STAR TREK - VOY - 01 -The Caretaker

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Star Trek - Voy - 001 -The Caretaker
By: L. A. Graf
Prologue
A roar of scarlet light blasted through the tiny spaceship's bridge, and alarms screamed as if in surprise as
the deadly tremor of a direct hit went rattling off down the ship's already battered frame. Chakotay
wound his ankles more securely around the base of his pilot's chair to keep from being pitched to the
deck, then tapped a rapid sequence on the panel without looking back to see how the rest of his crew
fared.
If he looked, he would have to go to them, and there was no place for that just now. A time to fight, a
time to mourn, he tried to console himself. Chakotay didn't remember anymore what noble figure in his
people's past had first said that. He wondered if that old Indian had ever faced anything quite like this.
The ship's engines stuttered, then barked suddenly into life to spiral them off at an oblique vector.
Another blast of light shattered across the viewscreen dominating Chakotay's vision, and this time he had
to grab the console itself as the ship bucked out from under him.
"Direct hit." Tuvok sat his station as easily as he would have on any planetbound
installation--unperturbed, unshaken. Skin and hair the color of polished walnut blended the Vulcan into
near invisibility under the ship's unnatural darkness. It wasn't as if Chakotay would have seen anything
interesting in Tuvok's expression, anyway--Vulcan discipline rendered the alien's face as emotionless as
his voice, making him a steady (if uninspiring) companion in such fights.
"Shields at sixty percent..."
"A fuel line has ruptured," Torres's voice added to the litany from somewhere out of Chakotay's sight.
"Attempting to compensate..."
This time, Chakotay felt the belly of his ship split open under the force of a torpedo strike too distant to
count as a hit, too near to be ignored as a miss. Even so, he couldn't help smiling, just a little, at Torres's
roar of frustration as she kicked and pummeled her panel at the back of the craft.
"Dammit!" Her voice fairly dripped with the Klingon anger she'd unwillingly inherited from her mother's
contribution to her genes.
"We're barely maintaining impulse. I can't get any more out of it--" Chakotay sensed the next shot
coming, easing their craft into a turn he hoped would be fast enough without blowing out their damaged
engines.
"Be creative."
Torres exploded a Latino curse in his direction. "How am I supposed to be `creative' with a
thirty-nine-year-old rebuilt engine--" "Maquis ship!" The gray, leathern face of a mature Cardassian
flashed onto the viewscreen, blotting out the starscape. "This is Gul Evek of the Cardassian Fourth
Order. Cut your engines and prepare to sur--" Chakotay interrupted his piloting only long enough to
close the comm channel with the heel of his hand.
"Initiating evasive pattern omega..." Something let loose with a crash and whoosh! of flame. Chakotay
ducked his head away from the rain of sparks that singed his close-cropped hair, and keyed the
sequence. "Mark!"
The ship jerked like a rabid dog, then started to run.
When Chakotay had been a boy only just taking the first steps into what would become the journey of
his manhood, he'd traveled out west with his father and uncle, stayed awake for almost three days in
woods so very like where his ancestors used to live, and chanted to keep himself brave as his father and
uncle tattooed the first lines into his virgin face. Remember, they had told him, what you are made of.
Every time you look in a mirror, remember that less than five hundred years ago, the grandfathers who
preserved these marks for you stood in woodlands light-years away with their knives and arrows,
throwing sticks and shields, and fought a wave of ignorant invaders so that you and other children like
you could be born and taught and tattooed in the way of our people for centuries to come. What his
father didn't talk about was how, despite the mighty battles waged by Chakotay's forefathers, those
ignorant invaders had taken the land, relocated the families, and done everything possible to make sure
the prayers and language and tattoos didn't survive, all in the name of what they believed was virtuous
and right.
But Chakotay had known all that already. He'd known it from history tapes and museum
exhibits--known that the tolerance and freedom he and his people enjoyed on their fertile colony world
had not always existed. And he had been fiercely grateful to everyone who had fought to preserve this life
for him.
Yet now, hundreds of thousands of miles away from the planet his ancestors had called home, Chakotay
found himself allied with a band of proud colonists who wanted only to save their homes and families and
ways of life, just like those Indians on long-ago Earth. No matter how just and necessary the Federation
believed its treaty with the Cardassians--no matter how many times some admiral claimed they were
sorry to abandon the border colonies to the uncertainties of life under Cardassian rule--Chakotay
couldn't make himself believe this situation was any different than a hundred other stories where the
dominant culture imposed its will on peoples who hadn't the power to turn back the tide.
