Part Four
The name was familiar. Eerily familiar.
Natasha racked her brain trying to put the face and the name together. And then it clicked.
"Ah," Rasmussen called out, pointing at her look of recognition with glee, "My reputation precedes me with this one—! Wait. You're not with Starfleet, are you?"
He eyed Natasha suspiciously, but she shook her head.
"Ah!" Rasmussen called out again, "Even better!"
The other Bounty crew members looked at the human woman, intrigued.
"You know him?" Klath grunted.
"Not exactly. I remember him from a Federation news report. He's a…con artist."
"We really do meet a lot of them, don't we?" Sunek quipped.
"And I resent that label," Rasmussen countered with a slightly hurt pout, "What I am is a poor, unfortunate soul, trapped out of his own time."
"Hey," Sunek jumped in again, gesturing to the lanky human's attire, "You never know, that kinda thing might come back into fashion one day—"
"He means literally, Sunek," Natasha sighed.
"I don't understand," Denella sighed, losing count of how often she had said that particular phrase just recently.
"He's a failed inventor from the 22nd century, who managed to steal a time machine from a 26th century traveller and planned to go jumping through history, stealing technology and gadgets to pass off as his own back home. Except, even on his first trip, he got too greedy."
Rasmussen's friendly face twitched slightly at this unerringly accurate summary. But he hadn't gotten this far in life by accepting what other people said about him.
"That's one way of looking at it," he conceded, "The other would be that I was merely availing myself of all that time travel had to offer having been given a unique opportunity to explore, and was then forcibly stranded in the 24th century by a Starfleet captain operating as judge and jury in his own private moral court—!"
He stopped himself as his tone grew a little more angry than he'd been intending.
"Oopsie," he offered with a slightly sheepish smile, "I sometimes get a little carried away. But that's what happens when you're illegally detained, I suppose."
"There was nothing illegal about it," Natasha retorted, finding herself still defending Starfleet despite having left it behind her, "What was illegal was what you were planning to do to the timeline."
"Ugh," Rasmussen tutted, "Starfleet, ex-Starfleet, they're all the same. No sense of fun. Slap a bald cap on her and she'd be the spit of—"
"And besides," Natasha continued, her righteous indignation in unstoppable flow, "Speaking of incarceration, I thought you'd been sent to a Federation penal colony? For temporal theft."
"Psh. 'Temporal theft'! What a curious little charge. And, as for my new-found freedom, it really is incredible how forgiving your Federation justice system can be after a bit of good behaviour."
Natasha considered this eminently plausible explanation. It was fair to say that the Federation favoured rehabilitation over extended punishment in most cases, though she couldn't quite shake the idea that this wasn't the full story.
"Still," Rasmussen continued, his friendly smile back in place, "Bygones and all that. As I said, thanks to you, I'm going to be going home very soon."
"But," Denella jumped in, her tired brain still struggling to keep up, "If your home is the 22nd century, then how…?"
Rasmussen glanced over at Brooks with a gleeful smile, nodding in the direction of the crate that the Bounty's crew had lugged all the way to Vandor IV.
"Can we show them?"
"I don't see why not," the scientist sighed patiently, "You're clearly not going to stop going on about it unless we do."
With that affirmation, Rasmussen nearly skipped over to the crate and tapped a control button. The front of the crate began to open, parting to reveal the contents.
"So," Natasha said, glaring at Brooks, "I'm guessing it's not a bunch of spare parts and duridium sheets after all."
"As I'm sure you had figured out, Ms Kinsen," Brooks replied, his tone now sounding more aloof and haughty than before, "Alas, I didn't quite have enough time to make the sensor-masking readings perfect. But then, as a wise man once said, perfection is overrated."
"Ugh," Rasmussen muttered, "Here come the Cardassian art critiques again…"
"The important thing was," Brooks concluded, "It was enough to fool the Verillians. And you."
Natasha scowled slightly at that comment, as the crate continued to open. Finally revealing what was inside.
"Behold!" Rasmussen called out with a flourish, as the ambient light of the storage bay illuminated the interior.
Staring back at them was what looked like a small shuttlepod-type craft. A slightly stubby design, with an angular, honeycomb-style structure to the hull.
"Huh," Sunek called out with inevitable and heavy sarcasm, "Well, that looks kinda crappy. Kinda really crappy."
It was true that, as grand reveals went, it wasn't exactly the grandest. But Natasha recognised the design immediately, from the Federation news reports.
"But…I don't understand," she said to Rasmussen, "Your—The time pod you arrived in went back through time without you."
"Yes, it did," Brooks responded, stepping in with a mildly pompous explanation,"But not before your diligent Starfleet crew took down all of its details. Sensor sweeps, tricorder scans, physical images. All stored away in the USS Enterprise's computer core."
