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! :)
Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away (snicker, snicker) . . .
SCENE: The camera pans in on a little office. The office is pandemonium itself: papers (which a certain author we all know should be filing) sprawl across the floor, Mountain Dew cans pile up next to a computer keyboard, and a little Dogbert sits on a computer (trying his best to ward away the computer demons, but not succeeding overly well). Sitting in front of the monitor, grinning wickedly, is SHERI. She is mischievously weaving plot strands together from all across the galaxy . . . when a FIGURE dressed in red and black peers over her shoulder.
Startled, SHERI turns to look behind her. Before her amazed eyes stands the CREW OF THE VOYAGER.
SHERI scratches her head, wondering over this amazing appearance. She looks back at her audience. "What are you doing here? You're not slated to appear till . . ." SHERI thinks for a moment, considering: remember, she's inventing this story as she goes. ". . . Well, anyway, till later."
CHAKOTAY, whining, shakes his head. "But I want to beat the aliens . . ." He glances at JANEWAY, then quickly amends as he sees her glowering eyes, "Err, I mean, meet the aliens. Come on . . . just a little early."
JANEWAY, looking commanding, gives the official and highly requisite Starfleet response: "Now, Commander, we must consider the Prime Directive. No one on this ship will disregard it."
The CREW--not to mention SHERI herself--look at JANEWAY with obvious skepticism.
TOM PARIS, still remembering his demotion for disobeying the Prime Directive, mutters under his breath, "Yeah, right. Doesn't JANEWAY flagrantly disregard the Prime Directive at least once a week?" As JANEWAY glares at him and B'ELANNA kicks him in the shins, TOM simply smiles beatifically, trying his very hardest to look like an angel.
The look, quite obviously, just doesn't fit PARIS.
SHERI rolls her eyes, then calls into the shadows: "Hey, DARTH! Could you please Use the Force and force these twits out of here?"
In lumbers DARTH VADER--dressed, naturally, in black. He lifts his hands (looking mystical, hands poised significantly), then sends the entire Voyager and its crew sailing to the Delta Quadrant. He smacks his hands together, clearly pleased with his results.
SHERI, seriously pondering VADER's actions, mutters, "So that's how they really ended up in the Delta Quadrant . . ."
Let us now rejoin our shivering heroes as they travel the Wastelands . . .
Infinity: A Crossover
Part Five
Just Another Transporter Malfunction . . .
"Just another transporter malfunction," Krieg began—actually, Ben began. They'd found something to hide in—a cave of sorts, complete with dripping water and howling noises surrounding them on all sides—and they were more than grateful for the thin protection the cave afforded them. Though wind still managed to howl into the cave, it was far softer a howl than what was found outside. They could both hear the wind crackling, blowing, gusting; it sounded to Lucas like a tornado. He was thanking God above for the solid feet of dirt surrounding them as each new gust blasted against their haven. "That would make this . . . oh, about transporter malfunction three hundred . . ."
They'd been talking for over an hour now, both shivering violently against the cold wind. Ben hadn't had his phaser along with him when he'd been transported over to wherever they currently were. Lucas, of course, hadn't had a phaser to begin with. So the decided lack of phasers blew one of Lucas's ingenious ideas right out of the water: charging some of the inconvenient rocks surrounding them with their phasers and using that as a heat source—an oven of sorts. With no heat, they were both freezing. Neither had a jacket or a pair of gloves or a hat or a blanket. It looked to Lucas like they were going to get to experience first-hand the effects of exposure and frostbite. Now, the scientist inside him had always wondered what it would feel like to be a Popsicle, but really . . . this was taking scientific experimentation too far.
Ben suddenly nudged him. "Are you falling asleep, Lucas?" Ben's face peered into his own, studying him with concern. "Try to keep awake, okay? This isn't a good place to fall asleep."
Ben was, of course, talking about the cold—though he wasn't saying it outright. Lucas nodded, wishing his teeth would quit chattering so obnoxiously against the chill. "Sor—sorry. I'll keep awake . . ."
With a decisive grunt, Ben pulled Lucas towards him, sighing tiredly as Lucas looked up at him with surprised, wary eyes. He shook his head. "Don't worry. Contrary to public opinion, I'm not the devil in disguise. You're freezing. We need to share body warmth. Snuggle up, ensign . . ."
