Note: It always bugged me that our fearless leaders never revisited the need for a generational ship. Neither of them seemed like the type to let something that fundamental to their survival just organically happen… or not. Especially after they had reestablished contact with home, so that major policy decisions could be vetted, and the journey still looked decades long, it seemed inevitable that this would come up. And if they did revisit it, then the question of the captain "pairing off" would have to come up again. So somewhere in the general neighborhood of Pathfinder: this conversation.
Generational Ship
Chapter 1
Janeway rested her wine glass on the dinner table with an air of decision. The plates were empty, the evening nearly over, but something in her gesture alerted Chakotay to a whole new conversation beginning.
"Yes?" he prompted as he folded his napkin and set it on the table. The air smelled different tonight, suffused with the light scent of beeswax candles, carrying a memory of sunlight, summer, and home. He wondered about her choice to replicate something so evocative and unusual.
"There's something I've been meaning to talk over with you," she began, settling back against her chair and folding her hands.
"Oh dear," he said, picking up one of the candles and bringing it closer to take in the soothing fragrance. "I hope I have an alibi."
"No, nothing like that," she answered with a small smile, waving one hand to dismiss the idea that he'd transgressed somehow. "At least nothing I've found out about yet. It's just that I've been thinking about making a policy change, now that we have Starfleet as a sounding board again."
"What kind of policy change?" This was serious, or she wouldn't take it up with him at the far end of a bottle of wine, one of her better culinary efforts, and beeswax candles, of all things.
"Do you remember, very early on, talking about the possibility of a generational ship?" She was meeting his eyes, but there was strain in her gaze, as if even this introduction to her topic was difficult.
"Of course. I've always thought it was something we'd need to consider, sooner or later." Chakotay unconsciously imitated her meditative body language, stunned that she'd raised the subject again. She had put aside the subject of fraternization – if that was still what they were going to call it – for so long that he had come to think of it as a sort of taboo. It was another way she kept herself focused on getting them home: she refused even to contemplate certain pro-active steps that he considered logical for a crew with decades of travel ahead. Every new relationship on board was a little earthquake to her sense of propriety, but true to her word, she had denied nobody the chance at a relationship, a family, when they sought it openly.
He knew that her example was what really held them all back, and she had given no sign that she had any plan to change it. This pattern itself worried him. Morale was slowly suffering as the crew tried to live up to the captain's standard of self-denial. No thought had been given to family quarters, nurseries, schooling, all the preparations they would need to make for the crew to feel secure enough to found families. And they needed families. With the exception of Naomi Wildman and a few random adopted aliens, they had no replacements for the crew they were tragically losing one by one.
Kathryn met his attempts to raise the problem with changes of subject so abrupt they gave him vertigo. His best guess was that she saw a generational ship as the sort of thing that Starfleet critics might flay a female captain for initiating, when for a male captain, it would be hailed as great wisdom. Even in the 24th century, the double standard was alive and well. She'd risen far and fast enough to be exquisitely sensitive to its nuances. The "parameters" available to a successful female Starfleet officer were clearly not the same as those for men. It seemed inconceivable that she'd suddenly thrown aside those considerations and changed her mind.
"It's a burden off us, in a way, isn't it, having contact with home, even if the news wasn't everything we might have hoped?" She put on a lighter, conversational tone, but it didn't fool him. He also wasn't sure if this was a question or a statement, so he nodded cautiously and repeated her words: "In a way."
"But it doesn't necessarily mean that we'll get home any faster." She tilted her head slightly, giving him her own cautious gaze, as if testing for some reaction, or lack of reaction.
He stared back, curious at the mysterious workings of her mind. "No, not necessarily. But it can't hurt to have the best minds in Starfleet working on the problem," he offered. He wanted to ask her outright what the hell this was about, but she was so uncharacteristically hesitant and reserved that he found himself afraid to frighten her off. Whatever she was trying to say, it wasn't coming easily. Could she have had more bad news from home, or from Starfleet? He started to imagine outlandish scenarios: Starfleet had ordered them to settle on a hospitable planet until a rescue mission could be mounted. Starfleet had found a way to transfer genetic material through holographic technology so that separated spouses could start families. What could it be? This should be a happy decision. Why was she anxious? Was it the old worry about the danger to juvenile passengers? Surely Naomi's thriving childhood had calmed that fear at least a little.