He began to pace around the bay, as if he'd waited a while to give an audience this explanation.
"Of course, it's not easy for a civilian to gain access to such information, But, after that particular ship crash-landed, the computer core was one of the items that was salvaged intact. A prize of the utmost importance, given how many discoveries they made."
He mustered a smile as he turned on his heels back to the Bounty's crew.
"Copies of the core were even made, and distributed throughout the Federation, for research teams to use as a reference point. And, after the war, with resources at a premium, it's not always easy for Starfleet to make sure they're all being…securely looked after."
"But," Rasmussen picked up eagerly, "Even when we had the plans, we still needed someone to build it. And that's where my colleague hit on the delightful idea of the Verillians."
"An insular species, but a technically gifted one," Brooks pointed out, "It didn't take long to find a ship builder to do the work, no questions asked. And with so little passing traffic through that system, there was little risk of them being disturbed."
"Apart from with Verillian Security, apparently," Denella pointed out, beginning to get an unerringly familiar feeling that she'd been suckered.
"Believe it or not," Brooks replied, "That actually was for unpaid storage fees."
"Yeah," Natasha snorted, "And they got Al Capone for his taxes."
Brooks didn't get that reference, and a flash of irritation crossed his face when the same comment provoked a knowing chuckle from Rasmussen. He didn't like being the one struggling to follow the conversation.
"So, wait," Sunek piped up, pointing at the vessel inside the crate, "You're telling me this dumb little ship that looks like a cheap holosuite prop is…a time machine?"
Rasmussen and Brooks shared a glance.
"Well," Brooks replied after a moment, "Not yet."
"Every ship needs a power source," Rasmussen added with a shrug, gesturing to the other man, "Which is what brought me to this fine young gentleman in the first place."
The penny dropped in Natasha's head.
"The chronitons," she whispered, "You're using the chronitons."
"Yes, we are," Rasmussen beamed, "Or, to be precise, we will be. In…good time."
He chuckled at his own weak joke, even as Brooks took his chance to strike.
With the Bounty's crew all now standing in front of him, and with Klath furthest away of them all, he had more than enough time to execute his rather rudimentary plan.
In an instant, he pulled a tiny phaser out of his pocket and fired. The wide angle stun setting shrouded all four victims of the attack in a reddish glow.
He had been forced to take a calculated risk with the setting he was using. He knew he needed the shot to be strong enough to suppress all four different species, while also not being too strong to cause any permanent damage in any of them.
Fortunately, although both Klath and Denella were able to take a couple of staggered steps towards him when they saw him strike, all four quickly succumbed to the effects of the stop, collapsing to the ground one by one.
As the Klingon warrior finally slumped to the ground with a growl, joining his colleagues in unconsciousness, Brooks looked down at his handiwork with some satisfaction.
Alongside him, Rasmussen tutted and gestured to the phaser.
"You know," he offered, "That was a bit tacky…"
'*'*'
'*'*'
Now riding solo, with a horse that had already spent a long day toiling outside in the heat, Jirel's pace was no longer a frantic gallop.
Even though he had a genuine reason to hurry, to get help to the father he had left behind, he knew it was best to stop the animal from tiring. And so, he was moving a little more than a fast trot. Which was giving him time to think.
As the horse patiently negotiated its way across the plains, towards the narrow stream it had forded earlier and the Jenner homestead beyond, the Trill on its back was silently ruminating on everything that had happened.
And he wasn't limiting that ruminating merely to what had happened today, culminating in the ferocious argument full of home truths that had just erupted. The one that had caused him to abandon his father further up the pass.
He was also thinking about the wider context of his situation. Still trying to piece together everything that had led him here.
He thought back to his miserable time on Mivara II, and again considered the mysterious way in which he had been rescued from a beating that would likely have killed him, and transported to a Federation colony.
He thought about the fateful trip to Sector 374 with the Bounty. The feeling of shock when he had seen Maya Ortega getting shot. And the anger that had compelled him to retaliate by shooting Grenk, the Ferengi who had killed her.
He thought about his time on the Bounty, before it had been soured by all of that. About the friends he had made and the relationships he had developed.
He even thought back to his early life. Growing up back here on Earth, with his mother and his often-absent father.
And somehow, everything that had happened to him, every experience he had been through, had led him back here again. And led him to abandon his father in the middle of the Colorado wilderness.
As he rode on, one part of his recent past began to bubble to the forefront of his mind. As much as he tried to suppress it.
He looked down at the animal underneath him, and recalled the trip to Nimbus III last year, when he had ridden a Nimbosian horse. And he recalled how one person had managed to influence his actions back on the Planet of Galactic Peace. To convince him not to take the latinum and run, but to try and help a few of the people on Nimbus III.
How she had been able to convince him to do the right thing.
