The Lost Voyages

The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been

by Soledad

CARETAKER

Alternate pilot episode

CHAPTER 00: A SHORT INTRODUCTION

I know that introductions are usually boring and people tend to skip them and get to the actual story. I'm guilty of doing so myself, occasionally.

However, at this particular time it seemed necessary to explain to my potential readers what I'm doing here, so please bear with me and read it. That would spare you reading a story you probably won't like and spare me the objections afterwards.

What is this all about?

So, first and foremost, this is an AU. A rather extreme one, at that; showing Voyager in a way I'd have liked it to be, contrary to how it actually turned out. This particular story is the pilot of a whole series of rewritten episodes that will follow. Yes, it's going to be a monster project. Original parts will be few and far between, and I'll follow the timeline of canon – with major plot twists, character deaths, "avoiding" canonical character deaths and importing characters from other Star Trek series.

Why am I doing this?

For me, Voyager is the show of missed opportunities. It had so much promise when it first hit the air – but so much of it hasn't been used. I wanted to bring back those wasted opportunities and to give certain characters a chance to shine. Also, you can expect to see more of the Hirogen, Species 8472, and the Ocampa around the female Caretaker. What you are not going to find in this whole series is Q (in any incarnation), the Doctors head trips (I prefer organic characters, sorry), and Borg that could be beaten by Janeway single-handedly. Oh, there will be Borg all right. They will be a little different, though.

And finally, the warnings

As I've already said, this is an AU. The familiar titles and situations shouldn't mislead you – this will be a very different series from what you've seen on TV. A lot darker, actually. Also, if you are a Janeway-fan, or a fan of the canon pairings, this series is probably not the right thing for you.

Please, take these warnings into consideration. I have zero tolerance for people who willingly read stories they know they won't like and complain afterwards.

All the others – enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE: THE BADLANDS

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 notes: This pilot novel follows loosely L.A. Graf's novelization to the pilot episode. Most dialogue is from the episode itself, unless it concerns the character's past or belongs to an original character or to one that's canonically not supposed to be here. However, this whole series is an AU and should be read as one.

My heartfelt thanks go to Brigid for beta reading.

A wave of red light washed over the cramped bridge of the small spaceship. The alarms screamed like the horrified cries of a dying animal as the superior firepower of the Cardassian vessel hit the Crazy Horse, rattling the already battered frame of the ship mercilessly. Chakotay, ignoring the rising temperature on the bridge, tried to hold himself in his pilot's chair by grabbing its base with his ankles, and asked himself for the umpteenth time, why on Earth wouldn't the seats on a spaceship have safety belts. Inertial dampers were fine, but in situations like this, no real use.

Once we get back to our base, this will be the first thing I'll be looking into, he promised himself, while tapping another rapid sequence on his panel. Not for the first time. And he knew better than anyone that – once they reached the base – he wouldn't have the time to spare for such minor inconveniences. Cell leaders never did.

He took his responsibilities as a leader seriously – he always had. Otherwise he wouldn't have reached the rank of full Commander and been awarded a full professorship at Starfleet Academy at such a relatively young age. He knew his priorities in every given situation, and he followed them ruthlessly – toward himself and toward others if he had to. That was why he concentrated on flying the Crazy Horse right now, instead of looking back to see how his crew was faring. They would deal with the wounded later… if there was anyone left to deal with.

The ship's engines gave some ominous sound, and for a minute he felt the icy grip of fear around his heart, but then the faithful equipment barked into life again, and the Crazy Horse spiraled off the line of fire at an oblique angle.

Not for long, unfortunately. The maneuver wasn't even finished when another blast of destructive power flashed across the viewscreen, blinding them all momentarily. And this time the deadly tremor hit the hull so hard that Chakotay had to grab the console in front of him, or he'd have been hurled out of his chair.

"Direct hit," his weapons officer – a black Vulcan from the Forge, the hottest desert area on his home planet – reported calmly. His ebony skin made Suvuk almost invisible on the darkened bridge, but his composed face would look the same in full light anyway. "Shields at sixty percent…"

"A fuel line has ruptured!" After the deep, grave voice of the Vulcan, Torres' almost sounded shrill. "Attempting to compensate."

Another torpedo struck the belly of the Crazy Horse – not a hit, but close enough to make the whole deck tremble under their feet. Torres gave a frustrated snort and said something rude in Klingonese, while kicking the panel viciously.

"Dammit! We're barely maintaining impulse. I can't get any more out of her.."

