PART NINE: MOONLIGHT SLEEPING ON A MIDNIGHT LAKE
"We are
homeless, we are homeless
The moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake
And we are homeless, homeless, homeless
The moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake"
- Paul Simon and
Joseph Shabalala.
Ethan Bellamy had a healthy respect for good whisky, especially if he sipped it on empty stomach at 0700 when the first glow of morning had passed and the sun was peeping above the tree tops. He held up the snifter, tilting it to let the fullness of the liquid grow. Full refractive gold colour, a powerful, uncompromising body which, when inhaled, reminded him of the smoke of burning wood, sea salt, peat, sweetness that heralded a strange, exciting honey. A dram that was as complex as it was deceptively smooth, the taste lingering with half-hearted reluctance to leave his senses.
Like her.
Grimacing as he realised that he was a little light-headed, he turned and walked into the lounge, putting the snifter down on the coffee table. He threw a glance at the bedroom leading off the lounge and grimaced again. He never needed much sleep but he must have been deeply asleep when she arrived in the dead of night. He'd only heard a sound when the back door opened and closed. There hadn't been any wind forecast the previous evening, so the way the door slammed shut had given him some indication of the intruder's state of mind.
Intruder?
Somehow, he had known it was Kathryn. He lay, eyes wide open after the back door had banged with so much force, and listened to the sounds as she moved through the house, to reach her bedroom. Then he heard the bedroom door slam shut, followed by things being thrown around, thudding, one or two words, indistinct, but definitely her voice. After that, everything was quiet.
He had taken a deep breath and settled back against the pillows. But sleep had eluded him the rest of the night. Lying awake proved no barrier against thinking what might have happened, so he rose, pulled on a robe and walked to his office. A few thousand words would salve his restlessness and provide some order to his disordered mind. The Raging Moon was progressing. Kathryn had asked him about his latest work and he had, for the first time since he started writing, shared some of his impressions, even used Kathryn as sounding board. She proved a good one too, incisive and intuitive, challenging him to the point of frustration and anger at times. Then she'd bite her lower lip, thinking, thinking, her eyes mutinous or stubborn, whichever mood required that look, and tell him to go to hell.
"Why, just because I don't have a title yet?"
"Because you should have had one by now. The mood of what you've written so far should give you an indication. Oh, why am I telling a writer how to write!"
He had stared at her, long and hard, her blue- grey eyes glowing with indignation. Sometimes those same eyes would be shuttered, blocking out any intrusion. At other times, he'd see the shadows lurking there and then he knew she remembered grief, mysterious entities that kept her shackled to her past. Then there were times that the light laughed in her eyes and he wondered if she knew how her face changed from being attractive to simply beautiful...
"You shift with the moon, did you know? Like a beautiful, great big disc floating across the firmament, waiting for the precise moment that the ebb..."
He had looked at her, stupefied for a few moments, a slow smile creeping into his face, resisting the urge to kiss her.
"What...?" she asked, equally mystified at his expression.
"I have the title."
"Eh?"
"The Raging Moon..."
"Oh?"
And that was the only reaction he got from her, not missing the pleased look in her eyes though. It had been excellent, for he kept working, his creative energy and appetite sharpened ten-fold since her arrival at Beaver's Lodge.
"You don't mind?" she had asked one day.
"No, you keep me on my toes. No one has ever done that." And he had thought then how Mel had never cared about his writing.
"Then I'm glad I could help. You're going to mention me in your story?"
"Ha! Who's vain now?"
She had laughed, and it had been good to hear the lightness of it, the new freedom of expression.
"Fine. It's just that I didn't think any input on my part would be important enough for Henry F. Marchant...or Ethan Bellamy..."
"Oh, believe me, it's working, Kathryn."
He had felt proud, felt he wanted to hug her fiercely. They were two artists thrown into a vortex, swirling madly round and round until they collided, like stars on a path to danger. On an impulse, he had drawn her gently closer to him and kissed her forehead, feeling again the unaccustomed pull, the warmth that had spread through him. It was as far as he dared to venture even as his senses wanted to claim more of her.