And he had done the right thing. He had elected to give up any riches promised by selling the stable source of water they had lucked into, and had instead given it to the local Nimbosians for free.
That wasn't the only time she'd convinced him to follow his conscience. Ever since she had first joined the Bounty's crew, she had an unerring way of getting him to do the right thing, even when he might not have wanted to.
And, even though he had no idea where she was right now, she was somehow still doing it. Inside his head, he could picture her expression if she was here.
Because right now, he was definitely not doing the right thing.
True, he was now closer to the homestead than he was to his father. And the fastest way to get him some help would be to ride on and summon a shuttle. But that wasn't really the point. And deep down, he knew it.
His father's injury wasn't in any way life threatening. The speed of the rescue wasn't the issue. It wasn't even really about helping him. It was about the way that he helped him.
That was what Natasha's disappointed expression was telling him, even from thousands of light years away.
With a grimace of reluctance, he broke free of his thoughts and gently pulled back on the reins.
"Bet he doesn't thank me for this," he muttered to himself.
'*'*'
'*'*'
Admiral Bryce Jenner hobbled onwards, awkwardly propped up by his newly-acquired improvised crutch.
He had located the tree branch a short distance from where Jirel had left him, and he was now employing it to take the weight of his broken ankle.
Even with the use of the branch, his progress had been slow. But that didn't really matter to him. He may have been left behind, with nothing to do but helplessly wait for rescue to come his way, but that wasn't how he operated.
So, despite the fact that whatever rescue Hesk was able to send would be with him well before he made his own way home, he was still grimly hobbling on.
As he paused to catch his breath, he took a moment to wonder whether this was how it was all supposed to have played out. If he could have done more to reconnect with his son.
If he'd been given more to go on, he might've done a better job. But he knew very well that he'd been given all he could have been.
As he paused for a moment to catch his breath, he heard the unmistakable sound of hooves approaching. He looked up through the setting sun as Jirel brought his horse to a stop and dismounted with practised ease.
"I thought I told you to stay put and wait for help," the Trill offered with a slightly severe glare.
"You really think you're ever gonna be in a position to give me orders?" the defiant and decorated admiral fired back.
Jirel sighed and shook his head, before stepping towards the older man.
"Fine. If you're gonna insist on being this stupid, at least let me help you."
Jenner immediately tried to wave him off by swinging his improvised crutch in his son's general direction.
"I don't need you," he grouched, "I can do this on my own."
His words sounded determined, but the extra wince that crossed his face as his injured ankle made brief contact with the ground rather gave the game away.
Still, Jirel found himself deciding to indulge the older man's ego.
"I know you can," he replied with a sliver of a smile, "But how about you just humour me and pretend I'm helping, hmm?"
He took another step forwards, half expecting another swipe from the crutch. But instead, Jenner merely grumpily nodded and allowed his weight to rest on Jirel's shoulder once again.
The Trill grabbed the horse's reins with his other hand, and once again the motley convoy moved off in the direction of home.
"You said you were leaving," Jenner couldn't help but offer to his son between slow and painful footsteps.
"And you said you'd lost weight," Jirel grunted in reply.
'*'*'
'*'*'
Slowly but surely, Natasha regained consciousness.
She sat bolt upright and looked around, and was taken aback by what she could see.
Since joining the Bounty's crew, she had become grimly accustomed to being knocked out, or held at gunpoint, or otherwise incarcerated. She was already starting to lose count of the number of holding cells she had been inside.
But this was nothing like that.
She was lying on a comfortable, well-made bed inside a clean, antiseptic room. The walls, ceiling and the softly carpeted floor were all a brilliant white.
The bed itself was virtually the only adornment inside the room, save for a small table and chair on the opposite side of the room, and an open gap in the wall that seemed to serve as a permanently open doorway.
Having checked herself over and found no sign of injury from the stun shot, she clambered off the bed and walked over to the table. On it, she was surprised to find a plate. On which sat the unmistakable form of a freshly replicated double cheeseburger (with all the trimmings), and a tall glass of water.
Regardless of how long she may have been out for, she was undeniably thirsty. And hungry, for that matter. But she was unwilling to simply start consuming the suspiciously perfect repast that had been laid out for her, likely by the same person that had so recently shot her.
Instead, she left the tantalisingly delicious scent of the meal behind and walked over to the open doorway. As she approached, she expected to see the tell-tale shimmer of a forcefield becoming visible in the empty gap. But she couldn't see anything like that.
With a healthy hint of trepidation, she slowly reached a hand out to test the waters, bracing herself for something terrible to happen.
She jumped back in fright as Sunek poked his head around the side of the doorway.
"Hey, doc."
"Holy crap—! Sunek!"
The tousle-haired Vulcan grinned back at the shocked human, then walked straight into the room through the evidently forcefield-free doorway.
