lived by as long as she had been in Starfleet. She was not about to stop now.
Instead, she watched Tom Paris at the controls. Now he was flying on visual information as much as using his instruments, obviously correcting for the inaccuracies introduced by the tachyon field.
From the copilot’s seat she had a good view of the window as well as the control panel. She leaned back in the seat, content to let Paris do his job and to do hers—to watch, observe, understand what was happening around them. And to take care of Voyager. Always that came first, her ship.
“You are cleared for exit,” the computer voice announced. “Seven seconds until decompression. Six. Five. Four. Three …”
The great door of the shuttlebay opened. After the light from the interior, the darkness of space was blinding. Janeway lowered the ambient light level in the shuttle so that they were able to adjust and see what surrounded them.
Large segments of dead spacecraft wheeled aimlessly around them in a ballet choreographed by gravity and velocity and nothing more. Except for the regular shapes and obviously created fragments, this could have been an asteroid belt. But the glimpses of insignia on torn metal, of corrosion on a clean surface, reminded her that this was a graveyard.
The eternal silence of vacuum seemed to have engulfed the shuttle. No one talked as they watched the debris that was the deaths of ships go by.
They were closing now, and Janeway could see the assortment of junk that had become a trash armada. The remains of ships of unimaginable configurations were grouped randomly, so far as she could tell. Some had smashed into each other, others were slowly drifting in their own debris.
Most were white or black or showed mostly the material from which they had been formed. But a few still had bits of bright paint clinging.
One was covered with flat orange where abrasion had not sanded it away.
Another bore lines of hieroglyphs on every smooth surface.
Then the captain turned her attention to the large hulk near the center. Except for the gash on one side, it appeared to be intact.
The outer hull was some matte dark material that glinted with deep blue when light hit it. Almost a match for space itself. Janeway wondered whether this coloring was meant as disguise or as an attempt to honor their environment.
Clearly derelict, there was no reason to even suspect there had been life aboard. The message they had received was strange, a trap set long ago, Janeway suspected. And now the transmissions still went out without anyone who benefitted. And many who had died.
She thought of a spider’s web, each of the ships caught by the tachyon field and the distress call. She wondered how the broadcast could be so neatly tailored for each species that visited, and if such a technology could be adapted for her own purposes.
They had run across other hopes before. Just knowing that one people had learned to fold time-space made her think that others must have learned it as well. Not to mention the Caretaker’s technology, which was so advanced Voyager might as well have been a wooden ship with sails.
No, there was hope out here. And there were things to learn.
With no life aboard, whatever she found in these bits of antique flotsam was going to be theirs. She regretted that she hadn’t brought B’Elanna Torres along. The engineer probably would be able to recognize and figure out the workings of some of the more esoteric finds.
But B’Elanna had her hands full with the disconnected drive and whatever additional damage the field had done. Once she had a better idea of what was out here and exactly what they might want to investigate, she could send Torres. Much more efficient that way.
Otherwise her chief engineer would want to take apart every moving part in the entire assembly.
“Talk about a bunch of hangar queens,” Paris said, interrupting Janeway’s thoughts.
“Hangar queens?” Kim asked. Janeway smiled. She
Instead, she watched Tom Paris at the controls. Now he was flying on visual information as much as using his instruments, obviously correcting for the inaccuracies introduced by the tachyon field.
From the copilot’s seat she had a good view of the window as well as the control panel. She leaned back in the seat, content to let Paris do his job and to do hers—to watch, observe, understand what was happening around them. And to take care of Voyager. Always that came first, her ship.
“You are cleared for exit,” the computer voice announced. “Seven seconds until decompression. Six. Five. Four. Three …”
The great door of the shuttlebay opened. After the light from the interior, the darkness of space was blinding. Janeway lowered the ambient light level in the shuttle so that they were able to adjust and see what surrounded them.
Large segments of dead spacecraft wheeled aimlessly around them in a ballet choreographed by gravity and velocity and nothing more. Except for the regular shapes and obviously created fragments, this could have been an asteroid belt. But the glimpses of insignia on torn metal, of corrosion on a clean surface, reminded her that this was a graveyard.
The eternal silence of vacuum seemed to have engulfed the shuttle. No one talked as they watched the debris that was the deaths of ships go by.
They were closing now, and Janeway could see the assortment of junk that had become a trash armada. The remains of ships of unimaginable configurations were grouped randomly, so far as she could tell. Some had smashed into each other, others were slowly drifting in their own debris.
Most were white or black or showed mostly the material from which they had been formed. But a few still had bits of bright paint clinging.
One was covered with flat orange where abrasion had not sanded it away.
Another bore lines of hieroglyphs on every smooth surface.
Then the captain turned her attention to the large hulk near the center. Except for the gash on one side, it appeared to be intact.
The outer hull was some matte dark material that glinted with deep blue when light hit it. Almost a match for space itself. Janeway wondered whether this coloring was meant as disguise or as an attempt to honor their environment.
Clearly derelict, there was no reason to even suspect there had been life aboard. The message they had received was strange, a trap set long ago, Janeway suspected. And now the transmissions still went out without anyone who benefitted. And many who had died.
She thought of a spider’s web, each of the ships caught by the tachyon field and the distress call. She wondered how the broadcast could be so neatly tailored for each species that visited, and if such a technology could be adapted for her own purposes.
They had run across other hopes before. Just knowing that one people had learned to fold time-space made her think that others must have learned it as well. Not to mention the Caretaker’s technology, which was so advanced Voyager might as well have been a wooden ship with sails.
No, there was hope out here. And there were things to learn.
With no life aboard, whatever she found in these bits of antique flotsam was going to be theirs. She regretted that she hadn’t brought B’Elanna Torres along. The engineer probably would be able to recognize and figure out the workings of some of the more esoteric finds.
But B’Elanna had her hands full with the disconnected drive and whatever additional damage the field had done. Once she had a better idea of what was out here and exactly what they might want to investigate, she could send Torres. Much more efficient that way.
Otherwise her chief engineer would want to take apart every moving part in the entire assembly.
“Talk about a bunch of hangar queens,” Paris said, interrupting Janeway’s thoughts.
“Hangar queens?” Kim asked. Janeway smiled. She
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