Chapter Two: Mistimed Adventure
Steed opened his eyes slowly. For a moment everything was fuzzy, but he blinked and his vision cleared. "Wh-where am I?"
A slim man dressed in what appeared to be a uniform of some kind stepped into his field of vision. "In the sickbay of the starship Defiant," he replied.
Steed squinted, the light still seeming just a little too bright. "I must have hit my heard harder than I thought…" This couldn't be real; surely it was merely a crazy dream.
"I daresay you did," the man muttered grimly. He pulled out an instrument that appeared strange to Steed's eyes and ran it slowly over Steed's head. "I'm Dr Julian Bashir."
"John Steed," he replied automatically, then coughed dryly.
The doctor touched a button, and the bed smoothly tilted up so Steed sat half reclined. "Dizzy?" Dr Bashir questioned.
"No."
"Good." He took a cup of water and held it to Steed's lips. "Just sip."
Steed swallowed, then grimaced slightly. "You wouldn't happen to have a brandy…?"
Bashir flashed a quick smile. "I'm afraid not. Look this way, please. Are you experiencing any blurring or double vision?"
"No."
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Two."
"Follow my finger with your eyes, please." He lightly cupped Steed's head with his other hand to hold it still. "Can you tell me the date in Earth years?"
"Nineteen sixty-three."
Bashir had been performing the examination as a mere routine precaution, confident in his own work repairing the brain damage, but now he froze. All the other tests had shown the concussion to be resolved, but for the man to be over four hundred years off…or was he? Bashir paused with his hand halfway to his tricorder to run a more thorough scan.
As Dax had pointed out, there had been no sign in the runabout of any kind of a struggle, and he had seen signs in Steed's injures that he had been moved after they were inflicted. Now that Bashir thought of it, the clothes Steed had been wearing more or less matched the dress of the characters in his 1960s spy holosuites. Almost as if in a daze, Bashir moved to where Steed's clothes lay folded nearby. Quickly searching through the pockets, he pulled out a leather wallet and opened it. Inside were several old-fashioned British bank notes, the paper soft and worn. Bashir fanned them out partway to see the dates; not one had been printed after 1962.
"I'm sorry I can't give you the exact day, Doctor," Steed called from behind him; "I'm afraid I don't know how long I was out."
Bashir replaced the wallet and turned with a smile. "That's all right; we…can come back to that later." He seated himself beside the bed with his aural monitor and opened the front of the garment Steed was wearing. Slipping the receiver into his ear, he switched the monitor on and pressed it to Steed's chest. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly, please…and again…good. Is there any pain or tightness in your chest when you breathe deeply?"
"No." Steed stared at the unfamiliar instrument, sure it was one more proof that none of this could really be happening. He rubbed his head with a grimace; the opposite side, Bashir noticed, from that he had injured.
"Your head hurts?" the doctor questioned.
"No. But all of this has to be a dream brought on by a blow to the head; any moment I'll wake up and hopefully find Dr King tending me…"
Bashir grinned. "I assure you, this is no dream — though I realize I don't have any way to prove that to you. Your concussion is completely resolved, and I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me as a doctor."
Steed gave him a quick smile, and Bashir laid a hand on his abdomen. "Let me know if I hit a tender spot." He pressed lightly over Steed's entire abdomen, paying particular attention to the kidney he had repaired. "All right?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now let me see you wiggle your toes."
He checked the reflexes in Steed's legs, then took both his hands in his. "Squeeze as hard as you can…ow."
"Sorry, Doctor."
Bashir chuckled. "Well, I did ask for it," he admitted. "Generally speaking, how do you feel?"
"A bit stiff and sore all over."
"But nothing especially bad?"
"No."
"Well, it looks like I can let you out of sickbay. Let me know if you experience any dizziness or problems with your vision; any chest pain or trouble breathing; any blood in your urine." He paused, considering the extent of Steed's injuries. "On second thought, maybe you had better tell me about any symptoms or unusual sensations you experience."
Steed frowned at the serious tone of Bashir's voice. "How badly was I injured, Doctor?"
Bashir sighed and once more ran through the list of Steed's injuries.
"How long was I unconscious?" Steed questioned.
"I don't know for sure when you were injured; I've had you in my care roughly thirty-six hours."
Steed's eyes widened, and he once more considered the possibility that he was still in a concussion-induced dream. "You must be quite a doctor."
Bashir grinned. "I am," he said with teasing lack of humility. "But I'm afraid I can't take all the credit this time. If I were restricted to the same equipment and medications as your Dr King, you likely would have been in hospital at least six months, assuming you survived the first week."
"This is an experimental medical facility, then?" Steed hazarded.
"No; as I told you before, this is the sickbay on the starship Defiant. When I asked you the date, Mr Steed, you said it was 1963…it's actually 2372. I admit you had me concerned for a minute there, but I think you must really be from 1963, and were somehow brought forward in time."
"Or I'm hallucinating," Steed murmured.
Bashir shook his head. "Given what I know of medicine and anesthetics in the 1960s, and the extent of your injuries, I believe the pain would penetrate any trauma-induced dream."
"Assuming I was really injured as badly as I'm dreaming I was."
"Assuming that," Bashir admitted. "How much do you remember about how you received your injuries?"
"I was attacked…" Steed said slowly. "It was a man…who looked exactly like me. He was identical…except many times stronger. He knew all my moves…but he was faster than me. The last thing I remember is his fist hitting my jaw and the back of my head hitting the wall…fortunately, my hat hadn't come off yet."
Bashir glanced in surprise at the ordinary-looking bowler on top of Steed's belongings. "I'm sorry?"
Steed smiled. Swinging his legs over the side of the biobed, he walked over and picked up the hat, rapping it with his knuckles. "Steel lined…and there's a dent in it. My cracked skull probably would have been a lot worse if the hat hadn't taken some of the blow." He put it on, settling it on his head with a tap, and Bashir grinned at the odd picture it made with his hospital gown.
"I vaguely remember you finding me," Steed continued, "and then the next thing I knew I was waking up here."
"I'm still amazed you regained consciousness at all with that head injury," Bashir murmured. He considered for a moment. "It sounds like this double wanted to get you out of the way so he could take your place; you're fortunate he decided to send you to the future rather than finishing the job — though I suppose he might have thought you were dead, and he was disposing of the corpse."
Steed grimaced at the thought. "Any chance of getting me back?"
"It's physically possible," Bashir answered, "but there are regulations regarding time travel and dealing with people who have been misplaced in time; we'll have to convince the captain that returning you is the best solution. How much damage could a counterfeit of you do to history; what kind of work do you do?"
Steed hesitated a moment before answering. "I'm a special agent with the government," he admitted quietly. "Ministry of Defense."
Bashir grimaced. "That could be big," he admitted. "You should have something to eat, and then we'll see about convincing the captain." He walked to a replicator and ordered what he believed was a typical 1960s English meal, having recognized the man's accent as well as the banknotes.
Steed raised his eyebrows as Bashir brought him the tray. "I thought you said you didn't have any brandy."
"I wasn't about to give you any till I'd checked your neurological signs." He shrugged. "It's replicated, so I can't guarantee it's any good. I'll replicate some clothes for you to change into after you eat; I'm afraid we had to cut yours off you. Then we'll go talk to the captain."
Next chapter coming next week!
I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that the spelling of some Avengers characters' names has been changed intentionally.)
Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine or Avengers alternate histories, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie
