John had just experience the shock of his life, but he was also a fifteen year veteran of the police force and his training kicked in automatically. It didn't matter that his mind was screaming at him that he was currently occupying a fictional universe. He had just been abducted, and that required immediate action.

He pulled his hand from behind his back, his gun firmly grasped within it, and pointed it right at Riker, the man he knew to be in charge. "What the Hell is going on here?" He growled.

Riker's hands shot up as he became aware of the weapon in the man's hands. An antique no doubt, but certainly just as effective as a phaser. And Riker assumed there was no stun setting on this weapon.

"There seems to have been a mistake," Riker began, in a steady voice; only years of Star Fleet training allowed him to keep the fear from it. "We had no intention of beaming you up."

"Then beam me back down," John shouted.

"You heard the man," Riker said to O'Brien. "Beam him back down."

"Reversing the beam," O'Brien said as he started the transport.

"Uh oh," he said a moment later.

"What do you mean, "uh oh,'" the three other people in the room said simultaneously.

"The beam up seems to have burned out the secondary power loop. I think turning up the gain may have overloaded the system. The transporter is nonfunctional."

"What are you saying?" John shouted, anger rising in his voice.

Just then O'Brien activated the force field that surrounded the transporter platform. A force field they had for reasons just like this one.

Riker, who had been visibly sweating, relaxed and tapped his commbadge. "Security to transporter room three," he called out.

"What are you doing Riker?" John screamed again as he lowered his now useless weapon.

Riker started. "How do you know my name?" he asked the man on the transporter platform.

"Commander William Thomas Riker of the U.S.S. Enterprise NCC 1701-D," John said, drawing on his vast Star Trek knowledge.

"Just what the hell is going on here?" Riker said, just as Worf and his security team burst in.

Worf instantly evaluated the situation the moment he entered transporter room 3. There was an unfamiliar man on the transporter platform with some sort of weapon. He was behind a forcefield though, so was not an immediate threat.

Now that the situation had been assessed he looked to Riker. "Is everything okay Commander?"

Riker looked at Worf. He knew that everything the stranger had said was accessible in his public files with Starfleet, but the way he had said it made Riker feel as if the man knew him on a more personal level, as if the man knew as much about Riker as Riker knew about himself, and that scared the hell out of him. "Take him to the brig Lieutenant. I'll be down there shortly."

"Yes sir," Worf said as he raised his phaser at the man. "Mr. O'Brien, please lower the forcefield."

It was at that moment that Riker left the room with Geordi close behind.

"What went wrong?" he asked the chief engineer as they walked towards the nearest turbolift.

"As you know we had recalibrated the transporters in such a way as to safely increase their range by 14 percent."

"So what happened?" Riker demanded. "There are no other ships or planets within that range. We were aiming for a chair sized asteroid. How did we get that?" he said waving his arm back in the direction of the transporter room.

"I don't know, commander," Geordi said as Riker stepped into the 'lift. "But O'Brien and I will get right on it."

"Good," Riker said. "I'm going to let the captain know what just happened. As soon as you know anything let one of us know."
"Yes sir," Geordi said as the 'lift doors closed.

He turned to go back to the transporter room. Technically his shift had just ended, but he had no intention of stopping until he and O'Brien figured this thing out.

After giving the captain a short briefing on their current situation, Riker found himself walking into the brig. For a reason unknown to his conscious mind, a chill ran down his spine when he saw the man sitting in his cell.

As Riker approached the cell's forcefield the man looked up.

"The first thing I want to know is what your name is," Riker asked the man.

"John McClane," came the response.

"Good," Riker replied. "Now the second thing I want to know is how you know mine."

John thought of telling the truth, that this mans' whole existence was nothing but a TV show to him, but thought better of it. They would no doubt think him insane if he tried that. And if he started using his knowledge of the crew and ship to back up his words, they'd no doubt think him a spy and send him to prison for good. So instead he said, "I recognized you from your file. I read it awhile back."

Riker was pretty sure John was lying to him. Something about this whole situation was just not sitting right with him. "Where were you right before we beamed you here?"
"I was in my apartment in Brooklyn," John responded.

"Brooklyn, New York?" the man asked incredulously. "As in Earth?"

"Yeah, why?"

"At warp six, we're three and a half days from Earth; well out of transporter range."

"So how in the hell did I get here?" John asked.

"I don't know," Riker muttered under his breath. "Why did you draw a weapon on us back in the transporter room?" Riker asked.

"You abducted me. I felt threatened so I drew my gun."

"Would you have used it?" Riker inquired.

