TITLE: The Last Flight
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
FEEDBACK TO: shafshir@microconnect.net
SERIES: ST: VOY
PART: 2/2
(Other information at beginning of Part 1. Acknowledgments at the end of this part.)
Paris swung past the big Jem'Hadar ship again, cloak securely in place, waiting for the enemy vessel to pick up the minor sensor distortion cloaked ships generated. The Jem'Hadar, indifferent to his efforts, continued to blast at random asteroids.
The heat in the shuttle wasn't high, but the pilot was sweating, knowing that if he couldn't bring the Jem'Hadar in over the right spot Chakotay and the others wouldn't have a chance. He tried another pass. //C'mon, you big dumb sons-of-test-tubes, here I am, here I am!// Still no reaction.
He checked the cloak again; still secure. Maybe a little too secure, he thought. At this rate, the Jem'Hadar would blow up every asteroid in the field before they noticed him. He had to get their attention *now*.
It occurred to him that, with as many hits as Crazy Horse had already taken, the Jem'Hadar might not find a sudden, temporary cloak failure too hard to believe. Hand over the switch, he toggled it just to the halfway mark, then shoved it back into the "full-on" position. That should give them a momentary glimpse of him, hopefully nothing conclusive.
//That did it.// As phased polaron beams and anti-proton beams seared through the blackness, he shifted into evasive mode, zipping the little shuttle through a lightning-quick series of maneuvers that the larger, clumsier vessel should have had trouble following even if they could see him. //Can't get me can't get me can't get me!// he taunted mentally, deliberately letting one anti-proton beam tag him so that the Jem'Hadar wouldn't lose track of him. //I'm over here, stupid!//
For the first time in longer than Paris could remember, he felt no fear, only exhilaration. This was nothing like flying Crazy Horse, no terrible weight of trying to minimize his damage to save his crewmates; so long as he attained his objective, even if he lost the shuttle no one would die but him. And he would attain it. If the undamaged, exquisitely-maintained shuttle was perfectly designed for its current mission, no less so was Tom Paris. A cat-and-mouse game of split-second reflexes and superbly-honed skills, with everything that mattered to him riding on his instincts and ability -- it was a game Paris was born to play. //Missed me missed me now you have to kiss me! Yuck, that's a disgusting thought!// Course of his opponent, trajectory of the Jem'Hadar's weapons beams, movement of the asteroids, capabilities of his own vessel, location of the Crazy Horse, Tom calculated them all in effortlessly, brain and hands processing and acting on information at a speed that would have done credit to an incredibly efficient computer. //Nyah nyah you can't get me!//
They didn't. A few minutes and hundreds of evasive maneuvers later, Paris led the big Jem'Hadar ship over a certain crater on a certain asteroid. Crazy Horse cut loose with what Paris knew without doubt was everything she had, phasers and photons and a few energy beams that were solely the product of invention and B'Elanna's imagination boring into the Jem'Hadar's undershielded underbelly, setting off a series of explosions.
Paris cut the evasive maneuvers and poured on the speed, trying to outrun the explosion that tore the monstrous vessel apart.
**********
B'Elanna met Paris in Crazy Horse's shuttlebay, with shining eyes and a hug so fierce it knocked his breath away.
Chakotay greeted him on the bridge, with a nod and a solemn look in the dark eyes that said //well done.// It was all the accolade Paris would have, and all he would ever need.
**********
Several days later, Paris was in the mess hall, crumbling bits of a partial field ration into a small cup of lukewarm water for the benefit of a tiny dark-skinned girl who watched him with enormous brown eyes. The water was all that was left of her daily ration; the food was the only edible he expected to receive today, unless they reached their objective. He felt light-headed, almost hollow, the dull headache pulsing behind his temples telling him that he needed to eat something. But he had seen the hunger with which the three-year-old devoured her small portion of tinned meat and crackers, and knew that he could wait longer for more food than she could.
"Here you are, Aisha," he said gently, folding her tiny hands around the cup. She hesitated one moment, giving him a look that asked permission. When he nodded, she yanked the cup to her lips and drank, quickly, greedily, as if she were expecting someone to take the precious food from her.
In what seemed like bare moments, it was gone anyway, and she was holding the cup out in front of her with a hopeful, "More?"
