguist. When we get to the museum, ask him to pronounce it for you. He probably has it down.”

“Ask that gorgeous hunk a question? With pleasure.” She fanned herself with the pamphlet. “Chakotay is really hot, Kathryn.”

“He’s hot” Or you are?” She swiped at Phoebe’s “fan” with her free hand.

“You noticed his good looks, didn’t you? You did notice his dimples once in awhile during your seven years of sitting beside him on the bridge, didn’t you?”

“I noticed.” She pulled off of the main route and onto a beautifully manicured campus that housed the Starfleet base and the deep space museum. “He was my first officer, you know.”

“Lucky duck. He had to obey your every request, right?” She gave Kathryn an exaggerated wink.

“Not requests, just orders, Phebes, and only those given in the line of duty.”

“Poor Kit–what’s the good of being a captain if you can’t have your way with the crew?” She reopened the pamphlet and poured over the pictures again. “This Ha’as thing looks like an upside down octopus.”

“It’s a model of the weaver’s hands.”

“The weaver of what?”

Kathryn tapped the pamphlet. “In the picture behind the sculpture, you’ll see the bottom part of the weaving, which is really more of a tapestry. The Weavers were famous throughout the quadrant.”

“Famous for what?”

Kathryn grimaced and gave her sister an irritated look. “Weaving, of course! Their blankets, linens, wall hangings, and brocades were highly prized and worth a lot in a trade. We’d heard about them for years and had hoped to meet a band personally. Lucky for us, we found a band of them just a week or so before Voyager returned home.”

“You ‘found’ them? Didn’t they live on a planet?”

“They’re nomadic. On one of his foraging missions, Chakotay heard about a fleet of Weaver ships that had passed through the region collecting weaving supplies–dyes, wool, thin slats of wood to repair their looms. He extrapolated their course and took us right to them.”

“Chakotay again. Foraging. Finding nomads. Archiving artifacts.” She wagged her eyebrows. “Does he have any other hidden talents?”

“None that I’m talking about,” Kathryn laughed as she parked the car. “You can leave your coat in the back seat. You won’t need it in this climate.”

The two women started toward the imposing building that housed the exhibit. Phoebe glanced at the picture of the tapestry one last time. “What makes these weavings so special?”

“They’re rare, for one thing,” Kathryn answered. “And the tapestries, like the one we have, are the Weaver’s masterwork, the culmination of years of work and expertise. They are a precious gift given only in special circumstances, so you can imagine how hard they are to find.” She pulled open the door to the museum. “This one is in the central forum. You’ll see how special it is once we’re inside.”

“What’s the point of having the model of the weaver’s hands?”

“According to Chakotay, it takes decades to produce a tapestry, and the process is very hard on the weaver’s hands. They prepare the thread by hand, dye it by hand with caustic chemicals, and weave it on a loom that is crippling to use. By the time the masterpiece is finished, the weaver’s hands are permanently twisted and deformed. Yet, their culture honors them by always displaying the model of their damaged hands along with the tapestry as homage to their special talent.”

“Chakotay again. You did do some work on the ship, right?”

Kathryn gave her a glare as they arrived at the entrance to the wing that held the exhibit. “Once in awhile.”

As soon as Kathryn entered the museum, she was whisked away by the curator for the opening ceremony and a press conference, leaving Phoebe on her own to explore the extensive display. She was astounded by the sheer magnitude of the exhibit. She spent hours wandering through the three floors of displays, and she was fascinated by the centerpiece of the exhibit–the weaving, labeled Ha’as Ka’attala Ha’atta’an and the other Weaver artifacts that surrounded it.

The tapestry seemed to shimmer with a life of its own, and the complex pattern changed with one’s perspective, including a delta pattern reminiscent of the Starfleet commbadge. Phoebe stood near the tapestry a long while, listening as Chakotay described the eight-sided thread used in the weaving, each side dyed a different color, and the years that went into its completion. Each time she passed through the central foyer, she paused to admire the tapestry, but she was unable to approach Chakotay privately until late in the day when she found him alone at last.

“So what does the term mean?” she asked him as she stumbled through a phonetic reading of alien phrase again. “Ha’as Kaattala Ha’attaan.”

He grinned at her, pointing at the explanatory plate fastened to the railing. “The translation is right beneath the words, Phoebe. ‘The weaver’s hands’?”

A blush crawled up her neck. “That’s the name of the tapestry?”

“All the masterpiece tapestries are called that, actually. And the Weavers value the model of the hands over the tapestry itself.”

“That spindly, knobby thing?” She didn’t try to hide her surprise. “It’s ugly!”

Chakotay laughed. “To the Weavers, the deformed hands are the most valuable product of the process, much more precious than the tapestry, because they illustrate the extent of the weaver’s dedication.”

She started to ask a follow up question when the curator interrupted them, taking Chakotay to yet another interview with the press. She remained where she was, studying the tapestry, slowly circling it and watching its colors and design shift and change with her movement.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Kathryn asked, finding her sister just as the museum announced that the exhibit was closing.

Phoebe nodded and pointed to the deformed hands on display. “I can’t believe that anyone would do that to themselves just to make a tapestry.”

Kathryn’s eyes clouded momentarily. “They’re honored for their sacrifice, Phoebe. It’s the highest honor among their people.”

“These models are valued above all else?”

“Very much so. We were fortunate to acquire the weaver’s hands.”

“How did you manage it?”

