She told me it would never happen again. But here I stand in the holodeck, looking ridiculous, I’m sure, with my jaw hanging open. Every time I attempt to close my mouth, the holograms change to some new and provocative position and leave me with the irreversible feeling that I am peering into some strange, windowless rift in time.

I look around the room, ornately decorated to reflect the holiday season. White lights gleaming from the tree. Gold wrapping paper lying in radiant shreds on the floor. Mugs of half-cooled cranberry cider—Mother’s recipe—sitting discarded on the coffee table. A warm and pungent fire crackling in the fireplace.

I told myself that I came here only to relax, to talk with the Maestro, but even he could not quiet my mind with some pithy and poignant anecdote. My curiosity is too strong and I have to acknowledge it; I can’t lie to myself any longer. I brought myself here under false pretenses for one and only one reason—to find out why Seven broke her promise to me and is once again spending so many hours in the holodeck.

The holograms shift positions. My eyes come back to them, always on them. The smaller woman wears festive red; the other joyful green. A brooch—glimmers from the low bodice of the green dress—both gifts from the brunette to the blonde.

The women lean breathlessly together, every movement in reaction to the other until their bodies fall languidly to the floor. Breathing labored. Skin sensitive. At one time, I knew what they feel.

I smirk at the thought. They’re holograms; they don’t feel. They just look like they’re happy. The smaller one grinning down into the large, pale blue eyes of the other as she slides her hands over the blonde’s wrists, holding them to the floor playfully. She leans in, pressing her lips against the fullness of the other woman’s mouth. They kiss again.

I shake my head. Press my fingers into my eyes as though I can erase the images, as though I want to. Holograms don’t feel, I remind myself. But, remarkably after all these years, I still do and I’ve watched this exposition play out long enough. "Computer, halt program." My voice comes out harsh, strangled.

I walk up to the holograms suspended as they are in the middle of a passionate embrace, their limbs wrapped around each other. I bend over and remove the holographic brooch. It feels real in my hand. "Computer, save image of the brooch." The computer chirps in confirmation.

"Computer, end program." The brooch, Annika and Kathryn, and the warmth of the room disappear and set solid before me are only the harsh, white lines and stark, black horizon of the holodeck substructure.

How did she manage to capture so clearly the ruse of my feelings? Was it when the Admiral appeared? The white-haired admiral wore all her feelings so readily on her face. Regret. Desperation. Longing. Is it easy to see the beginnings of those emotions on my own? Is that where Seven acquired the idea? Is that why she created that . . . display?

That’s the only question I have for her—why. Why create that fantasy?

If I could only understand what in the course of events brought me here . . . It began with the derelict duties and excessive holodeck time. I confronted her. She lied and I let her. I knew she hadn’t logged forty-nine hours in Holodeck Two trying to perfect a gravimetric array.

And then, suddenly, there was the complete reversal. Seven returned to duty more devout and dedicated than ever. I went to see the Doctor. He would know what was affecting her. I tried to coerce him—threatened to retire his program—but still he claimed doctor-patient confidentiality.

Then there was the surprise appearance of Admiral Janeway. The unexpected announcement of the relationship with Chakotay. The return home, to Earth. The dissolution of the relationship with Chakotay. And again, now, a bout of excessive holodeck time. . . .

Is that why I am here? No. Concern. Curiosity. Interest. That’s why I’m here. Because when it involves her, I need to know. And now there’s that . . . display.

I exit the holodeck and travel my well-traversed path to Astrometrics. I know she will be standing at the main console working.

"Captain?" she asks with an inquisitive twist of her brow.

"Seven, I was hoping you could solve a little mystery for me."

She watches me intently as I place the tiny holographic projector on the console in front of her. I activate it. The brooch appears. She looks at it, and then looks at me with such uncertainty. She breathes in and squares her shoulders. "It is the brooch Kathryn gave to Annika for Christmas."

She looks down at her console again. Her fingers fly over the keypad. I don’t know what I expected her to say . . . or do, but I don’t have my answer. "That’s not the mystery."

