Chapter 3: Mayweather Shipping

The best things in life are free
But you can give them to the birds and bees
I want money.

-The Flying Lizards, The Best Things in Life

There never was a democracy yet that did not commit suicide.

-John Adams

"Trip's in trouble. It must be Thursday," Travis muttered under his breath. Not that there was anyone around to hear him. All alone. Not that he minded. Shore leave was to get a break - especially a break from your fellow crewmates. The captain and the rest of the crew might not understand that. But the Boomer in Travis knew a thing or two about personal space. Like that it's necessary.

Travis rather liked caves, despite the fact that almost all of his friends swore that nothing good could come out of them. Growing up on a ship had gotten him used to confined spaces. In fact, he found the open air much more intimidating. There, things could come at you from any direction . . . the unpredictability of it. Not that he minded unpredictability . . . Adventure is my middle name. But sometimes . . . the worse thing that could happen to you in a cave was a cave-in. Out in the open . . . there were things like . . . like butterflies. Jesus, he could go his entire life without seeing another one of them, Those creepy little antennae like Andorians without the friendly shade of blue. And the way they could suddenly decide to fly at your face . . . talk about unpredictable. Travis gave an involuntary shudder.

He swung his flashlight around behind him, just to make sure none of the little monsters had followed him in from the field of wildflowers outside, noticing the mud-caked footprints on the smooth grey of the cave floor. Surely, this was Trip and Malcolm's idea of a joke. Travis refused to believe that this was another shore leave botched. He just would not accept it. Denile is a river in Egypt. Yesiree.

Yes, this was a perfect shore leave. All he needed were a couple of ham and turkey sandwiches, and it would be perfect. Any minute now, Trip and Malcolm would jump out and give him a premature heart attack, then he could go back to his butterfly-free rock climbing and be done with it.

God damn the sub-commander and her 'anomalous readings.' The only anomalous readings Travis cared about were the gravity-distortions caused by the size of certain parts of her anatomy . . . and like that was going to happen. Rumor had it that she and Trip were the ones doing the horizontal hand-jive, and he was not one to step on his commanding officers toes. Besides, like he stood a chance against the man who seemed to channel the spirit of Don Juan on a regular basis.

"If he can get a Vulcan into bed . . ." Travis muttered, inching carefully forward. "He should be able to find his way out of a . . ." Then his foot landed on something that made a hollow clang . . . like deck plating. ". . . cave?" That last word sounded more like a squeak then anything else.

"Trip! Malcolm! This is so not funny! I want to get back to my rock-climbing guys! You're going to pay for this!" There were so many 'accidents' that could befall not-so-innocent officers crawling around doing repairs.

Hey, since when was the cave lighted by that orangey glow that they used in cargo ships when trying to make the florescent lighting not look florescent? Travis blinked, and whirled around, focusing his now-useless flashlight beam on what had once been the cave entrance behind him. All he saw this time was an orangey corridor with fancy designs -like Van Gough's Starry Night- in the deck plating.

"Who has the balls to claim I have to pay them?" A voice echoed down the tunnel-like hallway, seeming to multiply in its menacing intensity as it came toward him.

Travis stepped up to a door extending to the right, cautiously, not really looking forward to meeting the owner of the voice. Another shore leave ruined. God damn you, Trip Tucker!

He leaned timidly forward, peaking around the open doorframe into a room with a large mahogany desk, completely covered in PADDS and photoframes. A great leather chair, facing away from him -of course- dominated both the desk -despite its size- and the two rather pathetic green plants that seemed to cower in the corner. Travis recognized the single picture that the high backed chair was silhouetted against. It was an original Rixal-Bowden. The half-human painter from Draylax that painted with her . . . well what were they supposed to do with the third one, anyway? He kept a reproduction of this very print in his quarters, but he'd never even had the luxury to see an original.

"Come in! I haven't got all day!" The oddly-familiar voice boomed from the chair.

Oh well, what did he have to lose? Your head. Travis ignored his insecurities. This was nothing if not an adventure. And the chance to meet the owner of a Rixal-Bowden! He must have actually met her, because she only signed off on sales personally. And she signed with her . . . "So who has the audacity . . ." The figure in the chair spun around . . . to reveal . . . Oh my God, it's me!

It must be time travel. I'm going to own a Rixal-Bowden! Time travel was the only possibility. There are clearly not two of me in this universe . . . and this me looks a few years older . . . especially in that flowing golden robe . . . and that hat! When do I lose all my fashion sense?