He had drawn his characters close to the heart, close to home, close to despair, close to fear. And so, for almost two hours he had despaired with them, howling in helpless rage at the moon, finding so early on in the development of the novel little sign of pending resolution. Yet, it thrilled him, the energy of creativity coursing like life-blood through his veins. It kept him focused and when he had poured his soul into the text, wrung every emotion from his heart, he was exhausted.
It was good, because he could put Kathryn out of his mind for two hours. He could shut out his intense anxiety that her visit to Dorvan had left her hurting. Now, several hours and a good shot of Scotch later, he was ready for her. He swung round when he heard her door open. She avoided looking at him as she padded quickly to the bathroom. He sighed, knowing that she'd be there at least an hour before he could do or say anything to rouse her from growing depression. So he walked to the bathroom and knocked on the door. He smiled when he heard a curse.
"Let me know if I should fix you something to eat."
"Go to hell."
"Cannot comply. I went there and never returned."
"Then keep away from me," she snapped as he heard the taps running and again fierce sounds of fury as something thudded against the door. He flinched as if she had thrown a boot against his face.
"I don't know how I can. You came to me. Why should I avoid you in my own house?"
"Because you must. I have rights."
"Is that an order, Admiral?"
"Go to hell."
"Told you, I'm already there - "
"Then shut up."
Another dull thud as something hit the door. Ethan smiled as he walked to the lounge. On a whim, he decided not to carry the cello to the deck. So he sat down in front of the wide window and played a few scales and arpeggios for about half an hour. He wasn't hungry even though he hadn't eaten anything since the night before. The whisky had dimmed the edge of his hunger anyway. He began playing, the bow elegantly stroking the strings, his head bent low as he concentrated. Once again, it was Fauré's Élégie that set the tone, continuing the mood that had pervaded his senses while he had been writing. The notes were mournful, ironically uplifting as they floated with reverent ease about him, as if they knew that they were merely created to stir another being into wakefulness and reason. The music lifted, and when the final notes drifted away, they returned, slipping seamlessly into the Elgar adagio he loved so much. He had been so deep in thought that he never noticed that Kathryn had left the bathroom and now was dressed, lounging against the jamb of her door. Distracted from his playing, the bow paused in mid-air as he looked up and saw her standing there. She was dressed in a sleek white pants suit and he thought illogically that she brought spring with her.
Spring was not in her eyes.
He placed the bow carefully down and rested the cello against his stool. He walked slowly up to her and when he reached her, he took her hand and led her to the deck. He gazed long into her eyes, his hands on her shoulders. Sometime, he decided as he took in her wounded look, should their paths ever remain interwoven, he would tell Kathryn Janeway how unspeakably angry he was when he held her. Sometime, he knew, should their paths remain linked, he was going to tell her how he'd tried not to swear, or speak with damned crude vituperations of what he knew, with disheartening reality, must have happened on Dorvan V.
"At the last," he started, carefully, "you extricated yourself from him..."
She was quiet so long that he thought she was going to sink into the oblivion of her nervous breakdown again. She appeared unsteady and the wonder of her character was in the way she visibly fortified herself. The same strength, resolve, the implacability of her moral fibre that betrayed her when she was anywhere near Chakotay. But he waited for her, so brave, so imbued with her own pride as she kept his gaze. Yet, against the setting of such strength, all life quietly went out of her eyes. No tears. Not like the day when he inadvertently played the Mahler. Just a dry, haunted look, masters of the underworld in all their miserable employment visiting her eyes and turning them from blue-grey to dark, deep purple. At least, that was how it looked to him.
"It was my fault..."
"That's what some women say when their partners rape them or beat them."
"You don't understand."
"Suddenly I don't understand?"
"I was as much to blame..."
"Kathryn, honey," the endearment slipped out, "if by going to Dorvan you mean that was your fault, then perhaps, you are right. In that you probably did the right thing. You got drawn into something that has left you bearing the scars alone. Now you know what can happen."
"We - "
"You don't have to tell me."
He knew they'd made love. Kathryn's eyes revealed not her unhappiness at not being with the man she loved, but the guilt of their illicit lovemaking, the guilt of stealing someone else's happiness.
"N-No, I think you deserve to know that I - I heard your voice. Just your voice that called me back from the brink of my own shame."