"Who were you expecting?" he asked off-handedly, "T'Pau?"
He wandered around the room, taking the limited decor in, then alighted his gaze on the double cheeseburger (with all the trimmings).
"Huh. Ok, that makes sense."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh," he continued, helpfully adding some belated context, "The room I woke up in was the same as this, except there was a fresh bowl of plomeek soup and a Risian mai tai sitting on the table. Both delicious, by the way."
"You actually ate it?"
"Why not?" he shrugged, "I was hungry. Besides, if you're worried it might be poisoned, it kinda feels like they've had enough opportunities to kill us if they wanted to, doesn't it?"
Natasha was forced to concede this annoyingly rational point with a nod, as Sunek continued.
"Same thing with Denella. Identical room, Orion food—"
From somewhere outside, she heard a familiar angry bellow of frustration echoing around.
"Oh, and Klath's awake too," Sunek added as an unnecessary clarification, "Everyone else is in the living room."
"The living room…?"
As she struggled to process what he was saying, the Vulcan jerked his head in the direction of the doorway and walked off. She rushed off after him, her head still swimming.
She found herself in a corridor, with other doorways branching off along each wall. She correctly surmised they were the identical rooms the others had found themselves in.
At the end of the short corridor was another bright white room, this one larger than the bedroom she had been in and clearly serving as a communal space. One wall was dominated by a vast computer screen, though there were no discernible controls to be seen anywhere.
The larger room was also sparsely furnished. In fact, at this point in time, it was even more sparsely furnished than the decorator had originally intended. Half a dozen cushioned seats lay haphazardly across the floor, while the remains of a stout wooden table lay in pieces next to the far wall where, moments ago, it had evidently been thrown.
Denella turned to Natasha and Sunek as they walked in, and gestured to the fuming Klath where the Klingon stood with his fists clenched next to the shattered table.
"Klath's just working through some stuff," she offered with a shrug, before her tone turned more serious, "Are you ok?"
"I think so," Natasha nodded, "But I take it from Klath's spot of redecorating that we're trapped in here?"
"Haven't had a chance to look around everywhere, but it's a pretty good assumption—"
Denella was interrupted by the huge computer screen suddenly flaring into life. The four Bounty crew members turned in unison to see the unerringly familiar faces of Dr Brooks and Berlinghoff Rasmussen filling the screen.
"Ah, you're all awake," Rasmussen beamed, "Excellent."
"Cowards!" Klath spat back, grabbing one of the chairs from the floor and lifting it above his head, his aim focused towards the screen.
"Klath!" Denella barked, "Hold on."
The scowling Klingon reluctantly paused, bringing the chair back down to the ground.
"Ok," the Orion continued back to the two men on the screen, "What the hell is this all about? We delivered your cargo, didn't we?"
"I'm afraid we need you for a little bit longer, as it turns out," Brooks offered with a satisfied smile, "Just until we've completed the final stage of my work."
"What final stage?" Natasha asked warily.
"All in good time. But first, I should introduce myself properly."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Denella spat.
"I think your doctor was close to figuring it out. Just a shame that you made one little mistake with all that research of yours."
Natasha's eyes widened in shock.
"How did you know I was—?"
"That ship of yours isn't exactly difficult to hack into," he cut in, slightly haughtily, "I noticed what you were doing as I was…conducting some research of my own."
"That reminds me," Rasmussen chimed in playfully, "I hope you all enjoyed your meals. Trust Mr Thoughtful here to check your ship's replicator logs to make sure we could provide you with your favourite food. Although, doctor, double cheeseburgers? Tut tut."
Natasha dismissed his playful remark and kept her focus on the other man on the screen.
"So Sunek was right," she nodded, "You changed your name."
"Duh-doy," the Vulcan chimed in from across the room.
"To some extent," Brooks replied enigmatically, "But your mistake was in focusing on the wrong part of the conundrum. Research the destination, not the person."
That didn't clarify anything to anyone, and it was becoming clear that Brooks was revelling in drawing out his explanation. A frustrated Klath began to give serious thought to revisiting his initial plan involving the broken chair and the computer screen.
"I love it when he does this," Rasmussen grinned, "So mysterious."
"The Vandor system," Brooks continued, "Not an especially interesting place. Which means that any cursory piece of research would probably have shown you the most notable former resident of Vandor IV. A…Doctor Paul Mannheim."
Three of the four Bounty crew members didn't react to this revelation at all. But, once again, it provoked a glimmer of a memory in Natasha's head.
"Which makes me…Doctor Lester Mannheim. By birth, at least."
"...Good for you?" Sunek managed with a shrug.
Brooks didn't seem overly concerned with the evident lack of comprehension from his audience, as he continued.
