Letters from the Delta Quadrant Part 4

by Katherine Fritz
(redshoes@ix.netcom.com)

Dear Mother,

Out here in the Delta Quadrant, time seems compressed somehow. It's hard to fathom that we've been here just a few months, yet already it feels as though we've been here for years. By the time you get this letter, I don't know how much time will have passed since I last saw you. I hope not much. I hate the idea of you having to suffer without word for very long.

It seems to me that I spent so much of my youth in conflict with Father that I did not spend much time talking to you. Then, too, the tradition of passing down our tribal wisdom from father to son did not help this son get to know his mother any better. And now that there is so much distance between us, I may never get another chance -- and there is so much to say, and such a short time to tell you. So I will start at the beginning:

When I was a boy, I was impatient with the rituals of our people, with the rhythm of our lives. It felt alien to me, quaint and old-fashioned. Obsolete. I wanted to be part of the mainstream -- and the culture of the Federation was as mainstream as I could find, all shiny and seductive. I was eager to be part of it. I know Father was gravely disappointed in me for this, though he hid it well. I am only surprised to realize that I did not know what you thought in this case -- for otherwise, I always knew when you were unhappy with my choices. How could I not? You were my mother, and took it as your duty to correct me. But how I resisted it! -- as I resisted Father's teachings. I know I was a trying child. Contrary, as Father used to say.

My highest ambitions then were to become a Starfleet officer. Somehow Starfleet seemed to have a higher purpose, more meaning to me than what you and Father were trying to teach me. Perhaps it was the trappings of uniform and rank, or perhaps the credo, the mantra -- no, the chant: "To explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations -- to boldly go where no one has gone before."

Ah, it still sends a shiver up my spine to recite those words. Brave, magnificent words. Imagine their effect on an impressionable youngster who wanted only to make something noble of his life, something expansive, something brave and magnificent. When I met Captain Sulu, knowing what he had done in his life, with his career -- he truly gave flesh to those marvelous words. I would have done anything, anything to follow in his footsteps and in the footsteps of those before him.

Captain Sulu's sponsoring me into Starfleet Academy was a dream come true, so heady and rich. I was drugged by the sound of the words in my acceptance letter: "You are asked to report as a cadet in the new freshman class at Starfleet Academy." Cadet! My first title! And what a crisp sound it made in the mouth: Cadet Chakotay! Nothing could mar the feeling of pride I took in that title or the richness of its promise -- except Father's disapproval. I can still remember Father saying, "Do not take such pride in this...achievement of yours. It seems wonderful to you now, because it is exciting and new, and because you are drunk with it, giddy with anticipation. But when you realize who you are, you will find no joy in this Starfleet of yours."

And so, my Academy enrollment became both my first triumph...and my first failure. For ultimately, my time at the Academy felt nearly as alien to me as learning our tribal rituals. I felt stuck betwixt and between, not sure how to reconcile my pride in being a Starfleet cadet with my growing sense of uneasiness at my separateness from the mainstream world. I would long for visits home -- only to find when I went home that I had the same feeling of separateness, of "apart," as I did at the Academy, the same impatience I always felt when participating in our tribal ritual. It all seemed so unnecessary, so dragged out, so...old.

But I persevered in my studies, despite my growing sense of alienation from what I had once coveted so dearly. Even with my new doubts, what could I have done? Resign from the Academy -- and give satisfaction to Father's prediction? No. Never. Never.

It still pains me to remember how strongly I felt the pride, the...arrogance that kept me from admitting I'd made a mistake. It is so hard when we are young -- not just when we are young, if I'm to be truthful -- to admit such things. You tried to tell me that so many times over the years, but I never listened. I wish I could be with you now so that I could say: I'm sorry, Mother. I should have listened.

When I graduated from the Academy and began my Starfleet career, I carefully packed away my misgivings, and did my best not to think about them. I had new obligations now, to the Federation and to my duty. I felt power in carrying out my duty, it was a new drug to replace the old. I was Ensign Chakotay, and later Lieutenant and then Lieutenant Commander. Each rung up the ladder was an achievement I celebrated with satisfaction. It would feel good for a time, then all would go hollow as I realized my climb up the command structure was not giving me the sense of resolution I wanted. But resolution for what? I did not know.

