Chapter Text
“Did the search team scan for a resonance trace from the warp core?”
There is no tremor in her voice. Her hands don’t shake. Gretchen Janeway’s ice blue eyes demand answers, not sympathy, and she holds her guest to the same standard.
“They’ve scanned twice, once closer to the Moriya system and another, more focused scan, within the Terikof Belt.” Before she can ask, he adds, “The team will check the whole of the Badlands. The plasma storms are slowing their search, but not stopping it.”
Owen Paris took off his uniform at the Bloomington transporter station, so one of Starfleet’s most decorated admirals sits at a dining room table in Indiana discussing official business in brown slacks and a green sweater, his commbadge digging into his thigh from his right front pocket. The woman across from him has auburn hair streaked with white, narrow hips, and a nose that would be severe if not for a slight upturn at the end.
The tea they are supposed to be drinking has gone cold. Owen remembers Eddie Janeway as a tea aficionado, but Owen isn’t sure if Gretchen suggested tea because it was a custom of her late husband’s or because she presumes one Starfleet admiral is the same as another when it comes to china cups, a warm beverage, and poor company.
Owen shifts in his chair.
“Starships don’t just disappear,” he says, unnecessarily. “She’s out there.”
Gretchen’s head tilts. “Voyager, or Kathryn?”
To Owen, these have been one and the same. His error occurs to him as his mouth forms a small o. Unbidden comes his memory of the Terra Nova pulled from ice, the crystallized bodies of Eddie Janeway and Justin Tighe within. Gretchen had surprised Starfleet officials when she replied affirmatively to their invitation to witness the dredging. The team of engineers had busied themselves behind their consoles, not one of them daring to look at her as they called out updates on their progress.
As the Terra Nova and those it entombed were tractored into the salvage vessel’s cargo hold, one engineer, giddy at the opportunity to examine the prototype ship, had bobbed his head in delight. “Vulture,” Owen had thought, and strode toward the civilian standing alone.
“How are your daughters holding up?” Owen hadn’t been able to recall Gretchen’s younger child’s name. Hell, he barely knew Gretchen but someone had to talk to her.
Gretchen’s gaze had stayed on the ship inching into the hold. “It’s a difficult time.”
“I’m sorry for your losses.” Owen had said. “We’ll analyze the Terra Nova’s systems until we pinpoint the problem. Starfleet won’t rest until this is solved. I’ll update you with reports of every relevant finding. Starfleet —”
“Starfleet widowed me long before the Terra Nova, Admiral Paris.” Gretchen had glanced at him, then returned her attention to the frozen ship. “I thank you for your condolences.”
A dozen years later, Owen grasps a cup of cold tea and tells Gretchen, “Starfleet won’t rest until this is solved. I’ll update you with reports of every relevant finding.”
Gretchen pulls the delicate teacup from his large hand. “That won’t taste good anymore.”
She carries the tea set into the kitchen.
Owen looks around the dining room. On the far end of the wooden table are stacks of padds. They aren’t Starfleet issue, so Owen eyes them warily. Pictures on the wall show the family — Eddie, Gretchen, Kathryn, and the younger daughter: Phoebe. Owen looked up her name before leaving San Francisco. Outside the window is a frozen field and grey sky.
When she returns, steam rising from the teapot, Gretchen says, “I’d like raw data, not reports, Admiral Paris.”
He isn’t sure if Starfleet will allow this. To give himself time to think, Owen pours himself a cup of tea. He drinks it too quickly, burning the roof of his mouth. Owen’s eyes water. Gretchen watches but doesn’t apologize for hot tea served hot.
He coughs.
“How would you like the data delivered?”
Gretchen tells him her schedule. She works from her office at Indiana State University on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She works from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Admiral Paris can comm her anytime or he may come for tea on the days she’s at the farmhouse.
“What, ah, is it you do?” Owen asks.
Gretchen’s eyebrow rises. “Scientific data analysis.”
Owen knew that. Damnit. Eddie and Kathryn both mentioned Gretchen’s work dozens of times. She’s even been in the news recently for a paper on varied implications of non-linear spatial phenomena.
“I’ll come for tea twice a week,” Owen promises. “I’ll bring you every piece of information Starfleet will allow me to remove from headquarters.”
Gretchen sips her tea. “Kathryn said she went over your head for permission to bring your son, Tom, on the mission — despite your objections. Is that correct, Admiral?”
His eyes drift to a family picture on the wall. Parents with real smiles, children with fake ones, and what looks like a campsite behind them. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Then you’ll see the wisdom of bringing me every piece of information, approved or not, regarding Voyager’s disappearance.”
Owen finds himself agreeing.
***
“Plasma storms at levels three and four wouldn’t be sufficient to vaporize a scout vessel, much less an Intrepid-class starship. Tell your people to find a more plausible theory.”
