Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

They stood shoulder to shoulder, witnesses to the next unbelievable moment—when the Borg sphere disengaged its central adhesion and broke apart into an encompassing fireball.
    The blazing eruption blew outward in all directions, bathing the Starfleet ships in white-hot ejecta. If the crews on those bridges weren't cheering, they weren't watching.
    In a phenomenal breach of—well, everything—Barclay reached out and seized the admiral's arm. “Sir, sir! Look!”
    Ridiculous—the admiral was already looking, but Barclay was drowning in sheer thrill.
    “Oh, sir!” he cried like a kid at a baseball game.
    The green-white-golden fireball broke up as a solid form punched through at dead center. A recognizable shape—a Starfleet shape!
    “Cease fire!” Admiral Paris called. “All ships, cease fire! We have Starfleet contact! My God!”
    The senior officer dropped his demeanor of stability and gasped at what they saw. Some of the other admirals reached over to pat Admiral Paris on his back and shoulders.
    “Voyager!”
Barclay choked out. “It's
Voyager!”
    A cheer broke from the admirals around him, as simple and childlike as he could ever imagine, and the sound thrilled him to his core.
    The admiral gazed at his son's ship as it soared forward through the veil of glorious debris and streaked toward the Starfleet armada.
    Beside him, Reg Barclay quietly spoke the words all were thinking.
    “They're home . . .”
    Admiral Paris held his breath for a moment of communion with this miracle, then found his voice.
    “Hail them, please, Mr. Barclay.”
    “My pleasure, sir! Where's the comm—oh! Short-range! Imagine that! This is . . . this is . . . Pathfinder Base to
Voyager.
Come in!”



CHAPTER 19

    T HE CHEERING ON V OYAGER'S BRIDGE WAS A BALM FOR THE SOUL . Kathryn Janeway sank back into her chair and waved away their moment of joy. There would be time for celebrating later, and plenty of cheering. Why, Starfleet might even bring back the ticker-tape parade.
    Home . . . home. All of them, healthy and together.
    When Admiral Paris's face, flanked by Reg Barclay and several other admirals, appeared on the main screen, Janeway almost laughed. They were perfectly stunned. Imagine rocking a fistful of admirals into silence!
    “Janeway to Pathfinder Base. Sorry to surprise you . . . next time we'll call ahead.”
    Admiral Paris smiled shakily. “Welcome back, Captain.”
    “It's good to be here.”
    “How did you—”
    “It'll all be in my report, sir.”
    “I'll look forward to it!”
    He didn't ask how his son was doing, or any other questions. Maybe he was afraid to know.
    Tom Paris gazed at the vision of his father. He was hardly the rash young pilot who had disappeared off the scopes seven years ago, and had made his peace with the man whose face was their first beacon back to the Alpha Quadrant.
    The admiral clicked off the communications connection. Probably unable to speak right now, as were most of them. Around her, her crew gazed at the armada of welcoming ships on the screen and the beautiful marbleized ball of Earth in the near distance. Seven and Chakotay were looking at each other now. Paris was still gazing at the screen and its wonders. Tuvok glanced at Janeway, and she was gratified to see him so healthy. Harry Kim was almost in tears with sheer joy, and choked into silence.
    Around them, the sounds of damage reports and scramblings around the ship were wonderful music. In minutes they would have help, real help. They could call in the experts who had built this ship. There would be parts galore. Energy and resources and expertise brimming from every crack. For the first time, there would be plenty of everything, and the next time Janeway hailed her crew on the shipwide, she would be imparting to them the wonderful news. They could be home for supper.
    “Sickbay to Lieutenant Paris.”
    Everybody flinched. The call was so mundane, so common—yet they all knew what it meant.
    Paris almost fell out of his chair when the doctor's voice was backdropped by an infant's thready wail.
    “There's someone here who'd like to say hello.”
    Paris whirled around in his chair. Janeway smiled at him.
    “You'd better get down there, Tom,” she invited. “Mr. Chakotay, take the helm.”
    “Aye, Captain!” Chakotay snapped.
    He slid into the chair as Tom Paris dodged for the lift, catching the hands of his shipmates as he rushed past.
    Captain Janeway squared herself in her chair and assessed her