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: Consider this PG, simply for safety's sake. There is some violence involved and some rather difficult topics at the beginning of the story (much like the stories "Away from Monsters" and "Monsters Return" in my seaQuest universe), but things quickly change in tone from there. Mild language warning, too.
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! :)
And now, in a galaxy far, far away (err . . . sorry, wrong story) . . .
Let us join our hero as he battles the worm hole . . .
Infinity: A Crossover
Part One
A Day in the Life
of Lucas Wolenczak
Earth. Stardate 49695.3
It was yet another crazy day for him. Lucas Wolenczak had been putting in twelve, thirteen-hour days for the past two weeks—trying to develop his theory into more than just the theoretical. To actually develop a stable, predictable, inducible worm hole . . . that was his project, his dream, his inspiration, his baby. It was the project of the century. Hell, it was the project of the millenium. If he were able to finish this, if he were able to accomplish his goal, everything would change: everything. A new phase in science and physics would be born. Quantum mechanics would never be the same. All the theories, all the formulae of the past would have to be completely restructured. New textbooks, new learning would flood the classrooms.
Lucas's life would never be the same, either. His father might . . . perhaps understand him more, perhaps accept him . . . at least quit chewing his ears out when even the slightest thing went wrong.
And he was so close, too. His latest test run was more than promising. Sheltered from the rest of the world by the triple-protected shielding of the physics lab (or, more to the point, sheltering the rest of the world with the triple-protected shielding), he entered his formulae, numbers, and theorems . . . and he started the program, initiating the computer count down.
He then watched as everything changed before his sight. His eyes flew wide as the worm hole whirled into existence, watching as the space differential increased, as matter and antimatter spiraled together beautifully in a dance of blinding, amazing colors and patterns, of immense, unthinkable power.
And then all hell broke loose.
The worm hole whipped out of control, smashing against him and throwing his slim body against the shielding. Sparks flew everywhere as smoke curled in the air. One hundred volts shocked through his body, coursing through his veins, through his nerve endings, through his entire soul, it seemed. And then, finally, it stopped. After several minutes of complete unconsciousness, Lucas's eyes flickered open, and he looked around to find a lab in complete disarray—noting, vaguely, that not much seemed actually broken, just hideously rearranged—and himself crumpled much like a rag doll without stuffing.
Wishing the world would stop shifting crazily around him, he crawled to the med kit, his body screaming at him with each crawl, with each shuddering movement. His hands shook helplessly as he pulled the med kit open and ran the tiny regenerator over his body. It took thirty minutes to even moderately heal himself, but at least he was able to place one foot in front of the other and make it out of the lab.
*****
That had been over an hour ago.
Still feeling like his head was about to explode, Lucas caught a speeder home and tried to keep his stomach from churning as the insane driver turned twists in the air that should have been (and probably were) illegal. The drive took fifteen minutes, time spent earnestly praying that he would live through both his stomach's increasing unease and this lunatic's driving habits. He was more than glad when the impressive towers and gables of his home appeared in its brightly lit, highly secured neighborhood off New Imperium Drive. He transferred the requisite credits to the driver's account, then trudged up the elegant marble steps that led to the equally-elegant cherry wood double doors. Crystannium globes lined the door, twinkling in an eerie blue shimmer of unutterably alien light. Marble, cherry wood, crystannium globes: that was the Wolenczak household. Elegant, expensive, repulsive.
Sometimes the splendor of his parent's place made him ill. His friend Mark lived in a small two-story home with little frills and even less luxury. Lucas would stay at Mark's place any day over this monstrosity. Mark's place was a "home"; his was nothing more than a "house" filled with expensive furniture and annoying amenities.
He peeked inside, hoping against hope that his father wouldn't be upset with him. He had made progress with his project: he really, truly had. Though the worm hole ran amuck after first initiation, it had still formed. That was a lot more than anyone else had been able to do. It was truly a new step in science . . . or, even more, a new leap. The twenty-fourth century had just leapt forward another hundred years or so.
But his father always seemed upset with him, no matter how hard he tried. No matter what he did, his father saw something wrong with his every movement, his every breath. Lucas sometimes thought that his father would only be happy with him if he no longer breathed.