He'd be damned if he let that happen again here. If nothing else, he owed it to his grandfathers.
Something shoved at the ship from behind, and Tuvok reported evenly, "Shields at fifty percent."
Damn. Chakotay twisted a look at Torres without lifting his hands from the controls. "I need more
power."
"Okay..." She blinked, her thick brow ridge wrinkling as the fluid mind beneath her black mane darted
through more engineering options than Chakotay even knew. "Okay," she said again, suddenly, "take the
weapons off-line. We'll transfer all power to the engines."
Tuvok lifted his head with a politely arched eyebrow.
"Considering the circumstances, I'd question that proposal at this time."
"What does it matter?" Torres shot back acidly. "We're not making a dent in their shields anyway." She
returned Chakotay's unhappy sigh with a battle stare that, even coming from a half-Klingon, could have
melted pure deuterium. "You wanted `creative."" Not "wanted"--didn't have a choice. There really was a
difference.
Chakotay turned back to his panels as another blast from the Cardassian ship burned into their shields.
"Tuvok, shut down all the phaser banks." He flicked a hopeful look at Torres. "If you can give me
another thirty seconds at full impulse, I'll get us into the Badlands."
The best of all possible options, and not a good one, at that.
"Phasers off-line," Tuvok reported. He sounded as unhappy as a Vulcan ever did.
"Throw the last photons at them," Chakotay told him, his mind already racing ahead in an effort to
construct a preliminary course through the Badlands' plasma storm maze. "Then give me the power from
the torpedo system. ..."
"Acknowledged." Tuvok primed the warheads with a flick of his hand.
"Firing photons."
A bark of percussive thunder, and the little ship jolted at every launch. The answering flash and rumble of
the torpedoes slamming against those impenetrable Cardassian shields only encouraged Chakotay a little.
"Are you reading any plasma storms ahead?" he asked Tuvok.
"One," the Vulcan replied. "Coordinates one-seven-one mark four-three."
Chakotay nodded once, shortly. "That's where I'm going..."
The ship responded to his commands like a brain-dead mammoth--slowly, stumbling. We've got to get
out of here, Chakotay thought, feeling weirdly as if that urgency had only just occurred to him. As they
dropped down and starboard, a surge of unseen energy splashed against the ship like a careless wave.
The absence of curses and alarms told him it hadn't been a Cardassian torpedo.
"Plasma storm density increasing by fourteen percent..."
Tuvok's dark eyes stayed riveted to his sensors. "... twenty...
twenty-five..."
Chakotay didn't need the Vulcan's recitation to feel the growing fury in the space distortion. It was just
what he had hoped for.
"Hold on!"
The crash of the storm swallowing them whole rivaled any blast from the Cardassian warship, but it was
a welcome, familiar violence that lifted the crushing dread from Chakotay's heart even as it battered his
tiny craft. Thrashing flares of electro-magnetic fire writhed across the viewscreen, whipping their
damaged shields like living tentacles as plasma rocked and shook and pitched the Maquis ship in warning
of what they would face should they stray too close to the heart of that fury.
It was a power Chakotay already respected well, and one he didn't plan to abuse. Weaving carefully
between the grasping tendrils, he counted the seconds since the Cardassians last opened fire on them,
and smiled.
As if aware of Chakotay's thoughts, Tuvok volunteered from the weapons station, "The Cardassian ship
is not reducing power.
They're following us in."
Chakotay aimed them neatly through a tear in the plasma hardly large enough to take them. "Gul Evek
must be feeling daring today."
Tuvok inset the video from his sensors to the edge of the main viewscreen, granting Chakotay the
privilege of watching without interrupting the pilot's work. It was worth having the chance to sneak a
look, Chakotay admitted. The huge Cardassian vessel twisted and jumped as plasma discharge racked it
from all sides.
Chakotay recognized their pattern--a crude attempt to follow the path sketched out by the Maquis ship
on its way into the maelstrom. He couldn't wait to see what happened when they tried to thread that
plasma needle he'd just squeezed through.
Evek's ship wrenched suddenly sideways--to avoid the skirl of fire biting at its belly, Chakotay
supposed--only to have its upflung nacelle engulfed in a hungry tentacle that swelled all too quickly into a
searing blast of light and spinning debris.
