* * *
As we grew older, my father continued this new tradition of taking me and Phoebe on separate excursions. Good tactic for anyone in a parenting or mentorship role, I think; give someone your undivided attention. Phoebe, in general, asked for cultural visits: ticking off one by one all the major galleries on Earth, Luna, or Mars. Me being me, I skipped culture and ran for the hills. I wanted to be outdoors. I wanted to hike and climb and ski and whitewater raft and in general feel myself moving or—best of all—in flight. I nearly got him to agree to bungee jumping (he didn’t take much persuading, if I’m being honest) until Mom got wind of my plans and absolutely, categorically forbade it, on the grounds that I should at least reach double digits before risking my life (I guess she had a point).
I still haven’t tried bungee jumping. I should go and book a trip to Queenstown now, leap from a bridge and feel the air rushing past, and shout, “This one’s for you, Dad!” as I head toward the water. One benefit of getting older is that you no longer care how eccentric you look. I have embraced this in recent years, and I intend to avail myself of this freedom indefinitely.
Such freedoms were not available to me in my tenth year, however, and after my father and I were thwarted in our plans to throw ourselves off a bridge, he suggested we go to the Grand Canyon instead—the biggest ditch on Earth, as Dad called it. While my first impressions were of a big, dusty hole in the ground, this fortnight proved to be one of the defining periods of my life. We transported to Flagstaff, Arizona, and then took a small flyer out to the north rim. We hiked a few miles every day and camped at night. When we were done cooking and washing up, Dad and I would lie on our backs and look up at the stars. Sometimes he would tell me stories of worlds that he had seen; sometimes we just lay there peacefully, quietly enjoying each other’s company. I thought of what it had been like, flying high above my home, and wondered what other worlds might look like from a great height.
“I’d like to go there one day,” I said.
“Where, Kitten?” he said. I think I hated and loved that nickname at the same time.
“Up there.”
He looked up at the heavens. “What? Luna? Mars?”
“Dad!”
“Oh,” he said. “I see. Starfleet.”
“What’s it like?” I said. “Not the stories. I mean really.”
I watched a smile pass over his face. He seemed… transported is the only word for it. “Kitten,” he said. “It’s like nothing else. It’s wonderful.”
I looked back up at the stars. I have never felt so happy in my life. I thought about leaving home, going to the Academy. I imagined myself on the bridge of a starship, people calling me “Captain,” being the one in charge. But then a cold feeling washed over me. “Do you think Mom will mind?”
“Why would Mom mind?”
“It’s a long way from home… You know how she is. There’s no place like home…”
I watched him from the corner of my eye, and I could see that he understood. “You know,” he said, “all that Mom and I want is for you to discover your own way. Find what it is you were born to do. It might take you to places that you or I or Mom can’t even begin to imagine, but that’s the deal you sign up for when you become parents. You want to keep your kids safe, close by— but in the end you have to set them sailing off, wherever they want to go. You just have to show them how to keep their ship afloat.” He smiled at me. “Wherever you choose to go, Kathryn—we’ll support you.”
Do I need to say how much I loved him? Do I need to say how much I loved them all: my clever, curious, excellent family; my beautiful, sensitive mother; my gifted, creative sister; my brave and brilliant father? When I think back to this time, I picture them like this: Phoebe lying on her stomach among the flowers, her sharp eye catching everything about the world around her; Dad gazing wide-eyed at the stars, longing for adventure, longing to see whatever was out there; and Mom, lying on the bed beside me, reading from my favorite book, and whispering to me softly: “There’s no place like home… There’s no place like home…”
CHAPTER TWO
REACH FOR THE SKY—2348–2353
IN MY EARLIEST YEARS, I ATTENDED A SMALL COUNTRY SCHOOL very close to the house, with a dozen other children of varying ages from the local area. Phoebe and I were able to walk there, and, later, we cycled along the country lanes. At the end of the school day, Phoebe and I would take our time coming home, stopping to walk our bicycles along back lanes, while Phoebe collected samples, or I explored a new patch of land. The school itself was down a long lane: a white wooden building in its own grounds, with a flower garden and a vegetable plot and a huge wooden treehouse and climbing frame, and even its own stage. There were three little classrooms where we split off into age groups after assembly, before gathering at the end of the day to say goodbye. Although I loved the place and the teachers, who interwove play and learning so cleverly and intimately that it was never a struggle to get me to my studies, by the age of ten I was chafing against the boundaries of this small safe world, and I was more than ready to move out.
