The Lost Voyages

The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been

by Soledad

CARETAKER

Alternate pilot episode

Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

Rating: PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

Many thanks to Brigid for beta reading.

CHAPTER TWO: AUCKLAND

He was lying on a gliding board in the motor fleet repair bay, under a long, squat atmospheric flyer with a power coil the size of a small planet. It was an ugly piece of equipment, for sure, but highly efficient, and his fingers itched to fly it instead of performing dull repairs.

Sometimes the urge to flee was almost overwhelming. With this very machine he was working to repair – without obvious supervision, at that – he could have fled the island any moment if he chose. Not even the electronic anklet locked to his right foot could have stopped him. Sure, it could indentify him wherever he fled, but in the end it couldn't prevent his escape. Not with piloting skills like his.

Sometimes he could barely resist the urge to flee.

But, of course, they would find him. They would find him before he could remove the anklet, before he could find a way to leave Earth and disappear in some grey zone where he wouldn't stand out like a sore thumb. Where he wouldn't carry the burden of his name around.

They would find him and bring him back, and this time he would have to return to the normal barracks instead of the secure wing. Then the harassment would start anew. And this time the guards would not save him from the hands of his inmates.

It was better not to piss off the guards. At least they would leave him alone in exchange for exemplary behaviour. No, he had no desire to be beaten up in the shadowy corridors of the barracks again. He could live without the pain of being unable to sit down properly for a week after a particularly… crowded visit in the common washroom. So, it was better to behave.

The Auckland Penal Settlement was an enlightened Federation prison. It was set up on New Zealand's Northern Island and looked more like part of a national monument than a rehabilitation facility. The dratted place even had a park, with lush, green trees, well-tended walkways, birds and free-living animals. The idea had been to reintegrate the detainees into society again, after they had served their sentences.

Of course, if one was the son of an Admiral (who had signed the much-hated Federation-Cardassian Treaty, no less); known to have caused the death of his best friends by pilot error; an ex-Maquis (thus a traitor to the almighty Federation) and too pretty for his own good, things could get a little… complicated.

Especially when it was known that the Admiral wouldn't move a finger to rescue him. He had been disowned publicly, with the TriVid cameras running all the time during the court-martial.

The Admiral was not one to accept mistakes. Or weakness.

So, he was practically free prey. And his inmates in this oh-so-enlightened Federation prison used every opportunity to remind him of that. It was a lesson he had learned very quickly.

There were the former Starfleet people, imprisoned for crimes against regulations, for mutiny or for violating the Prime Directive. But still Starfleet, to a certain extent. For them, he was a liar, a coward and a traitor. The lowest of scum. The deepest level possible.

Then there were the captured Maquis, imprisoned as war criminals. For them, he was the son of the Admiral, one of those people who gave away their homes to the Cardassians for political reasons. A mercenary, who failed his first mission in the service of their organization, who probably even betrayed them. Why not, actually? Once a liar, always a liar.

And finally, there were the common criminals: smugglers, black market weapons dealers, spies and the likes. Mindless brutes, mostly, constantly after him for his pretty face – and for other body parts.

The first few months had been hell. At first he had tried to fight off his attackers – until he understood that no-one would come to his help, and all his struggling would earn him was a savage beating on top of being used and violated. After that, he simply let it happen. That was the only way to survive.

And he was determined to survive. Not that he had some grand outlook before his eyes – those times were over – but he wanted to fly again. Even if he had to offer his skills to some shady Ferengi trader.

Things got a little better when the facility got that new Vulcan doctor. Vulcans being the supremely controlled species that they were, Dr. Sorik didn't share his predecessor's illogical prejudices, and after having studied Tom's medical file, removed him to the secure wing by personal authority. The guards in that wing had no sense of humor and preferred exceptional behaviour from the inmates, but once these conditions were fulfilled, they didn't tolerate harassment. It was their duty to keep the detainees under their supervision safe, and they took that duty seriously. He didn't need to visit the infirmary with injuries caused by random "accidents" anymore.

So no, risking this halfway endurable existence with some foolish attempt to flee – an attempt that was doomed in the long run anyway – was not an option. Still, the urge was sometimes very strong. He needed all his remaining strength to resist.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A shadow appeared in the periphery of his vision and he felt the all-too-familiar panic rising in his stomach, knowing that none of the guards were close. But he forced himself to calm down. He had a plasma welder in his hand, after all – this time he would defend himself, regardless of the consequences.