She shook her head in another dismissive gesture. "Oh, I'm sure they'll do their best, but it would take a scientific quantum leap or some radical new alien technology to make any difference to us. No, barring the sort of small shortcuts we've found here and there, I'm more convinced all the time that we need to prepare for at least a few more decades of travel. Dangerous, unpredictable travel." At this she stood and came around to rest her hands on the back of her chair, still facing him but in an even more defensive position.
He was more baffled than ever. She liked her way of doing things. Whatever awkward change she was contemplating, it had to be externally motivated, and the only new external force in their lives was – "Is Starfleet suggesting that we go about it… differently, somehow?"
"Not Starfleet," she said, standing up straight. "Me. I've thought for a long time now about your words, and you were right."
Chakotay sat back and stared at her. It was the last thing he expected her to say, especially on this topic. After a moment, he ventured: "My words? You mean about a generational ship?" He stayed rooted in his chair, hoping to anchor her nervous energy, but he suddenly felt electrified himself. He'd put this behind him, all thought of it. She was dragging forgotten boxes out of cold storage and he wasn't ready.
"Yes," she affirmed. "While it was just us alone out here, it seemed like too big a breach of protocol to open wide the doors to that sort of thing. But now that we're in contact with Starfleet, we can get official approval for the policy. We can have assurances that it's – you know, that they – " she broke off, flustered.
He had to smile. She was too absurdly nervous over a change that should have been made years ago. "Won't court martial you the moment we land?" he completed her aborted sentence and she made a face at him. What did she expect Starfleet to say? At the edge of his consciousness, a little dialogue began about exactly what policy she was intending to change. She had already settled into a de facto practice of allowing shipboard relationships when crewmembers asked permission. Why would she be so anxious about formalizing it? Unless this was really about – aha! he said to himself, that had to be it – the two of them. He looked back at her with keener attention.
She drummed her fingers on the back of her chair. "Something along those lines. Everyone's been trying to carry on all this time as if we were on some sort of extended deep space mission, where maintaining the chain of command has the strictest importance, and it's just…." He leaned forward a little to take in the extraordinary phenomenon of Kathryn Janeway at a loss for words twice in under a minute.
"Inappropriate? Irrelevant?" Chakotay suggested lightly.
"Too damn long!" Janeway exclaimed, jerking away from her chair and beginning to pace as she spoke. "You said it yourself, I can't tell people they can't marry, can't ever have families. And the feedback I'm getting is that if I make the request for a formal policy change, Starfleet will agree!" She turned to face him and rested her hands on her hips as if she'd just offered up a challenge.
"Kathryn," he said with a sigh, "you know that I agree. Are you asking for my approval? You know you have it."
Her hands dropped to her sides, then, far more slowly than she normally moved, she reached for an object behind her on the desk. When she pulled it from behind her and handed it to him reluctantly, the PADD felt cold and exceptionally heavy in his hands. He didn't take his eyes off her, as his brain embroidered on the theory of why she considered this such a momentous change.
"What is this?" He asked in a low voice. "What are you about to do?" The look on her face alarmed him.
"Just read it," she said, and walked away stiffly toward the viewport. He shifted in his chair and watched her for a moment before, resigned, he lowered his head to read, then read again. He stood to face her. Her back was to him, tense and withdrawn, her arms wrapped around herself.
"No," he said, a little too loudly, very audible across the room. "I won't sign off on this, if that's what you're asking."
"I need you to back me on this," she replied, her voice a little more tremulous than usual. She didn't turn back to him. "On such an important personnel decision, they'll want to know that the first officer and the captain are in full agreement."
"We're not." He dropped the PADD with a clatter on the table to emphasize his dissent.
"You know it's the only way," she said, dropping her arms again, clenching and unclenching her hands, still facing away.
"I don't know any such thing," he said, taking a short step toward her. "I know that this is the same kind of short-sighted, self-sacrificing stunt I've seen you pull several times already. Starfleet is really okay with this?"
