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Chapter Text

Ensign Sahreen Lan glanced around at her new-old quarters and smiled. It felt good to be back. 

“Was that a good grunt, or a there’s still something a few centimetres too far to the right grunt?”

She turned, and Ensign Michael Murphy—stellar cartographer, endlessly upbeat human, and most importantly her boyfriend—smiled enough to show his dimples, which, alongside the dent in his chin and the way his hazel eyes were shining at her in genuine adoration, left her stomach doing little flips despite his teasing. 

“For the record,” Lan said. “A lot of joined Trill find having things organized in their private spaces to be very soothing. Knowing where things are, and that they’re where you put them, is very grounding.”

“See, now, the thing is, I can’t double-check that with the Symbiosis people because we’re on the wrong side of the galaxy,” Murphy said, stepping closer and reaching out to take her waist in both hands. “But I’m going to just believe you, rather than think you’re using your grumpy Trill deflection magic.” 

“It’s not magic,” she said, putting her own hands around his waist in return. “It’s science.” 

“Huh,” Murphy said, with another grin and a second visit from the dimples. “And I love science.” He leaned in and stole a quick kiss, and she leaned into it, and him. 

They stood like that for a few moments, just together, in a way that had become second-nature to her in the last couple of years, and how strange was that? No Lan host had ever had a relationship with this level of success, and some part of her—or, more to the point, three previous parts of her—sometimes nudged at her mind with doom, gloom, and perilous thoughts of ‘eventually, you know this will end, right?’

“So,” Murphy said. “Poker game tonight with the ladies to break in the new quarters.”

“The new-old quarters,” Lan corrected.

“Of course,” Murphy smiled. He still hadn’t let go, and they were almost face-to-face, and she didn’t mind one bit. “I’m on the swing shift, I’m afraid, so I will be crashing after I’m done in Stellar Cartography, but…” He drew out the word, and raised one eyebrow suggestively. “I happen to have saved enough rations for pancakes in bed for two. With strawberries and syrup, if you know a grumpy Trill who might want to crawl under the covers with me tomorrow morning before she starts her shift?” 

She poked his chest. “I’m not always grumpy.” 

He smiled. He also didn’t reply, which was damning, but also really, really adorable and ugh, why was she so gone for this man?

The Kejal in her pointed out Murphy’s broad shoulders, his thick brown hair, the consistent five o’clock shadow, kissable dent in his chin, deep hazel eyes…. Did he need to go on?

“Well, I was going to get up early to get a head start on the lateral sensor diagnostics…” she said, tilting her head from side to side. 

“But you choose pancakes?” Murphy said, tugging her in again for another kiss. This one to her forehead. 

“They’re basically grumpy Trill dilithium,” Lan said, nodding once he’d pulled back. “You can get a lot of grumpy out of strawberries and pancakes.”

He smiled and kissed her again, then finally let go, though it was the way he always let go of her: reluctantly. “I’ll see you in the morning. Have fun at poker night.” 

She nodded, and she let him get to the door before an impulse she knew came from Dolay—who’d died so suddenly, without any chance to say goodbye—bubbled up to the surface and she spoke again.

“Michael?”

He turned, walking backwards, the door to her quarters opening behind him. “Yes?”

“I didn’t choose pancakes,” she said. “I chose you.” 

He grinned his big, goofy grin, putting a hand over his heart, and backing out through the doorway. It would have been romantic enough a moment to please the Kejal in her, except he backed right into Chris Vance, who’d come down the corridor at a bit of a jog with a PADD in hand. The door to her quarters closed before she could see just how badly the collision sent both Murphy and the rough-and-tumble pilot sprawling—though the glimpse she got made her fairly certain they’d both end up on their asses—but she was fairly certain they’d both heard her laughing, which wasn't Dolay, Kejal, or Pasha.

It was all Sahreen. 

Chapter Text

Setok tried to keep his attention on the kitchen and serving area as he entered the Mess Hall for the first time since Ilari. After everything that happened—most centrally the death of Ensign Fukai—he found he generated a new sort of attention anywhere he went. 

From the majority, it seemed to be genuine interest in his wellbeing, alongside a healthy dose of pity that left him both vulnerable and irritable in oddly equal measure. From a few, though—including Crewman Talon Boylan, who’d passed him in the corridor—it wasn’t pity or concern.

It was fear.

“Good morning, Setok,” Celes Tal said from behind the serving counter, where she was working alongside Crewman Jon Djanrelian, an oceanographer and glaciologist Setok had spoken two once or twice about aquatic biology. He seemed to be helping Celes with the breakfast offerings, which from Djanrelian seemed to be a kind of very-thin pancake he was cooking two at a time before rolling them up around mixed fruit from the Garden before sprinkling some of the pinkish beet sugar overtop. He handed the finished plate over to Ensign Dorton, who took the plate with a grateful “Thank you, Jon,” before joining her friends at one of the tables.

“Good morning,” Setok said, peering over the counter. 

“They’re crepes,” Celes said. “Jon’s definitely been more popular than my oatmeal this morning.” 

“I think I’d rather have the oatmeal,” Setok said, and when Djanrelian glanced at him in surprise, he added, “I find a lot of Earth dishes a bit too sweet.”

“Fair enough,” Djanrelian said. His gaze lingered on Setok for a beat, and then he said. “When you’re up for it, we could continue our talk about filter feeders.” 

Setok recognized this offer as another particularly human thing to do. Many of Voyager’s crew had extended invitations to him in some way—Lieutenant Honigsberg had offered some time on the Holodeck, Lieutenant Rollins had involved him in the care and keeping of his cat Jewel and her kittens—and he’d started to realize these offers were intended to be a statement of trust and compassion, in light of what the whole crew had witnessed of Setok’s mental capabilities. 

“I’d like that,” he said, and Djanrelian smiled, then turned to another crewman wanting crepes. Celes handed him his bowl of oatmeal.

“I put in just a touch of ground marob root,” Celes said. “I think it’s just right for you. And a glass of gamma plomeek juice, I assume?”

“Thank you,” he said, taking both, then finally faced the rest of the Mess Hall.

A few faces looked away quickly, and he tried not to notice it overmuch. 

Then he saw someone sitting alone at one of the smaller tables. He headed that way, and was at the table before he’d considered what he might say.

“Hello,” Setok said, a little haltingly. “Is this seat taken?”

The Vulcan man sat there looked up at him with a faint trace of a smile, in and of itself an expression that Setok found fascinating—and, he realized, in an odd way also familiar. 

“No. Please, join me,” Mestral said, gesturing. 

Setok sat, noticing that while Mestral had also opted for the oatmeal like himself, he had a mug of the Trabe firenut coffee instead of water or a fruit or vegetable juice, which his mother T’Prena, as well as Kaurit, Velar and Vorik—the other Vulcans on board Voyager—tended to choose.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your reading,” Setok said, nodding to the PADD beside Mestral’s food on the table. “I don’t mind eating in silence if you wish to continue.” 

Mestral’s almost-smile returned. “I’m afraid having something to read on hand is a defence mechanism I picked up on Earth,” he said. 

“A defence mechanism?” Setok didn’t follow.

“Humans tend to leave those they see reading on their own. Or, they did, in my time.” He tilted his head. “I’ve noticed quite a few of the habits of twentieth century North American humanity haven’t carried forward.” 

“It must be quite an adjustment,” Setok said, taking a spoonful of his oatmeal and deciding Celes Tal had been completely correct: the trace of the marob root was just enough for his taste, which tended more to the sensitivity of the Vulcan palate than the Ocampa. 

“I am remarkably out of date,” Mestral said, but the man’s voice held good humour to it. 

Setok couldn’t help but regard him closer. Mestral had cut his black hair, he noticed, back to something a bit more traditionally Vulcan, and his dark eyes, which were a light hazel, seemed much less tired than when he’d first come on board, which made sense given his injuries at the time. He’d also replicated himself a simple brown shirt and lighter tan trousers to wear. If Mestral was uncomfortable on Voyager, it didn’t show.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Mestral said, looking back at him, that almost-smile back again. 

Setok frowned, another spoonful of oatmeal paused mid-way to his mouth. “I beg your pardon?” 

“It’s a human saying,” Mestral said. “It means I’m curious to know what you’re thinking about.”

“Oh,” Setok said, and he bought himself time by eating the oatmeal on his spoon. Once he swallowed, he took a moment, but decided on the truth. “I was thinking that you seem comfortable on Voyager. And better rested.”

Mestral’s eyebrows rose. “That’s true.” He nodded at the PADD. “But then again, I’ve been the alien among humans for almost four decades.” He took a swallow of the coffee. “If anything, I’m more concerned with being comfortable among Voyager’s Vulcan crew.”

Setok blinked in surprise. “Really?” 

“Vulcan society has changed a great deal in the last four hundred years,” Mestral said. “While your mother hid it well, I don’t believe she found my company particularly… comfortable.”

“Ah.” Setok took a moment with that, considering. A part of him bristled on his mother’s behalf, but then again, when he allowed himself to be a bit too ebullient in her presence, he, too, had caught that sense from her. “I’ve read a lot of Vulcan history,” he said, conceding the point. “I could see how someone from your time might be… jarring to the Vulcans on board.”

Mestral chuckled. It was such an unexpectedly amusing and open sound Setok found himself joining in. 

“Is it the same for you?” Mestral said, after they had both eaten some more breakfast in silence.

“What do you mean?” Setok said.

“Your father isn’t Vulcan,” Mestral said, and Setok saw him looking at his ears, where the tips had the telltale first few folds of an Ocampa within the Vulcan pointed tips. “It still surprises me—in my time, we had no way to have children across species.” 

For just a second, Setok thought he saw regret on the man’s face, but it was gone so quickly, he couldn’t be sure.

“Well, Ocampa DNA is remarkably resilient and adaptive,” Setok said. “From what I’ve read, it usually takes medical intervention for Vulcans to mate with non-Vulcans.”

Mestral nodded. 

“But to answer your question,” Setok said. “I think I am a bit jarring to the Vulcans on board, yes. And the humans, too, sometimes.” He let out a long sigh. “Frightening, to some of them.”

“Frightening?” the word came from Mestral’s mouth with a tone of surprise.

“No one warned you about me?” Setok said, though he tried to offset his sense of guilt and sadness with an affected almost-smile of his own.

“I’ve heard something of your psychokinetic ability,” Mestral said, surprising Setok by speaking so frankly and openly about it. “But I don’t believe any warnings were required.” He lifted his mug and swallowed more firenut coffee, as though that was all that needed to be said on the subject.

Setok fell silent, eating and drinking for a while while he let Mestral’s words—and the confidence in which he’d said them—settle. Mestral seemed to be content to let the silence sit comfortably between them. 

And it was comfortable. In fact, it was the most comfortable he’d felt in days. 

“Have you read about the Kir’Shara?” Mestral said, when they were both nearly finished their meal.

“Yes,” Setok nodded. “I found the history of the Syrannite movement interesting.”

“I feel I might need assistance in my reading, as there are so many assumptions made in the text of the modern reader I find myself missing context, being rather not modern myself. If you are free for breakfast tomorrow, perhaps I could ask you some questions?” Mestral said. “I fear the other Vulcans on board might find my inquiries… jarring.”

“I’d enjoy that,” Setok said.

“Tomorrow, then,” Mestral said, rising with his tray and PADD in hand. “I’m afraid I must go now. I’m meeting with Crewman Eru and Crewman Cir, to go over all the data they gathered from twentieth century Earth.” He offered another faint smile. “I believe I might be able to offer significant context.”

“I’m sure,” Setok said, smiling right back.

After he finished his gamma plomeek juice, Setok rose as well to clear his tray.

On his way out of the Mess Hall, he found he didn’t notice the attention nearly as much as he had on the way in.

Chapter Text

Rebecca Sullivan glanced up as the doors to Sickbay opened, and blinked in surprise.

“1106?” she said. 

“Hello, Crewman Rebecca Sullivan,” the robot said. With a gold mask-like face and an oddly calm, borderline emotionless voice, Sullivan had trouble reading anything into the response, beyond it being unlikely it needed immediate help. She enjoyed her night shifts in Sickbay, where Doctor Fitzgerald trusted her to handle anything that might come up during the off-hours, but if 1106 needed the equivalent of medical attention, it would be better served in Main Engineering.

“Can I help you?” she said, when the robot came through the doors. 

“My father asked left a message that he wished to speak to me,” 1106 said. “I have finished my diagnostic work on the reactor control assembly, so I have time.”

“Ah,” Sullivan said. “Right.” By ‘father,’ 1106 meant Doctor Emmett Hall, Voyager’s emergency medical program, upon which 1106’s core programming had been built by Crewman Kimble Meyer back when they’d discovered the Cravic robot needed massive repairs. “In that case,” she said, smiling. “Computer, activate the Emergency Medical Hologram.”

Emmett shimmered into being, and glanced around. “Ah! 1106. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too, father,” 1106 said. “I came, as you asked. What is it you wished to discuss?”

Sullivan was about to make herself scarce in the lab to give them privacy, but then Emmet replied.

“I wanted to discuss your social interactions with the crew. I think you could benefit from some advice,” Emmett said.

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said, holding up one hand. “You’re going to give 1106 advice on social interaction?” She stared at Emmett for a second. “You?”

Emmett sighed, which Rebecca knew was an entirely affected holographic algorithm and yet still managed to somehow project condescension and affront. “I am uniquely qualified to help 1106 navigate the emotional waters of human social dynamics.”

Sullivan bit her lip to fight back a smirk. “Oh, I can’t wait.” She gestured with both hands. “Let’s hear it.”

Emmett’s small scowl faded as he turned back to the gold-faced robot. “1106, I heard about your interaction with Crewman Hamilton in the Mess Hall yesterday.”

“I see,” 1106 said. “And you have advice for me?”

“Wait,” Sullivan said, raising her hand again and ignoring Emmett’s annoyed glance at the interruption. “Quick question. Why were you in the Mess Hall? You don’t eat.”

“Crewman Kimble Meyer and Crewman Jamie Thomas suggested I spent some time fraternizing with the crew while they ate, rather than returning to Main Engineering for another task,” 1106 said. “They are my friends, and while I do not always understand the intention behind their advice, I have found listening to their suggestions more often than not results in positive outcomes.”

“Got it,” Sullivan said, nodding. It made sense. She gestured to Emmett. “Continue.”

“Thank you,” Emmett said without any subtlety to take the edge of his sarcasm. “Can you explain what happened?” 

“Crewman Heather Hamilton requested aid. I rendered aid.” 1106 paused, and though its inflections never changed, Sullivan could have sworn the next words came out a little less confident. “She did not seem to find my aid helpful, despite her own request.”

“What aid did you give her?” Sullivan said, and Emmett sighed again at her interruption.

“Crewman Heather Hamilton requested she not be allowed extra beignets,” 1106 said.

Sullivan blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Emmett sighed again. Louder. She ignored him. 

“Are you requesting context, or a repetition of my statement?” 1106 said.

“Context,” Sullivan said. 

1106’s head tilted to the left. “Crewman Augustus Emmanuel and Crewman Celes Tal had beignets available in the Mess Hall.” 1106 paused. “Do you require a definition of beignet?”

“No,” Sullivan said.

“Very well,” 1106 said. “I shall continue. Crewman Kimble Meyer, Crewman Jamie Thomas and I were sat at a table beside Crewman Heather Hamilton and Ensign Jean Hajar. I believe they were discussing the attraction Ensign Jean Hajar feels for Lieutenant Susan Nicoletti—”

“She does?” Sullivan said. That was news to her. She didn’t think Jean had had a girlfriend since a brief—and very tumultuous—fling with Mariah Henley back in the Alpha Quadrant. “She said that?”

“No.” 1106’s head tilted again. “While I do not have colour-spectrum awareness, my hearing is more acute than that of humans, and I am capable of detecting shifts in surface temperature of nearby objects, including humanoids. Ensign Jean Hajar’s blood flow shifted to her face, and her voice gained a tone I have noticed other humans use when they discuss people they have romantic attraction to.”

“It’s a relatively simple matter to notice,” Emmett said, nodding. 

“Yes,” 1106 said. “I have noted the same phenomenon at least fourteen times in the last two weeks. Once between Ensign Rick Bennet and Ensign Lydia Macormack in a reciprocated manner; twice unnoticed from Crewman Joel Swift toward Crewman Augustus Emmanuel; twice when Ensign Fred Bristow discussed you with Crewman Kes Aren—“

“Freddy Bristow?” Rebecca said, then, before 1106 could speak again, she shook her head. “You know what? No, don’t answer that. You really shouldn't tell people when you spot these, uh, signs of attraction, 1106,” Sullivan said. 

“Have I acted in error by telling you this information?” 1106 said.

“It’s okay, it wasn’t on purpose, and I won’t tell anyone else,” Sullivan said, trying to chase the image of Freddy Bristow out of her head. She took a breath. “But going forward, when you notice attraction among the crew, unless they’ve told you themselves, it’s best you keep it to yourself.” She smiled. “It’s considered polite.”

“I shall do that,” 1106 said. “Thank you, Crewman Rebecca Sullivan.”

“You can just call me Rebecca,” she said.

“I shall do that, Rebecca,” 1106 said.

She barely resisted a laugh. “Okay. So. The donuts.”

“They were beignets.”

“Right. Beignets.” Rebecca waved her hand. “What happened, exactly?”

“Yes, back to the topic at hand,” Emmett said, and Rebecca could tell she’d really annoyed the hologram by stepping into this conversation but given how often the hologram had annoyed her over the last couple of years, she was taking this one in trade. 

“Crewman Heather Hamilton and Ensign Jean Hajar had both ingested two of the beignets each,” 1106 said. “I overheard Crewman Heather Hamilton express that if she tried to have another beignet, someone should stop her from giving into her own weakness for, in her words, ‘the damn things.’ She expressed a clear desire to be ignored if she changed her mind vocally.”

Rebecca put a hand over her mouth. “Oh no.”

“However,” 1106 said. “When I detained Crewman Heather Hamilton seven minutes later, she became irate.”

Rebecca snorted, tried to stop herself, then couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud. 

“I do not understand the humour in the situation,” 1106 said, and that did it. She’d had it more-or-less under control, but soon she was lost in a runaway guffaw, the kind that left tears on her cheeks and a wonderful ache in her stomach. Beside her, the robot and the hologram regarded her, 1106’s usual impassive face projecting patience, and Emmett borderline disgusted.

“Wow. Sorry, sorry,” she wiped her cheeks. “I just… detained? What does that mean?”

“I analyzed the situation, and chose the least disruptive option,” 1106 said. “I merely lifted Crewman Heather Hamilton off the ground, so she could not get closer to the beignets.” 

Rebecca had to cover her mouth again. 

“However, this upset her,” 1106 said, after a beat.

Rebecca choked another round of laughter back down her throat. “I bet.”

“Sometimes, 1106,” Emmet said, taking a half-step forward. “Humans don’t mean the things they say.”

“I am familiar with lying, and sarcasm,” 1106 said. “At the time Crewman Heather Hamilton spoke of her desire to be denied more beignets, she was not being untruthful, nor was she being less than genuine. My voice analysis was clear: she expressed a true desire. However, instead of being grateful for my intervention, she grew quite irate.”

“Okay,” Rebecca said. “How can I put this?” 

“I can handle this, Crewman,” Emmett said, crossing his arms, and Rebecca waved a hand in a ‘be my guest’ gesture, still trying not to laugh at the thought of 1106 holding Hamilton in the air. “1106,” Emmett said, turning back to the robot. “Humans often have conflicting desires. I have no doubt at the time, Crewman Hamilton did, indeed, wish to stop herself from imbibing any more of the beignets. However, in taking her request so… literally, you actually denied her free will and acted against her wishes.”

“That was not my intention,” 1106 said. 

“And that’s really great,” Rebecca said, earning another annoyed sigh from Emmett. “But you need to remember that your impact is always more important than your intent.”

1106 tilted its head. “How am I to understand when a human is expressing a sincere desire in a similar circumstance? Crewman Heather Hamilton clearly stated ‘Do not let me have any more of the damn things, no matter what I say.’ I intended to obey that request, but if my impact is more important…” 1106 trailed off. “How does one foresee what impact one’s intentions will have?”

“You interpolate,” Emmet said. “And it helps to have a healthy dose of practice, empathy, and observational skills.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Sullivan muttered. Did Emmett seriously just advise empathy to someone else? 

Emmett ignored her, and 1106 turned to face its “father.”

“I do not believe I have developed a great deal of skill with empathy,” 1106 said. “And I have only been a conscious individual for less than one year. I require more practice.”

“You think?” Sullivan said, fighting off another laugh.

1106 turned to face her. “Yes, Rebecca. I am quite sure.”

Sullivan coughed. “Right. Well, in the meanwhile, may I suggest something pretty specific that might help?”

“Please,” 1106 said.

“When you had Heather up in the air,” Sullivan said, and nearly lost it again at the image. “Did she ask you to put her down?”

“Quite stridently.”

“Whenever someone asks you to stop touching them, if you’re not actively stopping greater harm from occurring?” Rebecca said, thinking of situations where she’d had to strap someone down in her years in emergency medical response. “Obey.”

1106’s head tilted. “Thank you, Rebecca.” 

“Any time,” she said.

“I believe I should apologize to Crewman Heather Hamilton,” 1106 said. 

“That might be a good idea, too,” Sullivan said. “But give it a day or two. Let her cool off first.” 

“Let’s step into the office and we can discuss appropriate gestures of apology,” Emmett said, with a look at Sullivan that made it exceptionally clear he was intending this conversation to be between himself and his robot offspring.

Sullivan held up both hands in surrender and headed for the lab. She had some cultures she could check on for Kes. Once there, though, she paused, not picking up any of the transparent containers.

Freddy Bristow? Really? 

Chapter Text

“Dimitris?” Crewman Elliot Copage said, the older man’s eyes drifting to the middle distance for a moment, then snapping back to her and widening. His lined smile wasn’t dismissive, just surprised. “You mean Evander Dimitris. From security?”

Lieutenant Zandra Taitt nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “Captain Cavit thought he might be amenable to some cross-training and some time in the lab, and he was right. But I was hoping you’d be willing to show him what you do, walk him through your work.”

Copage eyed his great-nephew, Crewman Tom Mitchell, who—to Taitt’s surprise—had yet to say a single word in that deep, remarkably enjoyable musical voice the man had. “This is your fault, isn’t it?”

“I’ll take the blame,” Mitchell said, and there was that voice. 

The three of them were sat on the sunken couches in the Mess Hall, talking comfortably after their shifts. It was a talk she felt long overdue, and she was glad to be finally having it.

“Hm,” Copage said, taking a sip of his Illidarian tea and then putting the cup down on the low table. 

“Seriously, Uncle Elliot,” Mitchell said. “This isn’t a bother. Lieutenant Taitt wouldn’t be suggesting if it was.”

Taitt hadn’t known the two men were related when she’d first come on board Voyager, but now that she did know, she could see a faint resemblance in them. Mitchell, who was much younger than Copage, had skin a lighter shade of brown than his great-uncle and was something of a ladies man, where Copage was was one of the most studious people she’d ever met. Nevertheless, they had the same chin, the same eyebrows, and—it had to be said again—both men had voices on them.

“I never should have told anyone about my plan to retire,” Copage said, exhaling. The man ran a hand through his short puff of grey hair and shook his head. “Now you’re all trying to make exceptions for me.”

“Of course we are,” Taitt said, leaning forward and taking both the man’s hands in hers. “Elliot, you have served, with distinction, for sixty years. Ensign Blain and Crewman Swift are both trained chemists, but the physical sciences lab runs around the clock, and Dimitris could take some things off your plate.” Taitt squeezed his hands. “On a normal starship, we wouldn’t need to be running nonstop. This wouldn’t even have to be a conversation.”

Copage smiled, those lines returning around his lips and his eyes. “But here in the Delta Quadrant, we’ve been processing and refining and distilling since we got here.”

“Right,” Taitt said. The chemists had done a lot to take pressure off the replicators, or to come up with solutions when Voyager required materials they couldn’t replicate at all. The chemistry lab helped keep the soil in the Garden and Arboretum from being overtaxed, help them come up with enough pergium-alternatives for the air filtration systems, and had been instrumental in maintaining their deuterium quality, given Voyager had been sourcing all their deuterium almost entirely from the ramscoops via various natural sources like gas giants or nebulas, rather than making a stop at a supply starbase. 

“I’d feel bad doing nothing,” Copage said, and then held up his hand before Mitchell could interject, which was a good move, Taitt thought. Tom Mitchell looked like a man about to give his great-uncle a talking to, and she didn’t want to be here for the slap-down she knew Copage would hand out in return. “But you’re right. I had every plan to retire. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I’m feeling it.” He crossed his arms. “If we teach Dimitris, and he’s got a head for chemistry, what are you suggesting? How would that even work?”

“I’d like to reduce you to four days a week,” Taitt said, letting go of his hands, relieved he was willing. “Your choice if that’s in a row, or if you want to break it up, but I spoke with Lieutenant Rollins, and he has flexibility in Dimitris’s schedule.” 

“I suppose that makes sense.” Copage nodded at that. Everyone knew about a quarter of the former-Maquis had ended up in security when they’d come aboard. “I think I’d like to alternate. A day on, a day off…” Copage waved a hand. “See how much I like waking up in the morning with nowhere in particular to be.”

Taitt smiled, leaning back. “I’ll let everyone know.”

“Lieutenant,” Copage said, looking at her with his dark brown eyes. “Thank you.” 

“No,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Oh.” Copage waved one hand shaking his head. “You say that now. But just wait until I start meddling in the Arboretum and the Garden and here in the Mess Hall…” 

“What?” Mitchell said, frowning.

“I intended to retire, look after my great-great-grandkids, grow a garden, and cook,” Copage said, with a sly smile. “I might not be able to play with those kids, but we’ve got two gardens and we’ve got a kitchen.” 

“You know,” Taitt said. “I don’t think Daggin or Celes will mind a bit.” She tilted her head. “If I’m remembering right, I think Dimitris likes to cook, too.” 

“Oh, then I think we’ll get along fine.” 

Taitt left her oldest scientist with his great-nephew in the Mess Hall, and headed back to Stellar Cartography. 

