Seven of Nine herself had to confront the consequences of her own actions a little while later, when we were docked at the Markonian Outpost Space Station. This interlude started out as welcome respite from our voyage: we had, for once, been made welcome, and we extended hospitality of our own, inviting people to visit and explore the ship. Seven of Nine was approached and, subsequently, attacked by three visitors, while she was regenerating in her alcove. They were attempting to inject her with Borg nanoprobes, but Seven was able to call for backup, whereupon we subdued her assailants and restrained them in sickbay. There, the Doctor was able to identify them as former Borg drones, which, on waking, they were able to confirm. Furthermore, they had been part of Seven’s unimatrix. They had approached her to learn about a series of events that occurred several years ago, when their ship crashed on an uninhabited planet. Seven, who at first had no memory of these events, found her memories gradually returning.
It was not a happy awakening. After the crash, and temporarily severed from the collective, the three other drones, who had been assimilated as adults, found their individuality beginning to reestablish. But Seven, who had of course been assimilated at six years old and had much less of an established identity, fought against this change. Worse, when the others attempted to flee, she followed them, reinjected each with nanoprobes, forcing their reassimilation. It was, frankly, a horror story, made worse as we got to know these people, their lives and histories, the families from which they had been forcibly taken, not once, but twice, the last time at Seven’s hands.
There was not much of a happy ending to this story. Again, we were faced with a choice: these three could not survive for long without reassimilating. In the end, a short life as themselves rather than a long life as Borg was what they preferred, and the Doctor and Seven performed the procedure to sever them permanently from the link that existed between them, the last remnants of Borg technology. Lansor, Two of Nine, remained at the space station, while P’Chan, Four of Nine, traveled on alone, to experience peace and quiet and solitude before he died. But Marika, Three of Nine, stayed with us on Voyager. This was a tender, sad, interlude—a few brief weeks making her acquaintance, before she was lost to us. One of the most poignant encounters of our whole time in the Delta Quadrant, and one that profoundly affected Seven.
* * *
Reflecting back now on these cases where I had to make ethical decisions, all I can say is that I did the best that I could under the circumstances. I had a clear goal: to bring the ship home with minimum loss of life. I did not always get it right—but I tried always to bear this in mind, and to balance our situation as far as possible with the principles of Starfleet. I was out on a limb—a Starfleet captain without Starfleet. I could not summon up help or stop off at a starbase for extra supplies. I could not, for most of the time, even ask for advice on the decisions I had to make. Some were sound; some were less sound. Those Ethics of Command seminars could only help so far. I’m aware that the situation could, however, have been much worse. I am lucky that I arrived in the Delta Quadrant with my ship more or less intact, and enough people so that—despite some grievous losses—I was able to crew that ship. I know that this was not the case for Rudy Ransom on the Equinox.
Our astonishment in receiving a distress hail from another Starfleet vessel was matched only with our delight at discovering that this was no trap, but indeed another ship of ours, sent into the Delta Quadrant by the same means, at approximately the same time. They’d had a much rougher ride than us: an encounter with a power called the Krowtonan Guard had, in the space of a week, caused the death of half of Ransom’s crew, and caused serious damage to the ship. I began to thank my lucky stars that our encounters—even with the Borg—had not caused so much harm. And I was curious as to how the Equinox, although a smaller and less powerful Nova- class ship, had managed to cross the same distance, and was excited to learn that Captain Ransom’s people had made enhancements to their warp engines. I hoped this was a technique that we could adapt.
Alas, this was not to prove the case. Ransom, after that devastating week, had become wholly focused on the survival of his crew—at any cost. The secret of the Equinox’s rapid progress was revealed to be the wholesale slaughter of nucleogenic creatures, from whom they were harvesting bioenergy. This was how Equinox had enhanced their warp drive. They had crossed ten thousand light-years in a matter of weeks—and Ransom, and his XO, Maxwell Burke, were ready to sacrifice more to make the journey home. And I was going to do anything to stop him, particularly when we came under attack from the nucleogenic creatures, intent on a very justifiable revenge.
