Liminal State
by Liz Barr
written May 2001
J
rated [PG-13]Summary: Janeway, after Voyager.
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Characters: Not mine.Post "Endgame". A normal person might have waited to see the episode, or at least for Jim Wright to put the synopsis up … but I've never claimed to be normal. Originally an angry fic. Gratuitous references to "The West Wing" and "Buffy".
She had forgotten how challenging the alpha quadrant could be. She pulled on a new uniform she didn't like and heard stories which made her a little ashamed to wear it – and worse, ashamed of her shame, because her father had worn a Starfleet uniform, and her uncle and aunts, her grandfather, great-grandmother … She pulled the uniform on, pulled her hair into a regulation knot and didn't meet her eyes in the mirror.
Starfleet celebrated their return, and she quickly understood that it didn't have much else to celebrate.
She attended balls, soirees and diplomatic functions, wearing her uniform as little as possible. She looked at civilian fashions and had a dress made the old way, by hand. It hugged her body and shifted from grey to black to red in the light. With its high neckline and archaic long skirt, it seemed perfectly decorous, until she moved and revealed that her back was completely bare. Old fashioned, but intriguing. The fashion was for bared breasts and wide-legged pants, but Starfleet officers wore more sedate clothing.
Chakotay's eyes followed her all evening. She wondered if he realised that she hadn't even thought of him when she chose the dress.
Claudine, Starfleet's media liaison wandered over. Her glass was full; Kathryn suspected that she'd held the same drink all evening.
"Nice dress," she said.
"Thankyou."
"People will talk, you know."
"Talk?"
She nodded at the journalists scattered throughout the room. "Every time you make eye contact with someone, they see another love affair. By tomorrow, someone will have suggested that you're seducing Starfleet media officers to advance your career."
"Ah."
"I can't squash the rumours. It'll only fuel them."
"I wasn't asking you to squash anything." Kathryn took a sip of her own drink, something Betazoid, purple and potently alcoholic. "I don't really care what they say about me."
Claudine smiled slightly. "You should. You're a sensation. They're saying a lot."
"Not all flattering?"
"Mostly flattering. Not all."
"I'll live."
She started following media coverage of Voyager's crew. Starfleet assigned her an aide, a young blond woman who seemed much, much too young for the doctorate she supposedly held. She wore her uniform with a pride which left Kathryn feeling both guilty and defiant.
"Why did you join Starfleet?" Kathryn asked one morning. Down on the ground, tiny cadets were sitting, mingling, running for classes.
"I wanted to serve the Federation."
Kathryn found no trace of irony or sarcasm, and wondered whether Starfleet had trained it out of her.
"That's a rather archaic sentiment."
"I know, Captain. Only fourteen percent of Earth-born young people consider a career in Starfleet these days."
"Do you know why that is?"
"Negative publicity following the Dominion War. Eighty-five percent of civilians feel that Starfleet crossed the line. Cadet intake tends to reduce after major wars." She glanced at the tray beside Kathryn's desk. "You didn't eat your cobbler."
Kathryn recognised the hint. "You can have it."
"We did what we had to in the war, Captain. People will realise that eventually. They'll come back to Starfleet."
"Of course."
Indulging her defiance, she bought another dress, grey again, with thin straps and a slit up to her thigh.
This time, Chakotay was absorbed in Seven. Claudine raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She escaped out to a balcony, suddenly nauseous in the crowded hall.
"Kathryn."
"Mark."
She smiled at him. "Where's your wife?"
"Inside, talking to the Bolian ambassador."
"Always the highlight of any evening."
"Nice dress."
"You noticed."
"It's nice."
"We were involved for almost ten years, and you never once commented on my appearance."
"Well, everyone's commenting on your appearance."
The cool air had cleared her head. She sipped her drink, Bajoran spring wine this time. "Oh?"
"You're rarely seen in uniform these days. Not at formal events like this, anyway."
"I don't like the new formal uniform. The collar's too tight."
"Of course. That must be it."
She turned to look at him, suddenly recognising something she'd seen before but never identified. "What's your point, Mark?"
"You could have been court martialed, Kathryn."
"You think I'm not aware of that?"
"It seems like you're trying to distance yourself from Starfleet."
"I wouldn't say that."
"It's been your whole life, Kathryn. Don't throw it away now."
She finished her drink, shuddering at the sickly sweet taste of the wine. "Did you know that only fourteen percent of Earth-born teenagers consider a career in Starfleet these days?"
"It's a twenty percent drop. Bad publicity from the Dominion War."
"Eighty-five percent of civilian Federation citizens feel that Starfleet crossed the line too many times."
"'Crossed the line.' Interesting phrase. I believe I saw it in Commander Chakotay's logs, am I correct?"
She turned to face him. "So who is it? Starfleet intelligence? Or a civilian organisation."
He hesitated. "What are you talking about?"
She snorted softly. "Tell whoever you work for that I don't care. They can have me court martialed, they can disgrace me, cashier me, demote me—" Demotion. Almost worse than being booted out of 'Fleet all together. She came from a family of Starfleet officers, none of whom had ever been demoted or cashiered. "I don't care." She hoped the lie was convincing. "I don't want to be part of this any more."
"That's a dangerous game, Kathryn. Starfleet needs heroes, and right now, you're it."
"I don't want to be a hero."
"You worked so hard for this—"
"I worked to get my crew home. Don't pretend to care, Mark. You'd throw me to the wolves if it suited your ends."
"You used to believe in a greater purpose. 'The needs of the many.'"
"I'm tired, Mark. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in a uniform." She sighed. "Please."
They stood, listening to the music and conversation inside. "I'll see what I can do," he said.
"Thankyou."
She left her office as night fell and wandered through the streets, watching teenagers who had never worn a uniform as they conducted their mating dances and rites of passage. It felt like a festival, but it was only a normal Thursday night.
She wondered if Mark had been lying, if even now he was arranging her death. She suspected that he'd have her buried in uniform, with full honours as befitting a Starfleet hero.
He might have been telling the truth. She couldn't do anything about the outcome, she realised. The feeling was oddly liberating. She'd spent seven years with the weight of the delta quadrant on her shoulders. It was enough responsibility for a lifetime.
A tall man with unnaturally blonde hair and gaunt cheekbones brushed past her. She caught the musky scent of his jacket and returned his smile, suddenly aware that her uniform was uncomfortable and unflattering, and that there were better things in the universe.
END
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Copyright © 2001 Elizabeth M. Barr
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