The powers that be stage these last couple of weeks very well. After the officially unsanctioned prank came the exam results, and then there were a couple of days to enjoy the feeling of elation (or come to terms with the disappointment) before the graduation ceremony itself. We partied hard that year, I have to say; that’s the kind of class we were. Everything got our full attention and our best effort. Besides, we knew that we weren’t in for an easy ride. The Cardassian border conflicts dragged on, and our graduating class knew that it was going to see active service straight out of the door in a way that previous years had not. Exploration would have to wait.
Graduation came and went, with my whole family present (Phoebe decided not to steal my thunder this time around), and then came the serious business as we learned our first postings. This is a major rite of passage for every newly graduated cadet. We all gather in our brand-new dress uniforms, and our new assignments are formally announced. This is tough if you didn’t get the grades; it’s even tougher if you did well but you’ve not got the posting your heart was set on. I saw a few brave faces being put on that day, when assignments turned out to be station personnel or desk jobs. But I wasn’t disappointed. I had been assigned a junior science officer’s post on the U.S.S. Al-Batani, serving under one of the most respected men in Starfleet: Captain Owen Paris. He was going to be a significant presence in my life from here on, in ways I hadn’t entirely anticipated.
But I’m getting ahead of myself! What about my other friends, my gang? We all ended up where we wanted to be. My copilot on the glider got a test-pilot placing out at Utopia Planitia: he was beside himself with delight. And my dear friend Nexa took up the analyst’s posting she wanted with Starfleet Intelligence. We were a happy band of brothers and sisters, and the party lasted the rest of the week. After that, we all departed, with promises to stay in touch and meet again. And those of us who could—we’ve kept that promise, and we’ve never forgotten the ones who couldn’t keep it.
Some of you might be wondering how that ex-boyfriend did. I didn’t ask and I’m glad to say that nobody took the time or trouble to tell. I guess he graduated; I didn’t hear that anyone had failed or been asked to repeat the year. I must have heard them read out his first posting, but I’ve forgotten what it was. Strange though; his name cropped up last year, fourth in the list of authors on a report I was reading. So I do know one thing: he never did make captain.
CHAPTER FOUR
CHILDHOOD’S END—2357–2358
“ENSIGN KATHRYN JANEWAY, REPORTING FOR DUTY, MA’AM!”
It was my first day of my first posting, and I was shaking in my shiny boots, and tugging away at the cuffs of my stiff uniform. My new direct superior, Lieutenant Commander Flora Kristopher, the Al-Batani’s chief science officer, was waiting in the transporter room to welcome me on board, leaning against the console. She looked at me steadily, and—bless her—did not smile at my overseriousness and formality, but simply said, “Welcome aboard, Ensign. Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ Makes me sound fifty years older.”
I blushed bright red. “Sorry… Commander!” (He won’t thank me for this, but I can’t help but recall a certain Ensign Harry Kim, so keen to make a good impression on his new captain in our first meeting that I thought he was going to strain something. Don’t worry, Harry. We’ve all been there.)
Kristopher gave me a lopsided smile, pushed herself up from the console and nodded to me that I should follow her. I snapped to it. I was desperate to make a good impression. I trotted at her heels as she gave me a rapid tour of the ship, introducing me to various other officers, senior and junior. They were all friendly; one or two invited me to the mess hall for a drink once I was off shift. I gratefully accepted, muttering their names, ranks, and specialisms under my breath as we went on so that I wouldn’t forget them. After about an hour of this, Kristopher said, “Relax, Janeway. This is home now. Keep up this level of intensity much longer and I’m going to have to go for a lie-down.”
I blushed again. “Sorry, Commander. I’ll try and take it a little easier.”
“Good. Don’t worry, Janeway. You’re going to do fine.”
Kristopher was a supremely talented officer, who gave the appearance of being very laid back, but who never missed a thing. She had an enviable gift for being able to come up to speed rapidly in hugely technical subjects, ideal for a chief science officer, who frequently finds herself having to offer expert advice in fields well beyond her specialisms. Kristopher’s own area of study was sustainable xenoagronomy. She had grown up on Mars, on one of the terraformed colonies, and so had early experience of experimenting with crops growing under less than propitious circumstances. By this stage in her career, numerous colony worlds had benefited from various technical advances she had made in soil science. My mother, learning that I would be serving under her, was incredibly excited. I had been instructed to get advice on a new rose hybrid she was trying to grow. Kristopher, in her turn, was delighted to discover that my mother was that Gretchen Williams: she had, so she told me, been inspired toward her field by an early encounter with her stories for The Adventures of Flotter. (I have to say that I thought it would be my father’s name that went before me on my first Starfleet posting, not my mother’s.)
Flora Kristopher was a fine mentor to have at this stage of my career. She was patient with mistakes born from inexperience, tough on mistakes born from sloppiness, and more than usually able to spot the difference. The only way to get on her bad side was to point out the nominative determinism of her first name. My word, she hated that. She must have heard it almost every day of her adult life. I am eternally grateful that another new ensign made this mistake before I did. I’ve never seen a young man so thoroughly cut down to size. Under Kristopher’s guidance, I flourished, and I started to gain confidence—which is, after all, exactly what a newly minted officer needs at this stage of her career. I thought about her constantly when I had junior staff of my own, when I tried to instill this same kind of confidence: trusting their judgement but always having a backup plan in case their inexperience let them down.
