Disclaimer: Star Trek Voyager and Kathryn Janeway belong to Paramount. No infringement intended.

Summary: A heartbreaking view of Admiral Kathryn Janeway five years before she returns to the past in “Endgame.” A space journey brings poignant memories and a resolution to change the past. The title comes from a blues song.

These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)

by mizvoy

“The admiral is uncomfortable traveling on any ship she isn’t commanding.” This was what Kathryn Janeway’s aide replied whenever someone questioned her about Janeway’s preference to spend most of her time on Earth.

And Janeway usually smiled patiently at the joke. She had a decent sense of humor, and, besides, it was close to the truth. However, not being in command wasn’t the main reason she avoided space travel. She had no desire to command another starship after twenty-three years as Voyager’s captain and didn’t hesitate to trust a Starfleet captain with her life.

No, the truth was that every ship included elements–foolish little things, really–that reminded her of Voyager, of her crew, and of her failures and her losses, both professional and personal, during her odyssey through the Delta Quadrant. Space travel increased the impatience and restlessness she had felt every day since Voyager had limped into Federation space five years earlier. And the bitter truth was that her personal anguish, her deepest regrets haunted her most when she was on a starship.

She stretched out on the bunk in the U.S.S. Pioneer’s VIP quarters and waited patiently for sleep to come. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d traveled in space, but she knew it had been at least a year since she’d slept on a starship, and in some ways she wished she’d passed up this overnight trip, as well. But, the conference on Alpha Centauri was worth the discomfort, she reminded herself, because it was a chance to look into the rumors about the Klingon scientist, Korath, who was supposedly developing a workable time travel device. She wanted to find out about that device badly enough to endure any discomfort the trip would cause.

While serving on Earth, while staying on any planet’s surface, she could pretend to forget about Voyager, busy herself with dozens of activities, immerse herself so deeply in her work that she was oblivious to all the memories that troubled her. But on a ship, those reminders were an elemental part of life, enveloping every moment of the day, making up the reality of life as unavoidable as leola root stew on Neelix’s Prixin menu. The memories started when she transported aboard a ship and smelled the distinctive stale odor of recycled air.

Chakotay teased her about her infamous “sniff habit,” the way she took a deep breath at the moment she transported onto Voyager from an away mission. “I think you do it,” he teased her, “because you’re hoping that the lingering stench of leola root has finally disappeared.”

“Actually, I’m checking the efficiency of the plumbing,” she replied, enjoying the deep chuckle her comment elicited from him. “You know how hard Bolians can be on waste treatment systems.”

She closed her eyes at the memory, rolled over onto her back and took a deep, calming breath. Strange to suddenly miss the offensive leola root odor. On Voyager, she had tried to eliminate the smell from her quarters by burning floral scented candles in the evenings, a practice that had also become a habit. In fact, she had burned a candle as she’d prepared for bed that night, choosing one of her favorites–night blooming jasmine. In the Delta Quadrant, she’d rationed her candles, but the supply inevitably ran out, and she wasn’t about to use her limited replicator rations for something like candles when she had barely enough to maintain her coffee addiction.

Chakotay noticed when her candle supply was low, and with his usual attention to detail, brought more candles to her from planets he visited on his foraging expeditions. He’d arrive in her ready room to report on his latest trip holding a PADD in one hand and a small, aromatic case in the other.

“I visited one planet,” he’d begin,” with a wonderful blossom that smelled like gardenias.” Or perhaps it would be lilacs, or violets, or roses. “I think you’ll like them,” he’d finish, setting the candles casually on her desk. He’d move on to the next item of business as if procuring her scented candles was always his number one priority, and when she thanked him for being so thoughtful, he just shrugged her off, as if the candles were just an afterthought.

Frivolous things, she thought to herself, just candles, nothing more.

