But in the rush and chaos of the moment, I had to put this aside to be able to ensure the safety of my ship and crew, to work out what was happening, and to try to put a stop to it. In the end, it came down to listening to an ancient dying alien as he came to understand that he had to let his children go; that he had to accept that there was an end to all things, and that change and growth and evolution might be painful, but they are for the best. The Caretaker had done his job: now it was for the Ocampa to make their way. They were ready for it: we could see that from the ones who had been struggling to get their elders to accept the changing reality. But it was going to be hard—and without our help, their move toward self-determination would have been stopped before it had the chance. The Kazon were waiting to move in and seize the array, whatever it might cost the Ocampa. And I couldn’t let that happen.
Let me lay down once and for all my reasoning behind making this choice, since I know that many have disagreed with the one that I made that day. Perhaps it would help to remember how much, throughout my career, I had longed to make first contact with an alien species, not as observer, or even as senior officer, but as captain of my own ship. Now that I had, I could see that this encounter cut both ways. Meeting the Ocampa, we acquired responsibilities toward each other. Not the suffocating love of the Caretaker, but the responsibilities that every sentient being has toward each other. The Ocampa, even after the Caretaker sealed them away, had continued to change, to develop. Despite their short lifespan, only nine years, they led full lives. They were natural telepaths. They had a rich culture, and religious beliefs. They were their own, unique species. Allowing the Kazon access to them would have been a monstrous act. I knew what they were capable of; they had brutalized Kes. But it was more than that. The Kazon would do to them and their world what the Cardassians had done to Bajor. They would strip the planet for resources and enslave its people. The Ocampa would suffer every possible indignity that a species could suffer. I knew from what I had seen—and what my mother had seen through her work—what would happen. I could not allow that. I could not condemn a whole species so that the one hundred fifty members of Voyager could get home. I know that many on the ship—and many in the Alpha Quadrant, when at last I was able to speak to them—disagreed. Tuvok, at the time, warned me that this decision was even in violation of the Prime Directive, altering the balance of power in this region of space. But it was too late for that. We had been flung into the whole situation against our will; we were involved by others. We didn’t involve ourselves. The Ocampa would not have survived without our helping hand. If I had done anything different, I might have brought Voyager home at once—but I would not have been any kind of Starfleet officer.
* * *
The first night of our journey home, I sat in my ready room composing letters of condolence to the families of those crew members who had been lost. I had no idea how or when I would deliver them, but it was my duty, and I knew that I should write them now, as close to the event as I could. It was a grueling task, and I found myself writing letters about some whom I had barely spoken to. It had been my intention to meet each crew member one-to-one over the coming weeks. Now some of them were dead. I never got the chance, for example, to talk properly to my conn officer, Veronica Stadi. I looked up her record that night. Only out of the Academy three years. One of the best up-and-coming navigators around. I never got a chance to quiz her about the classic of Betazed poetry, The Shared Heart, on which she had written a short monograph. Instead, I had to write to her mother and father—Anissina and Gwendal—that their wonderful daughter was not coming home. I finished the letter and stopped. I was done. I was tired, and sad; I felt grief-stricken over Fitz, and I was missing Mark like hell. We were seventy thousand light-years from home, and all I could do was point the ship in the right direction, and hope.
Sometimes it’s not as easy as clicking your heels together three times and saying, “There’s no place like home.”
I was captain at last, of a lost ship, battered and bruised, and in charge of a wounded and divided crew. Be careful what you wish for.
I gave up on my letters. I took down the book that Mark had given me as an engagement present and looked at the inscription: For my Beatrice—my love, my redemption, may we share a long life’s journey. Beatrice, Dante’s love. She died young. I turned to the start of Inferno, and I read:
Midway on life’s journey,
I awoke to find myself in a dark wood,
I had wandered from the straight path…
CHAPTER EIGHT
SEEK OUT NEW LIFE—2371–2372
IN THAT FIRST WEEK, WE WERE REELING FROM THE EVENTS that had left us stranded, from the shock of the sudden deaths of so many of us. At the same time, we tried to fix some of the damage to our ship, though I think most of the crew barely had time or energy to take stock. It’s the captain’s job, however, to think ahead, and to consider above all the wellbeing of her crew. It seemed to me that some stability and certainty would help amid all the chaos. I know that my insistence on running Voyager so strictly as a Starfleet vessel has attracted criticism in some quarters: believe me, I’ve heard it all before, mainly from the ex-Maquis on board ship. I know that people think that this was rigidity— denial, even, a failure to come to terms with our changed circumstances. But it was crucial in those first few weeks. We all needed something upon which we could depend. The uniform, the formal relationships, and the protocols of Starfleet were the closest thing that we had to a shared culture or system of values. Many of the ex-Maquis had been in Starfleet—or, at least, the Academy—and knew how it functioned. Still, it was not an easy sell. They all had their reasons for leaving, or staying away in the first place.