She sighs and removes her hands from the console. Turning, she regards me.

"The mystery is why."

She inspects my face. "Annika and Kathryn are in love."

Remembering. I feel the slight, hollow tingle of a headache. I close my eyes and reflexively squeeze the bridge of my nose. "That’s apparent," I mumble. "That’s not the ‘why’ I want an answer to."

She steadies herself, spreading her legs military-style, and crosses her hands behind her back.

"What I want to know is why are there holograms of myself and you . . . gallivanting around the holodeck in a program designed by you?"

"An experiment, Captain."

"An experiment?" I hear my voice rise too high. Too incredulous. Too disbelieving. Seven flinches, if you can call that subtle shift in her posture a flinch, and immediately I regret voicing my skepticism.

"Yes, Captain. I was attempting to determine what relationships would be revealed if the command structure were removed from the lives of Voyager’s crew."

I shake my head and turn away, trying to get a clearer picture of the meaning behind her reasoning. I turn back to her. "Why?"

It’s her turn to look away. "The Doctor suggested that the command structure debilitated the development of many relationships."

I followed the subtle logic of her thinking. "So, you removed the ‘command structure’ to see what would happen."

"Yes." Her sagacious confirmation.

"And what did you discover?" She lifts an eyebrow. Good God, why did I ask that? It’s only too apparent what she discovered.

"I ascertained that many of the same associations were represented. However, other unanticipated relationships developed. I am following the deviations."

Analytical. Precise. But I know better. I know that these even statements are subterfuge to a greater motivation . . . a higher meaning than what they reveal. "I see." Turning away, I put my hand on my hip. "Let me ask you this, then. What do you make of these deviations?"

"Captain?"

I’m aggravated now. My hands gesture to the air. "This deviation? This aberration?"

Obstinately she links her hands behind her again. It’s an artful dance we share. I pin her with a look. She looks back innocently. "The end result is only what would occur if it were viable to eliminate known inter-related factors without affecting the whole." She looks away. "A statistical implausibility made possible by the holodeck."

"Implausibility," I mutter to myself, but I know she can hear me. I lift my voice so she knows I am addressing her. "So why do it?"

She shifts her weight from one foot to another. "As I said, Captain, it was an experiment."

There’s no more to it than that. "Naturally," I say as I turn to go. I feel her eyes follow me as I leave. An artful dance, indeed.

"Captain?"

I stop and calm myself in anticipation of her question. Pressing my hand down the flat of my stomach, I breathe in, and turn to face her. "Yes, Seven?"

She regards me curiously. "Captain, if there was not. . . . Would it not be logical . . .?" She glances away, and then her eyes meet mine again. "What would be an appropriate way for Annika and Kathryn to celebrate the New Year?"

I smile. It seems to me that Annika, Kathryn, and their emotion sub-processors understand more about how to celebrate the holidays than I do. "I suppose, they can do almost anything as long as they do it together."

She nods slightly and then her eyes return to the console display. My answer must be sufficient as it’s apparent to me that her mind is now elsewhere and I have been summarily dismissed and promptly replaced by star charts and phase alignments.

I leave, making my way through the well-trodden corridors. Tracing the same pattern back to my quarters, I wonder at my own ambiguity. Am I happy with Seven’s answer or am I sad? Am I glad that she wasn’t misusing the holodeck or am I disappointed?

I enter the turbolift. "Deck Three." As I utter those words, it dawns on me. It seems silly that I didn’t recognize it immediately. The hologram—Kathryn—is me and Annika is Seven. The computer had correctly predicted my attraction to her. Was it also an accurate measure of Seven’s feelings?

I dismiss the idea as I enter my quarters. I can’t allow my willful emotions to influence my expectations. From the porthole, I look out at the depth of the streaming stars—this is real.

The days move by. Disjointed. New Year’s Eve. This is the eighth New Year’s Eve I will share with a bottle of bourbon. Voyager’s stranding in the Delta Quadrant warranted the first seven. This year, I mandated it out of habit.

