Rules of the Game

Part 2

I notice Counselor Troi has a mug of coffee waiting by my chair as I arrive for my counseling session. I nod my approval and sit and drink from it thankfully, appreciating the sense of normalcy that it brings, hoping I don't look as fragile as I feel inside.

First up, small talk. "I saw your presentation last night," Deanna says. "You are an impressive speaker. Quite entertaining, but informative at the same time."

"Thank you." What else do I say to that? I certainly don't want to reveal that I'm sleepwalking through these speeches now, that I'm much more concerned with who is in my audience and who she's with than what I'm actually saying--

"I noticed you didn't stay long at the reception afterwards."

I can't stop myself from flashing on dark hair bending over blonde -- a chaste but meaningful kiss signifying possession -- right there in public, right there in front of everyone, in front of ME-- "I'm having nightmares," I say abruptly, surprising the Counselor, and to some extent, myself.

"What kind of nightmares?" she asks. I can tell I've piqued her interest.

"Actually, it's the same nightmare. Over and over." I hadn't meant to talk about this, but it's preferable to... well, some things that I'd rather not think about at all. "I am Admiral Janeway in the dream -- my older future self, or at least the future self that came back to save Voyager." I rub my temple, already feeling a headache coming on at the mere mention of time travel. "I'm in the Borg Queen's chamber and she's talking to me, threatening me, threatening Voyager. Then she sticks those damn Borg tubules in my neck to assimilate me, but it's exactly what I want. I infect her with the neurolityc pathogen, and she begins to die. It's a victorious moment, even though I know I'm dying too. I watch as her arms and legs fall away from her, until her body completely disintegrates around her. But then I fall to the ground, and I feel it starting to happen to me too. They say you can't die in your dreams, but I swear I do -- I sense my blood throbbing in my veins, my heart slowing... Coming to a stop. In that moment I know I'm dead. Then I feel a curious sensation, like I'm rising upwards towards the ceiling, but when I look down I can still see my body lying there on the floor. Suddenly I feel something touching me, and I see a hand on my arm, a Borg hand, holding me captive. Then a voice whispers, close, right in my ear--" I lower my voice dramatically for this part, "'I've been waiting for you.'"

I sit back and laugh slightly, realizing that I'd been leaning forward, my body tensed. "And that's when I wake up."

Deanna is staring at me in that compassionate manner that all good counselors do when they want people to open up to them. I wait for the inevitable 'So, how does that make you feel?' question that I know is coming. But instead she asks, "Whose hand is it?"

"Whose hand?" I repeat rather stupidly. "Isn't it obvious? It's the Borg Queen's, of course."

"But you don't specify that it is the Queen's hand in your description. Do you see the Queen at that point in your dream? Or just the hand?"

"Just the hand. But if it's not the Borg Queen, then who else could it be?"

"You tell me."

"It's a Borg hand. That kind of narrows it down a bit," I say, getting frustrated. "Why don't you just cut to the chase and ask me what I think it means?"

"Alright, we'll do it your way," she concedes. Finally -- now that's what I like to hear! "So you tell me, what do you think your dream means?"

I already know the answer. "It's my own subconscious way of dealing with the ramifications of the actions of Admiral Janeway. There's the obvious desire to give everything for my ship and crew. Maybe there's even some guilt tied in with that -- that it was her, and not me who ultimately saved Voyager. Then there's the lingering dread that no matter how dead she seems to be, the Borg Queen keeps coming back like a monster from one of Tom's holo-novels." I don't bother to elaborate on who 'Tom' is. If she's good enough to know what 'ECH' stands for, then I don't doubt she understands that I'm referring to Voyager's pilot, and Admiral Paris' son.

"Or possibly it's a symptom of anxiety," I continue. "My own worry that the 'Time Police' will suddenly appear and force Voyager to go back to the Delta Quadrant, or maybe even transform me into an old woman." I say this jokingly, but it's a real fear that plagued me the first two weeks we were home. That the Timeship Relativity would hunt me down and tell me I don't deserve to be here, that no one has the right to violate the Temporal Prime Directive like I did. Then they'd punish me by reintegrating me with Admiral Janeway at the moment of her death, so I'm suddenly an old woman dying alone with the Borg Queen. Or worst of all, they'd just send me and my crew back to the Delta Quadrant, where we would be forced to wander around another 16 years before making it home. Where, three years from now, I would have to watch Seven of Nine die in my First Officer's arms. But since the Timeship hasn't come after me, I can only assume that *this* is the proper timeline after all. That this is how things were meant to be--

"Your theories are definitely interesting," Deanna interjects, "but perhaps there is another way to interpret your dream. In one sense it could almost be seen as hopeful."

