Disclaimer: The author is making no political or moral statements in the writing of this story. The author is merely conforming to the confines of Charles Dickens's story and making those plot elements work in the setting of the Star Trek world.
Once again, thanks to the wonderful Tish for playing beta. And, of course, I don't own anything, nor make a profit.
In the fog Jon sat alone on the park bench, unsure if he was shivering out of cold, out of shock, or out of fear. At this point he really didn't care. He just wanted to be back in his apartment with a stiff drink in his hand trying to make sense of all that he had witnessed and all that he was feeling. His walls, now cracking, no longer held his history locked up and the regrets and recriminations of his past actions ran through his head.
He dragged his hands through his hair and scrubbed at his face. Surely he could make his way back to his apartment if he could find a reference point in all this murk. Looking up he noticed a dark figure coming towards him through the fog. "Excuse me, could you tell me where I am?" he called out to the person. The being continued to come closer but did not respond. As the last of the fog parted and as the person came to stand before him, Jon realized that he wasn't going to get any directions.
As the fog started to lift Jon studied the person before him. The creature was of average height, but that was all Archer could discern. It wore a heavy cloak of dark material with a subtle geometric design woven into the fabric. A sallow hand came out from one of the large sleeves and beckoned him up off the bench.
"Are you the ghost of Christmas Future?" he asked, his voice sounding odd in the fog. The apparition nodded once, never lowering the cowl that hid its face. "What? You aren't going to preach me a sermon like the last two 'ghosts'?" quipped Jon, trying to cover his anxiety over the strangeness of the evening so far and the disquiet the silent creature stirred in him. At least he had a passing knowledge of the last two spirits. This one was eerie and unknown.
The apparition beckoned again and inclined its head towards the road that was coalescing before them. "You want me to follow you?" asked Jon as he stood up, wiping his palms on his pajama bottoms. He figured he had nothing to lose at this point.
The specter nodded and started to slowly glide down the street. Jon walked a few paces catching up with it. He reached out and caught the being on the shoulder, turning it. "Aren't you going to speak to me at all? Aren't you supposed to be telling me about my sins and how I'm supposed to change?" asked Archer frustrated. His eyes tried to penetrate the darkness inside the hood but couldn't.
The ghoul just stood there waiting for Jon to finish speaking. When he did, the apparition turned and continued on without a word or a backwards glance. Jon stood there a moment trying to decide what to do. He glanced back towards the bench and the park but they were gone, not covered in fog, but as if deleted from a holodrama. Jon shuddered and hurried to catch up with the spirit. He may not understand what was going on around him but he knew he had to finish this out.
Shortly they stopped before a trio of men in Star Fleet uniforms. As the fog lifted Jon could see that they were standing in one of the many parks around Star Fleet headquarters. The men were speaking.
"I don't care if he was the Commandant himself. I still don't want to go. It's Christmas Day!" exclaimed the first man, flushed with anger.
"It's mandatory, and you know they'll take a record of who showed up and who didn't," replied the second man, resignation in his voice.
The third man scoffed and said, "Yeah, Mandatory Fun! It sure is mandatory and it sure won't be fun. At least we'll get fed afterwards."
The first man shook his head and said, "I suppose that is some comfort for having to show up to the old goat's memorial service. Even if he was an admiral. I'm sure it's the only way Star Fleet will get anyone to show up."
The trio paused for a moment and then the second man spoke up, his face jovial, "Ah, buck up. At least we don't have to go to the actual funeral. They're jettisoning the old boy out into deep space per his will. They had to order people to get enough warm bodies to fill out a proper funeral service since no one stepped forward. We missed that, and that's a blessing in and of itself!" he finished and slapped the other two men on their backs.
Jon stood staring at the trio and then turned suddenly to the spirit next to him. "Who is this they're talking about, Spirit?" asked Jon, indignation warring with worry in his voice. He had an inkling of where this was going and he didn't like it.
The spirit said nothing but stated to walk again, this time towards a set of apartment buildings that looked familiar. Once again Jon was forced to hurry to catch up. As he glanced back he could see the trio of men continuing to lambast this unknown and recently deceased admiral. As they neared the wall at the base of one of the apartment towers the spirit stopped and held out its arm, the sleeve of the robe dangling in front of Archer's face.
