Legal Disclaimer: Any characters or events that seem to mimic real life are purely coincidental . . . and, hey, if there is anyone meeting nasty gray aliens with claws, I want to talk to them! hee, hee>
Alternative Universe: Well, folks, because I'm insane enough to combine seaQuest, Voyager, and DS9 all together into one plot, there are some obvious changes! You'll notice the "obvious changes" quickly, I think.
Rating: R. This part of the series is R because of a rather violent and emotionally charged scene towards the end.
Archiving: Just ask first. I'll probably say yes. :)
Cautionary Advice: (Clearing throat) Be prepared for a hefty dose of "suspension of disbelief." There is a degree of the intentionally ludicrous here. :) But remember . . . I warned you!
Length Advisory: Be prepared for a long haul! Currently, I haven't even set a cap on the number of parts involved . . .
Summary: seaQuest, plus Deep Space Nine, plus Voyager equals . . . lots of fun! Here's the short synopsis: Captain Bridger commands a starship, the Voyager both reaches earth and doesn't, and the Defiant gets sucked into yet another wormhole! Hmmm . . . crazy, isn't it? Well, of course it is . . . this is Sheri writing! :)
Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away (snicker, snicker) . . .
SCENE: large oak-paneled room, tastelessly decorated in scarlet drapes and cherry wood furniture. A huge fireplace burns in the right corner; on the left corner can be seen--rather inappropriately--a floating throne. In the back is a huge gallery of ALIENS, all looking rather bemused to be there in the first place. In the exact center of the room is a single, isolated chair.
A shimmer briefly encompasses the room, and the GALLERY ALIENS blink in surprise. Before their amazed eyes, drifting aimlessly in the air, is the immortal and invariably mischief-making Q. He is currently dressed in a Starfleet uniform of scarlet, though it constantly transposes with scarlet robes.
Q: (Clearing throat) And now, for the moment we have all been waiting for, though we may have not realized this . . . (Flourishes right hand dramatically, posing as he does so . . . much like David Copperfield) . . . is the Judgment of Humanity!
YOU: (Suddenly dragged out from under your Nice, Comfortable Rock. Puzzled expression) Hey, wait, Q . . . you can't do that . . .
[Q looks at you like you've just gone nuts. He derisively raises his left eyebrow.]
YOU: (Growling) Look, Star Trek has already done this. Don't you remember your own scripts? (As The Eyebrow raises, you sigh) You know . . . Star Trek? Next Generation? Ship called the Enterprise?
[More derision from the Q Department.]
YOU: (Hand held up to your shoulder) Bald headed Captain, about this height? Loves poetry?
Q: (Light finally blinks on) Oh! That! (YOU look at him with a "yeah, that expression") It's Star Trek. Don't we always re-run and re-run our plots under new names? I mean, really: think of the halosuite adventures!
YOU: (Shuddering. He has a point there . . .) Yeah, but . . . you're Q! You're supposed to be . . . errr . . . original or something.
Q: (Smiles) Oh, I am! I'll be putting O'Brien on trial instead of Picard. See, isn't that original?
[LUCAS suddenly appears out of a dust cloud. He looks mighty disheveled. He's breathing hard and walking around in tattered clothes. If you had a nasty mind, you'd be thinking some very interesting thoughts right now . . .]
SHERI: (Voice overlay) Hey, I said if you had a nasty mind! Gees . . .
LUCAS: (Still breathing hard, eyes frantically searching around) All right, where are they? (Peers under rug that magically appears out of nowhere) I know you're in there. Come out, wherever you are!
Q: (Looking rather interested) Who, pray tell, young man, are you looking for . . . under that delightful carpet?
LUCAS: (Scowling) Don't pretend you're innocent! They're here! I know it! (Eyes wide, paranoid) The ELFs are here. They're hiding somewhere. Just you watch, and they'll get you, too . . .
Q: (Reaches for a telephone, which, naturally, appears out of nowhere) Yes? I'd like the number to the Psychotic Institute . . . yes, I'll hold . . .
[With that, we return to . . . well, the caves . . . darkness . . . aliens . . . you know, all those fun elements we love so much!]
And with that, let us return to poor Lucas and the nasty aliens . . .
Infinity: A Crossover
Part Thirteen
What's a Life, Anyway?
Deep Space Nine Chief Engineer Miles O'Brien shifted nervously on the ground. He cleared his throat, moving his head around in circles to loosen the many kinks his neck had knotted into over the past twelve hours of tedious labor in the Alien lab. A slight pop sounded from his neck as he moved it, and he sighed in relief. Slowly, he then stretched out his legs, almost moaning as the sore muscles protested his movement. Gods of Ireland, you wouldn't expect muscles to scream at you this way just from walking back and forth, back and forth, all day.