Her words surprised him. He was the reason she came to her senses? In that moment he felt he wanted to murder the man who had taken the sunlight out of her eyes.
"The man is a coward, if you must know."
It was out. How he felt about a man he'd never met, but through Kathryn, knew by reputation only; he thought Chakotay too willing to have his bread buttered on both sides.
"He's not a coward, Ethan."
But her eyes told another story, a story she wasn't ready to share. He sighed. She was the reason he kept awake most nights. She was creeping into his mind, ready to take his soul. He had found her half dead and kept her alive. But she was tied to Chakotay, Native American man, who had married another woman. A Borg woman.
"Fine. I just can't help thinking that he has a wife while at the same time keeping a special relationship with you hidden from his wife. You're much bigger than that, Kathryn. You deserve much better."
It was good to see the way Kathryn pulled the dark clouds from her eyes.
"I can never go back."
"Good girl," he said, smiling tenderly before he pulled her close. "I missed you."
He heard her sigh as she rested her head against his chest. He pressed his lips into her hair, his already intoxicated senses heightened by the smell of her shampoo. The sun was out, no longer the golden orange-red of the early mornings but the sharp steely blue of light. Spring was upon the earth, in the sky, the way the breeze no longer carried with it the promise of frost. Spring carried with it his own disquiet. An invisible enemy that crept stealthily through his body, conquered every corpuscle and corralled it into compliance. The morning Scotch was his early warning signal. Every year, every spring. Every time. He had been denying its coming for months, silently wishing it would remain hidden forever, now that he'd met her.
"Your heart is beating faster, Ethan," he heard Kathryn murmur against his chest.
"I'm glad you're back," he retorted.
He wasn't lying. He knew that the disquiet would continue. More Scotch in order to disengage. Very gently he held her back and looked deeply into her eyes. It was time to let Kathryn go, even as every sinew and corpuscle and nerve ending in his body screamed in denial against what he knew was coming. But right now, he wanted to enjoy her presence.
"Breakfast?"
"I'd love that..." she replied.
**********************
Admiral Nechayev stood rigidly at attention and Kathryn wished the woman would relax if only for a second. Didn't she know that she carried with her all the hopes and dreams of every young female cadet who wanted to climb the Starfleet ladder to the top? Still, it wasn't Kathryn's business to divine what made Nechayev tick.
From her own experiences, she knew that she was extremely wary of anyone prying too deeply into her private life or wanting to know too much about her. Knowing that about herself, she could understand someone as reserved and aloof as Nechayev being careful about making herself vulnerable to others.
"You don't have to justify your position to me, Admiral Nechayev - "
"Please...here, if you don't mind, call me Alynna."
It was a most generous concession.
"Very well then...Alynna," Kathryn started, "I know you've done your duty."
"We went overboard with you, Admiral Janeway..."
"Please, call me Kathryn. And yes, you gave me a hard time. So here I am, come through the mill, so to speak."
"Your friend hates me."
Where did that come from? Kathryn thought.
"My friend? Captain Chakotay is away on Dorvan V. I can assure you he - "
"I meant Ethan Bellamy."
Kathryn's eyebrow lifted. What did they know of her friendship with Ethan? What did Nechayev have to do with Ethan?
"I know you must have had some dealings with Ethan during his Starfleet years. Whatever he feels towards you is not something he would share with the next person, nor is it any of my business."
Kathryn remembered Ethan saying that he'd tell her about his life when the time was right. Obviously, their friendship being what it was, a beginning, on a very fragile footing at that, he wasn't willing to part with anything that caused him more pain. Whatever problems he had with Nechayev had to do with his past. She was curious about him, but above all, she respected his privacy.
"I ordered his ship, the Bellerophon to Wolf 359. I don't think he's ever forgiven me. Afterwards… He went into hiding and you found him. I find that…inspirational."
Kathryn smiled wistfully. Ethan was the one who found her.
"Alynna, I can't tell you what's on Ethan Bellamy's mind because I don't know."
Nechayev came forward and leaned with her fists on the desk. Her cold-as-steel eyes suddenly became softer.