Chapter Text

When Lieutenant Commander Ro Laren checked her schedule for the day, she frowned at the appearance of a meeting she hadn’t scheduled herself. When she saw who’d requested the meeting, she took a deep breath, tapped the request, and hit accept, then tried to go through her day without a sense of impending dread. 

It almost worked.

Near the end of her shift, she stopped by Sickbay, two minutes early for the scheduled meeting, and leaned into the entrance of Doctor Fitzgerald’s office. He was sitting behind his desk, and judging from the citrus scent coming from his mug, he had Illidarian tea at hand.

“You wanted to see me?” she said, attempting to put a smile on her face.

“Ah, yes, come in. Have a seat,” Fitzgerald smiled, gesturing at the chair opposite his across his small desk.

She sat. “Did you want to discuss more of the crew?” They’d done a pretty thorough accounting of Voyager’s crew, with an eye for finding those who might be chafing in their current positions, a few weeks ago, and some small part of her hoped they’d missed something, otherwise the only other reason she could imagine him wanting to see her was—

“Do you know how long it’s been since you took some time off?” Fitzgerald said.

That. 

“Time off?” she said, as though the words weren’t perfectly clear in and of themselves.

Fitzgerald’s steely-blue eyes softened. “Yes, Laren. Time off.”

She sighed. “I’m fine, doctor. Really.”

“I am not unaware that you prefer to keep busy,” Fitzgerald said, crossing his hands and placing them on the desk in front of him. 

She took a deep breath, trying to build up some sort of defence against the man’s soft, kind voice. She had no idea how Doctor Jeff Fitzgerald managed to make her feel like a child caught with her hand in a jar full of sweets just by using that beside voice of his—it wasn’t like her childhood had even had jars of sweets—but it was like the deck was becoming less stable beneath her chair the longer she was in his presence. 

“Doctor,” she said, rallying as best she could. “I know my own limits.” 

That earned her a single arched eyebrow, and she forced herself not to flinch. 

“You haven’t taken any time off at all yet this year,” Fitzgerald said. 

“I went down to Nechan,” Ro said, holding up one finger.

“Where you ended up in a coma,” Fitzgerald said.

“It was a very relaxing coma,” Ro said, shrugging.

“Laren,” Fitzgerald said, rubbing his forehead with his good hand. “I don’t want to order you to go run one of Alex’s spa programs in the holodeck—”

“No,” Ro said, feeling the colour drain from her face. “Anything but that.”

Fitzgerald laughed. “For the record, the Hoobishan Baths on Trill are lovely. But listen. Starfleet regulations are pretty clear. Given how long ago your last shoreleave was, you should have taken at least two weeks of leave by now—”

“Doctor,” Ro started. There was no way he could expect her to take two weeks. “I can’t possibly—”

He held up his hand. “But. I’m well aware we can’t do things the way we would in the Alpha Quadrant, so how about you meet me half-way.”

Ro paused. Doctor Fitzgerald offering to meet her half-way felt like a trap, but also like an opportunity she shouldn’t squander. “Half-way?”

“Have Stadi take your next three Bridge shifts,” Fitzgerald said. “We both know we’ve got a half-dozen pilots who’d love to have extra time at the Conn.”

“Three shifts?” Ro said, leaning forward. “Doctor—”

“It could be five.”

“I can do that,” she said, smoothly. 

Doctor Fitzgerald at least spared her the dignity of laughing at her, though his lips twitched. He cleared his throat. “I’d also like a favour.”

“Oh?” she said.

“When you talk to the Captain, Aaron is going to tell you this is important and for your own good or something like that,” Fitzgerald said, leaning forward at his desk.

“Okay,” she said, nodding, not seeing the favour quite yet.

“Memorize the exact wording, because when you’re back? I’m going to tell him it’s time for you to take his next three shifts,” Fitzgerald said. “And it’ll be harder for him to squirm his way off the hook if you use his own words against him.”

Ro’s lips did some twitching of their own. “I can do that, Doctor.”

“Great,” he said. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll arrange it with Stadi.” He eyed her. “Any ideas on how you’ll relax?” 

Almost immediately, Ro remembered an old Bajoran woman, an ancestor she’d only met through a temporal accident. Ro Saral. Ro could almost hear her voice again, explaining some detail about how she worked clay. Ro thought of the kiln she’d installed in her quarters, the one currently hiding beneath a cloth and appearing to be nothing more than a tall table, and the spinning tray tucked in a bottom drawer, still awaiting a second use. She’d had Lieutenant Honigsberg help her with powering the kiln—a Kolhari tetryon power cell—but she’d been called away before she’d had a chance to try firing a pot. 

She’d half-expected Alex to tell the entire crew he’d seen Lieutenant Commander Ro Laren setting up a small pottery kiln—not to mention a faulty anodyne relay having blown the power in her quarters—but to her pleasant surprise, no one had said a thing.

And on a starship as small as Voyager, that could only mean he’d kept his word.

“I do,” she said, and she saw Fitzgerald waiting for her to elucidate. When she didn’t, he just shook his head slightly, and waved her to the exit.

She paused at the door. “Oh, and Doctor?” she said.

He looked up at her.

“If I check how long it’s been since you took some time off…?” Ro said. 

“Ah.” Fitzgerald had the grace to chuckle. “How about I pass Kes the keys to Sickbay as soon as you’re back, and Aaron and I take that time off together?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Ro said. Then she left, her fingers already imagining shaping some clay. 

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Veronica Stadi adjusted the profile of her design on the engineering PADD and nodded to herself. That was closer. 

She took a breath, closed her eyes, and centred herself. Down in the Arboretum at the aft of Voyager an hour after the shift change, she was almost completely alone, with only Ensign Doug Bronowski and Crewman Daggin sharing the space with her while they quietly hand-picked ripe coffee cherries from the six Kona trees. Both men were quiet, studious sorts, and she found shifting her awareness of their minds easily accomplished.

Instead, she aimed her thoughts back to a particular day, and tried to conjure the memory of a prescient glimpse of the future. 

Stadi stopped walking, turning her head. Off the L-shaped area that made up Shuttlebay 1, in Shuttlebay 2, someone was building another ship. It was larger than shuttlecraft—closer to a full Runabout in length, though wider—and despite being half completed, the lines of the spaceframe were a gorgeous, streamlined design the likes of which her pilot heart loved to see.

She opened her eyes again, and looked at the PADD. The design matched the memory. 

Now what? 

She eyed the design on the PADD. Everything she remembered from a cursory glance didn’t actually amount to an actual design. Was she wasting her time? 

She needed a second opinion. But who, exactly, would understand her urge to try and reconstruct a partially glimpsed shuttle that may or may not be destined to be under construction at some point in Voyager’s Main Shuttlebay?

Right. As if there was any question.

Stadi sighed, then gave in, and tapped her combadge. 

“Stadi to Honigsberg.”

“Go ahead.”

“Am I interrupting, Alex?”

“No, I was just about to grab a bite to eat. What can I do for you?”

She glanced at the time in the corner of the PADD. 

“May I join you?” she said. “I’d like to run something by you.”

“Of course. I’m just on my way to the Mess Hall.”

“I’ll be right there,” Stadi said. “I’m just in the Arboretum.”

“I’ll save you a seat.”

Once she arrived in the Mess Hall, she waved at him before she headed to the serving area herself, smiling when she saw Crewman Gara was behind the serving area, passing out two plates of what appeared to be some sort of layered pasta dish to Crewman Frank Darwin and Ensign Deborah Lang, who thanked her and headed off to one of the smaller tables, taking their rather prominent romantic thoughts with them.

Gara shared a knowing look with her as she turned to face her. The Ocampa was a particularly gifted empath. “Evening, Lieutenant,” she said. 

“That smells wonderful,” Stadi said, nodding at the dish.

“It’s something like a vegetable lasagna,” Gara said. “Our crop of Talaxian tomatoes has been more successful than we expected—I think it’s whatever Setok did to the soil, personally—and we ended up with a lot of sauce.” She raised a serving spatula. “May I cut you a square?” 

“Please.”

“Lieutenant Honigsberg took a flash of firenut coffee already, he said he was expecting you,” Gara said, cutting off a slice of the something-like-lasagna and plating it with ease. “Unless you wanted something else?”

“No, that’ll be great,” Stadi said, taking a moment to procure a knife and fork before accepting the tray from Gara. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Gara said with a warm smile, and Stadi left her to join Honigsberg. 

“What can I do for you, Roni?” he said, chipperly enough, and his thoughts were just as genuinely pleased to be sitting with her as he sounded. He forked off a bite of the lasagna, chewing it.

“I think I need you to tell me I’m not wasting my time or being foolish or messing with things I should leave well enough alone,” Stadi said. “Though maybe not in that order?”

Honigberg’s eyebrows rose, but he finished his bite before he replied. “Maybe start at the beginning?”

She did. She reminded him of the visit of Kes and Abol from the alternate future—though that wasn’t the sort of thing one forgot—and of how it had triggered odd prescient flashes in herself, the other Ocampa, T’Prena and Vorik. 

“Right,” Honigsberg said. “So when you say messing with things you should leave well enough alone, you mean…”

“A vision of the future,” Stadi said, finally showing him the PADD. She’d started eating her own lasagna while she explained, and it was unsurprisingly good, and though she was fairly certain the “something-like” qualified was the lack of pasta layers, the slices of whatever-it-was Gara and Eru had layered the dish with—something made from mushroom and coffee-cheery-flour, maybe?—the result wasn’t one she could find fault with. 

Honigsberg eyed the PADD. “This is the shuttle you saw under construction in the Main Shuttlebay?” 

“Right,” Stadi said. “I’ve been trying to reconstruct it from what I saw—which is obviously impossible, given it was under construction itself—but I think I’ve been able to infer quite a bit.”

“You’ve put retraction elements into the embedded warp nacelles?” Honigsberg said, looking up at her.

“I remembered the seams, and it’s the only reason I could think of to explain them.”

“Like a scaled down version of Voyager’s nacelles,” Hongisberg said. “For the warp field geometry.”

“That’s what I thought,” Stadi said.

“Adaptable, I like that.” Hongisberg kept looking. Then he paused. “Why do you think you should leave this alone?”

“Temporal Prime Directive,” Stadi said, exhaling. “I don’t know if it was our recent jump to the past—not to mention getting shot in New York—or just interacting with the crew of Relativity, but…” She touched the edge of the PADD. “Should I just forget this?”

“I don’t think the Temporal Prime Directive applies,” Hongsberg said, with a level of confidence that surprised her.

“You don’t?”

“No. You didn’t time travel. You had a vision.” Honigsberg leaned forward, rubbing his goatee with one hand and smiling at her. “It’s a completely different phenomenon. Totally unrelated.” 

She eyed him. His thoughts were as clear to her as if he’d spoken them, which was often the case with Hongisberg. 

“You just want to try and finish the design,” she said.

He lasted about a half-second before he nodded. “Fine. I just want to finish the design. But can you blame me? Look at these lines!” He turned the PADD around to face her. “If I was going to design a ship to handle massive hull stress and still look good while doing it? This is what I’d do.”

“For all we know you’re the lead designer,” Stadi said. “Or will be.”

“You’re right.” Honigsberg blinked at it, and she could feel his mind seriously considering the idea. “I don’t think it’s just me, though,” he said. “I’m not sure what kind of hull plating would work on this spaceframe, and are those supposed to be shield emitters?” He pointed.

“I think so,” she said. “At least, that’s more-or-less what they looked like. They’re not familiar to me, though.”

“Me neither,” she admitted. And, unbidden, the faintest remembrance of the other vision she’d had—a woman, blond hair, a curl of silver metal around one eye—flashed in front of her, and was gone again.

Honigsberg looked up at her, grinning. “Roni. Come on. Build this ship with me?” 

“Build it?” Stadi laughed. “Alex, we don’t even have a complete design here.” 

“Not yet,” Honigsberg said. “But this is the kind of project that can take years, and every step of it is fantastic.” He clapped his hands together. “The Aeroshuttle is fantastic, but it’s integrated into Voyager’s hull, so its spaceframe is a done deal. With this we could do whatever we wanted.” He leaned forward. “And no Starfleet Corps of Engineers to tell us it’s too far outside official Starfleet parameters.”

Stadi regarded him, amused—and also pleased.

“Oh come on.” Honigsberg rubbed his goatee, hazel eyes flashing with mirth. “We both know the only reason you asked me for help was you knew I’d completely enable you.” 

Stadi took another forkful of something-like-lasagna to cover her own smile. 

The man wasn’t wrong.

Chapter Text

“We’re getting the results back from the icogram,” Ensign Lyndsay Ballard said, from where she and Ensign Ikuko Kyoto from planetary sciences had been sitting side-by-side for the last hour at the large table console in Main Engineering, running the ico-spectrogram together.

Honigsberg crossed the space to join them. “And?” he said, grinning. 

Ballard’s expression fell, and he grimaced.

“Oh, no,” Honigsberg said. “Check that again, are you sure?” He slid in beside Kyoto at the display, and felt his own shoulder slump at the results.

Damn.

The real frustration of it wasn’t so much not finding what they were looking for. It was the pre-work that had gone into it. The ico-spectrogram was the only geological test they had access to to confirm the presence of dilithium ore inside planetary crusts. 

It also took them nearly four hours to set up the sensor arrays and calibrate the follow-up scans.

“Nothing,” Kyoto said, shaking her head. “There’s a series of crystalline compounds—”

“That could have fooled the sensors into thinking we were getting dilithium readings,” Honigsberg said, saving the geologist the trouble. 

“Just like the last two,” Kyoto said. “I’ve never seen lattices like this. It’s so close to dilithium, but…” She leaned back in her chair, clearly frustrated. 

Honigsberg could empathize.

“So close to dilithium, but not.” Ballard said, pushing some of her blond hair behind one ear. “Not dilithium. Not useful. Not even pretty. I’m sorry, Chief. Strike three.” 

Kyoto sighed. “There’s still the moons. We got some trace readings from the third one, right?”

“Right.” He crossed his arms. It seemed unlikely, given all three planets thus far had the same anomalous crystalline latticeworks, but… “Everything’s already calibrated, why not?” 

“Own the day,” Ballard said, nodding once and holding up a fist into the air. 

“Honigsberg to Bridge,” Honigsberg said, tapping his combadge, and not looking forward to this part, though he knew there was no way Ensign Sahreen Lan hadn’t been watching the results come in. 

“Go ahead,” Captain Cavit’s reply came quickly, but not with a huge amount of hope in it. At least the last two failures had tempered his expectations. That, or Lan had already told him.

“It’s more of that crystalline latticework, I’m afraid,” Honigsberg said. “If we find the same structure in the third moon, I think we might want to call it, but it’s worth one more try, given we’re set up for it.”

“Agreed,” Cavit said. “We’ll adjust course.”

Honigsberg exhaled, closing the channel, and regarded Ballard, who was already cycling the scanners and uploading the previous scans to Taitt’s people in the planetary sciences lab. If nothing else, he was hoping they’d find a way to add these false positives to the sensor profiles, so they could filter them and wouldn’t investigate something similar again. Ballard was efficient, and—like him—tended to try things from outside the box whenever she could. She also had boundless enthusiasm, and a bit of sardonic streak. 

“I don’t suppose we saw any signs of pergium, either?” he said, leaning against the display table.

“I’m afraid not,” Ballard said. She eyed him. “The environmental control filters?”

He nodded. “We’re going to need to regenerate them soon, and while I cannot complain at the work the chem lab came up with to buy us more time, I really hope we don’t have to just replicate new ones.” 

Ballard hissed in a breath. She knew how much power and material such an effort would take. It was such a typical problem for them in the Delta Quadrant. Something they should be able to have dealt with at any Starbase instead became another thing on their list of ever-changing necessities they’d have to find on their own. 

Kyoto tilted her head. “I wonder if we should try something old-school.”

“Pardon?” Honigsberg said. Kyoto was a slim, almost tiny woman, and her voice tended to be soft, making her sometimes slip below notice. “Wait. You’re not going to suggest we build it out of shamboo, are you?”

Kyoto smiled, Honigsberg’s reference to their time stranded on the Kazon planet with the quick-growing bamboo-like plant having apparently landed with the right teasing note. “Not quite that old-school,” she said. “But close. How much do you know about the Daedalus-class ships?”

“Oh wow,” Ballard said, turning to face Kyoto. “Bottles and spheres?” 

“Sorry?” Kyoto frowned.

“Spaceframe and Structural Design 101,” Honigsberg said. “Starfleet Academy. Professor Fergus called the Daedalus-class as ‘a bunch of bottles and spheres welded together.’”

“Ah,” Kyoto said, laughing. “Well, at a glance that’s not wrong, really, is it? But I meant more their environmental systems.”

“What about them?” Honigsberg said. He tried to recall any technological component from the early Federation ship design, but couldn’t come up with anything of note.

“They grew plants,” Kyoto said. “As a supplemental air filtration system. I remember reading about how the captain of the Horizon would gift Chrysanthemums to new planets during First Contacts, and got curious as to why the Horizon grew them.” She lifted her shoulder. “I’m not sure if it’s a viable idea, and I don’t know if we have suitable plants on board, but…”

Honigsberg blinked, and leaned forward, tapping at the controls on a second console and digging up the schematics of the Daedalus-class starships. And sure enough, he saw what Kyoto was talking about. In the main spherical section of the starship, there were dedicated gardens devoted to air quality, rather than food production, though it looked like there were a few crossover exceptions. It even looked like decks devoted to crew quarters had green walls in places, with certain species of ivy especially present. 

“I bet Daggin would love a project like this,” Honigsberg said. “We’d have to model the effectiveness—we’ve got far superior filtration systems now, and I’m not sure how much help plants could be—but if it offers any real return…” 

“Even something as small as a five percent increase in CO2 absorption could add weeks to the life of the filters,” Ballard said. 

“It’d cost us water, but compared to replicating filters…” Honigsberg rubbed his goatee. There was no competition there. “Kyoto, this is great.”

“I’m glad,” Ensign Kyoto said, pointing at her monitor, where the results of the scan from the moon were starting to populate. “Because the scans are here, and…”

“Lattice?” Honigsberg said.

“Lattice,” Kyoto said, her voice flat with defeat.

“We may have lattice now,” Ballard said. “But maybe we’ll have lettuce later.”

Both Kyoto and Hongisberg stared at her.

She grinned, completely without shame. 

Chapter Text

Kes rose into consciousness with an odd sense of urgency tugging at the front of her mind. She frowned in the dark for a moment, lying perfectly still, not wanting to wake Li-Paz, whose bare chest she lay tucked against.

What had woken her? She allowed her senses to widen, her hand unconsciously drifting to her own midsection, where inside her, the Aren symbiont was also awake and aware, and realized the answer lay behind her. 

Li-Paz was having a bad dream. She could feel fear and pain, but not as those sensations actually existed within him, instead as a kind of pale echo in his mind.

She shifted gently, moving slowly and carefully, turning over in his bed—which, truly, as one of the two beds in the room he shared with Crewman Christopher Vance was just shy of being wide enough for both of their comfort to share, though it didn’t stop them from doing so whenever the schedules of everyone involved allowed them the quarters to themselves—and as her eyes adjusted to the dimmed illumination, she saw his eyes flick back and forth beneath their eyelids, and his lips twitched in a tiny grimace.

She knew Li-Paz had suffered during the Occupation of his home world. And she knew his mind sometimes dragged him back there, against his will. In fact, it was a quality she’d noticed in many of the former Maquis of Voyager—a weight and insistence in their memories—pain that never quite left them alone, but often gave them enough space to grow comfortable before making an unexpected return. 

It bothered her on an instinctual level. She’d trained to be a healer. And yet, this pain of his? She couldn’t soothe it. Couldn’t banish it. Couldn’t treat it or even truly grasp it. Not really. 

She swallowed, and reached up one hand, gently placing it against his smooth cheek. 

“You’re dreaming,” she said, in the quietest voice she could muster. 

It only took him a few more moments, a few more unconscious grimaces of pain and twitching of his limbs before he let out a short inhalation, a sudden breath that arrived with his mind shifting from that dark, clawing swirl into consciousness. 

He blinked, and she could just make out a faint reflection of light in his eyes. She lowered her hand from his cheek to his chest. His heart raced against her palm. 

“Sorry,” he said, his voice rough from most of a night’s sleep. “Did I wake you?” 

“I don’t mind,” she said. “And I like being with you when you wake up. It makes me feel less helpless.”

He kissed her forehead, and wrapped his arms tighter around her, squeezing. “You never have to feel helpless around me,” he said. “I am better than I have ever been, and I owe a lot of that to having you in my life, Kes.” 

“Do you remember?” Kes said. “What you were dreaming, I mean?”

He squeezed her again, and she wondered if he would answer at all. Sometimes, he’d demur, not wanting to speak of whatever past monster had revisited him, but other times, he’d let her in to those glimpses of scars that weren’t as visible as the burn along his forearm, but just as permanent. 

“I was in the dark, I think. It wasn’t very specific,” Li-Paz said. “Or at least, I don’t think so. It was mostly sounds, but I couldn’t see anything. You know dreams. Sometimes they’re like that.”

She did. She pressed her forehead against his. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said, and it wasn’t demurring. It was confident, and centred. “I’m okay.”

They shifted in his bed, finding a comfortable position again to lie on their sides, his left arm around her and his right tucked under the pillow they shared.

“I think it was about Nechan, maybe,” he said. “The vision I had there.”

“The Li-Paz in the darkness is the Li-Paz in the light?” she said. That was the phrase the Prophets had repeated to him. He’d told her of his vision over the course of the weeks after their visit to Nechan, and she remembered the phrase, and how he’d spoken it with something like hope and worry all mixed together in his mind.

“I know it will make sense someday,” Li-Paz said. “But sometimes it feels like it’s hanging over me, or waiting to pounce?” He chuckled, his laughter soft and making his chest press against her back. “I’m not making sense.”

“No, I think I understand,” Kes said. “It’s like prescience. It’s something in the future, but you’re not sure when.” She’d had experience with that herself, and it hadn’t been pleasant. 

“Right.” He kissed the back of her neck. “Have I told you you’re magical today?”

“I think it’s after midnight,” she said, smiling into the darkness. It was one of his favourite things to tell her, and she loved hearing it. “So not yet.” 

“Well,” Li-Paz said. “Kes?”

“Yes?”

“You’re magical.”

“I love you, Paz,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

She closed her eyes, and allowed her sense of his presence to be the only thing she held in her mind, not reaching deep enough for his thoughts. He relaxed again behind her in increments, and eventually, his breathing became that of slumber.

It took no effort at all to follow him there.

Chapter Text

“Okay, the one with the black feet seems pathologically incapable of sitting still long enough for a scan,” Doctor Jeff Fitzgerald said, holding his medical tricorder in front of one of Jewel’s kittens and struggling to get a reading.

“That’s boots,” Lieutenant Scott Rollins said. “And he’s definitely the most rambunctious. But here, one sec.” He reached over and started rubbing one finger under the kitten’s cheek, and on the biobed Boots the kitten froze and leaned against the finger, purring up a storm while Rollins rubbed his chin. 

“Wow,” Fitzgerald said, getting his reading. “You’ve got this whole cat-father thing down, don’t you?”

“It took a while,” Rollins said. “And I finally found a tool in the replicator that’s good at removing cat hair from my uniforms, but yeah. We’re getting along.”

“Lets head back to the office, and we can check these against the database. The biobed wasn’t intended to be used to scan cats,” Fitzgerald said, his steely blue eyes shining with amusement. 

“Well,” Rollins said. “I’m grateful you can check on them.” Rollins picked up Boots and put him back in the large basket with his litter-mates and mother. Jewel herself was taking a nap, but Boots found one of his siblings to pounce on, the all-black Onyx. 

“It’s no trouble,” Fitzgerald said, leading them both back into the doctor’s office, where Fitzgerald took a moment to upload the scans to the main computer, and used his personal monitor to compare the results.

“According to my scans, they’re all healthy,” Fitzgerald said. “Before you know it, they’ll be weaned and you’ll need five more food bowls.”

“Right,” Rollins said, looking down at the basket. That. 

Fitzgerald blinked at him. “You don’t sound happy about that.” 

Rollins took the seat across from Fitzgerald, balancing the basket in his lap. “Actually, maybe you can help.” 

Fitzgerald’s eyebrows rose. “I can try. What’s up?”

“Drapanas told me Swinn always had a cat when she was growing up,” Rollins said. 

“Oh,” Fitzgerald said. “Well, it sounds like that’s a potential solution for one of the kittens, then?”

Rollins shook his head. “Except Bronowski looked after them for me last week, and he’s been dropping hints about Boots in specific ever since,” Rollins said. “And then there’s Nicoletti, who thinks Marble loves her more than anyone—I’m not sure what she’s basing that on, Marble is very cuddly, which Kyoto and Jenkins and Jetal all commented on—and Celes seems to think the Mess Hall would be a great place for one of the kittens to spend their day, and—”

“Scott,” Fitzgerald said. “There are only five kittens.”

“Exactly,” Rollins said. “I’ve had over a dozen people asking me already.” He looked up, realizing it was ridiculous but hoping Fitzgerald would somehow have a solution. Rollins hated being the one to let someone down, and no matter how he sliced it, he’d be letting multiple people down when it came time to find permanent homes for these kittens.

“I see,” Fitzgerald said. The doctor seemed to be fighting off a smile.

Seriously? He thought this was amusing? “Any ideas?” Rollins said.

“Honestly?” Fitzgerald said, lifting one shoulder. “Sounds like a you problem.” 

Rollins blinked, and when Fitzgerald laughed, Rollins shook his head. “Really? A me problem. That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want me to do, clone them?” Fitzgerald said, matching his incredulousness tone-for-tone. 

Rollins blinked. “Wait, is that even—”

“No.” Fitzgerald crossed his arms.

“Just a thought,” Rollins said, chagrined. Maybe he’d sounded a little desperate there.

“The Mess Hall might be a great idea, though,” Fitzgerald said, almost grudgingly, like he couldn’t help himself from pointing out a potential solution. “It would let everyone see a kitten if they wanted to.” 

“So you think Celes is a yes, for one of them?” Rollins said, nodding seriously.

“Do not let anyone think for a second I had anything to do with your decision making,” Fitzgerald said, pointing a finger at him. “If it gets out, I’ll be inundated with kitten-requests.” 

