The Lost Voyages
The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been
by Soledad
CARETAKERAlternate 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: G, for this part.
Author's note: Just a friendly word of warning: this is a slow-paced story, so please don't expect the characters go through two years' worth of development in a single chapter. And yes, a good part of the dialogues is still taken from the actual episode. Written by Rick Berman, Michael Piller or Jeri Taylor. Whichever of them was responsible for those particular lines.
As always, heartfelt thanks to Brigid for beta reading.
CHAPTER FOUR: DEEP SPACE NINEThey docked, and the outer door of the airlock slid slowly open with a distinct – and not very reassuring – groan. It seemed that the old Cardassian station still didn't work at peak Starfleet efficiency. Shouldering his duffel, Tom followed Stadi inside the airlock and drew a deep breath. The air tasted a little stale. Hopefully, inside the station itself the filters worked better.
He interpreted the small inconvenience as a warning. The short period of peace was over for him. He had to prepare himself for the next battle. He knew it wouldn't be easy for him on Voyager. Stadi was friendly enough, but he didn't expect his other shipmates to react the same way. In fact, he knew they wouldn't. Stadi was the exception, not the rule.
The inner door of the airlock clanked shut behind them. They went along a short corridor, then another set of doors opened, and they stepped out into a place that looked like a combination of free port and flea market. It was crammed full of kiosks, restaurants, bars with secluded upstairs areas that Tom's experienced eyes recognized at once as holosuites, conventional ship's stores, gambling casinos – even a Bajoran temple. The combination of simple, mystical Bajoran design and ethereal, ornate Cardassian style produced a striking and exotic effect.
Less striking and exotic, however, the civilian security officer, in his reddish brown garb, waited with stiff-necked patience just beyond the docking bay's hatch. Tom wasn't familiar with the uniform of Bajor's civilian constabulary – assuming they had one in the first place – but he'd learnt to recognize security types at first sight while serving his sentence in Auckland. The short-cropped hair wasn't the only sign giving them away.
"It seems I've been expected," he said, the bitterness in his voice surprising even himself. "I should be flattered that people still think me such a security risk."
Stadi raised a delicate eyebrow. "No need to become paranoid, Mr. Paris. They greet everyone who belongs to Starfleet – in whatever function. This is an act of courtesy here. I went through the same procedure when I first arrived, including a visit to the Immigrations Office."
"A what?" Tom repeated in shock. Stadi shrugged.
"We won't be leaving right away. Starfleet personnel usually get a permanent visa, since we need access to non-public areas as well."
Tom shot her a skeptical look. "Are you sure that includes me, too?"
"According to Captain Janeway's orders, it does," she replied calmly. Then she gave the Bajoran in the brown garb a brilliant smile. "Deputy Hovath! It's good to see you again. This is Mr. Paris."
That smile didn't fail to have its effect on the middle-aged Bajoran. He mellowed considerably while consulting the data PADD in his hand.
"Thomas Eugene Paris? Assigned to the scout ship Voyager?" He obviously didn't ask but confirmed his identity. Surprisingly enough, he actually spoke Standard, even though rather accented – the words didn't came through the universal translator.
Bajor must be taking their alliance with the Federation very seriously, Tom thought, carefully smoothing his face into a polite non-expression. "Yeah, that's me. Is there a problem, Deputy?"
"None at all," the Bajoran consulted his PADD again, decidedly ignoring the tone of Tom's answer. "You are expected in the Immigrations Office to verify your visa; I suggest you go there immediately. Ms Koon is a busy woman, and she has already prepared the documents. All you need to do is to sign them. Do you require an escort?"
"He does not," Stadi intervened smoothly, seeing the shadow of bad memories flicking over Tom's face at the word 'escort'. "I'll show him the way."
"Very well," the Bajoran finally lowered his PADD and gave Tom a pointed look. "Welcome to the station, Mr. Paris. Please remember that there are no weapons allowed on the Promenade."
"I'll try," Tom replied sarcastically. He hadn't touched a weapon since his time in the Maquis, but that was something the deputy couldn't know.
The Bajoran frowned, rewrinkling his already ridged nose, and Stadi elbowed Paris in the ribs. Hard. She didn't like his attitude, even if it was just a mask.
"We are both familiar with the regulations, Mr. Hovath," she said politely. "Thank your for your time."
And with that, she grabbed Paris' upper arm and practically dragged him away before he could put his foot into his mouth again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Half an hour – and a short but efficient visit with the station's no-nonsense Immigrations Officer – later they were strolling down DS9's crowded, gaudy, decidedly mall-like Promenade again. Stadi pointed out the main attractions to him – she had already spent a few weeks here, making herself familiar with Voyager's systems, and had a good knowledge about many of the interesting places. They both agreed to give a wide berth to the Bolian, Klingon and Vulcan restaurants, and while Stadi highly recommended the Celestial Café, run by a slightly eccentric Bajoran woman called Chalan Aroya, Tom wanted something less… tame for starters.
