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.

Author's note: A considerable part of dialogue is quoted from the pilot episode again. I'm sure you all recognize which part. No, I don't own those particular lines. Yes, they still belong to Rick Berman, Michael Piller or Jeri Taylor. Whichever of the three  was responsible for writing them.

Beta-read by Brigid, many thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine. Sorry for the scrambled middle part – I tried to iron it out but so far no luck.

CHAPTER SIX: THE TRUTH WILL OUT

Ever since Caldik Prime, Tom had suffered from recurring nightmares. The only time he had been relatively free of them was the few months in Marseille, after his court-martial. Of course, that elusive freedom had required heavy drinking – sometimes even drugs.

Uncle Nick had watched his slow but steady downward slide with increasing sorrow. At first he had been able to get Tom the various piloting assignments – he had pretty good contacts to civilian transport agencies; after all, he worked for the biggest one. But as Tom kept drinking, the assignments became fewer and harder to get.

For his part, Tom couldn't care less. Sure, he'd missed flying, but the only important thing was to reach that merciful state of haze where he could not see the faces of his dead friends anymore. Where he could not hear their final screams. Anything that kept him fogged was good enough, no matter the price.

Without Uncle Nick he'd probably have ended up in the gutter, paying with his body for the next fix, if necessary. He would have done anything that spared him those dreams. But Uncle Nick had not abandoned him, no matter how low Tom stooped.

"You Parises are such a self-destructive bunch," he said, shaking his head sadly, and it hurt to see him like that, knowing whom exactly he had meant. "Why can't you accept that you're human, like the rest of us – and capable of making mistakes?"

"Parises don't make mistakes," Tom replied automatically, only to earn an exasperated look from his uncle.

"Says who? The Admiral?"

"He's got the biggest authority in this particular area," Tom shrugged. Uncle Nick's friendly eyed hardened at that.

"Newsflash, Tom: contrary to family legend and his own beliefs, Owen Paris is not God. Nor is he omniscient. He's just one hard-nosed Fleet brat who never knew how to back off. Otherwise I'd still have my son, wouldn't I?"

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

Now, two years and several hundred nightmares later, Tom Paris entered Voyager's mess hall, rubbing the back of his neck morosely. He'd missed his half-appointment with the chief engineer in the morning, falling in uneasy sleep on the floor of his cabin after a lousy night, repeatedly interrupted by violent nightmares. Just being aboard on a Starfleet ship again had been enough to trigger them every three or four hours.

Once, around 0200, he had been sorely tempted to replicate a bottle of Scotch or something even more brutal and knock himself out. But that would have been betrayal of Greg, who had managed what Uncle Nick couldn't: to bring him down from both the booze and the drugs. He couldn't do that – not yet, anyway. He wasn't desperate enough for such actions. Though he couldn't be sure that the time when he finally gave in wouldn't come. He was on his own now, and that had always been a dangerous thing.

In the Maquis, he'd been watched by Greg – not to mention that Chakotay would have broken his nose, had he dared to sit at the helm stoned. The big Indian had a mean right cross, and though he rarely lost his temper, when he did, the consequences were less than pleasant. And Tom still had enough sense of self-preservation to not take that sort of risks.

In jail, he'd been watched by the guards. With no replicator access and no visitors, save Uncle Nick at rare occasions, there had been little to no chance for a fallback. But here… nobody gave a damn about what happened to him on Voyager. And to ask the CMO for help – the only person who actually might be able to help – was out of question, for obvious reasons.

He discovered the object of his grim thoughts as soon as he entered the mess hall. Dr. Fitzgerald sat at a table with the first officer and Harry on the other side of the hall, and from the disgusted looks the doctor and Cavit shot him, it was not to hard to figure out what they were talking about. They've found the kid soon enough. Well, that was to be expected.

Though he'd missed breakfast, Tom suddenly didn't feel hungry. Still, common sense dictated that he ate at least something – he needed his senses to work properly. So he made his way to the bank of food replicators to take advantage on all that sophisticated Starfleet technology.