“Believe me, I know.” Rollins sighed. “Thanks for their check-up, doc.” He rose, lifting the basket carefully. “And the advice, which I won’t tell a soul.” He made for the exit. 

But just as Rollins got to the door of the small office, Fitzgerald said, “Scott?”

Rollins paused, looking back at him. “Yes?”

“Good luck,” Fitzgerald said, then turned back to his monitor. “You’re going to need it.”

Rollins sighed, and left him there. In the turbolift, he ran into Lieutenant Walter Baxter.

“Afternoon, Lieutenant,” Baxter said.

“Afternoon,” Rollins said. He liked Baxter, who he often saw at the gym. Baxter was always good for getting him to push himself a little further, especially on the days he worked muscle groups he didn’t particularly enjoy.

Baxter peered into the box once Rollins was in the turbolift.

Oh no.

“You know,” Baxter said. “I always wanted a cat.”

Chapter Text

“Well, isn’t this one pretty?” Ensign Ahni Jetal said, looking through the viewscreen of the Aeroshuttle at the planet, making Daggin smile. She sat at the Engineering console, across from where Daggin manned the Science station. Jetal rarely did anything without a smile on her face, and Daggin enjoyed her endless positivity. 

“She’s very blue,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Dee Arkinson agreed. Daggin hadn’t worked with the lieutenant very often—nor Crewman Vance or Ensign Jetal—but she seemed very direct, and she’d been manning the Ops position while in charge of the mission. “Standard Orbit, Mister Vance.”

Crewman Vance tapped in the commands at the Conn, nodding once. “Standard Orbit, aye,” he said. 

“All right,” Arkinson said. “Let’s see if this young little planet of lakes and rivers has your…” She paused, looking at Daggin, her brown eyes lit with amusement. “I want to say spinach. I know that’s wrong.”

“I think you mean ‘spirulina,’ but I’m honestly looking for any sort of cyanobacteria analogue that has the same properties,” Daggin said, happy the lieutenant had told a joke, wondering if she’d done so to crack some of the quiet that had been finally broken by Ensign Jetal upon their arrival. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna stick with spinach,” Vance said, aiming a brief smile at Arkinson. Daggin had always found Vance’s face fascinating. His nose had a twist and dent to it that came from it having been badly broken without getting reconstruction, and he had leftover scar cutting through his eyebrow, and another along one side of his neck and somehow they all suited the pilot, who seemed to live life in a rough-and-tumble manner.

“Starting a sensor sweep,” Jetal said, and then, after a moment, the dark haired engineer’s voice sounded more excited. “It looks like the long-range scans were right. There’s a biosphere of early oxygenation forming down there, and the temperature is just right for cyanobacterial life—the planetary lakes in the northern hemisphere of that larger continent seem to be in the right stage of evolution, for sure.”

“We could be eating spirulina before you know it,” Daggin said, pleased. He knew Eru was excited to see what she might be able to do with the biomass, if they found something suitable.

“Wait,” Vance said, turning in his chair. “We’re going to eat the bacteria? I thought this was for your environmental systems thing.”

“It is,” Daggin said, nodding as he eyed Jetal’s readings. “If we can find a suitable cyanobacteria, at least. Cyanobacteria use water as fuel, oxidizing it—which is already useful in and of itself—and photosynthesize oxygen as a byproduct.” He turned around to look at Jetal. “I’ve marked two sites, can we start with those?”

“I’ll beam up samples to the containers,” Jetal said, rising from her station and moving to the transporter controls on the smaller, integrated transporter pad at the rear of the Aeroshuttle’s Bridge. They’d set up two sample containers on the pair of pads, and it didn’t take Jetal long. The transporter shimmered and the containers willed with the water from a lake.

“I was expecting something a bit… clearer,” Vance said.

“Those are algal blooms,” Daggin said, rising from his own chair and bringing his tricorder. “And they’re exactly what we were looking for.”

“Are we going to be eating those?” Vance said. Beside him, Lieutenant Arkinson let out a small laugh.

“No,” Daggin said, shaking his head at Vance. “But we’re definitely on the right track…” He smiled at his tricorder, looking at the readings. “I think we’re going to find what we’re looking for.” 

“And this algae is going to help our environmental systems?” Arkinson said. She’d turned in her chair, regarding him with one eyebrow raised. 

“If we do it right,” Jetal said, the dark haired woman had her own tricorder out, and was scanning the second container. “Sure.”

“We’ll do it right,” Daggin said, lifting his gaze to the rest of the team. “I wouldn’t want to fail. It’s my name on the line.” 

That made Jetal smile. “I don’t think anyone will put any blame on you if we don’t find exactly the right cyanobacteria analogue on our first attempt, Daggin.”

“What does do it right look like?” Vance said. 

“Well,” Daggin said, wondering how much detail to go into for the pilot. “We’ll run a pilot project first. Integrate cyanobacteria into the water systems we use in the Gardens, to start with—make sure we can control the growth rate, monitor the oxygenation return—the Gardens have a very fine environmental control system, so it will be easier to see the effect the growth is having there.” Daggin lifted his tricorder. “I’m going to keep a couple of samples from this container.” He got the sample kit and started working with the transporter to isolate the bacteria he wanted, and Jetal initiated the transport.

“It’s an interesting idea,” Arkinson said. “You think it will work, long-term?”

 “It has before,” Jetal said, once the transport was complete. “It’s actually a very old-school method—using plants to take some of the stress out off the environmental systems. They did it on the Daedalus class ships.” 

“Phase two involves vines in the crew quarter decks,” Daggin said. “Though we’re still working on some models there.” 

“You’re going to plant vines in the corridors?” Vance laughed. “That’s amazing.”

“It will depend on what we can cultivate or locate on M-class worlds,” Daggin said. “But more-or-less, that’s the plan. The more we can help Voyager breathe on her own, the better.” 

“Daggin, this one is a good match,” Jetal said, handing him her tricorder.

Daggin looked at it, smiling. “You’re right. Take that sample, too.” He turned to face Vance and Arkinson. “I’d like to take samples from a few other lakes before we get started modelling the bacteria, if that’s all right. The more we have to work with, the better our chances of finding a match.”

“Of course,” Arkinson said. “Captain Cavit didn’t expect to be done with the those traders for at least a day. We’ve got time.”

Daggin went back to the Science station and marked a series of lakes, sending them to her station. 

“Got it,” Arkinson said. “Chris?”

“No problem,” Vance said. “I can adjust our orbit to make sure we hit all those on the next pass.”

“At your liesure,” Arkinson said.

“Adjusting course,” Vance said. Then, he cleared his throat. “Okay, I get the whole make-oxygen thing. And I’m down with vines in the corridors. But can we go back to the eating bacteria thing?” 

Daggin laughed, and launched into an explanation of spirulina. By the time he was done, he was fairly certain he hadn’t convinced the pilot, nor Lieutenant Arkinson, but Ensign Jetal seemed mildly interested in at least trying the potential food source. 

The edibility of cyanobacterial biomass, he decided, was a problem for Eru, Gara, and Celes Tal. He had enough to do. 

Chapter Text

Day Four

“You can’t expect us to live here?” Arridor’s voice rose in pitch, but Kol looked at the space with a more calculating eye. Two beds, one above the other, inset in the wall with what appeared to be a kind of privacy screen. The furniture was otherwise sparse: a table, two chairs, a desk each, and everything was very… grey. 

“I can,” the large human said—Lieutenant Rollins, his name was, and he towered over the two Ferengi and hadn’t offered them even the slightest detour on their way down to their new, so-called “quarters.” 

Kol wished they were still on the Takarian homeworld. His lobes ached from the Brig pillows. He could use a rub. 

“You take our latinum, you snatch us from our home,” Arridor was pacing in the space, and working up a good storm of vitriol. Soon he’d be glebbening all his complaints at a near-shriek.”And now this!”

“I can take you both back to the Brig if you’d like,” the human said, crossing his oversized arms across his oversized chest in a manner that Kol thought was intended to be threatening.

And it worked. The human was massive, and they didn’t have any of Arridor’s tricks or weapons of their own. 

“No,” Kol said, holding up both hands, palms together. “This is fine, human.” He was tired of this ship’s brig, and these quarters at least had a private ‘fresher off the main living and sleeping area.

The security officer twitched. Kol took a petty pleasure in seeing it. Humans often flinched when reminded they were the aliens, if they were speaking to Ferengi or any other non-Federation species. 

“Kol, be quiet!” Arridor was doing it again, speaking to him like an underling. 

“The sonic shower is up and running, and you have some access to the ship’s library for books or music,” the human said. “The door will be locked, there’s a guard right outside, and your replicators have been disabled.”

“Disabled?” Arridor’s eyes narrowed. “But what if we need water, or food or…”

“Someone will bring you breakfast in the morning, and that jug over there is full of water.” The human headed for the door. “Good night.”

A moment later, he was gone. Kol caught sight of the guard in question outside the door, another oversized human male, this one with darker hair and eyes than the last one, though they were all so ugly and smooth-faced the different in colouring really didn’t matter. 

“This is intolerable!” Arridor said. 

Kol looked at him. “I’m going to try the shower,” he said, and left Arridor to fume by himself.

Day Seven

Arridor squealed in pain as the tall female in the security uniform pinched his lobes in what Kol knew had to be an agonizing half-twist. He managed to hold back his grin at Arridor’s discomfort. It was Arridor’s own fault. It had been a stupid idea.

And, frankly, it was nice to be proven correct.

“You’re going to remove your hand, and you’re going to do it now,” the human said. Kol thought her name might be “Anderson” but he had trouble keeping track of the guards. 

Arridor collapsed into one of the two chairs at the small table, where they’d tended to sit for most of their time in their quarters. Kol had tried some of the human literature—he hadn’t had much luck finding anything good yet, but it still passed the time—but Arridor was convinced there was some way out of these quarters, out of their position, and off Voyager.

And then… what? Back to the world where they’d lived in comfort, as Sages? Their shuttle probably wouldn’t make it that far, unless the humans had repaired it, which Kol doubted. It had been a week now since they’d been snatched away from those stakes, nearly burned alive, and that oddly dressed Trill female had stunned them in the Federation shuttle, and Kol’s comfortable life seemed like a bit of a dream now.

Arridor was still whinging when the human stepped outside and closed the door to their shared quarters behind her. On the table sat their lunches, which were made up almost entirely out of fruit and vegetables and not a single grub in sight. 

“I don’t understand these humans,” Arridor said, looking at his plate and sighing, picking up a stick of something and dipping it in a sauce before taking a bit and then sighing again, crunching unhappily. “And I understand their females even less.”

“I told you bribing her wouldn’t work,” Kol said. “They don’t use money.”

“I heard the guards talking about replicator rations,” Arridor said, holding up his hand, one finger up. “That’s a currency. We can exploit it.” 

Kol had heard the conversation, too. Ferengi hearing was particularly keen, and he thought Arridor was ignoring a key part of the conversation they’d overheard, which was that one guard—the large one Kol was fairly certain was named “Lang”—was offering up his rations to the other one—the small female named “Yuen”—not because he was bartering for services or her company, but because she’d mentioned wanting to do something special for someone named “Molina,” who she felt was upset about something. 

Kol was pretty sure these Starfleet humans weren’t going to value their rations enough to help them escape if they were willing to give them away to help one human make another human feel better.

Humans just didn’t have the lobes for proper economics. 

Day Fifteen

Kol found most of the objects in Voyager’s gym weren’t quite sized properly for a Ferengi, so he most often made do with some of the free weights, and ran on the treadmills. The humans that came to the gym in the same hour as when he and Arridor were granted time there tended to ignore them, which was fine by him. 

He’d never really been the sort to exercise beyond what was necessary to maintain his position as a pilot on DaiMon Goss' marauder, but as their only real break from their quarters on a daily basis, he’d begun to look forward to it. 

Arridor didn’t, but grudgingly came anyway, often complaining while he pedalled one of the “stationary bicycles” a few feet down from where Kol ran.  

“Morning,” one of the humans said, climbing onto the treadmill beside him. Kol frowned at the man. Tall. Smooth-faced. Already running at a fast pace.

“I don’t want to talk to you, human,” Kol said. “I’m your prisoner, not your friend.”

The human laughed, as though Kol had said the most amusing thing he’d heard in a while, and shook his head, continuing to run. After that, though, the human didn’t say another word over the entire hour. 

Kol stepped away from the machine when the human guard—one of the darker skinned men, who Kol thought might be called “Biddle”—gestured that their time was up. 

Kol threw the towel on the floor. Let the human who thought he was funny pick it up.

Day Twenty One

“Authorization required,” the computer’s soft, feminine human voice made Kol want to punch his pillow. He rolled onto his side on the top bunk and glared across the quarters he shared with Arridor. 

“It’s not going to work,” he said, barely stopping himself from adding an epithet that would only anger Arridor and make him all the more insufferable.

“There has to way be a way to get into their computer system,” Arridor said, still tapping on the small desk monitor they had as their only access to Voyager’s computer library.

“Authorization required,” the computer said again.

“What are you even trying to do?” Kol said, growling out the words. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. 

“I’m trying to override the security codes for our door lock,” Arridor said.

“And then?” Kol said. “How will you stop the guard from calling the Bridge?” 

“There are two of us and one of them,” Arridor said.

Kol scoffed. “Half of them are twice our size. Even the females.” 

“What’s the point of all that running and lifting you do in the gym if you can’t handle a single human?” Arridor drew out the word, emphasizing his scorn.

“What happens if we do take care of the guard. What then?” Kol said. “What’s the plan? Where do we go? You seem to think you’ll be a Sage again, Arridor.” 

“If you helped me, we could have latinum and jewels and our freedom again.” Arridor stared at him. 

“How?” Kol said, and he had to admit, the idea of latinum still held charm. “What’s your plan?”

Arridor didn’t reply, and Kol blew out a breath, putting his head back down on his pillow. “Good night, Arridor.”

“You could help me, you know!” Arridor said, stabbing at the terminal again. “Instead of just lying there. You could do something. Anything!” The sounds of another series of commands were loud in Kol’s ears. “Think! For once!”

“Authorization required,” the computer said again.

Kol closed the privacy screen on his bunk.

Day Thirty One

The door chime sounded.

Arridor exchanged a glance with Kol, surprised. “What?” Arridor called out.

The door opened, and the Captain—Cavit—came in. He was such a bland example of a human, Kol couldn’t help but think. His eyes were the colour of the sky, not warm, wet earth, and his skin was so pale. 

“What do you want?” Arridor said. 

“Your shuttle,” Cavit said. 

Kol stared at him in disbelief. Had the man truly just announced what he wanted without so much as an opening play of negotiation? What fools these humans were. Utter simpletons.  

“You snatched us from our new home,” Arridor said, clearly about to build to a self-righteous boil. “We sleep in the same room as each other, in bunk beds. The replicator doesn’t work, and we have to eat whatever those pointy-eared females bring. You took away our gold, our jewels…” He touched his chest, as though the simple shirt he wore burned him somehow, when Kol had to admit the clothes the humans had given them were quite comfortable. “And now you have the temerity to ask for our shuttle?”

“That’s right,” Cavit said, with a small shrug. “I can have my engineers bypass your security, and I’m fairly certain your hand will unlock the shuttle whether or not you’re conscious, but I thought I’d offer you the chance to be… helpful.” He smiled on the final word.

“Why would we be helpful to you?” Kol snapped. They’d been on this ship for months, and the only thing they had to show for it was an hour in the gym every day, plates of vegetables and fruits, and twice now they’d been invited to help “pick coffee cherries,” which Arridor had turned down for both of them before Kol could even consider.

They were prisoners. They were hostages. Did Cavit not understand that?

“You need our shuttle sooner, rather than later,” Arridor said. “Or you wouldn’t have even asked.” He leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk in place. “My lobes can sense a man in need.”

“You have supervised gym time an hour a day,” Cavit said, meeting Arridor’s gaze without giving him any ground. “And you have a place to sleep, and three good meals every day. But if you loan me the shuttle, rather than making me force my way past your security lockouts, I’ll turn on that replicator once a week.”

“Twice,” Arridor said. “Each.” 

Cavit shook his head. “You seem to think this is a barter session. It isn’t.” 

Kol realized something then. He wasn’t a smart man. He relied on two things: his instincts, and his reflexes, and while both of those were good for a pilot, they’d been all but useless since he’d been trapped on Voyager by these humans.

But in that moment, seeing this human make an offer, he realized he and Arridor had it all wrong. 

“Does your replicator make tube grubs?” Kol said.

“Shut up, Kol,” Arridor said, annoyed at him.

“There’s a man on board, Li-Paz, who is very gifted with replicator programs,” Cavit said, facing Kol. “If we don’t have it, he’ll figure it out.” 

“I’ll do it,” Kol said, rising from the chair.

“Kol!” Arridor snapped. “Never give them what they want on the first round of negotiations!”

Kol faced the physician. “I’m tired of eating leaves, Arridor.” He crossed his arms. “They’re my codes anyway. I was the pilot.” 

“This way,” Cavit said, gesturing.

Less than an hour later, Kol was back at the door to their quarters, accompanied by one of the human guards. Madalone, he thought the human’s name might be. At the door, the guard nodded to the other guard already standing watch, then glanced at Kol once before hitting the door control.

“Thank you,” he said. “For the shuttle.”

In that moment, Kol realized it was the same human who’d been on the treadmill at the gym.

Kol managed a nod, and then he was stepping through the door, which closed behind him. Arridor glared at him, rising from his chair and crossing the space. “We could have negotiated a better position!” he said, not even bothering to hide his annoyance with Kol. “You utterly stone-lobed fool, you—”

“The humans have currency,” Kol said.

Arridor’s rant halted mid-sentence. “What?” He frowned. “They do? The replicator rations?”

“No,” Kol said. “Help.” 

Arridor scowled. “What do you mean? Help what?”

“No,” Kol said. “Help is the currency.”

Arridor stared at him. “You’ve lost your mind.” 

But Kol didn’t think so. Kol thought he might have finally figured out these humans.

Behind them, the replicator blinked and came to life. Kol turned, and walked over to it, pressing one finger to the panel until it chimed.

“Tube grubs,” he said. 

A bowl shimmered into being in the slot, and inside the bowl…

The slime looked perfect. The colour, too, a dun-brown flecked with specks of grey. And the scent… 

Kol grabbed the bowl and used the fork to spear one of the grubs, eating it as fast as he could chew. He grinned at Arridor, and the physician pushed him out of the way and tapped the control a second time. 

“Tube grubs,” Arridor said. 

It gave him a bowl, too, despite what the Captain had said about about “once.”

Yes. Kol definitely understood these humans.

Chapter Text

Even though he was the one who’d asked Lieutenant Zandra Taitt and Crewman Abol Tay to come by his quarters, Lieutenant Scott Rollins still wondered if this was a good idea or not. They could be tempting fate. 

They could be causing fate.

It was time travel. Anything was possible.

“Thanks for coming by,” he said, once they’d come in and he’d offered them the small couch against the wall of his quarters under the aft-facing windows. “I took the liberty,” he said, holding up a carafe of coffee. “Voyager blend, if you’d like some?”

“Yes, please,” Taitt said, smiling.

“Thank you,” Abol nodded as well.

Rollins poured a mug. “I know you take it black, Zandra, but what about you, Abol?” 

“I’m afraid I add cream,” Abol said. “And one sugar.” He almost sounded embarrassed by it.

“Spoken like the partner of someone who uses coffee as fuel,” Rollins said, chuckling and preparing a second mug, this time with cream and sugar. He passed them over, then poured a third cup for himself, catching Taitt’s small smile when she saw he didn’t put anything in it, either. 

“How did you score some of our homegrown coffee supply?” Taitt said. “I thought that all went to the Mess Hall.”

Rollins chuckled. “Jewel’s kittens.” He lifted one shoulder. “I’m not saying that Doug Bronowski seems to have taken a shine to Boots after I asked him to look in after them a couple of weeks ago, but he just happened to have leftovers from the latest batch, enough to make just a pot more…” 

“People are bribing you?” Abol’s eyes widened, and Rollins had to try hard not to laugh at his stunned disbelief. “For kittens?”

“For adorable kittens,” Rollins said, nodding to where the pile of fluffy animals were currently out cold after a rather rambunctious session with string toys, Jewel herself in the basket with them, eyes nearly-closed in that way she had when she was content with his offerings of food, water, and head-scratches. “And once they’re weaned, they’ll need homes among the crew.” He lifted his own mug of coffee. “And bribe is such an ugly word, Abol.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Abol cracked an amused smile. 

“We’re off duty,” Rollins said. “Go ahead and call me Scott.”

“Okay,” Abol said, readily enough. 

“I’m guessing you didn’t ask us over just to talk kittens and coffee?” Taitt said. “Though, for the record, the entirely-black kitten has its tongue sticking out a little bit and I may need to come up with a bribe of my own.”

“Onyx sleeps like that a lot,” Rollins said, eyeing the tiny black kitten. “I’m still not immune.” He took a breath. “But no, I was hoping I could ask you to help me figure out if the Sirillium incident and our recent trip to 1996 were related.” 

“You mean apart from being time-travel incidents and involving Lieutenant Ducane, don’t you?” Taitt said, cradling her mug in both hands. He’d grown to really appreciate her way of thinking over the last two years—she approached things sort of side-on compared to him, and it often gave her a different point of view. 

“I do,” he said. “I keep thinking it’s an awfully big coincidence, and in security, we don’t like coincidences.”

“In science coincidences are cause to test a theory,” Taitt said, taking a sip of her coffee before continuing. “So, let’s start there. If we theorize the two events are somehow linked, what are you theorizing is the core thing they have in common?”

“Someone trying to destroy Voyager,” Rollins said. He held up a hand. “And I’m aware that’s an entirely security-based point of view, but that’s the hat I wear.”

“I don’t disagree,” Taitt said. “Lieutenant Ducane was fairly clear that Voyager wasn’t supposed to be destroyed near that sirillium-rich nebula, and that was the second time he visited us from his point of view, which means to him, that change in the timeline came after our 1996 event.”

“If we continue that thread,” Abol said, leaning forward, his dark brown eyes sort of falling into the middle distance between them, like he was looking at something Rollins couldn’t see. “The theory would hold with someone farther down the timeline from us being the source of both incidents where Voyager was almost destroyed.” 

“Right,” Taitt said. “When I was on the Bozeman, Ducane never mentioned who was behind adjusting the gases in our sample, but I don’t think he was keeping it from us. I think he didn’t know.”

“Me too,” Rollins said. “As much as his favourite expression seems to be ‘Temporal Prime Directive,’ he didn’t strike me as holding that against his chest.” 

“And you know him better than us,” Taitt said, nodding.

Rollins felt a slow flush creep up his neck, and hoped it wasn’t obvious. He took a big swallow of coffee, and when he looked back up, he saw a particularly clever smile on Abol’s face.

Right. He was a telepath. So much for maintaining a poker-face. He tried not to wince anyway, and Abol seemed to take pity on him. 

“I’ve been thinking about the secondary hull,” Abol said. “Prime Captain Braxton said—“

“Sorry, what?” Rollins said.

“The initial Braxton, rather than the one who we think perished getting his crew to safety,” Abol said. “Or the tertiary Braxton who was on the retroactively parallel Relativity from the future undestroyed by our closing the temporal causality loop.”

Rollins stared. “You’re making my head hurt.” 

Abol exchanged a glance with Taitt. “Sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s not your fault, I’m just not good at this,” Rollins said.

“Very few people are,” Taitt said, rather graciously, Rollins thought. Then she turned her dark brown eyes to Abol. “What about the hull?”

“The first Captain Braxton said he found debris of Voyager’s secondary hull in the explosion in the twenty-ninth century,” Abol said. “At no point during either of our trips through the temporal rift was there any physical damage to the secondary hull, so…”

“So where did the hull debris come from?” Taitt said.

“Right,” Abol said. “From what little I saw of the Aeon, I’d theorize the twenty-ninth century sensor acuity should have been able to determine falsely planted evidence.”

“Wait, are you saying the damage hasn’t happened yet, but will?” Rollins said. “That whoever tried to destroy us might come back for a piece of the hull they already used to frame us?”

“Perhaps,” Abol said.

Taitt nodded. “The problem is, Scott, it could also be that closing the temporal loop undid the causal incident.” 

“But how…” Rollins started, then shook his head. “This is just one of those things I need to accept because time-travel, right?”

Taitt nodded. “That’s right.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Is there some way you think we could test this theory? That the two incidents are related?” 

Abol exhaled. “We never got any sort of temporal resonance scan on the sirillium sample, given it was a gas.”

“And exploded,” Taitt said, lifting her mug for another swallow of coffee. 

Rollins chuckled.

“Which means we have nothing to compare to the temporal rift or our readings from Henry Starling’s launch facilities,” Abol said.

“Right,” Rollins said. “Well. Thank you, anyway. If nothing else, at least I know I can’t really do anything, which is helpful in its own way.”

“Neochronitons,” Taitt said, letting out a deep breath, like she wasn’t sure she should be saying the word.

Rollins eyed her. “That was how we got back early enough to stop the sirillium explosion, right?”

She nodded. “According to Lieutenant Ducane, I’m not supposed to know about them yet—I don’t think they’re supposed to be even so much as a theory in the Federation right now—but the thing is… I do.” She lifted her shoulders. “I can’t help theorizing.”

Rollins glanced at Abol, and Abol nodded. “It’s true. We’ve both been trying to theorize, but so far, no luck.” 

“I wish I’d had more than a glance at Ducane’s tricorder,” Taitt said. “But even knowing what neochronitons are is a place to start.”

“Start… doing what?” Rollins said, not quite following.

“If I could figure out a way to isolate and scan for neochronitons,” Taitt said, leaning forward. “In theory? Those scans could give Voyager warning about incoming temporal events.”

“You mean you could warn us before the next sirillium gas bomb or temporal rift?” Rolins said.

“In theory,” she said.

Rollins smiled. “For the record, Zandra? If you make that happen, you can have your pick of kittens.” 

Zandra laughed, then, after a moment, she eyed the basket. “Even Onyx?” 

Rollins reached out a hand, and Taitt took it.

They shook on it.

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Sam Stiles spotted Lieutenant Dennis Russell sitting by himself at one of the Mess Hall’s four-seat tables, and brought his tray over.