After several seconds of uncomfortable shifting and turning, Lucas finally settled into a reasonably warm position. He decided to lighten the mood. Hell, if they were going to die freezing, they might as well do it laughing. Moments later he whispered with a soft laugh, "Lucas . . . If we're going to be snuggle bunnies, you're going to have to call me Lucas."
Silence for a moment, then a snort of laughter. "Snuggle bunnies, eh?"
"Yeah, Thumper. Snuggle bunnies."
Again, the snort—then a hearty laugh. Lucas grinned, glad to hear the sound; against the echo of the wind's howling, the laugh was surprisingly heartening. He somehow had the feeling that, providing they managed to survive this little trip into whatever frozen wasteland they were in right now, they would be good friends.
And that was more than just a blessing. Lucas hadn't had a good friend for years. Being the brilliant son of the Admiral had its prices, one of which was friendship. He could never be sure when someone was a friend for his father's sake or for his own. It was possible, though, that life on a starship might not emphasize his parentage; in fact, with any luck, maybe people would simply forget what prestigious man his own name was attached to. At least he could always dream this was the case.
But what had Ben meant by "public opinion to the contrary"? The question teased Lucas's mind as he sat there, trying to find something upon which to keep his mind occupied while his body began the agonizing process of freezing to death. Well, he supposed he could just ask . . . but that had none of the wonderful challenge of trying to solve a puzzle—or any of the chance to keep his mind busy.
*****
At last, he gave up. For over an hour, he'd tossed the question back and forth, puzzling it over, trying to imagine what interesting life Mr. Krieg had led to give him a reputation. It could really be just about anything. And Lucas's mind was imaginatively vivid: he could come up with all sorts of intriguing possibilities. Ben had been an undercover agent for Cardassia's Obsidian Order; Ben had married a member of the mafia; Ben was a member of the mafia; Ben was the head of the mafia; Ben had kidnapped the princess of Sheriondia on a mission and was keeping her locked in his closet . . .
"For heavens sake, what are you thinking about?"
Blinking in surprise, Lucas looked up at his companion. Had he said something?
Ben groaned, then repeated, "What—are—you—thinking—about?"
Lucas glared at the deliberately slow, patronizing pronunciation. He stuck his tongue out at the man, deciding to play the part if he was going to be assigned it. This made Ben's groan turn into a moan of defeat.
After a moment, Lucas finally cleared his throat. "Well . . . do you want the honest truth?"
At this, Ben sighed; he seemed to think he knew what was coming. With a short nod, he quickly looked away from Lucas's curious eyes.
Lucas again cleared his throat, seeing his new friend so suddenly reticent. He looked at Ben carefully, trying unsuccessfully to get the man to meet his eyes. He finally shook his head, nudging Ben to get the man's attention. "Ben, earlier . . ." paused, carefully considering his phrasing. " . . . You said something about public opinion. What—what did you mean?"
A charged breath of air was Ben's only response.
Lucas sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset . . ."
"No. It's okay," the distraught lieutenant interrupted. He ran a hand across his chin, apparently at imaginary whiskers. He ducked his head away from Lucas's curious eyes. "I have a—a bad reputation on the Infinity. It's one I've tried to change, to live down: to escape. But, I'm afraid nothing I do seems to change it. In fact," Ben suddenly sighed, shaking his head sadly, "as soon as you're on board, you'll probably be 'encouraged' to avoid me. For your own good, at least."
Silence. Lucas stirred restlessly, then asked the question Ben was obviously trying to avoid: "So . . . what did you do? Why the reputation?"
There was another charged silence. Several seconds crept past, Lucas watching Ben as unobstructively as possible. As Ben seemed unwilling to speak, Lucas shrugged. "It's okay, Ben, whatever it is. If you don't want to tell me, it doesn't bother me. It's truly none of my business."
"No. I want to say something." He paused, sighing. Another hand ruffled through Ben's hair. "And it will be your business, anyway. You'll be a part of the Infinity. You're going to hear . . . things. You should hear my side of the matter, too.
"I am a . . . very good pilot, Lucas," Ben paused, smiling slightly. The lieutenant shook his head, as if disbelieving the possibility of what he'd just said. "I've been told I'm the best pilot in the Fleet. I love to fly; it's kind of like it's in my blood or something. My first trip to the simulators was . . . Lord, I guess I must have been about five. Anyway . . . I'm good. It's not bragging; simply the truth.**
"About two years ago, though, I was an idiot: a real, flaming, stupid, inane idiot. I thought I could do no wrong and that others could do no right. No one else knew how to fly a ship; nobody else should be listened to; orders were made to be broken. You get the picture. I was a genuine creep." Ben shivered, then continued, "Anyway, I liked to fly stunt maneuvers. You know: flaming stars, ocean bursts, flying jacks. The fun stuff."
