Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

or B'Elanna to put their life at risk? A captain has to be ready to do that. I don't know how the Galaxy-class captains handled it. Can I put the best officer to a dangerous task? Or will I unconsciously pick and choose among those who
haven't
married or had babies? That's not fair to the other crewmen, if certain people can opt themselves out of the risk factor—”
    “You're overthinking.” Chakotay leaned back a little.
    She folded her arms, lowered her chin, and stated, “I'm not. I hope Tom, or B'Elanna, or the other parents to come, if and when, and their children can forgive me—or you—when we have to put one, or both, or all of them . . . on the line.”
    * * *
    “Cargo bay.”
    His watch ended before he noticed. The captain came to take over before Chakotay was really ready to leave the bridge. Something about their conversation troubled him and made him want to stay up there.
    The turbolift hummed around him, content in its purpose to deliver him to the bay as ordered. At least it knew where it was going.
    But with Janeway there and no emergency, he made himself let go. For countless men through the history of Earth and of other planets, life on ships was an accepted way. But she was right—it was no kind of family life. Usually it made for long periods away from kith and kin, but months, not years upon years. Even the longest whaling voyages of Earth, hundreds of years ago, were two-year missions, and the crew on board all understood what they were in for.
    He had to admit Kathryn was right to worry. They could pretend these things weren't factors, but only pretend.
    What else? Stop their shipmates from forming relationships and starting their lives until they were back in Federation space?
Voyager
was an island unto herself, a little community living inside a floating fortress.
    He was glad he hadn't made the mistake of telling the captain where he was going for lunch.
    The cargo bay, oddly, was one of few places aboard a ship where there was lots of space but no people. Alway immaculate, because the faintest filth could clog up a shuttle's systems and cause big trouble on the go, the bay smelled of cleaning fluids and other control elements—and lunch meat?
    The lights were dimmed, and a skyport had been opened to show the stars—as if
Voyager'
s crew hadn't seen enough of stars for a couple of lifetimes. In the middle of the bay's launch roundhouse tarmac was Seven of Nine, quaintly crouched as she spread out a checkered blanket.
    Seven was a gorgeous woman standing or sitting, no doubt about that, and the one-piece molded suit that creased every crease and followed every curve simply added to her mystique, but squatting on the tarmac and using those long arms and spindlelike fingers to spread something as mundane as a picnic blanket absolutely shattered any hope of propriety. Chakotay paused at the entryway for a few seconds, appreciating nature's talent for sculpture.
    After a moment, he forced himself to stride in. If she saw him watching her, she wouldn't understand. Deprived of a normal human childhood and adolescence, Seven had never been at ease with the way men looked at her. Having no barometer of social tenderizing with which to judge things as fleeting as physical presence, she didn't know she was an eagle's cry from average.
    “What's all this?” he asked.
    Seven glanced up at him, then began unpacking a plastic container full of food. “A picnic. My research indicated it was an appropriate third date.”
    “You didn't have to go to this much trouble . . .”
    “If this makes you uncomfortable, I could prepare a less elaborate meal.”
    “No—don't change a thing. This is
perfection.”
    He sat down on the blanket and crossed his legs. The reduced lighting caused glossy bands on Seven's tightly rolled blond hair. Her large eyes were like cactus flowers on a dune, somewhat severe in their mystery, banded by the few remaining Borg implants on her smooth skin.
    Perhaps some people would think it odd that Chakotay had crossed the line and attempted the dreaded ‘r’ word with her . . . a relationship. More than a friendship, more than crewmates, a step beyond the wisdom of equality the captain had just been talking about, a bond of affection between two people on
Voyager
was a species unto itself. This was a closed society. Most of the prospects for romance that the crew would ever encounter were already here. Certain crew members' courting others wasn't unheard