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By Root 606 0

turned to Tuvok. "You've done an excellent job, Mr. Vulcan. And there's a little token of my appreciation waiting for you on Voyager right now." And Neelix could almost taste the nocha cake at that moment. When they emerged, dusk had fallen, signaling an end to this extraordinary day. The growing darkness muted only slightly a horrible scene: there were dead Kazon everywhere, mutilated and eviscerated. Flies and insects had already begun the inevitable process of gleaning them, and the dreadful stench of death filled the air. But the crew barely had time to react before they began, one by one, to dematerialize.

When Chakotay and Rollins reported simultaneously that they had detected the crew's life signs on the surface, Janeway immediately ordered them transported to the ship. She didn't want to take any more chances, didn't want to take the time for them to launch the shuttles and ascend to Voyager; both crew and shuttles could be beamed aboard easily enough. And when the transporter chief reported that all hands were safely on board, Janeway felt a moment of giddy relief. The crisis was over. "Mr. Paris, resume course for the Alpha Quadrant," she said, and noted that her voice sounded hollow in her ears. She rose, heading for the Turbolift to meet the away team in sickbay, when she noticed everyone on the bridge was staring at her. Uncertain, she stopped, looking from one crewman to the other. Chakotay's dark eyes peered at her intently, and for a brief moment she wondered if she appeared ill. were they concerned about her? Was she showing the strain and fatigue this ordeal had produced? But they were thinking something very different. Chakotay rose to his feet, lifted his hands and began, softly and slowly, to clap them. She found herself puzzled by this action, then looked toward Tom Paris as he followed the lead, stood, and began to applaud. Then the entire bridge crew joined in, honoring her in the age-old fashion, signaling their respect, admiration, and gratitude for the captain who had once again brought them all through danger and into safe harbor. As she realized what they were doing, her eyes began to sting. She deserved no applause for simply being what she was. All she had done was to carve one more pattern in the mosaic of her identity, that constantly unfolding design which had been growing, square by square, since she was a baby, and which was becoming more intricate with each passing year. The design was not of her own choosing; it was etched by the circumstances of life, which she could not control, and by her relationships with others. Her mosaic was multi-hued, many-textured, and infinitely complex. Swirled in its design were the people she had loved and those she had disliked, events that traumatized and those that pacified, experiences that had challenged her limits and those that had rewarded her unconquerable spirit. The mosaic would continue to grow, its unfolding an infinite mystery, blending sorrow and ecstasy, dappling the pathway of her life with sunlight and shadow until, in the final moment, the design was complete. With the applause of the bridge officers still ringing in her ears, Kathryn Janeway went to welcome back the crew whose lives she had saved.

The End

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