Star Trek - VOY - The Captain's Table 04 - The Fireship

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Star Trek - VOY - The Captains Table, Book 4 of 6 - The Fireship.txt

STAR TREK VOYAGER CAPTAINS TABLE: THE FIRE SHIP [065-066-4.9]

By: DIANE CAREY

SYNOPSIS:

Captain Janeway ... in her own words!

"When I went into the escape pod, part of my hair had been burned off

above the shoulders. When I came out, it was an inch below the shoulder.

How much time was that?

I wanted to walk. I tried, but had no idea where 'down' was. My foil

poncho crinkled as several strong hands lifted me. My scorched hand

moved in a pathetic wave of thanks.

I saw figures over me, humanoid if not human. "Do you understand me?'

one of them asked. "Yes, I do.' My voice was raspy, smoke-rawed and out

of practice.

"I'm Ruvan, chief medic. This is Zell, our second in command.' He turned

to Zell and said, "She has burns over thirty percent of her body, but

only four percent are deep damage. I have them treated and compressed.

Her legs are the worst. She can walk, but slowly and with help. Another

week in that pod and her muscles would have atrophied.'

"At least we found her in time.' Zell said. "She's alive. We're all

alive for now. It's good enough."

The first officer turned to me and took a step closer. "Welcome aboard

the Zingara. I don't recognize your species. Who are you and where do

you come from?"'

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you

purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was

reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed." Neither the author

nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this "stripped

book."

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is

entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS POCKET BOOKS, a division of

Simon & Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster

Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket

Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-01467-6

First Pocket Books printing July 1998

Page 1

Star Trek - VOY - The Captains Table, Book 4 of 6 - The Fireship.txt

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of

Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

"Naow, about going'back. Allowin'we could do it, which we can't, you

ain't in no fit state to go back to your home, an' we'vejest come on to

the Banks, workin'fer our bread ... an' with good luck we'll be ashore

again somewheres abaout the first weeks o' September."

-Captain Disko Troop Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling

"AND JUST HOW DID YOU FIND YOUR WAY TO nb CAFFAIN's Table?" a stout man

in oilskins asked her.

"I smelled fire. And trouble."

"Both bad things at sea. Please go on."

Captain Kathryn Janeway sipped at her brandy, then did as she had been

asked.

Maybe it was just cabbage stew. Trouble and cooked cabbage smelled a lot

alike.

Dark planets always made me uneasy. Humans had sixth, seventh senses.

I'd turned to listen. "This way," I said with an unnecessary beckon.

"Why that way?"

"I don't know."

The narrow street was wet with recent rain, and there was a sense of

steam around us. Dim figures came and went from doorways, cloaked and

unspeaking. My mind made something of it, but perhaps the downcast eyes

and drawn hoods were due only to the night chill. I hoped so, but ...

"Captain?"

Back to work.

I turned, and tripped on a faulty brick in the streetdoors, windows,

banners, and signs spun, and so did I. All elbows, a kneel tried to

catch myself, failed-and Tom Paris caught me.

A clumsy captain. That's what every crewman wants to see-his elegant,

surefooted, universally competent captain taking a spill on a grimy

street.

"Shall we dance, madam?" Paris's college-boy face beamed at me, backlit

by a gauzy street lamp.

"Quit grinning, Lieutenant," I snapped. "Starship captains don't trip.

And we never dance."

He smiled wider and arranged me on my feet, making me ponder

courts-martial for a second or two. "I'm sorry, Captain, I just thought

your injuries-"

"They're fine."

Another few steps padded away under our feet before I realized that my

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Star Trek - VOY - The Captains Table, Book 4 of 6 - The Fireship.txt

mood had completely changed. Caution had blended to intrigue. I could no

more turn back than fly.

We were heading down an alley that made me think of Old London's back

ways, heading toward a corner and another street. I wanted to get there,

but caution boiled up a certain restraint. A few seconds wouldn't

matter.

A passerby now looked up and nodded greeting. So other moods had changed

too?

"This place feels really familiar," I mentioned.