"Hopeful?" I exclaim. "What could possibly be 'hopeful' about me dying and the Borg Queen coming after me even in death?"

"That's not what I mean, of course. I'm just saying that there seems to be a sense of hope about the dream. After all, even though you die, it's not final. Part of you still continues to exist."

Alright, I can go with this. If it's 'sincere self-analysis' she wants, then that's what she'll get. I'll say whatever it takes to get the hell out of here. "Maybe it's symbolic, then. Maybe the older Janeway is the physical representation of who I would have become if I'd stayed in the Delta Quadrant. That person is gone, forever. And the person that I am now is still here, with an entirely different life to lead."

"A life that is full of possibilities," she adds, smiling. I smile back. I'm getting a handle on this counseling thing -- it shouldn't be long before I get the stamp of approval sending me on my merry way.

Wherever the hell that may be.

* * * * * *

Chakotay contacts me that afternoon, asks me to dinner. I'm surprised -- it's the first time he's made any deliberate attempt to see me since he disembarked. I suppose he's been too busy with other things.

With other people.

"You look lovely, Kathryn," he says when I meet him at the restaurant.

"Where's Seven?" I ask. "I assumed she would be coming too."

He gives me an odd look, but simply replies that he wanted us to spend some time together, just the two of us.

The restaurant is one of my favorites -- a small sushi bar overlooking San Francisco Bay, with a warm, comfortable atmosphere. One wall is dominated by a long window that overlooks the water; the other walls are littered with intermittent mirrors that make the room seem larger than it really is. There's a hologram playing jazz piano in the corner, and the only light comes from the candles on the tables. All in all it's an intimate, romantic setting. I suppose I must have told Chakotay about this place at some point since he's the one who made the reservations, but I have no memory of ever doing so.

The food is usually excellent, but tonight it's bland, unremarkable. Much like the conversation. Chakotay is telling me about his options, where he might go now that he's been pardoned from his time with the Maquis. I'd like to interrupt and point out the reality of the situation -- that even though I'm the one who fought the hardest for his freedom, I may lose my own largely because of his testimony against me in the Lessing case. But I just smile, and say nothing.

I listen to his plans, feigning interest all throughout dinner -- a skill I became quite adept at during our time in the Delta Quadrant -- my mind on other things, other people. Until we're drinking our after-dinner coffees, and I notice that his face has gotten closer, much closer. Chakotay reaches towards me, trapping my hand on the table beneath his big burly one. "Kathryn," he begins, and squeezes my fingers gently. "You know I've always had feelings for you..."

Oh no. Oh hell no. Not this conversation. Not now. "Chakotay--" I try to interrupt him, but he stops me.

"Please, let me say this. I've had feelings for you for a very long time." His voice is soft and low to convey his extreme sincerity, his dark eyes pleading. "But I could never act on those feelings while you were Captain, when you kept yourself so far removed from all the rest of us."

"You know the crew needed me to be that way--"

"I know that's what you always thought, Kathryn, but we needed more than that--" He stops and shakes his head. "No, I don't want to do this. I don't mean to criticize you. I'm just stating why I never told you how I felt."

"Chakotay..." The 'halt' is implicit in my tone, a clear signal for him not to go any further down this dead end road. But he ignores me.

"I have to say this. Before I can move on." A cold chill slips down my back at that, and I feel my breath catch. "I've been in love with you for almost seven years. Seven long years. Too long. I've gotten to the point that I'm tired of waiting, and I've started to move on with my life. But now that we're home, here on Earth..." He trails off, staring at me intently. "I have to know, Kathryn. Could there ever be anything between us? Could you ever love me?"

I move my hand out from under his, turning it over to clasp his fingers, and answer as honestly as I dare. "I'd be lying if I said I was never attracted to you," I admit. "There was a time, years ago, back when we were on New Earth together, when I thought there could be something more between us. But it was impossible because I was engaged to Mark. I thought I had someone to come home to, someone who loved me, and I wasn't about to betray that. By the time Mark finally sent me that 'Dear Janeway' letter, the time was no longer right."

