Chapter 10

"Captain's Starlog, supplemental. We've been inside the anomaly for . . . uh . . ."

Captain Kevin Bashir of the starship Hercules consulted his PADD to review his previous log entries and made some quick calculations.

He then continued, "We've been inside the anomaly for eighty-two days. Every attempt to escape has failed. Our food stores are next to nothing. Power's down to twelve percent. Life support's flickering across half of the ship."

Bashir took a deep breath and looked out the viewport in his dimly lit quarters. Instead of the pitch-blackness of space, he was greeted with the same current of white particles he'd grown accustomed to seeing for the past eighty-two days.

They hadn't been prepared for this. The maiden voyage of the Hercules had been meant to be only a quick two-month survey mission. Instead, it turned into a disaster.

Bashir had only himself to blame. He'd been too excited about all the possibilities his brand-new ship and her handpicked crew promised. He should have exercised more caution. He should have seen this coming—somehow—and ordered to turn the ship around at the slightest hint of trouble.

Although, Moira Ocampo—his Number One and Chief Science Officer—had repeatedly assured him that there was nothing they could've done. Everything had happened so fast that by the time they'd gotten enough sensor readings to figure out what they were dealing with, it had been too late.

Coming to Phylos had been a mistake.

"We've tried everything we could think of with no results," he continued in his log entry. "What we now need is a miracle."

Bashir ended the recording and headed for the Bridge.

Ocampo, alerted by the swooshing of the doors, tore her eyes away from her PADD and stood up from the command chair with a nod. She then wordlessly headed for the science station to continue doing whatever she was doing on the PADD. Bashir had to hand it to her: the woman was tenacious. She didn't seem to know when to quit—not even when everything seemed hopeless.

The same can't be said for the rest of the crew, Bashir noted as he sat in his chair and glanced around the dimly lit Bridge.

Everyone looked exhausted and stressed. Hope was a powerful thing, for sure, but after eighty-two days with no progress whatsoever, most of the crew was beginning to lose even that.

The captain's gaze fell upon Simon Nowak, his Chief Communications Officer, who sat hunched over his terminal, a receiver firmly pressed to his ear. He'd already tried sending a distress call on all possible frequencies countless times over. Long-range S-O-S across the frequency spectrum. Probes. Beacons.

Bashir didn't know what else they could do. Try a message in a bottle? He'd give the order in a heartbeat if he thought, even for a moment, that it would help.

Still, he knew that Nowak continued sending out a recorded distress call on an automated loop.

Try and try again.

What else could they do?

Maybe Forrest was right after all. They truly were on their own. Maybe, instead of keeping Forrest locked up, he should let him out and give him the go-ahead for that crazy idea of his. Bashir was pretty sure it would kill them all, but they'd all likely die in a matter of days anyway, so—

Bashir shook his head to free himself from the dark, pessimistic thoughts. The crew morale was already in the toilet; there was no need to press the flush button.

He had to remain strong for the sake of his crew.

He took a breath and drew himself up, just as Nowak turned towards him, exclaiming: "Captain!"

The urgent and excited nature of his tone prompted Bashir to rise to his feet and walk over to the communications station.

"Yes, lieutenant?"

"Someone's responding to our distress call!"

Bashir's heart skipped a beat. This was the best news he'd heard in weeks!

Nowak's nervous excitement was contagious, and out of the corner of his eye, Bashir saw that everyone on the Bridge perked up.

"Can you put it up?"

Nowak nodded and hurried to execute the order, but second after second went by without any image on the screen.

When seconds began stretching into minutes, Bashir said impatiently, "Is there a problem, lieutenant?"

"N-no, sir. I—I'm not sure what's wrong . . ." Nowak stammered. "Oh!"

The screen suddenly came to life, revealing the image of a young man with jet-black, messy hair.

"This is Harry Potter of the Starfleet cadetship A-259," said the young man. "Who am I speaking with?"

"Hold on, hold on," said Bashir for the umpteenth time in the past hour.

He felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He wasn't normally susceptible to headaches, but when they did come, they were cyclones of pain that rocked his body.

He took a deep breath, eyeing all the people—his senior officers and the four newcomers from the Starfleet cadetship A-259—gathered around the display table in their small situation room. Feelings of slight claustrophobia certainly weren't helping his headache.