Another long silence dragged by. Lucas sat silently beside Ben, allowing him the time to collect his thoughts.
Finally, Ben said, "There was this beautiful ensign I was trying to impress. I'd just gotten divorced from the love of my life, Katherine Hitchcock. I was in a rough mood. I don't know why I had to be such a stupid jerk, but I was; I figured nothing would happen to me, the God of Flight, that I was somehow invincible, invulnerable to the problems that other pilots faced." He stopped, snorting bitterly. "However . . . however, it did happen. Fate caught up with me and kicked me in the ass. While I was flying one of those wonderful ocean bursts I was so envied for, an ion field suddenly pounded into us. I lost control of the shuttle."
There was a pause. Ben's eyes were unfocused, looking deep within the past. "We crashed. I was at least able to land the damned thing. But . . . Lucas, everyone but me died. Everyone. Including that lovely ensign I was trying to impress. I can still remember looking around myself . . . seeing them, seeing her, lying there so lifelessly. Boy, I really impressed her, didn't I?"
Silence passed between them as Ben thumped an angry hand into his leg. The lieutenant then hissed, "God. What a fool. What a flaming, idiotic, uncaring fool I am."
Lucas winced as he heard the present tense verb being used; Ben still seemed to think he was the idiot, the uncaring jerk, he had been when the accident occurred. It was obvious to Lucas, though, that this wasn't the case at all: he couldn't call himself a flaming, idiotic, uncaring fool if he truly were one. Ben was no longer the sky-rocketing, chance-seeking fool he'd been. The accident had killed that man as surely as it had killed the companions with Ben in the crash.
Lucas shook his head. He was silent for a moment, wondering what he could say, what he should say. Finally, he opted for the only thing that came to mind. "I'm sorry, Ben."
Silence. Ben's face was turned from him, but Lucas could see that the lieutenant was listening to him carefully.
Lucas continued: "What happened was . . . horrible. There's no avoiding that truth. But . . . you've learned from it, haven't you?" The question was really more of a statement. He could tell with little doubt that Ben had learned his lesson from the crash; in fact, Lucas would be willing to bet that Ben was now the safest pilot in the Fleet. Mistakes tended to have that effect on people.
Ben nodded slightly. "Yeah. I've definitely . . . learned." He looked at Lucas, surprised to find that the kid hadn't leapt away from him at high speed. Most people did when they discovered what he'd done. "You don't seem too sickened by this."
"The past is the past, Ben. Let it rest there." As Ben appeared unconvinced, seeming quite depressed, Lucas said, "Here's a question for you, Ben. How many times have you laid awake at night, repeating that crash in your mind, wishing you could change things?"
Ben's grimaced.
"I thought so. You've paid your price for that mistake. You can't pay it for the rest of your life, though. Again, I'd simply say: let it rest. Let it remain a part of the past."
For a moment, Ben stared at him—really, truly stared at him. The man seemed to be weighing Lucas's words. Suddenly, he smiled somewhat lopsidedly. "Of course . . . that's not the only reason I'm considered somewhat disreputable."
Naturally, Lucas thought with a wry shake of his head. However, he felt fairly certain that the truth, the truly painful reality, of Ben's "reputation" had already been discussed. Perhaps now there were only minor misdeeds to be discussed. He rolled his eyes, waiting for the next terrible deed up Ben's sleeves.
"I'm considered quite the Romeo on board . . ."
Lucas positively snickered at this.
"Hey, it's the truth. I've got finesse, style, debonair . . ."
"Ha! A lot of hot air is more like it, Krieg."
Ben's grin widened. He poked Lucas in the ribs with his elbow. "Just you wait and see, youngin' . . . seeing my finesse in action will cinch the matter entirely. In fact, you could write a textbook on great romantic sayings just from watching me."
Again, Lucas snickered. He added, "More like textbook for bad pickup lines, if I'm any judge of character. Your favorite is probably something like, 'What is a doll like you doing alone on a hot night like this?' To which, of course, the reply is probably a gagging noise . . ."
