Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [92]
Instead he allowed his mind to linger drowsily over every moment of the conversation they had shared just a few hours earlier.
Two full hours of velocity on the holodeck at the end of his shift had exhausted his body, but not his mind. On any other night, he would have grabbed a quick snack from Neelix’s makeshift kitchen and settled in for a long night of reading. He even had the perfect material ready and waiting, an old Terran novel, Moby Dick.
A few weeks earlier, while fighting to free themselves from the clutches of a strange space-dwelling creature that had swallowed the ship whole, Voyager’s crew had met an alien called Qatai. Even after Qatai’s small vessel had escaped along with Voyager, he had intentionally reentered the belly of the beast. Chakotay had found Seven of Nine’s incident report strangely troubling when he learned of the alien’s choice. It was one thing to fight a battle in self-defense, but to go looking for such a fight? Chakotay was seeking insight into this particular brand of lunacy, and Tom Paris, their resident expert on all things relating to Earth’s pre-Federation civilization, had suggested he might find it in the writings of Melville. Unfortunately, thus far, he hadn’t met with much success. It would help if he could manage to stay awake for more than three or four pages of the novel at a time.
But he wouldn’t be making another attempt tonight. Neelix was going to call for him any minute now, and he was trying to summon a shred of enthusiasm for the night of celebration that lay ahead of him.
Lately, he was more acutely aware than ever of the passage of time. He didn’t mind growing older. He certainly couldn’t complain about the life he had fallen into aboard Voyager. But there were a lot of things he wanted out of life that he wasn’t going to find in the bridge’s second seat. His birthday had become a difficult reminder that a journey, however exciting, was less than fulfilling, if you weren’t actively engaged in building a life for yourself along the way. Somewhere along the course that Voyager was traveling from the Delta Quadrant to the Alpha Quadrant, he had lost sight of priorities that had been near the top of his to-do list five years earlier. Reflecting on the passage of another year, they had begun to resurface, like a child you’ve ignored too long who finally makes his point by drawing in globs of bright finger-paint all over your walls.
Early on, Voyager’s crew had been divided squarely into two camps; those who still held out hope that the life they had left in the Alpha Quadrant would be waiting for them when they returned, and those who didn’t care if Voyager ever got home. Many of those in the second group were his Maquis crewmates. Upon their return, they expected to be tried and probably imprisoned by Starfleet for their participation in the resistance. In the meantime, they were learning new skills, finding friends and lovers, and committing themselves to making the most of each day that passed, knowing full well that it might be all they had.
Though Chakotay hadn’t shared his colleagues’ initial pessimism… there hadn’t really been time for that… he had found himself falling squarely into their philosophical camp. He certainly hoped they would see their homes again in their lifetimes, but in the meantime, he planned to live as fully as he could in the moment.
He couldn’t pinpoint the moment that marked his subtle transition from the “Alpha Quadrant be damned” group to the other, but it had been fairly recently, probably right around the time they had encountered Qatai and the creature that had lured the ship into his gaping maw by projecting visions that promised fulfillment of the deepest desires of the crew. He had seen himself teaching at Starfleet Academy after receiving a full pardon. Only his personal log knew that he had also seen himself married, and raising a family. Though the vision had been a fantasy, it had been pulled from his