Kathryn hesitated, taking time to remember what parts of their final days in the Delta Quadrant were still classified. “Well, I told you that they’re nomadic, right? There are certain supplies, especially minerals, that they have a difficult time finding in sufficient amounts. Chakotay stockpiled those minerals for quite awhile, so when we finally found a group of them, we had exactly what they needed. They traded this tapestry for all we had of the minerals.”

Phoebe studied her sister closely. “Chakotay again.”

Kathryn made a wide gesture that took in the entire exhibit. “This is all his doing, Phoebe. He studied history and anthropology in graduate school.”

“He had time to catalog all this stuff?”

“It was a hobby. He liked doing it and was very good at it, so I let him do it. I had enough other things to worry about.”

Phoebe nodded. “Drop dead gorgeous and smart, too. Seems to me that he’s just your type.” Phoebe walked to the sculpture again and studied it more closely, focusing on the display of the satchel that housed the gift originally. “Didn’t you have this satchel in your stuff when you came home? Seems like I remember seeing it in the things you beamed down from Voyager.”

“Really?” Kathryn’s eyes widened with surprise, and for a moment Phoebe wondered if she’d hit a nerve. “I might have had one like it with my effects. I told you that we’d just met the Weavers a few days before we made it home.”

“Hard to believe that Chakotay, the Great Historian, would let you take this priceless object home with you, even if you were the captain. He would have cataloged it and stored it right away, wouldn’t he?”

“Normally, yes. But, this time, we were late getting it done. The Weavers gave this tapestry and the Ha’as Ka’attala Ha’atta’an to me right before the events leading up to our return. Obviously, we cataloged them eventually.”

“Yeah.” Phoebe couldn’t help but feel there was more to the story than she was being told, but Kathryn looked at her with such bold-faced innocence that she decided to let it pass–for now. “This would be much too precious to keep for yourself.”

“If you like the Ha’as Kaattala Ha’attaan, there are replicas available at the museum store. I’d be happy to get one for you, if you’d like one of your own.”

“No, thanks. Deformed hands aren’t all that pretty to me, especially ones that look like an octopus in the throes of an untimely death.”

When the museum closed in the late afternoon, Kathryn and Phoebe joined several of the Voyager crew for a celebratory meal in the curator’s home, which was situated on the grounds of the facility. Chakotay was showered with accolades for the work he’d done in the Delta Quadrant and the months since the ship’s return. Embarrassed by the attention, Chakotay finally stood and said a few words, carefully naming all the members of the crew who had assisted him in his project.

“Most of the credit for this exhibit,” he said as he drew his remarks to an end, “should go to Captain Janeway. Early in the first weeks of our exile, she noticed my background in history and anthropology and tasked me with the responsibility of maintaining an accurate record of our experiences. She made sure I had all the personnel and support I needed to do the job right, and she never denied me any request I made, however unusual it seemed at the time. She knew from day one that while our primary goal was to get the crew home, we also needed to keep track of our scientific and cultural experiences along the way.” He lifted his glass toward her. “To Captain Janeway.”

Phoebe joined everyone else in toasting her sister, but she also noticed the lingering glance between captain and first officer that seemed to carry much more than simple gratitude. Phoebe had confronted many of the members of Voyager’s senior staff about the relationship between her sister and Chakotay, but everyone said that the two of them weren’t and had never been an item. There was even a rumor about Chakotay and Seven of Nine, but Phoebe had her doubts. There was more to that glance than met the eye.

When the meal ended, Kathryn returned the car and joined Phoebe at the transport station, each preparing to return to their respective homes.

“Tell Mom I hope she’s feeling better soon,” Kathryn said as Phoebe prepared to beam back to Indiana where she had been caring for their ailing mother. “And just so you know, I’m planning to come see Mom this weekend, so you can take some time off.”

“Thanks. She’ll be thrilled to know you’re coming.” Phoebe hesitated before climbing onto the platform. “Kit, tell me something. Just how close did you and Chakotay get out there?”

Kathryn rolled her eyes at the familiar question. “He was my first officer, Phoebe.”

“You always say that,” her sister complained, stepping onto the platform, “but that really doesn’t answer the question.”

Kathryn watched as her sister’s form disappeared in the transporter beam. Once Phoebe was gone, however, she continued to stare blindly into the distance, lost in thought. She brought her hand to rub her temple where a slight jab of pain threatened to blossom into a headache–caused by her younger sister’s limitless curiosity.

After a minute or so, the operator cleared his throat. “Captain Janeway? Did you want to delay your beam-out to San Francisco or shall I go ahead and notify them of your impending arrival?”

Startled out of her reverie, Kathryn stepped onto the platform, a little embarrassed by her distracted behavior. “No, I’m sorry. Let’s do it now. Energize.”

Her apartment was a short distance from the San Francisco transport terminal, but Kathryn chose to talk a walk along the Embarcadero instead of the direct route home. She wanted some time to think about the excitement of the day in general, about Phoebe’s fascination with the weaver’s hands, and about her inquiry into her relationship with Chakotay.

Phoebe had a way of instinctively hitting upon the one item or issue that would most trouble her older sister, and once she smelled blood, she didn’t give up. Kathryn attributed her tenacity to the kid sister syndrome, an unconscious talent for zeroing in on people and situations that Kathryn found too sensitive to discuss. Of all the artifacts on three floors of the museum, she focused on the one item that was the most precious to Kathryn, the one item that continued to trouble her even six months after Voyager’s return.

She glanced at the clock in the trade center tower and decided it was past time to head for home. The city was quiet at this hour, except for those few, like herself, who were out late because of a party or meeting, or others, who were on their way to or from work. She entered her quiet apartment and stood in the darkness leaning against the door. She should go to bed, of course. But first . . . .