"So," Bashir said slowly, eyeing the cadets, "we're a century in the future or you're a century in the past?"

"The former, I think," said the Andorian, Shev. "Although I can't be absolutely sure."

"This is a joke, right?" Forrest asked disbelievingly.

Bashir had him released from the brig for this meeting. Attempted mutiny notwithstanding, Forrest was still their Chief Engineer. He knew the Hercules' insides better than anyone. For now, Bashir had to put aside whatever personal issues he had with Forrest and focus on getting them out of the anomaly. With the new information from these cadets, they might do just that.

Hopefully.

"We wouldn't joke about temporal displacement," said Potter. "It's not funny."

As he said the words, he looked at Granger. She, with permission, was currently fiddling with the controls for the display table and analyzing data, then comparing it to whatever information she'd brought with her from their ship on a PADD. At Potter's comment, as if drawn by a magnet, she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze.

"That at least explains why you have an Andorian and a . . ." Ocampo, who stood over Granger's shoulder, monitoring her progress and answering whatever questions the younger woman had, trailed off and looked at the fourth member of the cadetship's crew.

"I'm a Caitian," supplied Krell.

"Thank you," said Ocampo. "That explains why there's an Andorian and a Caitian on your crew."

Right. The Federation. The entity founded in 2161, nearly two years after they'd departed for their maiden voyage. A whole century ago, apparently.

Damn temporal anomaly.

How was it that they hadn't been able to figure out the nature of this anomaly in eighty-two days? Was it lacking in their technology or their training?

Although, to be fair, his crew's experience inside the anomaly had been very different from the one the cadets had. Ocampo said it had something to do with the concentration of gravitational eddies in their vicinity, as opposed to temporal ones.

"You can still get us out of this, right?" asked Bashir, hopeful. "I know your ship is much, much smaller, but you have more advanced tech. There's gotta be something you can do. Tugboat us through the anomaly or whatever?"

"If this were normal space—maybe," said Shev, throwing a glance at Potter and Granger. "But we're not in normal space."

"We've been caught up in temporal eddies," added Krell, "and carried to the center of the vortex where we found you. We can barely maneuver while inside this anomaly."

"So we're still trapped," said Bashir, "only now we're trapped with a bunch of students lost on their field trip. Perfect."

Bashir stepped away from the display table and rubbed his forehead. He didn't mean for his last comment to be so snide, but this damn headache seemed to be getting worse and making him moodier.

"Hermione," said Potter, "you've been awfully quiet."

"Just thinking," Granger replied.

"Care to share with the group?" asked Shev.

Bashir turned to see Granger tap something on her PADD, then pull up a map of the Phylos system.

"This entire system," she said, pointing at it, "was quarantined due to a temporal maelstrom with continually shifting linear viscidity caused by dark matter ripples and relative gravitational degradation."

Bashir glanced at the people in the room; most were quietly considering Granger's words, but a few looked lost.

"Wanna throw in a metaphor, maybe?" he said.

"Time quicksand. It was previously theorized that any struggle to escape would likely only make time pass faster within the anomaly, but it looks like he might have made a mistake." Furrowing her brow, Granger furiously tapped away at her PADD. "It's the opposite. The more you try to escape, the slower time passes."

"Like a time dilation field?" asked Krell.

"Exactly."

"Wait a minute," said Ocampo. "Who made a mistake? Who theorized this?"

Granger waved her off. "It doesn't matter. The thing is, we didn't know where we were and exactly what we were dealing with until we found you."

"Yeah," cut in Potter, "we previously were nowhere near Phylos system."

"So how did we end up here then?" asked Shev.

"My guess would be," replied Granger, "that the battle of Amerisis and Nagilum formed a tear in space-time."

"The subspace sinkhole!" put in Krell.

Granger nodded, something in her expression shifting.

"I know that look," said Potter, giving Granger a look of his own.

"I don't," cut in Bashir sharply, staring at Granger across the display table. "What are you thinking?"

Granger met Bashir's eyes but didn't speak for a long moment, her bright eyes glazing over as if she were deep in thought.

"You have an idea on how to get us out, don't you?" prompted Bashir impatiently, when the silence stretched on.

He put his hands up to his brow to try to stop the relentless pounding in his head.