Somehow, we pulled it off. Somehow, we persuaded everyone to pull together, under the shared banner of Starfleet and the Federation. None of this would have happened without the support that I got right away from Chakotay. I thank my stars that he was the one captaining the Val Jean, a rare stroke of good fortune for me in those days. Consider the alternatives. I could have had a fanatic, someone who would never work with Starfleet under any circumstances. I could have had a mercenary, spending the next seven years watching my back in case he took the ship and decided to make his fortune in the Delta Quadrant. Instead, I had a man of principle: dare I say it, a Starfleet officer through and through. I relied upon Chakotay completely, and, even when we had disagreements, he never let me down. Without him, the former Maquis crew members would not have integrated so successfully—and no doubt I would have had a mutiny on my hands. Handling the ex-Maquis crew was difficult enough: B’Elanna Torres seemed to be fueled entirely by fury, and only the complexities of engineering seemed to come close to soothing her, giving her a challenge that worked her intelligence without causing frustration. Still, she was what I needed right now in engineering, and I could only hope that something over the coming months and years would give her a much-needed sense of stability. I came to rely on many other former Maquis during those years: Lieutenant Ayala for one; Chell, too, more or less, despite various problems. Maybe I should have let him loose in the mess hall sooner.
But there were other members of the ex-Maquis crew who left me uneasy— the Betazoid Lon Suder, for one. Having said that, his former colleagues didn’t like or trust him either and for good reason. Suder murdered Frank Darwin, and for his sake, I wish that I had taken greater heed of their concerns sooner. It seems a terrible tragedy to me that Frank died at the hands of a member of the crew. But there was so much happening in those first days, and while I had anticipated discord, possibly even mutiny, I had not anticipated having someone with such antisocial tendencies on board. As we struggled to deal with the ramifications of these events, I found myself recalling a line from the start of Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter:
The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a por
tion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison.
We were a new colony, in a way; a little collection of people striving to pull together in order to make our way and survive. It saddens me beyond belief that I so quickly found myself conducting a funeral for a murdered man and ordering another man’s quarters to be converted into a holding cell. Suder came good in the end, finding some kind of peace and developing a sense of right and wrong. Of course, then your previous acts become difficult to live with. I think he was always, given the chance, going to sacrifice himself in some way, and so he did, and as a result we were able to retake our ship from the Kazon who had captured it. Lon Suder saved himself. But I wish I had been able to save Frank Darwin.
Then there was Seska. In one of my earliest conversations with Chakotay, and thinking of the defection of Cal Hudson, I said to him what I had noticed before: that the Maquis seemed to be almost entirely made up of Starfleet officers, whether undercover or renegade.
“Perhaps that’s something that Starfleet should start considering, Kathryn,” he said gently. “Ask a few questions about why so many are choosing to leave.”
“Right now,” I said, “I don’t care. I don’t care who has been undercover or Maquis as long as you all do your job.”
I wonder if he recalled this conversation later. None of us expected Seska’s betrayal, and the whole series of events was a terrible shock to Chakotay, who had trusted her and loved her. The revelation that she was not Bajoran, but an undercover Cardassian agent planted on the Val Jean was shock enough. But that in itself would not have been enough for me to expel her from the ship. Indeed, had she revealed her identity to us, and then gone on to prove herself, I would have invited her to join the crew in her own right. We all wanted to get home to the Alpha Quadrant, and I needed experienced people to crew the ship. But it seemed that treachery was too ingrained. Almost from the beginning she had been working against us, joining forces with the Kazon, ultimately taking a Kazon warlord as a lover, and having his child. I wonder often about that child, and the life it must have led.
Seska’s betrayals threw a long shadow. Almost three years into our journey, Tuvok’s holodeck simulation of a Maquis insurrection was activated, causing all kinds of unexpected strife and grievances to reemerge. And Seska, long dead, turned out nonetheless to be the cause, having found the simulation and reprogrammed it to cause maximum disruption. I will never understand why, faced with the choice between carrying this distant war into the Delta Quadrant, or working alongside us to bring us all back home, Seska chose the former. But Cardassian culture, at that time, was so pernicious, so harmful, that I guess it was always going to happen. Reflecting now upon these events, I see how they worked in my favor. Seska’s treachery so shocked the ex-Maquis, that in many ways it drove them into my arms. There was an idealistic streak in the ex-Maquis crew members that was revolted by her actions, Chakotay and B’Elanna in particular. I knew that once I had won the hearts of Chakotay and B’Elanna, the rest of the former Maquis would follow. So it proved. But I wish we had known who and what Seska was before she betrayed us. We made a home for so many others: Maquis, holograms, even Borg. I wish we had been able to persuade a Cardassian to join us. But there it is—there’s a utopian streak in every Starfleet captain. I wouldn’t want to lose that—but I would wish, with all my heart, that it did not so often lead to a prison or a cemetery.