Fifteen years I spent in Starfleet. Fifteen years, and I had done my duty. I was a good officer, if not an inspired one. Commendations in my service jacket piled up. My level of responsibility increased by leaps and bounds. My superior officers had little fault to find with me. But I was not happy. Something was missing, and I did not know what. There was no sense of completion, no sense of a higher duty to inspire me. I did not understand -- this was what I had wanted, what I had worked for, dreamed for.

And then...and then the Federation signed the Cardassian treaty, and everything changed.

Father was killed at the hands of the Cardassians, and everything changed again.

I'm sure I'm not the first child to feel that spark of remorse, that dark regret, when a parent dies. But, by the gods, I was angry! How stupid, how unutterably stupid could I have been? I'd had so many chances to make things right between us -- and I'd thrown them all away, and for what?

I couldn't do it anymore -- I couldn't serve the Federation and keep myself as myself. Then suddenly I saw it -- a way to make amends in some small fashion: I would rejoin my people, and serve them. Too late for Father, but perhaps not too late for me. And so, for the second time in my life, I left a world behind me.

My captain was furious with me when I resigned. But I was furious with myself, for letting myself down, for letting you and Father down, for not seeing it, for not knowing. I don't know how you felt -- I never asked -- though I sensed that you were deeply disappointed in me for giving up on what I had worked so hard to achieve. I wasn't sure why you would feel that way, and I didn't want to know. I was too angry, and while you were busy burying Father, I was too busy burying myself in becoming a warrior for our people so that I could have a warrior's revenge.

In the depths of my anger, it probably comes as no surprise to learn that, by joining the Maquis, I found myself again. I surprised myself in that discovery, though, and it wasn't even all that hard. When they gave me my own cell, then my own command, I found completion -- I found passion -- I found true belief in a cause: fighting for the freedom of our people, defending our home. Gods, it was thrilling!

But I was living a dream again -- a romantic, quixotic dream. And, of course, reality set in almost immediately. We were underequipped, undermanned, outgunned. No way in hell for us to truly succeed. I realized quickly enough I would only be fooling myself to think we could. Not that I would ever leave a cause to which I had so wholly committed myself -- committed in a way that I had never quite committed myself to the Federation. Nevertheless, harsh reality goes a long way to temper passion.

Passion. By the gods, that word. Passionate belief in a cause was not the only passion I rediscovered while serving the Maquis. You used to ask me when I planned to start a family of my own, and I would always fend you off. Truth be told, I had little time for women, at least none that were interested in forging a lasting relationship. When I was in Starfleet, I saw them only as an obstacle to advancing my career.

In the Maquis, I succumbed for a time to an ambitious young Bajoran woman named Seska. For awhile, anyway, she had me thinking thoughts of family, of home. It did not last, though she continued to serve in my crew. In fact, she's here aboard Voyager, working in the Engineering corps. Our relationship now is mostly cordial, though she sometimes asks me odd questions and I catch her giving me strange looks.

I was talking about passion. What did surprise me was the depth of my passion in learning to come to terms with my heritage, to honor the teachings of our people. I threw myself into meditation and prayer -- to study the texts, the songs, and, as the need arose, to practice the rituals. I sought out my spirit guide, and now seek her counsel regularly. I feel a peace that I've never known before. I like to think Father would have been pleased.

I still wrestle with myself when I think of Father, and try not to give in to melancholy. Why hadn't I said something, done something, before it was too late? Why hadn't I healed the wound? And why did I ever think Father was asking so much of me? Why, why, why. You could make yourself crazy trying to solve all the "whys" of your life. I have to remind myself of this when I fall prey to guilt for feeling closer to Father in death than I did when he was alive.

Ah, there is yet so much to learn, and I have a long way to travel before I find true peace. That is literally as well as figuratively true -- because when we were brought here to the Delta Quadrant, for the third time in my life, I left a world behind. Maybe this time it'll take.

So. I am alive and well and serving again aboard a Starfleet vessel. I do not know but I hope will you find that pleasing. It is...interesting to be back in a Federation uniform after all this time. I had forgotten how much it once meant to me, and I take a perverse pride in wearing it again, without Starfleet's knowledge -- as a First Officer yet.

Yet I feel honored by the respect that Captain Janeway showed me in offering it. When she first proposed that we merge my Maquis crew and her Starfleet one, I was skeptical that it would last a week. I never expected her to offer me the uniform too. I accepted the crew merger almost immediately, but I nearly declined the uniform -- maybe because if there's one thing I've learned in all my years in space, it's that the clothes definitely do not make the man. It's what's in your head and in your heart that tells the true tale.