Just breathe, he told himself, pressing his fingertips to each of his temples.

"Maybe," Granger said. "But it's mad."

"Well, let's hear it."

"Scotty," she said, somewhat in a daze, her mind clearly working hard.

This look, Bashir recognized: Ocampo often got it when she was confronted with a particularly difficult puzzle to solve.

"Sorry?" asked Potter.

"Do you remember what Scotty did to stop the Enterprise from getting sucked into a black hole?"

"Yeah," Potter said slowly, recognition dawning on his face. "But if you recall, the Enterprise barely made it out in one piece. I doubt we could pull that off here. This ship's systems are a hundred years older than the Enterprise's. She's technologically inferior in every way."

Bashir felt indignation flare up inside him. As far as he was concerned, his ship was brand new!

"Don't listen to him, baby," he said, dramatically patting the nearest wall of the ship. "You're still the best in my book."

Potter's expression turned apologetic. "No offence, sir."

Bashir merely waved him off.

"I don't think she'll withstand the forces," continued Potter, turning back to Granger. "She's got polarized hull plating instead of shields and the deflector—"

"I am aware, Harry," said Granger. "I've got some ideas on how to handle that part."

"Back up for a moment," cut in Bashir. "What exactly are you proposing?"

Jack Forrest liked fixing things. He was very good at it, too.

Some of his earliest memories included fixing his older brother's toy car, his sister's toy pony. Then there was his family's antique grandfather clock, his uncle's accordion, his mother's kitchen appliances.

"You have a gift," his mother used to tell him, a fond smile on her face.

"An obsession," his best friend Ruth had joked, teasing him every time he saw something broken and came up with ways to not only fix it but also make improvements.

Joke or not, Forrest often wondered whether Ruth might have been right. Because when he saw something broken, he couldn't just damn well leave it alone. He had to at least try fixing it. More often than not, he succeeded.

Not this time, though.

But then again, incompetence might not be something easily fixed.

There was only so much a Chief Engineer could do without the captain's approval. And his captain had disapproved of Forrest's plan. Vehemently. And Forrest felt he'd had no choice but to respond, for the sake of the crew—also vehemently.

Even if it had landed him in the brig.

Forrest's mother had often told him that he needed to work harder to soften his heart and to forgive. But it was always easier said than done. Even now, being in the same room as Bashir, it was so hard to not feel anger towards him, to not want to begin yelling at him.

At least, Forrest had enough sense and maturity to recognize that it wouldn't help the situation any. (Bashir was so stubborn that not even the attempted mutiny swayed his decision.)

But these four cadets currently standing around the display table in their situation room just might—especially Granger and Potter. There was something about the two of them . . .

Something he couldn't put his finger on.

Although Forrest had to admit that what Granger was currently proposing was indeed mad.

"Whoa!" The Androrian, scandalized, leaned across the display table towards Granger. "You want to do what?!"

"Blow up your ship, apparently," Forrest said, crossing his arms.

"Look, based on the things Commander Ocampo told me you've tried, I surmise that individual pulses only accelerate energy loss," Granger said calmly, tapping away on her PADD. "Because this time quicksand is not only made of temporal eddies but also gravitational ones. A controlled, focused warp core detonation could theoretically produce a gravitational wave large enough for the Hercules to 'sail' beyond the anomaly."

Bashir looked at her questioningly.

But it was Potter who stepped in with a metaphor this time: "We're going to blow up a bomb in the time quicksand and try to surf the splash out."

"That's right," agreed Granger.

"Thanks," said Bashir.

"And this so-called 'Scotty maneuver'," began Forrest.

"It's not really called that," said Potter. "It's what Hermione and I call it."

"In any case," continued Forrest, "did it really help escape a black hole?"

Granger nodded. "It did."

"Well then," said Ocampo, "I say we try it. Everything else we've done so far hasn't worked. What do we have to lose?"

"And what about my idea?" asked Forrest, deliberately not looking at Bashir.

Granger looked up to meet his gaze. "According to my assessment, your suggestion of a controlled torpedo detonation would have only accelerated the drain on your power reserves, killing everyone aboard this ship that much faster."

She tapped something on her PADD and began walking towards him. "As I said, the gravitational wave needs to be large enough to push the Hercules out of the anomaly—and the torpedo detonation wouldn't have been enough.