"Only if I needed to. I'm a cop, not a murderer."

Riker thought over John's answers for a minute. Two things were apparent to him: one if this man was telling the truth then this new transporter configuration was multiples more powerful than they could have ever hoped for and two, what they had on their hands was nothing more than a complete misunderstanding. He looked back at John. "I need to talk this over with my captain. Then we'll see about getting you out of here and back home."

"Gee, thanks," John said sarcastically to Riker's back as the commander left the brig.

"So you don't think this man is a threat?" Captain Jean-Luc Picard said from behind the desk in his ready room between sips of Earl Grey.

"No sir. He felt he was abducted."

"I suppose I also would have drawn my weapon if I found myself in a similar situation," the captain mused.

"Yes sir, as would I."

"Well then, it seems we have an obligation to get this man home."

"I agree sir."

Picard tapped his comm badge. "Ensign Carlyle, set in a course for Earth at warp six and engage."

"Aye sir," came the response.

"Will," Picard started, "See to it that our guests gets an apology and some quarters."

"Yes sir," Riker said.

"So we're on our way back to Earth?" John asked the black security guard who was escorting him to his temporary quarters.

"Yes sir," she responded. "We should arrive in approximately 83 hours."

"My boss is gonna chew me out for missing work."

"If you want, we can contact your work and apprise them of the situation."

John thought about that for a second. He was beginning to realize that he was going to have to tell someone about his predicament. The Earth they were returning to was twenty-fourth century Earth. Not quite where he wanted to be. He didn't think Lieutenant Derricks was the right person to tell however. "That's okay for now thanks," he said just as they stopped in front of a set of doors.

"These are your quarters sir," she said.

"Thanks," he replied. "Say," he shot after her as she started to walk away, "any idea when I'll get my gun back?"

"Your weapon will be returned to you before you leave the ship."

That was not the news he was hoping to hear. John hated to be without his gun. It was like the police officer's equivalent of a safety blanket. At least they were going to give it back to him at all. And anyway he doubted he'd need it before he left. If I leave, a small voice in the back of his head whispered ominously. There was always the possibility he was stuck here for good. A possibility he was not yet ready to dwell on.

The cabin that had been appointed to him was a standard Enterprise guest cabin from what he could recall from watching previous episodes. There was a bed, a computer desk with chair, a replicator, a bathroom, and a few other small accoutrements that could be found in moderately priced hotel rooms the galaxy over.

On the bed was a communicator pin that he had been told to put on, ostensibly so that they could keep in contact with him as he moved throughout the ship, but more likely so that they could track his movements.

He put it on just the same and then went to the replicator to have the dinner that had been so rudely interrupted earlier in the evening and in an alternate universe.

"Computer, may I have a hot cheese pizza with garlic, green pepper, mushroom and onions?"

There was a slight hum and within two seconds an amazing looking pizza had materialized before him.

Way better than a microwave, John thought to himself. He brought it over to the computer terminal and then went back for his beer.

"Computer, give me a Heineken."

"Please elaborate," the computer said pleasantly.

"Um, a beer," he tried again.

"Alcoholic beverages are not allowed on board active Starfleet vessels," the computer replied.

Damn, he had forgotten about that. And tonight of all nights he most definitely needed one. He sighed and said "fine just a diet Coke then," and realized the computer probably wouldn't know what that was either. Surprisingly however, a cool glass of diet Coke appeared a second later. Pleasantly surprised, he took the glass and took a sip. Refreshing as ever, he thought as he walked back to his pizza.

As he took a bite a thought came into his head.

"Computer," he said, this time addressing the terminal before him, "what information do you have on a twentieth century television show called Star Trek?"

"There are no files that match your search parameters."

Huh, John thought.
"What information do you have on a man named Gene Roddenberry from the twentieth century?"

"Working," the computer responded. Then a moment later, "there is one file that matches your search parameters."

"Let's see it," John said.

He took another bite of pizza as the information appeared on the screen.

'Eugene Wesley Roddenberry, born August 19th 1921- died April 28th 1942.'

This was interesting. John read on.

'Plane was shot down in the pacific theatre during World War II. Presumed dead, although no body was ever recovered.'

So that's why there's no Star Trek in this universe. Gene Roddenberry had died before he had ever had a chance to create the show.

John leaned back in his chair and yawned, his jaw cracking as he did so. The long day coupled with the pizza was conspiring to make him drowsy, and he started getting ready for bed. He still had to figure out how the hell he was going to get home, and whether anyone would actually believe his story in the first place.

But as his head hit the pillow, he decided such concerns could definitely wait for tomorrow.