He caught the briefest glimpse of the warship as it tumbled over itself and off visual, trailing glowing
destruction behind it.
"They're sending out a distress signal on all Cardassian frequencies," Tuvok reported. Which meant most
of them were still alive. Too bad.
Torres snorted and thumped a fist on her panel in pleasure.
"Evek was a fool to take a ship that size into the Badlands."
"Anyone's a fool to take a ship into the Badlands," Chakotay reminded her, and she rewarded him with
one of her rare, sharp-toothed smiles and a rude gesture with one hand.
Still grinning, Chakotay passed his gaze over Tuvok on his way to returning all attention to his console.
"Can you plot a course through these plasma fields, Mr. Tuvok?" It would be nice to have something to
work from other than the seat of his pants, not to mention nice to let the computer do some of the work
for a while.
"The storm activity is typically widespread in this vicinity."
Tuvok fell silent as he swept their surroundings with whatever sensors the Cardassians had left them. "I
can plot a course," he decided at last, "but I am afraid it will require an indirect route."
Chakotay shrugged, enjoying the luxury. "We're in no hurry."
Tuvok didn't seem to appreciate the dry humor--after all, with no warp drive and damn little impulse,
there wasn't much hurrying they could do--but Chakotay had learned to enjoy the opportunities for
humor made available by a Vulcan's literal mind. Humor was something hard to come by in the Maquis
these days.
Chakotay waited for the telltales on his panel to blink acceptance of the computer's control, then pushed
away from the console to climb stiffly to his feet. Muscles all down his back twinged in none-too-gentle
reminder of the hours he'd spent hunched in the tiny pilot's seat. He pulled his face into a grimace and
stretched until his hands brushed the ceiling. Even with the ship still jumping and rumbling through the
trails of plasma discharge, it felt good to be standing. He was getting too old for this kind of
cat-and-mousing every day.
Torres remained glued to her station, calling damage reports and instructions to other parts of the ship
while trying to sort out a snake's coil of cables from around her feet. Other crew had appeared from
nowhere, the noise of their cleanup a happy, relieved sound after the grim silence of the long battle. This
was hard on them, Chakotay knew. So many colonists came into the Maquis because they wanted to
save themselves and their families, not because they wanted to die.
Coming so close in a claustrophobic rattrap that had been smuggled into the Demilitarized Zone only
months before by an overpriced Ferengi marketeer was enough to make even the most stalwart
revolutionary question the wisdom of his fight. He expected to lose a good quarter of the crew once they
set down for repairs among the Terikof Belt planetoids. Like always.
He clapped Torres on the back as he slipped past her, earning a startled jerk of her head in reply. He
met her uncertain frown with a smile and an upraised thumb, appreciative of her good work over the last
few hours, knowing how wrong it would be to try and tell her so.
She grunted, flushing that distinct shade of umber that no full Klingon would ever exhibit, and turned back
to her panel with a terse nod.
Satisfied that she'd understood the compliment, even if it made her uncomfortable, Chakotay moved
wearily toward the back of the command center to find the source of the ribbon of smoke that was
steadily pooling in the struts overhead.
"I've heard Starfleet's commissioned a new Intrepid-class ship," Torres remarked suddenly. As though
she knew she ought to say something in response to Chakotay's communication, but didn't know quite
what.
"With the bioneural circuitry to maneuver through plasma storms..."
she added.
The smoke was spilling out of a grate beneath the atmosphere controls, weirdly lit from inside by both
emergency flashers and loose flame.
Chakotay pulled the grate open with a great puff of sooty air, and knelt to reach under the damaged
panel. "We'll find a new place to hide," he remarked to Torres.
She was silent for a moment, and he used that time to find the trigger for the automatic fire controls and
force it into the Active position with his thumb. Halon swirled around him in a chilling blast, and he jerked
his arm back into the open to let the gas do its work.
"You ever think about what'll happen if they catch us?" Torres asked as he was settling the grate back
into its tracks. The controls reported that function had been marginalized, but nothing was in danger of
failing.
Chakotay added replacement of the atmospherics to the mental checklist of impossible repairs he already
intended to hand the technicians at the hideout, and turned to decide which hopeless task to take up next.
"My great-grandfather had a poktoy," he said to Torres as he prowled between the panels. At her
dubious scowl, he smiled and clarified, "A saying, that he passed on to my grandfather, who passed it to
my father, who passed it to me.