"My father was a genius in the field of temporal science. He dedicated his life to understanding the relationship between space and time. To unlocking the keys to the universe. And for all of that work, all he ever got remembered for was—"
"The Mannheim Effect!"
Natasha blurted the words out in a sudden burst of understanding, as the pieces fell into place in her mind.
The comment was met with more confusion from the rest of the Bounty's crew, but it was enough to cause a very visible flinch on the face of the man on the screen.
"Still lost," Denella offered with a tired sigh, on behalf of the others.
"It was a—" Natasha began.
"It doesn't matter what it was!" Brooks snapped, "The point was that it was used to discredit his entire body of work, defund his experiments. And, until I was forced to change my name, it ruined my career as well!"
The frustration in his voice threatened to boil over. He took a second to calm himself before he continued.
"Well, no more. I know my father's work had merit. And I knew I had to help preserve his legacy. All I needed was a focal point."
"Ah," Rasmussen chimed in excitedly, "And that's where I came in. Little old me with the time pod. Or, at least an idea of where the plans for one were. Strange, isn't it, how it was wrong for me to take a few little trinkets back through history, but there was nothing wrong with Starfleet keeping very detailed schematics of a 26th century time machine…"
Natasha felt that particular comment being directed her way, even if she hadn't been a Starfleet representative for some time. But for the time being, she elected not to rise to the bait, and maintained her silence.
"And now we're close to realising both of our goals," Brooks continued, "My colleague here can finally go home, and I can finally link the Mannheim name with a piece of true scientific history, rather than infamy."
Denella took a step towards the screen, growing tired of trying to keep up.
"None of this explains where we come in."
"You had to ask," Sunek muttered behind her.
On the screen, Brooks's face twisted into a slightly superior smirk.
"Ah, yes. You see, I do still need you and your crew's help. To get us our chronitons."
"Afraid we're fresh out," Sunek quipped, "Used up our last one the other day cleaning the—"
"What do you mean?" Natasha cut across the sarcastic Vulcan, "How exactly are we supposed to help you with that?"
"You'll find out soon enough," Brooks responded cryptically, "As our…willing volunteers, we're going to need your help in a little experiment, courtesy of my late, great father. But for the time being, please make yourselves at home."
Klath snarled with frustration again, forcing Denella to gesture again for him to hold back.
"We're not just going to sit around," she snarled at the two men on the screen, "We're going to break out of here. There's got to be a way."
Her veiled threat was, to her surprise, met with smiles from the two faces staring back at her.
"Oh yes," Rasmussen offered enigmatically, "You're more than welcome to try."
"Indeed," Brooks nodded, "We wouldn't dream of stopping you."
The two men shared a knowing laugh at this. A laugh that seemed to mock the very idea of the four captives breaking out. And a laugh that was unceremoniously ended by a chair being hurled at speed into the computer screen, shattering the panel in a cacophony of shrapnel.
Natasha, Denella and Sunek all turned to look at Klath, with wildly different levels of annoyance or amusement.
The snarling Klingon stared back at them, then slowly shrugged his huge shoulders.
"I needed that."
Denella rolled her eyes and turned back to the others.
"So," Sunek offered, "Seeing as how Klath just broke our only TV, I'm assuming we're gonna try to get the hell out of here?"
Denella looked around at her assembled colleagues, and considered the scale of the challenge ahead of them. And never doubted her answer for a moment.
"You're damn right we are."
'*'*'
'*'*'
The two men continued to stagger on, having now made it down the mountain pass.
They were now approaching the shallow stream that they had easily crossed on horseback on their journey out. Though this time, that wouldn't be an option.
"Take it you don't mind getting your feet wet?" Jirel asked the older man leaning awkwardly on his shoulder.
"Kinda feels like wet socks'll be the least of my ankle's problems right now," Jenner replied with a mirthless grunt.
Since they had been reunited, the conversation had been thin on the ground. Not only were both men focused on using their energy to keep moving, but also neither one of them wanted to be the one to provoke the next argument. At least, not just yet.
But all that meant was that they had barely spoken. And there remained a tension in the air between them.
As they reached the stream, Jirel let go of the reins in his hand to allow the horse to navigate its own way across, not wanting to risk injuring or frightening the animal if he slipped on the wet rocks under the surface while still gripping onto them.
With the horse underway, Jirel and his father tentatively set off into the cold, shallow stream.
"By the way," Jenner offered, "If you lose your balance, I'm letting go and hopping the rest of the way myself. Wet socks I can deal with, but like hell are you dragging me in there with you."
"Is that the sort of selfless heroics I missed out on getting taught at the Academy?" the Trill couldn't help but fire back.
It wasn't an aggressive comment, designed to provoke. And Jenner didn't bother to reply, keeping his focus on maintaining his footing as they forded the stream.