That's a lesson that I've had to apply almost daily since I took Captain Janeway's field commission. Everyone has their tale to tell, whether they tell it in words or in other ways.

Take Tom Paris, for instance. When I first learned that my former Maquis colleague had collaborated with Starfleet to find us, I had to batten down the emotional hatches. I was surprised by the depth of my contempt for him. Captain Janeway says she's convinced I wanted to kill him. I don't think so, but maybe she's right.

I never did trust him when he was with the Maquis, anyway. His story was so very, very public -- the son of the decorated Admiral, the honored Academy graduate, the hotshot pilot, who threw it all away in a stupid, misguided attempt to cover up a mistake that killed three people. He came to the Maquis after Starfleet cashiered him, wanting desperately to fly again, despite a pitiful attempt to cover up that desperation with an arrogant, macho cockiness that made me want to wipe the floor with his condescending smile.

When he was caught by the Federation on his first mission for me, I was almost relieved to have him gone from the Maquis ranks. The fact that he was sentenced to five years at the Auckland penal colony gave me a grim glee. Served him right, I thought. Maybe he'll learn some humility after five years in prison, with only a convict's forlorn hope to one day make a better life.

Now he serves under me, as ship's pilot, helmsman, conn officer. And I've learned, to my chagrin, that almost everything I thought I knew about him was dead wrong. Yes, he's made mistakes in his life. Yes, he threw away a life of Starfleet privilege for little more than wounded pride. But he has indeed learned humility, for all his surface bravado, a bravado he wears like a shield to cover a surprising shyness and even -- despite his street toughness and put-on bad manners -- a sort of innocence. Whether he learned it at Caldik Prime, New Zealand or here, he is intimate with humility. (Not to say that he's lost his sense of self-worth -- I've never known a man so sure of his own gifts. Never confuse humility with ego!) But I am sorry to say that I misjudged him. I'm glad I got that second chance.

One day, I think, I will tell that to Kathryn Janeway. She seems to know all about the value of second chances. I think you would like her, Mother -- she is brave, she's tough, she's brilliant. She embodies everything that I wanted Starfleet to be when I first enrolled in the Academy. There is something about her that inspires confidence and loyalty as soon as she looks you square in the eye. I sensed her steel from the first moment I saw her, when she was my adversary. I felt it again when she offered to merge our crews and to make me her First Officer. She sees potentials and she develops, no, she exploits them. If sheer will could get us home, hers would have us in the Alpha Quadrant next week.

It is a constant challenge to keep up with her. She keeps me on my toes every minute. It's like living inside a chess game -- move, countermove. We're still working out the parameters of our relationship -- I'm trying to establish my loyalty to the overall mission, without sacrificing my integrity to my Maquis shipmates, while she...you know, sometimes I'm not sure what I'm expecting of her. What I do know is that, so far, whatever it is we're doing...it seems to be working. Our crews are learning to work together, learning that they are are not implacable enemies, that there is value in the lessons each has to teach the other.

In many ways, she reminds me of you -- my strong, brave, beautiful, passionate mother! I have never doubted why Father fell in love with you, and I have always hoped to find someone who would complete me as you completed him. I think that must be the ultimate definition of love -- finding a partner who completes you.

If I am not careful, I could fall in love with her, I think. I am trying to guard against this, at least until I am comfortable in this command structure and sure of my footing with her. I cannot afford to undermine her authority and thus jeopardize the melding of these two crews into one, united in its goals. Perhaps one day if, no, when we work out these issues, I can drop my guard and take my chances.

Chances. There's that expression again: second chances. Without them, we would all be dead. We are on our way home because we have all granted each other another chance. Learning humility, learning forgiveness, learning to trust one another -- sometimes I think these are all we've got that stands between us and a lonely death.

I tell you this, Mother, because I want to say to you that I am sorry for taking so long to have learned these lessons from you and Father. I wish I had realized this while Father was still alive. I wish I had spent more time with you, and let you know my heart then instead of opening it to you now, when I am so far away. But things are as they are, and we cannot change them to be as we would like them to be. I ask your forgiveness and hope that we will meet again so that I will know if you have granted it.

I pray the gods find you and the rest of our family whole and in health and in happiness, though I am far from you. I have asked the gods and my spirit guide if I will ever see you again, but none have answered. But then again it's not really something I expect them to know. We are looking for a way home, but the answer may only lie within ourselves.

Love from your son,
Chakotay

End Part 4

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