"Ah—jaded so young, are we, Lucas?" Ben didn't seem to be deterred by Lucas's snide comments at all; actually, he seemed to accept them quite happily. "A young man such as yourself hasn't had the chance yet to learn the finer points of female persuasion . . ." Ben suddenly stopped, his eyes rapidly changing from softly dreamy to unpleasantly sharp. He looked at Lucas. "Speaking of which . . . how old are you?"
That was most certainly a question Lucas had hoped to avoid. Oh, hell. He looked away, refusing to meet the older man's gaze. Finally, he cleared his throat and mumbled, "—teen."
Ben blinked, then frowned. He studied his young companion, then said pointedly, "I'm afraid I didn't catch that, Lucas. Could you repeat that?"
Lucas looked about ready to melt into the cave rock; of course, that would have been quite the feat, considering it was probably about one degree above zero. He huddled closer to the rock. "Sixteen . . . just about. Close enough. Sixteen."
Ben listened to this, frowning. He shook his head. Just about and close enough obviously meant a number under sixteen, no matter how well you tried to couch your terms. "You're fifteen," Ben finally stated, the convoluted age calculations at last hitting home. His brows raised almost to the top of his forehead.
He stared at the young man, the teenager . . . no, the almost kid-in-grade-school sitting before him, then shook his head. He could not believe this. He could not believe this! A flash of anger burned through him as he ground out, "What the hell are you doing here, Lucas? What on earth were your parents thinking?"
Lucas continued to stare at the ground, his fingernail now scraping—hell, Ben thought his fingernail was gouging—the rock beneath them. When his answer at last came, it was an almost indistinct murmur: "They weren't. They really couldn't have cared less."
Again, Ben blinked. He shook his head. "But . . . your father is Admiral Wolenczak."
Lucas glared at the obvious question underlying Ben's words. "Yeah, and aren't I the luckiest kid in the world for it?"
Ben opened his mouth, but his jaw slammed shut as pain—clear, not-to-be-missed pain—struggled across the boy's features, then . . . was simply wiped away, as if the pain had never been there. But Ben was certain that was only an "as if" condition. Pain like that couldn't be purged in just seconds. Finally, after much consideration, he finally said, "I'm sorry, Lucas. For . . . whatever happened between you and your parents."
Lucas looked at him quietly, then nodded. "Thanks, Ben. It helps hearing it." He cleared his throat, then said in what even Ben knew was an obvious change of subjects, "You know, it's good meeting you. Especially since I don't know anyone on the entire boat . . ."
"Boat?"
"Oh—you know, the old floating tub we're supposed to be on right now . . ."
Ben shook his head, then grinned. "I'd hardly call the Infinity a tub. Better not let Captain Bridger hear that one. He'll skin you alive."
Lucas smiled slightly, then sighed as he looked around them at their rather grim reality. He watched curiously as Ben pulled a strange looking hand-held gadget out of a pouch at his side. Truth be told, Lucas hadn't even noticed the pouch: a strange occurrence when Lucas could usually notice a speck of dust out of place. The thought might be somewhat exaggerated, but not overly; Lucas knew he owed at least a portion of his abilities in the sciences to his incredible observational skills. His curiosity grew as the lieutenant whipped open the strange gadget and lights whirred into action. Ben pointed the gadget around them, watching a small screen as numbers filtered across.
Finally, his curiosity getting the better of his patience, Lucas tugged at the lieutenant's wrist. "What on earth is that?"
"A di-corder."
A die chorder . . . what the hell is that? Lucas considered himself relatively in-the-know when it came to technology and all its fun devices, but he couldn't remember having heard of a "die chorder," whatever that might be. Puzzled, he studied the gadget, watching as more numbers migrated across the little screen. His attention suddenly snapped into focus. Numbers migrating across a screen . . . something here looked oddly familiar. He couldn't honestly remember seeing the gadget before, so he didn't think it was that that was familiar to him. So what, then, could it be?
More numbers drifted into view. Lucas then tore the gadget right out of the lieutenant's hand. "Of course . . ." he whispered, staring at the numbers.
He ignored Ben's annoyed curse, then stood, pointing the gadget around them.
Yes, he was exactly right. The device was somehow recording dimensional activity, printing quantum and temporal signatures across its shining screen. There was a God after all: and its name was science!
*****
** If this seems like a shameless rip-off of a certain character's life (e.g., Tom Paris from Voyager) . . . well, you're right! It is. See? I have no shame. Don't worry, though, I have plans (*evil chuckle*) for this really obnoxious parallel! (Of course, this may worry you more than anything . . .)