She sighed and tried to find a more comfortable position. It was impossible for her to retire early while on a ship, as if the many years of late-night reading and sleepless contemplation had in some way become a routine too fully ingrained in her nature to break. She watched the stars stream by, picking one at a time and watching its tail of light blur past the ship. How many different stars had she seen from Voyager’s view ports? She’d heard it said that all stars look alike when seen at warp, and yet these stars seemed warm and friendly compared to those she’d seen in the Delta Quadrant. She’d certainly seen a greater variety of stars than most admirals.

She had just managed to doze off when her door chime sounded and she was instantly wide-awake, her heart pounding in anticipation. She held her breath and listened for the sound of a malfunction in the ship or a red or yellow alert, anything that might have preceded the chime as a forewarning of the problem.

“Chakotay?” Groggy and disoriented, she thought, for a bewildered moment, that she was on Voyager. But no, she reminded herself, a little shaken at her memory lapse. Chakotay had been dead for five years, dead and buried near the Janeway home in Indiana. And Seven. Seven had been gone more years than she cared to count.

She crawled out of bed and pulled on her robe as she walked into the lounge and ordered the door open. There was no one there. She stood in the doorway peering up and down the deserted hallway. Had she imagined the chime? Dreamed it? Was she hallucinating?

Silly to “hear” a nonexistent chime. Stranger still to think it was Chakotay bringing her a critical update, as he had so often on Voyager, when she hadn’t seen him or heard his voice in so long. She hadn’t been a captain in years, wouldn’t be the person consulted for Pioneer’s unusual sensor readings, unanticipated course changes, angry brawls in the crew lounge. She stepped back into her quarters and let the doors close on her embarrassment before someone noticed her. She smiled to herself. Her chief of staff would sigh and say, “The admiral is acting strange again.”

Sleep finally came. A few fitful hours in her bunk, and then her eyes opened, as if sleep was simply too frivolous an activity to be indulged on a starship. She could tell by the vibrations from foot traffic in the hallway that the bulk of the crew was up and moving.

Day watch. She visited the head and headed for the replicator and that first, blessed mug of . . . tea. She shook her head. She’d given up coffee years earlier, but being back in space made her miss the rush she got from coffee’s predictable jolt of caffeine. She shook her head in determination, not wanting to resume that addiction when sleep was already a challenge. She’d have tea.

A tiny chime caught her attention as she left her bedroom. The PADD she’d left by the computer flashed a dull green light as the daily blotter was automatically downloaded for her review. She enjoyed reading the blotter on the ship–the informal, temporary listing of events jotted down by the first officer. She swooped up the PADD, replicated the tea, and settled into a chair for some reading, always curious about the way the first officer summarized the previous day’s events for the captain’s review. You could tell a great deal about the morale of the ship from the blotter, and the raw data made it a handy reference to keep around later. Often, she’d used Chakotay’s blotter as the memory prompt for her captain’s log.

The tea was soothing, but the blotter made her frown. So dry. So factual and terse, without a hint of humor. She scrolled down to the signature line to check the first officer’s name: Lieutenant Commander Melanie Seldane. She’d been on the bridge when Janeway had beamed aboard the previous day, so they hadn’t met, as yet.

“You have a lot to learn about writing a blotter,” she muttered, a wistful smile on her face. But then, she thought, the blotter had been written for Captain Hogan’s expectations. Perhaps the humor was there, but it was an inside joke between the command team, invisible to anyone not “in the know.” Or perhaps the command team hadn’t moved beyond the polite formality protocol demanded, hadn’t found a rhythm to their relationship that she and Chakotay had perfected over twenty-three years. Or maybe Seldane knew an admiral would be reading the blotter, as well, and reverted to the terse formality she thought an admiral expected.

Janeway laid the PADD aside as she cradled the warm mug in her hands. She recalled the special codes they had used, the inside jokes that Chakotay inserted into the blotter as a form of entertainment, an effort to lighten her mood and relieve the stress of her overwhelming job as captain.