The small lamp on her desk threw a pool of light over the gleaming wood surface as she sat down with a sigh. She pulled open the deep bottom drawer of the right pedestal and pulled out a worn satchel, setting it in the middle of the desk so that the light poured over it. She contemplated it awhile, admiring the elaborate woven flowers and vines on its surface, and then unzipped the main compartment, letting the soft, sparkling tapestry spill into her hands. Then, she opened the small pocket on the front of the satchel and removed aHa’as Kaattala Ha’attaan that was identical to the one in the Phoenix museum. With trembling fingers, she picked it up, her mind returning to the tiny weaver, Braid.

This model of Braid’s hands was worn from many years of frequent handling, yet Kathryn could still feel the grooves of the scars, the bumps of the blisters and calluses, the badly healed bone structure beneath the black surface. This was not the Ha’as Kaattala Ha’attaan that Braid had given her less than a year earlier, the one on display in the museum in Phoenix, Arizona. This was the one Braid had given Admiral Kathryn Janeway twenty-six years before she returned to the Delta Quadrant to rescue Voyager.

Kathryn’s mind returned to Voyager’s meeting with the Weavers, just days before Voyager had discovered the nebula that cloaked the Borg transwarp hub.

The mottled group of ships making up the Weaver’s colony reminded Kathryn of the Maquis. In fact, many of the crew must have had the same thought, for Chakotay leaned over their shared console and said, “I feel like I should be captaining one of those derelicts, don’t you?”

Tom Paris, who had overheard the first officer’s comment, twisted in his chair. “I was thinking the same thing, Commander.”

Kathryn smiled. “Well, it’s always nice to meet kindred souls.” She stood up and nodded at Harry Kim. “Open a channel.”

The opening moments of their first contact went smoothly, for the Weavers were accustomed to meeting aliens as they wandered the quadrant and Voyager had endured countless such contacts in the last seven years. Arrangements were made for a face-to-face meeting between commanders for diplomatic purposes, while Chakotay and his team of cultural anthropologists would meet with the ruling council and open trade negotiations.

When the comm link was broken, Kathryn turned to her first officer in confusion. “I don’t understand. They separate diplomacy from trade?”

Chakotay smiled indulgently. “You’ll meet their most senior weaver, Captain, which is the highest honor they can bestow on you. He or she is their titular head–almost like a religious leader–who provides the most general of orders for the group. Most of the time, the senior weaver is . . .,” he gave her a self-conscious smirk, ” . . . weaving and is seldom seen by the rest of the people. I’ll be meeting with the weaver’s ‘first,’ who takes care of the day-to-day matters of maintaining the ships, finding supplies, and so forth.”

“I see.” She sat down beside him, a little troubled by the news. After a moment or two of reflection, she leaned toward him, and said softly, “I can see how you and the weaver’s ‘first’ would mesh well, but I’m hardly qualified to meet with a religious leader. That’s more along your lines, too.”

“Perhaps.” Chakotay gave her a long appraising look. “I think you underestimate yourself, Kathryn. You might be surprised with what happens when you meet their leader.”

She spent the next several hours reviewing Chakotay’s notes on the Weavers’ society, a saga based on his collection of rumors, legends, and reports garnered throughout their seven year journey. Quite often, his reports were annotated by Seven of Nine’s detailed account of a species’ assimilation, but in this case, the Borg had never bothered to assimilate the Weavers. She smiled at Seven’s brief entry in the file: “The Weavers offered no tangible value in the Borg’s quest for perfection nor did they pose a threat. They were beneath notice.”

“Lucky them,” Kathryn thought as she relaxed in her overstuffed chair and gazed through her quarter’s windows at the fleet of Weaver ships in the distance. She was fascinated by the chance to meet with the Senior Weaver and knew it was an honor reserved for very few, yet she also felt beyond her depth. The mantle of command had felt heavier of late, perhaps because of Neelix’s departure or because of her recent capture by the Hierarchy and the doctor’s refusal to put the ship’s welfare before his captain’s safety.

She was tired of the loneliness and suffocating responsibility that came with her job, of the hours reading the same reports over and over again, of facing the same struggles for supplies, of attempting to find accurate star charts, of the constant begging for permission to pass through alien territory. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the cushion.

Quarra. All of this dissatisfaction with her life could be traced back to those weeks when she’d been blissfully responsible for only herself, when she’d been free to find suitable companionship and affection, when she’d been able to go home from her job and not think of it again until she returned to work the next day. For the first time in years, she wondered if she would keep her sanity long enough to get Voyager home. She forced back an overwhelming rush of despair and blinked back tears as she rallied herself and picked up Chakotay’s report once again.

She was the captain, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that fact. What choice did she have but to carry on?

An hour later, she met Chakotay and his team in transporter room one, and there was no visible sign of her anxiety or dismay.

“Is everyone ready?” she asked, looking around the room with satisfaction.

“Yes, Captain,” Chakotay replied. “You’ll beam over first to the senior weaver’s work ship. Once you’ve established a rapport with the senior weaver, we’ll beam to their operations ship.”

Tuvok spoke up. “I feel it necessary to voice my concerns about your meeting with this individual alone, Captain. The risks are . . . .”

She cut him short with a gesture. “I appreciate the risks, Tuvok. But the Weavers are known pacifists. There isn’t a single report of their taking advantage of visitors.”

The Vulcan sighed with distaste. “Even so, we shall keep a transport lock on you at all times.”

“Is that acceptable to the Weavers, Chakotay?”

“They suggested it, Captain.”