`Coya anochta zab."" The reclamation system had been fused in one of the countless torpedo hits, too
ruined for him to even read the controls. He abandoned it, and moved on. "`Don't look back."" Torres
almost smiled, and Chakotay had to return her flash of grim humor when he considered how appropriate
those words were to most of their battles anymore. Take it where you can get it, he chided himself.
Humor is hard to come by, remember? Small wonder why.
"Curious..."
Tuvok's voice floated up from the weapons console as though the Vulcan didn't even realize he'd spoken.
Chakotay watched as long, dark hands played across the controls, trying to recapture something no one
but a Vulcan would probably even have seen.
Apparently satisfied with what he found, Tuvok lifted an eyebrow and traced a series of readings with his
eyes. "We have just passed through some kind of coherent tetryon beam."
Chakotay's heart thumped against his lungs. If the Cardassians have some new weaponry... He shook the
thought away, unwilling to think of that just now. "Source?" he asked as he climbed his way back to the
front of the bridge.
Tuvok consulted his readings once more. "Unknown." As Chakotay squeezed in behind him, Torres as
close on his heels as she could be without actually touching him, the Vulcan pointed to something
incomprehensible among his readouts. "Now there appears to be a massive displacement wave moving
toward us."
Chakotay shot a look out the viewscreen, seeing nothing but plasma turmoil, then turned in frustration to
the swarm of scientific figures and the blur of formless white steadily obscuring them as it flowed onto the
screen. "Another storm?"
Tuvok shook his head. "It is not a plasma phenomenon. The computer is unable to identify it."
"Put it onscreen."
The plasma storm swirling and raging beyond the forward viewscreen rippled and bled, peeling away
from itself as the image projected there shifted to a new angle off the rear of the little craft. Chakotay felt
his throat tighten at the thick wall of coruscating destruction that chewed its way through the storm behind
them.
"At current speeds," Tuvok reported placidly, "it is going to intercept us in less than thirty seconds."
And eat us alive. Chakotay swung away from the weapons console to throw himself at the helm.
"Anything left in those impulse generators, B'Elanna?" he called back to Torres as he slipped into the
seat.
She already struggled with her damaged equipment, growling profanities at whatever her console told
her. "We'll find out."
"It is still exceeding our speed," Tuvok interjected.
Chakotay didn't bother acknowledging. "Maximum power."
"You've got it," Torres replied.
But even as the craft lurched forward, he could feel the wave roiling toward them--like the stinging kiss of
too-near fire, or the brush of an owl's wing as it dove toward someone's death in the night. Not like this,
he prayed. After everything we've been through, everything we've dreamed, please don't let us lose our
lives like this!
"The wave is continuing to accelerate." A rhythmic pinging underscored the Vulcan's deep voice as he
counted off the seconds. "It will intercept us in eight seconds... five..."
Chakotay locked his feet around the chair's base again, his hands frozen on the panel, but unable to
command any more speed from the ruined craft.
Not like this!
Sirens first, then screams, then the groan of tortured metal. He clenched his teeth, wished he could close
his ears, damning the Federation for their ill-thought treaty, damning the Cardassians for chasing them in
here, damning whatever explosion of nature now chased them, slammed them, clawed them, ripped them
open like a rotten fish until the ship streamed its viscera a molecule wide into forever, into nowhere, into
nothingNot like this not like this not like--!
Chapter 1
"Captain Kathryn Janeway, this is Auckland Control. You are now cleared for landing at Federation
Penal Settlement, Landing Pad Three."
Blinking her attention back to the present, Janeway reached for the comm toggle with no conscious
decision to do so, directed by instinct and habit when fatigue wouldn't allow her much else to go on.
"Janeway to Auckland Control, roger. Landing approach at one-three-one-mark-seven."
"Roger, Janeway," the bright New Zealand voice on the other end of the channel replied. "Enjoy your
stay."
She set about the business of guiding her slim shuttle past the island's rugged mountains without dignifying
the Kiwi's sarcasm with a reply.
The sheer greenness of New Zealand's North Island reached up through the clean ocean air to hug
Janeway's heart with warmth.
