Janeway deals with failure, both her own and that of those close to her.

I wake up every morning feeling strangely disoriented.  The feeling persists even after I realise that I’m in my home on Earth, sleeping alone in the master bedroom because my husband doesn’t want to look me in the eye or hear the screams of my nightmares.  Even after all this comes to mind, the feeling persists.  I touch the blank spaces where the memories should be, worrying at it like a child with a missing tooth.  I am constantly trying to remember, and I am constantly failing.

The feeling leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Every day, I search for words which aren’t there to describe events which didn’t happen.  My counsellor has suggested that I move on with my life, ignoring the blank spaces in my mind.  As if I could pretend that my husband can look me in the eye without revealing the depths of his guilt.  As if I could pretend that my crew – my family – were still alive.

Sometimes I imagine taking her advice, showing up at Starfleet Headquarters to request my next assignment, only to be gently led home and reminded that I was discharged six months ago.

God, six months.  Two months in Starfleet Medical, wandering around the psychiatric wing like a ghost.  Three months rattling around in this empty house.  And the last month, trying to co-exist with Daniel, who sees me as the embodiment of his failure.

I can’t remember the Azarian Confederacy.  Or rather, I can’t remember the war with the Azarian Confederacy.  I remember meeting their ambassadors, attending some awful diplomatic function with Daniel.  I shook the hand of their Principate.  He had kind, tired eyes and a pleasant voice.  I remember the briefing session, four months after the Principate’s death, when his son was threatening to cut off all ties with the Federation.  And then someone assassinated him, paving the way for his extremist nephew to take the position.  I remember being told that the Federation was going to war, only ten years after we made peace with Cardassia.  They placed me in charge of the operation.  The fighting was reduced to ground combat in the capital.

After that, all I have are flashes: screams, images, the memory of the phaser rifle’s weight in my hands.  For all intents and purposes, I woke up in Starfleet’s psychiatric hospital.

I can’t remember what I did at Azarias.  But I know that most of my crew died.  Two thirds of the Starfleet officers under my command died.  Chakotay, B’Elanna, Tom, Harry …

I do remember the rumours wafting around Starfleet Medical.  Nasty little whispers on the edge of my drug induced haze.  That I’d cracked, fractured by the stress of seven years in the delta quadrant and finally broken by Azarias.  That I’d had a fatal disagreement with Chakotay, dividing our forces.

That I’d made a mistake down in the capital, that I’d shot Chakotay myself.

A flash: standing in the square, surrounded by the ruins of a civilisation.  Starfleet and Azarians fighting hand to hand.  Rounding a corner, expecting an Azarian soldier.  Finding Chakotay.

A flash: standing over Chakotay’s body, the smell of burnt meat around me.

There had been peace talks of course.  I don’t remember them, but I can piece it together from my logs and the media.  Daniel had been on Vulcan, leading the negotiation team, while I was on Deep Space Seven, preparing for war.

I don’t know what he said to the Azarians, but the talks broke up suddenly.  And we went to war.

He’s currently on indefinite leave from the Federation Diplomatic Corps.  He walks around our house, avoiding my eyes.

The media has fixated on both of us.  We might just be scapegoats, but I can’t shake the feeling that we deserve the hatred the Federation has directed at us.  It’s certainly a change from the early days of our marriage.  The President attended our wedding: Kathryn Janeway, Starfleet hero, and Daniel Connors, leading diplomat.

Owen Paris, trying not to hate me for getting his son and daughter-in-law killed, told me that my discharge was partially political.  Meaning that even if I weren’t lost in a miasma of half-remembered battles and failures, I’d still be in this house.

The early hours of the morning are the worst.  I wake up screaming into my pillow, alone with my nightmares.  I spend the rest of the night wandering around our house, searching for memories which aren’t there.

One night, drifting through the study, I find Daniel. He’s standing at the window, crying.  Deep, harsh sobs.

Almost without thought, I touch his arm.  He looks down at me.

When I look in the mirror, I see guilt, anger, grief.  I look at Daniel properly for the first time since he came home, and I see the same hell reflected in his eyes.  We stare at each other for a long time, seeing our own demons reflected in each other.  Then he wraps his arms around me, and I remember how comforting his presence was, how good our marriage was, before our lives fell apart.

"I’m sorry, Kat," he says.

I say nothing.  I know that if I speak, I’ll cry, and I don’t want that.  This pain is too great, too deep … I’m incapable of expressing it.

Daniel takes my hand, and we stare into the night together.

END

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Copyright © 2000 Elizabeth M. Barr

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