"I'm sorry. I don't have any more." With a wrench of pity, Paris spread his empty hands to prove the statement. The big eyes clouded over, the little face crumpled, with disappointment. The pilot fought down a lump in his throat as she turned away.
Chakotay's soft, familiar voice came over the intercom at that moment. "Command officers, please report to the bridge."
They must have reached their objective, as he'd thought they might today. Hands unconsciously straightening his blue shirt and vest -- not entirely clean, but unwrinkled and whole, the best garments he currently owned -- Paris rose to his feet and went to the lift.
When he got to the bridge, Paris saw that several of his fellow officers had been moved by the same sense of occasion as he had. Ayala was clad in relatively neat open-necked shirt and trousers of burgundy and black, his dark hair bound back from his face; while Tabor wore brown pants and a butternut tunic of a distinctly ceremonial cut. B'Elanna, at the engineering console, wore a silvery, almost silken, blouse over slate-gray slacks, and her dark hair was carefully combed and pinned back with a silver clip. Her face was shining clean.
Chakotay rose from the pilot's console as Tom entered, gesturing him toward the vacated seat with a wave of one hand. Tom noticed in passing that the garments the captain had chosen today were distinctly reminiscent of his ancient people: soft moccasins, brown leather trousers, a tunic dyed in deep blues, greens, golds, and reds, woven with ancient symbols Tom didn't know. The beard Chakotay had inherited from some non-Native ancestor had been carefully scraped away, leaving nothing to draw attention away from the blunt cheekbones and the aquiline nose, and his thick black hair was bound back into a traditional braid and tied with a scrap of leather. He looked every inch a dignified Native American, a war chief to be reckoned with.
Tom felt a flash of pride in his captain, and in all of their companions. Even at this last, they were not beggars. Even in defeat, they would be Maquis and strong.
As he slid into the pilot's seat, B'Elanna reached over and squeezed his hand, a little too tightly. Tom returned the pressure, and held on.
Chakotay, meanwhile, had moved to the small area in front of the consoles, facing the viewscreen. "Sensors have spotted a Federation Intrepid-class starship about fifteen light-years from here, vectors 145 mark 57."
At the name of the ship class, Paris gritted his teeth momentarily, saw B'Elanna doing the same. The adroit little Intrepids had captured more than their share of Maquis vessels earlier in the border wars, back in the days when the Federation had been one of the forces attempting to restrain the renegades. //It doesn't matter now,// he reminded himself forcefully. //All that matters now is that they won't treat our passengers, or us, the way the Cardies or the Jem'Hadar would.//
"Take us to her, Mister Paris," the captain went on, calmly. Paris, who could see that proud face in profile, saw not even a muscle twitch. "Ms. Torres, deflectors only. Mister Ayala, take weapons off-line. The last thing we want is for them to think we're attacking."
//As if we'd be much of a threat,// Tom added drily. In the words of a colloquialism popular during the earlier centuries he'd studied, Crazy Horse 2 was held together with spit, baling wire, and prayer -- and more of that last than of the first two.
"Now, Mister Tabor, if you would hail the ship...?"
For once in the little raider's history, the bridge crew obeyed their captain without question.
Not a flicker of emotion colored Chakotay's words. "Federation starship, this is the Maquis fighter Crazy Horse."
The voice that answered them was a woman's, with a clipped, precise pronunciation and a Terran/North American accent, somehow familiar. "Crazy Horse, hold your position. Do not advance further into Federation territory."
//Oh, God,// Paris thought, a hand clutching at his heart. //After all this, they're not going to turn us away...?// There had been a time when he would not have believed such an act possible of Starfleet or the Federation, to force a shipful of refugees back into hostile territory. That was before he had seen some of what they'd allowed to take place in the DMZ.
After a moment, he saw Chakotay nodding at him, and complied with the other captain's directive. "Holding position, Federation vessel," Chakotay said evenly. If the same doubt had occurred to him as had occurred to Paris, he did not reveal it.
The starship came into sight on their viewscreen. Intrepid-class, all right, registry number NCC-74656. U.S.S. Voyager, one of the very ships most famous for its success in taking Maquis vessels. Once it had come very near to capturing the original Crazy Horse, only Tom's skill and the blindest of luck saving the Maquis ship.
If this was Voyager, that meant the captain was...
"Captain Janeway," Chakotay said, as grave and courteous as a host greeting a high-ranking guest. "It's been a long time."
