The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway

by Una McCormack

  “The U.S.S. Billings,” I said. “Captain Melita Vas. It’s a big survey of the Glass Horse Nebula, and I’ll be heading up a pretty large team. Which means a promotion!” I was now Lieutenant Commander Janeway, having been promoted to full lieutenant during the Arias mission.

  “Overdue,” said Fitz.

  “I note that scientific study has won out in your affections after all,” Tuvok said. “I am glad that your rational side is moving to the fore.”

  “I think I’m just tired of looking over my shoulder for Cardassians,” I said.

  “You and me both,” said Fitz.

  “I want to do some science, some real science! I want to feel as if I’ve had the chance to explore, before… Well.”

  “I understand that contrary to all expectations, there is hope that a treaty may well be signed between the Federation and the Cardassian Union within the next five years,” said Tuvok.

  “I don’t see that happening,” said Fitz. “Even if they did sign it—they don’t keep their word, do they?”

  Fitz really was very bitter about some of what he’d seen over the last few years.

  “I guess we have to hope,” I said.

  “Hope has nothing to do with it,” said Tuvok. “Peace is the rational choice.”

  Fitz and I glanced at each other but held our tongues. I knew what he was thinking. If only the Cardassians were as rational as our Vulcan friend.

  “Well,” I said, raising my glass. “Until we meet again.”

  Tuvok and Fitz raised their glasses in turn. And we did meet again: as captain, chief of security, and CMO of the U.S.S. Voyager—but only for the briefest of times.

  * * *

  There’s one last meeting I should record before bringing my account of my time on the Al-Batani to a close. Before we all left, Captain Paris held a lavish party for his crew at his home in Oregon. And there I met young Tom again; seventeen years old now, but not, I thought, a happy young man. Observing the interactions between father and son, I sensed a lot of regret on one side, a lot of sullen resentment on the other. He clearly didn’t like having all these young officers around, the apples of his father’s eye.

  “I hear you’re heading to Starfleet,” I said.

  He shrugged. “What else is there to do?”

  I hid my surprise. “Plenty of things—”

  “Not if I want to fly.”

  “Is that what you like doing, Tom?”

  That shrug again. “I guess.”

  It wasn’t the most promising of encounters, but I couldn’t put young Tom Paris out of my mind. I suppose on some level, I sympathized with him. It’s not easy, having a Starfleet officer as your father. It’s not easy proving yourself. I often found myself wondering about him, over the next years, what he was doing, and where he was going to end up.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NEW CHALLENGES—2365–2370

  BEFORE HEADING TO MY NEW POSTING ON THE BILLINGS, I was due a few weeks’ leave. Naturally, I went home, back to Indiana, on from Bloomington, into the country and back to the farm. As ever, the place restored me to myself. Gone now was the sense that everything was smaller, that I was returning to a coop in which I no longer fit. Instead, I found peace and quiet, the chance to rest, the familiar places and patterns of childhood—although, inevitably, there was a great sense of sadness that one of our number was missing.

  My mother, as brave and beautiful as ever, had made great strides in coming to terms with her widowhood. As many women do who lose their partners young, and who cannot ever imagine themselves marrying again, she had thrown herself into tasks that turned her focus outward. She was now deeply involved in the Bajoran relief effort, and it was notable that she spent a great deal of time away from the farm. My father’s absence was of course a significant element in this change: even though he had spent so much time away from home, there had always been the promise of his return. Throughout their marriage, my mother had been content to wait, living the life that she loved best, waiting for the person that she loved best. It was not as if she was running away, but the house must surely have felt lonely at times. I had left; Phoebe had left; and, while her parents were still living nearby and in good health, it was not the family life that she had been used to.

  This time when I came home, my mother was still coming back from a long trip to the headquarters of the Federation Bajoran relief effort in Geneva. That must have been a poignant visit for her, bringing back the time when she and my father had met, all those years ago. When I arrived at the house, late one evening, the place was dark. I believe that may well have been the first time that I had ever seen it that way: lights off, blinds up, nobody there. I went inside, listening to the unusual quiet, and then I wandered around, asking for lights, making tea, slowly bringing the place to life. Phoebe arrived about an hour later, apologizing that she hadn’t made it in time to meet me, smothering me with hugs and kisses. My mother was not back until well into the evening. There was a touch more silver in her hair these days, a few more lines upon her face, but when she saw us, she threw out her arms to embrace us both.

  “My girls,” she said. “My two darling girls.”

  That was a fine vacation, one of the best. Chief among my pleasures was getting to know Phoebe’s wife and children, who joined us a day or two later. Just before I set out on the Arias expedition, Phoebe had taken an artist’s residency on Trill, where she had been exploring the effects of longevity upon their creative practice. How did joined Trills relate to the art produced when joined to a previous host? Where did their artistry lie? Fascinating ideas, posing fundamental questions about identity and personhood, questions that I found myself wrestling with over and over again on my voyage home. During the fourth month of Phoebe’s year-long residency, she met a painter, a joined Trill named Yianem Lox. They fell deeply in love and were married by the end of the year. Yianem, always ready for adventure, had agreed to come back to Earth with Phoebe. They were currently living on the West Coast, near Portland, part of a writers’ and artists’ community. They also had three small daughters— one of whom, the eldest, I had met before, but as a baby. The younger two, still small, I was planning to get acquainted with during this break.

