Temporal Steele
A Remington Steele — Star Trek: Voyager Story
by AMY STONE
Disclaimer
This story is not in any way associated with the owners of either Remington Steele or Star Trek: Voyager. The characters, except for those I invented for the story, are not owned by me (but I can wish), and the story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights. It is meant as fan fiction and is purely for entertainment.
Summary
Non-Trekkers: You need to know two things. 1) Harry plays the clarinet. 2) The Doctor is a hologram who either has to be in Sick Bay or a holodeck or use his mobile emitter.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Jess and Jacqueline for their comments, grammar catches, and suggestions.
You can find a Word version of this story at my website:
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The tunnel was dark and close. Tom Paris inched his way forward, his shoulders barely clearing the roughly dug clay walls. The bag that dragged behind him from a line tied to his ankle scraped along quietly, feeding out wire as he moved. Then the tunnel stopped.
Tom reached out an arm to brush off his clothes, then remembered it was useless. He looked more like a castaway than a US Army captain. A little more dirt would not make any difference. After the dust settled, he calmed himself with deep breaths and set to work. Carefully, he cut the wire he had been feeding out with a small piece of roughly sharpened metal and stripped away its coating. A brief rummage through the bag produced an ancient light socket, which he quickly wired in and anchored to the ceiling as best he could in the nearly complete darkness.
The last item in the bag was a light bulb, carefully wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Tom unwrapped it and reached for the socket. The wires were all live, so he screwed his eyes shut as he slowly turned the bulb. He was not showered with sparks or electrocuted. He opened one eye and was greeted with the dim glow of an underpowered light bulb. Satisfied with his work, he rolled back over and began to dig with a misshapen serving spoon stolen from the mess hall.
Tom had barely dug another few centimeters of tunnel when suddenly above him he heard shouting in both German and English. He could not make out the words, but he thought he knew what was going on. Once before, a tunneler had come too close to the surface, and his digging spoon had poked through the grass above. The other prisoners had seen this and had caused a commotion to cover for the mistake.
A quick survey of the tunnel walls, however, proved his guess wrong. He had not broken through the surface. There was no dust-filled shaft of sunlight adding to the light from the dirt-streaked bulb. So what was going on up there, he asked himself. Do I keep digging or crawl back to the barracks?
The decision was made for him when the shouting abruptly stopped. Tom listened carefully for another moment or two, then resumed digging. His pilfered serving spoon had barely touched the dirt when running feet clad in heavy boots caused another small cave-in. Were his fellow POWs taking advantage of some unforeseeable opportunity and escaping without him?
Tom collected his tools and put them back into the bag in preparation for a hasty retreat. That was when the shooting began.
It sounded like panic fire: long streams of automatic weapons fire instead of the short, controlled bursts one would expect from guards eliminating an escaping or problem prisoner. Other guns joined in, and then all was quiet again. Tom assumed whatever had startled the guards had been stopped or identified.
He listened again, his ear pressed against the tunnel ceiling, and was again proven wrong. The gunfire resumed, punctuated by barked orders and screaming. Then the phaser fire joined in.
Before a confused Tom could get out the words "end program," a Borg arm burst through the dirt wall and grabbed him by the shirtfront. Tom's confusion turned to panic as the head of the Borg came into sight. Underneath the implants and sickly pale skin was the face of Harry Kim.
As Tom's eyes went wide, the Borg's other arm came up. Assimilation tubules sprang out. Instinctively, Tom jerked his upper body back, smashing the light bulb with his head and plunging the struggle into blackness.
Chapter 1
"I take it I can stop looking for the chief now."
"I just spoke to Detective Jarvis. They found him." Laura opened her mouth to elaborate, then let out a sharp breath and waved it off. Exasperated, she closed her eyes and shook her head.
Mildred came around her desk and put her hand on Laura's shoulder. "Well, where is he? Aren't we going to go get him?"
"No, we aren't, Mildred. He and I need to have a little chat. Alone."
"Don't be too rough on him, Miss Holt. He's been gone for four days. Who know what he's been through?"
"I don't really care." Laura went back into her office and began throwing items from the desk into her purse: a notepad, a tube of lipstick, a pen. Mildred trotted after her.
"Oh, Miss Holt, you don't mean that. The boss has disappeared before and..."
"Yes, he has." Laura stopped. "He has."
"And he always comes back, case closed," Mildred finished, raising a finger to punctuate her words.
Laura resumed chucking office supplies into her bag. "Case closed? Hardly. That man has no regard for clients, this agency, or his own safety. And I always have to bail him out."
"You think a stapler is going to help?"
Laura looked down at the item she was placing in her purse. She weighed it in her hand for a moment, then replaced it on the desk.
"What am I going to do with him, Mildred?"
"Worry about that later, Miss Holt. For now, it sound like you just need to go get him." Mildred followed Laura to the door. "Where is he, anyway?"