“May I?” he said.

“Of course, Sam,” Russell said, nodding at the empty space across from him.

It was just after the Night Shift, for which Stiles had taken the Bridge Shift, something he tended to alternate with Russell, and something he’d only qualified for as one of the former-Maquis because of Russell standing behind him in the first place.

“What were you up to?” Stiles said, dipping his bread into the vegetable chilli Crewman Jon Djanrelian had offered him. 

“Ensign Jetal, Crewman Fisher and I spent the last eight hours giving the shuttles their monthly once-over,” Russell said, in his usual gentle voice. He smiled, apparently not having minded the job. He’d been an engineer before he transferred to command, Stiles remembered. “Oh, and Karden was there, too, so we had him do all the same tests and diagnostics on his shuttle, too. I think he learned a few things.”

“I’m sure he appreciated it.” The Kazon youth always seemed eager to learn to Stiles, and had gone from a small, angry young kid into a lean and lanky young adult in a way that reminded him of his own sons when they’d been fourteen or so: all arms and legs. 

“I think so,” Russell said, dipping his own bread into his own chilli. “How was the Bridge?”

“The usual,” Stiles said, just as content with how his own shift had gone. “Diagnostics while we head toward that nebula, though nebula hardly does it justice. Billy Telfer said it’s already moved into the top twenty largest nebulas on Federation record.” He lifted his mug of coffee—Voyager blend, and he was happy to be one of the crew who’d been lucky enough to score a mug—and took a swallow before finishing his thought. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to go around it.”

“What’s it called again?” Russel said.

“According to the Mislenite database it’s ‘the Nekrit Expanse.’” 

“That doesn’t sound small, does it?” Russell said, and then his gaze slid past Stiles, his attention caught by someone or something.

Stiles turned, and spotted Ensign Lyndsay Ballard arriving, alongside Ensign Pablo Baytart. The two had been on the Bridge shift with him, Ballard at Engineering performing diagnostics, and Baytart at the Conn. 

He was about to ask Russell if everything was all right—he wasn’t usually the sort of guy who asked that kind of thing, but Russell’s light brown eyes had dropped to his bowl like it was the most interesting thing in the world and while Djanrelian’s chilli was good, it wasn’t that good—but then Ballard and Baytart were beside them at the table with bowls of their own. 

“May we?” Ballard said, nodding to the two remaining seats. 

“Sure,” Russell said, smiling, and Stiles thought maybe he’d imagined Russell’s shift in mood. He seemed fine now. 

“How’s the chilli?” Ballard said, holding her bread over the bowl like maybe she wasn’t sure she should lower it. Baytart, on the other hand, had already dipped and bitten his, and was chewing with a happy look on his face. 

“It’s very good,” Russell said. “Nowhere near as spicy as when Li-Paz gives the kitchen a turn.”

“Oh, thank the dead Klingon gods for that,” Ballard said, dipping her bread and taking a bite, then nodding in approval at Russell. 

“Dead Klingon gods?” Baytart said, once he’d finished his own big bite. 

“You’ve obviously never been to a Klingon wedding,” Ballard said, lifting her spoon and pointing it at him. “Or you’d know the ancient Klingons killed their gods.”

“And that came up at a wedding?” Baytart seemed equal parts confused and amused. He had an infectious grin, though, and Stiles caught himself smiling at the group—until he noticed Russell’s own smile was…

What? Subdued? No. It was more like he was being… careful?

He offered a small frowned “you okay?” look Russell’s way, and Russell gave him a little nod in return. 

They finished their meal discussing the ins and outs of Klingon religion—Stiles learned far more than he wanted to know about hearts being stabbed, eaten, or otherwise removed from where they belonged inside the Klingon chest—and it was Baytart who rose first, yawning. 

“Sorry all, but I need to grab some shut-eye,” he said. “Thanks for the disturbing imagery I’m sure will haunt my dreams.” Baytart lifted his empty tray, aiming the words at Ballard, who waved cheerfully.

“Any time!”

The moment Baytart was gone, Ballard turned to Russell. “Okay, you barely said a word. We’ve talked about this.”

Stiles blinked, looking between the two. Russell rubbed his face with one hand. “I don’t want you to do that,” he said. 

“If I don’t do it, who will?” Ballard said. “Own the day, Lieutenant.”

Russell sighed, and dropped his hand.

Okay. Stiles had no idea what was happening here. “Care to fill me in?” he said.

Russell winced, glancing at Ballard like he wanted to say something and—unless Stiles was mistaken—closing his eyes when he realized it was futile. 

“Dennis has a crush on Pablo,” Ballard said. “But he’s not doing anything about it.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. Then he turned to Russell. “Really? I’ve never really seen you two talk.”

“That’s because apart from a mission to Tekestria in the Pel?” Ballard lifted both her hands, like this was the singular most frustrating thing she had ever discussed. “He hasn’t.”

Russell sighed. “That’s not true.”

“Bridge shifts together don’t count,” Ballard said.

“Okay, it’s true,” Russell said. “But honestly, Lyndsay, I don’t think he’s interested.” 

Stiles considered the pairing. Baytart had an outgoing, gregariousness to him that Stiles had to admit he didn’t immediately imagine alongside someone as calm and centred as Dennis Russell. Then again, he himself was a hothead who kept his emotions bottled up far more than was healthy, and his wife had been an infinitely patient woman with a tendency to talk to anyone about anything and learn their deepest secrets and anxieties within five minutes of meeting them, so he knew opposite sorts were a thing.

“That’s because he doesn’t know you’re interested,” Ballard said. “He’s all Mr. Juggler, Suave-and-Flirty when he knows he’s got someone’s attention. But otherwise? He doesn’t often make the first move.” Lyndsay leaned toward Russell. “Thus…” 

Russell closed his eyes, looking like he’d rather sink through the deck plating than continue this conversation. 

“Is that how it worked with Tom Moore?” Stiles said, facing Ballard and doing his best not to give away anything. “Making the first move was the way to go?”

Ballard didn’t physically flinch, but he’d have bet real money it was a close call. Ensign Tom Moore—who even Stiles could admit was probably the most handsome man on the ship—had had a rather public break-up with Sveta in the Mess Hall a while back, though calling it a “break-up” elevated their relationship to a level Sveta definitely hadn’t. 

Lynsday Ballard and Tom Moore had been a thing the following week.

Specifically, they’d been a short-lived thing, as apparently Ballard—according to Li-Paz, anyway—had discovered the same issue Sveta had: that Tom Moore didn’t know how to do anything remotely casual, and had a habit of assuming a depth of romance where it hadn’t yet started. 

Or would ever be. 

“Tom and I aren’t really the point,” Ballard said, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“Hrm,” Stiles said. 

Ballard exhaled, cracking a laugh and shaking her head at him, then facing Russell. “Fine. Fine. I give up. I’ll stop bringing Pablo to you.” 

“Thank you,” Russell said.

She picked her her tray, rising. “But I’m not going to stop suggesting you do something about it.”

With that, she left them there at their table.

“Thanks for that,” Russell said. “She noticed. On Tekestria. And ever since…” He waved one hand, encompassing the whole table.

“No trouble,” Stiles said. Then, lifting his mug for the last swallow of his coffee, he added, “Have you really not even talked to him since then beyond Bridge shifts?”

Russell groaned and rubbed his face with both hands, which was answer enough, Stiles figured.

Chapter Text

“I’m starting to see why it’s called a ‘musical,’” Andreas Murphy said, tilting his head and eating some of the popcorn from the red-and-white striped box he was sharing with his partner, Celes Tal. “Everyone keeps singing about how they feel.” 

Celes regarded him, surprised he’d had this conclusion over an hour into the movie, and when he looked down at her and winked, smiling, a rush of warmth in her chest at the man’s rare show of humour had her leaning against his shoulder and taking some popcorn for herself. 

They were in the Holodeck, in a program Billy Telfer had put together for their date, a movie theatre where he often hosted group outings with Kes Aren and Li-Paz, Atara Ram and Stephen Niles, and herself and Murphy, but this time had arranged just for two: Celes and Murphy, who were celebrating an anniversary of sorts.

On the screen, a man was dancing around in the pouring rain, and having a marvellous time doing so, dancing and singing about how he was, well, singing while it was raining. 

Musicals seemed rather literal to Celes.

It was a lovely movie thus far though, and she loved having Andreas’s arm around her—something about the way he held her made Celes feel grounded in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on—and the scent of the popcorn was pleasant, and…

“What’s wrong?” Murphy said. 

Andreas Murphy had light brown hair and brown eyes, and while Celes thought he was one of the most attractive humans she’d ever met, he’d once confessed to her most people found him rather ‘forgettable.’ 

Her admission that most people found her tiresome had earned such a genuine frown of confusion from him that she’d fallen for him a little on the spot. 

It hadn’t hurt that he’d been helping her with a group of Trabe children at time, back when the four Trabe ships of refugees had been flying alongside Voyager in a small fleet, and so much of her day had been taken up caring for little ones.

Something he’d loved doing as much as she had. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. And it was true. Or at least, she thought it was true. She loved her time with Andreas, and she knew he felt the same way, although sometimes she thought he seemed at a loss, or worried in some way she didn’t quite understand.

On the screen, the man had begun swinging around an illuminated street pole, and was now thoroughly drenched. He seemed happy about it, though. 

Andreas was looking at her again, and she met his gaze. That sense of something being off was there, she could feel it between them again. She shifted her position to really look into his eyes, letting the movie go ignored, and put a single hand up against his chest. 

“I love you,” she said. It wasn’t the first time she’d said the words.

“I love you, too,” he said. Not a first declaration from him, either.

They watched more of the movie, and the more she watched, the more the sense of that something seemed to fill. On the screen, the man, his friend, and the woman who was somehow providing a voice for another woman—Celes wasn’t entirely sure what was going on there, if she was being honest—seemed to move from joyful moment to joyful moment, and as she watched it play out, she caught herself wishing Billy was there to explain it.

Or just to enjoy it with them.

Or just there at all.

She let out a breath, and felt Andreas look at her again. 

“You can tell me,” he said. “Something is on your mind.”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She laughed, looking at him. “There. Does that clear it up?”

“Not really.” Another rare smile from him, and she thought anyone who thought Andreas Murphy was forgettable needed to have their eyes examined. 

“I was thinking it would be more fun if Billy was here,” she said, blurting it out. “But that’s silly, because this is our anniversary. It’s just my mind, doing it’s usual job of seeing things the wrong way.”

“Hey,” Murphy said, leaning down and kissing the top of her head. “I love your mind. And the way it sees things.” He squeezed her. “Not wrong, just different.”

Another rush of warmth flooded her at his words. She reached up and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

“I…” Murphy said, then stopped.

She looked at him. “What?” He was looking straight ahead again, and his expression looked tight, and a little tense—like he was worried. Again. Had she done that?

“You…?” she said.

He let out a little breath, looking at her. “I thought the same thing,” he said. When she frowned, he tilted his head. “That it would be more fun. With Billy. Maybe.” He let out a little puff of breath. “But that seems… selfish?”

Selfish? She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I…” He frowned, shook his head. “Never mind.” His eyes flicked up, then down, and wouldn’t meet her gaze. 

“Computer,” Celes said. “Pause program.”

The music, dancing, and singing stopped on the screen ahead of them.

Murphy closed his eyes and exhaled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

She turned to face him, shifting on the theatre seat, and took the popcorn from him, putting it on the floor and then taking his hand. “Andreas.”

He opened his brown eyes, and looked at her. “Yes?”

“Say it. Whatever it is, just say it. Let it out. I blurt out every single thing that comes through my head, and you listen to me, so let me do the same. I can see it in there, but I don’t know what it is.” She tapped his forehead, and he laughed quietly, his wonderful smile returning again. “You don’t always have to be…” She paused, looking for the right word.

“Serious?” he said, still wearing his smile. His nickname on Voyager. Ensign Michael Murphy was “Fun Murphy.” Crewman Andreas Murphy?

He was “Serious Murphy.”

“Serious,” she said, nodding. “What did you mean, selfish?”

“I feel foolish,” he said.

“I feel foolish at least ten times a day,” Celes said. “Sometimes more. Let it happen. You’ll get used to it in no time.”

He chuckled, and he leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head again. 

“I get… jealous,” Murphy said, and it was like the word was painful for him to admit. He didn’t seem capable of meeting her gaze again, and that astounded her. Stoic, serious Andreas never looked this vulnerable. 

She wrapped her arms around him. “You don’t have to worry about that. Ever,” she said. “I love you, and frankly, there’s no one else on Voyager who’d…” And then, between the way he stiffened in her grip and the way their conversation had unrolled, it occurred to Celes Tal that there was another way to look at this declaration, and she softened her voice. “You don’t mean jealous of me,” she said, and she pulled back just enough to see his face, not letting go, and making sure he saw her smile. “You mean Billy, don’t you?”

He nodded, and let out an embarrassed laugh. “Like I said, it’s foolish.”

“How?” she said. 

“Because he deserves someone. He’s so… genuine. And he’s like you, he sees things a different way. And he talks about how he feels and when he’s around, I like how I feel. I… relax. And so do you. When the three of us are together?” He lifted one shoulder. “Almost every favourite time we’ve had together has been when he’s around, but that’s so unfair. To him.” 

The only other time she’d heard Andreas Murphy speak this much had been when he was asking her if she would like to date him. He’d been so formal, and so careful, explaining exactly his intentions and how he’d understand and still like to be her friend if she didn’t feel the same way she’d had to interrupt him to get him to allow her a moment to reply. 

“I agree,” she said, and his eyes widened with surprise. 

“You do?”

“Well, not with all of it,” she said. “I’m not sure I understand how it’s unfair to him. I think Billy has fun when he’s with us, too.”

“Yes,” Murphy said, nodding slowly before he pressed his forehead to hers. “But…” He let out a puff of air. “When Michael kissed him? I was… afraid he’d be leaving in some way. And then when Michael died, I felt terrible about it.”

“But Billy didn’t want to be with Michael. Not like that,” Celes said. “And neither did Michael, for that matter.” The death of Michael Sendine had been a sad thing, but she also knew Billy had felt real relief that the two of them had declared a friendship—not a relationship—beforehand.

“I know,” Murphy said, looking down. “And Michael was a great guy. If they had wanted to be together, though, shouldn’t I have been okay with that?”

“You wouldn’t have been?” Celes said. She wasn’t accusing him of anything, and her tone was so soft it made him look at her with surprise again. 

“What is it?” he said, tracing her chin with his thumb. 

“At first, when we started dating, I wanted him to find someone so we could date together,” she said. “But when he and Michael…” She waved a hand. No need to go through all that again. “I didn’t like it, either. Or, it wasn’t that I didn’t like it, it just… Didn’t feel right?” 

Murphy blinked, and then his soft smile returned. “You love him.” 

“Not the same way I love you, but…” Celes shook her head. “Of course I do. He’s my best friend.”

“And?” Murphy said.

“And also something else?” Celes said. “Something I’m not sure what to call, really.”

“That’s it,” Murphy said, nodding. “That’s what I mean, too.” He took a deep breath. “When he was on Earth, on that away mission, and he came back and Avery Roberto was joking with him and telling us about what they’d done, he kept touching Billy. Avery’s like that. He’s very tactile. And all I could think was how much I wanted to be in his place.” He looked at Celes. “Does that make sense?”

“When Billy and I cuddle in one of his programs,” Celes said. “I often think I’d like you there, but I don’t mean instead of him, I mean with us.”

Andreas’s brown eyes met hers, and didn’t look away. “To be clear, I don’t want to, uh…” He was blushing, and she reached out and touched his lips with one finger.

“No, I don’t mean that, either,” she said. “I don’t want that with him, either.”

They stared at each other for a moment. 

“Okay,” Murphy said, nodding. “So that’s…” He frowned. “I don’t know what to do now.” 

Celes took a breath. “Well,” she said. “First, let’s finish the movie. You know Billy’s going to ask us if we liked it. Then…” She bit her bottom lip. “Then I think we have to talk to him?” It came out more like a question than a statement, but Murphy nodded at her.

“Right,” he said. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Computer. Resume program.”

The singing and dancing started again, and Celes snuggled into Murphy’s side. The weight of his arm felt different around her now, more relaxed. Almost as relaxed as when they were all together, the three of them. The musical continued, and they watched together, more comfortable than she’d felt in a long time. When the heroine was singing again, Celes glanced up at Murphy, and he was looking down at her.

They kissed, and behind them, the woman continued her song.

“And would you dare to say,

Lets do the same as they,

I would,

Would you?”

Chapter Text

Ensign Sahreen Lan had known Lieutenant Commander Ro Laren for years, since a time when they’d both have stared incredulous at the mere suggestion that either of them would serve in Starfleet—especially Ro, given the way she’d left Starfleet in the first place—but with more than two years of serving together on Voyager now behind them, Lan found herself feeling “at home” with the routine, the discipline, and the sense of not only having  a place, but her position within it.

It didn’t hurt her previous host had absolutely thrived in Starfleet’s environment, but the more time passed, the more Lan realized that she the host, as well as her symbiont, not to mention her symbiont’s offspring, now themselves joined Kes and Abol, were entirely suited to this life on a starship, following rules she would have scoffed at only three years prior.

Which was why it was so jarring when she spotted Ro slipping out of Lieutenant Alexander Honigsberg’s quarters when she knew full well the Chief Engineer wasn’t home, given they’d been working in Stellar Cartography, trying to boost the astrometric capabilities of a lab designed to work on a much smaller scale than it was being forced to function. 

She paused, and on some instinct, hugged the corridor wall, watching.

Ro placed her hand against Honigsberg’s door chime, and Lan spotted a small flash of silver.

An override module. 

Ro Laren hadn’t just come out of Honigsberg’s quarters. She’d hacked the records from the computer. Most likely she’d done it on the way, in, too, which…

“What are you doing?” Lan said, below her breath.

Why was Laren in Alex’s quarters? What could she possibly be up to? And, most importantly, why hadn’t she looped Lan in on whatever it was?

She bit her lip, and waited for Ro to be out of sight before she approached Honigsberg’s door. She flipped open her tricorder, but sure enough, there was no sign of tampering. A smooth—and often used—Maquis trick for entrance and egress, the override module didn’t leave much in the way of a trace, except for a tiny fluctuation in the computer’s passive log, which…

Yep.

There it was. 

Lan closed her tricorder. 

She should comm Ro. Ask her what was going on, direct and to the point. 

But if Ro was keeping it from her, there had to be a reason. And…

Laren is my friend. One of the oldest friends I have. What am I doing? Lan shook her head. It was Ro’s own business. Period. She absolutely had no need to know what had happened inside the quarters of Lieutenant Alexander—

“Oh, hey,” Honigsberg said, coming around the corner ahead of her. “Fancy meeting you here.” He offered a tired smile. “Let me guess, the lateral buffer access?”

It was, in fact, where she’d been, double-checking part of the sensor network they’d been attempting to reconfigure for Stellar Cartography. 

“Got it in one,” she said. 

“Thanks for your help, by the way,” Honigsberg said. “You were above and beyond today, and we should have quit, what, three hours ago?” He rubbed his goatee, then stretched. “Hey, I happen to have half a plate of delta gooseberry tarts in my quarters—Celes had a problem with the convection oven’s baking drawer yesterday and they were my completely off-the-record reward.” He raised one eyebrow. “Join me for an illicit reward tart? You’ve earned one.”

She should say no. She should let Alexander Honigsberg discover whatever Ro Laren had done to or in his quarters on his own. She shouldn’t interfere. One out of three hosts were very strident on this point. 

Okay, Dolay. It was all Dolay. 

“I’d love one,” she said. 

As always, Pasha and Kejal agreed with her. 

She watched Honigsberg carefully once she was in his quarters, which were honestly quite a bit tidier than she’d expected. He had a painting of a mountain range front-and-centre on the main wall of his quarters, and a dark brown sweater she recognized was folded neatly over the back of the chair at his desk. 

Alexander Honigsberg had zero poker face, though, and she was counting on it.

There! His eyes caught on the low table in front of his small couch, and his eyebrows did a little dance of surprise. His lips, too, rolled in and…

…then he smiled. 

She followed his gaze, not sure what on the table had caught his attention. Not likely the PADD, nor what was likely the tarts in question under a lidded plate. The only other thing was a lovely ceramic vase, glazed in simple earth tones that struck her as quite elegant in its simplicity, really.

“That’s a nice vase,” she said. Unlike Hongisberg, she knew she had a great poker face, and—more to the point—she had all the dramatic skills of Kejal Lan, who could do subtle and sly with the best of them, though in life he’d tended to prefer acting overt and dramatic whenever the choice presented itself.

“Oh, thanks,” Honigsberg said, rubbing his beard with the worst attempt at covering his own nervousness she’d ever seen. 

“Where’d you get it?” she said, taking a moment to sit on the couch and lean forward to really look at the vase. It really was beautiful. Up close, you could see minor variations in the glazing, which went from a deep earthy brown to something closer to a russet-red near the upper rim. “Replicator?”

“It was a present,” Hongisberg said. “Like the tarts.” He sat down beside her, unlidding the plate and offering her a tart. “Here you go.” He stuffed one in his mouth and started chewing.

She took one, despite the incredibly obvious way he’d made it impossible for him to continue speaking, and took a bite. Celes’s reward tarts were tangy and perfect. Lan would bet latinum the coffee-cherry-flour crust had been baked by Gara, though. 

She looked at the vase again, and Honigsberg’s eyes got a bit panicky. 

Reluctantly, knowing she should—damn the Dolay in her—she moved her gaze away from the ceramic. She thought Honigsberg might faint with relief.  

It really was none of her business. Truly. She felt Dolay’s influence cheer her decision, and she took another bite of her tart. Yes. She’d let it drop. 

With Honigsberg, anyway.  

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Veronica Stadi had perfected many skills working with and living among humans in the twelve years it had been since she’d arrived at Starfleet Academy, but feigning a sudden reaction to the loudly-telegraphed “surprise party” on her birthday was not among them.

Still, she tried.

Lieutenant Alexander Honigsberg led the traditional and rather literal human cheer of “Surprise!” as she’d come in to the Mess Hall for her dinner and Stadi had widened her eyes, let out a small gasp, and done her level best not to act like a woman who’d heard the thoughts “surprise party” at least three times a day for the past two weeks.

The whole senior staff was present—even Lieutenant Commander Ro, which Stadi knew suited Ro Laren about as much as wearing a scratchy Tyran wool tunic—as well as more than a few of the pilots who reported to Stadi. 

Lieutenant Susan Nicoletti was there, too, Hongisberg’s assistant engineer leading Crewman Joel Swift and Crewman Clifton Biddle in a jaunty little trio of music that—Stadi was pleased to note—wasn’t that interminable human song they seemed to trot out at birthdays, but rather something a bit more up-tempo and fun.

“Thank you,” she said, when Captain Cavit stepped forward with an Earth delicacy Stadi very much enjoyed on a small plate: a frosted cupcake. That was one tradition of Earth’s Voyager had picked up that Stadi was whole-heartedly in favour of. Her cupcake had a lit candle on it, and beneath the candle, someone—Eru, it was most likely Eru—had piped the number in question: 30. 

“Happy Birthday,” Cavit said. 

“Make a wish, Roni,” Honigsberg said, gesturing to the candle.

Right. That was another human tradition, wasn’t it? She found herself meeting Ro’s gaze again, and the slightly pained smile from Ro made her laugh. Lieutenant Commander Ro did not do cheerful gatherings well. 

And given Betazoid tradition was to celebrate others on the anniversary of a birth, Stadi donated her birthday wish to the cause. I wish Ro gets to leave as soon as she wants, she thought, then blew out the candle.

Everyone cheered, and Stadi pulled the candle out of the cupcake to get at what really mattered: the business of eating the cupcake. 

“I know Betazoid birthdays don’t traditionally have presents,” Lieutenant Zandra Taitt said, stepping forward with a box wrapped in silver. “But I couldn’t fight centuries of human programming, let alone the voice of my mother telling me it wouldn’t be polite to show up without a gift.” 

“I think our mothers would have gotten along.” Stadi laughed, taking the present, and putting the tragically unbitten cupcake on the table to allow her to start on the wrapping. When she opened the box, she smiled at the mug inside, which was simple in design, but looked sturdy while felt oddly light when she picked it up out of the box.

“I’ve noticed you have a habit of forgetting your tea when you’re working on starcharts,” Taitt said. “There’s an internal vacuum between the inner and outer layers of the mug, which should keep your tea hot for much longer than one of the standard mugs.” 

Stadi smiled. It was thoughtful and practical. Very Taitt. “Thank you.” 

Taitt touched her shoulder. “Happy birthday,” she said, then moved off to the Mess Hall counter to get herself something to eat.

Stadi picked up her cupcake again. It looked moist, and the white frosting had that crust to it that she just knew was going to explode with sweetness on the tongue and—

“Happy birthday,” Lieutenant Scott Rollins said, stepping forward. 

She lowered the cupcake. Again. She should have wished for a moment to take a bite.

“Thank you,” she said. 

“You weren’t surprised at all, were you?” Rollins said, dropping his voice a bit to keep it just between the two of them.

“I’m a Betazoid,” she said, and he chuckled, nodding. 

“Well, don’t ruin it for Alex. He’s pretty proud of himself,” Rollins said. 

“I won’t.” Stadi noted the use of ‘Alex’ instead of ‘Lieutenant,’ and the way Rollins seemed more relaxed than usual and was glad to see him loosening up a bit. She never intended to dip into the minds of her fellow crew, but Scott Rollins had been almost buried under by Peter Durst’s betrayal, and seeing him dig his way back out of it—in no small part aided by the indefatigable chief engineer’s friendship—was like having a small uncomfortable burr finally removed from the back of her neck. 

Rollins ducked away, and Stadi picked up the cupcake again, only to feel another hand on her shoulder. She tried not to groan, turning, but it was Commander Ro.

“I’ll just stand here while you eat it,” Ro said. “That way no one else will interrupt you.”

“You’re the best,” Stadi said, taking a big bite. The frosting was exactly as sweet as she’d hoped. She owed Eru—the birthday cupcakes were always Eru’s handiwork—something big. At least a hug. 

“Mmm,” she said, around the first bite.

Ro smiled. “That good?” 