"This is the part where we're supposed to hold onto each other so I can float through the wall, isn't it," asked Jon.
The spirit nodded once and shook his arm again causing the robe sleeve to flap once more.
Jon looked at the sleeve and then peered at what he took for a face inside the hood. "You want me to hold onto the sleeve? What? Are you afraid of getting cooties or something?" he said harshly trying to bait the creature into speaking. When he got no response he huffed and took the sleeve offered to him.
The creature turned and glided through the wall, a scene coalescing around them. A dimly lit apartment stood before them. A lone bed stood towards the back of the large room, a desk off to the side still cluttered in work, large picture windows showing the skyline of San Francisco still shrouded in fog. The creature glided towards the bed where a figure lay still and covered from head to foot.
Archer joined him by the bedside and the apparition slowly raised its arm, pointing at the figure on the bed. "I see it. What is it you want me to do?" Jon asked, a note of panic in his voice. The apparition extended one sallow finger and pointed again at the bed and the figure before them. "No, I'm not disturbing the body," he stated emphatically. The spirit pointed one more time, its sleeve shaking with the force of the gesture.
As Jon opened his mouth to protest once more, the door whooshed open behind them, lights coming on, and several people in medical garb came into the room with a hover stretcher and several boxes. One man set the boxes down by the desk and started to methodically pack them with the papers and items on the desk. Apparently they were here to collect the body and the person's effects. Jon took a step back from the bed as the other two men came up and prepared to lift the corpse.
Bending down they took hold of the shrouded figure and heaved it up and plopped it unceremoniously onto the hover stretcher by the bed.
"I always hate this part, usually there is family present and moving the body always gets someone crying," said one man to the other.
The other man shrugged and straightened the body, covering it with an additional blanket. "Apparently the old man didn't have any family. He was found by the house keeper – not that he had much of a house to keep," he finished as he looked around the almost bare apartment. He punched a few buttons on the side of the stretcher and swung it towards the door. He tripped and looked down. "Hey, do you know if he had a dog? There's a bed here on the floor," he called out to the man packing the boxes.
The third man looked up from his work, having finished the desk and moved on to the dresser. "Nope, the housekeeper said there was one once, but not for years. The guy kept it for sentimental reasons. From what she said, that dog was the only creature he ever cared about."
"Hmph. Strange bird that one then," replied the first man as he started to ease the hover stretcher towards the door. "Oi," he called to the man with the boxes. "Do you need any help with the packing up?"
"Nope, you two finish with the bag and tag and I'll be along shortly. Star Fleet gave me a pretty short list of what they wanted kept and since there's no next of kin, the rest is going to the local charity shop," replied the other.
"Fair enough, see you back at the office. Hopefully there won't be any others and we can all knock off early and celebrate Christmas," the first said as they left with the shrouded body on the stretcher.
The room was empty save for the man with the boxes. When the apartment door whooshed closed the man looked up, a crafty expression on his face. "Alrighty old man, let's see what you had around here that I can pawn off and make myself a right Merry Christmas." He quickly moved to the dresser and rifled through it looking for knick knacks and personal items that might sell.
Jon stood spluttering next to the spirit in the corner of the room. "What?" he exclaimed, and turned to look at the spirit. "That's wrong! Shouldn't someone be notified? Doesn't anyone care at all about the deceased?"
The spirit slowly turned to look at Jon and raised its arms and shoulders in what was clearly meant to be a shrug. After a moment it held out its sleeve again waiting patiently for Jon to take hold once more. Resignedly Jon did as he was bid and the room faded from view and the pair reappeared in front of a familiar block of apartments in Star Fleet housing.
"Ah, at least I know this place. Why are we back here Spirit?" asked Jon although he feared he knew the answer. The spirit guided him through the wall and they stood once more inside the Cratchit's apartment.