Gretchen’s padd clatters onto the table. Her fingers go to her temples.
Voyager has been missing for four months.
“Where do you suggest they focus their efforts?”
Owen has learned not to argue. Gretchen doesn’t mind being wrong. Far from it. Her scientific mind embraces answers, even if they aren’t her own. What she won’t tolerate is uninformed debate. A challenge to Gretchen Janeway’s way of thinking requires evidence, and, at this point, Owen has precious little evidence of anything.
Gretchen picks up another padd. “Scans show the graviton particle field didn’t affect the displacement wave. That suggests a sophistication beyond anything the Federation has seen before.”
Owen leans forward. “You think this is intelligence, not natural phenomena?”
“Have you ever seen a displacement wave unaffected by a graviton particle field?” At Owen’s shake of his head, Gretchen hands him the padd. “Then intelligence is a possibility.”
Owen considers this. A displacement wave could have destroyed the ship. It also could have taken Voyager anywhere in the galaxy, to other galaxies, even to other universes. If there was a temporal signature — and scans for chroniton particles have been inconclusive — then Voyager could be anywhere in time. An intelligence would suggest a purpose beyond destruction.
“I’ll redirect the team,” Owen says.
Gretchen nods crisply. The first pot of tea is drained, so she rises to get the second. Owen rubs his eyes.
Working with Eddie was like tiptoeing past a geyser. The man would erupt with ideas, then watch everyone around him scurry to implement them.
Working with Kathryn was like pruning an azalea bush. Her skills would flower — science, command, strategy — but they had to be professionalized in the proper order so her career could flourish.
Working with Gretchen is like trying to run alongside a rabbit. She’s always a step ahead. Owen has watched her face alight with excitement and crumple in despair. Either way, she double- and triple-checks her work before sharing it with him.
Gretchen returns with the fresh pot of tea, plus a small plate of sugar cookies.
Owen blinks.
“I remember you liked them last week.” Gretchen puts the plate in front of Owen. “I didn’t get a chance to make more until yesterday.”
“I … I thank you,” Owen says.
Gretchen smiles slightly.
He takes a bite, the sweet, soft cookie melting in his mouth as they return to their padds.
***
“You can’t ask Starfleet to do that!” Owen’s fists are clenched and his face is flushed.
“I can ask Starfleet anything I damn well please.” Gretchen folds her arms across her chest. “If my request is denied, I can appeal until it crosses your desk.”
“And I’ll deny it the same as anyone else.”
It’s been eight months since Voyager disappeared.
Owen has shared tea with Mark Johnson, Kathryn’s fiancé, when Gretchen asked Owen to please explain to Mark why, even if Kathryn was found that very day, Starfleet wouldn’t release her until after weeks of medical testing and briefings. Owen went over information again and again, answering every question, outlining every scenario. Eyes shining, Mark finally agreed to cancel the wedding. Gretchen had hugged Mark, cupping the back of his head the way a parent might comfort a child. Later, she thanked Owen for his gentle explanations of Starfleet procedures.
“How’s Julia doing with all this?” she had asked.
It wasn’t the first time Gretchen had inquired about Owen’s wife or daughters.
He always changed the subject.
Owen has witnessed the tornado that is Phoebe Janeway. She’d rushed into the farmhouse looking for a sketch pad left behind from a weekend visit.
“Oh,” she had said, skidding into the dining room, her eyes flicking from her mother to her mother’s guest to piles of Starfleet-issue padds.
“Phoebe, you remember Admiral Paris.” Gretchen had stood and embraced her daughter.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Phoebe had said. “I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”
Owen was still changing his clothes at the Bloomington transporter station. His instincts had been correct about Gretchen’s feelings toward Starfleet, and he saw no need to rile her suspicions any more than necessary.
Phoebe had plucked the last cookie from the dish on the table. “Sugar cookies, Mom?” She had taken a bite. “I thought you didn’t like these.”
Owen had stared at the crumbs on his plate as Gretchen elbowed Phoebe out of the dining room. When Gretchen returned, she told Owen, “Crisis averted. Phoebe’s lost sketch pad was in the sink of the girls’ bathroom.”
“The sink?”
Gretchen had shrugged.
“Why do you bake cookies you don’t like?” Owen had focused on Gretchen’s forehead, too flustered to meet her eyes.
“Why do starships make course adjustments less than a minute before a displacement wave manifests fewer than a thousand kilometers to stern?” Gretchen had scooped up a padd from the table. “Now there’s a mystery.”
That was weeks ago, and Owen had let his cookie question go unanswered. But he won’t back down this time, Gretchen’s crossed arms and fire-spitting eyes be damned.
“If I file the request and you deny it, you keep us that much further from knowing what happened to Kathryn and Tom and everyone else on that ship.”
“Gretchen, you’re asking Starfleet to exchange information with the Cardassians. We’ve been at war with them before and early intelligence suggests we will be again.”
