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When home was a ship drifting through space for years, a change in pace is entirely welcome. Despite a celebratory homecoming for family and friends, the Starfleet Federation Vessel, USS Voyager, and its crew faced challenging inquiries for intel’s sake. The months of tedious, monotonous paperwork bored Captain Kathryn E. Janeway to tears prior to her promotion to admiralty.
Rather than occupy herself with a holodeck simulation, she sends an e-invitation to her trusted confidante and dear friend, Seven of Nine, to accompany her on an excursion. Ever the cheeky one, Janeway sends encrypted coordinates for Seven to decode along with a list of inventories to bring. Given her Borg ingenue, it won’t take her long, especially with the plan set to occur approximately one week later. That's seven days - 168 hours; 10,080 minutes; 604,800 seconds - if you're counting like a certain bionic blonde she knows.
So, that fated day arrives.
Seemingly far removed from civilization, at the edge of the woods, Seven of Nine finds Captain Janeway – or Kathryn, as she insists to be called, in tender moments of gold like these. Here, nature differs from the synthetic reality conjured up by the holodeck where artifice rings hollow.
Kathryn stands by the entrance to the hiking trail, clad in grey and crimson sneakers, the laces double-knotted (rabbit ears, the way Daddy taught her, and Seven remembers little Annika learning from her father: a faint, muted memory), with a black t-shirt that hugs her toned biceps alongside sleek leggings that hug her calves, pockets sewn into where her thighs rest.
Similarly, Seven dresses sensibly, given the task set at hand. Unabashed and unashamed, Kathryn gives her approval once over, a look that lingers for far too long. Seven sports a silver muscle tank, complementary to her gleaming implants, merged with her organic flesh as a single entity. Black combat boots hide her slim ankles. She dons deep emerald leggings, velvet stripes running vertical in a set of three against her muscled thighs. Rather than a taut, militant French twist, Seven fixes her hair into a tight ponytail.
Each woman wears a lightweight hiking pack, one red and the other a utilitarian black.
Wooden posts nailed into place herald the entrance with certain trails indicating their length in miles. A sign prohibits bikes from entry. At the top of the post, carved are the words, 'Trail Head.'
“It’s good to see you in the flesh,” Janeway greets her, a playful half-smirk in place. With a pointed elbow, she nudges Seven in the side.
“I last saw you ‘in the flesh’ 168 hours ago, Kathryn. I last saw your virtual visage 72 hours ago. I last heard your voice 12 hours ago.”
A snort closely resembles a laugh. Kathryn fights off the temptation to call her prodigy a smart ass. Instead, she clasps a hand upon Seven’s shoulder and says, “shall we?”
Marching forward, not unlike a toy soldier, Seven walks. She’s taller than Kathryn, more limber too, but although Kathryn looks up to her like a beacon, they remain equals post-homecoming.
Two red rectangles mark a nearby twisted tree, indicative of the path they choose to take. A pointed finger trails along the grooves and ridges adorning the bark of the tree. She lingers beneath the painted markers.
Even now, away from Voyager, Janeway still carries that tenacity with her. The rubber of her worn heels dig into the earth. Beneath her tread, rocks quiver beneath every booted step, threatening to throw each of them off balance. A pebble or a stone tends to wedge itself under the sole of the shoe, past the heel, and before the tip of the toes.
No longer confined by the constraints of a ship, Kathryn finds herself eager to move both on and across land.
Beside her, with her, there exists the ghostly reminder of the past.
Lapsed into a companionable silence, nothing is heard except for birds chirping, exalted breath, and the crunching of dried, dead leaves under their feet. The sun peeks through the splintered branches, the smattering of vibrant green leaves. Momentarily, the searing bright light forces her eyes to squeeze shut. That same blazing sun kisses her cheeks, light fanning across the bridge of her nose; her fair skin will tinge pink, if not cherry red by the day’s conclusion, accentuating the coffee-like splatter of her freckles.
Oh, how this moment reminds her of backpacking with her father as a young girl.
This is the type of heat that holds your lungs exertion and squeezes your heart to test its endurance. Her biceps and calves glisten from sweat. Her tongue chases the beads of sweat that collect above her upper lip, the rest she wipes away with her forearm.
Exhaling, pursing her lips, she tries not to let age act as a deterrent. No matter how fit she may be, the body works against time. She trails a hand along the nape of her neck, wiping away the damp collection of moisture there.
“With every breath,” Kathryn swears, “you can taste the earth.”
Salt spreads above her thin, upper lip. Kathryn drags the back of her head across her clammy forehead. The sun kisses her cheeks, the wind burns her lips, but she prevails. Endures. Continues.
To which Seven lands a pointed quip about the air quality index and the rise of pollution regardless of being surrounded by lush foliage.
It takes Janeway a moment to realize that Seven chooses to embrace her newly found sense of sarcasm. Sweat also gathers along her hairline, albeit less visibly so than that of Kathryn’s appearance.
An assemblage of red, gold, and green surrounds the two of them. Long, gnarled branches cast shadows upon them as they march onward.