“Fine.” She stepped onto the platform with a nod. “Let’s do it.”

The first thing that struck her as she rematerialized was the caustic stench of a chemical waste dump. She gasped in shock, covering her nose and mouth with her hands and trying desperately not to throw up.

“My apologies, Captain,” came a soft voice. “This filter will help you endure the perfume of my tools.”

She took the small device, basically a filter that adhered to her nostrils, and immediately felt her nausea decrease, “Thank you. I am pleased to meet you.”

“Please call me Braid,” the tiny woman said, gesturing for Kathryn to follow her. “Welcome to my ship.”

“I’m Kathryn Janeway.” She walked from the alcove where she had rematerialized onto a balcony that overlooked a large cavernous cargo hold, which seemed to make up the entire ship, the smallest and oldest ship in the fleet. “This is where you work?” she asked.

“This is my loom.” She held out her arm toward the cavern, and Kathryn froze at the sight of her misshapen hands covered by elaborately embroidered gloves. “This is where I am creating my masterwork.”

“You wear no filter on your nose.”

Braid smiled. “I am privileged to endure the consequences of my work.” She moved along the balcony, circling around the tapestry that shimmered in the half-light. “Come to my cookery for awhile. I am not often greeted by such a special guest as you and am gratified to pause in my duties.”

Kathryn walked into another small alcove where she spied a cooking unit, a tiny table, and a few pottery dishes–not exactly the finery usually showered on the leader of a species. “You have this ship to yourself,” she commented, taking the seat offered her.

“We occupy our positions alone, do we not, Kathryn?” Braid paused, suddenly unsure of herself. “Do you mind if I call you by your personal name?”

“Please, do. I hear it so seldom.” Kathryn caught herself, ashamed of such an admission. “I mean, . . . .”

Braid interrupted her. “But I know what you mean, Kathryn.” She busied herself at the cooking unit, and then brought a steaming pot of brackish liquid and two cracked mugs to the table. “You enjoy caffeine, no?”

“I thrive on it,” she smiled. “My crew says I’m addicted to it.”

“Then this will please you.” Braid handed her the mug. “To the weavers.”

“The weavers,” Kathryn replied, taking a tentative sip of the liquid, only to nearly drop the mug in surprise. “This is coffee!”

“Coffee is what you wished, no?”

“Yes . . . no . . . I didn’t know what to expect.” Kathryn was suddenly flustered by this tiny woman and felt more unsure of herself than ever. How had Braid done this, created coffee that tasted so real? Was she manipulating Kathryn’s mind?

The weaver sensed her discomfort and placed a calming hand on her arm. “Fear me not, Kathryn, for we are both weavers.”

“You’re telepathic,” she whispered.

“If that is how you must explain it, then yes. I sense you.” Braid closed her eyes and nodded. “Your first and mine are meeting now. We have formed a plait.”

“A plate?” Kathryn asked, confused by the word. “A dish?”

“No, Kathryn,” Braid smiled. “A plait. How shall I explain? An interweaving of our people?”

“Of course,” Kathryn blushed. “‘Plait’ with an i. We’ve opened negotiations.”

“That, too.” Braid tasted the liquid in her mug with a grimace. “This is a bitter fluid to deliver your caffeine, no?”

Kathryn chuckled. “It grows on you over time.”

“I’ll trust you on that.” Braid set the mug down with a sigh. “So, you journey, as do we.”

“We’re trying to get home to the Alpha Quadrant. Thirty five thousand light years.”

“So your journey is the Way.”

“The way?” Kathryn began to panic again. Why wasn’t Chakotay here to help her deal with this metaphysical discussion?

“As weaving is our Way.”

Kathryn shook her head in frustration. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Ah, but you do. Of all the people on your ship, only you truly understand.” She paused and shook her head. “And perhaps one other senses the truth of the Way.”

“One other?”

Braid smiled at her indulgently. “Your first. What is his name? Chakotay? I will tell you a story that will help you understand my meaning. Eons ago, my people lived on a planet. We were herders, known far and wide for our skill with the loom. Some said that our blankets would heal the sick. Others said that they would hide forever from those who had been wronged. All nonsense, of course, and superstition. Then, one day, a powerful people decided to enslave us. They came to our star system, snatched us from our homes, and then reduced our planet to an unlivable rubble.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Kathryn said, shaking her head in dismay. “And you were defenseless against them?”

“Yes, but we were avenged. Unknown to them, our bodies carried a virus that was fatal to our conquerors. Within days, they withered and died, and we took over their ships as our own.” She looked around her with great pride. “This is the last of the original ships of that time.”

“So you survived.”

“We survived, but we were without a goal. We no longer had our flocks to tend, our gardens to plant, our houses to maintain. Without a common thread, we were in danger of turning upon one another and destroying our chance to live. And so the first weavers appeared.”

“And provided a common goal,” Kathryn whispered. “To seek the supplies the weaver needed to continue working.”

Braid bowed her head. “I told you that you understood. Weaving is our Way. For years, the weavers provided the common way we needed. We used the blankets and cloth for trade, to get the food and supplies we needed. In time, one weaver became the primary, the most talented of all. As a master appeared, and as our numbers increase, we split ourselves among the masters. Each followed the way.”

“Weaving is your Way–as in a unifying task or goal that gives your people purpose.”

“Weaving is our way, but survival is our goal,” Braid clarified. “It is important to know the difference. One leads to the other naturally. And the journey is your Way.”

“Yes, of course,” Kathryn agreed. “The journey has unified us. The goal of home is our common thread.”

Braid sighed. “The master weaver’s work is of the greatest importance, however. It is the masterwork, done for a purpose that reveals itself mysteriously.”

Kathryn repressed a grin. “How so?”

“The master work takes years to accomplish and is done in faith that its function will be revealed. My master work is suspended on the loom you saw in the cavern. I completed it yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Kathryn blinked. “What a coincidence.”

“Kathryn, there are no coincidences, only patterns we cannot see.” Braid watched her, a small smile on her face. “We are desperate for supplies and my first was about to give up hope. Then your ship arrived with what we needed. It is fitting that the master work is ready to give you as recompense.”

“How do you know that we have what you need?” Kathryn whispered. There was no way that Braid could have spoken to her first since Chakotay had beamed over, no way for her to know what they had to offer the weavers.

“Ah, you think I have read your mind. No, Kathryn, I know because you came when we needed you. I have willingly paid the price required, and my people have been rewarded.”

“The price required?”

“This is the price.” Braid took off her gloves and held up her hands for inspection. Kathryn shuddered at the sight of them, for they were blistered in places, sliced open in others, covered with tough calluses and webs of scars. Loose bandages haphazardly bound the open wounds, but they couldn’t hide the half healed injuries or the way the joints had been twisted and the bones broken and improperly knitted.

“Braid,” Kathryn whispered, reaching out to touch a twisted thumb, “how has this happened?”

“In the weaving, of course.” She shrugged, “The tapestry has taken twenty years.”

“Twenty years? So long?”

“As long as it took. Would you like to see my master work, Kathryn?”

“Oh, yes, very much so.”

Braid stood and pulled the gloves back on. “Follow me.”

They walked onto the balcony where Braid paused, carefully positioning Kathryn at a specific spot. “Stand here and do not move. No one has seen the finished work before, and I have prayed for this moment of revelation for twenty years.”

Kathryn gazed into the dark maw of the hold, her heart pounding in her chest. She heard Braid return to the back of the balcony and tap a code into the panel. Suddenly, the lights came up and the tapestry glistened like diamonds wrapped in silver and gold. She was awestruck by the glorious beauty of the sight and gasped in surprise.

“Oh, my,” Kathryn whispered. “It’s breathtaking.”

“You like it, then?”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Kathryn stood transfixed. The tapestry moved and shifted in the loom, but nothing could have made her take her eyes from the huge delta shape, the same shape of her Starfleet commbadge, that glistened on the surface of the weaving. “Braid, where did you find the pattern?”

“The shape came to me in a dream twenty years ago, Kathryn. When I assumed the position of master weaver, my meditations showed me this. And I was faithful to it.” She stood beside Kathryn on the balcony, placing her arm around her waist. “When I saw the delta shape on your first communication, I knew my destiny had been fulfilled. I made the model of my hands at once.”

“The model of your hands?”

“The signature, if you please. Ha’as Ka’attala Ha’atta’an, the weaver’s hands. The price that was paid. When the tapestry is finished, the weaver casts the model as the final act to document for all time the expense of the creation.”

Tears stung Kathryn’s eyes. “This is too much for what we have to offer in return. A few supplies for a life’s work?”

“This gift is made to you, Kathryn, as the weaver of your people.”

“I’m not a weaver,” she protested. “I have nothing like this to offer in exchange.”

“Nothing is required.” Braid sighed and looked at the taller woman sadly. “And yet, you pay the price of the weaver.” She leaned forward and revealed the model of her hands, the scars and deformity clearly etched into the stone. “It must stay with the tapestry.”

Kathryn picked it up, studying it solemnly, seeing every painful reminder of Braid’s work in the dull black finish. “It’s incredibly heavy.”

“It will outlive the tapestry.” At Kathryn’s look of concern, Braid continued. “The tapestry will eventually decompose. But the Weaver’s Hands will last forever.”

Kathryn stared at her. They’d hoped to come away with a few blankets and bolts of cloth from this meeting, but not with a tapestry of such obvious value. “I can’t take this.”

“It has already been given. But, this is a gift, not part of the agreement. We will also give you the blankets and cloth you hoped for.”

“But, Braid, why?”

“To remind you of the beauty of sacrifice on the Way.”

“I’ve made no such sacrifice, Braid.”

“Ah, but you have. In fact, you have sacrificed too much.” The tiny woman slowly removed the gloves once again, revealing the painful sight of her hands. “Place your hands in mine.”

Kathryn fought the urge to withdraw in disgust, reaching, instead, for Braid’s hands without a second thought. As soon as Braid held her hands, Kathryn sensed a power flowing through her and realized that the weaver was both a touch telepath and an oracle. Visions flowed through her mind in such rapid succession that she was overwhelmed at first, unable to focus. But then, as her mind adjusted to the visions placed there, she relaxed and let the experience take her.

She saw a small jail cell that changed into her ready room, isolated at the top of the ship. On the decks beneath her, life ebbed and flowed among the crew without touching her. She saw Tom and B’Elanna cradling a baby as she sipped another mug of coffee, innumerable parties and celebrations that she missed while she read reports, joking and laughter in the mess hall as she ate a solitary meal at her desk. Day after day for thousands of days, she watched herself age, her hair turning white, always alone.

She saw the faces of the dead–first her lost crew from the Caretaker’s displacement wave, and then a sad progression of others, one at a time, until the latest loss–Joe Carey–smiled at her, only to give way to another and another until Kathryn felt bile in her throat. She saw Seven of Nine in her casket, with Chakotay weeping over her, and then more and more dead until she thought she would collapse.