"Tom Paris?" a rather… weird voice asked from above. At first he couldn't decide whether it belonged to a woman or a young, adolescent boy. The narrow shape of the shadow was no indication, either.

He switched off his tool and pushed himself out from under the machinery's belly, flicking up the visor that protected his eyes, to look at his unexpected visitor.

It was a woman, after all. A thin woman in a Starfleet uniform with Captain's pips on her collar, so crisp and efficient looking that Tom suddenly became acutely aware of his sweat-drenched coveralls. She wore her hair in a funny-looking bun and her prominent chin prevented her from being even remotely attractive (not to mention her lipstick which was at least three shades too dark). But her cold eyes showed that despite her looks she was a force to be taken into serious consideration.

"Kathryn Janeway," she identified herself. She didn't offer her hand, of course, and for his part, Tom didn't bother to stand up, either. Starfleet was no longer his concern. They couldn't harm him any more.

"I served with your father on the Al-Batani," she continued in that weird voice of hers, and Tom felt his stomach tightening again. He thought the Admiral had written him off by that public disowning. What the hell was the old man up to? "I wonder if we could go somewhere and talk."

Talk. She wanted to talk. Just like that. With the lowliest pariah of the Federation. Despite being one of the Admiral's little puppets. Now, why had he the impression that there had to be a catch in that?

"About what?" Tom asked warily. Still making no attempt to get on his feet. He was not about to walk into another trap.

"About a job we'd like you to do for us," she answered.

Now, that was really funny. Tom laughed in a guarded manner, careful not to give away his true feelings. He had learned that around the Admiral at a very young age.

"I'm already doing a 'job'," he waved his hand toward the machine above him his voice mildly sarcastic, "for the Federation."

His attitude wasn't appreciated, he could see that much on her tightening face, but he couldn't care less. He was done with Starfleet. The only ones he had to keep in a benevolent mood were the guards of the secure wing.

"I've been told the Rehab Committee is very pleased with your work," she answered, clearly holding on to her tempers. "They've given me their approval to discuss this matter with you."

Oh. Some nice little blackmailing then. Cooperate, or the ones who protect you won't be pleased. Tom shrugged, admitting his defeat and got to his feet with a single, fluid motion.

"Then I guess I am yours," he said.

They walked through the park, and as soon as they were out of earshot from the other detainees, she picked up the conversation again. Finding the most unsuitable topic possible.

"Your father thought me a great deal," she said thoughtfully. "I was his science officer during the Arias Expedition."

Oh, great! Not only one of the Admiral's puppets, but one of his personal lapdogs, too! Could the day become any more miserable?

"You must be good," Tom replied, allowing a great deal of sarcasm to seep into his tone. "My 'father' only accepts the best and the brightest."

A category his own son obviously didn't fit. It surprised Tom how much it still hurt, after all those years.

Janeway didn't comment on his tone; in fact, she didn't as if she hadn't recognized it at all. Instead, she changed the topic and finally revealed her actual goal.

"I'm leaving on a mission to find a Maquis ship that disappeared in the Badlands a week ago," she began.

Guessing what was coming, Tom stiffened involuntarily, but kept his tone light. It was better to let her believe that he hadn't seen through the scheme.

"I wouldn't  if I were you," was all he replied.

She arched an almost Vulcan eyebrow at him. "Really?"

Tom nodded, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and patiently pointed out the obvious. "I've never seen a Federation starship that could maneuver through the plasma storms."

"You've never seen Voyager," she answered, with a smug, proprietary overtone in that odd, scratchy voice of hers. "We'd like you to come along."

Oh, sure. Come along and betray the only people who let you fly after Caldik Prime, despite the fact that you were a drunk and a gambler. After all, once a traitor, always a traitor.

"You'd like me to lead you to my former 'colleagues'," Tom said in a mocking voice, not asking but stating the obvious. He was fed up with people thinking him a fool. Especially the Admiral's lapdogs. "I was only with the Maquis a few weeks before I was captured, Captain," he added dismissively. "I don't know where most of their hiding places are."

And even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you, he thought. Among those Maquis was one of the very few people who ever treated him as if he mattered. But a glance at her raised chin warned him. This git wasn't one who'd take 'no' as an answer. He had to be careful.

