Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

future she had left was gone and would never return in the form she recognized.
    And she was gone anyway! She was gone, and they were alone again to take care of each other.
    “The only certainty,” he ventured, “is how we feel about each other here and now. If you think I'm going to let you end this because of what
might
happen, then you need to get to know
me
a little better.”
    He reached out for her. Nothing overt—just put his hand between them and didn't retract it.
    Slowly, her fingers, implanted with their Borg components, came to meet his. Together they dismissed the threats and warnings, fears and hauntings placed between them by the woman who talked about strangers, but was no more than one herself.
    But for the two of them, there was only one future today, which they found in the strength of each other's eyes. This was the future for which, together, they would fight.
    * * *
    “If you say ‘relax’ one more time I'm gonna rip your holographic
head off!”
    Even the corridor outside sickbay rang with Tom Paris's lovely wife's melodic voice. As Paris rushed into sickbay, he heard the Doctor's response.
    “I hope you don't intend to kiss your baby with that mouth.”
    He rounded the partition and expected to see the Doctor's holoprogram rearranged. “Tell me this isn't another false alarm.”
    The Doctor looked up. “This isn't another false alarm.”
    B'Elanna lay on a pallet in obvious discomfort, half sitting up. Her teeth were gritted, her features hardened, her whole body drumhead-tight. This was it.
    “I can't believe it,” Paris murmured.
    She stared at him and moaned, “Believe it!”
    “I might actually win . . .”
    “WHAT?”
    “The baby pool. I picked today, fifteen hundred hours—”
    Her head dropped back for a moment of respite and annoyance. “I'm so glad I could accommodate you.”
    The Doctor came to the other side of the bed with a tray of medical instruments that didn't look very comforting at all.
    “I wouldn't celebrate yet,” he warned casually. “Klingon labor sometimes lasts several days—” B'Elanna's expression stopped him cold and encouraged a slight rearrangement of the other half of that sentence. “Of course . . . I'm sure that won't be the case here.”
    “Bridge to Lieutenant Paris,”
the captain's voice interrupted.
“We're about to get under way.”
    Oh, not now! Suddenly Paris was hit with the full-face blunt force of why having families on ships wasn't really a great idea. To divide a crewman's mind this way couldn't come to anything good. On a ship, emotional distraction and confused priorities were a recipe for disaster. He was the most qualified helmsman for what they were about to do—nobody else could do as well, not even the captain or Chakotay. Should he give up this precious moment or should he go to the bridge and make sure his baby had the best chance to live more than two minutes? And could he concentrate once he got there?
    His place was
here
—wasn't it?
    “Go,” B'Elanna said, reading his mind.
    “But—”
    “No buts, flyboy. If this mission's going to succeed, we need our best pilot at the helm. Don't worry—I've got the Doctor.”
    He hated the idea of leaving. What kind of job could he do at the helm, thinking about her down here giving birth without his support? He'd started something, and now he might not be able to make good on following through. She'd be doing this alone. He had promised they wouldn't do anything important alone— this was marriage, wasn't it? While he was here, he would want to be on the bridge. On the bridge, he would be thinking about what he was missing and the family he was trying to ignore.
    “Is there a problem, Mr. Paris?”
    “On my way, Captain.”
    What choice did he really have?
    * * *
    VOYAGER HAS ALTERED COURSE. CURRENT POSITION: SPATIAL GRID THREE SIX TWO TRAJECTORY: ONE ONE TWO MARK FIVE
    “I don't know how you do it.”
    Admiral Janeway took great joy in the Borg Queen's shock as the bodiless woman's eyes shot open. The Queen was in her private alcove within the great metropolis of the Unicomplex. To the Queen's perception, the admiral stood only a few feet away. A good effect.
    Getting the drop on the Borg Queen—mmm, felt great.
    “All those voices talking at once. You must get terrible headaches.”
    The Queen's pasty face bent into a scowl and she tilted her head.
    “If you're calling drones to assimilate me,” the admiral told her, “don't bother.”
    “I don't