Picking up my drink, I salute the nebula passing outside the porthole, and then take a swig of the acrid liquid. I swallow it down, feeling it burn and likening it to a necessary evil. After gulping the last of the bourbon, I deposit the glass on the table and lay down, knees bent, on the couch. I stare at the ceiling and wonder how the party in the mess hall is progressing.

For a few moments, I am lost in contemplation and then the chime to my quarters sounds startling me. "Come."

Seven enters.

I sit up. Interest marked indelibly on my face. "Seven."

She comes to a halt immediately inside the pneumatic door. "Captain."

My eyes wander up her body to meet her gaze. "What brings you by?"

She moves closer. I watch the refined play of muscle under the biosuit. "I—you were missed at the festivities."

I don’t owe her an explanation, but I feel compelled to give her one anyway. "I wasn’t feeling up to a party."

"A ritual with you. You never attend the New Year’s festivities."

"I prefer a quiet celebration for the occasion."

She looks around at my empty quarters. Her eyes come back to rest on my face. "I will leave you to your celebration, if you prefer."

It’s odd but I can’t decide. She turns to go. Suddenly words come to me. "No, please stay." I stand. "Can I get you something?"

Her eyes move passed me, a glance behind, almost as though she wants to flee. I feel hurt hollow out my throat.

"Tea." A lovely word.

I exhale and move to the replicator. "Blackberry tea." The cup appears on the replicator pad. She comes up behind me and I hand the cup to her.

Gesturing to the couch, I invite her to sit. She perches on the edge of a cushion and samples the tea. Unfixed. Uncertain.

I retake my seat in front of the bourbon glass. I don’t really know what to say, so I pour myself another drink and take a sip. I feel the alcohol blaze down my gullet. She watches me. I clear my throat. "How’s the tea?"

She inspects the cup in her hand as though she’s never seen one before. "Pleasing."

I nod. Pleasing—that’s a new one. I rather like it and I halfheartedly wonder if I can get her to say it again. I lean back and drape my arm along the cushion of the couch. Calm. Casual. "So . . . is there something you wanted to discuss?"

Her eyes pass over several items on the coffee table. "That is a beautiful decanter."

"Thank you. It was my father’s."

"You were close to your father."

"As close as you can be to a dedicated Starfleet officer." I dodge the question mostly because, even after his death, I’m still not sure of the answer.

The way she furrows her eyebrows is irresistible. "You are a dedicated Starfleet officer."

So much for elusiveness. "True, however, there is a difference." I lift a finger for emphasis as I meet her eyes. She binds me in her gaze. "The Delta Quadrant. I logged enough hours in the Delta Quadrant for three dedicated Starfleet officers."

She tilts her head in contemplation. "Are you no longer dedicated?" Her voice is light.

Mischievous. Unusual. She’s teasing me. I lean my chin against my hand as I examine her. "I suppose ‘dedicated’ is one of those words that can be measured on different scales."

"Indeed."

Is that a slight smile curling at the corners of her lips? She is beautiful. It’s hard to think of anything else. Long moments pass as I try to recover. "Weren’t you enjoying the New Year’s Eve party?" A preposterous question; I already know the answer.

Her eyes shift away from me. "It was unique."

"Unique?" I’m surprised again. "Not a frivolous exercise?"

"No, I understand the necessity of recreational activities."

I take a sip of the bourbon. "What was unique?"

She looks around, her neck muscles twisting, emphasizing the lovely length. I remember how Annika’s neck arched as Kathryn kissed it. Distracted. Enticed. I catch the last of her words " . . . and observing the rituals of the holiday."

I’m always trying to encourage her to socialize more. "So why not stay there?"

She hesitates. Her eyes inspect my face. "I wished to spend this occasion with you." It’s not the confession my heart would like to hear, but I am struck by the assertiveness of her words. Smiling at her, I move forward and set my drink on the table. She watches me as I resettle myself on the couch next to her, our legs sliding together. I lift a brow and lower my voice purposefully. "What is it you would like to do?"

She gently touches my hand. A bold move. "Does it matter what we do?"

I hear my own words. Dawning. Understanding. I smile slowly. "No."

The End

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