As they staggered on, feet now soaked through their boots and socks, Jirel thought about the Academy again, the source of so many of their arguments both recently and historically. And he considered what he had wanted to say earlier, when the subject had come up.
What he had wanted to say to his father for a very long time.
Again, he pictured Natasha's expression in his head, giving him a look that he knew was designed to steer him towards doing the right thing again.
And he found himself starting to speak.
"You know something? About that entrance exam."
Jenner didn't respond, aside from a grunt of exertion as he took another step with his good foot.
"Well," Jirel continued, "All these years, you've just assumed I flunked it cos I didn't try. Cos I was a dumb, arrogant kid who wasted his big shot at a proper career. And…I guess I've always let you think that. Cos the truth seemed even worse."
"And what exactly is the truth?" his father queried, keeping his voice measured.
Jirel sighed. He wanted to stop. Natasha implored him to continue.
"The truth is…I actually tried."
He avoided his father's gaze and kept his focus down to his feet, making sure he was on solid ground. Literally, if not metaphorically.
The floodgates were open. No turning back now.
"Remember that night, a week before the exam? You caught me sneaking back in at some ungodly hour in the morning. And you told me that stupid story about the bat, the birds and the beasts. Said I needed to figure out who I wanted to be."
"I remember."
They had stopped now, somewhat incongruously, in the middle of the stream. On the bank, a few metres away, the horse had grown tired of waiting for them and had started to graze on the grass by the water.
"Well," Jirel sighed, "I did. That night, I figured it all out."
"You were drunk," Jenner pointed out curtly.
Jirel stifled a wry smile and shook his head.
"I must've been. Because I realised I wanted to be like you. I thought long and hard about it and…I wanted to get out there. Explore, experience, everything. And maybe actually…find my place in the universe."
Jenner had no comment. He remained silent, and listened to his son.
Jirel pushed on. No turning back.
"So…I woke up the following day and I just started working my ass off. That whole week. Barely slept, didn't leave the house, didn't even leave my room except to eat. Not that you noticed, I'm sure."
His father felt the sting of that comment. But he couldn't realistically deny it. He had been on Earth for that whole week and more, while the Erebus had started its refit. And Jirel was right. He hadn't noticed.
"And after all that," Jirel sighed in admission, "I still failed. Really, really failed. So I just let you think I'd flunked it. I mean, what's worse? Having a slacker for a son, or an idiot?"
He finally forced himself to look over at his father, hoping that the old man wouldn't feel the need to deliver an answer to that question.
Jenner stared back at his son. Processing the truth that he'd just heard, after eighteen years of assumptions. It took him a moment to find any sort of response. And when he found it, it wasn't quite the one that Jirel might've expected.
"Did you find it?"
Jirel's expression creased into one of confusion.
"Find what?"
"Your…place in the universe?"
He gestured awkwardly towards the sky, still resting his weight on Jirel's shoulder.
"You've been out there for long enough by now."
Jirel's mind went straight to the tattered centre chair in the Bounty's tumbledown cockpit. With the rest of the crew sitting around him.
"I thought I had," he muttered back with a sad smile, "But then…"
But then Maya Ortega died.
Jenner caught the implication. He nodded in silent understanding.
"Come on," he motioned across towards the other side of the stream, "I think we've earned another rest."
Jirel mustered a nod, and the two of them resumed their laboured journey across the stream, to the general disinterest of the still-grazing horse.
By the time they reached the far side, Jenner had made his mind up. He knew that he needed to say something as well.
No turning back.
He eased himself down onto a rock by the stream, as Jirel sat down next to him. Both men started to take their boots off and tip the excess water from inside.
"Earlier," the older man began, "When you were talking about Maya. I said—I told you that it gets easier."
He paused for a moment, staring past the boot he was holding upside down as the last drops of water fell to the ground from inside it. And he thought about his wife.
"Well, that was a lie."
Now it was Jirel's turn to remain silent, as his father continued.
"It's a good lie to tell people. Because, when you're hurting like that, it's what you want to hear. But the truth is that it doesn't get easier. Not really. You just…learn to live with the pain."
In all the time he had known his adoptive father, Jirel could never remember him betraying any real emotion. Apart from anger whenever they were arguing. But even though he managed to maintain his dignified Starfleet admiral exterior, he was sure he could detect a slight creak in the old man's voice.
"It's one of the reasons I don't like spending a lot of time back here, on Earth. Why I've turned down two offers of early retirement from Starfleet. And why I'm still out there. Because, when I'm back here, in that house and sleeping in that bed, it…feels empty. And I guess it always will."
Jirel didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to reach out and hug the older man. But that seemed a little too much.
Jenner took a second to compose himself fully before he continued.
"And that's the truth. After all this time, I still miss your mother."
"I miss her too," Jirel heard himself whisper back, "And I miss Maya…"
He stifled the beginnings of a sob. Not doing as good a job as his father in keeping a lid on his emotions.
"I know," Jenner nodded back.
"It's just," Jirel continued with a deep sigh, "I just couldn't—I can't deal with it. With the…consequences."
Jenner considered this latest admission.
"There are always consequences, Jirel," the long-serving officer replied sagely, "Even if you don't think there are. Mistakes to regret, issues to deal with, decisions to live with. And, occasionally, deaths you can't prevent. I'm afraid that's part of life. And that's part of being a captain."
Jirel glanced at his father, a little surprised.
"Is that what you think I am?"
His father looked straight back at him.
"Is that what you think you are?"
"I…don't know," Jirel admitted, "Not any more."
"Well, either way, you came back for me," Jenner pointed out, "And whatever you might think about yourself, I think you're ready to deal with the consequences."
He nodded in satisfaction and began to pull his damp boots back on.
"Now I see why he said we should do this."
"Wh—?" Jirel began in confusion, "Wait, who said we should do what?"
Jenner didn't respond. Instead, he stood up with a grimace, rested his weight on his good ankle, and reached into his pocket.
And retrieved a Starfleet delta. A communicator.
"What the hell?" Jirel gasped, jumping up off the rock, "You had that the whole—?"
"Jenner to Erebus," his father called out, "Two to beam up. Have Doctor Pax ready with something for a broken ankle. And…"
His gaze drifted over to the grazing animal next to the baffled Jirel.
"Make sure my horse gets home safe."
Before Jirel could comprehend what was going on, the transporter effect took hold.
Moments later, Hesk watched on with some surprise from the porch of the Jenner homestead, as an equally surprised horse materialised out of thin air in front of her.
'*'*'
'*'*'
Denella couldn't help but lose a sliver of focus on her work as she heard the audibly pained grunt from beneath her.
Despite the ongoing peril of their situation, she felt the need to respond.
"You know, Klath, in most cultures it's considered rude to make comments like that about a lady's weight."
The Orion engineer sat carefully balanced atop the Klingon's broad shoulders, the pair of them forming a slightly incongruous two-person pyramid at the end of the pristine white corridor of the area they were being held.
With no other means to clamber higher, she had solicited his help to reach the only access panel she could find for the set of imposing sealed doors in front of them. A panel that happened to be built into the high ceiling above the doorway.
She had no tools available to her. But she had been able to claw off the panel using her fingernails, and was now trying to figure out the details of the circuitry that had been revealed.
Which was taking some time. And her willing assistant sounded like he was starting to feel the strain of her Orion frame.
"I was not passing any such comment," Klath clarified with admirable diplomacy, "I am merely growing…frustrated with our incarceration."
"Yeah. You and me both."
She returned to her work, meticulously checking the isolinear wiring to figure out a way of shorting, or otherwise overriding, the controls to the door.
After a few more seconds, Klath couldn't help but grunt in exertion once again.
"Do you know," he asked, with a slightly strained tone, "How much longer this task might take?"
"It takes a little longer every time you ask," she responded, "So just be quiet and enjoy the free workout."
Klath considered suggesting that she take a short break. For her own sake, of course. But ultimately, he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. So, he elected to grit his teeth and silently bear the weight of the Orion woman's muscular frame that was pressing down onto his shoulders.
"Huh," Sunek called out from behind them as he and Natasha approached, "What did Klath do to draw the short straw?"
"Seriously," Denella griped, only partly in jest, "The next person to make a comment like that, I'm leaving behind in here. Did you two find anything useful?"
"Nada," the Vulcan replied, "The rest of this place is entirely absent of exits, entrances, secret passages or magic bookcases that spin around when you pull out a certain novel. Guess we were brought in through that door."
"Or maybe that door leads nowhere," Natasha mused, "And they beamed us in here. Always struck me as odd how few people use that as part of their detention facilities."
"Ok, less comments about my weight and less fatalist talk like that, please."
Klath grunted again, but kept his mouth shut.
"Still," Sunek offered, "At least it's a nicer sort of prison than we usually get locked in. I've always said we should try to be kidnapped by nicer people."
Nobody bothered to reply, but Natasha silently conceded that there was the kernel of a point in there. From the comfortable bed she had woken up in, to the food that had been provided and the now-trashed facilities in the 'living room', they were at least being looked after.
Not that she was exactly eager to stick around.
"I should've put all this together," she sighed, "So stupid that I didn't think to dig deeper into where we were going. Got too distracted with those stupid tricorder readings."
"Hey, don't beat yourself up," Sunek replied, his medication-assisted understanding side shining through once again, "I didn't figure it out either. And I'm really smart."
At least, part of his understanding side was shining through.
"Still," the Vulcan continued, as he casually leaned against the wall of the corridor, "What exactly is their plan here? What experiment are they talking about? Cos, full disclosure, after recent events, I'm not a big fan of being experimented on."