Chakotay had no time for one of his half-Klingon engineer's famous temper tantrums. He could sense the next shot coming, and tried desperately to make a turn fast enough to avoid it, without blowing out their already damaged engine completely.

"Be creative!" he replied through gritted teeth.

Torres threw him a glance that could have melted an ice comet. "How am I supposed to be 'creative' with a thirty-nine-year-old rebuilt engine?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. Good. At least she wasn't having a screaming fit.

The intervention of his enemy saved Chakotay from the need to give an answer that he, quite frankly, didn't have.

"Maquis ship!" The grey, slightly scaled face of a middle-aged Cardassian male appeared on the viewscreen, replacing the starscape. "This is Gul Evek of the Cardassian Fourth Order. Cut your engines and prepare to sur…"

Damn! After the last communication with the runabout the channel must have been left open. Chakotay killed it with the heel of his hand, hoping that their lone ally had been smart enough to flee already. Starfleet's advanced tactical training had to be good for something.

"Initiating evasive pattern omega…," he warned his crew. Something behind him got loose with a thump and a hiss of flame. Chakotay tried to duck from the rain of sparks, but they were unavoidable as he keyed the sequence. "Mark!"

The ship made a disturbingly sluggish jerk – then it finally started to speed away. Chakotay smiled bitterly. At the end, it always came to this: running. No matter how brave or skilled they were, they were also hopelessly outgunned and outnumbered. In his honest moments he admitted to himself that they had no real chance of winning.

This would never make him give up, though. The Federation might have abandoned their colonies for political reasons, forgetting (or not caring) that it was people's lives they were dealing with as if they were plastic chips on a gambling table. Starfleet might have withdrawn its protection in order to Safeguard more strategically important places (like Bajor and the wormhole that led to the Gamma Quadrant). The colonists however were not willing to give up the homes that had been theirs for generations.

They were determined to protect their colonies or die trying. And right now, the crew of the Crazy Horse was closer to that second possibility.

But they could not die, not yet, not before they guided that runabout to one of the main bases. The pilot had crucial information that needed to reach the scattered leaders of the rebellion. For safety reasons, they had no central seat, nor a single information center. The small bases were little more than a workshop for ship maintenance and a food store. They had to escort the runabout and its pilot deep into the Badlands, where – protected by violent plasma storms that only small, fast ships could outmaneuver – the main bases were hidden. Half a dozen of them in all. They didn't have the means to maintain more.

Nobody knew who the important courier was – even Chakotay himself. Mike Eddington's people said only that he would recognize him – or her. That, and the fact that s/he was piloting a runabout alone through the Badlands let him suspect one of the Starfleet sympathizers. There were more than the brass would like to admit, he knew that. The voice was that of a woman – or so he thought – but scrambled by a modifier. Whoever s/he was, s/he was no fool. That much was sure.

They received another hit from behind, and Suvuk reported with that uncanny Vulcan calm, "Shields at fifty percent."

Spirits! They were not going to make it at this rate! Hands still at the controls, Chakotay shot an urgent look at Torres over his shoulder. "B'Elanna, I need more power!"

"Okay, okay," she waved impatiently, creasing her ridged brow in concentration. Torres was an engineering genius, and she worked brilliantly under pressure or against impossible odds. Right now, she had both.

Speaking of inspiration, Chakotay thought with grim humour.

"Okay," she said again, and Chakotay could almost see the lights going on in her mind like a Christmas tree, "take the weapons off-line. We'll transfer all power to the engines."

Suvuk lifted his head with one of his many non-expressions. This one clearly indicated his objections, with one elegant eyebrow arched politely.

"Considering the circumstances, I would question that proposal at this time," he said in what the crew of the Crazy Horse called his 'stuffed manner'. Torres shot him a heated look.

"What does it matter?" she exploded. "We are not making a dent in their shields anyway!" She turned back to Chakotay and added in a voice of pure acid. "You wanted 'creative'."

Another blast from the powerful Cardassian phasers burned into their weakening shields, and Chakotay was forced to turn back to his own console. He had to admit that Torres, as always when engineering problems were concerned, was absolutely right.

"Suvuk, shut down all the phaser banks," he ordered. Then, flicking a doubtful look at Torres over his shoulder, "If you can give me another thirty seconds at full impulse, I'll get us into the Badlands."

"The best of all possible options," Ken Dalby muttered unhappily, while working furiously on something under Torres' panel, "and not a good one, at that."

Chakotay didn't listen to him. His mind was already racing ahead, trying to construct a course that would navigate them through the maze of the plasma storm.

