The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway Read online

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  LEAVE US A REVIEW

  COPYRIGHT

  INTRODUCTION BY COMMANDER NAOMI WILDMAN

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

  KATHRYN JANEWAY

  THE HISTORY OF THE CAPTAIN WHO WENT FURTHER THAN ANY HAD BEFORE

  THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

  KATHRYN JANEWAY

  THE HISTORY OF THE CAPTAIN WHO WENT FURTHER THAN ANY HAD BEFORE

  BY

  KATHRYN M. JANEWAY

  EDITED BY UNA MCCORMACK

  TITAN BOOKS

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  The Autobiography of Kathryn Janeway

  Hardback Edition ISBN: 9781789094794

  E-Book Edition ISBN: 9781789094800

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP.

  First edition: October 2020

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TM ® & © 2020 by CBS Studios Inc. © 2020 Paramount Pictures Corporation. STAR TREK and related marks and logos are trademarks of CBS Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Illustrations: Russell Walks

  Editor: Cat Camacho

  Interior design: Rosanna Brockley/MannMade Designs

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  For Daniel, for years of fun conversation, and the best ideas

  INTRODUCTION

  BY COMMANDER NAOMI WILDMAN

  WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL, I WANTED TO BE THE CAPTAIN OF A STARSHIP. I know lots of kids have the same ambition, but I wasn’t planning to be the captain of any starship. Oh no, I had a very specific ship in mind. I was going to be captain of the U.S.S. Voyager.

  The thing about this ambition of mine is that it wasn’t so outlandish. Because I was born in the Delta Quadrant, and I spent most of my childhood on board Voyager, and as far as I was concerned, our captain was the best person in the entire Galaxy. I wanted to be her when I grew up. And in the meantime, I’d settle for being her assistant.

  Most people my age grew up following the story of Voyager—lost in the Delta Quadrant, seventy thousand light-years away from home, trying to get back to family and friends. For me, this was everyday life. You may have thrilled to hear the news that Voyager had been found, or two-way communication had been established, or, most excitingly of all, that after only seven years, a Borg transwarp conduit had brought our ship home.

  This might have been an amazing adventure for you, but for me it was— well, it was home. My mom, Sam Wildman, was serving as an ensign when Voyager was whisked away—and then found out she was pregnant. My birth story is one amongst many strange tales of those years, but it meant that growing up I knew no other life. Home was a little ship, a long way from where it had started, full of Starfleet and Maquis and all sorts of other interesting people, which most of the time sailed quietly through space—and some of the time came under attack from Vidiians or Hirogen or Kazon. My childhood friends were a Talaxian, an Ocampan, and two decommissioned Borg drones learning to be individuals. I learned logic games from a thoughtful Vulcan, and how to fix anything in front of me from a half-human, half-Klingon. I played the Captain Proton holodrama before most people had ever heard of it. And I learned courage, and wisdom, and grace under fire from the very best captain of all—Kathryn M. Janeway.

  Admiral Janeway, as she is now known, has been an inspiration to so many throughout the years. Who else could have held that crew together? Who else, through intelligence and sheer force of personality, could have made a group of Starfleet officers and Maquis fighters pull together and set course for home? Who else could have battled the Borg Queen, fought off the Hirogen—or played with such aplomb the part of holographic Arachnia, Queen of the Spider People, nemesis of Captain Proton? Who else would have taken time out of most days to check on her youngest crew member, Naomi, who loved her and admired her so much? Who else would have made that little girl her assistant?

  When I was that little girl, I wanted to grow up to be Kathryn Janeway. But the truth is, nobody could replace her—and Kathryn’s great skill is to persuade people to be the very best they could be. So many of us owe her so much. Thank you, Admiral, for bringing us home—but thank you, most of all, for the faith you showed us, and the way you brought out the best in us. There can only ever be one captain of Voyager—Kathryn Janeway.

  Naomi Wildman

  Executive Officer, Deep Space K-7

  CHAPTER ONE

  NO PLACE LIKE HOME—2336–2347

  WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL, MY MOTHER MADE POP-UP BOOKS. Do you recall the kind I mean? You turn a page and a whole scene springs up before your eyes. Even now, at this late stage of my life, I think these creations are miraculous. I guess it’s something to do with the craft, the careful construction and—yes— the engineering that’s involved. My mother’s creations were sheer marvels.

  My little sister and I each had our favorite. For Phoebe, three years my junior, it was Alice in Wonderland: an appropriate choice for a creative and artistic little girl, who seemed to inhabit a world of wonders. I loved that book as well: there was a little tunnel that my mother had constructed from card and clear paper, into which you had to peer to see Alice and the White Rabbit tumbling down. There was the house that sprang up with Alice’s huge arms and legs sticking out that never failed to make us laugh. Most beautiful of all, however, was the grand display of playing cards flying up into the air when we—joining in with Alice—would say, “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!”

