Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

CHAPTER 1

    F IREWORKS BROKE HIGH ACROSS THE INVERTED REFLECTION OF THE city lights on black water. San Francisco Bay shimmered with colored streams and rediscovered the night sky. On the newly refurbished Golden Gate Bridge, an icon so long established that no one could imagine these waters without the great suspended structure, thousands upon thousands of spectators cheered at the spectacular explosions in the sky. The city in its dazzling livery, millions of jewel-like lights bundled into geometric shapes, began to flicker on and off from building to building in a coordinated tribute. Though the bridge was old and the fireworks an ancient art, this was a supremely modern scene that could only happen in a population center.
    Out of the gauzy clouds the enormous cetacean body of the starship swept downward, almost touching the teaming balustrades, only to rise at the last moment. The reflection of her nacelles glowed brightly in the gunmetal water below as her oblong primary hull rose to blow the geodesic fireworks into a blizzard.
    On the bridge, the crowd roared and waved their arms wildly. The ship passed over their heads in a tidy maneuver, came about, and made another pass.
    The starship looked somewhat old-fashioned now despite the patches of alien armor defiantly fixed to a quarter of her hull area, and the other three-quarters scratched and scarred by turmoil. She was like an old warhorse, still holding her head up despite her bleeding flanks and ratted mane.
    “These should be familiar images to everyone who remembers the
U.S.S. Voyager'
s triumphant return to Earth after twenty-three years in the Delta Quadrant.
Voyager
captivated the hearts and minds of people throughout the Federation, so it seems fitting that on the tenth anniversary of their return we take a moment to recall the sacrifices made by the crew.”
    The newscaster wasn't very inspiring. Maybe he'd overrehearsed.
    Still, quite a show. That business of the city lights' flashing in a coordinated performance was a new thing. Well, new ten years ago.
    Ten years. Seemed like forty.
    And twenty-six years in space, lost, toying daily with hopelessness, struggle, challenge, isolation . . .
whush.
    Funny how the toughest tests in life could turn out to be the best part of life. The things people often said they wanted most—peace and quiet, easy advancement, security—weren't really the most satisfying experiences after all, or the ones that kept people together.
    Thus, nostalgia. Kathryn Janeway found herself peeling back the pages of her life to that stressful quarter century rushing at high warp through the Delta Quadrant, out of place, away from comfort, without help, struggling by the day to keep a ship and crew together with a single ideal and making sure that ideal didn't fade.
    Had she been right or wrong to push them onward? There had been other civilizations they could've joined, lived out a life on some nice planet, more fulfilled, have other careers, more family, a chance to be captains themselves if they wanted. Maybe if she'd known then about the twenty-three years . . .
    Oh, how old was that question? Older than the whole voyage, now. Old and shriveled. She'd combed her hair with it every morning since the ship found itself propelled seventy thousand light-years into deep space with no shortcut home. She'd made a decision and stuck with it. Why look back now?
    But twenty-six years . . .
    She picked up her old coffee cup, one of the last links to her great long struggle, and turned it a little to avoid the chip in the rim. Six times she'd had to rescue this cup from attentive yeomen who wanted to get her a new one.
    “Earlier today in the Tri-Nebulas,” the newscaster went on, “corruption charges were brought against a Ferengi gaming consortium—”
    “Computer, end display.”
    Janeway stood up from her Victorian couch and moved past the Bombay wicker table to the vast curved window. In the soft glass she caught a faint echo of her silver-streaked hair and rather liked the image. Maybe she was indulging herself with a touch of vanity, but other than the streaks, she thought she hadn't changed that much. A few lines here and there—a few.
    Beyond the reflection lay the always stunning expanse of San Francisco Bay and the bridge. This fan-shaped wing of apartment buildings had been architecturally designed to give all residents this view. It had become a favorite living space for many admirals who wanted to remain close to