And then there were the damaged. She saw a remoteness in Chakotay’s regard that chilled her soul, and she saw a lack of recognition in Tuvok’s eyes that would haunt her to her grave. Entire decks of the ship were sealed away, lost forever to the wear and tear of space travel, until Voyager was barely able to sustain the life of her crew, and then she saw herself on the bridge, her face lined with determination and empty of emotion.

With a cruel intake of breath, she saw a meaningless return to Earth, a gravestone bearing Chakotay’s name, a room full of candles in whose shadows a raving mad Tuvok crouched among strips of paper on the floor. Disaster, loss, and fear overwhelmed her, for it was all her fault, all her doing. And finally, Chakotay’s face appeared, smiling at first, but then darkening with dismay, and then anger, and then, worst of all, indifference.

Groaning with shock, she pulled her hands away and stared at Braid, the sights already fading from her memory, leaving the echo of catastrophe behind. “What was that?” she demanded. “Why do I feel this terror in my soul?”

“The sacrifice you make, Kathryn, must be proportional to the need, and the goal must be worthy of the price, or the end result will not be beautiful. I want you to remember that for you, the journey is the Way. The master weaver must remain faithful to the way or the goal will not be beautiful.” She moved closer, putting a comforting hand on Kathryn’s arm. “Think on these words.”

Together, they released the tapestry from the loom and folded it carefully into a small piece of luggage. Then they slid the model of the weaver’s hands into a pocket on the front. That task accomplished, Braid took Kathryn to the spot where she had first beamed into the tiny ship.

“I have accomplished the task set before me. I take leave of this place with gratitude and sorrow,” Braid said, holding her damaged hands in front of her in a ritualistic manner. “Come, Kathryn, and rest with me in my home.”

They were instantly transported from the ancient vessel into a plush, elaborate set of quarters on the largest ship in the Weaver fleet. Two servants awaited them, rushing forward to escort Braid to a comfortable chair where they began to minister to her bleeding hands. Two more servants appeared to lead Kathryn to another seat in the palatial chamber, where they helped her remove the breathing filter from her nose. They left the room briefly, returning with delicacies and sparkling wine on silver trays. For a moment, Kathryn was simply too stunned to say a word, but then she turned to the master weaver.

“This is your home?” she asked, her eyes wide in surprise. Rank had its privileges, even in Starfleet, but compared to the primitive conditions of the ancient ship where the master weaver worked, these quarters were so opulent that Kathryn could hardly take in the difference. “These are your servants?”

“My work exhausts me,” Braid explained, flexing a hand that had been carefully medicated and bandaged. “The people spoil me because I work for the good of all, and they give me this to honor me until the next master weaver is chosen.” She gave Kathryn a wistful smile, “The sacrifice is proportional. Remember this in the coming days, and take with you my blessing.”

Was this goodbye? Before Kathryn could ask for clarification, a group of Weavers entered the room and approached her hostess, their eyes wide with expectation. They stopped a few steps in front of Braid and then noticed the simple canvas satchel in Kathryn’s hands.

The tallest of the visitors stepped forward and bowed. “Master weaver? The tapestry is finished?” he asked, pointing at the satchel. Something in his demeanor and in the formal tone of his voice made Kathryn think she was observing a ritual. “This woman is the recipient of your masterpiece?”

“Yes, minister. The tapestry has been taken from the loom, and the Ha’as Ka’attala Ha’atta’an has been taken from my hands.” Braid sighed as the servant finished taping the second hand and scurried from the room, and then she extended her hands toward him. “All has been completed according to our custom, and I am prepared for the conclusion. Tell the people that the annunciation will occur with the next cycle.”

There was a breathless moment of silence, and then chaos ensued. Kathryn found herself in the midst of a maelstrom. Braid was literally carried from the room while still seated on her chair, and all the rest of the furniture was swiftly taken away and replaced by long tables around the walls covered by elaborate linens. The thick carpets were rolled up and hauled away on the shoulders of a dozen Weavers, revealing on the floor an elaborate mosaic that was breathtakingly beautiful.

Kathryn clutched the satchel in her arms and inched toward a quiet corner, wondering what had happened to create all this excitement. Suddenly, she found herself face to face with the tall man who had addressed Braid.

“I am first minister Borian,” he explained, his eyes kind and understanding. “I have had the pleasure of working the last few hours with your Commander Chakotay. Negotiations have been completed to everyone’s satisfaction, so I will return you to your ship.”

“What’s happening here?” she asked him as he led her from the room. “Where is Braid?”

“She has completed her masterpiece, and so, according to our customs, we are to have a new master weaver. The ceremony is highly secretive.”

“And Braid? What happens to her?”

Borian hesitated, and then gestured to an alcove. “The casting process for theHa’as Kaattala Ha’attaan is steeped in tradition reaching back into antiquity and always brings with it a great blessing upon the Weavers–this time the arrival of your ship with the bountiful supplies we need. The reward makes the sacrifice worthwhile.”

“By sacrifice, you mean the damage to her hands.”

“That’s part of it.” He leaned forward to whisper quietly into her ear. “The casting process is fatal to the weaver. There is a poison in the plaster that is used that will release her from this life and make way for the new weaver.”

“Fatal?” Kathryn nearly fainted from panic as she clutched the satchel even tighter. “You mean Braid is dying? Won’t you let us try to prevent such a terrible loss?”