I was lucky too that I got on well with my commanding officer. Captain Owen Paris had a reputation for rigidity within the service, but he and I hit it off immediately. We both came from families that had been in Starfleet for generations, and this shared culture eased our relationship from the outset. I too can be rigid in my own way, and the discipline of his ship suited my nature. I know that my father respected him greatly and I took my cue from this. He lacked much of a sense of humor, but he got things done. It was a pleasure to serve under him, and I have been personally grateful to him for his many kindnesses over the years, not least in the roadblock I hit during my second year, but also in his championing of the Pathfinder Project that allowed Voyager to establish contact with Starfleet.
My first six months on the Al-Batani were, broadly speaking, a success. Half a dozen new staff had come on board at the same time, and we formed a close-knit group. One of our number—a Vulcan named T’Nat—had been captain of the Velocity team at the Academy and persuaded us to form a junior league with some of the junior lieutenants. I had not played the game at the Academy, but I was always ready for a new physical challenge, so I agreed to try it out. I took to it immediately; it filled a tennis-shaped gap in my life. The game became popular across the whole ship, leading some of the more senior officers to form their own league. Flora Kristopher was instrumental in this, and the first officer, Commander Shulie Weiss, joined too. The captain kept his lofty distance. The inevitable challenge was offered, which we junior officers accepted with alacrity: surely we would have no trouble defeating what we gleefully referred to as our “elders.” Well, this is where I learned that Velocity is as much about wits and guile as it is about speed and agility. I won’t say that we were trounced, but… all right, we were trounced. I have never seen a more triumphant set of senior officers. Paris came and awarded a trophy he’d organized for the occasion, and we junior offi
cers swore to get our revenge. We never did while I was on the team.
Between this and our survey mission, which expanded my scientific knowledge and my practical skill immensely, I had a good and challenging life. I count myself lucky to have entered Starfleet during this period. The border skirmishes with the Cardassians rumbled on, but there was still time and space for us to enjoy something of the old Starfleet, when ships were dedicated chiefly to exploration, and we were able to pursue our primary purpose as individuals, devoting our energies as much to our own personal advancement as to protecting the Federation. I knew that at the back of our minds we all feared that a larger conflict was coming—even outright war—and we were intent on seizing the day. Speaking to officers younger than me, who came of age just before and during the Dominion War, I know that they had a very different experience during their first postings. They were straight into the thick of it. Even after the Dominion War was over, there was the hard work of reconstruction, and not as much time to play. I am fortunate to have been on a ship like this. I enjoyed my work; I enjoyed my downtime; I was making good friendships and I was earning praise from my superiors not only for my work, but for my handling of various situations that were intended to prepare me for command. I was pleased with my performance. The only risk was that I was starting, perhaps, to get a little cocky, but Starfleet has its own corrective measures for this kind of thing, as I was going to find out.
About six months after I joined the crew of the Al-Batani, I had a first meeting with an individual who was later to become extremely important in my life—and who made his presence felt from the first moment that we laid eyes upon each other. It’s testament to his quality—and his judgement—that this first encounter did not put me off him for life. The Al-Batani had come back to Earth to allow Captain Paris to participate in a conference about the ongoing crisis on Bajor. The Occupation was now decades old, and the Cardassians showed no signs of ever intending to leave (they were gone, I’m glad to say, within the next eleven years). The situation was increasingly desperate: not only the increasing numbers of refugees, but a growing sense that Bajoran culture was in danger, and also the ecosystem of that beautiful world. The Cardassians were stripping the place of resources, and an environmental tipping point would surely soon be reached. Starfleet was constrained in what it could directly do, both by its policy of nonintervention, but also from the natural concern of embroiling the Federation in a war with a highly militarized and aggressive neighbor.
“It will take a major alliance to defeat the Cardassians,” my father used to say. He was right—a bigger alliance than perhaps he had realized, but, then, he hadn’t known about the Dominion, and he hadn’t expected the scale of that defeat.
This conference on Earth that Captain Paris was attending was very significant, with representatives not only from Starfleet and the Federation Council, but various relief organizations (my mother ran a panel about efforts by artists and writers to raise awareness), and, of course, displaced Bajorans, coming to speak out on behalf of their people, and ask for whatever aid Starfleet and the Federation could offer. The whole event lasted a week, during which time we junior officers were left in charge of a skeleton ship. Kristopher, who was taking some shore leave, said to me, on departing, “Don’t mess this one up, Janeway.”
By the end of the week, we had perhaps got a little slapdash, and I’m sorry to say that I didn’t pull it back together in time. On the day that the senior crew was due to return, I received an unexpected message from Captain Paris that the Al-Batani would be carrying three admirals from Earth to Betazed, and that since they would be arriving before the senior crew was able to return, I should receive them on board with all due ceremony and protocol. I therefore arrived in the transporter room at the right time and watched as the three admirals and their security team arrived on board. I put on my most welcoming smile and stepped forward, intending to make a good impression.