"You know the territory better than anyone we've got," she countered.

Well that was true. He could lead her any way he wanted. Preferably away from the Maquis.

"What's so important about this particular Maquis ship?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. As annoying as the hit-and-run Maquis raiders might be, Starfleet never followed them so far into their own territory. It was too great a risk.

"My chief of security was on board. Undercover. He was supposed to report in twice during the last six days." Janeway paused, this time real concern in her cold eyes. "He didn't."

A spy then. How interesting. Starfleet really went out of its way to protect that damn treaty. Placing a highly trained operative on one of the Maquis ships. Or maybe more than one. No wonder so many got captured lately. Tom gave a derisive snort. If they found that spy…

"Maybe it's just your chief of security who's disappeared," he said, not quite able to hide his smug satisfaction about the possibility.

She looked as if he'd hit her. Good. "Maybe," she agreed. They remained silent for a while. Then she picked up the conversation again.

"That ship was under the command of another former Starfleet officer named Chakotay." She paused again then added. "I understand you knew him."

He grinned at that, though his mind was racing.

"That's right." The Crazy Horse! They planted a spy on the Crazy Horse! If Greg was still aboard, and he would never leave Chakotay's side, they were childhood friends, then Tom had to do something to save him from getting captured. He owed Greg that much… and more.

And regardless of what the Admiral might think, Tom Paris was a man who paid his debts, no matter the costs.

"The two of you didn't get along too well, I'm told," that scratchy voice said again, and Tom laughed bitterly. He could remember all too well how those warm, brown eyes turned to ice the moment Greg introduced them at Sandrine's, saying: 'This is Tom Paris'.

That he was a gambler, a drunk and at times on drugs wouldn't matter. But the Admiral's name mattered. It made sure that he'd never be one of them.

"Chakotay would tell you he left Starfleet on principle," Tom said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "To defend his home colony from the Cardassians. I, on the other hand, was forced to resign. He considered me a mercenary – willing to fight for anyone who could pay my bar bills."

Yes, Chakotay had made it quite clear what he thought of his newly-hired pilot. And Tom had been aware of his feelings. He was just surprised that it still hurt so much. Was it because the big Indian was Greg's best friend? Or because he couldn't help admiring and respecting Chakotay himself?

Whatever the reason might be, his chances with the Maquis were over. It was probably due to Janeway's carefully planted spy that Tom had been captured. Now he had to see that Greg didn't suffer the same fate. That Gía wouldn't lose her husband, and the two boys could keep their father.

"The trouble is," he said slowly, giving a very convincing shrug in that infuriating Paris manner that never missed its target, "he was right. So, I have no problem helping you track down my 'friends' in the Maquis, Captain. All I need to know is – what's in it for me?"

The disgust in her eyes almost made him squeal in delight. Direct hit, target destroyed. She really believed that he would help her to hunt down the only people who offered him a meager chance to get out of the gutter – even though they hated him. Just how stupid had one to be nowadays to make Captain in Starfleet? No wonder they were unable to wipe out the Maquis without help – from the inside or out.

"You help us find that ship," Janeway told him brusquely. "We help you at your next outmate review."

Yep, in any other situation it'd be tempting. But the way things were, he'd have to do everything to keep the dratted mission from succeeding – and thus cementing his way back into prison. This time it might not be the secure wing, even. But he owed Greg that much.

Janeway wasn't even close attention to his reactions. She was so damn sure she'd nailed him. And in any other case she might have been right.

"Officially, you'd be a Starfleet observer during the mission," she said, already planning the next step. And the one after that.

Well, he didn't really expect they'd allow him to fly that new and fancy starship of theirs. But acting insulted never hurt anything. It kept his normal façade, the one he showed to outsiders, in character.

"Observer?" he echoed in a convincingly hurt tone. "Hell, I'm the best damn pilot you could have!"

Ironically, it was true. But he doubted that she'd be impressed. And he was right.

"You'll be an observer," she repeated, pushing that prominent chin forth again in a manner that she mistakenly thought was intimidating. "When it's over, you'll be cut loose."

With that, she swirled around and marched away, flailing with her arms energetically as she strode. Tom shook his head, not sure if he should laugh or cry.

When it's over, you'll be cut loose.

"The story of my life," he murmured half-jokingly.

There was some sad truth in that.

TBC