Gretchen begins to pace.
“Do you give a damn, Owen?”
Fuming, he strides toward her. “How dare you ask me that? We’ve spent months —”
“We’ve spent months analyzing surveillance data! Computer scans through a dense, stormy part of space. The Cardassians know the territory better than we do.” Gretchen stops in front of Owen. Her hands go to her hips. “And any request to speak to them is an opportunity for peaceful cooperation, something that could build bridges of understanding that become even more important if war is a threat.”
“Starfleet considered outreach to the Cardassians and deemed it inadvisable.” Owen sees Gretchen’s mouth open to argue, so he speaks over her. “The decision was final.”
“The decision is bullshit!” Gretchen’s voice is the loudest Owen has ever heard it.
He matches her volume. “There’s nothing you can —”
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do! You sit behind a desk and analyze data all day. I sit behind a desk and analyze data all day. We both know when more information is needed the only feasible course of action is to acquire it. If Starfleet is too pigheaded to —”
“Stop, Gretchen. Drop this line of thinking. Drop it now.”
Owen’s yelling has become so fierce that his head shakes with every word. Gretchen’s chest is jutted forward as she shouts her arguments up to a man taller and larger than she is.
“I won’t drop a goddamn thing, Owen. I’ll do what Kathryn did and go above your head to Admiral Patterson.”
“If you think you can —”
“Oh, I think a lot of things. I think Starfleet is a fucked-up institution and I think denying permission to contact the Cardassians was a fucked-up decision.”
“I know it was!” Owen roars. “That’s why I disobeyed it.”
They’re standing chest to chest. Owen doesn’t touch Gretchen, but she staggers backward as if he struck her.
“You … you what?”
Owen presses his palm to his forehead. “I masked my comm signature and contacted Gul Evek myself. He gave me information in exchange for shield technology to better protect Cardassian ships from the plasma storms.”
Because of her older daughter’s involvement, Gretchen knows that, fifteen years ago, Cardassians tortured Owen until he broke, spilling Starfleet secrets as his blood seeped into the cold ground of a Cardassian prison. She knows Owen required months of rehabilitation to be deemed fit to return to duty. She knows Starfleet kept Owen out of the Cardassian War, even though, until then, a Paris flag officer had helped lead military strategy for every major conflict in Federation history.
It takes her a few deep breaths, but Gretchen steadies herself. “That must have been very hard for you — to look a Cardassian in the face and negotiate with him.”
“It was,” Owen says stiffly. “And, before you ask, the information wasn’t anything we didn’t already know. There had been a subspace conversation with the Maquis ship that disappeared, but the record yielded nothing relevant to our search.”
“When did you …?”
“Two weeks after Voyager disappeared. Against orders.”
The dining room in Bloomington recedes and Owen sees Cardassians, their gray lips twisted into a sneer at his pleas for leniency. They turn a knob and the pain searing through his body increases. He’s burned alive and still burning. When he falls, combat boots kick his legs, his stomach, his groin. He hopes Ensign Janeway was killed when her head hit the console in their shuttle. He can’t fathom what the Cardassians might do to a young officer, a woman. What was he thinking bringing her on this mission? Why did he ever —?
“Owen.”
He’s in the dining room. Gretchen is standing in front of him, her hand on his forearm. Had she called his name more than once?
“Sit down.” She motions toward a dining room chair, then disappears into the kitchen.
Owen sits. He breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth. His head turns to the window and he sees wind shift the stalks of corn growing in the fields.
When Gretchen comes back, she has two glasses, each with three fingers of whiskey, neat.
It’s the middle of the day, but Owen takes a glass and brings it to his lips. The Irish whiskey is less sweet than what he’s used to but it’s smooth and it warms his chest in a way he didn’t know he needed.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you about the Cardassians.” Gretchen swirls her whiskey. “I apologize.”
Owen wants another sip of his drink, but he’s transfixed by the amber wave cresting and receding around Gretchen’s glass as she speaks.
“Sometimes my goals supersede my common sense. Tenacity isn’t an excuse, but it’s a reason and I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Their eyes meet.
For a second, Owen sees a flash of something he hasn’t seen in years — decades? — from anyone.
Affection.
His voice is hoarse. “I wished Kathryn dead when the Cardassians were torturing me. I wished my son dead when I couldn’t stop him from piloting drunk even though he was carrying passengers. I wished them dead and now they’re gone, so, Gretchen, please understand while I am fully aware that wishes don’t make a starship disappear, the irrational part of my brain blames myself, my weaknesses, my limitations, for this. So, if anyone should be asking for forgiveness …”
His throat threatens to close.
Owen plies it with whiskey.
Gretchen sits in a chair next to his. She takes his hand.
“You are a brilliant fool, Owen Paris.”
He laughs and cries in equal measure.