The Heart of the Matter

Her father would have sat shoulder to shoulder with his friend, so Kathryn takes on the mantle of responsibility—I’m so proud of you, Goldenbird—and goes to San Francisco, finds her place on the chair next to the admiral who hasn’t been himself since the Cardassians spared his life but sullied his soul, his strength, his belief in everything except Starfleet.

The admiral’s son, Tom, has cleared the investigation. All Tom has to do is stay silent, the board of inquiry’s meeting perfunctory given the facts already known about the accident on Caldik Prime. 

But Tom doesn’t stay silent. Tom stands and looks straight at his father. And Tom becomes less an officer with pips on his collar and more a poet with Starfleet as his muse, a speech about responsibility and trust and the promises officers make to themselves and to the service they choose. No, the poet declares, I take full responsibility for my mistake. 

My mistake.

My mistake 

My mistake.

Everyone makes mistakes, Goldenbird. It’s what we learn from them that matters. 

Pilot error. 

The speech Tom didn’t have to give is a tour de force, closing with a declaration of sorrow that his skills weren’t up to the task and that lives were lost.

The poet sits and the officer with pips returns, fear draining the blush of faith from his cheeks as members of the board of inquiry confer, their murmurs like hornets whose hive has been jostled. 

Her father would have approved, perhaps even offered precious words of praise for Tom’s integrity. So Kathryn turns toward the admiral, her father’s friend who lost so much on that bitterly cold planet where the Cardassians extracted secrets from him, yet whose belief in Starfleet had been unwavering.

And the admiral is ashen. Strange, isn’t it, how a physically burned-out campfire is “ashes” and an emotionally burned-out face is “ashen”? Devoid of life, heat, energy. The admiral’s face is both ashes and ashen, not the warmth of pride or chill of fear for his son. Just … ashen … ashes. Done. 

Because the admiral must have known how the board of inquiry would react, a recitation of regulations broken through dishonesty—not the ones honored by integrity—and Tom is no longer a Starfleet officer. He’s escorted out by security guards and the inquiry is over. 

The admiral stands, his leg stiff where the Cardassians broke the bones, the osteoregenerator unable to fully repair the damage, and age stoops his once-proud shoulders and he says, “Kathryn, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

There’s a hope, a fleeting hope of misunderstanding, and Kathryn stands to be side by side with her father’s friend and she says, “Tom could appeal, couldn’t he? You do mean that the board’s decision is wrong, don’t you?”

No, she hadn’t misunderstood, and the admiral becomes ashen for her, too. Gone. Finished. He walks away without looking back.

And she sits again, the chair harder than it had seemed before. 

Her father is dead. 

Admiral Paris is ashen. 

Her chest rises, though, in absolute certainty. Kathryn will do whatever she has to do, cajole and sweet-talk and volunteer for the just-right mission, all to fulfill her new mantle of responsibility: to save Starfleet from its own stupidity in cutting out its beating heart. She will find Tom Paris and she will ensure he is once again allowed to serve in his rightful place at the helm of a starship. 

***

The Matter of the Heart

Seven years away, and Dad’s access codes are as easy to guess as ever. The hearings have been restricted, classified, open only to the most senior of officers entrusted with every detail of the complex web of criminal charges, Starfleet commendations, and top secret considerations of Kathryn Janeway’s captaincy.

High-level deliberations by people who weren’t there. 

Tom was there, ahead of her at the prow of the ship, charting their way through unfamiliar stars toward a home that should have welcomed her as a hero, no caveats, no suspicions, no wariness to applaud split-second decisions made far from the court martial proceedings he slips into, a dart between doors that swing instead of slide, and a seat next to strangers who wear the same grey-shouldered, wartime uniform that replaced the bright colors of peace.

Standing accused—actually standing, spine straight, shoulders tight, four pips shining—her gaze finds Tom.

“How do I plead?” The captain must be echoing a question asked just before Tom sidled in through the doors, intruded, blended in with those who don’t understand, can’t understand.

Silence hangs heavy.

His legs twitch to run, to stand by her side, the pips on his collar given, withdrawn, given again by her, and he would risk it all she asked him to. 

The door swings open again.

Dad, red-eyed from lack of sleep, from arguments—“You don’t get it,” Tom had accused Dad at the dinner table. “So what if she made her own procedures? What choice did she have?”—and most likely from the more soft-hearted emotions that seem to have seeped into him during the years Voyager was gone, a certain warmth returning to a man who had gone cold.

So it’s not a surprise that Dad sits next to Tom, standard-issue Starfleet chairs more uncomfortable than they used to be, but at least Dad is here.

“Years ago,” the captain says, her voice hoarse, coffee, she needs coffee, “I sat in a room much like this one. An officer there gave a speech about responsibility, about trust, about the promises we make to ourselves and to the Starfleet service we choose. His speech was transcendent, almost like listening to poetry. And the officer? He took full responsibility for his mistake … and a board of inquiry tossed him out like yesterday’s garbage.”

She … she’s talking about Tom.

Holy shit.

The captain had never mentioned his hearing, so it had been easy to assume she’d been there to support Dad or to live up to the expectations of her own father. 

But the captain thought what Tom said was like poetry?

His back straightens in his seat.

“So, I won’t offer pleas, platitudes, or even an attempt at my own poetry,” she continues, and her gaze is steady on Tom, as if she is somehow with him at every moment—the penal colony in New Zealand, his quarters when she gave him permission to attempt the warp 10 flight, her ready room when she took the pip from his collar, the bridge when she gave it back again, and more, so much more, moments etched into who he is and it’s all wrapped up in her. “True Starfleet officers do their best, make mistakes, learn from them, and value life above all else. This hearing can do with that what it will.”

How does she manage to sit as if the witness stand is her captain’s chair?

What had Tom even said all those years ago, an evident alchemy of words that she leans on even in purported silence? Yet is her refusal to plea, in effect, a plea for truth over courtroom theatrics, a desire for clear-eyed legal decision-making over empathy or compassion?

Officers mutter. 

Attorneys share evidence and recite regulations.

No witnesses are called. 

A gavel bangs, and the verdict is mixed. Guilt on lesser charges, innocence on more serious charges, and she might even get promoted to admiral.

She’s free to go.

Quick movement as she alights, her shoulders brushing past officers who try to speak to her. Tom stands next to Dad and she stops in front of them, victory lifting her chin.

“Admiral,” she says to Dad, “it’s good to see color in your cheeks. There was a time when you seemed more … ashen.”

Whatever Dad was going to say must catch in his throat, a cough and a nod sufficing for his agreement. 

“Mr. Paris,” she says to Tom, “you’re with me.”

She doesn’t have a ship or a mission or even orders. A few minutes ago, her future in Starfleet was imperiled. 

But there’s only one possible reply.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom says, and he follows her out the hearing room doors and to wherever she wants him to go.