The Murdered Sun - Christie Golden [0]
by: Christie Golden
Copyright 1996
CHAPTER 1
It was never truly silent aboard the Starship Voyager. There was always far too much going on for that--the activities of the crew at all hours, whether on duty or off; the constant faint sounds of machinery operating smoothly and efficiently as it had been designed to do. These were all sounds that Kathryn Janeway had learned to know and love through years aboard starships, serving in one capacity or another as she forged a career that had earned her this command, this ship, this crew.
She shifted in the smooth, dark blue sheets, trying to mentally transform the faint, constant hum of her ship into the comforting white noise that had so often eased her insomnia into much-needed rest. But it did not seem that it was going to happen tonight.
She buried her face against the pillow, trying to shut off her mind, which insisted on working busily even though the timecounter told her it was 02:32.
Her mind did not cooperate. It persisted in finding things to seize on and gnaw at worriedly. Janeway smiled a little at the image; it reminded her of Molly Malone, when that faithful dog had gotten hold of one of Mark's shoes and decided that it made the finest plaything in the world.
The smile faded. Mark I miss you. Every night, as she prepared for sleep, Janeway promised herself sternly that she would not wear the smooth pink satin nightgown Mark had given her as a going-away present.
She did not need the unnecessary physical token. It only sharply reminded her of all that she and her crew had been ripped away from.
She told herself this quite brusquely. Yet every night, she disobeyed her own orders, donning the sleek garment and brushing out her long hair while staring at a picture of a smiling Mark and a grinning, tongue-lolling Irish setter.
By day, busy with either major or minor activities, Janeway could banish intrusive thoughts of her loved ones to the back of her mind.
There was certainly an overabundance of things to do, plenty of problems to solve, more than enough people to worry about on this, perhaps the strangest mission upon which a Starfleet vessel had ever embarked. But at night... Ah, at night, alone in her too large bed in her too empty quarters, her own worries and needs crowded upon her and would not let her be.
Janeway grimaced at her own melancholia. This is ridiculous. If I can't sleep, I might as well get up and do something.
She sat up, reached for a brush, and began brushing her reddish brown mane into obedience.
"Computer," she called, "what is the status of holodeck one?"
"Holodeck one is not in use," replied the computer in its prim, crisp female voice.
"Then reserve it for my use," said Janeway. She swung her legs out of bed. Normally, she'd continue the conversation, asking the computer to replicate a specific costume. But in the months since the mysterious Caretaker had brought them to this quadrant, she had taken to keeping outfits rather than unduly taxing the replicator. It was an order she had issued almost at once. It was a good thing that the holodeck's energy did not have to be rationed, and she did not begrudge her strained, hard-working crew appropriate attire for the mental and physical exercises a jaunt on the holodeck provided, but for the foreseeable future they'd have to do as they did in "olden days" and take care of the clothing they did have.
Which suddenly makes closet space a premium, she mused wryly as she looked over her collection of costumes.
A ball gown from Earth's Regency period in England. A muslin dress from that same planet's western pioneer days. The sleek, inviting garb of a Marillian gem trader. The prim, proper garb of a British governess. She shook her head. None of these suited her present brooding state of mind.
"I want to fight something," she announced aloud. She had just found the perfect outfit--the garb of a twenty-second-century Orion pirate--when Tuvok's calm voice broke her