"Would you like to have a look for yourself?" she asked, holding the PADD out to him.

Forrest took the PADD and began reviewing Granger's calculations. She was nothing if not thorough. Some of the equations and terminology she used, he wasn't even familiar with. Forrest wondered, briefly, just how much had changed in a hundred years.

As he reviewed the data, his anger towards his captain diminished. Forrest thought that Bashir had rejected his idea because of pride. Because of stubbornness and stupidity. Because he wasn't willing to risk his life to save the crew.

But as it turned out, Forrest might have misjudged him. Bashir's stubbornness might have saved their lives.

Or just delayed our deaths, Forrest thought darkly. He still wasn't entirely convinced Granger's plan would work. But they didn't really have another option.

"This warp core explosion," Nowak began hesitantly, interrupting the heavy silence that settled in the room, "are you sure it won't destroy us or shoot us into an alternate universe or something?"

Granger contemplated his question for a moment. "Given the nature of this anomaly, both are theoretical possibilities. But this seems to be our only serviceable option."

"Do it then," Bashir agreed. "And better hurry. We're running out of time."

"You said you had ideas on how to address the lacking in our technology?" asked Ocampo. "To make sure we stand a better chance of escaping alive?"

Granger nodded and turned to Forrest. "Chief Forrest, Commander Ocampo told me you have circumvented fail-safes to keep key systems running below operational minimums?"

"It was either that or freeze to death," said Forrest. "Why?"

"We'll need to perform several unorthodox modifications to this ship, and no one knows her better than you. Isn't that right?"

For the first time in eighty-two days, Forrest cracked a smile. "Unorthodox modifications are my speciality."

"We have to tell them," said Potter, drawing Granger's attention.

"I know," replied Granger. "We'll have only one go at this, and we'll need to make it count."

"What are you talking about now?" asked Bashir, looking lost.

"Tell me, Captain Bashir," said Potter, "do you believe in magic?"

Forrest looked up from realigning inertial dampening generators at Granger and Potter. The two cadets had set up a worktable in Engineering and were working on modifying a shield generator they'd taken off their ship. Currently, the device was in bits and pieces strewn about the table. Several PADDs, as well as paper books, also occupied the surface, and the cadets occasionally consulted them in between waving their wands at various parts, and then replacing them to assemble the device.

When Potter had first mentioned magic, the thing that came to Forrest's mind was a card trick, or pulling a rabbit out of a hat—neither of which would be of any help in escaping the anomaly. But it had quickly become clear that it wasn't what Potter meant.

As it turned out, it meant 'magical' shields, erected with nothing but a wave of a wand. It meant runes, used to slow down the energy drain on the Hercules' systems. It meant some other magic mumbo jumbo that Forrest had a hard time keeping up with.

Actually, forget keeping up with. Initially, Forest had had to pinch himself a few times to make sure he wasn't in the middle of some bizarre dream. (He'd even turned to Dr. Nguewa to have her confirm that he wasn't hallucinating.)

For him, it was totally out there. This type of magic wasn't something he'd ever heard of, but he couldn't argue with the results.

Although he had tried scanning Potter and Granger surreptitiously with a tricorder at one point, to see if there was some kind of hidden technology that they used and called it magic. After all, didn't Arthur C. Clark say that any sufficiently advanced technology was indistinguishable from magic?

Well, Forrest hadn't been able to detect any advanced technology. He had, however, picked up on an unfamiliar energy signature. Magic? Maybe. Maybe not.

In any case, Forrest decided to let it go—at least for now—and take it on faith.

What was it his mother used to say?

Faith is the proof of things unseen.

A lump began to build in his throat at the thought of his mother, and he fought the tears burning his eyes. If what the cadets had said was true, then she'd been long gone. His father, his brother and his sister, too. His aunts and uncles and cousins. Ruth and their little group of friends. Everyone.

Everyone.

Even if, by some miracle, they managed to escape the anomaly and get home—which was still a big if, as far as Forrest was concerned—it'd be like going to a whole new planet.

Forrest found it difficult to wrap his head around it all. It had only been eighty-two days for them inside the anomaly, but an entire century had passed in the outside world. Of course, he'd heard of anomalies like this before (or at least, the possibilities of them), but actually being inside one . . . That was something else.

