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Authors: Diane Carey
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seconds before I had to swallow it.”
“The only other option is find a planet, park the ship and plant a colony, and start our lives over there. The idea has come up before.”
Janeway's chair squeaked under her as she pivoted and put one foot up on the leg of her desk. She fixed her eyes on the part of the wall where the viewport met the bulkhead and got very interested in the seam. “I've been over and over this.
Voyager
is a Starfleet ship on a mission. It's not our ship . . . it belongs to the people of the Federation. They built it, supported it, educated all of us and sent us into space with this fabulous resource . . . it's our sworn duty to return this vessel and its power back into their hands.
“Our priority is to return this ship and its strength and all we know about the Borg to the Federation so we can mount a singular plan to deal with them. That's our mission. Our
only
mission.” She stood up and stretched her legs—how long had she been sitting? “If we forget that, we're just the passengers on some vague journey whose end we can't plot out.”
“No one's forgetting that,” Chakotay pointed out. “No captain in Starfleet has ever had to command the kind of ship you have here or this kind of mission. We only brought half the ‘the book’ to the Delta Quadrant with us.”
“Seven years, Chakotay . . .” Janeway murmured. “Two years longer than the usual deep-space mission, and those are usually punctuated with home leave from time to time. And our mission wasn't a long one anyway. They crew was expecting to go home after a few months at the longest. Paris didn't even know B'Elanna. Tuvok has a wife and five children. Five! You and I were on opposite sides of a local conflict . . . my setter had had puppies . . .”
“I think we can forgive ourselves for improvisation, don't you?” he suggested. “You're mourning the fact that we've been lost for seven years. How about giving ourselves credit for having survived seven years when we didn't in any way intend to be out so long? Most ships are provisioned for months before a voyage like this. We've actually learned to be comfortable.”
“Too comfortable,” Janeway complained. “Naomi was one thing; an entire second generation, growing up on this ship, makes me very conscious of the time that's passing. Tom and B'Elanna will have one child to worry about, but I have a ship full of crew to think of.
“What if I have to order Tom or B'Elanna to put their life at risk? A captain has to be ready to do that. I don't know how the Galaxy-class captains handled it. Can I put the best officer to a dangerous task? Or will I unconsciously pick and choose among those who
haven't
married or had babies? That's not fair to the other crewmen, if certain people can opt themselves out of the risk factor—”
“You're overthinking.” Chakotay leaned back a little.
She folded her arms, lowered her chin, and stated, “I'm not. I hope Tom, or B'Elanna, or the other parents to come, if and when, and their children can forgive me—or you—when we have to put one, or both, or all of them . . . on the line.”
* * *
“Cargo bay.”
His watch ended before he noticed. The captain came to take over before Chakotay was really ready to leave the bridge. Something about their conversation troubled him and made him want to stay up there.
The turbolift hummed around him, content in its purpose to deliver him to the bay as ordered. At least it knew where it was going.
But with Janeway there and no emergency, he made himself let go. For countless men through the history of Earth and of other planets, life on ships was an accepted way. But she was right—it was no kind of family life. Usually it made for long periods away from kith and kin, but months, not years upon years. Even the longest whaling voyages of Earth, hundreds of years ago, were two-year missions, and the crew on board all understood what they were in for.
He had to admit Kathryn was right
“The only other option is find a planet, park the ship and plant a colony, and start our lives over there. The idea has come up before.”
Janeway's chair squeaked under her as she pivoted and put one foot up on the leg of her desk. She fixed her eyes on the part of the wall where the viewport met the bulkhead and got very interested in the seam. “I've been over and over this.
Voyager
is a Starfleet ship on a mission. It's not our ship . . . it belongs to the people of the Federation. They built it, supported it, educated all of us and sent us into space with this fabulous resource . . . it's our sworn duty to return this vessel and its power back into their hands.
“Our priority is to return this ship and its strength and all we know about the Borg to the Federation so we can mount a singular plan to deal with them. That's our mission. Our
only
mission.” She stood up and stretched her legs—how long had she been sitting? “If we forget that, we're just the passengers on some vague journey whose end we can't plot out.”
“No one's forgetting that,” Chakotay pointed out. “No captain in Starfleet has ever had to command the kind of ship you have here or this kind of mission. We only brought half the ‘the book’ to the Delta Quadrant with us.”
“Seven years, Chakotay . . .” Janeway murmured. “Two years longer than the usual deep-space mission, and those are usually punctuated with home leave from time to time. And our mission wasn't a long one anyway. They crew was expecting to go home after a few months at the longest. Paris didn't even know B'Elanna. Tuvok has a wife and five children. Five! You and I were on opposite sides of a local conflict . . . my setter had had puppies . . .”
“I think we can forgive ourselves for improvisation, don't you?” he suggested. “You're mourning the fact that we've been lost for seven years. How about giving ourselves credit for having survived seven years when we didn't in any way intend to be out so long? Most ships are provisioned for months before a voyage like this. We've actually learned to be comfortable.”
“Too comfortable,” Janeway complained. “Naomi was one thing; an entire second generation, growing up on this ship, makes me very conscious of the time that's passing. Tom and B'Elanna will have one child to worry about, but I have a ship full of crew to think of.
“What if I have to order Tom or B'Elanna to put their life at risk? A captain has to be ready to do that. I don't know how the Galaxy-class captains handled it. Can I put the best officer to a dangerous task? Or will I unconsciously pick and choose among those who
haven't
married or had babies? That's not fair to the other crewmen, if certain people can opt themselves out of the risk factor—”
“You're overthinking.” Chakotay leaned back a little.
She folded her arms, lowered her chin, and stated, “I'm not. I hope Tom, or B'Elanna, or the other parents to come, if and when, and their children can forgive me—or you—when we have to put one, or both, or all of them . . . on the line.”
* * *
“Cargo bay.”
His watch ended before he noticed. The captain came to take over before Chakotay was really ready to leave the bridge. Something about their conversation troubled him and made him want to stay up there.
The turbolift hummed around him, content in its purpose to deliver him to the bay as ordered. At least it knew where it was going.
But with Janeway there and no emergency, he made himself let go. For countless men through the history of Earth and of other planets, life on ships was an accepted way. But she was right—it was no kind of family life. Usually it made for long periods away from kith and kin, but months, not years upon years. Even the longest whaling voyages of Earth, hundreds of years ago, were two-year missions, and the crew on board all understood what they were in for.
He had to admit Kathryn was right
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