PART
THREE: "SHE FLIES WITH HER OWN
WINGS"
Kathryn had refused counselling, which Starfleet Command had suggested before she she took up her duty at Headquarters. She had a high regard for Counsellor Deanna Troi, the Betazoid counsellor of the Enterprise, but she had been under such intense scrutiny during the debriefings and the court-martial that she recoiled at the thought of baring her soul to anyone. She felt raw, exposed, isolated within the myriad of faceless faces that surrounded her. Even the thought of anyone touching her, however brief that touch, produced a sensation of pain, her skin flinching as if it were on fire.
"Perhaps at another time," she told Deanna at the first and only session, not wishing to be ungrateful in turning down her aid completely. "Right now I feel I need to be alone, you understand?"
Deanna had giving her a long, pensive look.
"I understand," she had replied, patiently, her smile gentle. "The battle inside must rage until it is spent. I won't force you against your will, Captain Janeway. You need time."
"Who knows, I may not need you after all."
"You will really be the best judge of that, though I can tell you that there are some in certain quarters who think it essential for commanding officers to receive counselling after long missions into deep space."
Of course she understood the mandatory bias of Starfleet Command. She wasn't going to get away with it, yet she knew instinctively that she couldn't regale Deanna with her exploits in the Delta Quadrant either. She would speak with Deanna when she felt more centred. She had given a grim smile. Then she wouldn't need a counsellor after all.
She had fled to Indiana. In the sun room on the upper level of the farmhouse, she busied herself with painting. She was nowhere near as gifted as Phoebe, but it was an outlet at least, an exercise which wrung the deepest, most sacred, most unbearable emotions from her, and which she splashed with untrammelled ferocity upon the unresisting canvas. The first painting… Had she been drunk when she painted it? So completely out of it that she was never aware of a picture, distorted in its execution, taking shape before her? She couldn't even remember sitting in front of the easel, much less handling the paintbrush and using long, uneven, angry strokes in dark swatches that stained the canvas, giving it an impression of life and movement, distorted.
"Like the raging of a storm…" she had murmured before she got up, scraping the stool until it fell over.
She had hurried down the stairs and flown outside to breathe in the fresh air. About fifty metres from the house she stopped under the giant oak tree. Although Phoebe had left the house to her, choosing to live in Paris, Kathryn felt no joy or victory in owning it. She hadn't seen Phoebe since the debriefings. She wanted to ask about the dog, but Phoebe had been non-committal and the only person she could turn to was Mark, who had looked after Molly in the first place. Her first communication with Mark had been strained. Molly had died, he told her, all her pups gone to new owners. She couldn't decide whether she should hate Mark for not keeping one of them.
Some nights, she woke in a sweat from a nightmare in which hideous contortions of aliens and ships invaded her demented mind. She would pull on something warm and walk down towards the stream, following a trail all along the banks until the cold ate into her bones. Too worn out and too cold to walk further, she'd fling herself to the damp ground and lie there until her ragged breathing eased. By the time she made it back to the house, the first tepid rays of the sun were lighting up the cloudy sky.
One morning, Tom Paris stopped by.
"B'Elanna's doing great, Captain. We're leaving for Kronos tomorrow," he replied in answer to her question when she enquired about the new mother. "And Miral has won my parents over instantly. Especially my father," he added.
"I’m happy for you, Tom, that you've reunited with your father."
Tom's smile was tinged with a little sadness as he nodded. He had reconciled with his parents, Tom who had been such an angry, belligerent young man.
Growing up, B'Elanna didn't have much of a relationship with Miral Torres, yet there they were, off to her mother's homeworld to show off the granddaughter who resembled her. What did she have? No mother and Phoebe… Phoebe hated her.
"I heard about Phoebe, " Tom's voice broke into her thoughts. "It's really not fair, is it?"
"I don't blame her. We were unequal in our parents' affection, I guess. Being missing, presumed dead didn't help, either. Circumstances such as we've endured can cause rifts in families. Parents tend to concentrate on the one child who is always sick, always in need of their attention, their support. A lost son, lost daughter? Well, it's not difficult to see how my mother could have waited up. Phoebe always felt she was second best and that I received the bounty of my parents' love… My mother… I would so much have liked to see her again."