"I live with the consequences of sending fourteen Starfleet vessels to Wolf 359. You know that altogether, thirty nine vessels were destroyed in that battle. Bellamy's family was on the Bellerophon..."
Kathryn closed her eyes for a few seconds. Ethan would never tell anyone this, never share such private information with anyone, not even with her. But Alynna Nechayev was privy to inside information. Also, Wolf 359 was not exactly the Federation's finest moment. Thousands of crew and their officers had died, passengers - civilians - on colony vessels called upon to help fight the Borg... Many were assimilated…
Ethan had spoken of a wife. Did she too, die at Wolf 359? Did she too become a Federation statistic? Nechayev's eyes revealed a slither, a tiny aperture into what she was feeling, even suffering. Kathryn experienced a pull of compassion for this woman who felt responsible for the demise of thousands.
"I cannot offer you absolution, Admiral Nechayev."
"I don't want any."
"Except Ethan Bellamy's forgiveness."
"Perhaps, Janeway," Nechayev said softly as she turned to leave Kathryn's office. "Perhaps..."
Kathryn wondered idly to what extent Ethan disliked the lonely woman. Did Nechayev imagine she, Kathryn could pave the way to redemption for her? That she had any influence with Ethan? That Ethan represented every man, woman and child who had died?
"Thank you for stopping by to welcome me. I appreciate that."
Nechayev turned back.
"You're entirely welcome."
A friendship had started, the beginnings of it tentative, the increments small.
Kathryn sighed, leaning back in her great chair, a gift from Ethan. She smiled to herself. It would be a few minutes before Lieutenant Mike Ayala, her newly appointed aide, would make his appearance after his lunch and it afforded her some time to reflect on the past weeks' events.
"I'm hoping your feet will carry you back to Beaver's Lodge on occasion. I promise not to move anything from your room," Ethan had said, his eyes strangely darkened, the emerald green even more startling than usual. Was he lying to her, in spite of his generous invitation? Her room at Beaver's Lodge bore her identity now, with nothing moved from it, even photographs of her mother and Phoebe and Chakotay on her bedstand. She was as at home there as she was in her Indiana farmhouse.
"Ethan, thank you. I was hoping I'd be able to return. You've been very, very good to me. I can never thank - "
"Shhh, don't thank me, Kathryn," he had said as he pulled her gently towards him and pressed a finger against her lips. "I'm glad I found you."
"I'm glad I met you. The circumstances weren't exactly a walk in the park. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to find me in such a condition. But I have to leave. I'm much better now, thanks to you and this wonderful place. I think I shall always love it."
She had sounded very wistful. Beaver's Lodge, Curry County, Oregon had a peaceful effect on her. It healed her in ways no counsellor ever could. She loved the untamed landscape, the sense of total, suspended quietness that hovered about his place, that drew her to it and allowed her to soak in its beauty.
Ethan had hugged her. Despite his wiry frame, he was strong, the embrace firm and reassuring.
"I have something for you, for your office, Kathryn," he had said when he stood back. His hair appeared whiter than ever, his face more lined, quite sallow.
"Why, Ethan! Whatever it is, I'm grateful."
"Then you're easier to please than I thought..." he had responded like a shot.
"Oh, don't count on it. But a gift is a gift. The heart that offered it is greater, I guess, than the heart that received it."
Ethan had gazed at her, in that strangely long, yet familiar look she had become used to.
"I shall remember that..." he had said reflectively.
Then he had walked with her to the shed at the back of the cabin and showed her her gift. It was a leather chair with a high back and solid, comfortable arm rests - shiny leather that smelled new.
"Think of me when you sit in it in your new office, Admiral."
She thought she had detected that sharpness again, a mocking tone in his voice. But she knew him now and accepted that about him with affection as she tested her chair, sitting back in it. When he snickered, she had stuck out her tongue at him. His eyes shuttered a moment. She wondered what he had been thinking, but the softness of the leather, the comfort of the chair created such pleasure that she had forgotten about it. The moment was gone by the time he had taken her hand and pulled her up again.