As he walked into the mansion, his limp rather obnoxious, Lucas suddenly noticed just how dark the Grand Room was. No lights, no sound, no anything. Carefully, he glanced around, being careful not to move his head too quickly for fear of making his already nauseous stomach tumble right through his lips, and wondered where his parents could be. He'd seen the shuttle on the parking pad; someone had to be home.
Nervous, he continued to glance around. It was 2237 hours. He supposed his parents could be asleep. It was possible. But normally they weren't asleep until 2400 or so.
A tinkling caught his ear, and he leaned in towards the noise. Tinkle, tinkle. Clink. Ice cubes tapping against crystal.
Then abrupt noise. A glass thudded down against wood, a hurried, stumbling step swayed towards the foyer. Lucas's hair rose on end as the shuffling neared him.
Damn. His dad was in a black mood . . . again. He was stinking drunk. The peace talks probably hadn't gone as well as they should have gone. Some Cardassian had probably insulted someone else, most likely a Klingon. Who knew? Hell, it was never easy to tell an insult from a misunderstanding in the first place: too many unknowns, too many different ways of seeing something. Anything could have gone wrong.
But, damn all Ferengi to everlasting hell, the peace talks had probably ended in disaster, and his father was going to take that disaster out on him. Lucas wanted to fling his aching body up the spiraling staircase at warp speed. Damn, damn, damn.
Little more than an hour after he'd completely reinvented physics as he knew it, Lucas was staring at his father's black, angry eyes. His nerves chaotically jumped to and fro.
Oh, God. Heated, hateful eyes glared at him: seemed to study him like he were some bug needing squishing.
Hell.
With a shudder, Lucas turned to run up the stairs. He felt his father's heavy hand dig into his shoulder, though, even as he turned. The grip tightened as he tried to struggle out of his father's reach.
The heavy tread of his father's feet stopped; Lucas was suddenly whirled around to face him. Hot breath rushed into his face, the stench of alcohol--real, unadulterated alcohol, not the fake stuff--reeking on his father's breath. Lucas swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat: dread and fear tore at his stomach.
"You botched it again, didn't you?" The question was a hiss, almost sibilant. As if struck, Lucas flinched. To emphasize his words, Lucas's father shook him with each pause. "I want an answer, you scrawny sack of bones. Did mess up again?"
His father's large hands were slowly, steadily, moving towards his neck. Lucas swallowed hard, genuine fear striking through his heart and making him tremble helplessly. His father was ordinarily the most elegant of speakers. However, right now he was so smashed that his words slurred crazily together.
"Can't do nothing—nothing right, can ya'?" asked the drunken man, swaying back and forth slightly. He leaned closer to his frightened son. Lucas briefly wondered if the nineteenth century Russian mystic Rasputin had had such a gaze: such wild, crazy, dark eyes. God help him, they seemed insane. "Can't—can't finish that damned good-for-nothin' pro-project, eh? Eh, boy?"
Lucas stared at this, confused. Even his father, even this man who called him useless at least once a week, even he knew the project was incredibly important. His father had done nothing but pressure him for the past several months just to finish the thing. He wanted to brag to his peers what a wonderful job his genius son (the same one he couldn't stand under any other circumstances) had done redefining modern science. Lucas had figured it might at least get the bastard off his case about being a useless sponge. If his father could take pride in ownership of a son who could build a worm hole, then maybe, just maybe, he'd leave that poor son alone for a change.
The hands abruptly left Lucas's shoulders. He sagged against the wall, body limp with sudden relief.
Then it struck him: his father's large, heavily boned fist. Reality seemed to swing out of control as the fist hammered into his skull, over and over. Lucas felt his senses slipping slowly away from him. His mind shaded with numbness, Lucas shut his eyes against what was happening, shut his mind against the pain that struck with each blow. But the fists continued, continued, continued . . . a blur upon his mind as pain struck through every fiber of his being. Lucas screamed in agony, in torture. He screamed for mercy, for help, for anything, anything but this.
But no one came to help him. Nothing stopped the eternal fist from mercilessly barreling into his slim body.