“Captain, this is our custom. I assure you that Braid is ready for the annunciation of the new master weaver. It is a moment of great joy for her to have completed her life’s work.” He gave her a wistful smile. “I only wish you could see how comfortable she is with her fate, but non-Weavers cannot witness the glorious rite of passage.” He paused, tears in his eyes. “We are grateful for all that you have done for us, Captain, and for your part in bringing this momentous occasion to us at the proper time. You will live on in our history books as few aliens have in our past.”

“I am grieved by this event, Borian. I will not remember it with joy.”

He nodded. “So be it. You may contact your ship from here. Good journey to you, Captain Janeway. You are blessed to receive the tapestry. Carry with you the good wishes of our people.”

When Kathryn beamed back onto Voyager, Chakotay met her with a huge grin on his face. The Weavers had been exceptionally grateful for the supplies Voyager offered and had provided a number of precious blankets, wall hangings, carpets, and bolts of cloth that would bring a high price as they met other species. He babbled on and on about their generosity and about how much the items would assist them in future trade negotiations. At long last, he noticed her silence.

“How did your part of the meeting go?” he asked her.

“Well enough,” she replied, unwilling to elaborate on the troubling meeting until she’d had time to think it through.

“What’s in the backpack?” he asked her as he escorted her to her quarters.

“A gift from the master weaver,” she answered, still so upset by the news of Braid’s impending death that she nearly burst into tears. “I’ll let you catalog it as soon as we have time.”

Chakotay nodded. “The first minister, Borian, asked us to leave orbit as soon as possible. Apparently, they’re celebrating an important and rare event in their culture and require a cushion of several light years between themselves and any nearby ships.”

She shuddered, realizing that the “rare event” he mentioned included of the death of her friend. “Then, Commander, by all means, return to the bridge and get us started on an appropriate course. In the meantime, I’m exhausted and need to get some sleep.”

“Yes, Captain.” He watched as she disappeared into her quarters, shaking his head in disbelief, thinking that she must be truly worn out to leave the departure from such a successful negotiation in his hands instead of taking leave of these friends herself.

Once inside her quarters, Kathryn opened the satchel and let the beautiful tapestry spill over her hands. With tears in her eyes, she wrapped herself in the warm, delicate weaving and pulled the model of Braid’s hands from the small pocket. She lay down on her sofa and cradled the model to her chest as she reflected on the words the woman had told her. As the tiny fleet of ships disappeared in the distance, she knew one thing for certain.

The model of the weaver’s hands was a metaphor for the deformity and distortion that Kathryn’s duty made in her life. If the price the weaver paid was the physical pain caused by the demands of her work, Kathryn’s pain was in the loneliness and isolation of her life. And both she and Braid would be required to give their lives for their people, and they would do so without a moment’s hesitation.

Even so, Kathryn cried herself to sleep.

Now, nearly a year later, Kathryn sat in her study holding Admiral Janeway’s Ha’as Kaattala Ha’attaan. She had rationalized with herself that this model was the duplicate and that she could keep it as such. But, she would have to be much more careful about letting others see it, since many of the details around Voyager’s return to earth had been classified as Top Secret for the time being.

She stood and carried the satchel to a bookcase that opened to reveal a small vault hidden in the wall. She quickly entered the appropriate code and opened the door, but then paused, stroking the soft bag lovingly, the image of the small Weaver fresh in her memory. Soon after leaving the Weaver fleet, the events that brought about Voyager’s return occurred, including a very unusual discovery in Admiral Janeway’s quarters once they were home.

Following its dramatic arrival in the Alpha Quadrant, Voyager had been in orbit of earth for less than two hours when Chakotay contacted Janewayr in her ready room. “Captain,” he said, his voice choked with emotion, “please come to the visitor’s quarters. Admiral Janeway has left something remarkable for you.”

Kathryn had hurried to deck four with her heart in her throat. What had the admiral done? What secrets had she revealed that Kathryn would rather keep private? What future technology or knowledge had she left behind to cloud the timeline?

She walked into the quarters to find Chakotay cradling the magnificent tapestry in his hands, the worn woven satchel containing the weaver’s hands on the table. She stopped short, remembering that her satchel was still safely stowed on a shelf in her closet.

“What is this, Kathryn?” Chakotay asked her. “Where did this come from, do you know?”

“I should have mentioned it to you days ago,” she answered, feeling her face grow warm with embarrassment. “That’s the gift Braid, the master weaver, gave me.”

“The master weaver gave you her masterpiece?”

“That’s what she called it.”

“Kathryn! This is unprecedented!” He sank onto the sofa where he lovingly stroked the delicate cloth and then opened the satchel’s pocket, gasping with appreciation at the sight of the model of the weaver’s mangled hands. “Do you realize that this is the most precious of all the treasures we found in the Delta Quadrant? It takes twenty years for the master weaver to complete one of these.”

“Why would the admiral leave it with us?” Kathryn wondered as she sat down beside him, touching the cloud-soft material with appreciation.

“That might be answered the note she left.” Chakotay pulled out heavy cream envelope and studied it before he glanced at his captain. “I’m guessing it’s for you.”

Kathryn gently placed the satchel in the vault and locked the door, returning to the desk where she retrieved the envelope from the center drawer. She pulled out the note and sat back to reread it for the thousandth time.

Captain Janeway: It has taken me all these years to learn the lesson Braid was trying to teach me. Do you remember her words? As the master weavers of our followers, we must be sure that the sacrifice we make must be in proportion to the needs of the people. Only that will make the goal worthy of our sacrifice.

Braid sacrificed her hands to her work and she spent countless hours on her loom creating her masterpiece, so many hours that the cares of her daily life were too much for her to manage herself. But she denied herself little else, living in comfort and luxury that her people did not begrudge her.