Tom had stared long at her, his blue, piercing eyes dark with worry. Under Deanna Troi's gaze or even that of Tom's father, she would have caved in, but Tom looked concerned. They had shared their misery, their loneliness and perhaps that was why she didn't resent his intrusion.
"I'm sorry that you never got to see her."
"No more than I am," she told him. "I take comfort that I was not alone coming home to an empty nest. Magnus Rollins' wife died too, as well as Chell's only brother."
"Captain, you're not looking well. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Did your father send you, Tom?" she asked, smiling up at him.
Tom laughed, looking sheepish.
"My father worries about his brightest and best star in the firmament."
"Tell him I'll be back soon, okay?"
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere I can rest."
"And that's not here, at Indiana."
"Tom, have you seen the furrows to my front door? The media hounds are falling over themselves to get interviews with me. I…hate them…" she had added softly.
"And Chakotay? I was under the impression he was staying for the court-martial…"
"You're fishing for something, Tom?"
"Well, I think everyone expected Voyager's first officer to support his captain by being present, at least. He – "
"He's married, Tom."
"And don't we all know that!"
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. B'Elanna thinks he's a stupid man in love."
"Or a man stupidly in love?"
"We all thought that you and Chakotay…" Tom looked away, then faced her again. "We always hoped he would fall for the captain."
"He didn't. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"
After Tom had gone, several former members of her crew got in touch with her. She had been very patient in receiving them, but when they left, she collapsed on her bed at night, too exhausted to sleep. In the early hours of the morning she would fall into a restless slumber, her nightmares riddled with faces of her crew who had died, images of the Vidiians, Species 8472, being attacked by an angry Kes. Too many that were crowding her. When she woke up gasping, it was the surly faces of Admirals Nechayev and Gordon and Hays that remained engraved in the light before her.
It felt as if her whole body still shook in the aftermath of seven years traveling in the Delta Quadrant, trying to find the quickest way home, battling demons, battling herself, battling to overcome the echoes of the extreme noises in her head. She tried to shake them off, but stopped short of drugging herself into oblivion, trying to remain awake as long as possible until she was too tired to keep her eyes open.
But the sounds followed her into her sleeping moments where they kept her awake, unable to sleep for fear of dreaming of terrible figures come to haunt her. Indiana was quiet, lying silent in the wintry afternoons, and the screeching noise she heard was mostly in her head. Most times she saw Ransom in his last moments before he died and Tuvix as he looked at her the second the hypospray touched his neck. Pleading looks from Tuvix, like a dying doe with a tear rolling down its cheek. And always, they spoke to her through their eyes.
During the day she rallied, played the Starfleet game of upbeat optimism, of proclaiming she was enjoying her rest. She had spent several minutes in a subspace communication with Chakotay, who had been glad that she had been exonerated.
Chakotay had looked
well-fed, healthy, well-loved. It was unfair, but she had wanted it that way.
She had succeeded in deflecting all possible allegations away from her crew, had
made sure that each and every one could leave without having to worry about
their captain. They reacted much like Chakotay did initially, in that they
couldn't rest until they were assured by her that they could move on without
feeling guilty. None of them were at the court-martial, and that was the way she
wanted it. She had closed communication with Chakotay after he extracted a
promise from her again that she would visit them on Dorvan.
Why did you have to leave so suddenly? she wanted to know, just a question from a friend to a friend.
The way he tried to avoid her eyes made her realise that it may not have been something that serious after all. His tanned face turned dark red.
"Annika, you must understand, Kathryn, is still harbouring thoughts that – that we…" he followed lamely, his words trailing at the end.
Annika had something to do with his sudden departure from Earth? How on earth? Her fears were unfounded. Chakotay loved his Annika. Didn't she know that?
"And that is why you left so quickly for Dorvan V?"
Kathryn hadn't
wanted to complain. She had no authority over him anymore. Had he been summoned
by Starfleet Command to give evidence at the court-martial, it would perhaps
have been a different matter. So she didn't want to ask, "But
what about a promise you made me, Chakotay? A promise that you would be there to
give your moral support? They didn't give me a single moment of dignity. They
made me a criminal before they made me a hero and you weren't so I could look at
your face and know that someone in the courtroom other than Admiral Paris
believed in me. You lived through those traumas with me; you would have
understood better than anyone."