"I thought I was imagining it," Paris said. "No place in the Delta

Quadrant can possibly look familiar to us, unless we double back on our

course-"

-and we didn't do that," I abbreviated. "This place seems like an old

movie to me ... a Gothic mystery ... one of those stories with the

light in the castle tower and the woman in the diaphanous nightgown

running across a moor, casting back a fearful glance-"

Paris bumped his head on a hanging sign. "Looks like a western to me."

Casting him a glare, I said, "Lieutenant, let's get around that corner."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

An unexplained thrill ran down my arms as cobblestones kneaded our

soles. Holmes, are you hiding there around the corner? Watson? Wet and

foggy, yet cowled in city sounds and people's voices muffled behind

shutters. There were no horses' hooves or wagon wheels-this culture was

beyond that-but I found myself listening for a clop and clatter. The

smoke-yellow streetlamps were electrical but inadequate. I had a feeling

not of neglect but purpose. Just a feeling ... nothing but a feeling ...

Usually feelings didn't so completely guide me. Usually I depended upon

rationality, upon keeping feelings reined hard, for they were inaccurate

and undependable. Not how do I feel, but what do I think-that's what

guided me, and so far had kept us all alive. Feelings were too

susceptible to fears, and fear was a daily diet on this unending

mission. And feelings were too sudden.

Even good feelings had been reined in a long time ago. I enjoyed a few

things, but always kept control and never let myself enjoy too much. I

never went over the top and forgot where we were and why. This kind of

restraint, for a human being-a human woman-was unfortunate and even

unnatural, but serviceable for me. If I kept my feelings in their place,

good and bad, then I could handle the truly awful.

Like these last few days. Truly ... Just as I cast off my thoughts as

beginning to be a little too Vulcan, I realized the voices we were

hearing had gotten notably louder now that Paris and I had rounded the

corner. Nothing raucous-just easier to hear, even delineate individuals.

Somebody was having a pleasant time. Down the street, there was a

rowdier place somewhere.

There were several doorways, each with some kind of hawker's sign

swaying gently over it. When had a breeze come up?

I came to the first door on the left, snuggled into a leathery wooden

archway by a good meter, and the heavy ak (I open by what looked like an

aged-o door was proppe iron bootscraper. There was music, and a heady

scent of fire and food. My memories stirred and pushed me toward the

door.

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Star Trek - VOY - The Captains Table, Book 4 of 6 - The Fireship.txt

"Tavern of some kind." I looked up at the dreary wooden sign and the

carved letters.

"The Captain's Table ..

"Sounds nice," Paris commented. I peered briefly at the faded paint in

the shape of four stars in each corner of the sign. "Very nice, Tom. But

why is it written in English?"

He eyed the sign again. "English ..

At a table to my right, voices muttered and drew my attention.

"-two months out of Shanghai when a gale mauled our rudder clean off. We

hove to in high seas and sawed planks out of spare spars. For four days

we fitted a jury rudder, then piloted with lines and tackles around the

Cape."

"Eight thousand miles-a feat of seamanship wizardry for sure, Captain

Moodie."

"A compliment, Charlie, from a man who ran the Bora in a steam launch."

"Oh, yeah, me and Rosie could move mountains, give or take them

leeches."

As the two men paused, noticing me, I moved on into the pub, leaving

them some privacy.

The wooden door wouldn't open without my shoulder involved. The wood was

warm from inside, but dank on its surface from the fingers of fog

slipping under the archway. I walked down a short corridor that guided

me into a left turn, through a second archway with darkened timber and a

whiff of sea rot. As I turned, the Captain's Table tavern opened before

me.

A warm smoky cloak wrapped my shoulders and took me by the waist like an

old friend's arm at a fireside, coddling me into the clublike

environment of a country pub. To my left, there was a piano, but no one

was playing. Its rectangled rosewood top sprawled like a morning

airfield, reflecting incamated gaslight from sconces on the

paisley-papered wall. Before me was a raft of round tables, at the

tables were people. Beings. Mostly men, a few women-most looked human

but there were some aliens-who sat in wooden armchairs worn to a warm

grousefeather brown.