"Tomato soup," he ordered simply. That always worked, even on an upset stomach – plus, in his case tomato soup was comfort food… something he really needed at the moment.

The machine hummed briefly, but the food didn't appear. Instead, the well-known, polite and precisely accentuated female voice of all computers aboard all Starfleet vessels (not much imagination there, huh?) informed him:

"There are 14 varieties of tomato soup available from this replicator; with rice; with vegetables; Bolian style; with pasta; with…"

"Plain," Tom cut in. As a young and adventurous cadet, he'd tried the Bolian variety once, and didn't care for a repeated experience. The dratted replicator still wasn't satisfied, though."

"Specify hot or chilled."

Tom rolled his eyes, asking himself if the universe truly decided to punish him for all the mistakes of his life; it was a long list.

"Hot," he said, now thoroughly annoyed. "Hot, plain, tomato soup."

"The more sophisticated they get, the more complicated it is to get some basic food out of them," the soft, hollow voice of the chief engineer remarked, as the Benzite strolled to the other replicator and ordered his own lunch. "Stuffed sea berries with steamed algae salad and plankton sauce, Benzite-style. Double portion."

By the time Tom's replicator produced the single bowl of plain tomato soup, in the other open slot a rather large plate shimmered into existence, with what looked like half a dozen small jellyfish, surrounded by long, dark green, tendril-like straps of algae (a considerable heap of it at that), all generously sprinkled with some thick, greenish brown sauce.

Tom eyed the impressive amount of food warily, not sure he was up to watching the Benzite stuff it all into himself.

"Are you going to eat all that, just for lunch?" he asked, a little bewildered, shooting a pointed look at the already barrel-like midsection of the chief engineer.

"Well, I have to eat for five now," seeing his blank expression, Mendon grinned, the four facillae-like extensions framing his mouth-and-nose-slit (much like by the catfish on Earth) slightly trembling with amusement. "Similar to Terran sea-horses, in Benzites it's the males who carry the babies. They get conceived in the mother's body, then transferred into a special belly pouch of the father after the first two months via a reversed coupling, where they grow for another six months and are born fully developed."

This was slightly more than Tom ever wanted to know about Benzite mating habits, but being a Starfleet brat he knew that not all species shared human reservations when it came to their sexual practices. Apparently, Benzites were one of those who found discussing such topics during lunch completely natural. Ah, well, when in Benzar, do like the Benzites, he thought, not sure how to react to Mendon's openness. Benzar not being a member of the Federation, there always remained a certain amount of confusion about what the fishheads considered acceptable and what not.

"So, you are…" Tom was unable to finish the sentence. Despite extensive courses of xenology at the Academy, the concept was just a little too weird for his taste.

"Mammals!" the Benzite chuckled softly. "So narrow-minded, even the best of them. Yes, I am with child, and that's completely normal for my kind. This is my last mission before an extended leave, as I'm due to give birth in six weeks' time."

"Isn't it a little risky to go to a deep space mission before… er…  in your… condition?" Tom asked awkwardly as they were seated and the Benzite dug into his weird food with enthusiasm.

"Usually, I wouldn't do it," Mendon agreed, but in this case, it's not a long way from home. I'm already scheduled for light duty on DS9, as my wife serves there, and Dr. Bashir is the best exobiologist in the whole sector, so I'll be in good hands. Captain Janeway only borrowed me for this mission from Commander Sisko because her own chief engineer had come down with some serious illness."

"So it's a temporary assignment only?" Tom asked. Mendon nodded, stuffing one of the jellyfish-like things (presumably a stuffed sea-berry) into his mouth in one bite. "Well, that explains it."

The Benzite tilted his head with a strange, lizard-like jerk to one side. Considering the fact that he seemed like he didn't actually have a neck, it was a rather weird gesture. "Explains what?" he asked.