A lot had changed in a hundred years, according to the cadets.

Earth had a big-time space school now—Starfleet Academy—and it had been founded in no small part by Forrest's father. He'd apparently been convinced that the Hercules' disappearance was due to the crew's lack of proper training.

Dad always was a stickler for order, thought Forrest, his lips stretching into a small smile. Makes sense he'd get everyone to see things his way.

Then there was the Federation. When the Hercules had set out on her maiden voyage, a union like that had been only a dream. It was now, apparently, a reality that span nearly eight thousand light years and was comprised of over one hundred and fifty worlds.

Vulcan—one of the founding members of the Federation—was no more. Forrest hadn't had many opportunities to interact with Vulcans; he'd always thought them to be rather standoffish and arrogant. Cold even. But, man, to lose a home planet like that and become an endangered species . . . Forrest couldn't even imagine what that must be like.

It was all surreal.

Emotions threatened to overwhelm him, and Forrest gave his head a shake, reminding himself to focus on his task. But his attention was drawn to the two cadets once more.

Granger and Potter seemed to have encountered a problem of sorts, and slipped into what must have been a familiar way of tackling it.

It was something else to watch them—he'd taken a note of it earlier, too. They bounced ideas off each other, finished each other's sentences, and pointed out the details that the other overlooked. And every so often, they seemed to understand each other even without having to speak.

"Are you two always like this?" Bashir had asked them earlier, when they were making a list of all the parts they'd planned to scavenge from their ship in order to modify the Hercules.

"Yep, pretty much," Shev had confirmed. "Now imagine being stuck with them in our small ship all those days as we tried to find a way out."

"I don't want to," Bashir had said, before leaving the situation room in search of something useful to do.

The doors to the Engineering swooshed open, and Bashir walked it.

Speak of the devil, Forrest thought, finishing up his task.

Since the arrival of the cadets, Forrest's relationship with the captain improved. Forrest admitted his mistake and apologized, and Bashir wanted to put the whole attempted mutiny behind them. He even promised not to press any charges once they managed to escape the anomaly.

The captain seemed to assume that the crew and the cadets would succeed. Forrest, despite his doubts, allowed himself a smidge of hope. He told himself that if he kept his expectations low, he wouldn't be too disappointed if—

Granger and Potter let out a cheer and high-fived each other.

"I take it things are going well?" Bashir asked, eyeing the partially assembled shield generator as he approached the cadets.

"They are," Potter confirmed. "We should finish within the hour. Right, Hermione?"

"Right," she confirmed.

"Excellent. Ocampo just reported that the deflector array is ready to go."

Bashir turned to Forrest. "What's your status, chief?"

"Inertial dampening generators are realigned," reported Forrest. "I'm about to get started on the warp core."

"Good, good," said Bashir, glancing around the busy Engineering and all the people occupied with various tasks.

"Something on your mind, captain?" asked Potter.

Bashir took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Just something your fellow cadet, Shev, mentioned earlier. That we—as in the crew of the Hercules—might not be the only ones to end up time-displaced once we escape the anomaly."

He crossed his arms. "Is it true? That we might end up some time different from when you came from?"

Granger and Potter exchanged a look; there was something painful in it.

Then Potter nodded. "It's true."

"Why don't we focus on the task at hand," suggested Granger, "and cross that bridge when we get there?"

Then she flashed a smile; it looked forced. "One impossible thing at a time."

The lights in Engineering flickered and went out, before coming back on again seconds later.

"That's our cue to pick up the pace," said Forrest. "We're almost out of time."

As everyone returned to their tasks, Forrest couldn't help but notice that both Potter and Granger looked somewhat subdued as they continued their work. Bashir's question seemed to bring up something they'd been trying to ignore.

It seemed almost certain that the crew of the Hercules would be time-displaced one way or another. But Forrest hoped that the cadets, at least, wouldn't have to share their fate.

"Sixty seconds to detonation!" Ocampo yelled over the tactical alert klaxon, just as Potter literally popped back on the Bridge of the Hercules.

He'd taken it upon himself to execute the final step in their escape plan: go over to the cadetship to disable the warp core containment protocols, and then immediately haul ass out of there.

"Everybody, hold on to something!" said Bashir. "And say any prayers you've got."

