Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

apparent also gazed around, but not at the people, not at Chakotay and Tuvok or at Janeway herself.
Admiral
Janeway instead gazed around at the interior of the ship itself. That something as mundane as a tranporter room could carry such obvious nostalgic gravity made the situation particularly surreal.
    Then, as if walking into her own back garden, she stepped down from the platform. She moved finally to Chakotay and Tuvok, now standing a little apart from Janeway.
    “Tuvok,” she murmured. “Chakotay . . . it's good to see you.”
    Uh-oh.
Janeway watched the admiral's expression—and she recognized that tone. What the hell was that tone doing here?
    The admiral's voice sounded strange, though, like Janeway herself speaking through a paper funnel. Normal enough— mostly we hear our own voices through the echo chamber of our skulls. Give or take the odd log review, she wasn't used to listening to herself.
    Herself . . .
    She flinched when the admiral suddenly turned to her. “I'm sure you have questions.”
    “Only a few,” Janeway drawled.
    “Then I suggest we go to my . . . to
your
ready room.”
    “You know the way.”
    Well, why not? The obvious had inflicted itself upon them. Time to become explorers.
    The admiral led the way. It was one method of confirming that she was the person she appeared to be. They walked the ship in silence, like a tour of a tomb. Janeway met Chakotay's eyes once, only once, but never connected with Tuvok. They all had the same feeling. The instinct to tell when something was really wrong despite the casual walk-and-talk had become a daily diet on
Voyager.
    As they approached the corridor entrance to the ready room, she motioned Chakotay and Tuvok to hold back. Perhaps it was her knowledge of herself speaking—she really wasn't sure yet—but the admiral would speak more freely if she only had her own reflection listening.
    Tuvok merely lowered his head in acceptance. Chakotay took hold of her elbow for an instant, then almost immediately let go. The touch was worth its weight in dilithium.
    She offered him a passive reassuring glance, nothing except a promise that she would look after herself, and followed the admiral's thin silvery form into the ready room.
    The door closed behind her. This was like being in a carnival fun house, except for the fun part.
    Admiral Janeway drew a long breath through her nose as if she had stepped into a meadow of wildflowers. “Fresh coffee . . .”
    “Would you like a cup?” Janeway asked.
    The admiral looked at the steaming thermal carafe on the captain's desk. “No. I gave it up years ago. I only drink tea now.”
    Annoyance prickled the captain's neck. Since when? Caffeine was caffeine. Was the admiral trying to fit in to some kind of prefab image?
    “I told the curator at the museum,” the admiral went on, “that if he wanted to make the ready room more authentic, he should always keep a steaming pot of coffee on the desk.”
    “Voyager's
in a museum?”
    “Voyager,”
the admiral said proudly,
“is
a musem. On the grounds of the Presidio.” She moved to the wide curved viewport through which multiple stars and one rogue nuclear storm performed brainless. “On a clear morning, you can see Alcatraz from here.”
    And the irony of that is . . .
    Captain Janeway inhaled the moment, held her breath, and pressed down the chittering in her stomach. This was big. Getting bigger.
    “You made it back to Earth . . .”
    The admiral nodded, but didn't meet her eyes. She moved back to Janeway's desk and picked up the coffee cup. “Unfortunately, our favorite coffee cup didn't get home in one piece. It was chipped during a battle with the Fen Domar.”
    “Who?” Ah, stupid question time. The value of the senseless blurt.
    “You'll run into them in a few years.”
    Janeway held up a hand before the admiral continued. “You know what? I don't think I should be listening to details about the future.”
    Instantly her two personalities—the two still inside this body—began wrestling. The Temporal Prime Directive, the risk of the future, complications radiating from the flap of the butterfly's wing all came into raging conflict with her explorer's duty, her command responsibility to tend her crew and to bring this ship home
any way possible—
    What was the right thing to do? Refuse to listen? Or demand to be told?
    She wanted to ask everything. Everything! She wanted to hedge her bets, make the challenging decisions, put to use