I don't tell Chakotay the whole truth: how I could never trust him again after he disobeyed my orders and destroyed our alliance with the Borg; how his betrayal permanently scarred our relationship, making me see him differently. How my attention was quickly diverted to someone else, someone I learned I could trust implicitly. Instead I shrug and simply say, "Far too much has changed since then." I squeeze his hand, then pull away from him. "Move on with your life, Chakotay. Be happy."

I notice that he's not devastated. Bastard. "I thought as much," he says. "But I had to know for sure." Then he takes out his phaser, sets it to kill, and fires it directly into my chest at point-blank range. At least that's what I wish he had done. Instead he says, "I'm going to ask Seven of Nine to marry me."

I can see in the mirror behind Chakotay's head that my expression doesn't change at all. I'm inordinately proud of myself for that. "Shouldn't you be telling her that, not me?" My voice is light, teasing. Perfect.

"Old habit," he quips. "I'm used to checking with you first before making Seven's new assignments." He smiles back at me, thinking I'm happy for him, lulled by the familiar patterns of our flirtatious banter. "Actually, I've already discussed the possibility with her." He sits back, that stupid tattoo on his forehead raising along with his eyebrow. "Our relationship has been progressing rather quickly in the past few weeks," he adds.

"I should say so, if you're already discussing marriage." I feel my throat growing thick with bile at the involuntary image of exactly how far certain aspects of their relationship may have progressed, and take a quick sip of my coffee to wash it down, wishing I'd ordered a scotch instead. I quickly glance around the restaurant -- why can you never find a holographic waiter when you need one?

"It wasn't exactly a traditional discussion. Of course, with Seven, nothing is." We share a smile at that -- well, at least he's smiling. The best I can do is a pained grimace, but thankfully he doesn't notice. "I simply pointed out that according to Admiral Janeway, it was only a matter of time before she and I marry. Seven then said that our return to Earth has given her a new appreciation for marriage, and she is beginning to find the idea of limiting her romantic interactions to a single individual more appealing."

Hell, for Seven, that's practically a Shakespearean sonnet. I take another gulp of coffee, surreptitiously scanning the room for that waiter. Where is he, damn it?

"And what about love, Chakotay?" I find myself asking quietly. "Do you love each other?"

He pauses, thinks a moment. "She is a beautiful woman," he needlessly points out to me. "I'm very attracted to her." I finger my teaspoon, idly wonder if killing my First Officer with blunt silverware would unfavorably influence Starfleet's current criminal investigation. "I feel that I could love her. But to be honest, it's really too soon in the relationship."

"Then what's the big hurry?" Aha! There he is-- "Waiter!" I flag the hologram over. "One scotch, please. Make it a double." I look to Chakotay, "Anything for you, Commander?"

"Nothing, thank you." Gutless wonder. He never could keep up with me.

"You were saying?" I prompt, as the waiter scurries off with my order. "Telling me what the hurry is?"

"Actually, Seven is the hurry."

My hand clenches around my teaspoon. "Oh?" I prompt with as much nonchalance as I'm capable of at the moment.

"I think she needs someone to care for her, to look out for her right now. Someone to help her adjust to life on earth. She's very nervous about being here, and she needs someone who is stable to guide her, give her a sense of constancy. I want to be that person."

Does the man even understand the concept of irony? The very idea that he's sitting across from me, blithely telling me about how hard it is for Seven to adapt to her humanity when I'm the one who's spent the last four years of my life trying to help her, trying to be there for her. And what was he doing that entire time? Telling me to send her back to the Collective while parroting increasingly irrelevant lines like 'she said she would betray you.' Of course the most ironic thing of all is that Seven had indeed sworn at one time that she would betray me, but never did. Not really. But my First Officer? After the incident with the Borg, he seemed to make 'betray Janeway' a larger and larger part of his routine, until hardly a day went by that he wasn't able to check that little gem off his to-do list. Thank God the waiter returns with my scotch, so I can force down all the irony in my throat before I have to answer. "So you think marriage is the key to Seven's 'acclimation?'"

"I think so. What's important now is what you think."

"What I think?" I feel my eyebrows crawl up into my hairline. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"Seven will have to have your 'blessing,' so to speak. She'll want to talk to you, to know that you approve. I'm sure she won't go through with this if she thinks you're against it. Your opinion means so much to her."

