Of Messages Read and Unread
Janeway stumbled into her quarters, desperate for solitude. She'd barely shut the door before tears clouded her eyesight. Pull yourself together, Kathryn, she admonished herself. After several deep breaths, she hobbled to her desk and commanded the computer to give her a biographical summary about Icheb.
“Lieutenant Icheb,” the computer repeated. “Brunali male. A former Borg drone rescued by the USS Voyager in the Delta Quadrant in 2376. He graduated near the top of his class in the Academy and entered the science division. His final posting was to the USS Coleman in 2383. In 2386, he took a leave of absence and never returned.”
Never returned, Janeway thought, bitterly. One hell of a way to say brutally murdered.
Janeway raised her chin upward and closed her eyes tightly, not wanting to accept the reality of his end. Or how she'd missed the whole thing.
She dragged herself to the wall terminal. “Computer, unblock all messages from Seven of Nine, in ascending date order,” she said through gritted teeth. Her stomach sank as the message count increased and increased for what felt like minutes, finally stopping on a heartbreaking number: 257. 257 times that Seven had tried to contact her, only for her messages to be sent into a black hole.
Janeway scrolled past the unreads and paused, her hand trembling, at the last message she'd listened to. 2385, just one year after Seven had left Earth. She didn't need to hear it again; the words still rang in her ears. Her name’s Bjayzl…I think she might be the real thing.
The door chimed, and Janeway flicked the screen away.
“Come,” she said, trying to slow the rapid pace of her heart.
It was Naomi Wildman, face bloated and tear-stained. Janeway forced a smile and pulled the young woman into a hug.
“Can’t sleep?” Janeway asks, softly.
Naomi shook her head and wiped away a stray tear. "I was on the Coleman, you know? I was lower decks, and Icheb was already working on the bridge." She squeezed her eyes shut and looked away. "He was so excited to go on leave, to help out at the refugee camps. When he didn't show up for his next rotation, I figured--" Naomi paused, "--I figured he'd gotten caught up in all the excitement. Being in the thick of the action, helping the helpless. He was like that, you know?"
"I know," Janeway said, her voice husky. She stepped closer to Naomi and laid a hand on her shoulder. "This isn't your fault, Naomi."
Naomi crumbled in Janeway's arms. They stayed that way for a minute, until Naomi straightened up and pulled her shirt straight.
"This isn't your fault either, Captain."
Janeway laughed coldly. "How can you possibly say that, Naomi? A captain is a shepherd. Those two were part of my flock and I let them go astray with nothing but good wishes to protect them! I may as well have fed them directly to the wolves and saved everyone some time!"
Naomi took a deep breath. "At least Seven is still alive, Admiral. Plenty of time for self-recriminations after she's safe."
"Good advice, Captain" Janeway said with a wry smile. "But I don't think I'll be able to stop myself."
"Then fix it," Naomi said. "If you feel guilty about your lost flock, help me bring the lost lambs home."
"I'm already regretting that metaphor," Janeway said, not unkindly. "But you have a point. And I'll do everything I can to make this right." After some light self-recrimination, she thought to herself. Janeway turned back to the wall terminal and was hit again by the 257 unreads. Though maybe not tonight.
---
Back to Raffi
After spending most of an hour aggressively pacing the halls of the spaceship, Raffi’s stomach rumbled. She grabbed a data PADD and flopped at a table in the back of the ship’s mess hall. The last message from Seven was two weeks ago, on her way to track down a pair of art smugglers. Raffi sighed at how short it was. Seven wrote like they were charging her by the word. Still, it was better than nothing.
Good old Borg efficiency, Raffi thought, scanning through Seven’s brief review of the smuggler’s escape plan (“remarkably pedestrian”), a brief discourse on the art itself (“highly unskilled with questionable aesthetic value”) and a direct insult to the person who hired her (“I believe they have what earthlings refer to as ‘shit for brains’”).
And finally, a glimmer of vulnerability (“The mission was easy, but I’m still exhausted, Raff. Does any of this really make a difference? Perhaps a vacation will help. I’m looking forward to seeing the Janaran waterfalls with you.”).
Raffi flicked the screen off and massaged her tired eyes. She usually felt like punching the air when Seven shared a real feeling with her, but losing her now made this feel like extra punishment - like they’d moved one step closer and two steps back. She had to find her.
“May I offer you some company?” It was Picard.
Raffi considered saying no, then nodded.
“She’ll be alright, you know.”
“No thanks to you.”
“Raffi, I–”
“We don’t need to talk,” Raffi said. She lightly fingered her Starfleet cufflinks and wondered, not for the first time, why she was so obsessed with being in Starfleet. Even after they humiliated her, she still came running when they called. Even though they treat their friends like this.
After a highly pregnant silence, their comm badges beeped. “Commander Musiker, Admiral Picard. Get some sleep. That’s an order.”
Picard sighed. He clearly had more to say, but Raffi didn’t feel like giving him the chance.
As they silently walked the corridor, Raffi recoiled slightly at the beige and lavender walls and worn-out carpets that were common on fourth generation starships. The ship could use a spit shine and chromium plating.
Seven’s stuck in some dingy jail full of miscreants and you’re thinking about interior decorating. Get a grip.
Neither of them said another word, not while they walked, not when they entered the turbolift, not when they exited the turbolift onto their deck. With cursory nods, they went to their rooms.