High school was the biggest change of my life so far. The morning cycle was still there, but instead of turning with Phoebe down the long lane to the schoolhouse, I carried on along the road to the local transporter. There, in a bustle of noise and laughter and the usual teenage squabbling, the local kids gathered to head into Bloomington. The school I was attending was a small charter school, covering grades seven through twelve, but it was a huge step for me. I remember that first morning piercingly: standing by myself, clutching my bag and books, staring at the gang of kids gathered, and wondering what the school itself must be like, if this was just a few of its students… Then I heard a friendly voice call my name.
“Kathryn!”
It was Aisha, the other girl from my elementary school heading up that year, and with her was her older sister, Tamara, who had gone up to high school two years earlier. I ran over to them with relief. Tamara, who must have seen my wide-eyed look and guessed what it meant, put one arm around my shoulder, one arm around Aisha’s, and said, “Come on, kiddos. I’ll look after you.”
Aisha looked disgruntled (Who wants to rely on their big sister’s good graces? Ask Phoebe!), but it did us no harm having Tamara as an ally. She was an outgoing, generous-spirited girl who kept an eye on us while we found our feet in those first few bewildering weeks, while keeping a sensible distance that let us make our own way without relying on her. I have, throughout my life, been lucky in the mentors that I have found, and, looking back now, I can see how this was the first of many of these kindly and well-judged relationships. I got back in touch with Aisha after my return from the Delta Quadrant, when those old friendships took on great importance, after having thought that I would never see any of them again. She was living on Mars, a professor of the history of space colonization at the Sojourner Truth Institute, University of Tharsis. Tamara was still living in Bloomington and had just published her eighth novel—Regency romances, if you can believe it! Some genres never die. We went out for dinner when Aisha was back on Earth and what joy that was, seeing these successful women living life to the full. Champagne and conversation flowed. I am blessed in my friends.
But let’s go back to young Kathryn Janeway, arriving at high school, smallest of the small all over again, but dead set on making her mark. High school, despite my trepidation, turned out to be a good time for me. I remember that Dad, just before I set off on my first day, said to me, “Try everything once, Kitten. New sports, new hobbies, new ideas, new everything. You never know until you’ve tried.” It’s been a good rule of thumb over the years, even if it meant I ate more of Neelix’s cooking than I might have risked under other circumstances. But it was the philosophy that guided me through high school (and, eventually, through the Academy). I threw myself into life there—lessons, clubs, friendships—everything I could, and I found that the more you put into something, the more you get out.
Like most chi
ldren, this is the age when serious passions emerge. It is also an age when one is first able to devote energy for extended periods of time to one’s object of passion, pursuing it with single-minded intensity. My first year at high school is known by my long-suffering family as “The Year of Amelia.” This was the year that I discovered the life and story of Amelia Earhart during a classroom project to research a pioneer that we admired. Naturally, I chose the history of flight (Grandpa used to say I should have been born with wings), and naturally I chose a woman.