"Of course it does -- I'm her Captain." Somehow I manage to keep the bitterness from my voice. I think I'm beginning to see what's going on -- Seven wants my permission to marry Chakotay like I'm some sort of surrogate mother to her, for Christ's sake. "I don't know what it's worth, Chakotay," I say, raising my glass to him. "But if she asks, I'll give Seven my blessing." Then I down the rest of my scotch in one gulp.

* * * * * *

And so it begins. I've known this day was coming -- after all, my future self prepared me, forewarned that this would happen. But it doesn't help me feel any less shaken.

Any less shattered.

I don't transport back to Utopia Planitia and the shipyards where Voyager is docked. Tonight I just need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. When I show up on Phoebe's doorstep, at my old house that she'd been staying in while I was away, she is definitely surprised to see me. But she and her girlfriend Jordan adapt quickly, and even switch to the spare bedroom so I can spend the night back in my old room. I just need to be somewhere familiar, somewhere that I feel safe, protected, loved. Somewhere I can sleep.

The dream comes again, the same as before. I struggle to remain lucid during it as Deanna suggested at the end of our last session, so I can be more aware of exactly what's happening, and what I'm feeling as the dream unfolds.

The Queen is standing beneath me with those dead black eyes. I am horrified by her, repulsed by her cold, vampire-like skin and the ever-present scent of machine oil and musk that seems to cling to her. But I am defiant, refusing to reveal anything about our plans. She reaches up to my neck and the assimilation tubules thrust into me, sticking into my throat like .12 gauge needles delivering a million microscopic soldiers into my system -- the nanoprobes that should make me Borg. But in return, she inadvertently opens her citadel to my own small soldiers, the pathogen that infects her just as quickly. Then we are dying together -- she, the Troy to my Trojan horse, burning before my very eyes, taking me into death with her. But my Helen is safe now, and I realize that I am relieved, knowing that Seven will live on, that she has been given a second chance. But the next thought surprises me, as I feel my heart slowing to a stop. "Now I have a second chance--"

"Kathryn!" A hand is on my shoulder, shaking me.

"What?" I growl, just wanting to be left alone so I can return to my dream.

"You have to get up."

"Why?" I ask, honestly perplexed.

Phoebe is sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring down at me, her red curls in wild disarray as if she's just tumbled out of bed herself. "You've got to go to your counseling session."

I pull the covers up closer to my chin. "No, I don't."

"I thought it was mandatory that you went daily?"

"It is. But I can be sick one day."

"But you're not sick," she points out, standing and yanking the covers back from me. "So get up."

"Phoebe!" I exclaim, and level a Force 10 glare on her that should melt her where she stands. No effect. Damn, that never did work on her. A change of tactics is in order. "Please, I just want to get away from all the questions for one day. I just want to be with my family." I can see that she's softening, so I throw in just enough truth to make my case. "I need to be somewhere I feel safe."

There, that did it. She smiles softly, then sits back down on the side of the bed. "Alright. What can I do to help?"

"Contact Counselor Troi and let her know I won't be in today. Tell her I'm sick, if you have to. Let Starfleet know where I am. And please..." I touch her arm. "Just let me sleep for one day."

"Just one day," she agrees, but the warning is there in her voice, her look. We're both thinking about what happened all those years ago, when Daddy and Justin died. When I slept for weeks, months on end, and Phoebe was the only one who could get me out of bed. And then only with a precisely thrown bucket of ice cold water.

"Hey." I hold onto her arm, my tone teasing, "No buckets of water this time, promise?"

"I promise," she says, and pats my hip. I know that she's worried -- she's seen me like this before. But all I want is one day to indulge myself. To get some rest. Is that too much to ask? She glances back at me as she leaves, then closes the door softly behind her. I burrow back down into the covers and vainly try to get back to my dream, but it's gone.

* * * * * *

"You didn't come to your counseling session yesterday," Deanna says.

"Well 'hello' to you too." I take my usual position, realizing only as I sit that my coffee cup isn't there. "What, no coffee today?"

"I forgot to bring some."

"Ah, interrogation by deprivation," I mumble.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"If it's that important to you, I can have some sent over." She's reaching for her comm badge, and I think about stopping her, but then I figure what the hell. Free coffee is free coffee. Plus I wouldn't necessarily mind it if someone came in to interrupt today's session.