That was what she would have liked to tell him.
"I am deeply sorry, Kathryn, that I wasn't there. But Annika wanted to leave instantly, before we even went to visit her aunt. I – "
"Couldn't say no?"
"I wish you knew how these things are," he had said.
"What, that a man so in love with his wife can't say no?"
Or that he couldn't challenge his wife and insist that his best friend needed him?
But she couldn't hate Chakotay any more than she could hate Mark Johnson, who'd left the hearings looking guilty and didn't keep one of Molly's puppies for her.
After all, Chakotay did say to her, "I am a man."
Yes, a man whose first weakness after marriage had been exposed. He would dance to his wife's tunes. Chakotay was in love. He would do everything to keep Annika Hansen happy. May they live and love happily and peacefully on Dorvan.
She had promised she'd visit them, just as soon as she had sorted out her life.
One night she dreamed of her mother. She dreamed of the lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was a little girl. In the morning she woke and decided to visit her mother's grave.
******
"What do you mean?" Chakotay asked Tom.
"You left Kathryn to face her trials alone. You let her down."
"Come on, Tom, you're making it sound worse than it is."
Tom wanted to deck Chakotay right there. The man looked like a chicken suddenly, not the man he'd once admired. He had given Seven of Nine a cursory nod before turning his attention again to the former Maquis. Chakotay had a hard time paying attention while Seven of Nine was in his orbit. Looked like Seven's little lap dog, so sick in love he was. He had come to drag Chakotay back to Earth if need be, or to visit Kathryn just once. Dorvan V had waited seven years for him, it could wait seven weeks more. But Chakotay was hung up on his wife. Funny how they all thought that Kathryn Janeway would enhance the man in Chakotay, and here was Annika Hansen making him look… Tom drew a deep breath. He didn't want to fight, just set the matter straight.
"You're a lousy supporter now that you're back on Dorvan. Forget that your life belongs to me. You're a coward!"
"We're only just settling in here. I'm heading the reconstruction of Dorvan. I had to come home."
Tom shook his head.
"Let me tell you something, Chakotay, then you can tell me I'm out of my mind to come all the day to Dorvan to remind you of your duty. I went to visit her. Captain Janeway is pretty much near collapse. She's been left to face her trials alone. Her crew have dispersed. No one was called to speak on her behalf, no one was called to testify, not even Neelix and Tuvok who were at the centre of the Tuvix case. She's unravelling emotionally, though you wouldn't notice it if you stood five metres away from her. She needed you there, you moronic love-sick dog. What happened to staying by her side no matter what?"
"Tom, before you think I've let Kathryn down – "
"Of course you let her down! Only, she probably smiled brightly for your benefit, told you to go home, do your duty and get on with your life with your wife, she's quite fine."
"That's exactly what she said. We're still friends, Tom. I've been in contact with your father. I asked him to keep me updated on the proceedings of the trial."
"Is that all?? Do you know what she went through at the court-martial? Every rule in the Federation handbook was broken or violated or spindled, mutilated and folded by her, if you were to believe Nechayev, Hays and Gordon. They bayed for her blood and they got it! Only, she never let on how they got to her because know what? Remember on Voyager when the Captain told us she was okay, and we believed her, but she wasn't okay? Just like that at the court-martial. She was damned near brilliant, Chakotay. Absolutely, totally, mind-blowingly brilliant. Only, that performance cost her. It was costing her from the moment you married…"
"Tom, I'm sorry you feel that way. But Kathryn is strong. Very strong. She will rally."
"God, you've served side by side with her for seven years and you still don't know Kathryn Janeway."
"Hey!"
"I'll take my imaginary hat and leave. Goodbye. Don't know why Kathryn Janeway would keep up a friendship with you…"
"Give my best to Kathryn."
"Do it yourself."
****************
"Captain… Captain Janeway? My name is K'Lor of the Kekrean Media Centre. Please, could you grant me a few minutes of your time?"
Kathryn stared at the stranger, his presence an intrusion, his mission an invasion. His face moved away, away from her, into the mists, into the debris of her silent battles. She tried to discern him, impel his face closer, define nose, eyes, mouth. Then, miraculously, her presence of mind restored to her a small aperture. She could see him clearly. She moved a step towards him and touched his arm lightly.