The big chair had travelled with her in her runabout to Headquarters and with Mike Ayala's help, they had transported it to her office. But all the way to Headquarters and later, when she visited Indiana for a day, she couldn't get Ethan out of her mind. Just the way he looked before she left. It scratched at her consciousness, kept needling her. It was something she couldn't put her finger on, like a memory that slipped away into the depths when she might have seen such a look before, in another time and another place, another dire circumstance. The teasing, cynical look was gone and in its place, an indefinable scrutiny that mystified her. Also, his skin had taken on a translucence; he was extraordinarily pale. Hadn't he slept enough? Did he work on his novel nights through? Was he sick? But she had to let those images go.
Finally, she threw herself into her work and for a few days she could put it out of her mind. Only, there were fleeting moments when his face loomed before her and her own perplexity grew.
Ethan had been sad. It was in his eyes, the way his shoulders were hunched. Something was bothering him. Since her return to Beaver's Lodge, he had been a little on edge, more than he had been before. His face had looked pinched, sallow, the creases in his cheeks more pronounced. By the time she left, the pinched look had deepened, his lips almost white as he kept them compressed at times, as if he were in pain or trying to hold back a memory.
Was he in pain? Was Alynna Nechayev the source of it? She couldn't help but wonder. Whatever it was, Ethan was exercising superhuman effort to keep it under control. So she played along with him, no matter that he knew she was playing along. He couldn't have missed the note of concern in her voice.
"I'll miss you," he had said before she left.
"I'll come up on the weekend," she said.
It would give her the opportunity to ask him about his health, or perhaps, venture into the territory he seemed determined to keep locked up.
However, the weekend had flown by as she became absorbed in her work, with Mike being too good-natured to refuse working the extra hours. She thought privately that Admiral Paris had deliberately upped her workload to keep her busy, to take her mind off things. But more than two months had passed and she was mending physically and mentally. The work challenged her, recreated in her the old drive to perform, as if she were back on Voyager and thriving on the pressure.
When she had been sick to the point of dying, Ethan had called Doctor Paris to tend to her. That good lady was her physician now. They knew what had happened to her and knowing that, gave her a lot to do - work that became another form of therapy. She had been to see Doctor Paris twice and at the second session, she was declared fit for work.
It was good being back in the saddle, although she missed Voyager. After more than two months, Voyager was still at McKinley Station, her Borg technology analysed, but not compromised. Tuvok was there, supervising a small detail that especially had kept intact the cargo bay, which had been Seven's home since she had come on board, as a security priority. At the time when Kathryn had been at her most depressed, spiralling into a nervous collapse, she still had the presence of mind to insist they leave the cargo bay intact. One never knew, she remembered telling Admiral Gordon. For once Gordon had agreed, with the words that Kathryn Janeway and her crew were the best personnel to deal with analysing and protecting the technology of Voyager.
She'd give the ship to Chakotay in a minute if he wanted it.
"Admiral..."
She looked up, distracted by Mike's voice, a little mortified when he smiled.
"You were gone there for a minute," he said.
"Sorry. Carmen, she won't mind?"
"Carmen is taking the boys to Mars, Admiral. She - " Mike paused, blushing a little.
"What, Lieutenant?"
"Ordered me to be of service to you and not to rest until she was happy. Working weekends...why, on Voyager we were doing double shifts all the time!"
"And Carmen is happy?"
"Well, all I can say is that she has threatened me with death."
Kathryn had given a light laugh. When he had reported for duty, the first thing he did was to apologise for not supporting her at the court-marital. He had been mortified during his short speech. She had accepted gracefully, acknowledging that she may have been wrong in pushing them away.
Mike and Carmen were a brilliant couple, loving and caring parents to their sons. She had been thinking of asking them to take care of her Indiana farm whenever she was away herself for any length of time. Carmen still preferred calling her admiral; the gentle woman spent her time making life bearable for her husband and sons who were blossoming at their old school with the friends they had left behind. Carmen had her family firmly in hand. Kathryn was certain Carmen had a hand in her husband's warm apology.
"With death, huh."
"Aye, and she being…uh...being pregnant too..."
It had been a pleasant surprise.
"You're going to have a baby?"
"Due in September."
"Congratulations, then!"
"Thank you, Admiral. And Admiral, we would not mind having a certain former Voyager captain as Michaela's godmother…"
"A baby girl! Michaela…godmother… I think I can live with that!"