"Why you are sitting here with me, instead of keeping company with the senior staff over there," Tom nodded towards the other table where Cavit and Fitzgerald were still giving Harry a thorough brainwash. Mendon shrugged.

"Oh, them… Mr. Cavit isn't that bad, actually, aside from the fact that his Starfleet indoctrination was probably a little too successful. A military mind is seldom flexible. Especially in the second or third generation."

I could tell you tales about that, Paris thought – so, Cavit was a Fleet brat, too? – but out loud he only asked, "What about the doc?"

"He's a perfectionist If I ever saw one, and believe me, on Benzar nine out of ten people are perfectionists," Mendon replied thoughtfully. "It's usually a good thing for a physician; it limits the possibility of mistakes. But this one… I don't know." That strange jerk of the big, bald head again. "I felt like a lab rat on his examination table when he detected my… condition. It was most upsetting. And no, unlike Terran females, we do not suffer from mood swings during pregnancy. We're only the carriers, after all."

He rose, pulling up to his full, impressive height. He seemed to shift the excess weight of his unborn progeny to a more balanced place, and grabbed the thoroughly cleaned plate.

"As you can see, Mr. Paris," he added as some form of goodbye, "you aren't the only outsider here." With a nod, he went to put the empty plate back into the replicator shot and left the Mess Hall.

Warming his fingers on the still too hot bowl of his soup, Tom glanced over to the other table and realized with a little surprise that Cavit and Fitzgerald were gone, too. He was so caught up in the unusual conversation with the Benzite that he hadn't even seen them leave. Poor Harry was sitting alone, staring at his mostly untouched meal like someone who's trying very had to make up his mind.

Well, I can help him with that, Tom decided, crossing the room and slipping into the seat across from Kim. Best is to get over it as quickly and painlessly as possible.

"There, you see?" he said, not quite able to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I told you it wouldn't take long."

Harry kept staring at his tray, conflicting emotions flicking over his face with warp speed. Finally, he looked up, directly into Tom's face, and asked in a small, disillusioned voice, "Is it true?"

Tom nodded slowly. There would be no use defending himself. Even if the ugly details weren't in every database, even if he managed to persuade Harry about the circumstances that would show the events in a slightly different light, the facts would still remain the same. His friends would still be dead. Killed by his own arrogance.

"Was the accident my fault?" he specified the question, and answered immediately, "Yeah. Pilot error. But it took me a while to admit it." Because I thought I could do anything, no matter the circumstances. Because Parises don't make mistakes.

He shuddered, toying absently with the bowl of soup. The damn liquid had a strange orange hue and didn't even smell like tomatoes. "Awww, fourteen varieties, and they can't even get plain tomato soup right…"

The young ensign was still staring at him, brain working hard to process all the information he'd been provided during the last twenty minutes. Tom could almost see the little wheels turning inside his skull.

"They said you falsified reports.. ."

Tom stirred his weird-looking soup with vague disgust. Not even comfort food is what it's supposed to be. I bet I could reprogram this thing to produce a decent blend… Yeah, he'd always been good with computers. Too good. "That's right."

Kim seemed shaken by his admission. As if he'd expected Tom to lie. To defend himself. To accuse others.

"Why?" he asked innocently, and Tom fought the urge to groan. How could he expect this honest, naïve, freshly graduated kid to understand?

"What's the difference?" he asked, not quite able to hide his annoyance. "I lied!"

Because Parises don't make mistakes. Failure is unacceptable. Nothing less than perfection is tolerated.

Harry was still staring at him with those big, innocent eyes, obviously unable to understand the whole thing – but just as obviously willing to try, for some unfathomable reason.

"But then you came forward," the kid persisted, "and you admitted that it was your fault?"

Yeah, and a fat lot of good it did got me, Paris thought cynically, but was careful enough not to say it out loud. There was no need to alienate the kid, who, at least, was honestly trying to understand before condemning him like everyone else did. Well, almost everyone.