The other Travis seemed to be taking the whole thing pretty well. His eyes were narrowed an his nostrils flaring, but he didn't seem at all surprised to find his doppelganger standing in front of him. Still, Travis figured he owed him as much of an explanation he could give at the moment. "Hello. I'm . . ."

"I don't give a Rigellian mud worm's sucker who you are. You can turn your admittedly-handsome self around and march out that door, and then you can tell Nexcorp to kiss my ass, because the Vissian government isn't going to buy it." The Vissians? They were lucky they weren't at war with them. How did I get so buddy-buddy with them when my buddy. . . "Tell those morons that they see DNA, so no matter how good their plastic surgerized clones are -and you're the best yet, believe it or not-, they're never going to get the contract!" Travis was surprised at the steely anger in his voice. Despite all the time he spent with Malcolm, Travis still hadn't got the whole 'menacing' thing down. In a few years time, he seemed to have mastered it, though.

"I'm not from Nexcorp!" Travis yelled. Nexcorp was Earth's biggest trade franchise, he'd cut off his right arm before he'd ever work for them, They kept buying up merchant family ships, or flooding their routes with faster and more standardized freighters where the crew spent most of the journey in stasis.

"Oh, so now the little fish are trying to take me on, are they? Well, tell whoever you work for to watch out, I bite."

"I'm not working for anyone! I'm Travis Mayweather of the Starship Enterprise."

"Nice try, Mr. Mayweather." The man gave him a sneer. I learn how to sneer too? "But, if you're not out of this office in the next five seconds, I'm going to initiate my security procedures. Meaning, anyone who's not the real Travis Mayweather is going to be vaporized."

Travis crossed his hands over his chest and stood his ground. He was Travis Mayweather, so he had nothing to worry about . . . right?

"Well, they may be making them better-looking, but they're sure-as-hell not making them smarter," his other self murmured. "Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one." He sounded nonplussed.. "You leave me no choice." And with a melodramatic sigh, he flipped up a clear plastic cover and pressed a larger red button. There was a flash of blue light and a high-pitched whine. Travis winced, but he was still standing there when the bright spots had disappeared from his eyes.

"Well, I'll be damned. This one's genuine!" Where did he pick up the criminalesque drawl and the melodramatic arm waving? Wait . . . arm waving?

Before he knew it, his phase pistol was drawn and pointed at . . . well . . . himself, "Keep your hands wh . . . where I can see them!" Wow, I guess I can kind of do menacing . . . except for the stutter.

"Woah, woah, woah. We are getting a little bold, for a minion."

"Look. I'm not from any of those companies. I don't care about contracts and doppelgangers. As your security system already proved, I'm Travis Mayweather of Starfleet."

His doppelganger rose slowly from his seat, somehow managing to look twice his size, despite the fact that Travis knew him to be exactly five eleven. "Starfleet has no jurisdiction here. You boys already had your chance, but we proved that peaceful exploration without the proper commercial motivations is even more ineffectual than centralized government." He laughed, advancing on Travis until the phase pistol was pointed directly at his chest. Okay, so maybe the time-travel theory was bunk. This Travis sounded almost like a . . . capitalist. And there is no chance in hell, I'll ever . . . "I bet you don't even have the . . . bankroll to shoot me."

Travis sighed, "I don't want to, believe me. I just want some answers."

"Well . . ."

"Without having to find out the nuances of your backup security system."

"Clever boy." He plopped back into his large, but not particularly comfortable looking armchair.

"Well, I didn't grow up on the E.C.S. Horizon and learn nothing."

"Hey, I . . ."

"Yes, we're the same person, right up to that time we locked Nora up in the airducts and were forced to eat ration packs for a month."

"I still don't think my stomach's recovered."

"But it was worth it." They chuckled in unison.

"The look on her face . . ." Capitalist Mayweather said soberly. "Who are you?"

Why did it always have to be the hard questions? He was twenty-nine, did people really expect him to know who he was? "I'm you . . . only, I'm guessing, I joined Starfleet and you didn't."

"Damn right, I didn't. I couldn't just leave the family! I spent my whole life on the Horizon running trade routes, and I was good at it. I wasn't about to leave and join some organization of posers who think that just because they throw more money at technological development, that they understand space better." Obviously, there was a great deal of resentment toward Starfleet in this universe. It sounded more like something Paul would say . . . like he did say when Travis came home to visit. It was all jealousy. Or at least, that's what Travis told himself at the time.