Stadi just nodded, grateful to be with someone who wouldn’t be offended if she ate the whole thing right here and now. So she did. That was the great thing about Ro, they both had a tendency to just state what they wanted, or do what was needed. They’d made a great team during the three months Captain Cavit and Doctor Fitzgerald had been off Voyager last year, and while Stadi was in zero rush to ever have the responsibilities of first officer in her hands again, she liked knowing it was something she’d been good at.

“Happy birthday, Veronica.” Speaking of the man. It was Doctor Fitzgerald, who leaned in just enough to wish her the best and then move on, not even pausing to make her finish chewing or swallow to reply. 

Fitzgerald was another one who knew how to read a person.  

When she finished the cupcake, she let out a content sigh. “It feels strange to celebrate myself. I’ll never get used to it.”

“We don’t do this on Bajor, either,” Ro said. 

“On Betazed,” Stadi said. “It’s the other way around. On the anniversary of your birthday, you seek out the people who make your life special and you thank them. There’s no gifts, but you make them feel appreciated and special.” She shook her head. “My mother would hate this. She’d tell me I wasn’t living up to my heritage.”

“I don’t know,” Ro said. “I think she might be wrong.”

Stadi raised an eyebrow. “How so? Everyone here is celebrating me. And Taitt got me thermal mug, which I am really looking forward to using, frankly.” 

“No more cold tea,” Ro said. “But I think you’re wrong about the party, though I can’t believe I’m the one saying that. Look.” She gestured.

“Okay.” Stadi looked around the room, and saw her fellow crew—her friends, and, in some cases, people she thought of as family—all talking and laughing. More than one glanced her way and raised their glass or mug just smiled, and goodwill flowed into her mind like a telepathic massage. She turned back to Ro, shaking her head. 

“You’re looking, but you don’t see,” Ro said, then winced. “Ugh. I just sounded like a Vedek.” 

Stadi laughed. “What is it I’m not seeing?”

Ro shook off her accidental Vedek-moment. “You’re giving everyone something to celebrate, which, in my experience, makes humans feel appreciated. I think you’re honouring your Betazoid heritage just fine.” 

Stadi smiled at the idea, and decided Ro was right. All the minds around her were happy to be here. Especially Honigsberg, who seemed to be over-the-moon about having pulled one over on her. The man’s self-congratulatory thoughts were as loud today as they had been for the last two weeks about the upcoming party. 

Well, almost every mind around her was happy to be here.

“You know,” Stadi said, dropping her voice. “No one would notice if you stepped out right now. Everyone’s listening to the music or getting food.” 

Ro’s relief was both visible and immediate. “Happy birthday,” she said, and slipped past Stadi and out the door of the Mess Hall.  

Chapter Text

Kes moved the scanner up along Lieutenant Walter Baxter’s back and eyed her medical tricorder. She glanced up at him, and found Baxter’s light blue eyes meeting her gaze with not just a trace of guilt. 

“Walter,” she said, softening her voice as much as she could before she delivered the blow. “No weightlifting, for at least a week.”

“Are you serious?” Baxter bit his bottom lip the moment the words came out. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, I just… the gym—”

“Is how you blow of steam,” Kes said the words in time with him.

Baxter winced again. “I guess I’ve said that to you before.”

Kes glanced at Nurse T’Prena to try and stop herself from a more overt reaction of amusement, and it worked. T’Prena always had a grounding effect on her. “T’Prena,” Kes said. “For a strain this bad, I think we’ll go with metorapan.” 

Nurse T’Prena gave Kes a simple nod. “I’ll prepare a hypo.” She left to do just that.

“Metorapan,” Baxter said, turning to look at her and wincing—likely from the pain he’d sent shooting up his back—before he continued. “I don’t know that one.”

“It’s an analgesic and a muscle relaxant.” Kes closed her tricorder. “Do you need to talk to Doctor Fitzgerald?”

“About the drug? No, I trust you,” Baxter said. He glanced down, then up, then finally looked at her again, sheepish.

Kes raised one eyebrow. 

Baxter attempted a shrug. The motion made him wince again.

“We’ve talked about how you overdo it,” Kes said. “Multiple times.”

Baxter took a deep breath, but then T’Prena returned with the hypo. 

“Thank you,” Kes said, taking it and pressing it to Baxter’s neck, once she’d glanced at the dosage. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust T’Prena, it was simply a procedure she’d drilled into herself. Never handle a hypo you haven’t double-checked. 

“I will leave you to your discussion,” T’Prena said, and stepped away, crossing the Sickbay and heading into the lab.

“So, that felt ominous,” Baxter said, trying another boyish grin. Despite being one of the more muscular humans Kes had ever met—his sleeveless workout shirt revealing his defined, strong arms—Baxter had a softer face, wasn’t particularly tall, and in Kes’s experience, he leaned on a kind of youthful naivety in his interactions with her to dodge consequences.

Luckily, she’d developed a strong resistance to boyish charm, thanks to her relationship with Li-Paz, who had attempted very similar tactics on numerous occasions. 

“This is a pattern,” Kes said, crossing her arms. “You’ve injured yourself by pushing yourself too hard, again, and I can’t believe there weren’t signs.”

Baxter exhaled. “Right.” 

“If I see you here again, I’ll have to talk to Commander Ro.” 

That made his eyes snap right to her, and he repeated himself. “Right.”

“What is it?” Kes said. “I can feel how tight you’re holding yourself, and it’s not just the pain in your back. I don’t want to pry, Walter, but it’s obvious something is really bothering you.” 

Baxter shifted on the biobed, this time without flinching. The metorapan was already working, then. “Is this…?” he waved one hand between them. 

“Anything you say to me is confidential,” Kes said. 

Baxter took a moment, and Kes could feel the man’s thoughts gathering, like he was giving them orders, telling them to get in line and brace for impact.

“I’m… lonely.” Baxter seemed to nearly need to force the words out of his mouth. 

Kes took a second. “Lonely,” she said. She’d always seen Baxter with other people, whether it was in the Mess Hall or the Gym, he rarely seemed to be on his own. 

Baxter nodded. “There’s always someone to talk to at the Gym. Otherwise, my quarters are so…” He let out a long breath. “Empty. I find myself hanging out in the Mess Hall when I’m not on shift, but then I start to feel sort of pathetic, so I go back to the Gym. I have friends, and I enjoy my shifts, playing Pareses Squares with the team, but then I get back to my quarters and… silence.” He lifted both hands. “I know I’m being ridiculous, Kes, believe me, but…” The hands dropped. “I’m just lonely.”

Kes reached forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not ridiculous, Walter,” she said. “I have friends on Voyager, too, but I treasure my time with Li-Paz.”

“Right,” Baxter said, with real relief. “That’s it, I guess. I wish I had a Li-Paz.” He frowned, as though realizing what he’d just said. “Well, no, I wish I had a Kes.” His eyes widened. “I mean, not you, but…”

“I understand what you mean,” Kes said, smiling. She let go of his shoulder. “And working out is how you cope when your quarters feel empty?”

He nodded. 

“Hm,” she said. “Well, you can’t keep pushing yourself—nothing for a least a week, and come see me before you try exercising again—but if your quarters are feeling empty, have you considered inviting people over?” 

Baxter blushed. “I’m not… I don’t think I could be that… uh…” He bit his lip. “Casual isn’t really how I…” He lifted one hand, looking so very lost and embarrassed Kes had to choke back some laughter. Human men were such an odd group sometimes. 

“I didn’t mean one person, or as a request for intimate company,” Kes said. “Ensign Lan hosts a weekly poker game. Ensign Kyoto has a philosophy group. Crewman Biddle, Lieutenant Nicoletti and Ensign Farley all take turns hosting each other and some other musical crew for their practices.” She tilted her head. “What are your hobbies?”

Baxter looked completely overwhelmed. “Other than the gym? And Pareses Squares?” 

“Other than the gym,” Kes said, patiently. “And leaving out sports for now, given your injuries, yes.”

“I don’t know,” Baxter said. He stared into the air between them for a few beats. “I used to like Durotta. It was how I got started in security, really, before I transferred to Command. Trying to outthink another player got me interested in strategic thinking, and how battles were won.”

“Durotta is a game?” Kes said, not knowing the word.

“Yes,” Baxter said. “It’s a strategic placement game. Paul—my twin brother—and I used to play it all the time.” He smiled faintly, as though transported somewhere by the memory.

“I didn’t know you were a twin,” Kes said. 

“So was my father,” Baxter said. “And one of my grandfather’s brothers, too. It runs in the family. The Baxter Brood.”

“Twins are the most common births on Ocampa,” Kes said, feeling a slight pang at being an only child, though he father had always said it made her special and allowed her parents to give her twice the love. “But it’s not like that for humans, is it?”

“No.” Baxter eyed her. “We’re pretty rare.” He shifted on the biobed. “Do you really think people would be interested in coming over, just to play strategy games?” 

“I’ve seen Lieutenant Chapman playing chess with Crewman Robertson,” Kes said. “I don’t think he ever wins, but they seem to enjoy it.” 

Baxter nodded. “I’ll give it a try.” He paused, sliding off the biobed carefully, then rose. “That feels much better.”

“It needs a week to heal,” she said. “No lifting.” 

He nodded, sighing. “No lifting. Deal.” He tilted his head. “Did you have strategy games on Ocampa?” 

She shook her head. “Not that I ever saw,” she said. “I’m not sure I’ve ever played a strategy game, to be honest.” She smiled at him. “If you do set something up, feel free to invite Li-Paz and I. I warn you, though, he’s competitive.”

Baxter grinned, as though Li-Paz being competitive was something positive. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Kes.”

Kes made notes in her file, then, seeing she had a few moments in between appointments, she gave into temptation, walking back into the office and sitting down at the desk to activate the small computer interface.

“Computer, show me the game Durotta,” she said.

It couldn’t hurt to look it up, after all.

Chapter Text

Crewman Abol Tay stood on the edge of a ice cliff nearly fifty kilometres in height, looking out at the valley beneath the receding glacier, and the tiny specks that moved on the pale, blue-green grasslands along either side of the glacial river that formed. Behind him, a bright sun just cleared the top of the glacier, bathing the plains below with light. 

It was beautiful, and…

His smile, which had formed in the first few moments since he’d found himself standing there, faded as a slow realization dawned on him. 

Wait. He looked around more purposefully, taking note of a few other planetary features—one small visible moon, widespread glaciation—and then his gaze drifted back to the tiny dots that moved around on the grasslands below, and—

*

—Crewman Abol Tay stood in the middle of a blue-green grassland, the tall leafy stems of the grass waving in a slight wind, and turned around, glancing up at the distant wall of glacier where he’d just been.

Beside him, a large, thick-furred four-legged beast wrapped up in a simple harness was grazing on some of the wild grasses, and beside it, a humanoid stood, stroking it’s dark grey and white mottled fur. The humanoid wore simple clothes that looked to potentially have been spun from the very fur the large creature grew, and then woven or knitted into the long tunic the humanoid wore. The humanoid itself had deep, russet-brown skin, with a series of lighter striations that ran along the brow-ridges above their eyes, the irises of which were larger than Ocampa irises, with very little white showing around the brown. 

Pre-industrial, Abol thought. The tunic and trousers seemed handmade, and the boots the being wore, despite looking comfortable and well-used, didn’t seem to be machined, either. 

The being turned, it’s eyes flickering with an inner eyelid that Abol thought might have evolved to aid in the glare off the ice, and paused, tilting their head to one side and reaching up, almost hesitantly, roughly in the direction where Abol stood.

Oh no. Where they telepathic? 

He needed to go. He needed to—

*

—Crewman Abol Tay blinked, and looked down at the PADD he’d been reading, Gravity and Time, by Paul Manheim, and then up again at the Arboretum. A pair of engineers were playing three dimensional chess at one of the small tables and chairs set between the delta gooseberry bushes under the aft-facing windows, and Daggin was testing the soil of the Kona coffee trees. 

It had happened again.

For a moment, he considered approaching Daggin to talk about it, but then Setok came in through port-side doors and Daggin greeted him so warmly that Abol hesitated. Setok still wore a slightly wounded look to him, and had done since Ilari, and Abol didn’t want to intrude upon the father and son time they were obviously carving out for themselves.

Abol checked the time. Zandra was still on duty in Stellar Cartography. They’d both been putting in ten hour days lately, alongside Billy Telfer, Therese Hickman, and Fun Murphy, and he’d just ended his own stint on the night shift alongside Billy a couple of hours ago, and had chosen the book to wind down. He couldn’t interrupt her.

Also, he didn’t want to talk to her about this, either. He wasn’t ashamed, exactly, just more convinced she would worry, and there was so much on the plate of his Zandra right now, especially with the massive looming nebula on their long-range sensors, which seemed to reflect and deflect any scan they aimed through it, which had been the cause of those ten hour days. 

So. He knew what he needed to do.

Abol tapped his communicator.

“Abol to Stadi. Are you free, Lieutenant?”

“I am,” Stadi’s voice came through with her usual warmth and genuine interest. “I was just heading to the Holodeck for a post-shift swim. Want to join me?” 

“I will, thank you.” Abol rose from his seat. From any of the human crew, he’d have clarified that the offer wasn’t being made out of politeness, and made sure they didn’t mind company. But from Lieutenant Stadi, he knew the initial request would have been honest and forthright. 

Betazoids were refreshing in that way.

Ten minutes later, Abol joined Stadi by the Janaran Falls of Betazed, which turned out to be beautiful, and fed into a broad, open lake to either side of the falls with multiple lower pools and a few sandy beaches before opening up into the ocean behind him. 

The water was particularly blue. 

Stadi, showing her usual awareness of those around her, swam quietly alongside him for a few minutes, the two of them doing makeshift laps to a large rock and back to shore before she finally turned to him, climbing out of the water and squeezing out some of the excess from her long dark hair. 

“So, your thoughts are full of anxiousness and that’s not like you.” 

Abol picked up his own towel to wipe his hair and face quickly, then nodded, dabbing at the water on his chest and arms. “I seem to be… drifting off.” 

“Drifting off?” Stadi spread her towel on the sand and sat on it, crossing her legs. She wasn’t a particularly tall woman, but she moved with a lot of grace. “You don’t mean losing concentration, do you?” He could feel her awareness of his thoughts, and felt a kind of reverberation between them he’d gotten used to—and honestly found comforting—when they spoke. They were each aware of the other at the edge of their minds, drawing context from thought and emotion that just wasn’t present in words.

He spread out his own towel and sat. “I mean it literally.” He took a breath. “In the Chorus, when we go somewhere else, mentally? It’s like that.”

Stadi nodded slowly. “You’re usually the one who gets the Chorus moving, aren’t you?”

Abol wasn’t sure that wasn’t overstating, but couldn’t entirely argue, either. “It’s often Kes or Eru who sense our destination first, but… yes. I suppose so. I find adjusting my presence isn’t difficult.”

“But this is without the Chorus?” Stadi said. She crossed her arms on the top of her knees and rested her chin on her arm. “And you weren’t trying to go anywhere.”

“Yes,” he said, knowing she’d see the issues right away. “It’s happened three times now. Twice when I was reading after a shift—I do that to wind my mind down. If I try to go straight to bed, I never sleep, there’s too much going on in my head.” He smiled, a little embarrassed at the admission. 

“I’m the same,” Stadi said. “I have to work off some mental energy first.” 

He nodded. “Yes. The third incident was while I was helping Daggin with the marob root. It grows quickly, and you have to harvest cuttings quite regularly. It’s not challenging, and I find it almost as good as a book for working off the mental energy, as you put it.” 

“Where did you go?” Stadi said. 

“The first time, it was just after we got Setok back from Ilari,” Abol said. “I’d been reading, and then I found myself back there, in the palace chambers, listening to Demmas talking to the viceroys. If what I saw was truly happening, they’re making progress with the peace talks.” He shrugged. “After everything that happened, I thought perhaps it was just fallout from guiding the Chorus there the first time.”

“That would make sense,” Stadi said, with a small smile. “I know Kes has caught herself accidentally nudging a mug here and there, too, particularly after a practice session.”

“Exactly,” Abol said, nodding. “That’s what I thought it was.”

“But it happened again. Twice more, you said?”

“The second was about a week later, when I was helping with the marob harvest. I was on a shore a little like this one, actually,” Abol gestured to the beach around them. “But it was night, and there were three small moons and a ring-system in the sky, and I could see twin stars rising on the horizon.” He took a moment. “And just now, I was on a glacier, and then beside a pre-industrial humanoid and his mount. I believe the humanoid might have been empathic, as they seemed to vaguely sense me for a moment, though I left as soon as I realized that might have been happening.”

Stadi nodded, and he felt the tone of her mind shift to something more analytical and thoughtful. “You’re worried.”

“I am,” Abol said. “So far this has happened when I’ve been quiet, doing unimportant things that don’t take much attention.” He lifted his gaze, and said aloud what had been really worrying him. “What if I’m working on something important, or sensitive, and I just… drift away?”

“Well,” Stadi said. “So far that hasn’t happened, and…” She frowned.

“What is it?” he said.

“I think I’ve told you this before,” Stadi said. “But when you and Kes joined, your minds became… echoey.” 

“Because of Tay.” He smiled, and unconsciously touched his stomach, even though there was no visible outward sign of the symbiont—Tay—that lay within him, connected through their neurological bond and, in many ways, creating someone who was more than Abol had been before he’d joined.  

“Right. There’s a kind of telepathic echo to you now, a sense of duality to you that is almost completely aligned. So in synch you’d almost not notice, but every now and then a little echo of dissonance, or delay, like one part of you is catching up to the other part,” Stadi said. “And the thing is, Abol…” She titled her head. “I don’t think this is your problem.”

Abol blinked. “Pardon?”

“What I’m sensing, when you talk about relaxing? The books, the marob root?” Stadi raised her hands. “It echoes louder than usual. It’s not in synch.” 

“You think this is somehow Tay’s doing?” Abol said, surprised. 

Stadi nodded. “If I had to categorize what I got just now?” Stadi aimed her gaze upward, like the words might be there if she looked into the sky for them. “I’d say you find reading and gardening relaxing, and Tay, the symbiont is…” She lowered her gaze. “Bored.”

Abol blinked. “Bored?”

“To tears,” Stadi said, nodding. “I mean, if it cried.” She eyed him. “It can’t actually, cry, right?”

“Right,” Abol said, touching his stomach again. “So you think I’m drifting away telepathically because Tay…”

“Is looking for something interesting to do,” Stadi said. “If you think about it, Ilari was the first time you’ve led the Chorus somewhere since you were joined. That might explain why this drifting only happened since.”

Abol exhaled. “There is a strong urge from Tay to explore, to learn, to experience new things,” he said. “It’s fairly constant, like Tay wants to see the galaxy through my eyes. Sahreen said that was common for symbionts with their first hosts, and that we might have to tamp down the urge somewhat.”

“Well, this symbiont has access to Ocampa telepathy,” Stadi said. “And your gifts in particular lend themselves to looking at what’s out there.”

Abol took a breath. “If you’re right, I’m not sure what to do about this.”

“Well, let’s have Doctor Fitzgerald take a look, just in case,” Stadi said. “But if I had to lay odds, I’d say I was right. But I think the solution might be simpler than you think.”

“You do?” Abol said. He didn’t see it, but he could feel Stadi’s confidence coming off her in waves, as well as some humour.

“Abol,” Stadi said. “If I could burn off some mental energy after a shift by taking telepathic detours to passing planets, I would.”

“Oh,” Abol said, realizing what she was saying. “You mean… do it on purpose?” 

“Not every shift, but now and then.” She lifted both shoulders. “As long as Doctor Fitzgerald doesn’t find anything wrong with you… Why not?” She eyed him. “Did you recognize those other two planets? The one with the binary star and rings, or the one with the glacier?”

“I haven’t checked the second, but the I found a planet that matched the first on our sensors, yes,” Abol said. 

“You Ocampa never cease to amaze me,” Stadi said, smiling at him.

Abol smiled. He supposed he should go see Doctor Fitzgerald right away, just to make sure, but… He looked at the waterfall, and the pools beneath, and lay back on his towel instead. Tay, he thought, might like to stay here a little longer.

And they were definitely in agreement over that.

Chapter Text

“Do we have a deal?” McMinn said, reaching out one hand across the table.

The Talaxian at the other side, Janax, took it and shook. “We do!” he said, bubbling with clear joy, nodding to both McMinn and Gara. The woman beside Janax, his second in the convoy, Illixia, was a trace more subdued, but even she offered a wide smile. Catching the Talaxian trading group on long-range sensors had been an unexpected and welcome surprise.

That they’d been willing to meet half-way had been even better.

“Wonderful,” Gara said.

Captain Aaron Cavit never tired of watching Crewman Gara and Crewman Basil McMinn working together in trade. They complemented each other in style, approach, and a kind of back-and-forth banter with those on the other side of any negotiation that seemed to just put everyone involved at ease.

He knew some of that came from Gara’s telepathic abilities—she had a particular gift for sensing emotional states—but he thought the Talaxian trader across from her at the table, Janax, was just as much enamoured of Gara’s smile as he was the various foodstuffs, polycomposites, and broad antibiotics; the latter of which being the thing the Talaxians seemed to want most especially, thanks to a recent outbreak of a fever among their trading convoy. 

“For the record, marob root grows quickly,” Gara said. “And if you don’t grow it in a sealed area, it will spread. It makes a great tea, and also adds a good kick, a little spicy, to anything you might want to make a bit hotter. I imagine your Talaxian tastebuds are up for the challenge.” She smiled. “Everything Talaxian I’ve ever tasted has always been so flavourful.”

Cavit tried not to laugh out loud at the understatement, which included the meal Jaxan’s people had invited them to at the start of their trading session—which had been a bowl of chadre’kab; a yellow, fluffy food Cavit had thought looked very much like scrambled eggs until the flavours—and so many spices—had hit his tongue.

“If you’re interested,” Jaxan said. “I’m sure I could convince the convoy chef to throw in some chadre'kab seedlings. We have a few spare from our last harvest. They’re a dietary staple for my people, and you can serve it boiled, baked, stir-fried, steamed, or roasted.” He lifted both hands as he spoke about the vegetable—or maybe it was a fruit, Cavit wasn’t sure—with the enthusiasm Cavit had long associated with the Talaxians. 

“If you’ll part with them,” McMinn said. “I’m sure Daggin will be happy to add them to our Garden.”

“Given the medicine you’ve brought us,” Janax said, running one hand along the tall ruff of hair that sprouted from the top of his head. “Some chadre'kab is more than deserved. I just wish we had more star charts to offer you, but most Talaxians don’t go beyond the Nekrit Expanse. Our sensors tend to find it too much trouble to navigate, and there’s enough trading work to be done on this side.” 

It struck Cavit then that this might very well be the last Talaxian group Voyager encountered. Displaced from their homeworld by a war, their people had been quite scattered, and while Voyager had crossed paths with a small colony or two, mostly the Talaxians they’d met had been like Janax and his group—traders and cargo haulers playing space between various worlds, making their living by ferrying things from one place to another—and their study ships were all the home they had. 

And yet, they were such a happy people. Jeff would probably tell him to consider a lesson to be found in the observation, and he smiled again, shaking off the more maudlin aspect of where his thoughts had gone. 

“Is there anything else you need?” Cavit said, making the offer on the heels of that decision. If these people were the last of the Talaxians he might ever encounter, he wanted to leave them with a positive impression of Starfleet. 

Janax looked down at his PADD, scrolling it, then looking up with an expression that Cavit had learned was quite common on Talaxian faces: good humour mixed with teasing. “I don’t suppose you have any spare pergium?” 

Cavit laughed. “I’m sorry, we don’t. But I wish we did—we’ve been looking for pergium ourselves.” He turned to McMinn. “That said, the last place we got some was… where?”

“The Kolhari.” McMinn didn’t even have to look at his PADD. Voyager’s Quartermaster was just that good. “They’ve also got excellent tetryon-based power systems. I’ll add the co-ordinates, but they’re quite a distance from here.”

“The Kolhari. We’ve heard about them from one of the other trading convoys,” Janax said, turning his head to his second, and nodding with a small smile on his face, like it was pleasing news. 

“We’ve heard they’ve formed some sort of group,” Illixia said, her voice soft. She was taller, and broader than Janax, and had a rather composed style to her compared to most Talaxians Cavit had met. “Ever since the Kazon Alliance fell apart. A coalition with some of the other nearby worlds—and have extended invitations to Talaxians, even though we don’t have a homeworld. Irax’s convoy heard it from Pixia, which…” The woman’s eyebrow rose on her spotted, ridged forehead, and her lips twisted up into a smile. “Might mean there’s some exaggeration in the telling.”

“I can assure you, the Kolhari are a wonderful people,” Cavit said, though a moment later, he tilted his head. “Wait. You said a coalition?” 

“That’s what Irax said Pixia called it, yes,” Illixia said. “We haven't headed back into that area of space yet to confirm it for ourselves. Why?” 

“I’d heard they might have aligned with some other people we worked with.” Cavit remembered Jeff saying Dimur had mentioned something called “the Delta Coalition” when Q had briefly taken him all the way back to the Kohl Settlement, and that the alternate future versions of Kes and Abol had been a part of it. He wondered if this was the same thing. “It’s nice to have confirmation.”

“Well, if you believe Pixia,” Illixia said. 

Cavit smiled. “Fair enough.”

“If that’s everything,” McMinn said, lifting his PADD. “I’ll head to the Cargo Bay and we can start transporting what you’ve chosen into your holds.”

“Thank you,” Illixia said. “I’ll get things organized here as well.”

They all rose, shook hands—and then were pulled into effusive hugs, because Talaxians just didn’t seem to do anything half-way—and as Cavit contacted Voyager to beam out, he allowed himself that maudlin sensation again.

It was easy, sometimes, to think of the Delta Quadrant as the Kazon part of the galaxy. Or to remember it was where they’d encountered the Swarm, and the Akritarians, and the Mokra Order.

As he dematerialized, Cavit vowed to remember the Talaxians just as much.

Chapter Text

Ensign Therese Hickman stepped into her quarters and yawned, stretching her arms to either side and feeling tension in her neck stretch against the motion.

Her door chimed.

“No no no,” Hickman said under her breath, then turned and in a far more upbeat voice said, “Come in.”