His words were harsh. He knew they'd anger her. He didn't care. Silence welled up like rising floodwaters between them as he waited for her answer. Finally, he spoke. "You haven't shown them this version of the proposal, have you? You've only talked in generalities about suspending the fraternization policy."
She turned on him with the ferocity he'd anticipated. "What would you have me do? Date crewmembers in the mess hall? Call a different strapping young ensign to my ready room for a quickie every afternoon? Exchange my uniform for a silk robe and turn this ship into a traveling Risa?" She had opened her mouth to continue, but the look of fury on his face stopped her cold. Her anger dissipated as quickly as it had gathered. "I'm sorry," she murmured and half turned away.
He waited another moment to calm himself enough to respond. "No," he said, "that is not what I want and you know it." And here lay the greatest danger. He had been right. This was why she was so nervous earlier. By bringing up the long-silenced topic of the crew "pairing off," especially with Mark out of the picture, she had necessarily raised the long-buried topic of the two of them. Anything he said now could have disastrous consequences.
He didn't believe for a second that if she had designs on a crewman, it was anyone but him. He had enough ego for that. But he wasn't sure – not now, after so much had happened between them and to them – that she still felt the same spark for him that he once sensed so strongly and returned so ardently. He didn't know what his next words should be. He watched her minutely for any clue, but she was frozen in profile, this infuriating, irresistible woman with whom he spent his days. She wouldn't show him how to be in this fragile moment. He must figure it out for himself. It occurred to him for the first time in – well, perhaps in their entire history together – that Kathryn was afraid, in a whole host of ways. This decision could affect her personal and professional life, everything she was.
And then she spoke. "What do you want, Chakotay?" It was as if she was throwing her voice. It seemed to come not so much from her but from the air around him, this disembodied question that she uttered without appearing even to move her jaw. Did she really say it? He had to believe that she did, that she was casting him a lifeline in his consternation. He took another full step toward her, stopped, and searched for words.
"I want you to give life a chance," he said at last, fully prepared for her to throw the wicked looking sextant on the nearest shelf at him. There was no reaction from her, so he continued, casting aside all the caution and emotional distance he'd cultivated for years. "I want you to give us a chance."
Her chin dropped a little, her eyes closed, and she swallowed. "It's so hard," she whispered, gripping the back of one of the upholstered chairs near the viewport. Whatever was going on in her mind, it sapped her strength, made her cling to the furniture for support. That was reason enough to force her to deal with this. He thought of the woman who set the beautiful table they sat at tonight, lit those special candles. She wanted more out of this evening than his thumbprint on an official policy. "Without protocol," she went on, "I don't know what star to guide by. I don't know how to be sure I'm doing everything humanly possible to get this crew home. What if I'm just – just doing the expedient thing, the selfish thing, and it costs another life?" She raised her fist just a little as she said these words, fighting some interior battle he couldn't understand, not entirely.
"I understand," he said anyway, hoping she'd believe him, listen to him.
She raised anguished eyes to him. "Do you? Or do you just think I'm trying to be a martyr?"
He took another step, coming within arm's length of her. Neither reached out, but their eyes locked. "I understand," he told her, "how utterly devoted you are to your duty as captain, and to this crew. I hope you know how devoted I am to them too."
She nodded gently, emboldening him. Her fist fell back to the chair, but did not open.
"I also understand that you are more than a starship captain. You are a human being. You need contact, and intimacy, and love. You cannot thrive – no human can thrive – without these things, and you've deprived yourself to the point of breakdown." His words made her bristle a little, but he shook his head. "Don't think I can't see it. Walking the corridors at all hours, the runaway caffeine consumption, trying to meet your emotional needs during one dinner a week with your first officer – " He almost grinned at the dirty look she gave him. He was getting to her. She had unballed her fist and leaned slightly toward him, as if longing to be convinced. "I'm not asking for miracles," he concluded. "Just make the policy change universal. Don't exclude yourself from life. Get Starfleet's blessing, and we can take it from there. Are you with me?"
He held out a hand, palm up, giving his full concentration to making the gesture strong, reassuring. She considered for a long moment, then rested her pale hand on his. "Always."