The scene that met them could not have been more different than the one Jon had viewed with the Spirit of Christmas Present. There were boxes stacked around the room, some full, some in the act of being filled. Mrs. Cratchit stood at the table slowly folding a pile of clothing and setting them into the box. Her head was bowed and every so often she sniffed and wiped at her eyes. In the bedroom beyond he could see the Cratchit children working on clearing out their room, each with their own small box storing their meager possessions.
Jon quickly counted heads and came up short. He whirled and looked at the creature beside him. "Spirit, where is Tim? I don't see him with the others. Is he alright? What is going on?" he demanded.
The spirit merely remained silent beside him. Just then the apartment door whooshed open and in came Lt. Cratchit, alone and stoop shouldered. He walked up to the table and with a sigh set down the papers he was holding.
"It's done."
His wife merely nodded but kept her face down turned.
"It would have done you good to see it dear," he said gently as he came around a placed an arm tenderly around her shoulders.
"I want to remember him as he was, not as he is, alone and in a mausoleum somewhere. I don't understand why we couldn't bring his ashes with us," she said, her voice breaking as she turned away.
Bob Cratchit sighed deeply and replied, "Because of transport regulations. You know that, Caroline. And you know why we're leaving for the colonies. I will never, ever forget Tim, and I don't want to leave him here. But I can no longer work for the same organization…" he trailed off overcome with emotion. He inhaled deeply, then continued on, "…when there were no more funds from SF Relief…. that Star Fleet refused to try the new treatments that could have saved our Timmy." He looked down at the table and its small pile of clothes. He reached out and fingered the folded sweater that Tim had worn last Christmas and a small sad smile came to his lips. "Maybe out there, at our new home, we can have a fresh start." He reached for his wife and laid his hand gently on her slightly swollen stomach. She nodded, and choked back a sob. He enfolded her in his embrace as the children came out of the bedroom and surrounded their parents, enfolding them with embraces of their own, taking solace and comfort from each other.
Jon stood there, transfixed, tears silently running down his face. He hadn't expected this, neither the scene before him nor the emotions it evoked. He swallowed hard and turned to the spirit. "How could this have happened?" he choked out. "How could Star Fleet turn down their request for alternative treatment when it could have saved a life?" he demanded. Jon steadied himself and then said, "But isn't the future malleable? Daniels said that over and over again. Can't the future be changed so that this tragedy doesn't have to happen?" he asked.
The spirit turned to him and simply said nothing but it reached out an arm, exposing a sallow hand once more, and this time instead of holding out a sleeve in invitation it took a firm hold of Archer's upper arm and walked slowly towards the wall dragging a bewildered Archer behind him.
They passed through the wall and immediately appeared in the hold of a star ship. Two rows of people stood at attention resplendent in their dress uniforms unaware of the specter that dragged a protesting Archer with him down the center of the aisle.
"Spirit, why are we here? What could you possibly have to show me that I haven't already guessed?" Jon's voice rose in panic but the specter continued its slow march with him in tow. "The future can be changed! People can change," he swallowed hard and glanced towards the end of the aisle and saw an open tube lying on the floor of the hold ready to receive a body. Jon struggled and twisted in the vise like grip of the spirit but to no avail. His bare feet slid along the deck plating. "I can change! Please, give me that chance. Let me prove that I am not the person I once was!" he pleaded. "I will keep Christmas in my heart and be the person I ought to be… for my staff, for my crew, for me… I can be that person…" he trailed off as his feet hit the edge of the open torpedo casing on the deck.
Jon looked over at the open tube, its hinged lid hanging ready waiting to be closed, a name stenciled on it in gold.
Admiral Jonathon Archer.
Jon heard a child's giggle echoing throughout the bay, for a moment he looked around wildly, and then turned back to the spirit who held him fast.
"No! Please! Give me the chance! Let me change the future!" he said, breathless with horror.
The specter still held him firm by the arm, but reached up with its other hand and threw back his hood exposing his head for the first time.
Jon gasped in shock, "Soval, no…." as he gazed on the always impassive face before him.
With that Soval, the Spirit of Christmas Future, pushed Archer backwards, knocking him into the torpedo casing and slamming the lid shut engulfing Jon in utter darkness.