Raffi delivers the bad news
Janeway sat in her Ready Room - Naomi’s ready room, she reminded herself - nearing her last nerve. Raffi made circuits around the small room, pausing only to pull at her dark, curly hair or to roll and unroll the sleeves of her leather jacket.
“Commander Musiker,” she clipped, tired of waiting. “Can you please stop prevaricating and tell us what happened? As succinctly as possible, please.”
“My girlfriend’s vanished,” Raffi croaked, a catch of emotion in her voice.
Janeway waited for more, then glared. “Ok, a little less succinct, please.”
“I was supposed to meet her on her ship an hour ago. When I got there, all I found was empty space.”
“Sure she didn’t just stand you up?” Off Raffi’s furious look, Janeway raised her hands. “Sorry, Occam’s razor and all.”
“If she was planning to stand me up I doubt she’d be logging day trip destinations for two.” Raffi practically flung a data pad at Picard. “Transcript of her last log. She was transported out while she was recording it.”
Picard scanned the pad and then sighed. “Signs certainly point to kidnapping. Who would have it out for her?”
“Seriously, JL? Who wouldn’t?!? Fenris Rangers aren’t in the ‘making friends’ business.”
Fenris Rangers…Janeway repeated to herself. Where have I heard of them before?
Naomi’s communicator chirped, startling Janeway. “Wildman here,” she said. “What’s up?”
Janeway tuned them out, turning back to her guests. Picard had pulled Musiker into an awkward sort of man-hug. She held back a chuckle. Almost seventy years of Starfleet, Borg, Romulans and who knows what else but good old human emotion will break him every time.
“Admiral,” Naomi said, her voice tight with disdain. “Betazed’s invited us to join them for dinner and a tour of Megara, the capitol. We should both go, to show we're serious about negotiations.”
Janeway smiled, her face lit up with the exuberance of a child. “Oh goodie, a diplomatic shindig. Time to iron the ol’ dress uniform.”
Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “What are you so excited about? This is just a party. A distraction, that’s all.”
Janeway grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to the corner, her grip searingly tight. “Naomi Wildman. I don’t know what the hell they’re teaching you in command school these days, but when you’re a Captain, a party is never just a party. It's a chance to swim in the undercurrents of the negotiation.”
Naomi shrugged off Janeway’s hand and grumbled, “Threatening to blow them up would be more efficient.”
“Efficiency isn’t everything,” Janeway said, her voice suddenly cool and detached. She turned away from Naomi and walked across the room, but stopped short and looked back with a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Get your party best on. When we land, keep your eyes and ears open— and try to have some fun.”
Naomi made her exit, leaving Janeway with Picard and Musiker. Janeway glanced up at the holo-terminal where Picard was logging in and watched in awe as the console arranged itself into a beautiful touch-screen, pulling streams of data from the ether in seconds. With a wistful sigh, she thought of the hard plastic monitor that was her constant companion in the Delta Quadrant — her last link to Starfleet’s vast database of knowledge — helping her feel a little less lost even when most of the keys slowly stopped working.
Picard’s baritone interrupted her reverie. “Admiral level authorization zero-zero-zero.”
“That’s your password?” Raffi threw her hands in the air. “Seriously?”
“Do you want my help or would you prefer to mock me?”
Raffi stood still, frowned and zipped her lips.
Janeway smiled and nodded at them and drifted out to her quarters. She barely had to think twice about the journey; it was burned into her very muscles. Every step, every loose bit of carpet, every door whooshing open—this was home.
When she got to her cabin, she unfastened her uniform and let it drift to the floor, fixating on her body in the mirror. So much was the same, but she wasn’t. Wrinkles in places she didn’t know could wrinkle. Pockets of saggy flesh that resisted her best attempts to exercise them away. She’d grown old while her ship had somehow gotten younger. With a heavy sigh, she pulled her dress uniform on; eager to charm the Betazoid delegation.
One thing left to do. She retrieved a glass box that held her brass admiral pips. As she fastened them, her hands shook and she dropped one, a memory hitting her like a wave.
Stardate 52648: B’Elanna’s fury at Seven’s attempts at cataloguing her romance with Tom Paris. Her own amusement. She remembered asking Seven if she had considered ever trying it herself – romance, I mean – with a wry smile on her face. Janeway jolted out of the memory, pressing the last pip in quickly before hurrying out of her quarters. Work would sort her out.