Of course, there had been a bit more to the day than that.
He sighed, wishing he could erase the day as easily as he had once been able to erase the memories of his computers. Tiredly, he ran a slightly trembling hand over his eyes.
God. The day had been awful.
Lucas had had his first exposure to the labs today. Of course, if he'd even thought about it, Miles now knew that he would have realized a problem would be forthcoming. Lucas was . . . what? All of fifteen years old? He was the spoiled son of Admiral Wolenczak, the High-and-Mighty, uppity-up, Big Brass official of the United Federation of Planets. Now, while Lucas himself seemed a perfectly good boy, Miles had no doubt that he'd never experienced anything . . . brutally unpleasant. Naturally, that wasn't his fault. How could he have? He was, no doubt, the Next Generation Golden Child destined to rule Starfleet with that famous Wolenczak name.
So . . . given the variables, Miles figured that he should have seen the problem well before it slapped him in the face--almost literally--today. He should have seen that Lucas, being fresh and somewhat "green" to real life, would have some ethical qualms about what they'd be doing.
Hell, Miles had his "ethical qualms" about what they were doing. But he had enough experience in life to know that, sometimes, you just did what you needed to do to survive.
Survival was the primary concern.
All other issues were secondary.
Right?
Miles shifted on the ground, a frown chiseled into his features. He growled as sudden annoyance ticked through his stocky frame.
Damn. Damn that boy! Before Lucas had balked, before Lucas had started proclaiming to him in no uncertain terms the wrongfulness of his deeds, Miles had never questioned what he was doing. He'd simply . . . blocked all questions from his mind. He'd pushed them aside, more concerned about living than about the morality of his behavior. Hell, he'd figured he could do as he needed now and pray to God afterwards for forgiveness. It made sense, to his mind.
But then Lucas had to come and spoil that. Damn him!
He looked across at the young man . . . no, really, the boy . . . and felt some of the heated anger slip from his body.
Miles swallowed hard. For a moment, he fought back a moisture that felt suspiciously like tears. He shook his head.
He could clearly remember, now that he looked at the slumped, battered figure lying in a broken heap on the ground, what had happened today. O'Brien wasn't sure he'd be forgetting it any time soon. He was certain Lucas wouldn't, for the lessons of today were still clearly marked across his body: across his temples, across his shoulders, across his back. O'Brien knew that they were also well marked within his blood . . . as they had been with him on his first day at the lab.
Miles brushed the traitorous stream of tears from his cheeks, then blinked. He studied his trembling hands, remembering . . . remembering what had happened.
*****
Lucas had been standing beside him, angrily ignoring anything Miles said. They had been standing before one of the many desks in front of the wall, combining chemicals for their next experiment. Miles had reached for the last vial, which Lucas had been holding.
And then Lucas had taken the chemical--staring at Miles with his face whitened, his eyes wide and frightened--and dumped it on the ground, slowly, as if watching it drain into the ground at the exact time that all color had drained from Miles' face. Unflinching, unblinking, Lucas had then taken the vial and . . . smashed it. He'd dropped it to the ground and crunched that piece of strange, alien "glass" right under his heel.
He'd then started smashing all the vials, all the beakers, all the tubes and strange implements, on their desk.
Miles' blood had frozen in his veins. He'd started, helpless, as Lucas's control shattered. Like the testing equipment around him, Lucas had just . . . broken.
The boy had shouted, over and over, "They're not its, damn you, Miles! They're not some it out there that has no effect on us, no effect on who and what we are! They're not some sterile it we can damage and remove ourselves from!" The boy had gestured at the hundreds, thousands, seemingly hundreds of thousands of slabs surrounding them, each bearing its alien victim. "Look at them, Miles! Look at them! They're not . . . they're not monsters. They're not insects. They're living, breathing, sentient beings."
Even as their alien captors approached them, Lucas's voice had risen, catching every ear in the facility. Heads had turned their way, ears listening, perked in attention. Unconscious of his audience, Lucas had started shattering more and more instruments, even as Miles tried to stop him . . . tried to stop him from getting himself killed. The hysteria in Lucas's voice had reached throughout the complex. "What's the worth of our lives if we have no self-respect left? What's the worth of saving ourselves if--by our own self-saving--we've killed what we stand for? What, then, are we worth?"
Claws had descended, scraping into Lucas's flesh. Miles had stood there, watching, his mind suddenly . . . frozen. Reeling. Frozen and reeling, unable to move and feeling time was moving too quickly, Miles had watched, stuck in his own private version of hell: a hell short in seconds, but long in psychological torture. His hell was still moving. His hell was still raging through his veins, through his mind, through his conscience.
What the hell was he, then, if a fifteen year old boy had more moral fiber than he had?