It’s disheartening, to say the least, that it took an encounter with our own species and civilization to draw out the most mistrustful and savage behavior from us on our voyage home, as if coming face to face with our own baser selves was too much to stand. I certainly lost my bearings somewhat in this encounter—I’ll admit that. Some of the decisions I made in my desire to bring down Ransom and the Equinox crossed the line. My interrogation of Noah Lessing went too far, as Chakotay told me at the time. I even went so far as to relieve Chakotay of his command, when he questioned my decision to fire torpedoes on the Equinox. The deletion of the Doctor’s ethical subroutines by Ransom’s crew (a flaw we quickly corrected) allowed him to explore aspects of human behavior about which I am sure he would have preferred to remain ignorant. I know his memories of his interrogation of Seven of Nine disturbed him greatly. In the end, Ransom, seeing the error of his ways, and removed by his own XO, ended up fighting back against the mutineers, and sacrificing himself—and his battered ship—to save Voyager from the alien assault.
I flatter myself that I would not have made the same mistakes as Rudy Ransom, but it’s fair to say that I wasn’t tested in the same way. I cannot and will never condone the choices he made but speaking as the only other Starfleet captain who knows a little of how he felt, I can see how his desire to protect his crew and bring them home might have brought him there. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, after all. I’m just glad I never had to set one foot upon it. Rudy made good in the end: we should not forget that. He was himself again, before he died. The five surviving crew members of the Equinox came on board Voyager: I stripped them of their ranks, put them under close supervision, and limited their privileges. And I will state here for the record that they gave exemplary service for the rest of our journey. Not everyone is beyond redemption.
Chakotay and I had some repairs to make to our relationship after these events. Truth be told, I was grateful for him—grateful to have a man of principles beside me. I should always remember that about Chakotay—it was principles that drove him to the Maquis, not profit, or vengeance. He was my true guide home. But still, as we picked up the pieces, I had to wonder—and how I wondered—what the next day might bring, and the day after, and the day after, and whether I might face a week of hell bad enough to make me cross the line for good.
* * *
I have faced numerous criticisms over the years about the extent to which I allowed use of the holodeck during Voyager’s journey home. Let me say that critics always find something to complain about, and this seems to me another in a long list of decisions that other people are sure that they would have made differently had they been the captain. Besides, I’ve heard it all before. Torres and Tuvok both complained about how much time people spent on the holodeck for, as Tuvok put it, “frivolous reasons,” although I suspect that B’Elanna was glad sometimes that Tom had a hobby, and I know that Tuvok used it on occasion for meditation purposes… with B’Elanna, too, now I come to think about it! But their points were fair. Nevertheless, I was the captain, and this was the decision I made. For good reason too: morale, notably in the early days, was low. In discussions with both Neelix and the Doctor, I was convinced that permitting people regular use of the holodeck was a good way for them to relieve the unusual stress and isolation of our situation. I’m sure that any inventory of holodeck programs
on board Voyager would have revealed a high proportion of simulations simply named “Family” or “Home.” We were so far away, and there was a strong possibility we would never see the people and places that we loved again. I considered this use of resources worth it in terms of the effect it had on crew well-being.
As for the other programs—damn it, they were fun! They helped people relax and unwind, and, given the precariousness of our situation at times, this was also necessary. I knew there was a risk that people might slide into holo-addiction, a well-documented phenomenon, and we did monitor use. Detractors can also be sure that I kept a close eye on what proportion of resources the holodeck was consuming. There were indeed times when I had to cut use down to almost nothing. But when the going was good, the holodeck was an important part of keeping the crew functioning. Tom Paris proved most adept at constructing scenarios which gave his colleagues great pleasure over the years: Sandrine’s was a great creation and, of course, Fair Haven was a place very close to my heart. Even a captain needs time away from her responsibilities. What does the poet say? Humankind cannot bear very much reality… We all needed to take some time away from our situation. We all needed a break.