"You didn't always feel that way, though?" Travis fought to keep it from sounding too much like a question, but failed miserably. He had always admired Starfleet, even when his family was doing their best to 'persuade' him to stay on-board. And it wasn't just for the adventure . . . he believed in an organization independent of commercial interests. Maybe it was na•ve . . . his other self definitely thought so . . . but Travis believed that Enterprise could - no, Enterprise had acted as a better representative of the human race, than any freighter crew ever could.

Other-Travis lowered his shoulders in a familiar slump. "No, I suppose not. But after what happened . . . it's hard not to take Starfleet as anything more than a joke."

"What do you mean?"

"The suicide-ship?!"

"What?"

"You really are from some parallel universe, aren't you? They had no less than five suicides in the first three years. Started with their armory officer . . ."

"Malcolm?!" Sure, Malcolm could get a little moody, but he was too concerned with his fellow crewmembers to actually do it. Travis remembered teasing him about his unerring ability to try to sacrifice himself for the greater good. And making him promise to stop and think about all the people that cared about him before he did anything rash. Malcolm promised to consider them . . . that couldn't have actually made a difference . . . could it?

"Yes, that's it: Malcolm Reed. Granted, that one was a bit ambiguous . . . didn't hesitate to kill himself when pinned to the hull by a mine. Some people still hail him as the model officer." His other self obviously didn't think too highly of the act . . . or of those that supported it. "But then there was that woman, the former child prodigy." He couldn't possibly mean Hoshi! "Boyfriend dumped her and she sealed herself in the airlock . . ." So Hoshi had been a tad bit . . . well, hysterical, when she and Rob broke up, but Travis had taken her up to the sweet-spot with a few bottles of the ill-gotten Andorian Ale . . . and that had taken care of it.

"And there was the Engineer . . . his sister died in the Xindi attack. At least he was creative - rewired the air-circulation system in his quarters to start pumping carbon monoxide. And then the two people from stellar cartography that tried and failed to kill the pilot, Anderson, I think it was. That one was a double." Alternate Travis didn't seem all that sympathetic.

"Wait, they took Anderson?!"

"Yeah, I heard he was a real SOB. Had to be if people were plotting to kill him, right?" His other self chuckled. It wasn't funny. Anderson had been in Travis' class at the academy - the epitome of the testosterone overdosed flyboy/rock star. Travis couldn't remember a second spent in his presence during which he didn't want to kill the guy. No wonder. Archer must have been really desperate. Well, they did ship out for their first mission last-minute, maybe he was forced into it. One of the most infuriating things about Anderson was the fact that he actually had the go behind the show. "Us boomers have been living together on ships for years . . . but put a bunch of the so-called best and the brightest together in a confined space to stew and the nutters take over in a few years. Starfleet's nothing more than a joke. We got a kick out of it, despite the fact that it proved the Vulcans right. Besides, they grounded the whole freak-show after that. Attempted homicide isn't something even Starfleet can take lightly."

Grounded? "But what about the Xindi?!"

"The joint Vulcan/Vissian task-force hammered out a settlement with the Xindi Council. Mayweather Shipping has a trade contract with all five species."

Travis gulped. He couldn't believe it. Mayweather Shipping? The Vulcans actually doing something? With the Vissians? "The Vissians?"

"Please tell me you've met them in your universe . . . Captaining the Horizon, I initiated first contact with them - got exclusive trading rights. Mayweather Shipping now has 57 freighters running between Earth and Vissia Prime, and that's not counting our diplomatic barges. The ruling council likes me to be there to facilitate any negotiations with Earthgov. Hence the paranoia, for which I apologize. I'm a very important man." Travis fought the urge to regurgitate upon hearing those pompous tones coming from his own lips.

"But . . . the Vissians . . . have you ever met one of their Cogenitors?" Travis didn't care what the captain said. When he'd found Trip crying in the sweet spot, he knew whose side he was on. There was a difference between keeping an open mind and allowing blatant injustice.

His other self obviously didn't share his opinion. "I think I might have, once . . . though Mareel has explained to me that we might need to sign up for one if we have even a hope in Hezelab of having kids."

"Wait . . . you're . . . married?" His alternate self nodded, and Travis nearly fainted. He was twenty-nine, he wasn't ready for commitment! "Happily?" he asked, hands shaking. He felt trapped, like these metal walls had suddenly turned to jailbars. Married? He didn't care if it was in an alternate universe - the thought was still damn scary.

"She's the Prime Minister's daughter." His alternate-self replied evenly. As though that answered it. Travis rolled his eyes. Just then, the comm panel fitted flush into the mahogany of the desk began to buzz. "Can I take this?"

"Be my guest." Travis flung his arms wide. God forbid his other self should miss a business opportunity.

Business-Travis pressed a button on the earpiece Travis hadn't realized he was wearing. "Mayweather. No . . . I'm not posting bail . . . you have to get yourself out of your own messes, learn a lesson for once . . . well, obviously you didn't learn it . . . Mayweather Shipping does not support smuggling, and that's . . . don't argue with me . . . do you want me to hang up? . . . I thought not. Now, listen very carefully because this is the last time I'm going to say it: pull your life together, because I'm not going to keep stepping in to catch you . . . you are no longer a captain of one of my freighters and thus no longer my responsibility . . . I don't care if you are my brother!" With that, the earpiece went flying against the wall where it shattered. His other self didn't seem even the slightest bit perturbed, however, because he pulled a spare from his desk drawer and slipped it comfortably over his right ear.

"Was that Paul?"

"Yep. Lazy bastard."

"You're not . . ."

"Of course not. Like it or not, he is family. I'll let him stew in his own juice for a day or so and then bail him out. Send him to rehab back on Earth this time." At least I still have some integrity.

His double gave a rueful sigh. "Don't tell me. Your life's perfect."

"No, it's not. There haven't been any suicides on my Enterprise . . . but that doesn't mean things aren't tough. We're close, but with rank and everything, it's hard to make it a family. And I miss Mom and I wasn't even there when Dad died . . . and Paul . . . well, we both know he wasn't a born captain."

"But you're happy?" His double seemed skeptical, yet almost desperate to believe that somewhere, someone was happy.

Travis chewed on his lower lip for a second. Sure, he was still pretty aimless for a twenty-nine-year-old . . . no steady girlfriend . . . no lifeplan . . . he still hadn't found a favorite movie yet, something Commander Tucker (Casablanca) and Lieutenant Reed (The Fall of the Spanish Armada, the 2113 version) found hilarious for some untold reason. Still, he was happy this way . . . so happy, in fact, that if he were being completely honest with himself, he would admit that he was afraid to change. Beyond the haze of his denial, he could see a future. Perhaps it was time he grasped it. "Yes, I'm happy." He even surprised himself with his confidence. "And you?"

"I could do without the meetings and the constant wine and dine and the people trying to impersonate me. But there are days when I come home and Mareel's not in one of her moods and we sit under the moons and just talk - trade stories and watch the stars . . ." His voice trailed off into a wistful sigh ". . . and I can just remember what it might be like to be happy."

"But at least you're rich and famous, right?" The more time he spent with him, the less he thought of his double, but that didn't stop him from trying to cheer him up. Apparently, he had a knack for suicide-prevention.

"And I got to meet Jeian Rixal-Bowden. That woman sure has a lot of . . . talent." His double winked. And I'm already living back in the 'good 'ole days.' "I've got another one of hers in the guest room off the garden."

The garden? "Wait, we're not on a ship?"

"Nope. I designed Mayweather Manor pretty convincingly though, didn't I? Even had them run the electricity under the floor to give it that slight hum. Mareel doesn't like it much, but she's the reason I'm stuck here on Vissia Prime, so she's obligated to deal. I actually find the sunlight pleasing these days. I had the gardeners fix the tomatoes so they taste just like the hydro . . ."

Travis let his double's monotonous drone fade into the background, sure that it was more to convince Capitalist-Travis that he hadn't thrown his life away than anything else. I used to feel bad about abandoning my family for 'the establishment' but not only am I unhappily married to a member of a race of immoral aliens with bad fashion sense, but I'm living on LAND! I don't care if I did get to meet Jeian Rixal-Bowden, I don't regret it for a second.

Travis turned to walk back the way he had come, hoping that his double would be so involved in his monologue that he wouldn't notice. Travis wasn't the kind of person who could evaluate sweeping political claims of whether or not free-market capitalism was better than 'unbiased' government bureaucracy, but he knew he was happier in a world where he put his values first.

Not that that stopped him from being supremely pissed off for the interruption in his shore leave. Trip, Malcolm, you guys are still going to pay. And not with money, either!