Strange New Worlds VIII

by Dean Wesley Smith

  “Would you like me to start the music while we wait?” asked Neelix.

  “No!” answered B’Elanna and Captain Janeway simultaneously. The captain wondered what Tom could have forgotten. If it was the ring, she hoped he would find it quickly.

  To her immense relief, the mess-hall doors slid open a few moments later and Tom walked back in. He didn’t look panicked, so she assumed that the ring must be safe. In fact, he almost looked jaunty.

  “Why don’t I start this time?” B’Elanna asked. Janeway nodded.

  “Tom,” B’Elanna began.

  “Ensign Rogers to Captain Janeway,” came over the com system.

  Janeway closed her eyes in exasperation, opened them and smiled grimly at the waiting couple in apology, and turned toward the windows before answering the hail. “Go ahead, Ensign. And I’m warning you, this had better be good.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry to disturb you, Captain, but I need you to come to the bridge right away.”

  “Now. You need me now.” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “I’m sending Commander Chakotay.”

  “Actually, Captain, you’re the only one who can take care of this. It, uh, requires . . . um, the computer is asking for captain-level security clearance from the bridge or it’s going to start purging all the oxygen from the ship.”

  Janeway sighed. “I’ll be right there. I hope you didn’t have your heart set on a promotion anytime in the near future, Ensign.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Rogers.

  Janeway turned back to face the couple. “Tom?” She looked around. “Where did they go?” she asked Chakotay.

  “What? Oh, I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t see where they went. I . . . I’m not feeling well.”

  Janeway held up her hand. “Never mind. Tell them I’ll be right back. They will get married today.” Janeway started to march out of the room and turned back at the door. “Commander, if you start to feel any worse, report to sickbay. I’d appreciate if you didn’t get sick all over the bride and groom.”

  e|lope (elop´, i-) vi. to run away secretly, esp. in order to get married

  “Captain!” came an urgent whisper just as Janeway was about to enter the turbolift. She turned and saw Tom beckoning from around the nearest corner.

  “Tom, I’ve been called to the bridge, but I promise, I’ll be right back. Don’t let any of this ruin your wedding. You don’t want to miss Neelix’s cake—Commander Chakotay and I sampled the batter this morning, and if it was any indication, Neelix has outdone himself this time.”

  Tom smiled. “I had Ensign Rogers call you, Captain. I could tell B’Elanna was going to bolt any minute, so I thought I better get her out of there. We want you to marry us now, just us, and then we’ll sneak off to the Flyer and let the rest of you enjoy the party.”

  “That,” Janeway said, “may be the best idea I’ve heard all day. Where’s B’Elanna?”

  “In a supply closet.”

  “Lead the way, Mister Paris.” She followed him down several corridors to a closet a few meters from the entrance to the shuttlebay. The room was barely big enough to hold the three of them.

  “Okay, let’s do this,” said Janeway.

  “Um, Captain, I hate to bring this up now, but don’t we need a witness for the ceremony to be legal?” Tom asked.

  The captain thought for a second. “The computer can witness the marriage! I think that’s legal. Computer, can you serve as witness to a marriage ceremony?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Then please bear witness to the marriage of Tom Paris and B’Elanna Torres, as performed by Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation Starship Voyager. Tom and B’Elanna . . . ” She paused.

  “Captain?” said Tom. “Everything all right?”

  “I’m fine. I just felt a little queasy there for a second. Maybe we better skip ahead, if that’s okay.”

  “Maybe we should wait until you’re feeling better,” B’Elanna said.

  “No! Tom, do you take B’Elanna to be your lawful wedded wife?”

  Tom looked into B’Elanna’s eyes. For a moment, they were the only two people in the universe. “I do.”

  “B’Elanna, do you take Tom to be your lawful wedded husband?”

  “I do,” she said, smiling up at Tom. An ominous rumble came from Captain’s Janeway stomach. “Captain, are you sure you’re okay? You’re starting to look kind of green.”