  What a busy, fun, joyous leave that was! Three little girls under the age of four, full of curiosity and mischief. Their moods were ever changing: sudden laughing sunshine followed by rapid squalls of tears, then rainbow smiles. With one aunt, one grandmother, and four great-grandparents in attendance, they now had roughly the attention which they thought was their due, and both Phoebe and Yianem could take some well-earned rest. Two grown-ups with three children are outnumbered, and not even the guile of a long-lived joined Trill is necessarily the match for the wits and speed of a toddler who has just learned to walk and is intent on wreaking havoc. These three children filled the gaps in the house. Sitting on the porch with my mother one afternoon, watching them tumbling over the grass, I said, “It’s like the place has been given a second life, Mom, don’t you think?”

  She smiled and nodded. “I know what you mean. There were some days when I couldn’t seem to bring the place alive. Some of the rooms stood empty for days on end. Nobody there. It was hard, after having you two here…” She breathed in deeply. “But these three—aren’t they marvelous? I think they cause more mayhem than you and Phoebe ever did. As it should be.”

  I watched her, watching her grandchildren. She looked vibrant, happy, alive; and I knew then that she would be fine. Her relief work had given her purpose, but her grandchildren had given her heart. I knew that I could take up my next posting and not have to worry about her without Dad. She was strong and brave, with a huge capacity for love, and although my father’s death left a hole that could never be filled, she had found a way through. I knew that when my leave was over, I could return to Starfleet with my mind at rest.

  * * *

  After two months back at home, it was time to say goodbye again to my family, and head off to near-Earth orbit, w
here the U.S.S. Billings was waiting to take on its new crew. I could only be pleased with the ship itself: a prototype Nova-class exploration vessel, one of the very first of its kind, kitted out with excellent facilities for our mission. The science and data analysis team, of which I was now in charge, was well established, but made their new senior officer very welcome. Taking over a team like this can be a huge challenge, particularly when you join one that works well together, and who must be concerned about a change at the top. None of them had requested my position, I was glad to realize, so there were no resentments about my appointment. They were a grand set of people, the best of Starfleet, competent and intelligent, and well able to train a new commander overseeing her first big team. They made a huge difference to my time on the Billings.

  Rather than their new senior officer, they were more concerned about the fact that the ship had a new captain. I too was somewhat worried about this change: I had requested this posting in part so that I could serve under Captain Melita Vas, who had such a good reputation. Unfortunately, Vas, after a sudden period of bad health, had accepted a long overdue promotion to admiral and was, in effect, retiring to teach at the Academy. I was most disappointed by this news, and sorry that I had not had the chance ever to wish her well: she had left the Billings a day or two before my own arrival. A new captain had been assigned: Neil Ward, who was taking up his first captaincy, and was on his way from Mars when I arrived on the Billings.

  The captain sets the tone of any starship, and there was a great deal of anxiety about the new man. I’m sorry to say that it was not misplaced. Serving under Neil Ward was one of the most difficult periods of my life (just edged out by being flung seventy thousand light-years from home), and I came very close to leaving Starfleet as a result on several occasions. What can I say about Ward? Certainly, he had a way with admirals, all of whom seemed to like him, and spoke well of him. He was certainly ambitious, and plainly did not intend to remain captain of a comparatively small research vessel like the Billings. His facility with the egos of the top brass meant that he did have a knack of getting resources and equipment, but the benefits were not equally shared. Provided you were one of his favorites, you didn’t struggle to get whatever you required. If you were not one of his favorites, the situation was much different—and I’m sad to report that it rapidly became clear to me that I was not one of the chosen ones. I sat through several meetings of the senior staff having my opinions passed over, taken apart, or simply ignored, while others were encouraged to speak. After one very difficult meeting, I decided that I had to say something. This situation simply could not continue; I was finding it increasingly difficult to be able to function.

  “Captain,” I said, as the other team heads were leaving, “may I have a word with you?”

  He gave a sigh. “Is it urgent, Janeway? I’m pretty busy.”

  “It’s not urgent, sir, but I do think it needs to be addressed.”

  “All right,” he said, but he opened his companel and began to look at messages there. I remained standing; he hadn’t invited me to sit again. Nor did he attempt to lead the conversation.

  “Sir,” I said, at last. “I have the distinct impression that you don’t like me, and I want to understand what it is that I’ve done wrong, so that I can rectify that.”

  He closed the companel. “What makes you say that, Commander?”

  “I just… It seems to me that I haven’t been able to make a suggestion that you like, sir.”

  “Maybe you haven’t made any good suggestions yet, Commander.”

  I was beginning to feel angry. I knew my weaknesses—but I also knew my strengths. “With respect, sir, I don’t think that’s true.”