I will not deny that there were occasions when I wished I’d shut the damn thing down at the start of the voyage and never switched it on again. Let us say that I never expected my role as captain to expand into acting. You will note that my account of my childhood does not document a sparkling theatrical career, and indeed that career had more or less peaked with the dying swan. I hadn’t acted since junior high—when I was a lackluster and frankly not convincing Juliet, more suited to comedy than tragedy—and was not prepared to have to extemporize the role of evil queen. (You can skip the jokes—the crew made them all at the time.) How did this all come about, you might you ask. Tom’s holoprogram, The Adventures of Captain Proton, was a great favorite, and one which he and Harry played by preference. On this occasion, they were forced to leave the program running when Voyager became trapped in spatial distortions. As we tried to break free, a species of interdimensional aliens who took photonic form crossed to our dimension, entering through the Proton program. And so the story became real. The aliens, when attacked by Chaotica, were genuinely at threat from his photonic weaponry, which was harmless to us, but could harm them. We decided to enter the story, to help the aliens defeat Chaotica, and to free ourselves. Tom, it turned out, had a specific role in mind for me.
I defy anyone else to have brought such authenticity to the part of Arachnia, Queen of the Spider People. My task, it transpired, was to woo Chaotica so that he agreed to lower the lightning shield to allow Captain Proton to disable the death ray. I would like to think I inhabited the role convincingly. Perhaps my theatrical career is not yet over—I guess I’ll need something to do in retirement. The crew rewarded me by adopting a new catchphrase, generally used after I’d issued a dressing-down. You don’t want to know the number of times I heard muttered behind my back: “Ha! You’re no match for Arachnia…” Well, they were right—they weren’t.
There seems to be a subcategory of alien species unable to distinguish between fantasy and reality, and our next encounter with such gave me much more insight into the mind of our Emergency Medical Hologram than I might have preferred. The Doctor, it transpired, had been using the holodeck to daydream—all very well, I encouraged both him and Seven of Nine to explore the limits of their personhood, and the holodeck was an ideal environment for this. The Doctor’s daydreams, however, tended toward the grandiose, and he had constructed a fantasy in which, as the “Emergency Command Hologram,” he took charge of the ship. The Doctor might have been able to continue with this undisturbed, had not a passing ship, crewed by members of what we only knew as the Hierarchy, used a form of scan which enabled them to pick up the Doctor’s program, mistaking the simulation for reality. Our knowledge of this came when a panicked junior crew member contacted us, explaining the mistake, and hoping we could save his skin.
The solution was for us to act out the deception for real, persuading the attacking Hierarchy ship of the reality of our “photonic cannon.” My considerable trepidation over allowing the Doctor to use his Emergency Command routines was matched only by my sense that a small amount of rough justice was being dealt out. Nevertheless, he carried out the task with considerable aplomb, and I must admit that I was impressed at how the Doctor handled being in the hot seat. I could see some practical use to the ECH, and I reconsidered my decision not to devote formal research time to the project. I suggested that we assemble a team to explore it further. A change of heart that I am glad to say paid off in the long run.
* * *
One adjustment that I had to make over these years was the extent to which my crew was now considerably more experienced than it had been at the start of the mission. Even my newest ensign, Harry Kim, by now had nearly half a decade’s service behind him. In Harry’s case, these years were marked by dedication, quietly getting on with the job, and being one of the most diligent crew members on board ship. I suppose at some point he was going to assert himself in the face of my authority, and the occasion arose when we made contact with the Varro. We were intrigued to learn that they had been inhabiting their generation ship for over four centuries. The ship was now in need of assistance—which we were certainly willing to give, on the principle of paying it forward; we were often in need of assistance ourselves. The situation was complicated somewhat by the mistrust of the Varro: they were, not to put too fine a point on it, a xenophobic people who would much have preferred not to have contact with us. But their need outweighed their distaste for strangers, and we were permitted access.