Thus they inevitably ended up in Quark's Bar. As Tom learned later, all paths led to Quark's Bar on DS9. It was a three-level combination bar/casino/holographic brothel, usually known, as Stadi mentioned, simply as Quark's, and had been there since at least 2363. Among its features were a bar, Dabo tables, and holosuites on the second level, all being used for at least 18 hours every day – meaning the 26-hour Bajoran cycle, of course.
Despite it being a gambling establishment as well, the noise lever was fairly low at the moment – probably because they came at a low-traffic time, when most station personnel lunch breaks were over already, and shift change still several hours away. A group of Starfleet engineers was sitting at a nearby table – a curly-haired Irishman, if his brogue was any indication, a young Latino whom the others called "Quique" and two Bolians – talking shop with an attractive Bajoran woman in a grey uniform, apparently an engineer herself.
Stadi knew a few of them and pointed them out to Tom discreetly.
"Chief O'Brien," she nodded towards the Irishman, "served on the Enterprise for years before accepting the post of Chief Petty Officer here. The older Bolian, Zim Brott, is his second. I don't know the other Bolian or the Bajoran woman. But the young man is called Enrique Muniz. He doesn't only work with the chief, they are friends, too."
Paris nodded noncommittally and continued surveying their surroundings. A little further away he detected a tall, elegant woman in the blue uniform of a science officer. She was consulting her PADD with intense concentration. The delicate spots along her temples and her long, graceful neck gave her away as a Trill. She sat with a very strange, lumpy creature clad in some sort of leather coverall (including gloves!), who didn't speak, just stared into its drink with small, pig-like eyes.
At the other end of the bar a young, handsome medical Lieutenant was having lunch with – a Cardassian, in civilian clothes. Now, that was something Tom could barely believe.
"That's Mr. Garak," Stadi explained, following his bewildered look, "the only Cardassian in residence here. He's quite the tailor, I'm told. He and doctor Bashir are friends."
Regular Starfleet types might have been shocked at such… unusual friendship. But Tom had learned that one found allies in the most unexpected places.
"Aren't they afraid the Cardassian might be a spy?" was all he asked. Stadi grinned in a most devious manner.
"He most likely is. But at least he's in plain sight."
"True," Tom agreed. "And who is the gorgeous Trill over there? With that odd-looking guy?" Stadi shot a cursory look in the said direction – and smiled.
"Lieutenant Jadzia Dax. She's the science officer of the station... and quite the party animal, too. It's said that she's able to beat the Ferengi in Tongo, and that's a task not many are up to."
"Dax?" Tom repeated with a frown. "I've met a Trill named Dax once, when I escorted the Admiral to some diplomatic event, years and years ago. But that Dax was an old man. Is she his daughter?"
"No, she's the new host," Stadi replied easily. "Curzon Dax died, almost three years ago. Jadzia was joined with the Dax symbiont at about the same time."
"For having only been here a few weeks, you know an awful lot of these people," Tom remarked, looking around to see if he could find a waiter somewhere. Stadi laughed.
"I've known Jadzia for years. I mean, before she got joined. We attended exobiology and exoarcheology classes together, back at the Academy. She's only two years my senior."
"It's a small universe," Tom commented. "I assume she likes gossip, too?"
"Just like myself," Stadi grinned. Winking to an exotic-looking, red-haired alien woman with a very high, delicately ridged forehead. "Hello, Miss Sarda!"
The small, fragile woman in the traditionally revealing costume of a Dabo girl came to their table. "Back already, Lieutenant? Can I help you?"
"Actually, it's a waiter who could help us," Stadi replied, smiling. "Where are they all?"
"In the back room, getting their scheduled dressing down," Miss Sarda grinned. "Quark is having a bad day – low traffic. But I can get you whatever you need. I'm in charge while he's chewing out his slaves."
"Slaves?" Tom repeated. Miss Sarda shrugged.
"The other Ferengi. They are unable to defend themselves."
"Unlike you?" Stadi asked.
"Oh, he did try his little games with me," the small woman with the curly, fire-red mane answered. "I went straight to Commander Sisko and he put Quark firmly to his place. So, what can I bring you?"
"A big glass of uttaberry juice," Stadi answered with a smile. Tom ordered a synthale and they continued watching the traffic in the bar.
The two Bolian engineers left shortly thereafter, and so did the Trill, too, giving her table companion a friendly pat on the shoulder and sending a wink and a smile in Stadi's direction. Some more Starfleet personnel filed in, followed by a lovely Asian woman, carrying a sweet-faced little girl in her arms.
"The wife of Chief O'Brien," Stadi offered. "She's a botanist. The little one is Molly, their daughter… Oh, it seems the daily dressing down is over!"
