Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Author's note: This is the final chapter of the story, I hope that you have enjoyed reading. Thanks so much for your reviews! It always makes me smile when I read a particular line you liked, a desperate situation where you simply had to link through to the update (despite being at work) or a prediction on what might happen next.

Live long and prosper.

Chapter 20: Logan George

I watch my father and brother as they bait the lines for fishing. Neither of them will eat the fish they have caught, and if myself or my mother did not intervene they would throw the catch back into the sea. The entire task seems pointless, and even my father has suggested it to be cruel, but Mallin wanted to learn to fish, and so our father reasoned that it was a skill worth passing down.

When they have thrown out the lines, they sit on the bow of the yacht, side by side, thigh to thigh and gaze out at the sea. My father places an arm across the young man's shoulders and places a kiss to his forehead. He does this with all three of us, even now as we boarder adulthood, but Mallin is the only one who does not shrug away at the show of affection, but instead embraces it, and learns from it in a way I know he will display with his own children one day.

The two of them are so similar. They have a steady and calming presence about them, a strength of mind, and quiet confidence. However there is a peacefulness about Mallin that I do not believe my father possessed in his youth, as if my brother was born knowing exactly who he was, and what he will one day become.

I, on the other hand, have been told I take after my mother. I am not entirely sure why. I have no interest in Starfleet or passion for science. I have no desire for leadership, and little respect for authority. However my father insists I have inherited her bravery, persuasiveness and curiosity. Qualities my mother is quick to translate to carelessness, mouthy and trouble seeking. I think I must lie somewhere in-between.

"Chakotay, boys," my mother calls up from the galley in the yacht.

The smell of dinner has been wafting up from the kitchen below deck for twenty minutes now and I am famished. The other two must be equally hungry from the way they quickly swing their legs up from dangling down the side of the boat and walk swiftly across the decking. I position myself halfway down the steps, in order to pass plates of food up to my brother and father.

My dad frequently jokes that my mother was once an awful cook, and that she only learnt the art after she had children. I am not sure I believe him though. Nothing beats my mum's spicy bean hot pot. I cannot imagine her burning the endless number of dinners that the older man claims.

I see my sister's navigational charts are spread over the table below deck, and she has a frustrated look on her face. She is currently undergoing the same lessons of manual navigation which Mallin and I underwent when we were learning to sail. Although the ship board computer will do it all for us, my mother insists on showing us how to use charts, bearings and compasses to plan a route, maintaining that we should know the basics should technology ever fail us.

Eventually the girls come up and join us on deck where the dining table has been assembled. My parents share a bottle of wine, and sit comfortably together, with his arm laid casually across the back of the bench behind her, and her leaning contentedly into his embrace.

"George," that's not my name. I was named Logan as a baby, but my gift for getting into trouble as a young child earned me the title: "Curious George", eventually the 'curious' was dropped, but the nickname has stuck. I look at my mother anyway, "what have you been doing this afternoon?"

"Reading," I hold up a copy of Robinson Crusoe.

"You've caught the sun," she notes with a stern look towards my bear arms.

I glance at my bronze skin which has gone slightly red from exposure. Eventually the redness will go down, and I will tan like my father. Though she knows this, she still fusses over me, and encourages me to cover up for tomorrow's sailing. Grudgingly I agree with a nod, and the conversation moves on.

In years to come I will look back at my upbringing and remember this as a happy family. My older brother is my closest friend (although I will not admit this to him for another couple of years), and we are both protective and precious of our younger sister Taya. Our parents love the three of us more than I can yet understand, and their love for one another is unyielding and radiant.

We spent our childhood travelling with our parents for their various work postings, and teenage years on a farm where they retired to. Our holidays we spend on adventures, like this, exploring the Mediterranean seas in a yacht, visiting an alien planet, or trekking through the forests of my father's home world. There is always much excitement, and laughter, and chatter and of course love in our family.

After dinner Taya and I are left to clean up. Mallin joins us after he has pulled up the fishing lines, and we start a small water fight out of sight of our parents.