After that, they had worked in silence. Ayala was efficient, disciplined. Always an excellent functionary of Tuvok's Security team on Voyager, he displayed the same diligence and watchfulness now, after only two weeks with her. Right now, he was in the adjacent office working on crew manifests for three Starfleet Constellation class vessels, two with a crew complement of 750 and the third a crew of one thousand. Vessels thrice the size of Voyager...
Now that work had
tapered to a slightly less frenetic pace, it allowed Ethan to creep back in her
mind. She wondered what he was doing right now. She knew he spent the hours from
0300 to 0600 working on his latest novel, The
Raging Moon…
Ethan hardly ever ate much, and after breakfast he played the cello, his beloved instrument handed down five generations ago.
"My great-great-grandfather played. He was a product of Juilliard…"
"And you?"
Ethan had given a long drawn out sigh.
"I'm Juilliard trained, Kathryn."
Kathryn wondered how it was possible that all the creative genius of his forebears could jump so many generations and settle in one person. One of them must have been a great poet. Some of Ethan's poetry had crept into The Raging Moon...
She gave a sigh as she keyed in the commands for his home communication on her vid-com. There was no response. The Federation insignia stared back at her, remained inactive for several seconds. Finally, a message appeared, the same as the three previous ones she'd read when she had tried, noting that Ethan was not available. She was really becoming worried about him. She hadn't heard from him. The past weekend when she had planned to go to Oregon, she had been snowed under with work, only remembering once to hail him. When he hadn't responded to her hail, she had simply put it down to his own work load and the old tendency to repel people.
"I should have persisted then," she murmured reflectively, "let him know I wouldn't be able to make it..." Her voice was tinged with regret.
Now he seemed to have dropped off the coastal cliffs, or gone off-world. That thought made her sit up straight. Ethan was so reclusive, so private she didn't think he'd go anywhere off-world, or even anywhere else on Earth.
"Commander Ethan Bellamy has not left Earth," responded the computer when she formulated that question.
"What is the current location of Commander Ethan Bellamy?"
It was a long shot, and one she knew Ethan wouldn't appreciate. Anyone could track him down, but no one was allowed on his property except the occasional workers she had seen there and the reserve staff who monitored the wildlife and flora. Mark had never been there and neither had Wanda, whom she had learned was related to Ethan. She remembered seeing Ethan standing next to Mark the day during the debriefings when he had come to see her. They were friends, although Ethan never mentioned them in such terms to her.
"Commander Ethan Bellamy is in Curry County, the state of Oregon."
So he was home. Just not ready to communicate with her.
At that moment Mike Ayala knocked on the interleading door.
"Enter."
When he stood before her with a PADD in her hand, she berated him.
"You know you don't have to knock..."
"Good manners, Admiral. I'm a Starfleet officer now and those protocols still hold much value for me. It feels like I'm entering your ready room."
She smiled at the memory his words evoked.
"Good, then. Any news for me?"
He held the PADD to her.
"A communiqué from Admiral Paris."
She took the PADD and scanned the information, then smiled when she finished reading. Owen Paris was on a quick visit to the Utopia Planitia shipyards.
"An invitation to spend the weekend at Palings - "
"Palings, Admiral?"
"The Paris property. The name is a combination of the last names of Doctor Paris and Admiral Paris. She was Elizabeth Illingsworth..."
"Oh, I get it. This weekend? Then I wish you a great time with the Parises. I understand little Miral is thriving."
"So are her parents! They all dote on her, especially her grandparents. I'm looking forward to seeing them. Tom is finally home after a month long stint on the USS Brigadoon. By the way, you and Carmen and the boys are invited too. A sort of mini reunion."
"Thank Admiral Paris for us, Admiral. I speak for my family when I say we're indeed happy to accept the invitation." Mike was quiet a second or two, then, "Have you managed to locate Commander Bellamy, Admiral? If not, I can try - "
"Mike, that's alright. Mr Bellamy doesn't want to be found. He is home, mind you, but out of commission. He wants to be left alone. A few more days, then I'll try again..."
Ayala cleared his throat, looked slightly sheepish for a second.
"Perhaps you should go and punch your way through..."