Tom followed her amused look and saw a shrewd-looking little Ferengi, with shockingly big ears even in Ferengi terms and a vest too tawdry to be worn by anyone but its owner, emerge from the back rooms. Four other Ferengi, wearing the identical expressions of recently kicked dogs, followed him and swarmed out to tend to the customers. The bar owner returned to the counter and started polishing it, the calculating look of his small eyes on the fresh and guileless face of a young Asian Starfleet ensign.
"Uh-huh," Stadi murmured with rapt interest, "Quark is on the hunt. That poor kid won't stand half a chance…"
"Should we rescue him?" Tom asked, disgusted by the shark-like expression with which the Ferengi approached the young ensign. The pointed teeth gave Quark's smile a particularly unpleasant quality.
"Not yet," Stadi replied with a wicked grin. "Let's allow him to sweat a little first. Otherwise, he'll never learn his lesson."
At this moment, her combadge beeped. She activated it with a light tap.
"Cavit to Lt. Stadi," a stern-sounding male voice said.
"Go ahead, sir," she replied.
"You are needed on the bridge, Lieutenant," the voice continued. "The captain wants to discuss the route with you."
"On my way, sir."
"And tell your… passenger to report in. ASAP. Cavit out."
"Aye, sir," Stadi said automatically and shot Tom a pointed look. "You heard the XO. We'll better get going. Captain Janeway runs a tight ship."
"You go," Tom replied, pointing at his synthale. "I'm just going to finish my drink and see if the kid needs rescuing."
Involuntarily, Stadi stopped on her track, giving the scene unfolding in close proximity an interested gaze.
"… and if I may say so, it's been my special pleasure to see many new officers like yourself come through these portals." The Ferengi leaned on his elbows across the counter, speaking in an almost fatherly manner. "I'm sure your parents must be very proud, my boy. You know, on an occasion like this..."
The ensign smiled politely and shook his head. "I'm really not interested."
"Ouch!" Stadi winced. "One should never say 'interested' within the earshot of a Ferengi…"
"And they have very keen ears," Tom commented in the same low voice.
"Interested?" the bar owner repeated with an almost-innocent expression. Stadi stifled a laugh. The ensign, however, smiled again.
"You were about to try to sell me something. Right? "
"Double ouch!" Tom whispered. "'Interested' and 'sell' within the same five minutes… This kid is doomed."
"And so am I, if the XO has to wait another five minutes," Stadi answered regretfully. "You sure you can handle this? Quark is awfully good…"
"And so am I," Tom interrupted with the easy confidence of a long-time gambler. "Don't worry; I'm up to the Ferengi. Go!"
Stadi shot the ensign a final look, full of pity, and hurried away. Tom leaned back in his chair to enjoy the spectacle fully. He didn't care if Janeway got mad at him for not running at her first whistle. The way things were he couldn't count on not being put back into jail if – when, he reminded himself sternly, you have to see that it happens – the mission of Voyager spectacularly failed, so he didn't need to try and get on her good side anyway.
He had to admit that the Ferengi was good. He pushed away from the bar, peering down at the ensign with a disapproving expression – peering down being relative, of course.
"I was merely going to suggest that your parents might appreciate a memento of your first mission… "
"…and you happen to have several to choose from," the ensign finished, his dark eyes gently amused. Tom nodded approvingly. The kid was no complete fool after all, it seemed. But still too green to stand up to one very determined Ferengi. That would require a level of subtlety that he had yet to achieve – if ever.
The Ferengi's eyes had begun to twinkle with their own light by now, but he was still pretending to be mostly disinterested – and rather convincingly, Tom had to admit. His tone was casual, as if he and the ensign would only have a friendly chat.
"I do carry a select line of unique artifacts and gemstones indigenous to this region..."
Damn! One of those puny, dog-faced Ferengi waiters crossed Tom's line of vision, so that he remained forever unaware of how that middle-sized case of cheap but sparkling gemstones had appeared on the counter – seemingly out of thin air, as if delivered by a site-to-site transporter. Which wasn't entirely out of the question, of course. Ferengi were known to get their greedy little hands on the newest technology as soon as it left the labs.
"Why, quite recently," the Ferengi continued, tilting the case towards the light so that the sparkling effect of the stones increased, "I acquired these Lobi crystals from a very strange creature called a Morn…"
Tom watched with mild interest as the lumpy patron, still sitting at the abandoned table of the Trill science officer, glanced up in apparent recognition. Could it be the "strange creature" in question?
In the meantime, the ensign still had no idea that he was about to walk into a trap with his eyes wide open. He smiled at the Ferengi knowingly.
"We were warned about the Ferengi at the Academy," he said, believing himself to have drawn the big guns. Tom snorted. Jesus, the kid was green beyond belief!