Over there, to the right along the wall was a glossy cherrywood bar with

moleskin stools. The age-darkened bar laughed with carved Canterbury

Tales-type figures. Over a mirrored backsplash a shelf was crammed with

whiskey jugs, ship's decanters, and every manner of bottle. Over the bar

and bottles glowered a huge Canadian elk head with a full rack, which

threw me for a moment because it was so undeniably of Earth. I looked

down at my uniform, expecting to see an English shooting suit. If I

looked out a window, would I see hedgerows and pheasants?

I might see England, except that the image would be rippled by the

occupant of a majolica bowl on the piano ... a lizard? At first I

thought it was part of the ceramic design on the bowl, but no, it was a

real live gecko, a mottled yellow-green chap with two-thirds of a tail,

and he was enjoying feasting on the conch fritters in the bowl. I

would've warned somebody that a creature had crawled in, except that

several people from a table over there were watching the gecko and

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Star Trek - VOY - The Captains Table, Book 4 of 6 - The Fireship.txt

commenting on the length of its regrowing tail.

A British pub in the Delta Quadrant with conch fritters and a live-in

lizard. Hmm ... Many of the people glanced up-some nodded, others

raised their glasses to me, and still others glanced, then ignored me

further. A young man in a cable-knit Irish sweater, with longish ivory

hair and a voice like a Druid ghost's, softly greeted me, "Captain."

How did he know?

As I paused and returned his look, I noticed that there was glass

crunching under my boot. As the company turned for their own look, a

lull in the general movement of the place made me notice what they'd

been doing-that several people were scooping up spilled food and

righting toppled glasses and chairs. Here and there someone was nursing

a bruised face or a bleeding lip. There'd been a fight.

Then a fellow wearing a maroon knit shirt, with a sailing ship and

scrolled lettering embroidered on the left side of the chest, nodded and

invited, "Welcome aboard, Captain. Relax. We'll have it all cleaned up

in no time."

Beside him, a large creature, with a mirrored medallion on his chest and

a set of antlers rivaling the elk's on his head, nodded elegantly as the

lamplight played on the hollow bones of his face. He was demonic, yes,

but still somehow welcoming. I didn't feel threatened at all. Even my

instincts were voiceless.

The embroidery on the shirt didn't really surprise me-if a planet had

water and wind, there was also some sort of sailing vessel. Common sense

of function demanded certain designs, just as telling time and traffic

control had a certain universal sense that could be counted upon just

about everywhere. There were only so many ways to run an intersection.

But the two who had spoken were clearly human and shouldn't have been in

the Delta Quadrant at all. My crew and myself were the only humans in

the Delta Quadrant.

I rotated that a couple of times in my mind until I finally didn't

believe it at all. Most of these people looked very human indeed, though

quite a range of types-not unusual for a tavern in a spacelane, in a

populated sector with civilized pockets.

"My crew was a mixture of types from all over," someone was saying-a

young man's voice, but without the flippancy of youth. I looked at the

nearest table and saw several people listening intently to a small-boned

young man in a blue jacket with red facing running down the chest. His

white neckerchief was loosened, and though he seemed relaxed, he also

seemed troubled by his own story.

"The ship wasn't even ours. It was a converted merchantman on loan to

us. Many of her timbers had rot in them, and though we possessed forty

guns, several of those were inoperative. It was in the afternoon that

the enemy closed on us, and the breeze was fading. We would soon be

outmatched and crippled. On our last move, the enemy's sprit caught our

mizzen shrouds-"

"Oh, my," someone uttered, and half the company shuddered with empathy.

The young man nodded somewhat cheerily at this. "Yes, but I lashed it

there. Why not? I thought my ship would sink otherwise, and I wanted to

fight! So I lashed up to something that would keep me afloat. My enemy's

ship."

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StarTrek-VOY-TheCaptainsTable,Book4of6-TheFireship.txtSTARTREKVOYAGERCAPTAINSTABLE:THEFIRESHIP[065-066-4.9]By:DIANECAREYSYNOPSIS:CaptainJaneway...inherownwords!"WhenIwentintotheescapepod,partofmyhairhadbeenburnedoffabovetheshoulders.WhenIcameout,itwasaninchbelowtheshoulder.Howmuchtimewasthat?Iwanted...

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