Chakotay’s typical blotter entry: “At 0130, a security team discovered a mouse in Neelix’s kitchen and turned her over to her mother’s custody. Ensign Wildman promised to set the door alarm for their quarters out of Naomi’s reach tonight and to preclude another midnight forage mission by feeding her milk and graham crackers during her bedtime story.”

Or another: “There was an incident (about issues still unclear) at Sandrine’s during Beta Shift that resulted in a confrontation between a certain helmsman and the Delaney twins. In spite of Ensign Kim’s valiant effort to defuse the situation, Lieutenant Paris received a black eye and a bruised shin (eye: Megan, who has a great right cross; shin: Jenny, who was wearing sharp-toed black boots that definitely left an ‘impression’). The holoprogram was shut down, Paris’s injuries were treated by the EMH, and the Delaney twins were congratulated by all the other women who’d been present in Sandrine’s at the time. I think Paris will be a lonely man for the next few days–perfect time for some extra piloting drills.”

Janeway blinked back tears and swallowed the last of her cold tea, glancing at the clock on her desk with surprise. How long had she been sitting there reminiscing? Her aide would be along in twenty minutes and would be stunned if she found her lounging in her robe and shedding irrational tears when there was work to be done. They would arrive at the conference the next day, and she had a dozen reports to finish reading and her own briefing slides to work through.

The blur of the morning’s meetings ended late, and Janeway found herself alone in the officer’s mess, absently twirling pasta on the standard starship flatware–a flat three-pronged fork, curved slightly and with an unusually long handle. What was it about these forks? What did they remind her of?

A pitchfork. Only once in all her career had she been threatened by a pitchfork–the day Voyager had been snatched into the Delta Quadrant, just before she’d laid eyes on the Maquis crew for the first time as they lay still and pale, their bodies pierced by the long, thick needles of the Caretaker’s diagnostic biobeds. The old woman who had been cajoling them had finally dropped the pretense of a picnic and had brandished the pitchfork before Janeway’s eyes, saying, “Since you won’t have our corn on the cob, we’ll proceed ahead of schedule.”

“Admiral, are you all right?”

Janeway looked up into the concerned face of her aide, who had caught her staring blindly at a piece of silverware. She blushed, realizing how ridiculous she must have looked.

“I’m fine,” she laughed, dropping the fork as if it were poison. “This oddly shaped silverware always reminds me that I’m in space. Strange that the design never caught on outside Starfleet.”

“I just wanted to remind you,” the aide started, pausing when the red alert siren went off, “that the captain has scheduled a drill for 1430 hours.”

Janeway had been briefed on the upcoming drill when she’d beamed aboard, but in spite of the foreknowledge she reacted poorly. She stood up so quickly that her head was spinning, her heart racing in a response that had been conditioned by too many years as captain. She had forgotten how powerfully a red alert affected her and struggled against an overwhelming urge to hit her commbadge and demand a report, to jump on a turbolift and use her override for the quickest possible trip to the bridge. The moment passed, and she took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. She had no responsibilities in this drill, nothing to do. They weren’t in the Delta Quadrant. This ship wasn’t Voyager. She wasn’t the captain.

“Let’s go back to my quarters, Lieutenant,” she said, moving smoothly for the door, willing her hands to stop trembling. “We’ll be in everyone’s way, otherwise.”

The aide smiled indulgently, and Janeway regretted her obvious panic at the red alert warning, a panic one would expect of an ensign on her first ship assignment, not a seasoned admiral with fifty years of experience under her belt. The two officers made their way slowly through the ship, an island of tranquility in an eruption of noise, anxiety, and disorder. Young ensigns tore past them with a few murmured words of pardon. Announcements blared through the familiar curving passageways as the bridge updated the crew on the situation and issued a series of orders. The air crackled with excitement and adrenaline, but Janeway walked deliberately, taking in the scene with a practiced eye.

