Paris here, Captain, in case we stir up one side—I mean, if we approach the P’nir first, the Hachai might assume it’s a trick and try to destroy the Voyager…”
“Or vice versa,” Chakotay said. “I agree, Captain—I’d be pleased if you would send Mr. Kim as my pilot, and keep Paris here on the Voyager.”
That statement startled Kim as much as Kim’s volunteering had startled Janeway; he hadn’t thought that Chakotay liked him much.
Of course, Kim immediately realized, it might just be that Chakotay liked Paris even less. Kim had not yet figured out the peculiar relationship between Paris and Chakotay—they seemed to despise one another, and yet to respect each other at the same time. Chakotay had considered Paris a mercenary and a traitor to the Maquis, while Paris, as far as Kim could see, seemed to think of Chakotay as an arrogant idealist, yet the two had saved each other’s lives…
But then, Kim thought, he wasn’t very good at figuring out people’s motives, not even his own. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d volunteered to pilot the shuttlecraft, let alone what was going on behind Chakotay’s forehead tattoo, or Paris’s insouciant smile.
The captain looked Kim over thoughtfully; Kim wondered if she understood his motives better than he did. He rather thought she did.
“Very well,” Janeway agreed. “And I think we’ll want one more person aboard, as a backup, if for nothing else—Mr. Kim, have Mr. Rollins meet you at the shuttlebay.”
“Yes, Captain!” Kim turned to his controls for a final moment, transmitting the order, before rising and heading for the turbolift.
Chakotay, moving with deliberate grace, followed Ensign Kim. He paused in the doorway long enough to say, “Wish us luck, Captain.”
Before Janeway could respond, the lift door had closed and the two men were gone.
“Good luck,” she said anyway, addressing the empty air of the bridge.
Chapter 12
“It’s really quite beautiful,” Kes said, staring at the main viewer.
Startled, Janeway turned to glance up at the Ocampa, wondering what she was looking at.
Kes, Janeway saw, was watching the same thing as most of the others on the bridge—the display on the main screen, showing the ongoing battle ahead of them.
“What’s beautiful?” she asked.
“That,” Kes said, pointing at the viewer.
“You mean the battle?” Janeway asked, puzzled. That seemed out of character for Kes. The Ocampa were not a warrior race, by any means; their underground civilization was peaceful, placid, and nonviolent.
What beauty could one of them see in a genocidal war?
“Yes,” Kes replied. She shifted her gaze from the screen to the captain and saw Janeway’s expression. She glanced down at the smear of dark dust where the Hachai doll had lain, and then met Janeway’s gaze again.
“I mean, it’s beautiful if you don’t know that it’s thousands of sentient beings trying to kill each other,” Kes tried to explain.
“It’s visually beautiful, at this distance, however horrible it may really be for the people involved. If you just look at the patterns, at the colors and shapes, then it is, it’s beautiful.”
Janeway turned to look at the screen, trying to see what Kes saw.
They were close enough to the battle now that even without magnification, it was no longer a distant ball of sparkling light; instead it was a sprawling amorphous mass where individual shapes could be made out, weaving about each other, cutting through the cloud of dust and debris left by their destroyed companions. Weapons flashed pink and gold and deep rich blue, energy beams appearing and disappearing, connecting one ship to another for an instant, then vanishing again as shields flared or the target dodged out of the line of fire. Formations arose, as if by spontaneous generation, to sweep through a particular sector or close in on a lone victim, only to break apart again into individual ships seconds later, when the enemy countered
“Or vice versa,” Chakotay said. “I agree, Captain—I’d be pleased if you would send Mr. Kim as my pilot, and keep Paris here on the Voyager.”
That statement startled Kim as much as Kim’s volunteering had startled Janeway; he hadn’t thought that Chakotay liked him much.
Of course, Kim immediately realized, it might just be that Chakotay liked Paris even less. Kim had not yet figured out the peculiar relationship between Paris and Chakotay—they seemed to despise one another, and yet to respect each other at the same time. Chakotay had considered Paris a mercenary and a traitor to the Maquis, while Paris, as far as Kim could see, seemed to think of Chakotay as an arrogant idealist, yet the two had saved each other’s lives…
But then, Kim thought, he wasn’t very good at figuring out people’s motives, not even his own. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d volunteered to pilot the shuttlecraft, let alone what was going on behind Chakotay’s forehead tattoo, or Paris’s insouciant smile.
The captain looked Kim over thoughtfully; Kim wondered if she understood his motives better than he did. He rather thought she did.
“Very well,” Janeway agreed. “And I think we’ll want one more person aboard, as a backup, if for nothing else—Mr. Kim, have Mr. Rollins meet you at the shuttlebay.”
“Yes, Captain!” Kim turned to his controls for a final moment, transmitting the order, before rising and heading for the turbolift.
Chakotay, moving with deliberate grace, followed Ensign Kim. He paused in the doorway long enough to say, “Wish us luck, Captain.”
Before Janeway could respond, the lift door had closed and the two men were gone.
“Good luck,” she said anyway, addressing the empty air of the bridge.
Chapter 12
“It’s really quite beautiful,” Kes said, staring at the main viewer.
Startled, Janeway turned to glance up at the Ocampa, wondering what she was looking at.
Kes, Janeway saw, was watching the same thing as most of the others on the bridge—the display on the main screen, showing the ongoing battle ahead of them.
“What’s beautiful?” she asked.
“That,” Kes said, pointing at the viewer.
“You mean the battle?” Janeway asked, puzzled. That seemed out of character for Kes. The Ocampa were not a warrior race, by any means; their underground civilization was peaceful, placid, and nonviolent.
What beauty could one of them see in a genocidal war?
“Yes,” Kes replied. She shifted her gaze from the screen to the captain and saw Janeway’s expression. She glanced down at the smear of dark dust where the Hachai doll had lain, and then met Janeway’s gaze again.
“I mean, it’s beautiful if you don’t know that it’s thousands of sentient beings trying to kill each other,” Kes tried to explain.
“It’s visually beautiful, at this distance, however horrible it may really be for the people involved. If you just look at the patterns, at the colors and shapes, then it is, it’s beautiful.”
Janeway turned to look at the screen, trying to see what Kes saw.
They were close enough to the battle now that even without magnification, it was no longer a distant ball of sparkling light; instead it was a sprawling amorphous mass where individual shapes could be made out, weaving about each other, cutting through the cloud of dust and debris left by their destroyed companions. Weapons flashed pink and gold and deep rich blue, energy beams appearing and disappearing, connecting one ship to another for an instant, then vanishing again as shields flared or the target dodged out of the line of fire. Formations arose, as if by spontaneous generation, to sweep through a particular sector or close in on a lone victim, only to break apart again into individual ships seconds later, when the enemy countered
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