Well, I went far beyond the call of duty. I started with the data banks, and the story captivated me. I learned that she was flying in a time when women were held to be inferior to men (That took some understanding. How had anyone ever believed such nonsense?), but that within her family no such backward views prevailed. Her mother was forward-thinking, and Amelia and her sister were not held back. I didn’t miss Amelia’s involvement in women’s rights, but it was the stories of her flying exploits that truly captivated me. The courage to conduct those flights alone, and her good humor and practicality. And then, of course, the mystery of her disappearance, with the hint of espionage about it. I knew everything. I made my family quiz me on the details of her life, built models of the planes she flew, and would have built a full-size version if Mom hadn’t forbidden use of the barn. I tracked her journey around the world, and even lobbied to visit Lae, in Papua New Guinea, where she and her navigator last set out from, only to disappear on that same flight, in order to pay my final respects. This went on well past the submission date for my class project. My Aunt Martha fueled the fire by telling me stories about our ancestor, Shannon O’Donnel, whom, she said, had been a pioneering astronaut. And I got from my father a promise that when I turned sixteen, he would teach me to fly.
* * *
This intensity of mine sometimes manifested itself as a competitive streak, best shown by my tennis career. I took up tennis in my first year at high school (dropping, with some relief from all quarters, not least my teacher, my rather lackluster efforts at ballet). Grandpa, seeing how this was developing into a serious activity, quietly cleared an area of land to turn into a practice court for me. The problem then was to find a partner: Phoebe, naturally, was not in the least interested in having tennis balls whacked at her by her older sister. It was, quite unexpectedly, Grandma who turned out to be game: it transpired that she had been a keen tennis player in her youth, and she was delighted to have the chance of a game or two. I was all set to have family tournaments… Sadly, nobody else would bite, and I had to make do with competition at school and, later, as I improved, state tournaments.
This competitive streak led to one of the more notorious episodes of my high-school career. I had been participating in a tournament at our high school, and the truth was that I had overextended myself, playing not only in the doubles’ tournament, but in the singles too. The doubles matches had gone well, although my partner and I had been outclassed in the semifinal by a hugely accomplished pair who later went on to represent Earth at the Federation Schools Olympiad (one of them ultimately becoming a top-ranking adult player). We took them to a third set, and felt pretty proud in those circumstances, knowing we’d acquitted ourselves well against real stars. But losing this meant I had my heart on bringing home the trophy in the singles, not least because this was a rare occasion when Dad was there to see me play. Sadly, I hadn’t paced myself. I had not dropped a set in the singles tournament, and I threw everything into my singles semifinal to keep this up (a more experienced player would have conserved energy and been prepared strategically to sacrifice that). And then of course the doubles semifinal wore me out.
My opponent in the final was a good player who deserved the place but was one that I had beaten on each occasion we had met in the past—sometimes with real ease. But that day, however hard I tried, I could not get my limbs to respond to instructions. This quickly rattled me. I didn’t know what was going on; I thought I was ill! But the simple fact was of course that I was tired: too many games, even for a teenager in her prime. I needed to rest, and instead I was trying to scramble together muscle strength and brain power to win a tennis match. I lost the first set and, when the break came, sat with my towel over my head, cheeks burning and limbs aching, and didn’t make eye contact with my coach or with my family (most of all my parents). The second set was even worse. Thinking of it now I shiver for my younger self! I was demolished. Game, set, and match to my opponent in two sets: 6–2; 6–1. The worst game of tennis I played in my life. In a daze, I managed to take my runner-up trophy, and watch my opponent lift the winner’s trophy.
If this story ended here, it would already be a fairly dispiriting one for me, but the day wasn’t over yet. I showered and changed, but not even that helped. Sulking—yes, I admit it—in the changing room, I was not ready to see my family or my coach, and when they all turned up, I reached my absolute limit. When Mom said, “Poor Katy! We know how hard you worked!” I picked up my racquet, threw it at the wall, and stormed out.
Not my finest hour: but even the most hard-working teenager is surely allowed the occasional temper tantrum. This being me, it had to be the finest temper tantrum that the state of Indiana had seen in some time. Dad, chasing after me, said, “Come on, Katy, let’s go home—” And I turned to him—turned to my beloved Dad—and yelled, “I am not coming home! Leave me alone! I don’t need any of you!”