"Then again, it's best to let him breathe," she retorted, her tone clear that she didn't wish to pursue the matter with him.
"Understood, Admiral."
*******************
Kathryn surveyed the scene before her. Tom was walking about, proudly holding baby Miral. B'Elanna, who had opted to take a final year at the Academy, sat talking with her mother-in-law, Elizabeth Paris. She had declared that the "fresher course" afforded her time with her baby. Carmen Ayala sat with them, looking very broody as her hand strayed to her stomach. Harry Kim and Mike were also deep in conversation. The Ayala boys had wondered off on the property, determined to find the owl Tom had spoken of that haunted Palings at night.
It had been good coming to Palings. Already on Voyager her crew had begun to form smaller groups that had met regularly. Now they wanted her to organise a reunion for them at the end of the year.
Kathryn gave a sigh. She had underestimated her crew once again. Her breakdown had been so total that she never noticed them in the courtroom. Some had moved on, understandably, but a few had remained to attended the hearing first. Magnus Rollins was one of them. The doctor, before he had been whisked away to Jupiter Station, had left a message for her, offering his support. So many she hadn't realised had been there all the time. Had she forgotten that she'd actually thanked some of them? She couldn't remember that she had been at her mother's grave, yet a poem she had written which she read only two days ago, was evidence that she had been there. Her world had truly been a dark haze in which she'd hardly recognised people, just seen them as images floating by through the thick mists. Only Ethan with his shock of white hair had remained discernable.
The Parises had invited some of the former crew to their little social gathering. They carried themselves with so much confidence and had happily agreed to interviews whenever media representatives approached them. Kathryn herself had eventually granted the young reporter who had cornered her at Indiana, an interview. Young K'Lor of the Kekrean Media Centre had been pleased, and she had been more centred than she had been that traumatic first time. She was ready to speak with him and had shared some of her experiences in the Delta Quadrant. Neelix, who opted to return to Earth with them, was happily engaged in giving culinary tips to Admiral Paris of all people. She had seen James Hamilton and Mariah Henley flitting by, giving her brilliant, blushing smiles. They were going to marry and had asked her to do the honours. Dalby was on Dorvan helping Chakotay. Noah Lessing looked like he wanted to join Susan Nicoletti to his hip.
She wished Marla Gilmore were here as well. The Equinox crew had remained close as a group, but Marla had married Magnus Rollins and they were on their honeymoon. They had wanted her to perform the ceremony and she had gladly obliged them three days ago. Young James, Magnus's son from his first marriage, had lived with his grandmother during his father's absence. James was eleven years old when Voyager went to the Badlands and now, at eighteen, he was an Academy cadet already in his second year and, she had heard, Icheb's new friend. Kathryn gave a contented sigh. James was eager to be in her Quantum Mechanics class during the third year. She'd have both him and Icheb in her class then.
Only once Voyager was ready... She really thought Chakotay the best officer to command Voyager, but he had been cagey about returning to Earth in the near future. Unless some calamity happened, he wasn't budging from his home world. Besides, he had not come to see her off when she left Dorvan. That night that he had practically made love to her... It had pulled her up sharply - a rude, rude awakening when she'd realised that he wanted her and he wanted his wife and that he couldn't, shouldn't, have both.
She had gone into a minor relapse, had managed to keep her warring emotions in check because the Ayalas were traveling with her in her shuttle. Only when she was on the USS Gainsbourg in her own suite did she drop her guard. She had spent the days brooding in her darkened suite, alternating between thanking Ethan and cursing him and cursing Chakotay, then in a flood of fury, blaming herself for what she had allowed to happen. Back in Earth's orbit, she couldn't wait to return to Beaver's Lodge. Ethan's home had called her from a distance, just as his voice had pulled her back to reality at the moment she and Chakotay...
Ethan had homed in on precisely what she and Chakoyay had done. Thankfully, he didn't sneer or grace her with his usual cynical expressions. She had been as complicit as Chakotay had been. Part of it was her fault. A niggling doubt kept creeping into her thoughts. She should never have gone to Dorvan V. Knowing how fragile her own resolve had been - and still was - where Chakotay was concerned, her whole body repudiated her thinking of guilt and she had an instinctive, subliminal desire to be touched by him.