Jack Forrest wasn't a religious person, but his mother was. He'd overheard her quiet prayers many times, asking God's angels to look after her children and keep them safe. He didn't even know any prayers, apart from Hail Mary—his mother's favourite.

Ha! Forrest thought, a bit hysterically. This certainly is a Hail Mary pass.

As Ocampo counted out the final few seconds, Forrest's mind drew a blank on the words of the prayer. All he could think was: Please. Please, let this work. Please.

Ocampo completed the countdown.

For one moment, an isolated corner of space flared with a light more brilliant than that of a star. Matter and antimatter came together in a fiery outburst that would have delighted physicists, had any of those currently on board been in a state of mind to carry out standard scientific observations. At the moment, everyone was more concerned with escaping the anomaly alive.

The Hercules shuddered as the shockwave reached them. Forrest scrambled to maintain stability as artificial gravity flickered. The already-dim lights struggled to remain on, and the temperature began rising. Several EPS conduits exploded, prompting the fire suppression protocols to activate. Smoke filled the Bridge. The sound of rending metal screeched through the air, and the ship shook violently, threatening to fall apart. Multiple cracks spread through the walls and the ceiling.

Someone screamed in pain. Smoke filled Forrest's lungs and burned his eyes, and around him, people were coughing and shouting reports over the cacophony of sirens and the chaos of sounds.

Forrest had no idea how long it lasted. At one point, he was sure they'd all die.

Finally, the ship ceased trembling. The lights briefly went out, then came back on moments later, a little brighter.

Forrest looked up from the Engineering terminal to see Potter and Granger waving their wands, somehow making the smoke disappear. A couple of crew members were rushed to the infirmary.

"Most of my instrumentation is down," said Ocampo, her voice hoarse from smoke and coughing, "but we are not losing power anymore. We are at five percent and holding."

"Guys, look!" exclaimed Nowak, pointing at the viewscreen.

The white, fog-like substance they saw every time they looked out one of the viewports, was no longer there.

"Are we out of the anomaly?" asked Bashir.

Ocampo consulted her instrumentation—or at least, whatever was still working.

"I believe so, sir," she said, her face breaking into a smile.

Several people heaved a sigh of relief. Bashir rose from his chair and turned to look at everyone currently on the Bridge.

"Heck of a maiden voyage, eh?" he said, grinning.

Small, relieved chuckles resounded throughout the Bridge, and Potter and Granger exchanged a hug.

And all that went through Forrest's mind was: Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.

The Hercules, albeit severely damaged, was indeed out of the anomaly. The crew worked tirelessly to repair their key systems with the limited power and resources they had left. The crew morale was high, despite the uncertainty of when they currently were.

It doesn't matter, Bashir told himself, glancing at the Bridge still strewn with mangled rubble and disembowelled panelling. We're alive.

His crew was alive. And that was what mattered the most.

"Captain!" Nowak exclaimed, turning towards him with a wide grin. "We're being hailed!"

Bashir all but jumped out of his seat.

"But . . . um . . ." Nowak trailed off guiltily as he turned back to his station. "I'm not sure how to—"

"Will you allow me?" requested Krell.

She'd been working with Nowak to repair their comms, and Bashir observed that she was quite good at what she did.

At Nowak's nod, she took over the communications station.

"Assuming that we are back to our normal time," said Krell, "some of the equipment and technology on this ship would be pretty much obsolete—hence the communications problems. We had the same issue before, when we first found you. I have to re-modulate our signal to match their interlink frequency and adjust the encryption protocols. Give me a few minutes."

Everyone waited with bated breath as she worked, and Bashir had to stop himself from pacing.

"Go ahead, captain," Krell said finally, finishing her work. "Channel open. Audio only—because of all the damage we sustained."

Bashir gave her a nod and took a deep breath before saying, "This is Captain Kevin Bashir of the starship Hercules."

There was a pause, and then someone replied: "Hercules? Did you say Hercules?"

Bashir couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face. "Yes, I did."

Another pause, and then: "This is Captain Frank Abbott of the USS Bradbury. Welcome back, Hercules!"

"Thank you, Bradbury! It's good to be back."

"I'm sure it's a helluva story. But for now, how can we be of assistance?"

"Well, for starters, could you tell us the current date?"