Off I marched. Oh, how I cringe to think of it now! How brattish! How unsporting! What my plan was, I’m not entirely sure, but by this point I was committed to wherever it was taking me. Backing down was not an option. I got my feet somehow onto the road out of town, but there was a danger of running into people, and I was, to my credit, starting to feel both ashamed and embarrassed, so I quickly took a turn onto one of the country lanes. After about fifteen or twenty minutes, I was starting to think that perhaps this wasn’t the best decision I’d ever made (I’d just played some pretty tough tennis matches, remember), but the stiff neck of the Janeways would not allow me to give up, turn back, and either find my family or take the transporter home. Instead, I walked on. Seven kilometers home. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, the weather on the plains can be a fickle thing, as Dorothy Gale can tell you, and summer, as well as being tennis season, can also be storm season. The heat gets up there, and something has to give. Four kilometers into my walk, stewing in the heat, and aware that the sky was getting heavier and darker, I felt the first spots of rain on my face. I gritted my teeth and walked on. The rain became heavier and heavier. The sky now was very dark. I heard a distant rumble of thunder. I knew what was coming. I was out on the plains, and a lightning storm was headed my way.
I had the good sense to look for cover, but places to hide were thin and far between this far out. I had to walk on at least another kilometer and a half before I saw a barn that might do, and by now I was seriously frightened. The storm was not lessening. The lightning was truly scary. And I was very, very tired. The barn seemed so far away…
Then I heard a dog bark, and the sound of a groundcar heading my way. It was Dad, coming to look for me, with Jess. He pulled the groundcar up alongside me.
“Excuse me, miss—are you by any chance heading my way?”
Jess barked. I burst into tears. “Oh, Dad!”
“Hop in, Katy. I don’t fancy being out here much longer.”
I climbed in, and hugged Jess to me. Dad pointed the groundcar toward home.
Let’s hear it for my family, who at no point told me what an idiot I’d been, and how I’d brought this whole thing down on my own head. Once home, I was tucked up straight into bed. Mom came and sat down next to me, and before I knew what was happening, I was howling on her shoulder. Exhaustion, disappointment, shame, and the fright of my life… What else do you want to do but cry on your mother’s arm? She stroked my hair and said all the right things, and eventually my tears reduced to sobs, which reduced to hiccups, which reduced to laughter.
/> “Oh, Mom,” I said. “I’m such an idiot!”
“Kate,” she said, “if this is the most idiotic thing you ever do, you’ll be doing all right.”
Well, I’ve done a great many idiotic things since then. But I will note that the following year I came back and took both trophies, the doubles with my fine partner, and the singles for my very own self.
* * *
There was one last serious conversation to be had about this whole business, and that was with Dad the following day. Because I’d been making it clear for some time now that my plan was to follow him into Starfleet, and he had a few things to say about my performance the previous day. I was out on the porch, curled up on the hammock with a book, Jess snuggled beside me. He came to find me, bent to kiss me on the forehead, and said:
“Well, Kathryn. That’s one hell of a stubborn streak you’ve got there.”
I blushed beet-red. “Oh, Dad! Please don’t—”
“And that’s not necessarily a bad thing… except when it is. Because—as I think you might have learned from this whole escapade—a streak like that can lead to a person making bad decisions. Striking out on their own rather than looking to their team for support—”
“Dad, it was a terrible mistake, I know it was. I knew within ten minutes that it was one of the dumbest things I’d ever done—”
“But you didn’t stop.”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t.”
We sat in silence. Jess, sensing my mood, gave a low whine. I stroked behind her ears.
“I’m not here to scold you,” Dad said, after a little while. “But you’ve told me that you’re set on joining Starfleet, and I want you to be very sure you understand what that means.”
I looked at him, carefully. He was staring out across the beautiful countryside. This morning, you’d never have guessed there had been such a storm. The sky was clear and that fine bright shade of blue that you only see in the Midwest. The fields were green and bountiful. But my father, I thought, wasn’t seeing this. He was seeing something else. For the first time, I saw him not as Dad, but as a person in his own right, a man with worries and concerns that went well beyond our family, well beyond my teenage dramas.
The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway Page 3