Deanna speaks to someone named Pohl, asks for a thermos of Royal Geva Blend to be sent over, and a moment later a silver thermos is beamed onto the desk. Damn, I forgot about that. On Voyager we never would have wasted ship's resources to beam coffee from room to room, but here on Utopia Planitia arranging interstellar coffee transportation to pacify whacko Starship captains is apparently a priority.

We silently go through the ritual -- Deanna pours me a cup, brings it to me, allows me to enjoy my first sip as she sits down, then she begins. "So. Tell me why you didn't come yesterday."

"I was sick."

"That's not what your sister said. She said you were depressed, that you wanted to sleep the day away."

Why thank you, Phoebe. I think I would have preferred the ice water. "I was tired," I shrug. "It's been a stressful few weeks. I figured I had the right to take one day off just to rest. Is there anything wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all. But your sister was worried. In context of how you were before..." Deanna leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Let's talk about that. About how depressed you were when your father and your fiancé died."

Well, let's just get right to the point, shall we? No beating around the bush, no foreplay, just bend over and-- "What do you want to know? It sounds like Phoebe has already filled you in on everything."

"I'd like to hear your version of what happened."

"My version... let's see. It's pretty much a matter of public record." I relay the story without emotion, as if I'm simply repeating some news report I'd heard about events that happened to someone else. "We were on a test run of the prototype ship my father designed, the Terra Nova. It was the ship's first long-range flight, a three-day journey to the Tau Ceti system. My fiancé Justin was the pilot. My father was there as the designer, overseeing his pet project. I was the science officer. It was the first day, and we were almost finished. We'd been in orbit around an ice planet, testing the thrusters under extreme conditions with no problems for an hour. I remember my father telling Justin to give the port thrusters one more burst and then we'd call it a day, and Justin responding that it had been a good first run. That's when everything went to hell. The last thing I remember my father saying was 'wind shear,' and then there was nothing. No one else, no ship, just me -- floating, falling to the ground. Part of the Terra Nova had torn off, pulling me with it. I landed in a snow bank with head injuries, a concussion, a broken leg. They say it was a miracle I survived at all. When I regained consciousness I was barely lucid, but I could see the rest of the ship sinking beneath an ice cap, taking my father and Justin with it."

Deanna waits a moment, looking at me with those big, compassionate brown eyes. "That must have been terrible for you."

You think? "Of course." I shrug slightly. "But it was a long time ago."

Counselor Troi is still staring at me intently -- I'm guessing she's trying to see into my head. I lift my mug as a shield between us, but apparently she can see through coffee. "I sense that there's more to this story. Something you're not telling me."

I take a sip from my cup. Then another. This next part isn't a matter of public record. In fact I hadn't even remembered it at all until about five years ago, when I almost lost an away team to the Tokath. The memory came to me in a vision of sorts, of a door that I had been seeing in a dream for years, one that I had always refused to open. When I finally did take the steps necessary to open that door, I realized the truth that I had kept hidden from myself. The truth about what happened to Daddy and Justin.

"I didn't just watch the ship sink," I say quietly. "When I first came to, I was confused, unable to think rationally. I kept looking at the ship and thinking it was an iceberg. But then I recognized Justin and Daddy in the cockpit, and I realized what was happening. They were alive, but the ship was sinking. I only had a few precious moments to save them, if I could. I looked around to the piece of the cabin that had broken off with me. A console was blinking, which meant there was still power. I discovered that two emergency microfusion generators had somehow remained on-line. I routed those to the primary energy coils, then brought the targeting scanners on-line and initiated a coordinates lock. But the annular confinement beam was too unstable to hold 2 bodies in the spatial matrix. I only had enough power to transport one person. Not both of them. Just one. I had to choose."

I place the half-empty coffee cup on the table, sit back and cross my arms over my chest. "But I couldn't choose between them. How could I? My father over the man I loved? My fiancé over the 'Daddy' I adored? Fate was being far too cruel, and I refused to play by those rules. So I decided to change the parameters. I risked everything to try and bring them both out safe, alive. I tapped into the capacitors from the phaser banks and fed off their charge to boost the power of the annular confinement beam so it could hold two people. It actually worked -- little by little the beam began to grow. All I needed was eight hundred megawatts. Just eight hundred megawatts. I watched the power register grow to 580 megawatts, 690, 740... finally it reached 800 and I initiated the pattern lock. I waited for Daddy and Justin to materialize, but nothing happened. Then I turned to look at the ship, and in the distance I could see that the fuselage had disappeared beneath the surface of the frozen sea. I'd been so focused on monitoring the power that I'd forgotten to watch the damn ship. I tried re-entering the commands at least a dozen more times, over and over, but it was too late. They were gone."