"I'll tell you the truth, Harry," he sighed, pushing the soup aside, his appetite completely gone by now. "All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and I was home free. But I couldn't. The ghosts of those three dead officers came to me in the middle of the night and taught me the true meaning of Christmas..."

And they had kept coming ever since. Oliana Mirren. Jake Curland. Jean Hajar. Especially Jean. What Nick had failed to achieve – killing her in a freak accident – Tom had finished for him. All remains in the family. Ain't it just great? he thought sarcastically.

"So I confessed," he finished in a tight, controlled voice. "Worst mistake I ever made. But not my last. After they cashiered me out of Starfleet, I went out looking for a fight and found the Maquis..." He snorted. What a poor summary of those months of Hell. But that was his own problem, not Harry's. "And on my first assignment, I was caught."

And it was such an easy mission. The Maquis equivalent of a milk run. Theoretically impossible to get caught, unless one ran deliberately into the open arms of a Fleet patrol – or the patrol got an insider tip. No wonder the Maquis believed that he had betrayed them.

Kim played with his food again, his eyes thoughtful. There hadn't been such conflicts in his sheltered life – not yet. So far, he'd been lucky. But now he began to wonder what was waiting for him in the unknown vastness of deep space. He wasn't that naïve as not to know that sometimes even good, otherwise promising people got drowned in the backwash of their mistakes. It wasn't fair, sure. But that was life.

"It must have been especially tough for you," he said, remembering certain details he'd heard just recently. "I mean, being the son of an admiral and all that."

Oh yeah, the Admiral. Tom remembered with painful clarity his father – the way the Admiral looked toward the end of the hearing. As if some particularly disgusting insect had crawled up on his spotless uniform. Fortunately, he wasn't present at the second tribunal. By then, the captured ex-Maquis hadn't been his son anymore.

Tom never knew being disowned could be such a relief, under certain circumstances.

"Frankly, I think it was tougher on my 'father' than it was on me," he replied, picking up his now cold soup and tossing it into the slot for recycling. Then a thought occurred to him.

"Look, Harry," he turned back to the kid in all honesty, "I know those guys told you to stay away from me. And you know what? You ought to listen to 'em, in your own best interest.. I'm not exactly a good luck charm."

And that was the understatement of the century, he added for himself.

Harry looked up at him intently. If the frown between his eyes was any indication, he was just about to work himself up to an important decision.

"I don't need anyone to choose my friends for me," he finally stated proudly.

Tom couldn't help but smile. The kid was so adorable in his heroic attempt to look all adult and responsible. And all that for Tom's sake. That had certainly been a first, for a long time.

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have some help, after all," Paris said teasingly, rubbing his tired eyes. "You seem to have a lousy taste in choosing your friends." But he couldn't deny that the kid's loyalty – especially as he hadn't done anything grand to earn it – warmed his heart a little.

First Stadi, then the Benzite engineer and now Harry. Could it be that just for once his outlook was taking a turn for the better?

Unless I screw up everything, as always. Or get them killed, too.

To Kim's credit, he recognized a joke when he heard one. Even such a lame, half-hearted one. He took a deep breath to riposte, but at that moment Tom's comm badge chirped.

"Janeway to Paris."

Tom tapped his badge and his mood darkened again, guessing why he was called. "Go ahead."

"Report to the bridge," that scratchy voice ordered. "We're approaching the Badlands."

"Acknowledged," Tom replied flatly, tapping the comm badge again, and with Harry following closely, headed out of the Mess Hall.

The hunt has begun. Now he had to see how he could save the prey. He would not get any more friends killed. Or captured.

Never again.

TBC

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

Note: Oliana Mirren and Jake Curland were young people trying to get into Starfleet Academy in the 1st season TNG episode "Coming of Age". Oliana actually succeeded. Jean Hajar was the navigator of Starfleet Academy's elite Nova Squadron that performed the illegal Kolvoort Starburst maneuver that caused the death of one of their team-mates (See: "The First Duty", TNG). Making them the crew that died at Caldik Prime was my doing.