"Phasers off-line," Suvuk reported. And though his voice sounded just as gravely calm as always, everyone could feel his disapproval. Not that Chakotay cared…

"Throw the last photons at them," he snapped. "Then give me the power from the torpedo system"

"Acknowledged," Suvuk might not agree with his Captain, but he knew an order when he heard one. He activated the torpedo launchers with a flick of his dark hand. "Firing photons."

So calm. So efficient. Now, why would this very reaction – one that he had fully expected from the Vulcan, no less – give him an uneasy feeling? Chakotay shook his head in order to clear it a little, watching as their remaining torpedoes slammed into those impenetrable Cardassian shields. We don't stand a chance, he thought bitterly. We never did.

"Are you reading any plasma storms ahead?" he asked Suvuk.

"One," the Vulcan replied. "Coordinates one-seven-one mark four-three."

That eerie feeling nearly overcame Chakotay again. Such calmness. Such efficiency. Now, what did that remain him of?

But this was not the time. He gave a single, short nod. "That's where I'm going."

The Crazy Horse responded sluggishly to his commands. No wonder, actually. Torres kept the poor ship together by wizardry and sheer willpower alone. And he was about to take it into a field full of plasma storms. Dalby had been right – it was the best of all possible options, and not a good one, at that.

Still, it had to be done. He could only hope that the runabout would be able to follow them in – and that the Cardassians wouldn't detect. In the plasma fields the small, moderately efficient cloaking device would be knocked out in no time.

He maneuvered the ship very carefully, all too obvious of her erratic response. They dropped down and starboard to evade the next charge, but a surge of unseen energy splashed against their shields nevertheless, throwing the ship around like a nutshell. Are we hit again?

"Plasma storm intensity increasing by fourteen percent…" Suvuk's eyes never left the sensor readings. There was something to say about efficiency, after all. "… twenty… twenty-five…"

No hit, obviously. Good.

Chakotay could feel the growing fury of the space distortion through the responses of his ship. Actually, he hoped for it. It was their only chance to get rid of the much larger, much more powerful Cardassian vessel.

"Hold on!" he warned the others.

The violent crash of the storm battered their small ship just as badly as the Cardassian weapons had, but this was a power he could handle. The flares of electromagnetic fire crackled across the viewscreen like flaming whipcords, licking along their damaged shields like the fiery tentacles of some ancient monsters from the old legends. But he knew how not to get eaten by the monster. He simply had to avoid straying too close to the heart of that fury.

Easier said than done, he thought, dodging from the particularly violent charges. It was not an easy maneuver to weave their path between the grasping tendrils, but it was something he had become accustomed to. With grim satisfaction he realized that the Cardassians had not opened fire on them for several seconds. Busy with keeping their mammoth ship together, most likely.

Obviously, Suvuk noticed the fact as well, because he looked up from his tactical station and said as flatly as only a very surprised Vulcan could, "The Cardassian ship is not reducing power. They're following us in."

Chakotay frowned while navigating his ship neatly through a tear in the plasma that was barely wide enough to take them. Take the camel through the eye of a needle, he thought, adding loudly and full of sarcasm, "Gul Evek must be feeling daring today."

Hardly had he spoken when cold certainty hit him. The Cardassians were usually a lot more careful. If Gul Evek, known as one of the rather… moderate military leaders, was willing to risk his warship just to catch them, that could only mean that they knew of the importance of the particular mission the Crazy Horse had been chosen to accomplish. They knew about the courier.

Somebody had given him/her away.

Somewhere in the scattered network of Maquis leaders there was a traitor. There could be no other explanation. Chakotay was not important enough to risk a Galor-class warship, just to capture him. Nobody aboard the Crazy Horse was.

Suvuk transferred the view from his tactical sensors to one edge of the main screen, so that Chakotay could navigate the Crazy Horse and watch the struggle of the huge, mean-looking Cardassian warship against the plasma discharges that racked it from all sides at the same time. The big ship twisted and jumped, still in a clumsy attempt to follow the same intricate pattern that the Crazy Horse had flown only seconds earlier. Of course, with a ship of that size it was a rather… hopeless endeavour.

"I can't wait to see what happens when they try to squeeze that mammoth through the plasma needle we could barely pass through," Chakotay said with a wolfish grin. Even Torres barked a short laugh – more a snort, actually, but still a sign of grim delight. Only Suvuk watched the scenario with the same detached interest he paid all events he faced.