Many times she and Chakotay dashed down chaotic corridors trying to get to the bridge during a red alert that they knew wasn’t a drill. “That’s Murdoch at Tactical,” Chakotay would comment as an announcement was made. The mention of his name brought a whole set of strengths and weaknesses into their minds. “You know how jumpy he can be. He hits the red alert button first and asks questions later.”

“From now on, no more coffee for Murdoch before bridge duty,” she’d answered, and had been rewarded with Chakotay’s dimpled smile for her ability to make a joke in the face of disaster.

But the voices she heard now were unfamiliar, and Janeway cringed at the thought of not knowing every single person on the crew, of trusting her life to inexperienced officers, of stepping onto an unfamiliar bridge filled with strangers. Once it had seemed so natural, so right to have a ship’s crew rotate on and off with every shore leave, but now she argued that Starfleet should keep crews together for longer periods of time, allowing for more familiarity and trust to develop between them.

They turned a corner and entered a junction where the flashing red lights were particularly dazzling. Janeway came to a halt, suddenly mesmerized, as her aide kept walking. Why did the lights have to be red? Why did they have to bathe everything in blood? A dozen faces flashed through her mind, faces literally covered with blood as they died right in front of her, their eyes pleading for help. She leaned unsteadily against the wall, laboring to breathe, drenched in sweat. Red alert. Red alert.

“Admiral? Can you hear me?”

Her eyes focused. She looked around, confused to see the ceiling of an unfamiliar sickbay. Pioneer’s chief medical officer and her own chief of staff gazed down at her. She squinted against the glare of the lights. “What happened?”

“You hyperventilated, Admiral,” the doctor replied, and she heard rather than felt the hypospray he pressed against her neck. “Not unusual for individuals unused to space travel.”

She chuckled. “More like too used to space travel.” Too used to authentic red alerts, to tangible danger, to imminent death. When she sat up, she felt dizzy and rubbed her temples with her fingers. “I think the drill triggered a few traumatic memories.”

Her chief of staff, Commander Marshall, glared at the doctor and then turned to the aide, who was hiding behind him, peering over his shoulder at the patient with a panicked look on her face. “Please ask Captain Hogan not to stage any more drills while the admiral is on board.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, scurrying from the room.

Janeway slid from the biobed. “I think I’ll to return to my quarters, Doctor.”

She and Commander Marshall walked leisurely through the passageways. Janeway was relieved to see that the earlier chaos of the red alert drill had given way to the normal routine, yet she could see the lingering looks the crew gave her as they passed her in the passageways. They knew she’d fainted.

“An admiral who’s as highly strung as a green ensign can’t do much to build their confidence,” she said quietly to Marshall. “They must think I’m a real lightweight if I pass out during a drill.”

“No, ma’am. Most of them think it was probably just the wobbles.” Marshall stood at attention near the door of her quarters.

“The wobbles?” She laughed at the childish term for space sickness, trying to think how long it had been since she’d had trouble adjusting to space travel. If anything, living on a ship was more natural to her than living on a planet. She was afraid that she would see pity in his face as he returned her gaze, the poor overstressed woman who had miraculously walked through the fires of hell only to be haunted by the experience. Instead, she saw a familiar look of patient understanding and turned away to hide the pain she felt in her heart.

“It has been awhile since you’ve been in deep space, Admiral.”

She shook her head. “You and I both know what the problem is. There are too many ghosts in space, too many echoes of Voyager.” She suddenly felt drained. “I think I’ll remain in my quarters until we arrive at the conference tomorrow. Please explain the situation to Captain Hogan.”

“Of course,” Marshall stepped back, triggering the door. “I’ll check on you later.”

She watched him leave and then walked to the replicator to order hot cider spiced with cinnamon, a drink Chakotay had spent hours carefully programming into the replicator for her, fiddling with it until she proclaimed it better than the original. She sipped the hot liquid, grateful for the good memories the taste brought her. She sat down at her desk, pulled up the agenda for the conference and focused her mind on her work, hoping that having something to focus on would help her forget the familiarities of the ship’s routine. In spite of her best intentions, her mind wandered.