  “I’m fine,” gasped Janeway. “I just . . . oh no! Neelix’s cake! By the power vested in me by Starfleet, I now . . . I now . . . pronounce you . . . husband and wifepleaseexcuseme!” She rushed out of the room with her hand over her mouth. “You may kiss the bride,” came a muffled call just as the closet door slid shut again.

  Tom and B’Elanna looked at each other. “I think we’re married,” said Tom.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said B’Elanna. “Computer, what is B’Elanna Torres’s marital status?”

  “Lieutenant Torres and Lieutenant Paris were married by Captain Kathryn Janeway at 16:47 today.”

  “You’d better kiss me then, flyboy.”

  toast (tost) n. 1 a person, thing, idea, etc. in honor of which a person or persons raise their glasses and drink 2 a) a sentiment expressed just before so drinking b) such a drink.

  Almost as soon as the Delta Flyer cleared the shuttlebay doors, Tom switched to autopilot and produced a bottle of champagne.

  “Shouldn’t we check on the captain?” said B’Elanna.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll relax and enjoy our honeymoon until we do, will you?” Tom said.

  “That’s right, flyboy.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, pretending to sigh. He touched the console. “Paris to sickbay.”

  “Ah, Mister Paris,” said the Doctor over the com. “I was hoping for the opportunity to congratulate you. I still have to check the Starfleet Medical database, but I do believe your wedding may have set a new record for the largest number of guests needing medical attention. Particularly considering the fact that you didn’t actually get married.”

  “Well, we did get married, Doc. Just not at the ceremony. But that’s splitting hairs, don’t you think?”

  “If you insist,” the Doctor replied dryly.

  “How’s the captain, Doctor?” B’Elanna asked.

  “She’ll survive, thanks to my excellent care. So will Tuvok and Chakotay. Ensign Delaney had me worried for a moment—after all, it’s no small thing to be tackled by an ex-Borg.”

  “Hey Doc, which sister was it?” Tom asked with interest. “I can usually tell them apart, but—”

  “Tom,” said B’Elanna, a warning note in her voice.

  “Uh, better go, Doc.”

  “Bon voyage,” the Doctor said. “Oh, Mister Paris . . . if that wedding was any indication of what your married life will be like, remind me to request a transfer if the two of you ever decide to have a baby. After all, even holographic doctors have limits.”

  “A baby? Us? I don’t think you need to worry about that just yet, Doc,” Tom said. “Paris out.”

  Tom and B’Elanna clinked glasses, smiling into each other’s eyes.

  Coffee with a Friend

  J.B. Stevens

  “Help me, Daddy. Tell me that I made the right choice. If ever I needed your counsel, it’s now.”

  A gentle flurry of cool evening wind sent a swirl of amber and crimson leaves from a nearby maple dancing through the air. I reached down and brushed one of the fallen leaves off the dark stone, then reverently let my fingers brush across the deeply etched letters that spelled “Edward Janeway.” But only the sound of the wind soughing through the evergreens in Starfleet Memorial Park replied. I sat back on the soft grass cushioning my knees and sighed. Oh, well. I hadn’t really expected an answer, anyway. In fact, I didn’t know why I had come here, except . . .

  I looked over my shoulder up the hill to where a row of new markers had been placed. They stood o
ut from the rest, the freshly cut stone not yet showing the weathered patina of age. Those newest additions were the real reason I had come, to pay my respects. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make myself go up there and look at them, not just yet. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I did, I only knew I wasn’t ready.

  So I came to the one place that gave me comfort, to be near the one person that would understand what I was going through. I hadn’t been to visit him in a long time. Far too long, in fact, even before I went on the mission that became the reason for those other markers on the hill, the ones that shouldn’t be there.

  The ones for which I was responsible.