The Cardassian ship suddenly bucked sideways, hit by a hungry tendril of plasma fire on its underside. This threw it directly towards another tentacle, that swallowed one of its nacelles like a jellyfish, and the nacelle exploded into a huge ball of fire and debris. The ship turned upside down from the brutal force of the impact, spinning like an Orion wing-slug during mating, and drifted off visual, leaving a long trail of burning plasma.

"They're sending out a distress signal on all Cardassian frequencies," Suvuk reported. Chakotay shrugged.

"Which means most of them are still alive."

"Too bad," Dalby commented sotto voce, but still loud enough for everybody to hear. Several nods expressed complete agreement, Chakotay's among them. Dalby might have been an asshole at times, but his priorities were set just right.

"Evek was a fool to take a ship that size into the Badlands," Torres added with a derisive snort and a thump of her deceivingly small fist on her panel. Dark Latino eyes under heavy Klingon brows glinted with evil pleasure.

"Anyone's a fool to take a ship into the Badlands," Chakotay answered her with a not-quite-convincing sober expression on his face; actually, he wasn't able to hide his grin completely. Torres grinned back, but coming from her it seemed rather threatening – her sharp teeth reminded everyone that she was part Klingon, and anyone with half a functioning brain cell knew that if a Klingon shows her teeth that means trouble.

Still grinning, Chakotay activated the comm link again. It was time to call the runabout. "Crazy Horse to Shenandoah, please reply."

For a moment, there was only static, and he began to fear that they had lost the courier's ship in the fight. But then that strangely modified voice answered. "Shenandoah here. Go on."

"We shook the Cardassians off," Chakotay informed the unknown pilot. "Time to return to base. We'll lead, please follow us."

"Acknowledged," came the crisp answer, then the connection was broken.

So calm. So efficient. So – Starfleet. There could not be any doubt of that. The pilot had been able to follow them through the plasma storm, without shields (as the cloaking device swallowed too much energy to keep up more than the most basic navigational deflectors) and remain unharmed during the whole fight. Not only Starfleet, but most likely one of Starfleet's better people.

It was somewhat comforting to know that they had such an ally. Chakotay shook his head, trying to focus, and gave Suvuk a quick glance.

"Can you plot a course through these plasma fields?" he asked. Sure, the Vulcan was a mediocre pilot, but – like all Vulcans – rather good with sensors. And Chakotay didn't mind letting him show off his skills. It meant a short break for himself.

"The storm activity is typically widespread in this vicinity," Suvuk answered, stating the obvious in true Vulcan manner. He checked the few sensors that were still functioning. "I can plot a course," he added, "but I am afraid it will require an indirect route."

Chakotay shrugged. Did it matter anymore? With no warp drive and barely enough impulse to keep going, even the runabout could have easily outrun them – but for now, they were safe. All they needed to do was to reach one of the small repair bases placed on the Terikof Belt planetoids, where they would patch the ship together once again.

"We are in no hurry," he replied tiredly. As soon as the autopilot clicked in he rose from his seat and stretched his aching back muscles. He watched Torres working furiously at her station, with the competent help of Ken Dalby and that young, sad-faced Bajoran boy they had rescued from a prison camp only months before. So far, the boy hadn't uttered a single word, but he had apparently taken a liking to Dalby and become his shadow. To everybody's surprise, Dalby accepted the responsibility without a word  and had grown fiercely protective of the kid.

Nobody knew what the boy – Gerron was his name, Chakotay remembered – went through in that prison camp, not even Dalby. Not exactly, that is. But he was found in one of the special cells the Cardassians usually reserved for their pleasure slaves, and his condition – broken and bleeding and covered with the crude remnants of older injuries – left little to the imagination.

By all counts, he should have died. But thank to Jabara, DS9's head nurse and long-time Maquis sympathizer, the kid could profit from the benefits of advanced Federation medical technology. Secretly, of course. Jabara had to lie to Dr. Bashir, and she even lifted some supplies from the Infirmary for Gerron's future treatment. She could have lost her job and even been sent to the brig for that, but she didn't care, may the spirits bless her big heart.

So Gerron was healed and he chose Dalby as a substitute family. He never left Dalby's side, helped him with his work and generally did everything Chakotay told him to do. He just never looked at anyone directly. And he still didn't speak. Not a single word.

Chakotay sighed and acknowledged the arrival of the cleanup crew with a slight, thankful nod. It was a welcome noise – so normal, so soothing. His second-in-command and childhood friend, Gregor Ayala, stepped up to him with the damage reports. No casualties, Now, that was a relief. Who'd have thought that they'd get away with only a few minor injuries?

