Living Daylights
Prologue: Captain's Log
Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 61195.15Voyager has been stranded in the Delta Quadrant for more than fifteen years. Her once gleaming hull of distinguished gray is marred by black streaks from phaser fire or any number of other weapons during the countless battles for survival.
The warp drive has been rebuilt from scavenged parts every year for the past seven. But thanks to the ingenuity and resourcefulness of my chief Engineer Lt. Torres and the crew, Voyager keeps purring along. We've acquired so much new technology, partly to keep Voyager alive and partly as defense, that it will probably take Starfleet engineers decades to fully understand the hybridized Intrepid-class starship.
We've managed to limit the skirmishes with the Borg, though they've left us unmolested for nearly four years. At first, I suspected the Borg Queen was up to something. It's been so long since we've had contact perhaps they were stung once too often. To be on the safe side, we've managed to travel on the outermost edge of Borg space, skirting large concentrations of them. The cautious course had added at least ten years, at current speeds, to get home. But in the grand scheme, it's a mere blink compared to the fifty years we've still got a head of us.
Our reason for caution lies not in the fragility of an aging ship, but in the care for our offspring. I never imagined that I'd be commanding a generation ship. There have been brave Starfleet captains who accommodated youths on board. But Voyager was a small ship, never designed for deep space or exploration or for a mission this long. It wasn't what I expected, but there were mitigating circumstance beyond our control. Now, I wouldn't have it any other way. They are the reason we've kept our bow pointed toward home.
As a result, 154 crewmembers has swelled to 233 and holding steady. All of our couples have voluntarily limited their reproduction through the usual methods. With limited resources and finite space, it's logical to do so. That's one decision I haven't had to involve myself in as Captain and I'm eternally grateful. As it stands, housing accommodations are cramped. Children are bunking with their parents in single- and double-room quarters. We've made non-standard use of materials we've found on planets to afford some privacy. But that is not our immediate concern.
As always, we scan for water and safe nutritional resources. Our hydroponics bay is teeming with all manner of flora, all grown for consumption and oxygenation. We've even added comfort food, courtesy of a race whose origins were Terran. We grow cocoa beans, corn and potatoes to name a few. I think my crew will end up writing the quintessential Starfleet textbook on survival.
Our children are educated in the time-honored traditions of mathematics, history, Federation literature, survival and self-defense and anything we can to not only ensure their survival, but to ensure the transmission of our values and cultures. Regretfully, they are not able to run in a field or swim in alien oceans or lakes. But, like their parents, they are resourceful. The constant challenge to Lt. Tal Celes, who administers Voyager Academy, is to keep them busy and learning. The ebb in either case means they turn their attention to mischief. But as my dear wife, Seven of Nine, so often tells me: mischief in youth is ingenuity in adulthood.
The beings of light, that mysterious force, have pushed the ship further away from Sector Zero Zero One. We have made several attempts to contact them using the thirteen crystal skulls. The first attempt resulted in the death of the crewman handling the final skull. Several attempts have been made to integrate the photonic beings into the matrices of the Emergency Medical Hologram. The integration is short-lived and the Doctor's attempts to communicate are either rebuffed or ineffective. Yet, the beings still seem to have an interest in our direction. The logical course heading they appear to point us to would take us out of the known galaxy into black galactic space. We have no idea if it is merely a cruelty or some bizarre desire or need.
There have been fewer friendly races in this region of space, a mere twenty light years from the edge. Resources are fewer here and the fear of Borg threats greater. While the scientist in me is fascinated by the prospect of being the first Starfleet Captain to catalog this region of space, the mother and wife in me are terrified. But we march on toward home.
Computer, end log.