Yes, she decided. That was why she went to Dorvan V. That she hoped Chakotay would touch her in the way it had happened, that he would make love to her, that she would feel their bodies join and celebrate with joy their illicit union.
She had wanted to taste him, however wrong it was. That he didn't understand the depths of her soul had become a foggy deterrent hovering on the edges of her consciousness, easy enough to push away or just pretend it wasn't there. Suddenly, now that he was married, she wanted him, at any cost. She had wanted their bodies to merge as one, even as her mind struggled with principles, the conflict raging and then dissolving the moment Chakotay touched her.
Only when she heard a voice from afar - Ethan's voice - had she pulled back, regaining her composure and her reason.
****************
"Starfleet's newest admiral is deep in thought," she heard Admiral Paris say.
Kathryn shook her head as she realised he was standing right next to her and she'd never noticed that he had walked up to her.
"Too many things, Admiral. You are keeping me busy."
The grey-haired man, his bearing so distinguished, smiled gently at her.
"You look much better than the last time we saw you. Oregon has done you the world of good. My wife was right. No counselling would have replaced just being there and in Ethan Bellamy's company."
"I heard he wasn't very keen on keeping me there," she suggested.
"His eyes spoke differently. You were in a bad state, by the way."
"It's over now, Owen," she said, using his first name. "I have to thank you and Elizabeth, and I'm deeply grateful for Ethan…"
He gazed at her, his eyes pensive.
"Is it really over, Kathryn? You returned from Dorvan V looking a bit under the weather..."
She sighed. Who else but Ethan and Admiral Paris would sense that she was distressed about Chakotay?
"It has to be over. I'm rebuilding my life now. Some things must be left behind..."
Owen Paris smiled, then squeezed her shoulder gently.
"I understand. So, what is Ethan Bellamy up to?"
She shrugged her shoulders, the familiar concern spreading through her. She was in Ethan's confidence regarding his books and writer's name. It thrilled her that she knew and kept his secret. But all her attempts at communicating with him had been unsuccessful. Ethan was still out of commission.
On other occasions, she could creep into his home in the dead of night and it wouldn't bother him. The look on his face when she'd left Beaver's Lodge had been merely one of detachment, of telling her or anyone else not to come near him. He didn't want her to be there and there was definitely a reason. It had nothing to do with his normally boorish aloofness, but the sad look on his face was haunting her.
"I don't know... I really don't know, Owen."
"Have you communicated with him?" Owen asked, frowning.
"Several times. His message is the usual 'keep away from Beaver's Lodge', I guess. He's had enough of us…"
"Maybe we could - "
"Not 'we', Admiral Paris. I'll find out."
"But, Kathryn - "
"He hates anyone intruding. Even my presence might be disturbing."
"You don't know, do you?"
The look in Owen Paris's eyes made something turn cold inside her. What was it she was supposed to know? Did Alynna Nechayev, Paris and the other admirals know something darkly troubling about Ethan? Her heart pounded suddenly. Suddenly, her conversation with Nechayev a couple of weeks ago became far more portentous, sinister. They knew something no one else knew. Did Nechayev think that she, Kathryn, could get more information out of Ethan? Divine his thoughts which at most times were closed off?
"Sometimes Mark and Wanda can coax him out of hiding or he'll go off-world, but this time of the year he deliberately secludes himself. The house is surrounded by a forcefield."
"A…forcefield? Why the security?" she asked, feeling the blood drain from her face at the tone and import of Owen's words.
Admiral Paris's blue eyes, so like Tom's, became even more concerned as he gripped her shoulders.
"Over the years, we left him alone to work through it. Maybe, Kathryn, your appearance in his life is changing the rules of his seclusion."
"Why?"
"Who knows? You've given him a reason again, for living?"
She conceded that she valued his friendship, and that Ethan indeed liked her if he allowed her on his property and in his home. Why should a forcefield deter the masters of Starfleet Command? It was chicken feed to the likes of Icheb or B'Elanna or Tuvok to decrypt it.
"A forcefield. That shouldn't be too - "
"The forcefield carries a Borg signature…"
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END PART NINE
PART TEN - BEST OF BOTH WORLDS