There’s a compass that nestles deeply within her right pocket. Funny enough, Boothby gifted her this thing during her academy years. In case you ever get lost, he said. She doesn’t feel aimless, lost, misdirected now. Not with Seven by her side.
Drawn to the nearby rush of water, this walk seems endless. A stream appears several yards away. The babbling book flows slow and steadily, the rush of water singing in tune with the steady sway of branches and bristling leaves.
Seven catches her by the tapered waist, lest she fall and sink her teeth into her lip while falling face first. Now, that would have been embarrassing.
“Let me catch my breath,” Janeway chips in.
From such arduous activity, her lungs clench and seize. She takes a breath. Uncorks her water for a hearty swig. She takes some hearty gulps, almost to the verge of choking. The veins riddling the back of her hands become more pronounced. Offers the bottle to Seven who accepts and drinks from the same mouth under the guise of an indirect kiss.
Elated and delighted to simply be in her company, she appreciates the trek. She understands the Captain’s charismatic allure now more than ever.
In the form of a shadow, her former self stares back, as reflected in the water. In another universe, in another timeline, Seven entertains her imagination with the girl she used to be, the woman she would become, without the Borg’s nefarious influence.
Akin to Theseus’ ship, what parts of her remain the same? An echo of Annika Hansen’s individuality with a proclivity for strawberries or the unique amalgamation of a cyborg known as Seven?
There’s a stillness that manifests inside Seven’s head, a quietude unknown since her former assimilation. The voices of the many carry their haunt, but the buzzing lays dormant. She finds this discovery a peculiar one. Maybe it’s Janeway, maybe it’s the wilderness, maybe it’s a combination of factors or something else entirely.
As Kathryn pauses by a large rock, she folds at the waist. Exhales, inhales. Rinse and repeat. She massages her calf, the muscle tight and seeking relief. Refreshed, she drinks in her surroundings. Cocks her head to admire the profile of her good company. And then, the curve of her back as Seven moves away.
Crouched by the water rich with minerals, Seven cups her hands to collect a bit, watching it trickle between her taut, curled fingers. She splashes it over her face and flits out her tongue for a taste.
Like Helen of Troy, Kathryn supposes that the Borg Queen would burn down worlds and civilizations to possess Seven, to indoctrinate her once more. The Captain counts her blessings that such a day will never come, thanks to her future self.
Curiously, Kathryn approaches Seven. Her penchant for impulsivity shines through as she kicks at the water, sending a spray hurtling towards her companion.
“How about dipping our toes into the stream here?” Kathryn teases, accompanied by a companionable hand upon Seven’s shoulder and a suggestive wag of her brows.
“Preposterous.” References the micro bacteria in the water which she could purify were it limited to a canteen or small reservoir with her nanotechnology.
Regardless of the glaring hypocrisy, Seven flicks a bit of the wetness right back at her, indulging in such a recreational activity
Kathryn doesn’t fight the beaming grin that splits her cheeks. She lets herself get damp, a stain forming across her shirt.
Once she catches her breath, Kathryn continues along the trail. In this trepidatious venture, Seven indulges her by giving her a few steps ahead. Despite her austerity and pristine ruse, it’s Seven who allows her fingertips to brush against Kathryn’s clenched fists. Gradually, their hands come together, all warmth and tenderness.
The path leads to a hill, an ascent, rather than a downward spiral, a demise, some sort of descent. The incline strains the muscles of Janeway’s calves and upper thighs. The salt from her sweat, and a patch of dirt, stick to her brow bone, streaking her face, too. When they’re stationary, she’ll clean herself of the mess.
Up the hill, Kathryn compares the sensation to soaring, like the hawk she spied coasting above the homestead as a girl.
Kathryn pushes past all those minor aches and pains. She keeps going, keeps pushing herself. From sheer exhaustion, her knees buckle; yet, she presses on. Beyond the climb, she burns: all sweat and fervor and determination. She’s a strong, capable woman.
Hell, they both are. What a formidable pair they make.
Stumbling, Kathryn seizes Seven’s hand; she experiences the sensation of metal, warmed against flesh, and none of Seven’s edges cut her. With ease, her Borg ingenue pulls her up to prevent her from stumbling, from falling.
Days later, she’ll feel that raw, pulsing discomfort and it will linger while she eases into the complacency of the admiralty, sequestered and positioned behind a desk, unmoving and unwavering. In retrospect, spending these moments of gold with Seven proves worthwhile.
“Must be old age,” Janeway teases, a mirthful glimmer to her sapphire stare,, a jest at her own expense.
“Kathryn, Starfleet records and my personal inferences, supported by the Doctor’s medical logs, indicate that - in Terran years - you are approximately forty-”
Kathryn stops Seven, hushes her by tapping a crooked finger against those plush, full lips.
A force ten glare stops Seven’s rebuttal.
“Let’s leave some things to mystery, shall we?”
Silence lapses into exalted breath and the crunch of dirt beneath boots, the shift of a rucksack, a sigh.