  I leaned over and placed my hands on my father’s marker, hoping to draw some warmth, some measure of comfort from his spirit, but the stone remained cold and unyielding. Then the first fat drops of rain began to mar the surface of the stone. Too late, I noticed the rainstorm approaching from the bay. Unprepared, I made a mad dash down the hill in hopes of finding shelter before I became drenched, kicking myself all the way for forgetting about the unpredictable San Francisco weather. Damn, you’d think I’d know better, having lived here before.

  I only made it as far as the nearest street before it started pouring. Cold and wet, I huddled against the recessed doorway of a closed business and watched the people rush by on their way home, their umbrellas adding the only bright spots of color to an otherwise dreary landscape.

  I envied those people. Not just their umbrellas or their wise choice of a warm coat. No, I envied their innocence. For they had not been where I had been, seen the wonderful but terrible things that I had seen, or endured the losses I had suffered, including seven years of their lives.

  Seven years. It might as well have been seven centuries. For those seven years, I was lost, given up for dead. And for those seven years, I’d tried everything in my power to get back home, put my life and the lives of my crew on hold and fought to get back. And in the end, I got my wish and kept my promise to the crew of the Starship Voyager: to lead them home.

  But for what?

  A sudden movement in the window of the business startled me. For a moment, I didn’t recognize my own reflection. The woman staring back bore no resemblance to Kathryn Janeway, the self-confident starship captain who’d embarked on what should have been a routine mission so long ago. Instead, I saw a broken, hollow-eyed scarecrow standing alone on a street corner feeling sorry for herself. I certainly didn’t want to feel this way. In fact, I should be happy to have survived after all of those years lost, to stand where I was standing. And now that I’m here . . .

  Truth was, I felt more lost than when I was stranded in the Delta Quadrant. I’d rather have faced an armada of Borg cubes than put up with the endless parade of official debriefings and welcome-home parties testing my already tenuous control over sanity. And those obligatory sessions with Starfleet counselors! Assimilation might have been preferable, but I smiled politely and played along, responding to their inane psychobabble with my usual defensive prevarication that everything was fine.

  But I knew I wasn’t fine. My mother and sister knew it, too. Nothing anyone said or did could assuage the weight of responsibility for what I’d done, could possibly wipe away the stain of consequence. Every night brought the same dream, a demon of guilt forcing me to look at the faces belonging to the names etched on those new stones.

  And every new week brought yet another set of journeys to visit the families of those left behind. I’d given the requisite condolence speeches and medals of commendation over and over again, answered their questions, and endured their tears and looks of blame until I had nothing left to give anymore. Still the comfort I tried to bring them, that I so desperately needed myself, eluded me.

  What a fool I was, expecting to handle this situation just like I handled my command. After all, I’d fought the Borg and won. The simple act of returning home again shouldn’t be any different, should it? As if agreeing with my mood, the darkness became complete, and the rain suddenly intensified, coming down in blinding sheets.

  Across the street, the green and red lights of a coffeehouse sign reflected off the wet, deserted street. Curious that I hadn’t noticed it before, I watched as the door to the tiny café opened, the light inside silhouetting two people. A tall, chubby woman with her hair pulled back in a graying bun patted her customer on the back, then waved as they hurried down the street clutching a container of steaming refreshment.

  The thought of a cup of coffee made my mouth water, liquid warmth that would be very welcome right now, so I decided to brave the downpour and cross the street. Before I could take one step, the woman stepped back inside and turned the sign on the door to “Closed.” I think it was then I realized the depths of my depression when tears of disappointment welled up in my eyes. To let something this silly upset me was a desperate cry for help.

  At this point, it didn’t matter anyway. I’d deal with it later. The hour was late, and I had promised my mother I’d return home to Indiana by midnight. I looked up at the black sky and prepared to make a run for it, hoping against hope that the rain would let up enough for me to make it to the transport station without drowning.

  Suddenly, I had the strange sensation that I was being watched. Across the street, I saw the coffeehouse owner still standing at the door staring in my direction. I shrank back into the shadows away from the unwanted company, hoping it was too dark to be seen. I didn’t want to be rude to the woman, but after the day I’d had, I was not in the mood for the banality of polite conversation with a stranger.