Chakotay had loved cider and always found a new taste or blend whenever Voyager stopped for shore leave. This particular version was special, both in its taste and its high alcoholic content. When he’d first introduced her to the drink, he’d opened the bottle with a flourish that told her it was probably a luxurious splurge.

“You found cider on Hastata, didn’t you?” she’d asked.

“The apple must be the universal fruit,” Chakotay chuckled as he poured the liquid into mugs and warmed them in the replicator. “But these apples actually ferment on the trees. Don’t be surprised if this kicks your butt.”

“Oh, good,” she smiled. It had been one of those days she ended up regretting, when she’d been unusually annoyed, demanding, and, at times, almost irrational, especially with her first officer. “I think I need a good butt kicking.”

He gave her a wicked look. “Anytime, Kathryn, just ask. And you don’t have to wait for me to open a bottle of cider.”

She missed that mischievous chatter–his irreverent attitude–but what could she expect? She was an admiral now, universally respected and esteemed, acclaimed far and wide as the “Hero of Voyager.” She missed those lighthearted moments and the cheerful repartee that she had shared with her first officer, even in the moments of impending disaster. Suddenly the cider tasted bitter and she nearly choked, gripping the mug in her hands as waves of grief flowed over her.

Much later, the door chime rang, and she knew who it would be. She raised her chin and cleared her throat before trying to speak. “Come in, Commander.”

At her insistence, Marshall sat down for a cup of tea and a chat. “I saw your comments on the briefings, Admiral. I’ll be sure to have the background information you need on a PADD so you can refer to it during the meeting.”

“That will be fine.” She nodded and tried to relax, gazing at her chief of staff fondly.

The Voyager crew had disapproved of Commander Marshall from the first. He was Chakotay’s height and build, with similar coloring, charming dimples, and a warm, serene personality. The crew had whispered behind her back he was an unconscious attempt to replace her first officer who had died just a few months before Voyager returned to Federation space. They were worried about her mental and emotional state, thinking that she was afraid to let go of the past and move on.

Privately, she laughed at their incredible naïveté. Did they really think that she was unaware of Commander Marshall’s astonishing likeness to Chakotay? Did they think she wanted to let go of the past? The fact was that she’d chosen him for precisely that reason, so that she would be constantly reminded of those who had been lost on Voyager’s journey and of those who had returned only to find emptiness, isolation, and despair awaiting them. Like space flight itself, Marshall’s looks created a mixture of pleasure and pain in her heart and kept her vigilant for some way, any way, to atone for her failures.

How better to pay for her wrongs than by a reminder of the one person she most regretted hurting? There would never be anyone else for her but Chakotay, not as a friend, not as a subordinate, not as an equal. And since Chakotay would never be far from her thoughts, what difference did it make whether her chief of staff resembled him or not? His memory would always be bittersweet, always a mixture of potential joy and unavoidable regret, and she accepted that as her inescapable life sentence.

“You do good work, Jeff,” she told him with an indulgent smile, treasuring the dimpled grin he gave her. “I think I’ll keep you.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” In spite of his flippant comment, she could see the worry in his eyes, the desire to understand why space flight seemed to unnerve her so badly. This effort to understand her was endearingly like Chakotay.

“This trip has convinced me that I need to do more traveling, Commander. You’d better warn Elaine and the kids that the admiral is going to be dragging you away from home more often.”

“I’ll do that, Admiral. In the meantime, you need to get some rest. We’ll be busy at the conference, and, knowing you as I do, you won’t get much sleep.”

“All right.” She watched him head for the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He paused and looked back at her. “Good night, Admiral.”

“Good night, Commander.”

Night watch. She sat on the sofa and glanced through the PADDs she’d read earlier that evening, sorting them in the usual way: imperative, important, insignificant. At night, she became conscious of universal sounds common to all ships, like the air handlers activating, the power relays humming in the Jeffries tubes, the turbolifts rumbling in the walls, and the soft voices of the crew passing by her door.