"Sito is looking after the wounded," Ayala informed him. "She has field medic training."

Chakotay nodded. He knew he could always count on Sito Jaxa, another late addition to his crew.

Though freed from the same prison camp as Gerron, Sito was an entirely different matter. Bajoran as well, but there the similarities ended. Sito was eleven years older than Gerron (who barely passed his sixteenth summer) and had been one of the best and brightest cadets at Starfleet Academy. Until that horrible accident. But even after that, she worked hard to redeem herself. She wanted to prove that she learned from her mistake. And she succeeded. She had won the trust and appreciation of none other than the famous Jean-Luc Picard.

Jean-Luc Picard, who sent her on a suicide mission as a sign of his approval.

Oh sure, it was in the best interest of the Federation; – only Chakotay didn't trust the Federation anymore. And neither did Sito, apparently. Otherwise, brave and eager Starfleet Ensign that she used to be, she would have returned home, accepted a medal of honour and continued to serve on big and shiny starships – like the newest Enterprise.

She chose to join the Maquis instead. As relief pilot and field medic, she was invaluable aboard the Crazy Horse. And it didn't hurt that she'd apparently lost her ability to fear anything. Whenever Chakotay looked into her smooth, young face, he couldn't suppress an involuntary shudder. Those pretty eyes of hers were so old and barren at times it seemed as if she went through life by sheer momentum only.

"Curious…"

Suvuk's voice jerked him out of his thoughts. The Vulcan, working on his controls with the same detached efficiency as always, seemed to speak to himself – which was a highly unusual thing for him to do.

"What is it?" asked Chakotay. He didn't like surprises these days, especially not in the Badlands. Everything out of the ordinary could mean lethal danger for his crew.

Suvuk, one eye still on the readings, gave him his best Vulcan eyebrow. "We have just passed through some kind of coherent tetryon beam."

Chakotay's chest tightened. Could it be some new Cardassian weapon? If so, that would mean that not even the Badlands were a safe hiding place anymore. In fact, that would explain why Gul Evek took the considerable risk of following them into the plasma field. To test the new weapon, most likely.

"Source?" he asked, hurrying back to his pilot's seat. He only stopped for a moment, to take a look at Suvuk's readings.

"Unknown," the Vulcan replied. "But there appears to be a massive displacement wave moving toward us."

Displacement wave? Were the Cardassians trying to hurl them out of the Badlands by force?

"Another storm?" Chakotay asked, hoping fiercely that he was wrong. But Suvuk shook his head.

"It is not a plasma phenomenon. The computer is unable to identify it." Considering the age and shape of their computer, this wasn't exactly a surprise, of course.

"Put it onscreen," Chakotay ordered.

Suvuk switched to back view again. The rippling tentacles of the plasma storm gave room for a thick wall of blinding, destructive energy that ploughed through the storm behind them like a hot knife through butter.

"At current speeds," Suvuk added placidly, "it is going to intercept us in less than thirty seconds."

Oh, Spirits, no! With a single, desperate leap, Chakotay swung away from Suvuk's station and landed in his own seat. Pretty hard.

"Anything left in those impulse generators, B'Elanna?" he called back to Torres, who was struggling with her console already, cursing under her breath in several languages.

"We'll find out," came her terse reply. "Sooner than we'd like."

"It is still exceeding our speed," Suvuk warned. Oh great! Just great!

Chakotay switched off the autopilot. "Maximum power."

"You've got it," Torres replied with a scowl, knowing all too well that even in the best possible shape, the Crazy Horse's maximum power would not be enough to outrun that wave of massive destruction. And they were about as far from their best possible shape as one could imagine.

The Crazy Horse lurched forward with a last, desperate effort – but it was not enough, simply not enough. Chakotay's hands froze on the panel as he felt that incredible wave of energy rolling toward them, knowing that his poor, battered ship won't stand a chance.

After everything they'd been through, in the end they were lost.

"The wave is continuing to accelerate," the deep voice of the Vulcan sounded like some bizarre funeral announcement. "It will intercept us in eight seconds… five…"

And then the blinding white light engulfed them all, and the ship was hurled away like a dry leaf in a hurricane.

The last thing Chakotay heard, before losing consciousness, was a high-pitched, keening wail from Gerron's direction.

TBC

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

Note:

I'm sure everyone knows who "Suvuk" actually is. I found it highly unlikely that Tuvok would use his true name in an undercover operation – especially having taught at Starfleet Academy for sixteen years.