“Sirs, I’d like to welcome you aboard the Al-Batani—”
I was stopped midflow when the senior officer in charge of their security team, a humorless-looking Vulcan, said, “Ensign, you have not performed a weapons sweep upon us.”
I turned to look at him. “Sir?”
“We gave you only four hours’ notice of our intention to travel on the Al-Batani. Are you not aware of the regulation that requires that any passengers travelling upon a starship who are brought on board without twelve hours’ notice should be subject to a weapons sweep?”
“I am, sir.”
“And yet you have not conducted the sweep. Can you explain your reason, Ensign?”
There was a reason. The reason was that I had forgotten. (I didn’t say it was a good reason.) And… Well, we were within the solar system, after all. What threat could there be? (It’s not a mistake anyone entering Starfleet during the Dominion War would have made, is it? The threat of a Changeling on board ship seriously changed security procedures. But these were simpler times.) Anyway the protocol existed, and I had not followed it. I had made a mistake, and I was being dressed down—and in front of three admirals.
I raised my chin and looked squarely at the Vulcan officer. “No, sir,” I said. “I cannot.”
“May I ask how you intend to remedy this situation?”
It’s possible that I have never loathed someone as much as I loathed this lieutenant right at that moment. By far the worst thing about it was that he was of course completely right. I’d been sloppy, and I’d been called out, and there was nothing I could do but suck it up.
“Sir,” I said, “I should conduct the weapons sweep immediately.”
“That’s correct, Ensign.”
I conducted the sweep. As expected, nobody was carrying any unauthorized weapons, these three admirals clearly having decided not to hijack Captain Paris’s ship that day.
“Is everything satisfactory, Ensign?” said the officer.
“It is, sir.”
“Are we cleared to board, Ensign?”
“Yes, sir, you’re cleared to board.”
“Anything else, Ensign?”
I sighed to myself. He really wasn’t going to let this one pass without drawing blood or, possibly, while leaving me standing. “My apologies, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t, Ensign.”
He gestured toward his charges and led them out of the transporter room. One of the admirals, on his way past, winked, and said, “Don’t take it too hard, Ensign. But don’t do it again, huh?”
They left the room. I fell back against the transporter console. My colleague, Ensign Chang, who had been operating the transporter, said, “Wow. Kathryn. Are you okay?”
I made a show of checking myself over. “No limbs lost,” I said. “Just fatal damage to my dignity.”
Chang shook her head and whistled. “There’s a reason I didn’t go for the command track,” she said. “That was brutal.”
And I was sure that wasn’t going to be the last of it, either. That security officer was bound to submit a report to my superior officers. When the summons from Captain Paris came, as was inevitable, I took a deep breath, made sure I looked as faultlessly smart as I did on my first day, and reported to his ready room, steeling myself for the dressing-down that I was sure was coming.
Bizarrely, it did not come. Captain Paris let me stand there and sweat for a while as he sat and studied me, and then said, “I hear you met Lieutenant Tuvok.”
So that was the damned security officer’s name. I filed that one away for future reference. I’d been keeping an eye out for it—to keep well away. “Yes, sir.”
“I hear he had a few things to say to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I hear you took them on the chin.”
Cautiously, I said, “I’d like to think so, sir.”
“Which suggests to me that you thought you deserved it, Ensign.”
I swallowed. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “I think
you deserved it too.”
“My apologies, sir.”
“Accepted, Ensign.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’ll have cold sweats about this for the rest of my life, sir.”
“As you should, Janeway. Don’t let it happen again.”
“No, sir,” I said, fervently, and then I was dismissed. Outside his ready room, I took a deep breath and thanked my lucky stars. I’d been expecting much worse. Had I really got off this lightly? Possibly, but just recounting this story I felt my stomach sinking, and, yes, those cold sweats breaking out. I think I got exactly what I deserved.
* * *
That, thankfully, was my worst experience during my first year on the Al-Batani, and once Kristopher was back from leave, up to date on the whole sorry episode, and gave me a scolding for letting her down, that was the last I heard of it. I’d made a mistake, I’d got told off, and I’d made it clear that it would never happen again. I put the experience behind me and concentrated on making my time on board a success, learning as much as I could from example and from practice. The Academy can teach you the principles of being a Starfleet officer, and it can even present you with holo-training simulations covering as many different scenarios as you can think of—but there is no substitute for learning on the job. Nothing knocks the corners off a cocky young ensign like finding yourself floundering and having your more experienced colleagues move in smoothly to help you out. Every day brought a new practical challenge; every day, I found myself muttering, “They didn’t cover that at the Academy.” (After I managed to delete a morning’s worth of data analysis from readings we had taken from a nebula, Kristopher got this legend printed on a t-shirt for me, and ordered me to wear it each time I used the gym.) But I started to find my feet, and most of all, I started to enjoy myself.
The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway Page 7