The door opened, revealing two figures: Ensign Bahni Swinn and Ensign Wendy Drapanas, though both weren’t in uniform, instead Drapanas had a simple black blouse and tan trousers combo going on that worked well on her tall, athletic frame. Swinn, beside her, wore a lovely russet-brown dress with repeating geometric patterns and why were her friends at her door dressed as though they were heading out to a Starbase bar?

Drapanas and Swinn regarded her, and she stared right back at them, and then—finally—the penny dropped.

“The salon,” Hickman said, putting a hand to her forehead. “I completely forgot. Come on in. I’ll… I’ll get changed and…” She turned around, already heading to her wardrobe. Her quarters, like most of the quarters on Voyager for non-senior officers, weren’t large, but they were entirely her own, and had been since the death of Jenny Delaney over two years ago.

“Did you just get back from Stellar Cartography?” Swinn said, sitting down on Hickman’s couch. “Didn’t your shift end three hours ago?”

“Technically,” Hickman said. “How late am I? How long do we have on the holodeck?” She’d wanted to have her hair dyed bright red again in their salon program, but if she’d messed up their timing too much, she’d let it pass. 

“We’re fine,” Drapanas said, leaning against the wall. “Take your time.”

“What had you working late?” Swinn said, raising her voice to be heard as Hickman chose a simple red summer dress to take with her into the ‘fresher to change. 

Hickman paused after taking off her uniform. “The usual. Raw scans we’re trying to codify into functional star charts of the unknown sectors ahead, along with marking particular readings for planetary sciences to follow-up with potential resource sourcing, if something looks promising, cross-referencing with the Sikarian star charts to see if we’ve bumped into any of their worlds or not, doublechecking to make sure the information matches any of the other charts we’ve traded for, co-ordinating with Cing’ta’s people for any inhabited worlds, looking for signs of antimatter or warp technology, making sure we’re not running to hostile territory…” She blew out a breath. “And did I mention there’s a giant nebula ahead of us on our current heading that’s blocking our sensors?” She stepped into he dress, happy she’d chosen one that fastened on the side. The idea of a rear zipper was enough to bring her to tears in this moment.

“You sound a little tired,” Drapanas said, diplomatically.

“That’s because I am. When we don’t stop anywhere, it’s non-stop scanning until we do, and Abol, Billy, Fun Murphy and I maybe good, but we’re not eight people.” Hickman laughed, coming out of the ‘fresher carrying her boots and uniform. “Even when Lieutenant Taitt can give us most of her time? There’s only us. It’s sometimes more work than a full team could accomplish, and we’re not a full team.”

“I thought the pilots were helping out?” Swinn said. 

“With astrogation and course plotting, yes,” Hickman said, nodding. “And thank the heavens for that. Because honestly, if that was still on our plate, we’d be completely buried under. But you can’t navigate until you’ve got star charts, and we’re the ones making the star charts.” 

“If you want to skip, and get some sleep,” Drapanas said. “We’ll understand.” 

Hickman almost agreed. She was tired. And she hadn’t eaten yet. “I really want to redo my hair,” she said. “But if I fall asleep in the chair, don’t take it personally.”

Swinn laughed. “That’s a deal.” She rose, then eyed Hickman with narrowed eyes. “Did you eat?”

Hickman shook her head. “I can get something after.”

“Oh, you did not just say that,” Drapanas said, shaking her head. “Lady, we are going to bring you food while the finest of holographic Bolians styles you to perfection.” 

Hickman smiled. She had great friends in these two, and they seemed to aim all their coupled maternal instincts her way, which was amusing given technically she was the oldest of the three by a few months. “I will take that deal.” 

“Good,” Swinn said, wrapping one arm around Hickman’s waist. “Now, I’m thinking I should have my braids re-done. What do you think?”

“I think I’m not so tired as to forget Wendy prefers your hair loose and that was a trap to get me to side with you,” Hickman said, feeling better already.

“You tell her, Therese.” Drapanas laughed triumphantly, leading the way to the holodeck. 

Twenty minutes later, Hickman was eating a fresh and icy-chilled fruit salad while a holographic Bolian trimmed and styled her hair. Swinn had even asked the holodeck to provide an attendant for her who was quite literally feeding Hickman a forkful at a time.

Bliss.

“We need to do this more often,” Drapanas said, from the chair beside her. “If you’re going to work like that, we need to get you quality rest time.”

“That, or a major upgrade to the astrometic sensors would be fine by me,” Hickman said, taking another bite of the fruit from the fork held out to her.

“I know Lieutenant Honigsberg has been trying to boost the astrometric arrays,” Swinn said. “Freddy Bristow has been trying some sort of parallel scanning algorithm out. I’m not sure if it’s working.” 

“It is what it is,” Hickman said. “We’re heading home, through uncharted space. We’re not stopping and studying, or being assigned missions from Starfleet. We’re heading in as straight a line as we can towards Earth.” She paused for another bite. “That means quite literally my work is never done.” She exhaled. “Every time we stop somewhere, it means we can catch up, but it also means we’re not heading forward. It’s a catch 22.”

“Do we have anywhere we’ll be stopping soon?” Swinn said.

“Good question,” Hickman said, and closed her eyes. “Ask someone who’s on duty.” 

Swinn laughed. “You know, I think maybe we need ourselves some Altair water. Fizzy, with limes.” 

Hickman smiled.

She had wonderful friends. 

Chapter Text

Crewman Li-Paz put the PADD on the table between where Crewman Zayra Cabot and Ensign Kieth Ashmore were sitting and said, “I’ve got it.” He slid into the third seat, glancing around the rest of the Arboretum, but the place was—as was so often the case—empty this late in the evening, apart from the two engineers, who, like him, had just finished their shift.

“Got the issue with the deck eleven replicators, got the LCARS hiccough tracked down?” Cabot leaned forward, her brown eyes glinting with amusement. “Got the next round of coffee for the night shift? Could you be more specific, Paz?” 

“I did fix the replicators, actually,” Li-Paz said. “But no, I was talking about how Keith here said we needed to come up with the next, best, most popular holoprogram.”

Ashmore blinked, though a smile followed soon after. “I never said that.”

“You kinda did,” Cabot said. “I think your exact words were ‘If we purged all the programs no one has run in the last two years, it would be more than half of the database.’”

“How is that a challenge to write a new program?” Ashmore said, though his smile only grew. Ashmore had a kind of playful side to him that didn’t come out easily. You had to tease him there. 

“How is it not?” Cabot said, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. He’d noticed she’d let her long dark hair out of its usual pony tail now that they were all off-duty. 

Li-Paz had also noticed Cabot was an expert at getting the ensign to loosen up a bit. Ashmore’s tendency to professionalism was admirable—and Li-Paz knew it was aspirational at best on his own part, so he tried to admire it all the more—but Ashmore was perhaps the second-best holodeck programmer on board Voyager. 

Ashmore picked up the PADD, and scanned it. “Time travel?” he eyed Li-Paz. “You really think people would be interested in that given everything with Relativity and Earth?” 

“I think it would satisfy the urge to have had more control over everything that happened,” Li-Paz said. “See? You encounter a new timeline after passing through a rift, and then the whole point is to figure out what changed, when, and put it back to rights.” He smiled. “Or make it even better.”

“So we’re not going with the Temporal Prime Directive, then?” Cabot said, taking the PADD from Ashmore to look. “Oh, I like the idea of going back to the first year of Starfleet. Nice touch.”

“Thank you,” Li-Paz said. “And we can keep the Temporal Prime Directive if you think it would make for a more interesting story.”

“We’d need to give the villains of the story a motive, and then work backwards from there,” Ashmore said. “And then an adaptable fallout narrative flow for timeline changes—it would be quite an interesting challenge. All those “what-if?” moments in history…” Ashmore’s dark brown eyes flicked back and forth between Cabot and Li-Paz. “Do you two really want to do this?”

“Kes is burying herself in case studies and her rotation year,” Li-Paz said. “And I’m trying to get out of her way when she’s studying. Which means I need a project, or I’m going to do that thing I do where I think I’m being helpful but I’m really being a major distraction by being around all the time, asking her if she wants something.”

Cabot stared at him for a beat.

“What?” he said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be this self-aware before,” Cabot said, then cracked a wide grin. “Who are you and what have you done with Paz?”

“All right, all right,” Li-Paz said, holding up one hand. “If I wanted to be teased about my character flaws, I would have met up with Sveta and Sam.” 

“Sorry,” Cabot said, her lips still twitching. Then she turned to Ashmore. “I’m in if you are. I love designing holoprogram settings, but the narrative permutations and dialog?” She shook her head. “Not my favourite.” 

“Whereas you are the king of personality subroutines,” Li-Paz said, pointing at Ashmore.

“And you’re the Prince of Plot?” Ashmore said. 

Li-Paz lifted both hands in a ‘what can I do, argue with truth?’ gesture.

“You really think anyone would be interested in an original program?” Ashmore said, looking at the PADD again. “Written by us?” 

“Are you kidding?” Cabot said. “Look at how many people flock to the Chief’s Stonewall program. Everyone’s done the popular programs—mysteries, romantic intrigues, classics—but the Chief’s program was unique. It’s been accessed on a regular basis since he loaded it up over two years ago.” 

“Did he write it himself?” Ashmore said. “I didn’t know he had any interest in holography.”

“No, it was a present from a friend of his, I think,” Li-Paz said. 

Ashmore took the PADD back again. “You know, we could put in an adaptable villain reveal. Not make it too easy. If we craft multiple villains with concrete motivations, we could also ensure whichever suspect the person in the program thinks is the villain first is adjusted to be a red herring, and the program chooses the real villain from the rest of the pack.”

“No one could ever get it right the first time?” Cabot said, her eyes widening. “That’s a cruel trick.” She smiled. “I love it.”

Li-Paz grinned. “Okay. So walk me through what you’re thinking could be some villain choices, because I didn’t get that far.” 

Ashmore and Cabot starting bouncing ideas, and Li-Paz took notes on the PADD. This was, he decided, perhaps the best idea he’d had in ages, and although they had to write the program first, he already couldn’t wait to book the Holodeck for an evening with Kes, Sam, Sveta, and Gavin to see what they thought. 

Chapter Text

Doctor Jeff Fitzgerald stepped into the unused office on Deck Five and exhaled. Not a large space, a small desk lay tucked into one end of the L-shape it formed, with a personal monitor interface, a food replicator, and a small shelf currently empty of anything at all. 

The rest of the space was more open, with a low table in the middle of the crook of the L, around which were a trio of comfortable-enough looking chairs that didn’t quite face each other in directly opposing angles, and at the furthest end of the office, behind the single door, he knew he’d find a small ‘fresher.

Everything appeared standard issue, and was rather… grey. Starfleet grey, in fact. Except for the small desk monitor, which was white. Not a single piece of artwork. Even the air felt a bit grey to him, but that would pass now they’d reactivated environmental controls in the space. 

He took a long, slow breath. Grey. Sterile. Boring. 

There is no way I can work in here.

The door opened behind him, and he turned, not at all surprised to see Captain Aaron Cavit step in. His commanding officer. Also the man he loved. 

Also the person responsible for him being in this incredibly grey room. 

“Remind me,” Fitzgerald said, after giving Cavit a moment to look around. “Who said this is a good idea?”

“I’m pretty sure it was a mutual discussion thing,” Cavit said, flashing that boyscout smile his way. 

“If I try to talk to anyone in here, they’ll fall comatose,” Fitzgerald said.

Cavit’s lips twitched, and he swallowed with a little noise that could have been a smirk. “So, I happen to know the Captain might authorize some extra replicator rations if you think that will help change the mood in here to something less…” His pale blue eyes flicked around the space again, but he didn’t finish the sentence.

“Grey?” Fitzgerald suggested.

“Oh, thank you,” Cavit said, laughing and tugging him in for a quick hug and a peck on the lips. “All I was coming up with was dire.”

“Dire grey,” Fitzgerald said, snorting. “I wonder if that’s the official name for this colour scheme?” 

“I think the idea was for the Ship’s Counselor to customize,” Cavit said. He took a step back, and looked around again. He bit his bottom lip before glancing back at Fitzgerald. “Kind of a blank canvas. What are you thinking?”

“I’m trying not to think ‘reseal the office and keep using the Arboretum and Holodeck.’” Fitzgerald crossed his arms.

“Jeff.” Cavit shook his head. 

“No, you’re right,” Fitzgerald said, waving one hand. He absolutely needed a space that was private and professional. “Okay. Well…” He eyed the bare walls. “Artwork of some kind. Or maybe adjustable wall lighting so I could shift the colour away from grey. And while those chairs look comfortable, I’d like some pillows—there was this paper written back in the twenty-third century by this brilliant therapist, Cornwell, who made all these amazing connections between posture, where one holds a pillow, how one holds a pillow…”

“Sorry, pillow-holding?” Cavit eyed him. “As a psychological metric?”

Fitzgerald nodded, sitting down on one of the chairs, which were in fact as comfortable as they looked. “Pretend I’ve got a pillow to work with, here, but if I put it on my lap, up on it’s edge, and kind of held it?” Fitzgerald mimed the action. “I’m putting a barrier between us. Protecting myself, maybe.” He mimed squeezing it. “If I’m hugging it? I’m drawing physical comfort. Why?” 

“All that from a pillow?”

“And more,” Fitzgerald said, rising. “She was the first therapist to ever become an Admiral in Starfleet’s history. The woman was a master of her craft.” 

“I will get you pillows,” Cavit said. “What else?” 

“One of the things I like about the Arboretum are the bushes and the trees…” He glanced at Cavit. “Do you think Daggin would be up for giving this space some of the same treatment he gave your Ready Room?”

“Are you kidding?” Cavit laughed. “Him and Alex are trying to pitch vines in the crew decks. He’ll jump at the chance for another space to test out his retro-tech.”

“Retro…? Vines in the crew decks?” Fitzgerald blinked. “Pardon?”

“He’s going to pitch it at the next Senior Staff meeting,” Cavit said, shaking his head. “I won’t steal his thunder.” He looked around again. “You’re right about needing art.” 

“I’ll figure it out,” Fitzgerald said. “I don’t think I want to grow tea, though.”

“I think he covered tea and most of the herbs Eru and Gara wanted in my Ready Room. I’m guessing he’ll pick something else,” Cavit said. “And you’re right, you know.”

Fitzgerald frowned, not following. “Sorry?”

Cavit pulled him in close again. “You’ll figure it out.”

Fitzgerald allowed himself a moment to just bask in the warmth. Then he pulled back, eyeing Cavit, because he had an idea of a way to make the space feel more lived-in and pleasant, but he wasn’t sure how to ask—

“You going to take the Crann Bethadh, aren’t you?” Cavit said. The flat, round green stone, the surface of which was carved with a stylized oak tree, currently decorated their quarters.

“Yes.” Fitzgerald nodded. It made him smile that it was the first thing that had occurred to Aaron, too. “I am.”

“I’ll go get it,” Cavit said. “You grab a PADD and start making a list of everything else you might want.”

Fitzgerald watched him go—openly ogling the Captain was another benefit of being in the small office—then turned in a slow circle, imagining more things in the office.

No.

He had to stop doing that.

Fitzgerald eyed the space again.

He tapped his combadge. “Fitzgerald to Daggin.”

“Daggin here,” the Ocampa man’s voice came through in his usual calm manner. “What can I do for you, Doctor?”

“I’m wondering if I could book some time with you to go over some options for plants,” Fitzgerald said. “I’m getting the Ship’s Counselor’s office ready.” He paused, and took a breath, and realized he’d done it again. “My office, I mean.”

“Of course,” Daggin said. “Are you free to meet me in the Gardens in an hour or so?”

Fitzgerald smiled. “That would be great. Thanks, Daggin.”

He tapped his combadge, closing the channel, and then went to the desk, opening the drawer and finding a single, standard-issue PADD there, fully charged in the slot.

He got to work.

Chapter Text

“Lieutenant, I believe the deuterium quality is not going to reach minimum standards,” Ensign Vorik said, with his usual deadpan Vulcan delivery, which in turn meant Lieutenant Junior Grade Ikuyo Seuphon’s brain took a few seconds to process what the ensign had just said.

Because unless she was mistaken, Ensign Vorik just said they were—to use a euphemism she’d picked up in her impulse engine design classes at the Academy—going to ‘run out of gas.’ 

“How far off are we?” she asked, crossing Main Engineering to join him at the impulse display. 

“My analysis puts the purity two percent below the necessary levels for proper integration with the tritium,” Vorik said, tapping the panel to bring up his test results on the screen. 

And there it was, in full detail. She wasn’t surprised he was correct, she was just disappointed. 

“This is after the chemistry lab’s tinkering?” Seuphon said. 

“Tinkering?” Vorik eyed her, a line forming between his eyebrows.

“Swift and Copage were working on a way to further process and purify,” Seuphon said. “This is what we got after their attention?”

“Ah,” Vorik nodded. “Yes, Lieutenant. This is the deuterium after their… tinkering.”

“Ryson, Atara?” Seuphon turned, raising her voice a little to carry across Main Engineering. They’d been planning this operation for the night shift for over a week now, since they were traveling at high warp and didn’t expect to need the impulse engines, but in about two days, they were expecting to drop out of warp and at that point…

Ensign Erika Ryson and Crewman Atara Ram joined her at the display. Ryson was an older engineer with three decades of experience behind her as an impulse specialist, and while Seuphon knew her theory, Ryson often had the edge on experience. And Atara Ram—former Vedek and colony shuttle platform engineer—had one of the strongest grasps of “making do” she’d encountered. It was a quality she saw in a lot of the former-Maquis, and she supposed it made sense, given their history. 

“Problem, Lieutenant?” Ryson said. She was often a bit formal, and while Seuphon liked that Ryson never once talked to her like she was too young for her role—something Seuphon had learned to blame on having a bit of a “baby-face”—Ryson sometimes erred on the other side of being a bit too tight, like her elaborately braided light brown hair.

“This is the post-processed deuterium from the last ramscoop batch,” Seuphon said, pointing at the results of Vorik’s analysis and letting the two make their own conclusions.

“It’s not pure enough for Voyager,” Atara said, spotting it right away. “It might work for the shuttles.” 

“I’m impressed they got it this close,” Ryson said, looking at the results. “But Crewman Atara is right. This won’t work.”

“We will have to inform Lieutenant Honigsberg and Lieutenant Taitt we require another option,” Ensign Vorik said. “Perhaps another gas giant.” 

“It’s that or we run the risk of tapping out,” Ensign Ryson agreed, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“No,” Seuphon said, and she could almost imagine her mother telling her she was reminding her of her grandmother, Ikuyo Tanaka, who also had a tendency to attempt imposing her will on the universe, as least to hear her mother tell it. “Not on my watch!” 

“I fail to see the relevance of which duty shift reports the quality issue.” Vorik regarded her like she’d clearly not understood what was on the screen. Ryson, too, didn’t look particularly moved by her declaration.

Atara, though, smiled. “What’s the plan?” he said. A tall, broadly built Bajoran man with sandy-blonde hair he wore in a short, severe cut, Atara Ram’s blunt nature had initially made Seuphon feel a bit off balance, not to mention even shorter and smaller than usual, but over the last two years, she’d come to realize he simply didn’t like to waste time when there was a problem to solve.

“When I was going over the processing project with Swift and Copage, Crewman Dimitris was there—Copage has been showing him the ropes, ahead of his semi-retirement,” Seuphon said.

“Right,” Ryson said, nodding once.

“Well, Dimitris was mostly just watching, but at one point, he asked if Swift had considered adjusting the tritium intermix levels.” Seuphon looked at Ram. “Apparently, one of the older Maquis ships had a warp core issue, and changing the ratio fixed the problem?”

Atara blinked, nodding. “Yes, I remember.” He eyed the display. “Our tritium is much purer than what we were working with, though.” He crossed his arms. “It’s like the Prophet’s Dilemma.” 

“Pardon?” Vorik said.

“One pagh too strong, one too weak?” Atara said, then shook his head when it was clear none of them had heard whatever parable he was talking about. “The point is, upping this tritium might make the fuel a little too combustable. Like, plasma-hot.”

“Right,” Seuphon said. “But it occurs to me that if we dilute the tritium down to something closer to what we’d have gotten from a Starbase—not all the way, just closer—and then upped the admixture…”

Atara was already nodding. Ryson turned back to the display, and tapped a few commands into the computer to bring up their stores. “We’ve got more than a few different hydrogen compounds to work with,” she said.

“I believe this… tinkering… will only generate two-thirds of the volume of useable deuterium we’d initially estimated,” Vorik said.

“Two-thirds useable gas versus three-thirds of nothing isn’t a bad swap,” Seuphon said.

Work regarded her. “Indeed.” 

Seuphon nodded. “Let’s get started. When the Chief wakes up, I’d like to give him the good news along with the bad.” 

“Aye, Lieutenant,” Ryson said, nodding at Vorik. “Help me prep the intermix tanks, Ensign.”

Vorik dipped his head, and the two left together. 

Seuphon turned to Atara. “Do you have time to tell me the story before they get back?” she said.

Atara blinked, looking at her. “Story?”

“The… what did you call it? Prophet’s Dilemma?”

Atara smiled. “You want to hear it?” He seemed surprised. 

“My father is a Buddhist,” Seuphon said. “Theravada, specifically.”

Atara shook his head, though his brown eyes were interested. “I don’t know it.”

“It involved a lot of listening to him telling me stories he learned from earlier generations,” Seuphon said. “It was a very pleasant part of my childhood, and young adulthood, and… Well, honestly it never stopped. It was like his love language was generational teachings.” She laughed. “But I’ve always enjoyed hearing parables and stories of faith.” 

“That sounds lovely.” Atara’s smile grew. “I’d love to.”

“Great,” Seuphon said, turning to face him, and waiting for him to begin.

“It starts with the birth of twin girls,” Atara said. “One of whom was more willful than the other…” 

Chapter Text

“Ah, there you are!” 

Crewman Billy Telfer turned at the rather boisterous voice that had greeted his group the moment they’d stepped into the Mess Hall. Crewman Augustus Emmanuel—“Gus” to his friends—had a rolling Cajun accent that seemed to come-and-go depending on his mood, and right now, the accent was quite thick. 

The Mess Hall wasn’t exactly busy, either—Telfer spotted only two other people there, that engineer who always took the last spot by the window, Harren, who was reading a PADD while he ate, and at the other end of the room, sitting on the recessed couches, he spotted Ensign Brita Trumari, who seemed to be doing nothing more than staring out the Mess Hall windows. 

“You called, we answered,” Crewman Stephen Niles said, with an amiable smile for Emmanuel. “But Ram is busy with a deuterium problem, Andreas and Tal are catching a movie, so it’s just me and Billy, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not quantity, it’s quality,” Emmanuel said, spreading his arms and aiming a well-practiced smile their way. “Come up to my counter, mes amis.” 

“Ah,” Niles said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “New recipe?”

“Yep.” Emmanuel nodded. He had very dark brown eyes, Telfer noted, and they always seemed to be taking in the world and daring it not to be charmed by his presence. 

And it tended to work, which was a skill Telfer didn’t understand and also envied. But a new recipe from Gus? Suddenly, he wished he’d invited himself along with Tal and Andreas. Or that he and Niles had stuck to their Durotta board. Even if he had been losing, badly. 

Gus liked spice. A lot. 

“Fantastic,” Niles said, stepping up eagerly and waiting while Telfer approached with a more cautious frame of mind. 

“What is it?” Telfer said, when he realized Emmanuel was looking at him and waiting for him to respond. Or at least, that’s what he thought Emmanuel’s single raised eyebrow was meant to indicate. 

“The closest I’ve come to red beans and rice yet,” Emmanuel said. He lifted the lid off a large pot and a cloud of steam released a scent that Telfer had to admit was very appealing. 

“That smells wonderful,” Niles said, peering over the edge of the counter. “Wait. Is that sausage?” Niles glanced up. “Replicated?”

Emmanuel placed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Stephen. Do I look like a man who cooks with replicated sausage?” 

Niles laughed, holding up one hand. “Sorry, no offence intended.”

“Replicated sausage.” Emmanuel made a snorting noise. 

“Is it… meat?” Telfer said, because if it wasn’t replicated sausage, then… 

“No,” Emmanuel said. “I would love me some andouille, but I finally came up with a mix that’s so close my grandmere would smack the back of my head after I came clean.” 

Telfer blinked. What?

“Because it’s not andouille, but you can’t tell,” Emmanuel said.

“Oh,” Telfer said, nodding. It still made no sense. Why would that inspire a grandmother to hit him? Maybe it was a Cajun thing. “Got it.” 

“Do I want to know what’s in the not-sausage?” Niles said, while Emmanuel prepared them both two small bowls of what looked like plain Rakosan rice, shaped a small divot in the rice with the bottom of a serving ladle, then dipped the ladle into the beans-and-not-sausage sauce, filling up the depression he’d made. 

“Mushrooms—which I smoked, because andouille,” Emmanuel said, as though these were also words that would make intrinsic sense to Telfer. “Getting it that chunkier texture was a trick, let me tell you, but I remembered how marob root thickened sauces and gave it a spin…” He’d finished filling the two bowls, and passed one to Niles, then held one out to Telfer.

Telfer took it, and picked up a spoon. Then he faced the smiling, dark-haired Augustus Emmanuel and asked the question he’d been holding back since they’d arrived.

“Is this safe?” he said. It maybe came out in a bit of a blurt, and perhaps it was over exaggerated, but the last time they’d tried one of Gus’s Cajun dishes, Billy had only recovered by using two replicator rations to make milk to dull the burning, and warm balto tonic for what had happened in his stomach.

“Red beans and rice isn’t usually served very hot,” Niles said, scooping up a forkfull and taking a healthy bite of rice, beans, and the not-sausage.

“Well…” Emmanuel said. 

Niles let out a small cough-choke, and his hazel-green eyes were watering. He chewed and swallowed, then puffed out a breath. “Gus, that’s really good but warn a man.”

Telfer put his bowl down. Then he took a step away from it, just in case.

“But you all like spice,” Emmanuel said. “I’ve tasted Paz’s hasperat.”

“Ram and Paz will love this,” Niles said, nodding. His eyes were still watering, but he was still smiling, and he took a second spoonful, though Telfer noted there was much less on it. 