"Oregon."
"Oregon? I'd better cancel your appointments for a while."
Laura gave her loyal assistant a small smile.
"I'll call you when I get there."
The flight and airport hassles gave Laura several hours to contemplate homicide. She was still as irate as when she spoke to Jarvis when her cab pulled up in front of an old factory in Salem. A police cruiser, lights off, and an ancient Porsche were the only other cars in sight. She paid the driver, collected her bag from the trunk, and stomped up the stairs to the main door.
"Hello? Anyone here?" Laura called, pushing the door open impatiently.
A uniformed officer appeared from a back room.
"You Laura Holt?"
"Yes, I am."
"Back here." The officer turned and went back the way he came. Laura shrugged and followed him.
She entered the room, unsure of what to expect. She saw the officer off to one side and a man leaning over someone laid out flat on an old wooden table. The only other furniture in the room was a metal chair and a filing cabinet.
"Doc, this here's Laura Holt. Fill her in on his condition and make sure she brings him by the station when he's up and around. I've got paperwork to do." With that, the officer left. Laura heard the front door open and close, then a car start up and drive away.
The doctor did not immediately turn around. Laura watched as he fished a penlight out of his pocket and clicked it on. The doctor finished checking his patient's pupils, then turned and stepped out of the way.
Remington Steele was out cold on the table. His shirt was open to the waist, sleeves rolled up, and Laura could see red marks on his arm. He was drooling slightly. He was also thinner than she had ever seen him.
She stepped forward, reaching her hand out to wipe his face.
"I'd just let him be if I were you."
That was when the smell in the room hit her.
"The police tried to move him before I got here." The doctor let out a small chuckle. "They learned fast. Everything's all cleaned up, but the smell's going to linger for a while."
"What happened? Is he ok?"
"He will be," the doctor reassured her. "They gave him something called CS-12. There are no permanent effects that we know of, but he won't be able to be moved until he starts to come around. Any movement causes severe disorientation, vertigo, and nausea. With him, it's a little worse."
"It's been hours since I was called. How much longer will he be like this?" She wanted to help him, comfort him.
"It depends. CS-12 isn't exactly FDA approved. It could be a few more hours or a few more days, depending on metabolism, dosage, and about fifty other variables. There's nothing to be done but wait, and you're elected to wait with him. I've got to get back to the hospital."
Laura's eyes left her "boss" for the first time since the doctor moved out of the way.
"Wait a minute. You can't leave. What do I do? What if there are complications? Who did this to him? Are they in custody?"
The doctor put his hand on her shoulder. "There's nothing you can do. There's nothing anybody can do. He just needs time and cannot be moved. As far as who did this, I believe you detectives would say 'case closed'."
"Case closed," Laura repeated dully.
As the doctor headed for the door, he said, "Remember to bring him by the police station when he's back to his old self. However, I'm not sure what good that will do. He won't remember anything."
The doctor disappeared. Through the thin walls of the aging building, Laura heard the other car start and drive off. She was alone with him.
"Case closed." Those words reminded her that she was mad at him. She yelled them at his unconscious form, waving her arms.
"Case closed! I spend my entire adult life studying and apprenticing, working to build my agency...my agency...up from nothing. Then you show up, with your blue eyes and mysterious past, and you wreak havoc in my life. Yet, as Mildred said, you always manage to close the case. How do you do it?"
Her pacing and infuriated gesturing stopped abruptly when she got a reply.
Chapter 2
"I should think so, Mr. Paris. Several of these shards are quite large." The Doctor resumed picking light bulb fragments out of Tom's bleeding head. "This is what you get for turning off the safety protocols pertaining to minor injuries."
"I thought a few cuts and bruises would make things more realistic."
"You could have warned me." Harry Kim's voice cam out of the uninjured Borg drone perched on the next bio-bed. "I wouldn't have been so rough on you."
Tom retorted, "I'll get you for this, Harry. I said war simulation, not Borg simulation. What possessed you to come as the enemy, anyway?"
"You said you wanted realism. A break from the world of Captain Proton. I thought I'd give you a challenge. Besides, it's fun to be the bad guy."
The Doctor replaced his instrument on the tray and said, "Well, your head is back in one piece, on the outside at any rate. Shall I leave the assimilation tubule marks as a badge of honor?"
Harry smiled.
Tom shot back, "Are you kidding? I look like I've been bitten by a vampire." To Harry, he added, "You didn't put any vampires in my holoprogram, did you?"
"You know, that's not a bad idea. If I had the Borg, Nazis, and vampires on my side, I could..." Harry broke off when the doors to Sick Bay opened and the captain strode in.
The Doctor greeted her. "Good day, Captain."
Tom said, "I didn't realize a holodeck mishap rated a personal visit from you, Captain."