Deanna sits, silent for long moments. "What happened then?" she prompts quietly.

"When I realized there was nothing else I could do, that they were already dead, that they had drowned while I just stood there, helpless, the knowledge was simply..." I shake my head. "'Unbearable' doesn't even begin to describe it. It was just too much -- I couldn't take it all in. So I began stomping my broken leg into the ground until I passed out from the pain. The next thing I knew I was in bed, in Sickbay. A nearby ship had picked up on our emergency signal and come to investigate, then had transported me on board when they discovered the lone remaining life sign among the wreckage."

Deanna is frowning. "How did you deal with this? The knowledge of what happened?"

I laugh, a hollow, unamused sound. "I didn't deal with it at all. I repressed the memory entirely. Well, except for this recurring dream that I kept having."

"A dream?" She visibly perks up at this, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she tries to draw some corollary between the dream from my past and the one I've been having recently. "Please, tell me about it."

"I used to dream that I was in a long room, with a closed door at one end that opened into another room. I knew I needed to get into the other room because it had to be cleaned. I couldn't think about anything else but cleaning out that room. But every time I moved towards it, something kept me from opening the door. Usually it was Admiral Paris' voice calling to me from behind, telling me to wait. But every time I'd turn to see what he wanted, there wouldn't be anyone there. Then that's about the time I'd wake up."

I assume she's now going to ask me how I finally walked through the door and faced my memories, but instead she says, "Tell me about the months after your father and Justin died."

We spend the rest of the session talking about my depression during that time, which she assures me was 'quite normal' under the circumstances. I don't mind talking about this -- I've conquered these memories, accepted the accompanying feelings long ago as part of the mosaic of who I am. I'm not threatened by them, and I even relax enough to laugh along with Deanna when I tell her about Phoebe and the ice water.

Then the Counselor launches a torpedo at me, one that I don't even see coming. "What do you think is causing your depression now?"

I stare at her, carefully circling the bomb she's thrown at my feet, feverishly searching for some way to deactivate the situation. First defense -- stall. "Why do you think I'm depressed? If this is because of yesterday, I only slept for one day. What's wrong with that?"

"But combine that with your personal history, and your refusal to leave Voyager--"

"I will not abandon Voyager while a member of my crew is still on board!" I declare, rising to my feet. "You can't tell me that Captain Picard wouldn't be doing exactly the same thing if the Enterprise had gone through what Voyager has." I begin to pace as I speak. "Would he abandon even one member of his crew? Would he leave his ship when Commander Data was unable to? When Doctor Crusher was unable to? When YOU were unable to?" Aha! Score points for me. I can tell by the look on her face.

"I find it interesting that you've mentioned specific Enterprise crewmembers."

"You're not the only one who can do a little research." I'm quite smug about this, although it didn't exactly take a Sherlock to identify Deanna Troi as the flagship's counselor. The very same Deanna Troi that counseled Reg Barclay's holo-addiction while he was formulating the micro-wormhole technology that re-opened communications between Voyager and the Alpha Quadrant. Apparently Counselor Troi is becoming Starfleet's go-to girl when their best officers start showing signs of weakening under mental duress, so I suppose I should take it as a compliment that I get to be the newest 'special project' to require her expertise.

"Actually, I'm most impressed that you named specific individuals who are more than just crewmembers to Captain Picard. Individuals he regards as friends. Even family."

Oh no.

"You stated earlier that the Voyager crew has been like a family to you," she continues, apparently unaffected by the daggers my eyes are throwing at her. "So, in a sense, even though you have saved your adoptive 'family,' you are now losing them as they are being reassigned to new vessels, as they move on with their lives. It's understandable that you would be feeling a sense of loss. But the question is, are you feeling the potential loss of some crewmembers more strongly than others?"

Oh hell no.

Deanna glances over at the clock on the shelf. "Our hour is up. We've gone on a little long, but I think we've made good progress. We can begin tomorrow's session with where we left off today."

Damn, damn, damn.

Part 03