  “With respect…” He eyed me thoughtfully. “You’re blessed with confidence, aren’t you, Janeway?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I meant—you don’t often doubt your judgement, do you?”

  Well, what on earth could he mean by that? I was well trained, experienced, smart, and hard-working. I’d learned good lessons early in my career about arrogance. I liked working in teams, and I tried my best to mentor junior colleagues. I was, on the whole, pleased with my performance, and a captain as good as Owen Paris had agreed. Had we all been missing something? I wasn’t entirely sure what to say in response to this. Carefully, I said, “I try to give my best, sir.”

  “I envy that kind of confidence,” he said. “Your father was a vice admiral, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Sir, I don’t see how that’s relevant to this conversation. My grandfather was Starfleet too. I imagine you could find a few Janeways here and there over the last century or so.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” he said. “I’ve often observed this kind of confidence in officers with a long family history with Starfleet. Like Starfleet is an extension of their family. It’s not, of course.”

  Now, I thought, I was beginning to understand some of his antipathy toward me. He thought my success was down to me being my father’s daughter. Well, it was a while since I’d come across this prejudice! There had been a few asides at the Academy, swiftly quashed when my first semester’s grades arrived. Since then—a few comments here and there in my early days, but nothing much since. My work, my dedication, and my experience spoke for themselves. By this point in the conversation, I was pretty angry, as you can imagine. I had served in Starfleet for nearly a decade; I’d seen active service along the Cardassian border; I’d worked hard, and I’d earned every damn one of my promotions. I had not expected to hear this kind of thing again, and I was alarmed to hear it coming from my new commanding officer. I had committed to this mission. Had it been a mistake?

  As calmly as I could manage, I said, “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, and I’m certainly sorry if I’ve given that impression.”

  “You had a leave of absence, didn’t you, a few years back? And came straight back to a promotion.”

  Now I was furious. “It has been my good fortune, sir,” I said, “that I have been shown various acts of kindness since my father’s death. But I’d like to think that I didn’t take any of this for granted.”

  He did have the good grace to look embarrassed at that. “Yes, well, just so we’re all aware—everyone is equal on board this ship, Commander.”

  “You’re the captain, sir,” I said. “You set the rules.”

  “That’s right.” He turned back to his companel. “Is there anything else, Janeway?”

  “Not right now, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  I left feeling very downhearted at this whole exchange. I’d signed on for a long trip, and it seemed that the captain, for reasons best known to himself, did not like me. Worse, it was difficult to know who to broach this with. Had I been back on the Al-Batani, among colleagues with whom I had served for a long time, then I would have someone to talk to. I’d have talked to Tuvok, and received good counsel; or to Fitz, if I’d wanted some cheerleading; or even to Captain Paris himself, if I thought the matter was serious enough to warrant his advice. These were people who knew me well. But here on the Billings I was new, trying to establish myself. I did not want to get a reputation of being someone who arrived only to complain. This was a very tricky period, and also rather lonely. Increasingly, as Ward’s antipathy showed no sign of abating, I found that I was starting to second-guess myself. I started questioning whether my opinions were justified, grounded in data and good reasoning, or whether I was being overconfident. I withdrew slightly from crew activities, not realizing that I was starting to get a reputation for being standoffish. I’m not ashamed to admit that I spent some evenings alone in my quarters, shedding a few tears.

  (Years later, talking to a colleague about this time, she shook her head, and said, “There’s a word for this, Kate. It’s called gaslighting. Make someone doubt themselves. It’s a rotten, stinking trick.” And I think she was right. But I do wonder now, looking back, whether I was little too sure of myself, a l
ittle too certain about my career path and its upward trajectory. In other words, I have tried to see it from Ward’s perspective—although I do wonder whether he ever tried to see it from mine.)

  At the time, however, all I knew was that this was the reality of serving on board the Billings, and that I was stuck for the foreseeable future. As I approached the end of my first year, I began to contemplate putting in for a transfer. It would mean a sideways move, perhaps even losing my seniority (I was indeed young to be in charge of such a big team), but I was wondering whether it would be worth it. I went along to an appraisal meeting with Ward and, bizarrely, he was all smiles. Pleased with my performance; pleased with the team; seemingly pleased with everything. The next day, sitting in the ready room with the other team heads, he ignored my contributions entirely. I knew I couldn’t carry on like this. I needed advice, good, level-headed advice. I naturally turned to Tuvok.

  I sent my old friend a long, rather rambling message, in which I outlined the events of my first year on board; minor exchanges that seemed almost ridiculous and inconsequential as I detailed them. But as I spoke, and they accumulated, I began to realize how much of a toll this was taking on me. I wrapped up the message: “I know that you of all people will look at this with a cool eye. I know you’ll be able to tell me whether this is all in my imagination, or whether what I hear and see is true. I hope to hear from you soon, Tuvok.”

  It was a week or so before he replied. How glad I was to see his cool and sensible face upon my screen—and how far we’d come since that first meeting! As ever, his advice brought me fresh perspective.