Kathryn Janeway surveyed her two crewmen with an amused look. "It does when that mishap results in fourteen reports of a Borg infiltrator carrying an unconscious Starfleet crewman down the corridors. Once Tuvok determined we were not under attack, that the Borg drone was really Harry Kim, and that the officer he was carrying was you, Mr. Paris, I decided I had to hear this one for myself."
Tom laughed, "Well, Captain, I decided to try a new..."
A disembodied voice interrupted him. "Captain Janeway to the bridge."
"What is it, Chakotay?" She addressed the air in front of her.
"We're not sure. There are conflicting sensor readings and possible spatial distortions ahead."
"On my way." To Tom and Harry, she added, "I still want to hear this, but it will have to wait. When you two are done here, report to the bridge. We may need you."
"Aye, Captain," they both replied. Captain Janeway left.
The Doctor finished repairing the wounds on Tom's neck. "You're all set, Mr. Paris. You may go." He looked over at Harry. "I suggest, however, that you stop at your quarters and change first so Mr. Tuvok doesn't shoot you on sight."
* * *
"Report!" Captain Janeway yelled as the entire ship suddenly shook and loose objects tumbled to the floor on all decks.
"Tom, get us out of this."
"Controls aren't responding, Captain," Tom answered while frantically trying to get the ship moving. The shaking continued for a moment, then stopped. Voyager hung limply in space.
"Beats me, Captain," Tom replied. "I'd like to take credit, but I didn't do anything. And we're still stuck. Warp engines have shut down."
"So have sensors. Engineering reports unsuccessful attempts to re-establish the warp field," Harry added.
"Let's hope Seven has something down in Astrometrics." She touched her comlink. "Janeway to Seven of Nine."
"Do you have any information on what's happening to us?"
"One moment, Captain." Seven's fingers danced over her console. "Astrometric sensors are offline. I am compensating."
A moment later, a wireframe image of the space around Voyager appeared on the display in front of Seven. She studied the readings, an eyebrow arching at what she saw.
"Captain, I suggest you report to Astrometrics. Bring Mr. Paris with you."
Tom turned and shared a questioning look with Janeway. She shrugged and said, "Let's go, Mr. Paris. Chakotay, you have the bridge."
Chapter 3
Then his lips twitched.
"... good teacher and..." he mumbled.
"And what?"
"... criminal ... instincts..."
Laura stood there, brow furrowed, trying to work out what to make of this statement. Was he coming out of it already? Was the doctor wrong about the time it would take? When she realized what was indeed occurring, her eyes opened wide, then her expression melted into a knowing grin.
"The doctor said they gave you CS-12 and that you won't remember a thing. Do you know what CS-12 is?"
His eyes remained shut, but she saw his jaw tense as he prepared to speak.
"... truth ... agent..."
"That's right." As she contemplated the delicious possibilities, she absentmindedly chucked him on the shoulder, jarring him. "And now you're going to..."
His face turned greenish, and his breathing got heavy. Laura backed away fast, crossing her fingers. When his breathing returned to normal, she finished her thought.
"And now you're going to answer a few questions." She glanced around for a chair, then added, "As soon as I find a clean chair."
blip
blip
blip
* * *
"A most unusual phenomenon, Captain." The screen in front of them showed swirling eddied and bursts of light in white, blue, and yellow. "These are gravimetric whirlpools."
"What are the flashes?" Tom asked.
Seven answered, "Radiation surges of an unknown type. However, these are not the reason I requested your assistance. There is a more perplexing issue."
She touched the console. The screen changed from radiation fireworks to the wireframe image. One corner of the screen showed constantly updating spatial readings.
"This diagram shows the underlying curvature of local space."
Both Captain Janeway and Tom immediately recognized the shape.
"A wormhole."
"Yes, Captain. And before you inquire, it is not a hologram, a sensor malfunction, or any other deception."
"So let me guess," Tom said sarcastically. "It's either too small or too unstable to go through. Or better yet, it goes in the wrong direction."
"Incorrect," Seven responded. "The wormhole is rather small, no larger than this room on the opposite end, but it is passable. Our presence in its gravimetric eddies appears to have stabilized it." Seven paused before adding, "And it goes precisely in the right direction."
The captain said, "I get the feeling you're holding something back."
"And what do you need me for?" Tom added.
Before answering, Seven brought up the sensor readings to the main screen. Tachyon emissions from the wormhole were astronomical.
"Captain, according to sensors, the wormhole leads directly to Earth."
"So what's the bad news?" asked Tom.
"According to atmospheric readings, the wormhole terminates sometime between the atomic detonations in Japan during Earth's Second World War and the worldwide detonations during Earth's Third World War. Because I could only restore limited sensors, I require Mr. Paris' expertise on that era to determine the exact year."
Captain Janeway gave the ceiling a 'Why us?' look.