Emmanuel eyed Telfer. “Not even going to try it?” His eyes were doing that be-charmed thing, and he tilted his head and smiled and his accent was very, very thick. 

“No,” Telfer said, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “I don’t have the extra replicator rations right now.” 

“Replicator rations?” Emmanuel looked confused.

“Last time I drank half a jug of milk and still needed Ensign Lan’s Trill remedy for my stomach,” Telfer said. 

Emmanuel blinked. “But you ate the entire plate.”

“I didn’t want to be rude,” Telfer said. 

Beside them, Niles let out another puff of breath. “Wow, Gus, this is… oof.” He chuckled, and was still eating. Telfer couldn’t understand it. “What was the Trill remedy, Billy?” 

“Balto tonic. I like it warm.”

“I will remember that,” Niles said, chuckling and looking up at the ceiling of the Mess Hall, blinking a few times. 

“Maybe I can cut it down with some,” Emmanuel said. “But I’ll keep some of the original aside for Ram and Paz.”

“And Commander Ro and Lieutenant Taitt,” Telfer said. “And Crewman Dimitris and Yuen, too. They all like spicy food.”

Emmanuel regarded him with surprise, and Telfer shrugged. He’d seen who’d gone back for seconds when Paz had cooked his now-legendary first dish of hasperat in this very kitchen, over two years ago now.

“Thanks for the intel,” Emmanuel said. Then he looked at Telfer for another moment, and his smile returned. “You want some of the vegetable soup instead?” 

“Yes please,” Telfer said, and carefully lifted the bowl of red beans and rice to hand it back to Emmanuel. 

“And maybe a napkin?” Niles added. He was using the back of his hand to wipe away his tears.

Chapter Text

Crewman Gavin Nelson settled into his favourite seat in the Arboretum, tucked in the furthest corner, and out-of-view from either entrance thanks to a combination of the circle of Kona coffee trees in the centre of the room and the two forward structural pillars. He picked up his PADD and a stylus, and waited for a moment, looking out through the aft windows of Voyager as she streaked at warp, gathering his thoughts. 

Then he tapped open the file and started writing.

Dear Kurt;

Another day ending, and by every measure it was a good one. I’ve been working with Val Canamar—I think I told you about her, but if I haven’t, she’s one of the transporter technicians—and we managed to repair a transporter module that was showing signs of degrading. Dean Tamal wasn’t sure it was salvageable, but one of the nicer things about taking the night shifts—beyond it being when Sam and Sveta and Li-Paz tend to work, too—is how I often end up with free time for secondary projects once I finish the diagnostics and maintenance Sahreen or Chief Honigsberg assign me.

Fixing the module means one less thing to replace or replicate, and I can’t help but think that’s one thing us Maquis brought to the table on Voyager: we so often had to work with whatever we had.

In fact, repairing that module reminded me of how you and I got the upgrades we liberated from that surplus depot to shake hands with the courier computers after… What was it? Sixteen hours we worked on that, until I realized we could shunt in an end-run around the duotronics? 

And then you called me a genius, and you kissed me, and…

Well. Like I said, today felt like a good day. And you’d be proud of me, Kurt, because after my shift, I didn’t just go straight back to my quarters or to the Arboretum, but I actually went to Li-Paz’s party on the Holodeck. I can’t remember what Bajoran holiday it was in honour of, but honestly I don’t think it’s traditionally celebrated with a party, since Ram wasn’t there, but—

“There you are.”

Nelson blinked. He hadn’t heard the doors to the Arboretum opening, he’d been so lost in his writing. He turned, and did his best not to completely shrink into the seat at the sight of Sveta, in an off-duty outfit: a light brown blouse and cream trousers, her hair left loose around her long neck instead of up in its usual twist, and her hazel-green eyes pinning him with a stare that was somewhere between frustrated and amused.

“Hi,” he said, going for a casual tone. He missed, but his aim was improving. 

“So, I know you’re the expert at going unnoticed,” Sveta said, taking the seat opposite him in the corner, folding one leg under herself. “But I’m the expert at noticing when people sneak in or out.” 

“I didn’t sneak,” Nelson said, and, okay, that was a complete lie. 

Sveta raised one eyebrow.

“Fine,” Nelson said. “I snuck out. You know how I feel about parties. I lasted longer than usual.”

“I’m pretty sure it was less than fifteen minutes, Gav,” Sveta said.

“Like I said,” Nelson crossed his arms, and even mustered a smile. This was Sveta. He could do this with her, because she was his friend, just like Sam and Li-Paz. They understood him.

“Writing a letter?” Sveta said, nodding at the PADD.

Yeah, Sveta understood him just fine. “Yes,” he said. “I’m happy for Li-Paz, really. But sometimes when I see him and Kes and they’re just so…” He paused, not sure of the words he wanted to use.

“Sickeningly in love?” Sveta said, her eyebrow creeping up again.

“Not how I’d put it,” Nelson said. “It just reminds me, sometimes, is all. And when I get that way, I don’t want anyone to notice.”

“So you leave,” Sveta said, and her voice was softer now.

“And I write Kurt, and then I feel better,” Nelson said.

“Kurt Bendera is a lucky man,” Sveta said. 

“I don’t know about that,” Nelson said, sighing. “He’d probably prefer being with someone who can communicate with him more than twice in the last two years.” He tried to force another smile, but it wobbled. Damn it. 

“If there was a way to get you back to him?” Sveta reached out and put a hand on his forearm. “You know I’d do anything.”

“Remember the wormhole Sahreen and Fun Murphy found?” Nelson said. “If I’d been on that shuttle…” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I would have been able to do what they did.” 

“You and me both,” Sveta said. “But then again, I’d probably have just phasered the Ferengi in the first place, so…” She shrugged.

Nelson laughed. “For the record,” he said. “You look great. I like what you’ve done with your hair. Does it have anything to do with Ensign Moore showing up to the party with Ensign Ballard?” 

“Hardly.” Sveta crossed her arms. “Who Tom tries to marry next is none of my business.”

“Wait, marry?” Nelson tilted his head. “You said he was a bit clingy, but that’s not clingy, that’s…” He shook his head. 

“Oh, he never proposed,” Sveta said, shaking her head. “But that was the energy he gave off, after one night.” She tilted her head. “One really, really satisfying night, though.”

Nelson eyed her. He might slip out of parties and avoid anyone but his closest friends, but Sveta had her own ways of keeping people at arms length, even when she shared a bed with them. 

She caught him looking. “What?”

“Thank you for checking up on me,” Nelson said. “I really am okay.”

She nodded. “I know you are, Gav.” She rose. “But old habits die hard.” She winked.

“Heading back to the party?” Nelson said. 

She let out a breath. “Maybe. Probably. Otherwise it’s a waste of hair styling.” She pointed at her waves. “I don’t do this unless I’m in for the long haul.”

“Don’t let Tom Moore hear you say that,” Nelson said.

She swatted his arm, but laughed. “Good night, Gav.” 

“Night,” he said.

She left, and he picked his PADD back up. 

I can’t remember what Bajoran holiday it was in honour of, but honestly I don’t think it’s traditionally celebrated with a party, since Ram wasn’t there, but I stayed almost fifteen minutes. 

I know, I know, I can hear your voice telling me I can do better than fifteen minutes. But parties make me think of you—what doesn’t?—and I wanted to talk to you, and right now, that means writing these letters. 

I miss you, Kurt. And I love you. 

Until tomorrow,

Gavin.

Chapter Text

Crewman Christopher Vance glanced up from his bunk at the sound of the chime, rolling onto his side before calling out a simple, “come in.”

Ensign Tricia Jenkins, one of the night shift conn officers, a talented pilot, and—he could not stress the sheer good fortune of this—his girlfriend, stepped into the quarters Vance and Crewman Li-Paz shared and looked up at him.

“Early to bed?” she said, and she was so perfectly put together, as usual, that he couldn’t help taking a few moments to just enjoy the sweep of her blond hair, the slight tint to her bow-shaped lips, and the way she aimed those dark blue eyes his way? Oof. 

Seriously, but Tricia Jenkins made Starfleet uniforms look good, and who knew that was even possible?

“I could be convinced to climb down,” he said, then widened his smile. “Or, maybe you could climb up here and join me?”

Jenkins shook her head, then curled her finger at him in a “come here” gesture.

He affected a groan, but he climbed out of his bunk, down the ladder at the end of his desk area underneath. He knew his sleeveless sleeping shirt would make the scars on the back of his neck and shoulder plainly visible, but it wasn’t like Jenkins hadn’t seen every inch of him.

Most of the time, with Jenkins, these days he didn’t think about it at all. It had been a hard-won battle—she was so damn gorgeous he’d considered, truly, for the first time since his accident having Doctor Fitzgerald repair the more obvious dents and cracks he’d worn with such pride among the Maquis. 

“I thought I’d see you at the memorial,” Jenkins said, and Vance felt his smile get a bit brittle around the edges. 

Damn.

“Wasn’t up for it,” Vance said, leaning in for a quick kiss that she returned in kind, though she placed a hand in the centre of his chest in a way that made him stay close instead of pulling back again after.

“You knew Arlene pretty well,” Jenkins said. Her eyes flicked back and forth as she met his gaze. 

Ensign Arlene Fukai had died—no, scratch that, she’d been murdered—at the hands of an Ilari man who’d used technology to cheat his own death and possess Crewman Daggin’s kid, Setok. She’d been one of the two shuttle Engineers assigned to keeping the Shuttlebay running smoothly, and she’d been nice, and kind, and hadn’t judged him for his status as former-Starfleet-turned-Maquis even at the very beginning, when they’d merged their crews after stripping down the Li Nalas.

She was a good person. She shouldn’t be dead. But she was.  

“I’m not really a fan of large ceremonies,” Vance said. “You know that.”

“So.” Jenkins pressed her hand against his chest a little harder. “You asked me to point out when you did the stoic-hold-it-in-tough-guy-retreat stuff you told me Doctor Fitzgerald said you needed to work on, and—”

Vance blew out a breath. “I’m doing it, shut up.”

“You’re doing it.” She nodded. “And I’ll shut up.”

“I hate funerals. And memorials. Especially when the deaths are…” Vance tilted his head, touching his forehead to hers, putting both arms loosely around her waist. He wasn’t sure how to finish his thought. 

“Pointless?” she said. 

He nodded, which made both their heads bob. 

She offered a small smile. “I know.” She slid her own hands down to his side, around his waist. “If you want, we can stay here, but if we do that, I think we should talk about it. About her.”

He took a deep breath. “You one-hundred percent know that’s going to make me go to the memorial, don’t you?” 

“No,” Jenkins feigned a deep gasp. “Really?” 

He shook his head. “Let me grab a uniform. Give me five minutes in the fresher, okay?”

“You have time for twenty minutes, even,” she said, nodding.

He stepped back, pulled off his shirt, and tossed it up onto his bunk. “Really. Twenty minutes you say?” He raised one eyebrow, a bit of a lopsided move on his part given the scar that cut through it.

“How about I take those twenty minutes and raise you at least an hour,” Jenkins said, and he paused, delighted at the offer. 

“Oh yeah?” he said.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “After the memorial.”

He laughed. “I walked into that.”

“You did,” she said. “And if you’re not up for it, I’ll accept some quality cuddle time instead, mister. I’ll even climb up into your ridiculous bunk.”

“Hey,” he said, already heading for the ‘fresher. “You know I got used to sleeping on a top bunk on the Hood. Doctor Fitzgerald told me sticking to a sleeping routine helps people like me with insomnia problems. You want me to do what Doctor Fitzgerald says, don’t you?” He crossed his arms, pausing at the threshold. 

“Go get clean and get changed,” she said, shaking her head. “I love you, you giant man-child.”

He smiled at her for a breath, just looking at her. Yeah, he was a lucky damn man.

“Love you too, gorgeous pilot,” he said, and then went to take a sonic shower. 

Chapter Text

After they’d finished with checking the soil in the various containers around the Arboretum, Crewman Daggin eyed his son and gambled. 

“Are you free right now?” he said, affecting as nonchalant an outward facade—and internal balance—as he could muster, knowing Setok’s sense of him would pick up on even the slightest worry on his part. 

Setok packed away the soil tester and closed the lid on the container, storing it in the cabinet where it was kept just inside the doors of the Arboretum before turning or answering. 

“I am,” he said, with a hesitancy that wasn’t lost on Daggin.

He wanted to hug him. To hold him like he’d done when Setok had still been a child, before his Vulcan ears had started form the inner folds of a growing Ocampa. But these days, this almost-a-man version of his son had raised his shields, and Daggin knew better than to make the gesture.

“Tea?” Daggin said. 

Setok gazed at him for a beat. He had his mother’s way of looking at the world, a kind of piercing focus that Daggin knew came with a perception not Ocampa or Vulcan but something entirely unique.

“All right,” Setok said. “I’d like that.” More hesitancy. 

They returned to the quarters on Deck 11 they’d shared as a family until just recently—it had been just over a week since Setok had moved in with Jal Karden, the two young men sharing crewman quarters like most of the enlisted crew did—and Daggin caught Setok looking around, as though for changes that might have snuck in over only nine days.

“Have a seat,” Daggin said, gesturing to the meditation pillows arranged around the low, triangular table set near the windows that curved outwards from the floor to the ceiling. 

Setok paused, but nodded and went to sit. Daggin busied himself making a pot of Ocampa black tea, the scent of which was very mild, but the taste of which he knew Setok preferred over most of the other teas. Like his mother, he had a very sensitive sense of taste. 

When the tea was ready, he carried it over and took a pillow, placing the tea and three cups on the table and smiling when Setok picked up the teapot to pour. He’d always wanted to do that, even when he’d needed two hands to do so. 

“You’re remembering me when I was small, aren’t you?” Setok said, glancing at his father, and offering the faintest of smiles of his own.

“Lieutenant Stiles assures me it’s quite natural to always picture you that way,” Daggin said. “As does Chief Tamal.”

“I won’t argue with the collective wisdom of the fathers of Voyager,” Setok said, and it was such a sly almost-joke, told in his driest voice, that Daggin caught a glimpse of the Setok he’d wanted to see again. 

That Setok still existed, then. 

“I wondered,” Daggin said, taking a sip from his cup. “If you’d be willing to try an exercise.” He nodded at the third, empty cup. 

“I wondered why you’d brought three cups,” Setok said, which wasn’t an answer. He took a swallow of his drink, and looked down at the table, then out the window. “I am… unsure.”

Daggin was certain unsure was not the word Setok wanted to use, and wondered what it was that had held him back from using a more accurate term. He’d always walked a fine line between his Vulcan and Ocampa heritage—Setok was a being of open curiosity, expressive intellect, and bright focus—but since Ilari, Daggin had felt Setok’s openness and expressiveness pull back in a manner Daggin believed wasn’t as Vulcan as it appeared on the surface.

Daggin didn’t believe Setok was controlling his emotions, but rather burying them. Not allowing them any rein at all, instead of using them to direct his intellect.

“I’m here for you,” Daggin said. “When you’re ready.”

Setok glanced at him. “Just the cup?” 

“Yes.” Daggin nodded. Practicing their psychokinetic abilities required unison of focus and thought, but of a sort aimed outward: sensing the presence of the physical, and then attempting action upon it. It required no blending of their awareness of each other, which Daggin believed was a bridge Setok wasn’t yet ready to cross.

 Setok put down his tea, and Daggin did the same. He waited for Setok to initiate a Chorus—though, with only two of them it barely qualified as the powerful force of focus and ability they created when all the Ocampa worked together—allowing his mind to find Setok, but not to press. 

I sense you, Daggin sent, going no deeper, pushing no further. 

I sense you, Setok’s thoughts answered.

The cup, Daggin turned his face and attention to the empty cup on the table. Garnering a sense of the ceramic was simple, and came with little effort between the two of them. A moment later, he felt Setok’s own mental hands reaching out and doing the same. With two of them, the adjustment of the awareness of the cup wasn’t much, but it was still palpable. Without Eru, Gara, Kes, Cir, or Abol, the combination of the two of their abilities felt more focused and grounded than usual, and also somehow more lethargic. Slower to act. Cautious.

Toward you? Setok sent, and despite trying to keep his awareness of Setok’s mental state as light as possible, Daggin felt the tremble of nervousness and anxiety beneath the thought.

Yes, Daggin answered, willing calm, trust, and confidence into the word.

They did not try to move the cup, but rather focused on the experience of lifting the cup had it already been where they intended it to be, aligning their minds to a notion of possibility, and while Daggin imagined it might not happen, since it was just the two of them, it was worth the—

The cup slid directly into his open hand. The precision—and the control—was remarkable.

Setok pulled away from the Chorus, and Daggin let the sense of it, and his son, fade away. 

“That was almost entirely you,” Daggin said. 

“I haven’t tried on my own, not since Ilari,” Setok said, still looking at the cup. “Don’t worry.”

Daggin frowned. “I’m not worried, Setok.”

“I understand,” Setok said, gaze still downward, and Daggin thought the Setok might have more honestly said, “I don’t believe you.” 

“Son,” Daggin said, reaching out and putting his hand over Setok’s. “I am not worried.”

Setok finally met his gaze again. “I just wanted you to see, I am in control. I won’t hurt anyone.”

Daggin exhaled. “That’s not why we’re doing this.” 

Setok’s brow creased with confusion. “It’s not?”

“No.” Daggin shook his head. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t decided to cut yourself off from your gifts.”

Setok took a short, sharp breath at the word gifts, but waited a moment before he replied. “I’m not sure I understand.” 

Daggin lifted his tea again, taking a swallow to give himself time to consider his words carefully. “Were I in your place, I could imagine myself deciding it better to halt, rather than move forward, out of an overabundance of caution.” When Setok glanced down at the table again, Daggin continued. “Given how often I’ve been told we are of similar temperaments, it occurred to me you might feel the same way.” 

Setok’s lips twisted into a little smile for a brief moment before it faded, and he looked back up. “Wouldn’t caution be logical?” 

“Caution, yes,” Daggin said. “But fear can feel a lot like caution. Fear kept our people underground and dependent for five hundred generations. It’s an easy habit to retreat to safety in the face of an unknown.” 

Setok picked up his own tea, and sipped it. “I’m not ready to come back to the Chorus,” he said. “I’d like to focus on Doctor Fitzgerald’s and Cing’ta’s classes. Start working in the life sciences department, officially. I feel… more like myself doing that. At least for now.”

Daggin nodded. “Then that’s what you’ll do. But if you ever want to practice, just the two of us, I’m here.”

Setok swallowed, nodding. “Thanks, dad.” Then he smiled again, that tiny, almost-tucked-away smile he reserved for those he was closest to. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’m four years old,” Daggin said, shrugging. “Wisdom comes with age.” He took another sip of his tea. “Also, I got a lot of help from my mind-meld with your namesake.”

Setok laughed, and Daggin thought the sound might just be the most wonderful thing he’d heard in his lifetime.

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Cing’ta glanced up when the door opened, and couldn’t help a small smile of approval. Ensign Tom Moore was five minutes early, what his late co-husband Em’ta always called “Humanity’s Answer to Being On Time,” back in his days as a Colony Liason. 

It had bothered the hell out of Em’ta, who’d always been a precise sort, but Cing’ta rather liked the tendency for most humans to arrive with enough time for some smalltalk. 

“Lieutenant,” Moore said, with a smile of his own. “Reporting for duty.” He looked a little apprehensive, Cing’ta thought. 

“Welcome to my second home,” Cing’ta said, gesturing with one hand to the small modular station where the Cloud System was housed. “Ever been to Deck 15 before?” 

“Honestly? If I have, I don’t remember.” Moore seemed to relax a bit at Cing’ta’s display of humour, which was the point. He glanced around. “This was one of the modular systems stations, wasn’t it?” 

“It was,” Cing’ta nodded, and pulled out the only other chair in the room, which Eru, Gara, or Cir sometimes used if they were tracking down scraps of information about potential species in Voyager’s area. “Now it’s a completely separate computer core running the Cloud System, though the Tactical Station has direct read-only access. 

Moore took the seat, and eyed the four monitors, taking a second to look at the various displays. While the ensign took a glance, Cing’ta took the opportunity to study him. By human standards, Cing’ta noted Moore’s profile was very handsome. A good chin, for sure, and while brown eyes weren’t a particular favourite of his, on Moore, they suited. He could see why the man had no trouble garnering attention.

“What do you think?” Cing’ta said, once Moore had had a few minutes to watch the program in operation.

“Raw data,” Moore said, pointing to the first display, then moving on to each in turn. “Collating and filtering here, automated flagged here, and this last one is for transferring the data to the LCARS once it’s been stripped down to simple translated text?” 

“Got it in one,” Cing’ta said. “This isn’t just from the Cloud Program, obviously, but every subspace signal we can get our hands on—chatter between alien ships, anything we can pick-up from any planets we get within range of…” He waved a hand. “Basically, we’re our own a micro-subspace receiver room down here.”

“It reminds me of signal monitoring,” Moore said. “Back when I was studying Cardassian traffic.”

“That’s why you were recommended to me,” Cing’ta said. “Captain Cavit thinks your training will translate well for this.” 

Moore offered a faint smile. “I suppose it’s better than being a useless specialist.” 

“Ensign,” Cing’ta said. “No one thinks you’re useless.” 

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” Moore cleared his throat. “Didn’t mean to delve into self-pity.” 

Cing’ta shook his head. “Believe me, I understand the sentiment, Ensign.” 

Moore glanced at him. “Really?” 

“I’m a Strategic Ops Officer,” Cing’ta said. “And I trained as an undercover operative.” He lifted one hand. “And now I’m in a quadrant where I’m the only big blue alien most of the species have never encountered, which doesn’t really line up well with not sticking out.” 

Moore seemed to sit with that for a moment. “Right.” He chuckled. “And now you’re fourth in command of an Intrepid class starship.”

“Don’t remind me,” Cing’ta said. “I’m perfectly happy in this little room and taking the swing shift on the Bridge.” 

“Noted, sir.” Moore nodded, then looked at the the monitor. “I’ve never seen this configuration for a UT interface before.”

“This has all of Crewman Cir’s tweaks,” Cing’ta said. “If we’re getting any local subspace chatter, Cir diverts copies of the signals to the Life Sciences labs so he can try cracking any new languages the UT can’t handle.” 

“Right,” Moore said. “And then you work through the logs for anything that might hint at a threat.”

“Or a trading opportunity,” Cing’ta said. “And once we communicate with any local ships, the Cloud System copies itself into their system on the sly, and then we might receive packets from them.” He tapped on the primary control panel and highlighted the signals they’d gotten through the Cloud Program. 

“Not much to work with,” Moore said, frowning a little. “But I suppose that’s because we haven’t stopped anywhere for any amount of time in a while.”

“Exactly,” Cing’ta said. It was the key flaw in using the Cloud System here in the Delta Quadrant. In the Alpha Quadrant, the program spread from starship system to colony system and along the Federation Subspace Network for the Maquis—though, of course, as a placed informant, Starfleet Intelligence had also been directly tied into making sure the information the program delivered back to the Maquis was filtered to their own ends as well—but since Voyager was heading toward the Alpha Quadrant, most of the time the program only copied itself among ships, stations, or planets they spoke with—which they tended to leave behind rather quickly. It had been a boon among the the races who’d had a lot of space under their control who communicated with each other a great deal over subspace, especially the Kazon, but of late? 

Not as much. The last people they’d truly interacted with had been the Mislenites, and their subspace communications range had been limited. 

Moore read a few of the filtered signals for another minute or two. “Are these the key terms for the flagging algorithm?” 

“Yes,” Cing’ta said. “We change them up as necessary—any mention of pergium is our most recent addition—but we’ve kept any mention of the Federation, Starfleet, or the Equinox as primary filter tags.” 

“You think we’ll catch up with the Equinox?” Moore said, glancing at Cing’ta, and guarding his own expression pretty tightly, if Cing’ta had to guess. 

“Their cruising speed is markedly lower than ours, and we transferred the Cloud System program to them when we were in touch,” Cing’ta said. “It’s a big galaxy, but we’re heading in the same direction.”

Moore nodded again. Neither of them mentioned Equinox’s thirty-thousand light year head start. “How would you like me to start?” Moore said. 

“Copy logs onto a PADD and start working through them for anything of note,” Cing’ta said. “We align what we pick up here with Communications and Stellar Cartography, and then Lieutenant Commander Ro and Lieutenant Taitt present it to the senior staff to pick our direction.” 

Moore looked a little startled at that. 

“Don’t worry,” Cing’ta said. “It goes through more eyes than just yours or mine.”

“Right,” Moore said, with another one of his soft chuckles. “Right.” He picked up a PADD and copied the latest files over, then pulled them up. 

They worked in silence for a few minutes, Cing’ta pulling out his own PADD to download some signals of his own. Moore tapped at his PADD with what appeared to be earnest effort, making more than a few notations, and Cing’ta was looking forward to seeing what the Ensign had come up with. His background studying Klingon, Cardassian, Romulan, Tholian, and Talarian tactics might not be particularly applicable here in the Delta Quadrant, but Cing’ta had read a few of Moore’s Academy papers and he had a keen mind for tactical analysis.

He agreed with Captain Cavit. This could very well be a good fit for the man, and Cing’ta would welcome the help.

When Moore put down the PADD after another fifteen minutes, Cing’ta glanced at him. “What do you think? Learn anything?”

“I think Talaxian trade convoys might be the best thing to ever happen to this program,” Moore said, with a small smile. “But I did notice a few mentions of something called ‘the Expanse,’ or ‘the Nekrit Expanse,’ that reminded me of how Cardassians talked about the Badlands.” 

Cing’ta nodded. “Lieutenant Taitt’s people have caught it on the long-range sensors. It’s a huge nebula, and the long-range sensors aren’t having much luck seeing past the edge of it.” 

“The people Captain Cavit is taking the Aeroshuttle to meet…” Moore tilted his head, like he couldn’t come up with the name. “The ones the Mislenites said we might be able to trade with?”

“Tak Tak,” Cing’ta said.

“Right, the Tak Tak. We should ask them about this Expanse. They’re closer than the Mislenites. They might know something about it.” Moore paused. “And I’m sure someone already thought of that.”

“Sure we did,” Cing’ta said. “But I like it was your first impression.” 