She and Chakotay spent many late nights sorting through PADDs, prioritizing dwindling supplies, selecting course changes, arguing about side trips, fiddling with crew assignments and evaluations. Then there would come a time when her mind would freeze and she reverted to stacking and restacking PADDS rather than analyzing them.

“When I see you playing blocks with the PADDs, Kathryn, I know your brain has shut down for the night, and it’s time for me to leave.”

“You don’t have to leave yet.” She repressed a yawn. “You know I never go to bed until I hear deflector control begin its self-diagnostic.”

“Kathryn! That doesn’t happen until 0130! No wonder you need your coffee so badly in the morning.”

But, he’d linger with her despite the hour, and their conversation would become personal, intimate, and confidential. They talked of their youth, their dreams, their challenges, their successes and failures and hopes. She remembered laughter at ridiculous stories and tears of pain and remorse, the only time in the week when she could relax and be herself.

Their real friendship existed between midnight and 0130. An hour or so once or twice a week. She paused to do the math–two thousand hours, give or take a few. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

“That’s it, Kathryn,” he’d say when the faint nudge of the diagnostic rumbled through the deck plating. “Even captains have to sleep a few hours a day.”

He paused at the door, gazing back at her with a tender smile. So often, she’d been tempted to ask him to stay, to throw caution to the wind and tell him the truth of her feelings. But instead she sighed with resignation. “Good night, Chakotay.”

“Good night, Kathryn.” And then he was gone.

And now he was truly gone. Chakotay, Tuvok, Seven, Carey, so many others, were truly gone. Her eyes filled with tears. “Computer, when is the diagnostic for deflector control scheduled to begin?”

The familiar computer voice replied, “Deflector control self-diagnostic is scheduled for 0130.”

“Good.” Some things should never change.

She put on some music and got ready for bed. The conference would be interesting, and she would follow up on the temporal researcher she’d heard about. It was an interesting proposition to consider. If she could go back in time, what would she change? If she could go back to Voyager and talk to her previous self, what would she tell her?

“You can barely tolerate a few days on a strange ship, Kathryn,” she said to the woman looking back at her in the mirror. “How would you stand a day on Voyager? The real Voyager? If you could go back . . . .”

Unable to sleep, she leaned against the pillows surveying her luxurious V.I.P. quarters done tastefully in shades of gray and beige. There was a definite need for variety in Starfleet décor. Why was it a choice between gray and beige?

Chakotay held up a wall panel, looking at one side and then the other, perplexed. “Does it matter which way these things go?”

“I guess it depends whether you’re in a beige mood or a grey mood,” she replied with a shrug.

“That’s not much of a choice. Couldn’t Starfleet have come up with something a little more cheerful?”

She laughed. “Like polka dots?”

“I was thinking more of a tasteful pinstripe, something in blues and greens.”

Hot tears spilled from her eyes as she sobbed into her pillow. In spite of the pain brought about by all these foolish things, she didn’t want to forget one moment of the past, didn’t want to forget the terrible losses and disappointments endured by the crew she loved so completely. That was why she needed to travel in space more, needed the painful memories to push her to do what she must to do. The storm of tears passed, and the emotional release cleansed her mind of its anguish, making it possible to think clearly again of a potential solution to her despair. The seed of a plan took root.

She would go back. She would keep track of Korath’s research into time travel. If there was a way to return to the past and get her crew home sooner, she would find it, and she wouldn’t give up until she drew her final breath. There had to be a way.

At 0130, when deflector control sent a familiar jolt through the floor, Janeway was finally able to close her eyes and drift off to sleep.

Her last thoughts were of how much she loved them. Chakotay. Tuvok. Seven of Nine. Tom and B’Elanna. Harry. Neelix. She loved the crew.

All of them.