As temperate and mild a place as San Francisco was, it was still penciled on the coastline in shades of
minty gray. Fog and rock and juniper, not mountains, trees and snow like the wild panorama galloping
below her. It seemed a shame to waste such beauty on felons. No matter how hard she tried to tell
herself that even criminals were humans, deserving of certain dignities and rights, she couldn't quite divest
herself of the belief that incarceration for serious crimes should be unpleasant and dull.
Why take up land that could be added to New Zealand's magnificent National Parks system when
Alcatraz still crouched in the midst of San Francisco Bay, useless to everybody but tourists and seagulls?
After all, the felons sunning themselves on Auckland's beaches right now should be contemplating how
badly they never wanted to end up in prison again, not budgeting time for another stint here as though
planning some kind of expense-paid vacation.
That isn't fair, she scolded herself. They make them work here, and rehabilitation facilities like this enjoy a
much higher success rate than the old-style punishment systems. Still, a deeper part of her chafed at the
idea of cutting anyone else slack when she allowed so little room for error in herself.
The penal settlement accepted her clearance code without question, and she allowed the penitentiary's
flight computer to take the shuttle's controls for the final approach and touchdown.
It felt good, actually, to sit back--even for a few minutes--and rest her brain from the endless onslaught
of decisions it had been forced to make over the last few days. Mark, bless him, had been as supportive
as a civilian lovemate could be, never questioning the hours she spent away from him (even when they
were together), never demanding that he be more important than the things that Starfleet threw in front of
her to reconcile.
Even when Bear had gotten sick, poor angel, Mark had taken her to the vet without being asked, letting
the big dog ride the whole way with her head in his lap, even though it meant dun-colored hairs on his
trousers for the rest of the week. Janeway knew how much he hated dealing with dog hair.
Why does everything come down at once? she asked herself with a weary sigh. A part of her still hadn't
forgiven herself for handing Bear over to the kennel this morning, still with no idea why the dog had
suddenly swelled by nearly seven kilos and fallen into a persistent lazy torpor. If anything happens to her
while I'm gone, I'll hate myself.
And if anything happened to her wayward security officer because she couldn't get Voyager out of port
just one day earlier, she'd hate herself for that, too. There was just no way of winning this one.
The comp at the main gate was expecting her. Walking across the bright, open field separating the two
aircraft permanently assigned to this settlement from the actual facility that housed the detainees, Janeway
marveled again at the sweetness of the air, the beauty of the cerulean sky. I need a vacation, she decided.
Bad timing, that. She passed inside the gates on voiceprint and retinal scan only, and wasn't even past the
second barrier before the security system informed her, "Detainee Thomas E. Paris is in the motor fleet
repair bay. Would you like a security car to take you there?"
"No," she told it. "I'd rather walk."
It neither thanked her nor signed off; she left the gate behind without caring.
For all that they couldn't have many visitors to the penal settlement, the detainees she passed didn't seem
particularly interested in her arrival. She couldn't imagine that they'd known she'd be coming. More likely,
the arrival of a Starfleet officer meant nothing but trouble for somebody within this facility, and nobody
particularly wanted to be that somebody.
Just as well. She wasn't in the mood to talk right now, least of all to anyone who couldn't figure out how
to keep themselves out of serious trouble, much less rescue a stubborn friend from the fire.
She found Paris on the pavement outside the repair bay, the only detainee in sight--and even then, only
half so. His upper torso was hidden beneath some long, squat piece of equipment with a power coil the
size of an asteroid, his shirt flung carelessly over the machine's control console and a plasma welder
flashing arrhythmically from somewhere out of sight beside him. Janeway took in the details of his
assignment--the level of equipment he was allowed to use without supervision, the apparent mobility of
the machine he worked to repair--and noted to herself that even the electronic anklet locked to his right
foot couldn't stop him from fleeing the island if he chose to at this moment. It could find him, wherever he
fled, but it couldn't prevent his escape.
The fact that he was still here said something about either his commitment to his own rehab, or his
intelligence. She didn't know him well enough yet to determine which it was.
Taking a breath to clear her thoughts and school the dislike from her features, she clasped her hands
loosely behind her back.
"Tom Paris?" She summoned him as though only just coming up on the scene, seeing no need to
surrender any advantage she didn't have to.
Not to this kid. Not knowing the kind of stock he came from.
The flailing light under the machinery's belly died abruptly, leaving a smear of darkness across her vision
as an echo of its brightness.
