A/N: This story just won't stay complete! As time goes on, more and more ideas occur to me, some of them inspired by other stories I have written since posting this one, so I have converted it to an "evolving" story. Someday it may be complete, but who knows?

A/N 2: Changes made here include merging the former first and second chapters into one, with a few changes made in scenes here and there.

Disclaimer: The usual; you guys know the drill by now.

Plucked!
by
Jake Crepeau

"We're the people that are plucked out of time and trained to travel through the ages..." ---Phineas Bogg

Chapter 1
Strange New World

Atlantic Ocean, off the Florida coast; October 18, 1684

They would have had plenty of warning, had it been the usual sort of storm. The first indication was the rough seas, nothing the men hadn't encountered before. Then the first clouds were spotted on the horizon, a vague greenish tint to the great billowing cumulus clouds whose anvils disappeared in the heights of the heavens, and the ship began to make for the nearest port. But they were too far out, and the hurricane was moving too quickly.

The seas were impossibly high; it took three men to keep the bow aimed into them. Powerful waves, the likes of which had been known to sweep men overboard, washed over the deck; everyone who could possibly be spared had long since been sent below.

Quartermaster (1) Phineas Bogg was exhausted by the time his relief touched his shoulder, speech having been rendered impractical by the roaring of the winds and waves. Gratefully, he turned to head below; then, barely audible in the raging storm, he heard a flapping, whipping sound. Whirling, he immediately turned his gaze to the reefed storm sails. Some of the reefing of the mains'l had come undone, and the loose canvas was flapping dangerously, catching too much wind, threatening the brigantine's already precarious control; he began roaring orders as he scrambled up the rigging, several others swarming up behind him. The footrope swayed beneath them as they worked, and the whipping ties raised painful welts on their arms before they could get them secured once more. At length, with much cursing, the job was done, and they made their careful way back to the deck. Hold on, Phineas told his stomach firmly as the pitching of the ship, magnified several times at this height, threatened his equilibrium. Wait 'til I make it below; then you can be sick.

But the storm had other ideas. The wind picked up even further and set the rigging to vibrating with such force that it weakened his hold; he slowed his descent, wrapping each limb in the lines with each step to keep himself from falling.

It didn't help. A vicious blast tore his free arm loose, and he let out a cry of pain as he felt the other arm snap. In that same instant, the steersmen lost their battle with the helm, and suddenly the waves were coming athwart, rolling the ship so violently that it was in danger of capsizing. The spar end actually dipped beneath the water; Phineas managed to grab a breath just before the sea washed over him. The mad current battered at him, aggravating the pain in his broken arm, and he gritted his teeth against the cry that rose to his lips, until he was sure his jaw would break as well. Black spots began to swim across his vision, and, just when he was certain he could hold his breath no longer, there was a flash of light, and then nothing.

Voyager Headquarters, Recruit Reception

He came to slowly, noting first the near-total silence. There was a deep, barely audible hum, and perhaps a faint susurration of air, but nothing more. He felt no breeze. He was lying on a hard, smooth surface, and it wasn't moving.

Why was he expecting motion, anyway? He knit his brows, puzzled. He was wet, but he couldn't remember…Wait. Hadn't it been raining? What had he been doing out in it?

He tried to sit up and bit back a cry of pain as his injured arm reminded him of its condition. His concern stepped up a notch as he realized he couldn't remember how he'd injured it. Deciding that remaining supine was his best bet for the moment, he slowly looked around.

Was it the room that was blue, or the strange light that illuminated it? He couldn't tell. Some of the panels in the ceiling glowed with a steady light that came from no candle or lamp he had ever seen. What manner of witchcraft was this? Rolling carefully to his left side, he pushed himself into a sitting position, then held his injured right arm cradled in his left, against his chest. The room wasn't very large, and there wasn't a stick of furniture in it; there were no windows, and only one door promised exit. He was completely alone, and yet he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. "Show yourself!" he snapped, his voice reverberating oddly in the empty room.

Obligingly, the door opened, and a young man entered, apparently not much older than he. "Hello," he said. "I'm Voyager Tim Shelby." He held out his right hand briefly, then withdrew it and substituted his left.

Bogg took it. "Phineas Bogg." Voyager? he wondered, then decided the more urgent question was, "Where am I?"

"Voyager Headquarters," came the singularly uninformative reply.

There was that word again. He knew what it meant, but had the feeling that, here, it had a very specific meaning. "Voyager?" he asked.

"In due time, Mr. Bogg. First, we need to get that arm seen to. Come with me, please."

He balked. "No butcher of a barber is touching me!" he snapped.

"We have properly trained physicians and surgeons here," Shelby told him. "Not a butcher among them, I assure you."

"Your word on that?"

"Voyager's honor—and trust me, that's the highest oath we have, short of swearing to the Almighty Himself."

He nodded; though still suspicious, he went with this Voyager person and was led through a corridor that might have been found in the home of a plantation owner. Instead of glowing panels in the ceiling, however, this area was lit by wall-mounted lamps, lending a little more credence to the comparison, although he could see no oil reservoirs, and no chimneys; just translucent globes that gave off the same steady glow as the witch-lights in the room he had just left—though perhaps "globes" was a bit of a misnomer, as they more closely resembled mounds of clotted cream. The hallway was lined with doors on both sides, their spacing suggesting rooms no larger than the one in which he had awakened.

Then a door slammed somewhere, followed by the sound of running feet from a side corridor a few feet ahead of them, followed seconds later by three men and a woman dressed in white, the woman and one of the men steering a wheeled cot.

A split second after the group rounded the corner, the air was rent by an agonized scream from behind the door directly opposite Bogg and Shelby. "Stay here!" Shelby barked as he rushed forward to open that door.

A man lay on the floor writhing in pain, blood spurting dangerously from the shattered remnants of his legs. Bogg took a half-step forward, then stopped and retreated. He could do nothing to help with his arm in its current condition; besides, the white-clad team certainly seemed to know what they were doing.

It was over in a matter of minutes; the man was lifted to the cot, and they rushed him back the way they had come.

Phineas discovered that his abortive move to help had not gone unnoticed when Shelby gave him a tight grin. "Bet you've seen that sort of thing before, haven't you?"

"Exploding shot will do that," Phineas replied, then remarked, "Your people seem to have raised the use of the tourniquet to a fine art."

"So you know the device?"

"Saw a barber use one. He said it was something fairly new he'd learned about somewhere. Were those people some of your physicians?"

"More like helpers. They do the simple stuff before bringing the patient to the doctors."

"You call that simple?"

"Compared to what the surgeon will do next, absolutely. Now come on; let's get that arm of yours seen to."

Phineas snorted ruefully as they continued down the hallway; after what he had just seen, his own injury no longer seemed quite so important.

Eventually they came to another room, this one richly panelled. Wooden cabinets held instruments and vials; in the center of the room was another wheeled cot. There was also a low stool that had little wheels on it, and a couple of chairs stood against one wall.

Shelby helped him out of his dripping clothes, informing him that they'd be cleaned and returned.

"Could I trouble you to take those boots to a cobbler for me?" the newcomer asked uncertainly. "They could use new soles."

"Certainly," Shelby agreed. "It'll all be taken care of." He reached into a drawer in one of the cabinets and withdrew a sheet, which he handed to Phineas; gratefully, he covered himself with it. Shelby then slipped out the door as another man came in, this one middle-aged, with glasses and a receding hairline. His face was only beginning to show lines, and those lines revealed a kindly man who laughed a lot. Phineas liked him on sight.

"Mr. Bogg, I'm Dr. Fiore," the man introduced himself. "How are you feeling?—Aside from the arm," he added as the patient shot him a look.

For the first time since awakening, he began to notice other aches and pains that had previously been overshadowed by the pain of his arm. "Like I've been keel-hauled," he groaned.

The doctor began feeling his head gently, drawing back immediately when a light touch on a small lump he found elicited a sharp hiss. "Well, you certainly have hit your head. Can you remember what happened?

"No," he replied. "My memory is so befuddled, 'tis a wonder I even know who I am."

Fiore nodded as if such a thing were only to be expected, which eased Bogg's worry somewhat. The physician reached for a small stylus-like instrument in the breast pocket of his white coat, then seemed to think better of it. He gazed closely at Bogg's eyes for a moment; apparently satisfied, he filled a glass with water, then withdrew a vial from a cabinet and added two drops from it to the water. "If you'll lie down, I'll have a look at that arm," he said

"Do I get something to drink before you set it?"

"Yes, but not what you're expecting; I've got better painkillers than that," Fiore told him as he handed the glass to him. "It's what you would call a sleeping potion."

Sniffing it, he raised an eyebrow. He knew this potion; two drops of it, pure, would knock a man out for nearly twenty-four hours. Two drops in water...He decided this was evidence that he could trust this doctor and chugged the contents of the glass. Moments later, he felt himself drifting toward sleep. While he was in that twilight stage between waking and sleeping, he felt a vague sting on the back of his left hand; shortly afterward, he slipped into blackness once more.

* * * * *

Finding the door to Dr. Fiore's office open, Shelby rapped on the frame and walked in.

Fiore grinned at the younger man. "So they've made you the guide to our ex-sailor, eh, Tim?"

"Him and the Marine." He shook his head. "What did I do to deserve a jarhead and a squid in one go? Who did I torque off, Doc?"

"It can't be all that bad."

"Oh, yeah? When one of 'em is so backward he thinks he's fallen into the hands of a coven, and the other one has probably forgotten more about quantum physics than the director of TE (2) ever knew? Tell me another one."

"You'll manage; you always do."

Shelby snorted and let it drop. "So how are they?"

"Your 'squid' is resting. The arm was a clean break; I was able to set it without surgery. Aside from that, he's just battered and bruised. And, of course, his memory is scrambled. We got his immunizations out of the way after he was sedated, and completed his locator scan along with all the other scans and tests. All in all, he's in remarkably good health, considering the living conditions of a sailor from that time zone. He doesn't even have any traces of scurvy."

"What about the other one?"

"Last I heard, they were just taking him to the OR. You'll have to talk to Dr. Brooks when he's done; he's got that case."

* * * * *

Phineas awakened slowly again, this time with the heavy feeling of having been drugged. Looking down at himself, he discovered that his right arm was in a sling and encased in something that felt like plaster. Now how were they going to take that off when it was time, he wondered. Well, he'd find out when he saw the doctor again. He decided, as he settled himself more comfortably, that he liked having trained doctors and surgeons, instead of....

Instead of what? he wondered in consternation as he realized he still hadn't recovered his memory.

* * * * *

(1) A quartermaster on a ship is a navigator. Among Caribbean pirates, the quartermaster and the captain were elected by the crew. The captain was in command in battle situations; at all other times, the quartermaster was in charge.

(2) Temporal Engineering.