Moore took a breath. “Why did you get into undercover work?” 

Cing’ta froze, taken aback by the directness and the sudden question. 

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” Moore held up his hand. “I didn’t mean to pry. We all have our reasons.”

“No,” Cing’ta said, shaking his head. “It’s not a secret. I started in security. A lot like you, actually—I liked the tactical and military analysis—but when I made junior lieutenant I was assigned to a ship near Orion space, and I did some work for Starfleet Intelligence tracking down some Syndicate criminals, and…” He lifted his shoulder. “It turned out the preconceptions people have about Bolians worked in my favour when it came to undercover operations.” 

Moore tilted his head again. “Ah.”

“Chatty, personable, good-humoured, and—most importantly—nonthreatening Bolians.” Cing’ta laughed, but it faded. “And then the treaty with the Cardassians. My co-husband and one of my wives went to a protest after the governmental changeover and…” He swallowed. “There was a bombing, and then reprisals. The Maquis took credit for the bombing, and when I was offered an opportunity to hopefully divert some of that violence from getting more people killed, I took it.” 

Moore’s expression had softened while Cing’ta spoke. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you.” Cing’ta faced him. “What about you? Why study all of the Federations most notable enemies?” 

“Oh.” Moore took a breath. “Some good intentions, and a dash of hubris, I suppose.”

“Really?” Cing’ta said, smiling.

“I thought if I knew enough about the enemies the Federation had already faced—especially the battles where we didn’t win, or lost ground—I might be able to spot larger holes in own tactics and strategic moves.” He shook his head. “Like I said, I came into the Academy a little bit in awe of myself. But almost all of that was drummed out of my by the time I graduated.” He cracked a rather self-deprecating grin. “But I hung onto a bit of it, just to make sure I was still motivated to find those holes wherever I could. I figured if I managed to prevent even a single Setlik III? Then it would all be worth it.” He laughed. “Then I found myself on the wrong side of the galaxy.”

“Well,” Cing’ta said. “Between you and me, Ensign, I’ll be just as happy if you prevent an Akritirian prison, or a boarding by the Swarm, or getting captured by the Kazon, which was no picnic, let me tell you.” 

Moore regarded him. “I’ll do my best, Lieutenant.”

“Great,” Cing’ta said. He picked up his PADD again, then paused. “Given we’re going to be sharing this little room on the regular,” Cing’ta said. “I’m happy to drop the formality if you are. One thing about being undercover is I never quite got used to being ‘sir’ or ‘Lieutenant.’”

“Tom,” Moore said, offering his hand.

Cing’ta shook it. “Cing’ta. Or Cing if I’ve said something you think is funny.” 

Moore laughed. “Got it.”

They got back to work. 

Chapter Text

“Tall square black,” Lieutenant Walter Baxter said, sitting across from Kes. “Solid.”

Kes Aren reached out and picked up the Durotta piece, looking at the board, which made up a four-by-four grid, and eyed her options. It wasn’t a winning piece—Baxter would never make such a foolish mistake—but there were two places where she might set him up for a win inadvertently. 

His gambit, of focusing on solid pieces, was paying off. She was running out of places where they wouldn’t form three-in-a-row of a given quality for his next turn, where it wouldn’t matter what piece she chose for him to place, as...

Wait.

There.

Kes smiled to herself, and placed the piece in the top-right-most position, relative to herself, and waited, smiling at Baxter, who let out a little chuckle and a smile. 

“You’re a durotta savant, Kes,” the man said, shaking his head. Much like Li-Paz, Walter Baxter had a young smile on a face that belied his age, and he was positively boyish when he let it out. “Okay, let me have it.”

“Short round white,” Kes said. “Hollow.”

Baxter picked up the piece—a shorter hollow cylinder—and then stared at the board. “You did it again. There’s nowhere I can put this that doesn’t give you a win position with what’s left, is there?”

“I don’t think so,” Kes said. “But take your time.”

Baxter laughed again, shaking his head. “You love this, don’t you?”

“Did she just win again?” Li-Paz said, from beside them, where he was playing a game of three dimensional chess against Crewman Michelle Robertson and—as far as Kes could tell, though she hadn’t read up on the rules of the game as much as she had on Durotta—being handily trounced.

“Never underestimate a woman who understands strategy,” Robertson said, moving a rook up one level and placing it with no small amount of style. The bronze-skinned woman smiled, pushing a strand of her long dark hair behind her ear. “Checkmate.”

Li-Paz puffed out an amused laugh. “I can see why Chapman said he was busy.”

Robertson laughed. “No, he really was busy. He doesn’t mind losing at all. He’s really good at it, in fact.” 

Li-Paz shook his head. “Chess is apparently not my game.”

“Well, your girlfriend just trounced me at durotta,” Baxter said, putting the piece down and leaning back in his chair. “Short round white, solid,” he said, in a tone that telegraphed he knew he’d lost. “Maybe we can trade?”

Kes put the piece on the board, creating four round pieces in a row, winning. “I’m happy to try chess,” she said. “But I’m afraid I only know the basic moves. I tried to read up on the games Walter said he’d have available, but I found durotta the most interesting.” The combination of “four similarities to win” and the piece each player placed being chosen by the other player made for a delightful back-and-forth Kes found fascinating.

“I’m happy to teach you,” Robertson said, nodding.

So Kes and Li-Paz traded seats at the table, where Baxter had set up the two smaller games. On the couch, Ensign Kieth Ashmore and Ensign Adele Simmons were playing Ashmore’s Strategema console, which he’d brought him. The shifting gold-versus-blue fields were turning slowly while the two used their fingers and thumbs to make moves. It seemed fast-paced to the point of being hectic to Kes, and she think she preferred the manual, physical games where you touched and moved pieces.

Robertson started resetting the chess board, and Baxter did the same with the durotta frame.

“Is anyone thirsty?” Li-Paz said. “I brought a bottle of blue. Replicated, but I’ve been tweaking the pattern and I think it’s the best I’ve come up with yet.”

“Please,” Baxter said, smiling. 

“Sure,” Robertson said. “I’ve never tried Bajoran Spring Wine, but Chapman said you’re a replicator maestro.”

Kes nodded as well, and Li-Paz pulled away to go open the bottle, pausing to ask the Strategema players if they’d like some. They declined, barely looking away from the spinning playing field.

“Actually, I brought some cheeses…” Robertson said, putting the last of the pieces on the board. “I’ll be right back.” She rose, moving off to get to a covered plate sitting on the low table beside where Li-Paz was opening the bottle of wine and pouring.

Kes glanced at Baxter, who smiled at her.

“How are you feeling?” she said. “Is your back okay?”

“It’s fine,” he said, and gave her a little nod. “And this was a great idea. Thank you for it.” He looked at the durotta board. “Even if I can’t seem to beat you at my favourite game.”

“Keep trying,” Kes said, allowing herself something of a smug grin. “I’m sure you can improve.”

Baxter laughed, shaking his head, and then Li-Paz was back with the first glasses of wine, and Roberston had a plate of sliced cheeses with tiny crackers. 

Baxter’s quarters was filled with laughter, conversation, wine, and good company. Kes hoped, once the evening ended, that it also felt a little less lonely.

But first, she had to learn how to play chess.

Chapter Text

Working in her office, Lieutenant Commander Ro Laren put down the PADD and glanced at her personal monitor and felt every minute on the chronometer. Next month’s crew rotation schedule would wait until tomorrow. She needed to head to bed.

Shutting everything down, she rose, stretching to get some of the kinks out of her shoulder, and picked up her mug and tall thermos of tea as well. Both were empty, and she should have realized when she’d run out that it was past time to give up on the day.

“Computer, lights off,” she said at the door, plunging the room into darkness just as the door opened and the startled face of Ensign Sahreen Lan yelped out in surprise.

Ro nearly dropped her mug, but fumbled enough to catch it without dropping the thermos, making a tiny gasping noise of her own.

Once they’d both recovered, Lan broke first, laughing. 

“You scared the hell out of me,” Ro said, smiling herself.

“Oh, I scared you?” Lan nodded. Her dark curls were loose—a sure sign she’d finished with her own shift hours ago—and she pushed some back behind her ear with one hand. She let out a small puff of air, and then bit her bottom lip.

“Oh no,” Ro said.

“What?” Lan said.

“You’re biting your lip the way you do when you’re going to confess something I don’t want to know,” Ro said.

Lan blinked. “Oh. Yeah. That.” She lifted both hands in a “what can you do?” gesture that did nothing to soothe Ro’s anxiety over whatever it was she was about to say.

Ro exhaled. “Should we do this not in a corridor?”

Lan pointed past Ro’s shoulder. “I was coming to meet you in your office, but how about my quarters?”

Ro nodded, though inwardly she was more concerned with how Lan wanted to go somewhere private to discuss whatever this was. She eyed her as they walked. “Please tell me you didn’t steal a shuttle.”

“Ugh,” Lan said, rolling her eyes. “You steal one shuttle without clearing it with the cell, and you’re branded for life.” She crossed her arms. “And for the record, we used that shuttle countless times on Maquis missions. It was a good idea.”

“But you went off alone,” Ro said. 

“Let’s not rehash the past,” Lan said, waving a hand. They walked nearly the full length of the corridor on deck two, and Lan opened the door to her quarters, gesturing for Ro to go first, which she did.

Once they were inside, Lan pointed to the couch, and Ro sat. She was still holding the thermos and the mug. 

Lan took a chair. 

They stared at each other.

“Sahreen?” Ro said, once enough time had gone by to be awkward. She was way too tired for this.

“You broke into Alex’s quarters,” Lan said, and it came out in a blurted rush. “I saw you. I know you used an override module.” 

Ro put down the mug and thermos. “I know what this looks like,” she said, not sure where to go from there, but needing Lan to understand this wasn’t… what? Nefarious?

“Do you?” Lan said, raising one eyebrow. “Because I don’t know what it looks like. I mean, I think you maybe gave him a pot?” She lifted both hands. “Which… what?”

“I did,” Ro said, and she wanted to groan, because her attempt to avoid awkwardness had spectacularly backfired, apparently. “I did give him a pot.”

Lan waited.

Ro waited.

Lan lifted both hands again. “And…?”

“It was a thank-you gift. He helped me with something and I…” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t want him to feel obligated to say anything if he didn’t like it, so…” She trailed off.

“So you broke into his quarters and left it behind,” Lan said. “So you wouldn’t have to hear someone say ‘thank you.’” She crossed her arms. “You know, Laren, sometimes I forget just how much you shy away from opening yourself up to good things, but I’d honestly not expected outright breaches of regulations.”

“Says the shuttle thief,” Ro said, staring right back at her. 

“One time!” Lan said, shaking her head. “And also? It’s not like we had regulations in the Maquis, did we?” Her mouth made a tight line, and then she held up one finger. “And that was a classic Laren deflection. Helped you with what?”

Ro sighed. Sometimes, having someone who knew her so well on Voyager was inconvenient. This was one of those times. “It’s no big deal,” she said.

“Ro Laren, if you think I’m letting you leave here without the full details, you are more wrong than Sveta and Tom Moore.” 

Ro blurted out a snort of amused laughter in spite of herself. Yeah. That pairing had been a disaster. She raised her gaze to Lan, who stared right back. 

Aw, damn it. 

“Okay, look,” Ro said. “It’s… It has to do with when I got shunted back in time. To Bajor.”

“When the sirillium gas was tampered with?” Lan said, frowning like she couldn’t possibly see where this was going. 

“Right,” Ro said. “You know how the explosion sent us back to be with one of our ancestors?”

Lan nodded. “Taitt ended up on the Bozeman, and Rollins was with his grandfather, right?”

“Yes,” Ro said. “I spent time with Ro Saral. She was an artist. The whole Ro d’jarra were artists, actually.”

“Okay,” Lan said. 

“She… she thought I’d been sent to her to learn how to work clay, and since I had nowhere else to go, and no way to contact anyone…” Ro hated how much this felt like confessing something wrong. She knew it was ridiculous, and yet still, somehow, some part of her viscerally rejected the frivolity of it all. “I didn’t argue with the assumption.”

Lan leaned forward. “Okay. So… what? You helped her?”

“She taught me the basics of throwing,” Ro said. 

“Throwing,” Lan said, frowning. Then, her expression cleared. “Oh, like…” Her eyes widened. “Wait. Did you make that pot you gave Alex?”

“He helped me set up a kiln after a faulty anodyne relay blew out the job I was trying to do myself,” Ro said. Her face burned, but she managed to hold Lan’s gaze. “And he didn’t tell anyone.”

“That jerk,” Lan said, then, seeing Ro’s expression, hastily said. “I mean, from my point of view. From yours, obviously, that was a nice thing he did.” She was fighting off a smile, and losing. “So you’ve taken up pottery?”

“This is why I didn’t want to tell anyone,” Ro said, sighing. “Ro Laren took up pottery?” She deepened her voice, though she had no idea who she was imitating. A general ‘anyone’ she supposed. 

“Woah, no,” Lan said, holding up one hand. “I think it’s great. I’m just peeved Alex got one before I did.”

“I’ve only made two,” Ro said. “I spent my time off working on them.”

“You came back very relaxed,” Lan said. “Pottery seems to agree with you.”

Ro nodded. Lan didn’t sound like she was kidding, or even amused about it. That helped take some of the sting out of it. “It is. I enjoy it. It’s ridiculous, but—”

“It is not.” Lan shook her head. “And I don’t think you need to hide it from the crew.”

Ro raised one eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe there would be some good natured teasing, but—”

“Sahreen.”

“Fine. Fine. Your secret is safe with me.” Lan sighed. “Now show me the other damn pot. Because Alex’s was beautiful, and the price for my silence may be one for myself.”

“Deal,” Ro said, laughing, and rising to find the pot. 

It had been for Lan anyway.

Chapter Text

The Baxial shuddered under the hit, and its captain—and also it’s pilot, merchant, chef, and sole owner and operator—gripped the navigational console to keep himself upright, tapping in commands and sending a prayer to the Guiding Tree that he’d get out of this dogfight with the two battered Kazon fighters that had attacked him without warning. 

He dropped the Baxial away from the plane of attack, and grimaced when he saw both of the smaller Kazon vessels swooping around for another strike. One of them looked like it was redlining on one of its engines, but it didn’t seem to care. They were pressing the attack. 

They hadn’t even hailed him.

The Baxial was a tough ship, and she had decent engines, but she wasn’t going to outrun either of these two. And her weapons might have been enough against one Kazon ship, but against two?

He couldn’t outgun them, either.

The debris field. It wasn’t a place of happy memories of Neelix, but it was a good place to hide, dodge, and otherwise try to dodge these Kazon survivors. 

“When their ships exploded,” Neelix said, speaking to himself—a habit that had formed over the last two years of the increasing difficulty of plying his trade among the ever-growing reach of the Kazon Alliance—“Why couldn’t all their ships have exploded?”

More weapons fire strafed the Baxial, and its shields began to buckle. He needed more time to get to the debris field, to circle back to the place where, if he was honest with himself, one of the last good things in his life had left him. 

No. If he was about to die, it was time to be truly honest with himself.

That debris field was where he’d made the dumbest choice of his entire life, and given he was who he was, that was really saying something. He punched the engines as hot as he dared, glancing up and trying one more prayer to the Guiding Tree. 

“Whatever blew so many of their ships last month?” Neelix said. “Could you perhaps arrange a repeat?”

It had been an astounding event. As far as the Baxial’s sensors could reach, almost every Kazon ship in the Kazon Alliance—including the more raptor-like Krowtonan Guard vessels—had suffered massive damage. There’d been some sort of signal that had preceded it along their subspace communication network, but the Baxial’s computer hadn’t been able to make sense of it, and the network had burned itself out in the process. 

It had seemed like the answer to a prayer: the strength of the Kazon Alliance, especially alongside their allies, the Krowtonan Guard, had been steamrolling against all the species in this area of space. Even the Haakonian Order had been forced to retreat against their might, and Neelix hadn’t even been able to celebrate, given how many Talaxian traders he’d met who were struggling to eke out existence since the formation of the Kazon Alliance.

A moment later, another burst of weapons fire hit the Baxial, and a panel exploded in his face. 

As he hit the deck, the scent of smoke and the heat of fresh pain dragging him under, Neelix thought the Guiding Tree was giving him his answer.

And the answer was “no.”

*

Neelix came to with a gasp, and when his eyes snapped open, he realized he wasn’t on the Baxial anymore. The Kazon—!

He struggled to sit up, and when a hand landed on his shoulder, he swiped at it, but he felt weak and lethargic and it didn’t do much to the Kazon who—

The man holding his arm wore a mostly-grey uniform Neelix didn’t recognize, with blue across his shoulders, and two silver pips on the collar of the neck of his undershirt—one hollow, one solid. He had short, dark brown hair parted along softer, v-shaped facial ridges, and he took Nelix’s shoulder and squeezed.

“You’re all right,” the man said. “We beamed you off your ship before it lost life support. Our chief engineer got it into our shuttlebay. He’ll be able to repair it.”

“You’re not a Kazon,” Neelix said. He turned his head looking around the room, which had two other beds like the one he was on, and appeared to be some sort of medical centre, if he was recognizing some of the tools he saw on the shelves. “This isn’t a Kazon ship.”

“No,” the man smiled. He reached up and tapped a small medallion on his chest—a circle divided into quarters, the top-right-most of which was entirely silver, the rest black—and it let out a small chirp. “Sickbay to Bridge. Captain? Our guest is awake.”

“Thank you doctor,” a woman’s voice replied. “I’m on my way.”

“Doctor,” Neelix said. “You’re a doctor.”

“My name’s Cyalno.” The man nodded. “And we’ve treated you for your burns and fractured skull and smoke inhalation, but you might feel a bit dizzy for a while.”

“I do, yes.” Neelix said. “I— I’m very grateful, but I don’t have any way to pay you for treating my injuries, or for fixing my ship. What water I have, I need, though if you’re a fan of leola root—”

“Don’t worry,” Cyalno said. “We’re not in the business of charging people for help.” 

Not charging for help? Neelix stared. Who were these people?

“May I?” Cyalno held out a scanner, and Neelix sat still while he ran it up and down behind his back. “It looks like you’re doing fine, Mr…”

“Neelix,” Neelix said. 

“Well, lucky for you Neelix, we’ve got Talaxian crew on board, and to answer your question, this is the Delta Coalition Ship Kolhar.”

“Talaxian crew,” Neelix said, shaking his head. “Coalition?”

The door opened, and another alien of the same species as the doctor strode in. Her dark grey uniform was of the same style as his, though she had four solid silver pips on her collar, and red along her shoulders instead of blue. Her hair was longer, and more of an auburn colour. 

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Captain Botia.”

“Neelix,” Neelix said. “Pleased to meet you. And very grateful. Also a little confused…” He was understating on every level. Who were these people? 

“I’d imagine so,” Captain Botia said, exchanging a smile with Doctor Cyalno. “But don’t worry. We’ll explain everything as soon as Doctor Cyalno here says you’re up for it.” 

“Tomorrow,” Cyalno said. “He needs more rest.”

“He said there were Talaxians on board?” Neelix said. The urge to see some of his own people tugged at the centre of his chest like he’d been snagged by a towing beam.  

“Yes,” the Captain nodded. “We have Kolhari, Trabe, Talaxians, Humans, and Ocampa on board.”

Neelix was stunned. He’d never heard of humans, remembered the Trabe, and had only vaguely heard of the Kolhari, but… “Ocampa. Like Kes.” Even saying her name made him feel that towing beam in his chest again, reminded him of the debris field, of asking her to stay with him, and how she’d asked him to go with her and how…

How he hadn’t.

Captain Botia was looking at Doctor Cyalno now, and her expression had changed to… well, he wasn’t sure what it was.

“What is it?” Neelix said.

“Do you know the Commodore?” Captain Botia said.

“Commodore?” Neelix shook his head. “What Commodore?”

“Commodore Kes Aren,” Cyalno said. “Head of Coalition Medical.”

“I— I… maybe?” Neelix didn’t know about ‘Aren,’ but Kes… Was it possible? 

“Well,” Botia said. “Our patrol route takes us back to Ocampa, and it looks like you’ll be with us for a couple of days, so maybe we’ll find out if it’s the same Kes. We’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Neelix had to grip either side of the bed he was on, fairly certain the dizziness he was feeling had nothing to do with his injuries.

*

In the morning, Neelix woke in the sickbay of the DCS Kolhar and saw a Trabe man in another version of their uniform—this one a nice yellow across the shoulders—sitting and talking with the doctor in the small office attached to the room with the three biobeds. When they realized he was awake, they both came out to see him—the Trabe man had a brace on his leg, Neelix noticed, and a scar through one eye, which was milky and white—and they seemed particularly pleased to be in each other’s company.

They brought him a large glass of water, and he drank every drop of it. How was this Coalition so free with their food and water?

“Mr. Neelix,” Doctor Cyalno said. “This is my husband, Lieutenant Dimur. He’s the one who’s been fixing your freighter, and he has questions about your impulse engines.”

“Let me guess,” Neelix said, smiling with not a little bit of pride. “The injectors?”

“What did you do to them?” Dimur said, cracking a smile. “It looks like you’ve got them running on only eighty percent of the fuel but only a ten percent drop in power output. It’s clever.”

“Anything to make supplies last longer,” Neelix said. “If I can go with you, I can walk you through it.”

Dimur eyed Cyalno, and the eyebrow over his injured eye rose in an unspoken question.

“He can,” Cyalno said. “But if you start feeling dizzy, Neelix, take a seat and breathe. In my experience, Talaxian lungs are particularly stubborn, and you breathed in a lot of smoke.”

“I will, Doctor.”

They waited while he changed, and then Neelix got his first look outside of the DCS Kolhar’s Sickbay, which was a corridor, but it passed by what looked to be a lift that said this was “Deck 4.” He paused, reading the rest of the writing on the lift door, and beside him Lieutenant Dimur waited, a small smile on his face. 

NX-002, DCS Kolhar. 

Everything was clean, and seemed so… different from anything he’d ever seen.

“Zero zero two?” Neelix said, turning his head.

“That’s right. This is the second ship we’ve built,” Dimur said. “But we don’t need the turbolift. The Shuttlebay is on this deck.” 

He led the way to the far end of the ship and there, in a shuttlebay that struck Neelix as more polished and wider than any he’d been inside in his life, was the Baxial, looking much better than she had any right to, alongside two other shuttles of a design Neelix had never seen before. And—more than that—there were two other members of the DCS Kolhar’s crew, and they were both Talaxian. Specifically, two Talaxian women, wearing the same yellow-shouldered uniforms as Lieutenant Dimur. They both looked up at him as they approached the Baxial. 

“This Coalition,” Neelix said. “My people are a part of it?” 

“Quite a few,” Dimur said. “They’ve been really key to our—“

“Bridge to Dimur.” 

Neelix blinked at the voice of the Captain he’d met yesterday. 

Dimur tapped the communicator on his chest. “Dimur here.”

“Doctor Cyalno said Mr. Neelix was with you?”

“That’s right,” Dimur said, smiling at Neelix.

“He has a guest. Could you bring him to my Ready Room?” 

“Yes Captain,” Dimur said, tapping the communicator again. “I guess I’ll get that impulse injector lesson from you later.”

“Thank you, for fixing her. I know she’s not much to look at…” Neelix said, turning to the two Talaxian women. One of them gave him a small nod in return. 

“My uncle has the same model,” she said. “They’re sturdy.” 

Neelix smiled, nodded, and then turned back to Dimur. 

“Follow me,” Dimur said again.

*

The Bridge of the DCS Kolhar was just as impressive as everywhere else, and just as clean and warm, and at the rear of it he saw a full schematic of the ship—the Master Systems Display, it was labelled—and stared at the scale of it. Eight decks. He didn’t get to look at it long, as Dimur was leading him across the Bridge, but he spotted another Talaxian as Dimur led him to a door on the opposite side from where they’d arrived in the lift. It looked like this Talaxian, a man about Neelix’s age, was their pilot. His uniform had the red shoulders. Another woman of the same species as the Captain—Kolhari, he was pretty sure—had one of two seats in the centre of the Bridge, and an Ocampa man wearing the same blue as Doctor Cyalno had a station to the left of those chairs, and a humanoid woman with a smooth, ridgeless face and dark brown skin manned the station at the right.

Maybe that was a Human?

“Here you go,” Dimur said, gesturing to the door.

“Thank you.” Neelix nodded once, and stepped through as the door opened for him. 

The small room, which Neelix thought quite charmingly put together with a few creature comforts and a long window, held two people, both sitting. Captain Botia sat behind what Neelix assumed was her desk, and on one of the two chairs, opposite her…

“Kes,” Neelix breathed her name.

At least, it seemed to be her, but she looked so different. Her hair, which had been short and golden when they’d last spoken, was now longer, falling in waves, and a silvery-grey. Her beautiful blue eyes were lined and… 

“Hello, Neelix,” Kes said. She wore a uniform, too, the same blue as Doctor Cyalno, but on her neck, she had a silver square, inside which there was a single silver pip. She rose. 

It really was her. 

He stepped toward her, then hesitated mid-way into a hug, not knowing what to do.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Captain Botia said, rising from behind her seat and touching Kes’s shoulder as she passed. The sound of the door to the Ready Room closing came a moment later, but Neelix didn’t look away from the Ocampa woman.

“I…” Neelix cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Kes. I’m so sorry. I never should have let you go.” There. He’d said it. It wasn’t enough, and it didn’t even begin to make up for what he did, but—

“Neelix,” her voice was smoother, softer than he remembered. So much more… mature. He’d known she would only live nine years, but… by his math she was only three. How was she looking so much older already? “You don’t have to apologize. It was a long time ago, and I promise you, I’m all right.”

“What happened?” Neelix said. “And this ship? This Coalition? Did those people you left with make all this?”

“No,” Kes said. “Abol and I came back to Ocampa two years ago, though we learned a lot from our time with Voyager and her crew before we did—which is a lot of how this was possible.”

“Wait,” Neelix said, shaking his head—that meant she’d barely stayed with them for a single year, didn’t it? “Does that mean they left you? On your own?”

“No. It’s going to take some time to explain, Neelix, but no. I’m not alone,” Kes said, and she placed her hand on her stomach, smiling as though she had a particularly happy secret to share with him. “And neither are you.”