What the hell did that make him?
Miles wiped at tears as they streamed down his face, a damp sea he should have been crying days ago. How could . . . he choked.
God Almighty, how could a week--one puny, little week--have changed him so much? How could a week have changed him from . . . a man who would never harm a helpless soul . . . to what he now was . . . one who had stood and watched, unmoving, as a child was nearly beaten to death because he had the guts to stand against wrong?
He heard a soft rustling, then a moan. Brushing tears out of his eyes, Miles realized it had been Lucas. Quietly, he crawled to Lucas's side, gently taking the boy into his arms and whispering nonsense at him. He watched as Lucas tossed restlessly for a moment before falling back into unconsciousness.
Carefully, Miles brushed the hair out of Lucas's eyes. He studied the bruised, too-pale face, the scratches of claws on his neck where alien venom had seeped into Lucas's bloodstream. Most of the effects of the venom were over now, for it was a weaker dose than had been given O'Brien on his first day in the labor camp. He suspected that was not from any sense of reprieve on the alien's part, however; it was probably luck. He thought it might have something to do with alien stature--general size being roughly equal to venom strength--but he wasn't sure. He didn't really care, either.
The only thing that truly mattered to him right now was that Lucas seemed to be breathing reasonable well, and the pain appeared to have dissipated to livable levels.
And that, indeed, was now priceless to him, for Miles had vowed never again to allow the bastards to hurt Lucas.
He had also vowed to somehow never hurt another of their captor's alien test subjects. He wouldn't do it.
Lucas was right. There were more important things than simple survival. There was something more important than breathing in and out, in and out, for a seeming-eternity of days.
There was more to living, and Miles would never violate that "something more" simply to live one more day. He swore never to do so again.
*****
Before either Lucas or Miles knew it, the alien jailers came to take them back to the lab. Miles watched as, slowly, Lucas arose and followed him. He was particularly worried at the boy's heavy limp. Though Lucas seemed to be doing much better this morning, he was still obviously not in the best shape.
They entered the lab, Lucas looking with nausea at their surroundings. Miles met the young man's eyes, then sighed. Quietly, Miles sent Lucas off for some chemicals--some of the more harmless ones, from what he'd seen--as he tried to figure out how on earth he was going to keep both of their skins from being flailed alive by their resident alien jailers.
He wasn't sure what they were going to do today. In fact, he wasn't sure of much of anything right now: himself, his ethics, his beliefs. Least of all was he sure of how he should act.
However, the question was soon answered for him as he saw the inky head, dark gray scales, and prominent forehead ridges of someone he would normally have considered his worst enemy . . . or pretty well close to it. Right now, though, that inky head looked like the nearest thing to salvation he had seen in years.
The man attached to the inky hair might not be the most ethically considerate individual in the universe, but he certainly had one distinct advantage: he was a master of intrigue. He was also someone Miles knew from his own dimension in space and time, which certainly made him a potential ally . . . to a degree, at least. One never went over "a degree," though, with this Cardassian.
"Garak!" Miles walked towards the Cardassian, looking quickly towards their captors. His eyes then slid back towards the man; they exchanged beakers, careful not to splash any of the liquid onto their skins. "What the hell are you doin' here?"
The Cardassian scowled, eyeing him darkly. Typical Garak condescension dripped from his voice when he coolly replied, "Why, mending clothes, of course, Chief O'Brien. What does it look like I'm doing?" Garak mumbled something that O'Brien couldn't quite overhear, but figured he was probably better off not knowing. "Now, if you could please be so kind, could you pass me my seam ripper? I seem to be missing it . . ."
O'Brien rolled his eyes, then smiled slightly as Lucas trudged over to join them. The boy hadn't, as of yet, been beaten for the day, which was far better than yesterday's explorations in instrument smashing. He did, however, look about to drop on his feet. The dark bruises so obvious in the darkness of their cave now glared from across his white skin, and his hands shook slightly as he handed O'Brien a small vial of smoking alien . . . whatever. He was, however, keeping up the pretense of following the prescribed working habits for the alien lab.
"Here, Miles, can you take this?" Lucas mumbled softly, somewhat awkwardly. He seemed grateful to be rid of the substance. He then turned towards the mysterious figure standing beside Miles: the Cardassian. "Hello, uh . . . ?"
"Ah, Lucas. This is Garak. He's a . . . resident of Deep Space Nine . . ."
Garak hurumphed. "Well, I was until two days ago, when I ended up here rather than there after a short . . . vacation . . ."
Miles snorted. He knew all too well what type of "vacation" Garak had likely been having: spies, secrets, back-stabbing, political assassination . . . something of that sort. Considering the Cardassian was a rumored spy for the Obsidian Order, there were all kinds of things he could likely do on a "vacation." Miles had no doubt that Garak had been doing something shady, at the very least.