A generation ship was naturally of interest to me, since it was certainly one possible future for Voyager: if the ship’s capacity diminished past a certain point, our progress might slow down to such a degree that the journey would take much longer than the life span of at least some of us. Who would crew the ship then? Naomi Wildman could hardly do this single-handedly (though that kid was determined enough that she would have given it her best shot). At the back of my mind, I was always wondering whether I needed to do more to encourage my crew to settle down, create families, treat our ship less like a place of work and more like a moving village. Not an option for the captain, of course, but a possibility for others. I was therefore interested to learn more about how the Varro’s society worked. We discovered significant tensions: a dissident group had emerged, separatists who were discontent with the closed and insular life on board their ship, and who wanted to leave and follow their own path.
Usually we would not have involved ourselves; unfortunately, our hand was forced. Harry Kim, in what seemed at the time to be an unusual disregard for instructions, appeared to have fallen in love with a Varro scientist, Tal, developing some kind of physiological bond with her that was disrupting his behavior significantly, and manifested as physical symptoms. I was extremely angry with Harry over this, not least because we had no idea whether this could be a biological threat to the Varro, and because he might have disrupted our working relations with them too. Harry insisted that he had genuine feelings for Tal; I reminded him he had broken regulations, and I regretfully entered a reprimand onto his record. Poor Harry, unblemished service until then. We ended having a frank discussion about his actions: I believed he was suffering from a condition which needed treatment; Harry believed he was in love. With the unerring way in which the young know how to wound, he asked whether I would’ve taken a hypospray if it could have finished my feelings for Mark. I was fortunately not obliged to answer this question.
In the end, the dissident group, including Tal, were allowed to leave their ship and move on. Harry was bereft at her departure and, while the Doctor offered him a means to alleviate these emotions, he refused. I told Harry that this could not interfere with his duties, and that the reprimand stood. And I had to admit that I was surprised that it was him, of all my crew, who had behaved this way. Well, as he told me, h
e wasn’t that fresh-faced ensign any longer. Five years is a long time—everyone changes. I think Harry learned from this, grew from this. That’s all you can ask for, in the end.
There were other examples during this time of my crew asserting themselves, and on one occasion I ended up having to dish out more than a reprimand. The ship came in range of a quite extraordinary sight: a world entirely covered with ocean. Even more remarkable, this world was inhabited. Initially its government, the Monean Maritime Sovereignty, was suspicious of us; I was able to persuade their spokesperson, Burkus, that we were not hostile, and invited a deputation to visit Voyager. During this visit, we learned that the Moneans knew very little about the ocean upon which they lived, and that, in fact, the Waters, as they called them, were beginning to shrink. Paris, who had attached himself to this visit, said that Voyager could help. I guess I should have seen we were heading for trouble, but I allowed him to take the Delta Flyer down to investigate the problem. Meanwhile, Chakotay reported that the rate of the reduction in the world ocean was extremely rapid, and likely to result in its dissipation within five years. I was surprised that Burkus was more concerned about the politics than the reality of this situation; perhaps I should never be surprised of the short-termism that some politicians bring to global crises.
Tom’s exploration revealed that the oxygen-mining operations of the Moneans were leading directly to the dissipation of the Waters, but Burkus was clearly more concerned with the political ramifications of the news. It was plain he was unlikely to do anything with this information, leading to an angry outburst from Tom. After Burkus left, I reprimanded Tom—in hindsight, locking horns with him was probably a mistake, since it only reinforced his tendency to rail against authority. Next thing I knew, he had taken the Delta Flyer back down, to carry out some kind of radical act to secure the safety of the world ocean. We were able to stop this in time—who knows what could have gone wrong—and when Tom came back on board, I reduced his rank to ensign and gave him thirty days in the brig.
The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway Page 19