My brother and sister are both nimble boned and slender like our mother. Mallin is very tall, and I know many girls at our school consider him handsome due to his chiselled face and piercing eyes. Taya does not know she is beautiful; her complexion is a little lighter than our father's, as is her hair which she usually wears down, but her eyes are just as dark. I am the spitting image of Chakotay. My mother reminds me this with a whisper in my ear, as I cuddle up next to her on the sofa whilst we watch the newsvids in the evenings. I think she adores me even more for this fact, which makes up for the conflict caused by our similarities in personality.

As the sun starts to die away we hear music start to play above deck, and Mallin suggests we close the hatches and get the ship ready for the night.

My brother and I climb up to the stern to secure the ropes, collapsing down the dining table, and pulling up the canopy. Although I am aware of my parents mumbling a private conversation and laughing intermittently from the bow of the boat as I make the preparations, it is not until I have finished the task of throwing all the ropes into the cockpit locker I follow Mallin's gaze and join his observations of them.

The tempo of the music is upbeat and lively, and I witness my father twirl his wife, eliciting a small giggle from her as he pulls the woman back towards him and into his arms. They gaze into each other's eyes, and as the song changes, to a slower melody, they remain in each other's embrace; my mother's head eventually resting against his broad shoulders.

"I used to think they were sappy," Mallin muses.

I raise an incredulous eyebrow, "you don't anymore?"

He just smiles, that contented, knowing smile that he has held his entire life. "I wonder if I will ever find what they have."

Mallin will become my greatest confident in later life. I do not yet know this is the start of our lifelong, honest companionship. "It might be better," I suggest.

He grins, "maybe."

Our attention continues to focus on our parents. So much so that we hardly notice Taya come up to find out what is taking so long.

"Are they still fooling around?" Taya puts her hands on her hips, very much the imitation of the great Admiral Janeway.

"Seems that way," I note.

She rolls her eyes, but she too cannot help but stare in the same direction.

The three of us have been made aware our entire lives about the importance of our parents. Their seven year long journey through the delta quadrant on a ship called Voyager to return home. We are told they fought the Borg, met the first inhabitants of Earth, saved millions of Ocampans, encountered the Q and made more first contacts than any other Starfleet vessel to date.

Their accomplishments on their return were no less notable, our mother is one of the most decorated Admirals in Starfleet history, and our father is well known for the many books he has written about alien cultures. However neither of them speak about any of these accomplishments.

Instead our father tells us stories in riddles with meanings and lessons. Our mother confirms the facts of what we have been told, and concentrates her attention on the discoveries that were made by their crew. We must rely on their friends (largely B'Elanna and Tom) to tell us about our parents before we knew them as they are now.

B'Elanna insists our parents were in denial of their love for one another. Tom maintains they always knew. Either way the result of our family is the same.

I found out a few years ago they had both been married to other partners briefly before they started this family. Mallin already knew of course, in the same way he knows everything. I am not sure what fact had shocked me more. That our dad had once been married to Anika Hansen, or that Mallin was conceived before either marriage had ended.

A family conference had been called. Our parents had sat opposite on one sofa, and we on the other, as they invited us to ask questions.

It had been a very awkward fifteen minutes as we had sat there, none of us wanting to ask them anything, except my one question: "is it true?"

"Yes," my father had replied honestly, although rather stiffly.

In my thirties I will ask my mum about it again, and she will talk openly with me for a short time. But it is not something either of them are proud of, and therefore would not volunteer to entertain a conversation about it.

"Kathryn," my father's voice carries over the music and across the yacht, "I think our children are watching us."

I was not aware that we had yet been noticed, but now I see my mother glance across at the three young faces watching, and she smirks. "Let them," she says, before pulling her husband down towards her for a spectacularly passionate kiss.

We cannot look away fast enough. "Thank you," I shout out, my voice laced clearly with sarcasm. They chuckle whilst still locked to each other's mouths.

Mallin just shakes his head with an amused expression, "gin?" he suggests the card game to the two of us.

"Anything but carry on watching the two of them," Taya pulls a disgusted expression.

"Sounds like a good idea," I agree, as the three of us head below deck.

I am the last to head down the steps, and just before I descend I catch one last sight of the two of them. They are looking tenderly into each other's eyes. My mother traces my father's tattoo with her finger tips, and he is looking down at her with absolute and undisguised adoration. "I love you Chakotay," I hear her whisper.

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "and I love you."

Mallin's sentiment from earlier is right. Watching them dance I realise we should all be so lucky to find for ourselves what they have found in each other.

The End