  Yes, I loved Wonderland, but my real passion was for The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The story of Dorothy Gale, caught up in a tornado and torn away from her family to a strange land where she had to live by her brains, her heart, and her courage, making new friends, and finding her way home, appealed to me profoundly for some reason. My first glimpse of adventure. Safe at home, among my loving family, I dreamed of flying away to Oz. Mom’s version of the book was cunningly designed, from the cyclone that swept open on the first page, to the little pair of green glasses tucked into an envelope that you opened to explore the Emerald City, to the very last page where—most thrillingly, to my mind my mother’s most elaborate creation was to be found: a cardboard balloon that lay flat between the pag
es, until lifted on a string between two straws and pressed out, to leave the tiny basket dangling below. I sat with that book for many hours as a small child, enchanted not only by the story, but by working out how my mother had put all the elements together. Mom used to say that Daddy was the one who gave me the flying bug, the desire to take wing and soar off into space. But a huge part was played by her most wonderful, wizardly, cardboard balloon, travelling all the way from Oz.

  Looking back on my childhood, I see now that these books were the place where all our family’s interests came together. My mother, born Gretchen Williams, was an artist. She was always experimenting with new forms, but illustration was her true talent. You most likely know her as the author of over two dozen books and holodramas for children. Two or three generations of children have taken her stories to heart. Phoebe followed in her footsteps by having an artistic bent: I have a holopicture of them standing next to each other, Mom with a brush in her hand and a dollop of paint on her nose; Phoebe, beside her, exactly the same. I was no artist: my houses leaned sideways; my cute furry creatures looked savage; my human beings something from a horror holo. I can, however, hand draw very clear schematics.

  I was the scientist, the engineer, the practical one, the one who worked in numbers. I was the one who stared at the stars and mapped them, who wanted machines, who wanted to fly. In this, I followed my father Edward—Ted to friends, Teddy to my mother—who was an enthusiastic amateur pilot and astronomer. He was also a Starfleet flag officer, and this fact—which shaped our childhood through the sadness of his inevitable absences, and, at least as importantly, through the joy and intensity of his presence—was surely the defining feature of my life. More than anything, I wanted my brave, cheerful, wonderful father to be proud of me. More than anything, I wanted him to see me become the captain of a starship, exactly like him. It’s one of the great regrets of my life that this didn’t come to pass. Daddy saw me enter the Academy, but he didn’t see me captain a ship, let alone bring one safely home from the furthest journey a ship has ever made. But I get ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the beginning, back to a small country farm, in the Midwest, in the northern part of the continent of America, on Earth.

  * * *

  Our family home was a small farm outside Bloomington, Indiana. My mother’s family had been settled in the region for several generations—Midwesterners through and through. We knew the Williams family story (pioneers, settlers— the traditional covered wagons), and both my maternal grandparents and my mother herself made sure we knew the full history of this land that we lived on and not the partial account that had once been taught, in the old days of nation-states and manifest destiny. One of the peoples who lived here before my ancestors arrived were the Potawatomi, Native Americans of the Great Plains, forced out in the nineteenth century. They call themselves the Neshnabé, the original people. My mother made sure that both Phoebe and I understand that the land that we called home had been the home of many people before us and will be the home of many after us. We learned stories from other people too. A particular favorite of mine was a Cherokee story about the Water Spider; one of my mother’s friends wrote and illustrated a book about it that I loved. The Water Spider goes on a long journey to find fire to help the other animals survive. The other animals boast that they will find it and laugh at her when she promises them that she will. But she weaves a boat from her own webs and sails across the water, carrying back with her a hot coal, and she is celebrated for her courage and her honor. I often thought of the Water Spider, on my journey home.

  My maternal grandparents, Hector and Ellen Williams, lived on their own farm on land adjacent to ours, and Phoebe and I were often there. One of my earliest memories is of an old oak tree that stood on my grandparents’ farm. I learned to climb on that old tree, and Grandpa built a swing for me on its boughs. It was a favorite playmate. One very hot summer afternoon, when the grown-ups were sitting sweltering in the shade, my demands for a playmate were rebuffed; after a tantrum, I took my grievances off to the swing, which I punished for a good hour or so. It’s testament to Grandpa’s skill as a carpenter that I didn’t bring the whole thing down on my own head. When I got tired of that, I climbed up the tree, and sulked for a while. Eventually, still cross but now tired and hot, I repented, and went back indoors, where Grandma cheered everyone’s spirits with slushes. An hour later, the inevitable storm started, and I watched from the window as the rains hammered down. The thunder started, then the light show, and I counted between lightning and rumble to see how close the storm was coming. And then—I can still see this in my mind’s eye—a strike of lightning hit the oak tree, splitting it right down the middle.

  The scream I let out brought the whole household running. Grandpa was there first, but he couldn’t get any sense out of me. When I pointed out to the tree, however, he understood. He put his big arm around my shoulder and pulled me into a hug.