The woman's face flickered into existence on the viewscreen, handsome and angular, with fine blue eyes and cut-crystal cheekbones. "Captain Chakotay," she acknowledged, her tone and her expression a match for the Maquis captain's. "That it has. What brings you into Federation space?"
"As you may be aware, Captain," Chakotay said quietly, "the Maquis have fallen. I have aboard Crazy Horse a crew complement of thirty-five, for all I know the last of our people. We have come to surrender, recognizing that by doing so we have made ourselves subject to Federation law. There are also seventy-eight refugees aboard, most of them children, old people, and bearing women. I ask you and your Federation to grant them what sanctuary you can."
He shifted, straightening his shoulders fractionally, and went on, in the formal tone of a quotation: "It is cold, we have no blankets. The little children are freezing to death. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills, and have no blankets, no food. I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever."
He turned his head away, and Paris saw, at last, the banked fires of pain burning in the dark eyes.
**********
Despite Paris's fears, Crazy Horse 2's surrender was accepted. As the little vessel's commander, Chakotay was removed from Crazy Horse and remanded to Voyager's brig, along with a number of other members of his crew. Supplies and medical officers were dispatched to the Maquis vessel, alleviating the worst of its people's problems; those whom such resources were insufficient to save received transport to Voyager's sickbay.
Those Maquis deemed vital to ship's operations remained aboard Crazy Horse, working under the command of Captain Janeway's XO, a white-haired and tight-lipped commander named Cavit. Security teams were posted aboard the surrendered ship to ensure its people's compliance, exactly as if they had any viable alternative to compliance.
**********
In an overcrowded cabin reeking of humanoid sweat, Paris's little friend Aisha lay, happily replete, on a makeshift cot. An empty soup bowl, fruit seeds, and bread crumbs were scattered on the floor around her. Drawing a blanket up over the small shoulders, Tom touched the child's cheek, gently, and left her to her slumber.
One more thing to take care of. Then he could get the sleep that had eluded him what seemed like years now.
In a tiny cabin not far down the corridor, B'Elanna Torres sat on her own cot, arms wrapped around her knees and her gaze distant. Tom sat down on the cot next to her. "Credit for your thoughts?" he asked softly, hand cupping her shoulder.
Her eyes came back to him, slowly. "Just wondering where we go from here."
"Prison," he said calmly, and she nodded; it was no more than both of them had already known. "But we don't need to go separately."
"Tom?"
"They'll scatter the crew, of course. They wouldn't want us to have an opportunity to plan anything."
"As if we'd have anywhere to go. Or anyone to go to."
"True. But there's a way we can stay together, B'Elanna, you and I." He squeezed her shoulder, smiled tenderly at her uncomprehending expression. "There are facilities where they place married couples together.
"This isn't the way I wanted to ask, B'Elanna, and this sure as hell isn't where I wanted to ask, but if I don't do it here and now I'll never have another chance. And I don't want to lose you. Marry me, B'Elanna. Marry me so that we can stay together. Forever."
Comprehension dawned in her eyes. Then something else warmed the brown depths, and she reached for him, holding him tightly. "Yes, Tom. Yes."
Then two of the last Maquis slept on a single narrow cot, huddled together like little children against the cold.
--END--
[Acknowledgements: The speech Chakotay quotes was, of course, made by Nee Me Poo ("Nez Perce") leader Chief Joseph in his famous surrender. Joseph Little Otter reminded me of that speech when he quoted it in his Voyager story "A Cherished Alienation," part of the (justly) famous "Talking Stick/Circle" cycle. (If you haven't read the series yet, look it up -- you'll be glad you did!) Thanks to Jen Pelland for raising the question that led to the development of this story, in an article for "The Flight Log," newsletter of Robert Duncan McNeill fan club RanDoM Flight. Thanks also go to my husband Chuck for tactical concepts, to Kathy Speck for dialogue assistance, and to Greg Lash for details on the last days of the Maquis, as presented on "Deep Space Nine."
I believe it was Siubhan who dubbed Chakotay's Maquis ship "Crazy Horse." The ship in this story, "Crazy Horse 2," was its successor, because I wasn't sure if the original had the capabilities this story demanded that the Maquis vessel have.
"The Last Flight" originally appeared in the Orion Press fanzine "Visions."]