  After a moment, the woman walked away from the door, and I sighed in relief. She probably was looking out at the weather and not me anyway. Then the woman reappeared with an umbrella in her hand, stepped out of the door, and hurried across the street directly toward me. Before I could escape, I found myself face-to-face with the coffeehouse owner.

  “It’s awfully cold to be standing out here in the rain.” The woman smiled down at me. “You look like you could use a cup of hot coffee.”

  Something about her demeanor and open, friendly face put me at ease, and I instinctively returned the smile. “You don’t know how good that sounds, but I don’t want to keep you.” I nodded toward the “Closed” sign.

  “Not to worry,” the large woman said, taking my arm in one beefy hand and leading me across the street under the umbrella’s protection. “For you, we’re always open.”

  Grateful, I followed my rescuer into the cozy shop. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  The woman stepped behind the counter and took two bright red mugs down from a shelf. “No thanks are necessary. And that isn’t necessary, either.” She nodded at the credit voucher I’d laid on the counter. “The only payment I require is a little conversation, if you’re willing.”

  I settled on a stool. “Of course, I’m willing. That’s a small price to pay for a good cup of coffee.”

  “A true connoisseur, I take it?”

  “To the core. Any of my associates will tell you that I’ll do almost anything for coffee.”

  “Well, that’s good, then,” the woman said, shouting over the roar of the coffee grinder. “Because I’ll do anything to have someone to talk to. My name is Gaby, and that’s no coincidence.”

  I laughed, surprised at how good it felt, and extended my hand. “Kathryn Janeway.”

  “Janeway,” Gaby repeated hesitantly, accepting my hand in a grip that felt like a duranium vise. Then her eyes widened in recognition. “Of course! You’re the captain who led her crew home after being lost for so many years!”

  “Guilty as charged,” I replied, giving her a halfhearted smile. The last thing I wanted right now was more unwanted attention.

  The look was not lost on Gaby. “Oh, come now. I’d have to be a hermit not to have heard about the famous Captain Janeway and the brave crew of the Starship Voyager, wouldn’t I?” she asked, pouring the ground coffee into the percolator. “You’re all the news media has been talking about f
or the last several weeks.”

  I breathed deep of the heady aroma. “Reporters do tend to be a bit overzealous with their attention at times.”

  “I’d say it’s well deserved in your case,” Gaby said with a smile. She filled the two mugs from the percolator’s tap, then motioned for me to follow her. “Since I have the pleasure of such distinguished company, it’s the best table in the house for you.”

  She led me to a small table for two in the café’s front window and set the mugs down. “There you go. Jamaican Blue Mountain, black, just the way you like it.”

  I stared at my hostess in astonishment. “How did you know?”

  “Know what? That you liked your coffee black or that Jamaican Blue Mountain is your favorite?”

  “Both,” I said, slowly settling into a chair.

  Gaby shrugged and sat across from me. “You’ve been described as a straightforward, no-nonsense type of person. That’s the kind that usually likes their coffee the way they live their lives: strong and bold, not diluted by anything sweet. And as for the other, everyone likes Jamaican Blue Mountain.”

  “You seem to be a very astute judge of character.” I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and took a sip. The taste was pure heaven!

  “Not really,” Gaby said. “I’m just a good listener.”

  “Then you must be part El-Aurian,” I teased.

  Gaby looked confused. “El-what? Oh, you mean the race of seven-hundred-year-old listeners.” She held her hands up in protest. “No, I’m afraid I’m just a plain old human. But there are days when I feel about seven hundred years old.”

  I set the mug down and watched the steam curling up into the air. “I know what you mean.”

  “Bad day?”

  “More like a bad couple of weeks,” I replied, not looking up.

  Gaby watched me as if gauging my mood. “Coming home again has been hard on you, hasn’t it?”

  I hesitated for a moment before answering. “Harder than I ever thought it would be,” I told her at last. I turned and stared out the window at the rain, not certain that I could say any more.