Hellbent on making it to the end, the blazing sun reddens the bridge of Kathryn’s nose, the light fans across her chest, her collarbone. She burns and she’ll still burn, her complexion fair. Haunts still addle her fine eyes when Seven catches an inquisitive glimpse or two.
She walks until she can’t walk anymore. Her lungs swell and cinch with every breath she takes. The soles of her feet ache, throb, yet she pushes beyond that minimal, contradictorily persistent pain. The soreness coupled with all that exertion is worth the end in sight.
From a scorpion to a friend, Janeway lent Seven of Nine a steady hand. For a moment, their fingers are laced together, loose yet secure. First, Janeway had taken the lead, then Seven. No matter when or where, Seven will follow Kathryn. Of this, she is certain.
At the top of the mountain, they peer out at the landscape, lush and bountiful, that stretches out for miles with many an outstretched tree, branches crooked towards the sky, the sun, the clouds.
An inclination towards diplomacy, coupled with her conviction to defend what she believes in, brings Janeway to this point, to the here and now with Seven. It was never a case of emulating one’s idols even with the often painful, blinding virtuosity of humanity, hanging over Seven like a veil.
Hands on her hips, Kathryn assesses the picturesque scenery, perfectly content with her life, at peace with her choices, satisfied to be here with Seven and no one else.
“Fascinating,” Janeway remarks in perfect reverie.
“Indeed,” Seven retorts, her hands behind her back, curled into loose fists that rest against her spine in this respite.
Indeed, the fresh air works wonders for them. The wind was neither processed nor manufactured. No, it was real.
The forlorn, distant chirp and buzz of insects reminds Janeway of how she longs to experience the novelty of fireflies with Seven. The mere prospect conjures up memories of girlhood, chasing capsules of light with Phoebe, holding stars in their tiny, ambitious hands.
No matter the place, Janeway still manages to relegate as she unpacks her rucksack. She instructs Seven on where to place the blanket and what items to keep it secure in place.
They sit away from the cliffside, atop a sprawled-out blanket with worn, ratty old tassels. It used to be her grandfather’s, Kathryn explained as Seven’s fingers coasted over the soft, faded surface, committing the fabric, its materiality, to memory.
Kathryn unscrews the thermos canister holding hot, fresh coffee. She pours one for each of them, handing one over wordlessly to Seven. Seven observes the slight tremor in Kathryn’s hand, she hears the accelerated heart rate, either from caffeine consumption or proverbial nerves that addle her.
Ever coy, she passes a canteen of not-water to Seven after she takes a hearty sip, smug as she does so. It’s whiskey, too warm from body heat and the sun. Jameson, her loyal friend. Years early (before her time, arguably), Scotty of Enterprise would firmly agree.
There’s a glimmer of mischief as she hands over the flask. Off-duty, she risks a glimpse of herself beyond the uniform, beyond obligation, beyond dedication to the Starfleet cause.
When she drinks, it scorches Seven’s throat, but she finds that she relishes the taste far more than coffee. It’s one she’ll indulge in when she becomes a ranger, before and after Icheb, lost to her mourning. For now, she enjoys her happiness known only as contentment.
“Bet you didn’t think I had a rebellious streak going back to my academy days,” she quips.
“Who would have expected that my Captain would possess such an impishness?”
“Who,” Kathryn echoes with a laugh, the lines around her eyes creasing, as a slow smile curves Seven’s full, pink lips.
The toss of Kathryn copper hair, so vibrant and alive, fans into her face as she offers Seven a strawberry jam and crunchy peanut butter sandwich. She cut it into triangles, into fours, just for her, and halved her own pb&j: creamy with grape, one of the few things she's capable of making save for a mean batch of scrambled eggs with extra cheddar and a dollop of sour cream.
They eat their sandwiches. Seven abandons her crust, sprinkles it into crumbles and tosses it out for the birds that hungrily peck at the scraps, at the remains. With growing fondness, Kathryn observes that little act of kindness.
Ailed by a racing mind, the cacophony of voices inside orchestrate a melodic symphony, one Seven is familiar with on account of her cybernetic upbringing. The calming buzz of a million voices infiltrates her mind, those lives a part of Seven now and forever. Looking to feel something real, something not stored within the Borg’s extensive eidetic memory bank, Seven turns now to face Kathryn.
Seven calculates a million responses for the action she has deliberately, carefully considered for their excursion. She has hypothesized numerous potential phrases to express her gratitude, her adoration, and her love.
Instead, she settles for garnering a reaction. She leans forward, intruding in on Kathryn’s space. One hand braces herself for impact, steady on Janeway’s knee, the other moves to cup her glowing cheek. Softly, yet with intent, Seven kisses her. Pours her admission, her truth, her fealty into the gesture.
And quietly, albeit hesitantly, Kathryn reciprocates, a calm, calloused hand on the curve of her bent back, as if to say, ‘I’m here; I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.’
This is how it feels to be safe, to be seen, to be home.