* * *
As we began to find our feet, I tried to remember that I had been given a unique privilege as a Starfleet captain, to survey a part of space where nobody had gone before. Just the presence of Neelix and Kes on board ship required us to get to know two new species (and come to terms with their cuisine). I can’t fault Neelix for his enthusiasm, however, and he was right to identify that someone needed to be keeping an eye on crew morale. Kes was a wonderful addition to our crew. She had a great calm about her, a real gentleness, that I found a great balm over the years that she spent on board. To look at her, an Ocampan, was a daily reminder that I had made the right choice stranding Voyager in the Delta Quadrant. Her people had been saved. And nobody was better suited to handle our Emergency Medical Hologram. Did any member of the crew come on as great a journey as our ineffable Doctor? In those very early days, it was difficult to think of him as anything other than a poor replacement for my dear Fitz, and quite an arrogant one at that. His bedside manner was terrible. But life—and personality—have a way of not just surviving but thriving. And our Doctor, so it was to turn out, had plenty of personality. I might have wished that Fitz had survived, but I could not wish the Doctor out of existence. His presence—his capacity for growth and change—made us truly wrestle with the nature of identity and selfhood. The Doctor, at every turn, exceeded the parameters of his programming. Our voyage created a new form of life.
And, it turned out, we had brought new life with us. I cannot begin to imagine the swirl of emotions that Samantha Wildman must have gone through, realizing that she was having a baby, and so far from family. In the case of Phoebe and Yianem, both of whom have been pregnant, I observed a great need for the familiar people and places. Much as I tried to make Voyager seem a haven for us all in the Delta Quadrant, it was, ultimately, not home. She missed her spouse, Greskrendtregk, too, very much. I knew how much I ached for Mark; to be the mother of a new child so far away from her spouse must have made the separation acutely painful for Samantha.
And then there were the practical realities of having a baby on board ship. I had not given much thought to how we might raise a child on board Voyager. It had never exactly been the plan! But you have to respond to the realities of the situation. I had a new mother, more in need of support than ever before, who was also a valued crew member in a situation where everyone was needed. We had to do all that we could to support her. It takes a village to raise a child, they say, and this was a ready-made village, one which now had another incentive to return home. We all wanted to see this little family reunited, so we all pitched in. With only one child, there was no need to establish a formal day-care center, although I would have done if it had been necessary. I see the provision of excellent childcare as a marker of civilization. I have had no personal need for it over the years, but I’m capable of empathy, and capable of seeing how crucial it is for others. Samantha was one of us: we loved her as a person, and valued her contribution as a xenobiologist, and we were behind her all the way.
I had no worries about medical care—for all his (how shall I put this?) foibles, our EMH was a faultless medical practitioner—and Kes, our new nurse, proved a wonderful support in the early days when Samantha was establishing a routine of work and caring for her daughter. But it was Neelix who proved to be the hero. Patient, good-humored, fun, and completely reliable—he was an ideal companion and playmate for that little girl. It was one of the quiet but constant joys of life on Voyager, watching Naomi Wildman grow and thrive. She was quick-witted, sensible, intelligent, curious, and a gift to our ship. I hope we did well by her. I think that we did. We never expected to find ourselves taking care of children (and there were more to come). I would like to think that we rose to the challenge. I would like to think that those children felt safe among us and able to flourish.
* * *
What about myself? In those early days, and, in fact, throughout our voyage home, I struggled intensely with loneliness. I was the captain: I had to give a convincing show of being in command of myself and not on the verge of cracking, but sometimes it was hard. There was no way to contact a colleague or a mentor to sound out decisions, or confirm that I had done something right, or advise about what I might have done differently. Chakotay understood, I knew, and that quiet support got me through many tough times, but not only was I alone as captain, I was alone as Kathryn Janeway. The simple fact was that I missed Mark dreadfully. I played over and over again the messages from him that I had stored. I wrote to him twice a week. I told him how much I missed him, how much I wanted to be back walkin
g in the woods with him and Mollie, enjoying the quiet calm of his solid presence beside me. I confided all my hopes and my fears, but ridiculously, I only shed tears once: three months into our voyage, I realized that Mollie must have had her pups, and that not only had I not been there, I hadn’t even been conscious of the date. I felt dreadful, as if I’d let her down. It’s strange what hits you. I haven’t told anyone this before. I cried my heart out for a good hour. Then I washed my face, brushed my hair, pulled on my uniform, and went down to engineering to wrestle with a recalcitrant warp coil. Later, I challenged B’Elanna to a game of Velocity, and we both burned off some excess emotion. Turned out she was pretty damn good at the game too.
Throughout those early years, the thought of eventually being reunited with Mark was what kept me going. At the same time, I went through agonies thinking about what he must be experiencing. For him to have lost Lisa was terrible enough. For him to have taken the risk of loving someone again; pinning his hopes of a future on me (and children; I do believe we would have had children together someday) only to have this chance snatched away for a second time… It was truly, awfully painful; a double anguish of my own loss compounded by imagining what he must be going through. I had no way of knowing if we were assumed to have died in the Badlands; our own initial assumption had been that the Val Jean had been destroyed in the plasma storms. Would that same assumption be made about us? Even as we strove to come home by the quickest way possible, were others already grieving us, believing us dead, trying to carry on with their lives? The uncertainty was terrible. I wanted to be able to get back now, yesterday, a week ago! I wanted to click my heels together, say the magic words, and be whisked immediately home. Instead, we had to travel home the long way.
The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway Page 15