"Please…I have given many interviews in the last two weeks. I cannot give you one now. But I shall remember your name, sir, when I return."
K'Lor smiled, his Kekrean features softening as he realised she desired privacy.
"My superiors will kill me, but I understand. Thank you, Captain Janeway. I shall remember your promise."
When he left, she breathed a sigh of relief. Hadn't they been informed in a Federation-wide Starfleet communiqué that they had to leave her alone now?
She kneeled on the soft green turf, stroking her mother's gravestone in jerky movements. Side by side, two headstones. Her father, her mother. She had missed her father most of her life and just when they could become real father and daughter, he died. Her mother… The headstone was cold, cold, cold… Leaves had fallen on it and the letters were momentarily concealed from view. Now the name stared up at her - stark Roman lettering chiselled in capitals which more than anything embedded the reality of the passing of Gretchen Janeway.
Although she shivered slightly, Kathryn remained oblivious of the icy cold wind that had sprung up, her eyes following the charter that hungry fingers traced in the cold marble. Her lips moved but no sounds issued from them.
I sing to you,
Mother, your lullaby
sleep now, my
angel,
sleep where you
may dream of the sun and the moon over Indiana;
Are you thinking
of me now?
Wake up, Mother
and see me here…
I'm here, here,
here.
Look at me, your
lost daughter is home at last.
Why didn't you
wait for me, Mother?
I need you too,
just as you needed me.
This world is
not mine…
I was great at
the trials, did you hear me?
I killed Tuvix
and Ransom
The Borg
assimilated me…
I saved Voyager
from the Devore…
I wrestled
Species 8472…
Kes went away,
Mother.
Mark went away,
Chakotay went
away…
Phoebe went
away.
Why didn't you
wait?
I'm dead…
Sing to me,
Sing to me,
Sing to me…
Her mother's words of the old lullaby came back to her, striking deep in her heart, instantly recognisable. The melody clung to her, recalled through the mists of time, just for her…
"Kathryn
klein, ging allein,
in
die weite Welt hinein...
Stock
und Hut steht ihr gut,
ist
ganz wohlgemut...
aber
Mutter weinet sehr,
sie hat keine Kathryn mehr...
Kathryn
klein, ging allein
in
die Welt hinein..."
I was alone…alone…I am alone… Everyone left… Justin… Mark… Chakotay… Daddy… Mother…
A bird flapped its wings in sudden distraction. Kathryn looked up at it, the haze of the first two weeks returning as she tried to discern the flight of the brightly coloured lark…
Are you lost too, far from home?
The pain in her chest intensified as she rose unsteadily to her feet. She felt hot, feverish, but ignored the sniffling and the odd cough she gave as she made her way to her small flitter on loan to her from Starfleet.
Minutes after she initiated a start-up sequence, she was airborne. She was hardly aware of coordinates entered, or her destination. Where was she going? She had to get away. No one would miss her. Her apartment was clinical and empty, the farmhouse was filled with her mother's memories.
Somewhere, somehow, she headed for the Pacific Northwest , following the long coastline. Her head was swimming as she stared at the pristine shoreline, preserved for posterity, the forests to her right that climbed and wound their way into the mountains. The rugged beauty of the landscape caught her momentarily as she touched down...somewhere.
Several minutes later she was outside the roundabout and began to walk, walk, walk…
She followed what she imagined were trails into the snow-capped mountains, the high peaks peeping over the tops of the magnificent Douglas firs that rose into the blue skies. Her chest hurt from the thin air as she kept trudging up, up, up towards where she knew she wanted to go, to touch the apex of the firs, touch the blue skies, touch the mountains.
The song of a lark rose up again, and it was joined by other larks as they appeared to accompany her, nay, to carry her to the mountain tops.
But Kathryn didn't hear the call of the birds. She didn't hear the sound of waterfalls, nor did she hear the sound of her own footfall just before she collapsed on the ground. She lay face down - still, still as only the dead could lie on a late afternoon with the setting sun creating long, long streaks of silver, gold and red-orange hues across the waters of the Pacific.
*********************
END PART THREE