Paris pushed himself out from under with a smoothness that betrayed the gliding board he must have had
in place under his back, and flicked up the visor that hid his eyes as though lifting an extremely chic and
expensive pair of sunglasses. Sweat sheened down the middle of his chest and across the flat plane of his
stomach, and Janeway noted that his pale skin glowed just a bit too pinkly below his collar line and
above his cuffs. Not used to New Zealand's bright winter sun, then, and too proud to move himself inside
when the daylight threatened to burn. That indicated a special type of stupidity, reserved for young men
who felt they had something to prove but hadn't a clue what it was.
Very like the description she'd been given before flying down to New Zealand, and not at all like his
father.
"Kathryn Janeway," she identified herself. She didn't offer her hand, and he gave no sign that he expected
it. "I served with your father on the Al-Batani. I wonder if we could go somewhere and talk."
An odd little smile that seemed to go deeper than it should ghosted onto his face at the mention of his
father. Janeway wondered what sort of thoughts moved behind an expression like that "About what?"
Paris asked her, still stretched full-length on the gliding board.
"About a job we'd like you to do for us."
He laughed--a laugh as odd and light as his smile--and tossed a hand toward the machine above him.
"I'm already doing a `job,'" he explained with mock sincerity. "For the Federation."
Attitude looking for a place to happen. Janeway had been warned, but it didn't make her like it any more.
Still, a dozen years of service had taught her well how to temper her tone and expression. "I've been told
the Rehab Committee is very pleased with your work. They've given me their approval to discuss this
matter with you."
Paris studied her with eyes that held a hint of an intellect far keener than his history implied. Then he
shrugged, as though dismissing everything he'd just allowed himself to think, and bounced to his feet with
an easy grace that spoke volumes about the training and life he'd known before this. He faced her with
arms spread, that infuriating grin laid out between them like a shield. "Then I guess I'm yours."
Only if I decide I want you, Janeway thought back at him, her face as cool and stem as possible. And
then only if I decide I need you. She didn't have time to waste on him otherwise.
* A park. The damn penal facility had a park. Janeway walked with Paris between the full, green trees,
seething at the lovely solitude of the place amid these people who seemed, by temperament, ill-suited to
appreciate it. Still, it was Paris who slowed to pluck an errant scrap of plastic off the walkway--Paris
who detoured them around a bob of oblivious pigeons so that their conversation wouldn't disrupt the
birds.
And, all the while, he undercut the notion of his own decency every time Janeway began to think there
might be something more to this rebellious boy than anyone realized. If nothing else, he was certainly a
complicated young man. She wasn't sure she wanted complicated for this delicate a mission.
"Your father taught me a great deal," she said when one of his self-deprecating slurs laid out an overlong
silence between them.
"I was his science officer during the Arias Expedition."
Paris nodded, thoughtfully. "You must be good. My father only accepts the best and the brightest."
Surprisingly, the rancor she'd expected didn't surface in his voice. Perhaps the worst of it only reached
inward instead of out.
She followed on the heels of his reasonability before it could crumble away. "I'm leaving on a mission to
find a Maquis ship that disappeared in the Badlands a week ago."
"I wouldn't if I were you."
The easy certainty of his tone made it sound like he was commenting on the soccer scores, not a trek into
the worst uncharted space.
"Really?" she prompted dryly.
He nodded again, more seriously, and even dared stealing a direct look at her face, as if to make sure
she was listening. "I've never seen a Federation starship that could maneuver through the plasma storms."
"You've never seen Voyager," she told him, and quietly enjoyed the flash of jealous curiosity that jumped
into his eyes. "We'd like you to come along."
Bitter understanding supplanted whatever interest had started to get a foothold in his brain. "You'd like
me to lead you to my former colleagues." He wasn't guessing, though she knew he meant it to sound that
way, and the half-angry, half-mocking smile that seemed his constant companion finished the job of
banishing her respect. "I was only with the Maquis a few weeks before I was captured, Captain. I don't
know where most of their hiding places are."
"You know the territory better than anyone we've got." He had to know that was true.
摘要：

StarTrek-Voy-001-TheCaretakerBy:L.A.GrafPrologueAroarofscarletlightblastedthroughthetinyspaceship'sbridge,andalarmsscreamedasifinsurpriseasthedeadlytremorofadirecthitwentrattlingoffdowntheship'salreadybatteredframe.Chakotaywoundhisanklesmoresecurelyaroundthebaseofhispilot'schairtokeepfrombeingpitche...

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