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
FEEDBACK TO: shafshir@microconnect.net
SERIES: ST: VOY
PART: 2/2
(Other information at beginning of Part 1. Acknowledgments at the end of this part.)
Paris swung past the big Jem'Hadar ship again, cloak securely in place, waiting for the enemy vessel to pick up the minor sensor distortion cloaked ships generated. The Jem'Hadar, indifferent to his efforts, continued to blast at random asteroids.
The heat in the shuttle wasn't high, but the pilot was sweating, knowing that if he couldn't bring the Jem'Hadar in over the right spot Chakotay and the others wouldn't have a chance. He tried another pass. //C'mon, you big dumb sons-of-test-tubes, here I am, here I am!// Still no reaction.
He checked the cloak again; still secure. Maybe a little too secure, he thought. At this rate, the Jem'Hadar would blow up every asteroid in the field before they noticed him. He had to get their attention *now*.
It occurred to him that, with as many hits as Crazy Horse had already taken, the Jem'Hadar might not find a sudden, temporary cloak failure too hard to believe. Hand over the switch, he toggled it just to the halfway mark, then shoved it back into the "full-on" position. That should give them a momentary glimpse of him, hopefully nothing conclusive.
//That did it.// As phased polaron beams and anti-proton beams seared through the blackness, he shifted into evasive mode, zipping the little shuttle through a lightning-quick series of maneuvers that the larger, clumsier vessel should have had trouble following even if they could see him. //Can't get me can't get me can't get me!// he taunted mentally, deliberately letting one anti-proton beam tag him so that the Jem'Hadar wouldn't lose track of him. //I'm over here, stupid!//
For the first time in longer than Paris could remember, he felt no fear, only exhilaration. This was nothing like flying Crazy Horse, no terrible weight of trying to minimize his damage to save his crewmates; so long as he attained his objective, even if he lost the shuttle no one would die but him. And he would attain it. If the undamaged, exquisitely-maintained shuttle was perfectly designed for its current mission, no less so was Tom Paris. A cat-and-mouse game of split-second reflexes and superbly-honed skills, with everything that mattered to him riding on his instincts and ability -- it was a game Paris was born to play. //Missed me missed me now you have to kiss me! Yuck, that's a disgusting thought!// Course of his opponent, trajectory of the Jem'Hadar's weapons beams, movement of the asteroids, capabilities of his own vessel, location of the Crazy Horse, Tom calculated them all in effortlessly, brain and hands processing and acting on information at a speed that would have done credit to an incredibly efficient computer. //Nyah nyah you can't get me!//
They didn't. A few minutes and hundreds of evasive maneuvers later, Paris led the big Jem'Hadar ship over a certain crater on a certain asteroid. Crazy Horse cut loose with what Paris knew without doubt was everything she had, phasers and photons and a few energy beams that were solely the product of invention and B'Elanna's imagination boring into the Jem'Hadar's undershielded underbelly, setting off a series of explosions.
Paris cut the evasive maneuvers and poured on the speed, trying to outrun the explosion that tore the monstrous vessel apart.
**********
B'Elanna met Paris in Crazy Horse's shuttlebay, with shining eyes and a hug so fierce it knocked his breath away.
Chakotay greeted him on the bridge, with a nod and a solemn look in the dark eyes that said //well done.// It was all the accolade Paris would have, and all he would ever need.
**********
Several days later, Paris was in the mess hall, crumbling bits of a partial field ration into a small cup of lukewarm water for the benefit of a tiny dark-skinned girl who watched him with enormous brown eyes. The water was all that was left of her daily ration; the food was the only edible he expected to receive today, unless they reached their objective. He felt light-headed, almost hollow, the dull headache pulsing behind his temples telling him that he needed to eat something. But he had seen the hunger with which the three-year-old devoured her small portion of tinned meat and crackers, and knew that he could wait longer for more food than she could.
"Here you are, Aisha," he said gently, folding her tiny hands around the cup. She hesitated one moment, giving him a look that asked permission. When he nodded, she yanked the cup to her lips and drank, quickly, greedily, as if she were expecting someone to take the precious food from her.
In what seemed like bare moments, it was gone anyway, and she was holding the cup out in front of her with a hopeful, "More?"
