Subject: NEW: Operation Caretaker (VOY, 1/1, [PG], OP J) Date: Wed, 28 Jul 1999 16:48:32 -0500 From: Lorelei Organization: Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Title: Operation Caretaker Author: Lorelei Date: 28 July 1999 Series: VOY Rating: PG Codes: Owen Paris, J Summary: My own edition of Equinox Part II, in which some things about Equinox Part I and the Voyager series in general are finally explained. This will become extremely non-canon when the real Part II is aired. C'est la vie. Disclaimer: Paramount owns the names and the settings; I fill in the missing pieces. Feedback: But of course! Send to me at bint@iname.com. *** The tall redhead entered the office, serenely oblivious to the blue haze of cigar smoke and the abrupt halt in conversation. She carefully placed the tray of fresh drinks on the desk; turning gracefully, she exited the room, feminine and efficient in stiletto heels. Admiral Paris watched in open admiration, then shook his head and chuckled aloud. "Another drink, *Admiral* Ransom?" he asked, slapping his companion on the back. Rudy Ransom reluctantly tore his eyes from the spot where the shapely legs had disappeared through the door, and held out his empty glass. "By all means, *Admiral* Paris!" He pushed his chair back a few inches so he could put his feet up on the desk. Owen Paris did the same, and the two men contentedly smoked and drank as the early morning sunshine drifted through the window. Ransom daydreamed happily. This was what Starfleet was all about. Serve your time in the trenches, then be rewarded with an office with a view of the bay, a fully-stocked wet bar, and your choice of buxom executive assistants--some of whom might even have actual clerical skills. And let's not forget the sharp-looking dress uniform! Those five years of hell in the Delta quadrant were quickly becoming a distant memory, the fear and rage and loss fading with each sip of his drink. Now that he understood why he had been sent there, it was all worth it. After several lazy minutes, he was awakened from his reverie by quiet chuckles and snickers from his companion. He glanced over at the admiral warily. "What?" Paris grinned. "That day when you ran into Janeway out there..." Ransom relaxed and laughed as well. "Oh, did you see that?" "That was hilarious! You say to her, 'Here is how to get your ship home, with diagrams and instructions and the whole nine yards.' And she gets on her soapbox and gives you a lecture on ethics." "She should be glad we returned her crew members to her," added Ransom. "She needs all the help she can get." They clinked their glasses together and took another drink. "You know," said Paris thoughtfully, "she's going to feel really silly when she finds out what it was all about..." *** Several minutes later, Ransom was sound asleep in his chair. Admiral Paris studied his new protege with pride. Definitely worthy of the rank which would be bestowed at the ceremony this afternoon, he thought. A leader who was willing to bend the rules and do whatever it takes to get his crew to safety. Starfleet needs more men like Ransom. Pity about the name, though. He sounds like a perpetual kidnaping victim. Paris remembered his last protege with a pang of embarrassment. Janeway had not quite turned out the way he'd planned. Her early obsession with science had been irritating, but he'd played along because he saw leadership potential in her. Then he deftly orchestrated that spy mission against Cardassia, and she got her first glimpse of the real Starfleet. She might as well learn right away that there is no such thing as a Starfleet science mission! She actually performed quite admirably, although he always felt guilty about the phony "Cardassians torturing me for hours" routine. He should have won an Oscar for that one. Anyway, Janeway had clearly passed the test and was on her way up the ladder of command. Paris dreamed of molding her in his image, and eventually she would stand by his side among the ranks of admirals. It shouldn't have been difficult; in those days, anyone with the staying power to remain in Starfleet for twenty or so years was pretty much guaranteed an admiralty. Even *he* had been handed his rank on a silver platter. Never one to take things for granted, however, he had worked hard to prove his worth. In constant competition for the President's favors, he eventually made the "supreme sacrifice": he sent a ship to capture his own son, who had recently joined up with the Maquis. "We couldn't risk letting the Maquis benefit from his piloting talent and insider Starfleet knowledge," he had stated for the cameras with tears in his eyes the day Tom was taken to prison. "It was for the good of the Federation..." On the verge of collapse, he had to be helped down from the podium, in yet another Oscar-caliber performance. He really was in the wrong business. Then the President, impressed by his ability to make tough decisions, and concerned about the glut of wishy-washy admirals who couldn't command their way out of a paper bag, had decided to entrust him with this task: devise a test by which new top-ranking Starfleet command would be selected. A trial by fire, was the exact phrase he used. Paris had been given free reign. There was nothing he liked better than free reign. *** Thus was born Operation Caretaker. They sent fifteen of their best captains out on various pretenses to the far reaches of the Gamma and Delta quadrants, and monitored their progress and leadership ability through video and audio subspace relays. The ones who made it home in a reasonable amount of time would be promoted, while the others--if they made it home at all--would finish their careers in the obscurity of deep-space minerals reclamation plants. The test was decisive and fair. Paris was not above stacking the deck just a little, and had used his influence to procure the best ship in the fleet for Janeway's test. Despite this, Ransom was the only captain who had made it back to Federation space so far, beating all estimates of how long it should take to get home. True, he lost most of his crew in the process, but he'd saved the toughest and brightest ones. Survival of the fittest applies in Starfleet, too. The Caretaker, a humanitarian concept no Starfleet captain could ignore, had appeared as a different entity to each ship. In Ransom's case, the Caretaker was a sentient endothermic reactor which protected a small sun from going supernova before a colonized planet had time to evacuate. Each captain was to solve the problem presented by his "Caretaker," and then figure out how to get home. Starfleet Command had been tracking the ships for five years now. The other six ships still alive were all within three years of home at this point, but Janeway and her fearless crew continued to set new records for tedium and incompetence at 35,000 light years out. The progress reports delivered to the admiral's office each week read like a tragicomedy of errors: "Running out of dilithium, pissed off another alien race, fell into another spatial anomaly," blah blah blah. If Starfleet ever decided to maintain friendly relations with the species of the Delta quadrant, there would be countless reparations and apologies to be made first, thanks to her. In the end, though, everyone got what he or she deserved. Ransom was home and drinking martinis and getting his promotion, while Janeway sucked down imitation coffee and interfered with pre-warp civilizations. Paris' faith in her abilities had been a source of humiliation, but now he had a new prize pupil, and Janeway was little more than a running joke at the Admiral's Club. He glanced at Ransom, who was snoring loudly, his head tipped back, the burning cigar threatening to drop onto his lap. An obnoxious, heartless man; an inventive and dedicated leader. Paris would never actually get onto a ship commanded by Ransom, but that was the sign of a strong leader: other leaders keep a healthy distance, while the huddled masses of ensigns and crewmen cheerfully follow him to hell and back. He sighed heavily and finished his drink. Fuck Janeway. He wished he hadn't bet his favorite summer home on her, though. He was going to miss that place. END -- "When I think of Lorelei, my head turns all around She's gentle as a butterfly, she moves without a sound" (Styx - "Lorelei") Lorelei - bint@iname.com