The Ferengi set down the tray, and cocking his head on the side, he looked at the ensign with an almost manic gleam in his eyes – a gleam that screamed latinum to everyone who could read it.
Unfortunately, the ensign didn't belong to those people.
"Warned about Ferengi, were you?" the bar owner said slowly.
The ensign nodded, full of innocent confidence that he'd won the battle already. "That's right."
The Ferengi displayed such an image of wounded pride that even Tom almost bought it. Almost.
"Slurs," the bar owner declared. "About my people. At Starfleet Academy."
It was a remarkable performance, Tom had to give him that much. The ensign, for his part, certainly bought it – and tried to back off. "What I meant was..."
"Here I am, trying to be a cordial host, knowing how much a young officer's parents would appreciate a token of his love on the eve of a dangerous mission," the Ferengi continued with a dignified hurt in his lisping voice that was almost convincing. "And what do I get for my trouble? Scurrilous insults."
A PADD appeared in his hands, almost miraculously, and Tom whistled softly. This guy had to be a killer at the gambling table, with those skills. And he was already tapping out notes on the small device's surface, commenting in a menacing tone:
"Well, somebody's going to hear about this. What's your name, son?
"My… name?" the ensign stammered. The Ferengi sneered at him.
"You do have one, I presume?"
"Kim," the ensign answered, panic clearly written in his young face. "Harry Kim. But I…"
"And who was it at the Academy who warned you about Ferengi?"
"You know," Kim interrupted, his breathing becoming erratic from sheer nervousness, "I think a memento for my parents would be a great idea."
The Ferengi, who, of course, had counted on exactly this reaction, kept playing the part of the unjustly hurt.
"Really!" Kim picked up the case and made a half-hearted effort of studying the cheap – and not all too appealing – content. "One of these would look great as a pendant for my mother."
"They're not for sale!" The Ferengi jerked the case of cheap junk out of the young man's hands with surprising vehemence – the sincerest sign that he was sure of the outcome of this little encounter – and bent back to his PADD. "Now, inform your commanding officer that the Federation Council can expect an official query from..."
The Federation Council would not care for the complaints of one insignificant Ferengi, even if said Ferengi actually intended to send that query. Which he did not, and Kim knew that. However, he was also bright enough to admit defeat – so he grabbed the case before the Ferengi could take it away and sighed.
"How much for the entire tray?"
That strange gleam appeared in those watery little eyes again. "Cash or credit?"
That's enough, Tom decided, rising from his table. Time to intervene. He might have been the hardened, cynical product of the "enlightened" Federation penal system (not to mention the Admiral's Spartan education), but this kid didn't deserve to be plucked apart by a Ferengi hyena. Besides, he had promised Stadi to rescue the ensign, hadn't he? And despite many people's opinion, Tom Paris was a man of his word.
He sauntered to the counter in the worldly manner he had perfected by visiting too many bars in those years between his first and second tribunal, and gave the cheap chunks a speculative look. "Dazzling, aren't they?"
The wrath flickering through the Ferengi's face was worth the whole show alone. Tom seated himself on a barstool directly at the ensign's elbow and continued studying the gemstones. "As bright as Koladan diamonds."
"Brighter," the Ferengi snarled, smelling the danger for his practically sealed deal.
"Hard to believe you can find them on any planet in the system," Tom went on conversationally, picking up one of the coloured stones for a closer look. However, the Ferengi slapped his hand away and put it back to its place.
"That's an exaggeration," he replied with a baleful look.
Tom ignored him and turned to Kim, as if continuing an already ongoing conversation. "You know, there's a shop at the Volnar Colony that sells a dozen assorted shapes for one Cardassian lek." He turned back to the Ferengi with feigned interest. "How much are you selling these for?"
The Ferengi smiled at him with all the friendliness of a hungry crocodile. "We were just about to negotiate the price."
Kim glanced first at Tom, then at the Ferengi, his bright mind recognizing the escape route for what it was at once.
"You know," he said, shoving the case back across the bar toward its owner, "I believe I'd rather send my parents a recorded subspace message. Featuring me, playing my newly-composed sonata."
With that, he made a less than dignified but safe escape. Tom threw the price for his ale and Stadi's juice plus a generous tip for the reappearing Miss Sarda onto the table and followed suit with the first honest grin for years on his face.
To his surprise, the young ensign was waiting for him just outside the bar, looking utterly relieved.
"Thanks," he said simply, glancing away in embarrassment. Tom brushed it off.
"Don't mention it. Once I was stupid enough to try and barter with a Ferengi, too. I still have the scars."
"I don't know how I managed to walk exactly where he wanted me," Kim admitted. Tom clapped him on the shoulder.
"Didn't they warn you about Ferengi at the Academy?" he asked, and after a moment of silence they both burst out in laughter.
TBC