"I'm sorry. I don't have any more." With a wrench of pity, Paris spread his empty hands to prove the statement. The big eyes clouded over, the little face crumpled, with disappointment. The pilot fought down a lump in his throat as she turned away.
Chakotay's soft, familiar voice came over the intercom at that moment. "Command officers, please report to the bridge."
They must have reached their objective, as he'd thought they might today. Hands unconsciously straightening his blue shirt and vest -- not entirely clean, but unwrinkled and whole, the best garments he currently owned -- Paris rose to his feet and went to the lift.
When he got to the bridge, Paris saw that several of his fellow officers had been moved by the same sense of occasion as he had. Ayala was clad in relatively neat open-necked shirt and trousers of burgundy and black, his dark hair bound back from his face; while Tabor wore brown pants and a butternut tunic of a distinctly ceremonial cut. B'Elanna, at the engineering console, wore a silvery, almost silken, blouse over slate-gray slacks, and her dark hair was carefully combed and pinned back with a silver clip. Her face was shining clean.
Chakotay rose from the pilot's console as Tom entered, gesturing him toward the vacated seat with a wave of one hand. Tom noticed in passing that the garments the captain had chosen today were distinctly reminiscent of his ancient people: soft moccasins, brown leather trousers, a tunic dyed in deep blues, greens, golds, and reds, woven with ancient symbols Tom didn't know. The beard Chakotay had inherited from some non-Native ancestor had been carefully scraped away, leaving nothing to draw attention away from the blunt cheekbones and the aquiline nose, and his thick black hair was bound back into a traditional braid and tied with a scrap of leather. He looked every inch a dignified Native American, a war chief to be reckoned with.
Tom felt a flash of pride in his captain, and in all of their companions. Even at this last, they were not beggars. Even in defeat, they would be Maquis and strong.
As he slid into the pilot's seat, B'Elanna reached over and squeezed his hand, a little too tightly. Tom returned the pressure, and held on.
Chakotay, meanwhile, had moved to the small area in front of the consoles, facing the viewscreen. "Sensors have spotted a Federation Intrepid-class starship about fifteen light-years from here, vectors 145 mark 57."
At the name of the ship class, Paris gritted his teeth momentarily, saw B'Elanna doing the same. The adroit little Intrepids had captured more than their share of Maquis vessels earlier in the border wars, back in the days when the Federation had been one of the forces attempting to restrain the renegades. //It doesn't matter now,// he reminded himself forcefully. //All that matters now is that they won't treat our passengers, or us, the way the Cardies or the Jem'Hadar would.//
"Take us to her, Mister Paris," the captain went on, calmly. Paris, who could see that proud face in profile, saw not even a muscle twitch. "Ms. Torres, deflectors only. Mister Ayala, take weapons off-line. The last thing we want is for them to think we're attacking."
//As if we'd be much of a threat,// Tom added drily. In the words of a colloquialism popular during the earlier centuries he'd studied, Crazy Horse 2 was held together with spit, baling wire, and prayer -- and more of that last than of the first two.
"Now, Mister Tabor, if you would hail the ship...?"
For once in the little raider's history, the bridge crew obeyed their captain without question.
Not a flicker of emotion colored Chakotay's words. "Federation starship, this is the Maquis fighter Crazy Horse."
The voice that answered them was a woman's, with a clipped, precise pronunciation and a Terran/North American accent, somehow familiar. "Crazy Horse, hold your position. Do not advance further into Federation territory."
//Oh, God,// Paris thought, a hand clutching at his heart. //After all this, they're not going to turn us away...?// There had been a time when he would not have believed such an act possible of Starfleet or the Federation, to force a shipful of refugees back into hostile territory. That was before he had seen some of what they'd allowed to take place in the DMZ.
After a moment, he saw Chakotay nodding at him, and complied with the other captain's directive. "Holding position, Federation vessel," Chakotay said evenly. If the same doubt had occurred to him as had occurred to Paris, he did not reveal it.
The starship came into sight on their viewscreen. Intrepid-class, all right, registry number NCC-74656. U.S.S. Voyager, one of the very ships most famous for its success in taking Maquis vessels. Once it had come very near to capturing the original Crazy Horse, only Tom's skill and the blindest of luck saving the Maquis ship.
If this was Voyager, that meant the captain was...
"Captain Janeway," Chakotay said, as grave and courteous as a host greeting a high-ranking guest. "It's been a long time."