  “Scary, huh, Katy? One minute a tree’s there, tall and strong, and the next it’s gone.”

  Yes, he understood. Lightning strikes so suddenly, so unexpectedly. An old tree that had been supporting you that afternoon could be gone by evening. Looking back now I see that this was my first sense that misfortune can hit even in the safest of places, that we cannot prepare ourselves for every eventuality that life throws at us. I can see too that it was my first brush with mortality, the realization that even old, strong things might suddenly be felled in their prime.

  That night the house rattled in the storm, but the next morning was sunny and bright. Grandpa and I went out together and had a good look at our poor old stricken tree. I shed a tear or two, until Grandpa distracted me by saying we were here to find a present for my mother. And we did find a present, a good big piece of burned wood, and brought it back home for her, like proud hunters: a fine piece of charcoal for Mommy to draw me pictures with.

  * * *

  My father’s family, the Janeways, whose roots ultimately went back to the west of Ireland, were considerably more peripatetic than the Williams clan, but Portage Creek, Indiana was their base from at least the early years of the twentieth century. My paternal grandparents came back to Bloomington when my paternal grandmother, Caitlin Janeway, took up a professorship at the university: she was an aeronautics engineer, a materials scientist specializing in alloys for use in deep space, one of a long tradition of women in our family to devote themselves to exploring the stars, a tradition which it has been my honor to continue. My paternal grandfather, Cody Janeway, was Starfleet, reaching the rank of commander and serving as chief science officer on various vessels. Family legend has it that he once turned down the chance to serve with a certain Captain Kirk, but I have not been able to find any evidence to prove this, and Grandpa, the old rogue, would never tell the story past a nod and a wink. I’d love to find out the truth of things: family legends do have a tendency to exaggerate! Granddad took up a teaching post at the university when my grandmother took up her chair, and both seemed content to have put down roots at last, allowing their teenage children to attend the same school for several years in succession. Since they lived in the big city of Bloomington, Phoebe and I called our paternal grandparents Granny-in-town and Granddad-in-town, the Grands-in-town for short. They weren’t daily presences in the same way as my mother’s parents, Grandpa and Grandma, but they were still significant influences in our lives.

  My mother and father, despite growing up so close to each other, did not meet at high school, nor were they even introduced to each other by mutual friends (and there were several, or so it turned out). No, they met in Geneva, of all places. How did that happen, when my mother did not willingly go further than Bloomington, and even then complained about having to leave her art and the farm behind? Well, shortly before graduating high school, my mother became deeply concerned with humanitarian issues: I think she had seen footage of the refugee crisis on Koltaari. Somehow, a teacher at school persuaded her to attend a youth conference being held at the old Unit
ed Nations buildings in Geneva, where young people from across the Federation were gathering to learn more about how the Federation and Starfleet could assist in bringing aid to the refugees. My mother was not sure: the event lasted a whole month. But her passion won out over her domesticity, and she duly went along. Even my mother, a true home bird, had to admit that this trip—the longest she ever spent away from home—had been worth it. She brought home a young man, a Starfleet cadet, starry-eyed with love for this quiet and talented girl. They married the year they both turned twenty-two, when my father graduated from Starfleet Academy.

  Knowing that my father’s career meant that he would by necessity be away for long periods of time, but not wanting to delay starting their family, my mother and father decided that they would make their home close to my mother’s parents. Mom was well supported when we were small, and able to carry on with her own work as an artist and illustrator. Grandpa and Grandma were therefore very strong presences in our lives; their wedding gift to my parents was the land next to their own farm, and there my parents built their family home, and established their own small farm. I know that many people are anxious to get away from their families as quickly as possible on reaching maturity, but this was not the case with my mother. She simply did not have the wanderlust of her husband and elder child. She was happy in the land where she had been born; she had everything she needed there. One of many ways in which we never quite understood each other—but I guess that this is the definition of true love, isn’t it? It doesn’t try to change; it accepts the other for what she is. Still, children are sensitive creatures. I knew that this gap in her understanding of me existed, and when I thought about that, it made me sad.

  Don’t let me leave you with the wrong impression! Most of all you should imagine a very happy, very loved little girl, who lived—in many ways—an idyllic childhood. The great grief of my early childhood—and Phoebe will forgive me for saying this, I know—was the arrival of The Baby. I was three years old, and had, until then, been the absolute center of attention for all the adults in my immediate vicinity. With Grandpa I dug in the garden and ate Welsh rarebit. With Grandma I baked cookies and other treats. As for Mommy and Daddy, they had surely been put on Earth to do my bidding. And then… Well, I knew something wasn’t right when Mommy started to have naps all the time, just when I was giving up on them, and wasn’t as eager to get down on the floor and play with me as usual. Then she started to get bigger and bigger… People said things like, “Are you looking forward to The Baby, Katy?” and “You’ll have a playmate when The Baby arrives, won’t you, Katy?” and “Do you want a brother or a sister, Katy?”