And her goal was worthy. The tapestry was beautiful and prepared in a timely manner–ready for Voyager’s arrival. There was harmony and peace as she completed her work. She gave up her position of honor without regret for she’d completed the task set before her.

Oh, that I had taken the time to learn the lesson she tried to teach me. When she took my hands and I glimpsed the angst of my future, I thought it was predestined to be so. Now I realize that it was a warning. The sacrifices I made, Captain, were not in proportion to the needs of the crew. I made the return to the Alpha Quadrant our way instead of our goal. I denied myself too much, more than was needed, and the proper balance was never met.

The goal was not worthy of my sacrifice. Of the one hundred twenty five crew members who survived our journey, only a few were happy to be home. I missed Braid’s point, Captain. The journey was the Way.

I found no beauty, no harmony in Voyager’s return during my timeline, and instead of joy and contentment at a job well done, I am filled with sorrow and regret for all that I gave up to bring this disaster to pass. If I had understood the lesson Braid was trying to teach me, I think our return would have been much more joyous. I want that for you, Captain, the joy of a job well done. The satisfaction of a sacrifice that is proportional to the needs of your crew.

The journey, Captain, is the Way. The journey is the way.

Kathryn closed her eyes and thought through the message again. Admiral Janeway had maintained the formality and aloofness that Starfleet required of its captains throughout the remainder of her journey. She had sacrificed her personal happiness and contentment as well as her professional development for the goal of Voyager’s return. She had overlooked the advice Braid had given her–that the journey should be her goal, that she should enjoy the journey as much as possible.

Braid had dedicated herself to her calling as master weaver, but she had not denied herself the comforts of home and companionship. She’d lived in luxury, with servants to do her bidding and to bind up the wounds created by her work. The sacrifice, as she said, was “proportionate,” while the Admiral’s had been too great, out of proportion to the goal. She’d lost her oldest friend, Tuvok, to mental illness and her dearest friend, Chakotay, to Seven of Nine–loses that were simply too great to bear. Kathryn felt a pain of regret for the admiral as she tried to imagine how alone she must have felt during those last years of her journey.

With a sigh, Kathryn returned the parchment to the desk, turned out the light, and crept through the quiet apartment to prepare for bed, enjoying the moonlight that illuminated her path and made added lights unnecessary. She made quick work of her routine and then, realizing that it was well after midnight, she was suddenly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl between the sheets and sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

She slipped into the bed and snuggled into her pillow, sighing with relief as her body began to relax. With a stifled yawn, she said, “The exhibit was a complete success, darling. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Chakotay rolled over and pulled her into a warm embrace. “I thought maybe you got lost on the way home.”

She smiled, thinking that it was too late and that she was too tired to tell him just how appropriate his comment was. Admiral Janeway had gotten lost on the way home, but with her return she’d helped Kathryn avoid making the same mistake. She burrowed into Chakotay’s warmth with another yawn. “I put theHa’as Kaattala Ha’attaan in the vault. It seems Phoebe spied the Admiral’s satchel in the things I beamed down to Mom’s right after Voyager’s return. I tried to explain it away, but I’m not sure she bought the story.”

“Phoebe has an exceptionally accurate intuition when it comes to you,” he chuckled, kissing her gently on the top of the head. “Has she figured out yet that we’re together?”

“No, but it’s just a matter of time.” She gave him a hug and closed her eyes, drifting slowly to sleep. “I’m thinking maybe we should just admit it publicly and get it over with.”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

Kathryn stirred, remembering a comment Braid had made that she’d wanted to discuss with Chakotay. “Do you believe in coincidence, Chakotay?”

He chuckled. “I could spend an hour talking about that, Kathryn, if you need a cure for insomnia. Why do you ask?”

“Braid said that there is no such thing as coincidence, only patterns that we can’t see.”

“That’s very close to what I believe, in elegantly few words.”

“So the fact that we were both exiled in the Delta Quadrant, the success of our collaboration there, all of it, was not coincidence? It’s part of a pattern that we can’t see?”

“Something like that.” He paused. “In some ways, the journey shaped us for this relationship, don’t you think? The end result is the function of the experience.”

“Just as the Ha’as Kaattala Ha’attaan, the weaver’s hands, are shaped by the weaving, we were shaped for each other by our journey.”

“Well,” he laughed, “I’d rather think of our relationship as the beautiful tapestry, not the deformed hands.”

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Kathryn breathed. “Our love for each other is a precious masterpiece.”

“That it is.”

“Then, by all means, we must put it on display for all to see.”

Chakotay kissed her tenderly. “There’s a ritual we should go through to seal our resolution,” he grinned.

“Let me guess what that ritual might be,” she laughed with him, feeling the evidence of his arousal against her thigh, and then rolled over so that she was on top of him. As she gazed down into his smiling face, she felt so much joy in her heart that she thought it must burst. She kissed him deeply, and then buried her face in his neck. “I’m happy, Chakotay. Happier than I’ve been in years.”

“We denied ourselves this happiness for seven years, Kathryn. It’s our time to be happy.”

Kathryn remembered a small woman who had tried hard to teach her about the master weaver’s responsibilities. She repeated Braid’s words absently, “The sacrifice must be in proportion to the needs of the people.”

Chakotay raised his head and gave her a curious look. “What did you say?”

Braid had been right. Her mission was complete. Voyager was safely home, and its crew was blissfully reunited with their families. There was no reason to deny herself any longer.

She blushed and kissed him again. “Never mind. Just love me.”

He smiled and pulled her close. “Kathryn, I’ve been waiting for that order for eight years.”