The woman's face flickered into existence on the viewscreen, handsome and angular, with fine blue eyes and cut-crystal cheekbones. "Captain Chakotay," she acknowledged, her tone and her expression a match for the Maquis captain's. "That it has. What brings you into Federation space?"
"As you may be aware, Captain," Chakotay said quietly, "the Maquis have fallen. I have aboard Crazy Horse a crew complement of thirty-five, for all I know the last of our people. We have come to surrender, recognizing that by doing so we have made ourselves subject to Federation law. There are also seventy-eight refugees aboard, most of them children, old people, and bearing women. I ask you and your Federation to grant them what sanctuary you can."
He shifted, straightening his shoulders fractionally, and went on, in the formal tone of a quotation: "It is cold, we have no blankets. The little children are freezing to death. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills, and have no blankets, no food. I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever."
He turned his head away, and Paris saw, at last, the banked fires of pain burning in the dark eyes.
**********
Despite Paris's fears, Crazy Horse 2's surrender was accepted. As the little vessel's commander, Chakotay was removed from Crazy Horse and remanded to Voyager's brig, along with a number of other members of his crew. Supplies and medical officers were dispatched to the Maquis vessel, alleviating the worst of its people's problems; those whom such resources were insufficient to save received transport to Voyager's sickbay.
Those Maquis deemed vital to ship's operations remained aboard Crazy Horse, working under the command of Captain Janeway's XO, a white-haired and tight-lipped commander named Cavit. Security teams were posted aboard the surrendered ship to ensure its people's compliance, exactly as if they had any viable alternative to compliance.
**********
In an overcrowded cabin reeking of humanoid sweat, Paris's little friend Aisha lay, happily replete, on a makeshift cot. An empty soup bowl, fruit seeds, and bread crumbs were scattered on the floor around her. Drawing a blanket up over the small shoulders, Tom touched the child's cheek, gently, and left her to her slumber.
One more thing to take care of. Then he could get the sleep that had eluded him what seemed like years now.
In a tiny cabin not far down the corridor, B'Elanna Torres sat on her own cot, arms wrapped around her knees and her gaze distant. Tom sat down on the cot next to her. "Credit for your thoughts?" he asked softly, hand cupping her shoulder.
Her eyes came back to him, slowly. "Just wondering where we go from here."
"Prison," he said calmly, and she nodded; it was no more than both of them had already known. "But we don't need to go separately."
"Tom?"
"They'll scatter the crew, of course. They wouldn't want us to have an opportunity to plan anything."
"As if we'd have anywhere to go. Or anyone to go to."
"True. But there's a way we can stay together, B'Elanna, you and I." He squeezed her shoulder, smiled tenderly at her uncomprehending expression. "There are facilities where they place married couples together.
"This isn't the way I wanted to ask, B'Elanna, and this sure as hell isn't where I wanted to ask, but if I don't do it here and now I'll never have another chance. And I don't want to lose you. Marry me, B'Elanna. Marry me so that we can stay together. Forever."
Comprehension dawned in her eyes. Then something else warmed the brown depths, and she reached for him, holding him tightly. "Yes, Tom. Yes."
Then two of the last Maquis slept on a single narrow cot, huddled together like little children against the cold.
--END--
[Acknowledgements: The speech Chakotay quotes was, of course, made by Nee Me Poo ("Nez Perce") leader Chief Joseph in his famous surrender. Joseph Little Otter reminded me of that speech when he quoted it in his Voyager story "A Cherished Alienation," part of the (justly) famous "Talking Stick/Circle" cycle. (If you haven't read the series yet, look it up -- you'll be glad you did!) Thanks to Jen Pelland for raising the question that led to the development of this story, in an article for "The Flight Log," newsletter of Robert Duncan McNeill fan club RanDoM Flight. Thanks also go to my husband Chuck for tactical concepts, to Kathy Speck for dialogue assistance, and to Greg Lash for details on the last days of the Maquis, as presented on "Deep Space Nine."
I believe it was Siubhan who dubbed Chakotay's Maquis ship "Crazy Horse." The ship in this story, "Crazy Horse 2," was its successor, because I wasn't sure if the original had the capabilities this story demanded that the Maquis vessel have.
"The Last Flight" originally appeared in the Orion Press fanzine "Visions."]