Lucas looked from one to the other, wondering at their obvious hostility. His exhausted and aching mind then remembered that, not twenty-four hours ago, Miles had called Cardassians "Cardies." He, quite obviously, had his problems with the often militant race. He cleared his throat. "What . . ."
Lucas's voice suddenly trailed off as one of their captors glanced their way. However, after watching the trio exchange chemicals and mix the chemicals as ordered, the alien looked away.
But the alien's attention focused on a Bajoran who looked to be in even
worse shape than Lucas. The man was battered, every inch of his skin
bruised or cut. He could barely walk in a straight line. Lucas watched
as the alien jailer focused its attention on the man, who looked about
ready to collapse.
He swallowed hard, wondering if there was something he should do.
He was just moving towards the Bajoran, his own aching body protesting every motion, when O'Brien's Cardassian companion clamped a hand to his arm. The Cardassian subtly shook his head, then nudged Lucas back towards him.
Confused, Lucas obeyed; he didn't have much choice in the matter, though, for the Cardassian's grip was steel. But he had just about had enough of people holding him back from doing what he felt--no, what he knew--was right. Lucas's eyes narrowed. Angrily, Lucas hissed into the Cardassian ear, turning fiery eyes to the man, "Look . . . I don't know who you are, but that person needs help . . . and I plan on helping him right . . ."
The man shook his head, placing a quieting finger over Lucas's lips. Enraged, Lucas watched as O'Brien and the Cardassian briefly exchanged looks. He then watched--even more confused than before--as they turned their backs on the scene. Seeming to sense his anger, the Cardassian drew an arm around Lucas's shoulder, effectively stilling him . . . despite Lucas's every attempt to escape.
O'Brien and Garak passed beakers and vials of chemicals back and forth, silently doing their jobs. Garak kept his right arm over Lucas's shoulders, though, holding him solidly in place.
A tortured scream soon erupted from behind them. The voice echoed through the cavern, bouncing off the walls and striking back at Lucas from several directions. He twisted around several directions in Garak's grasp, but the Cardassian would not budge.
Tears sprung from Lucas's eyes as he finally twisted enough to see what had happened.
Expendable.
O'Brien had said they were expendable.
The Bajoran's gaze stared lifelessly at the ceiling. A smoking hole burned through his chest. This same Bajoran had only moments ago . . . moments . . . ago . . . walked . . . moved . . . breathed . . .
Lived.
God.
Slowly, Lucas started shaking. The trembling began in his fingers, then traveled to his arms, then down towards his legs. The shaking tore through him, gaining momentum as every muscle in his body started collapsing on him, quivering with shock. He stared blindly around him, mind unable to face the horror--yet another horror--he had just seen.
Just . . . just like . . . like that . . .
Seconds ago, that man had been working.
And now . . . now . . . he was dead.
Pain burned in his arm, and he looked up, horrified--terrified--to find Garak wrenching him around toward the chemicals and pressing an empty vial in his hands. Seconds of strained silence passed between them.
He was even more surprised when, moments later, a relieved sigh passed from the Cardassian's mouth.
Their eyes met. After a second's careful scanning of the area, Garak looked behind his shoulder. He nudged Lucas, and, puzzled, Lucas followed his gaze.
Behind them, not more than five feet away, stood one of their captors. The alien was swinging a bolt gun--Lucas assumed the same one that had been used on the hapless Bajoran--back and forth, back and forth . . . almost greedily.
Lucas swallowed, suddenly realizing what had almost happened. His trembling had drawn the guard's attention. The guard had come to . . . punish him for his lapse in concentration. To punish him, like yesterday, or perhaps worse.
If Garak hadn't twisted him around and stuck a vial in his shaking hands, he might very well have ended up just like that Bajoran: dead.
Lucas tried to sound his thanks to Garak, but found the words stuck in his frozen throat. He was grateful when Garak, looking at him intently, patted his hand.
He then mindlessly took the vial of chemicals O'Brien passed him. As they mixed chemicals back and forth, over and over, Miles looked around with wary eyes. They waited for the moment when their guards weren't looking, then surreptitiously dumped the chemicals into the ground and refilled the vials with harmless water.
Grateful, Lucas followed the charade. It was far better than yesterday had been, for, in this, O'Brien had suddenly agreed: they would no longer torture the victims stretched across those stone slabs. Their newest companion, Garak, seemed comfortable with the ruse, perhaps even relieved.
However, Lucas found his mind divided, his thoughts only partially focused on what they were doing. He found himself miserably trying not to think of the dead man lying several spans behind him . . . and trying not to wonder if he could have stopped that death had Garak and Miles only allowed him to do so.