Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

more hungry for a chance, however speculative, to get home.
    Tom Paris, whose hands shook for a good hour after the nebula encounter, had no trouble fixing the ship on a course away from the nebula. A nest of Borg cubes was plenty to crush him back into place.
    So when Harry chased him down in the corridor on the way to the bridge, he had an idea what it was about.
    “Tom!”
    Paris had almost made it to the turbolift. He thought about hurrying, maybe pretending he had wax in his ears. His boots thumped on the corridor deck and guilted him into slowing down so Harry could catch up.
    Harry's innocent face appeared beside him. “What are you doing when your watch ends?”
    “No plans,” Paris said. After all, he couldn't exactly make any plans, considering his family situation. “Why?”
    “I've been thinking . . . you and I should have some fun. One last adventure before you get too busy being a father.”
    Although Paris knew perfectly well what Harry was hedging toward, he tried to redirect. “Did you reserve some holodeck time?”
    “I've got a better idea.”
    They stopped walking as Harry handed him a padd.
    Paris almost didn't want to look at it. Unfortunately it was already in his hands and only one glance was needed to confirm the trouble he was very near getting into.
    “This is your idea of fun?” he challenged.
    “It'll work!” Harry insisted. “We just need to make a few modifications to the flyer—”
    “We might as well just hand it over to the Borg!”
    “How could that happen with the best pilot in the quadrant at the helm?”
    Paris handed the padd back, rather roughly. “Nice try.”
    He started to walk away.
    Harry gripped him by the arm. “If we go to the captain together, she'll be much more likely to approve my plan!”
    “I don't want her to approve it.”
    “Where's your sense of adventure?”
    Empathizing with his friend's deeper hopes, Paris freed his arm from the hard sell. To reject Harry this way, and to have to be harsh—it chafed.
    “I left my sense of adventure in the nebula,” he said sadly. “And I'm not going back for it.”
    Again he tried to step away.
    Desperately, Harry called, “Don't you want to find your way home?”
    “I
am
home, Harry.”
    Instantly, Paris regretted snapping at him. Just the tension . . . all kinds.
    Luckily, Harry's reaction of hurt didn't mar his attempt to lighten the moment with one last bit of bait as Paris stepped into the turbolift.
    “Captain Proton would never walk away from a mission like this,” he suggested.
    Paris tried a smile, but it didn't convince either of them that his mood had improved or his fears mellowed.
    “Captain Proton doesn't have a wife . . . and a baby on the way.”
    When the turbolift closed between them, they had more problems than they'd had when they met a few moments ago.
    * * *
    Chakotay sensed the change around the ship. Everyone was quieter, more introspective, dealing with the fact that they had run rather than taken on the complex challenge of finding a wormhole in a Borg haystack. Strange, though—nobody disagreed with the captain's decision to move on. There had been a time, however, when this ship's mission had not been so much precaution and forbearance.
    Things had changed. There was a difference from their early days. The crew had flexed, changed, won and lost, released some crewmates, accepted others, and not all of them had signed up for a battleship. Kathryn was right—there were babies now, children, families. Even the crewmen who had intended to spend their lives in uniform had never imagined a single one-way mission where very little could be predicted or planned. They were on this ship, and apparently they were going to be here for a very long time.
    Tom and B'Elanna had the right idea. Until now, Chakotay really hadn't been so sure. The change was subtle, but suddenly everyone aboard had concrete confirmation of where their futures were. No wormhole, no magic, no luck, no shortcuts home. If they wanted more than their general duties, they would have to build it for themselves, right here, today.
    The astrometrics lab was a quiet place. Usually Seven was here alone, as she was this morning. She seemed surprised to see him when Chakotay entered, and reacted in a charmingly human way. Her eyes were like birds, the rest of her like a hungry dream.
    “If you've come for my daily report,” she offered, “it's not complete.”
    Chakotay tried not to swagger. “Actually, I'm