He cast his mind back to a recent misadventure, when he had been forcibly emotionally stimulated by a coven of emphatically-addicted Betazoids, and shuddered.
"I'm not sure," Natasha admitted with a pensive shrug, "I know Doctor Brooks was talking about generating chronitons somehow? But I can't see where we come in."
"Me neither," Sunek admitted.
"And he's really smart," Denella couldn't help but add.
Sunek childishly stuck his tongue out in the direction of the Orion, as she continued to prod around inside the access hatch.
"Still," Natasha sighed warily, "I suspect we'll find out what they mean very soon."
"Or maybe not," Denella said with a note of victory, as she finally found the wiring junction she was looking for and shorted it out.
Right on cue, the huge doors began to open. Klath smiled in satisfaction. Partly at them making their escape, and partly because now Denella was clambering down from his shoulders.
"Ok," the Orion continued as her feet returned to the ground, "Let's get moving—"
She barely got a couple of steps through the now-open doorway before she stopped dead. The others followed suit. The huge doors had parted to reveal a short section of identical, pristine corridor. With another sealed doorway at the end.
Growling in frustration, Klath aimed a punch squarely at the wall.
"Huh," Sunek offered, "Anyone getting deja vu—?"
Growling in frustration again, Klath aimed a punch squarely at the wall.
"Huh," Sunek offered again, "Anyone getting deja vu?"
All four of them looked around in complete confusion, having all just registered the same thing happening. Twice.
"Wait," Sunek added, "Did my deja vu just deja vu itself?"
Natasha felt an unerringly deep well of panic suddenly open up inside of her.
She didn't have a particularly in-depth grasp of temporal science. Nor of what had previously happened on Vandor IV. But she knew enough to recognise what they had just experienced.
"Oh my god," she whispered, "The Mannheim Effect."
"What?" Denella queried, fearing that she was opening up another avalanche of technobabble as a result.
"That was the Mannheim Effect," Natasha continued, looking around fearfully, "Or something very similar to how I remember it being described. A short…pocket of time. Repeating itself."
"What does that mean?" Klath grunted, looking as confused as Denella was.
Natasha looked over at Sunek, who appeared equally glum. The Vulcan had evidently come to the same conclusion.
"It means that we're too late. It's already started. This is the experi—"
'*'*'
'*'*'
Slowly but surely, Natasha regained consciousness.
She sat bolt upright and looked around.
But this time, she already knew what she would see.
She found herself lying in a familiar bed, inside a familiar white room. The familiar scent of a familiar double cheeseburger (with all the trimmings) wafted over from the familiar table on the other side of the room.
It was just as she remembered from earlier, when she had woken up in the same surroundings. Identical, in every way.
As if time had reset itself.
"—ment."
From down the corridor, she heard Klath roaring with anger.
And she suddenly realised just how trapped they were.
'*'*'
'*'*'
"There. Temporal Reset Number 1 is complete."
Brooks stared down at the readings on the computer terminal in front of him with satisfaction.
Behind him, Rasmussen virtually skipped across the expanse of the floor of the laboratory upon hearing the comment.
"Ah, perfect!" he gleefully replied, before looking a little more pensive, "I mean, is it perfect—? Not 'perfect', I know you have issues with that word. But is it…working?"
Brooks stepped away from the terminal, still displaying the ongoing readings from the experiment, and stepped over to a vast mechanism on the wall next to it.
The whole thing had taken him the best part of a decade to construct. He had expanded on his father's work, and modified his theories in order to come up with the solution that he needed.
A method of harvesting chroniton particles.
In the cylindrical collection chamber at the heart of the mechanism, the invisible fruits of Temporal Reset Number 1 should have been waiting for him.
It only took a second to confirm.
"Yes," he replied with pompous assurance, "Three point two chroniton particles per cubic millimetre detected inside the stasis field."
Rasmussen stared back at him, the delight on his face giving way to confusion.
"...Is that a lot?" he managed eventually.
Brooks resisted the urge to roll his eyes at this elementary question, a reminder of the limited scientific level of the individual he had joined forces with.
"No," he conceded, for full scientific accuracy, "But as a yield from a single temporal event, it is more than acceptable. And there'll be plenty more on the way soon enough."
He returned to the original control panel and checked a second set of readings.
"Temporal Reset Number 2 is underway. And so far, only minimal degradation to the brain functions of the subjects."
This off-hand remark brought a look of concern to Rasmussen's features.
"Minor degradation to the—? You said this wouldn't harm them!"
"I said it wouldn't kill them," Brooks replied calmly, "And it won't. Provided that the yield per reset remains that high."
This answer seemed to do little to alleviate Rasmussen's concern, as Brooks looked over at him with a patient sigh.
"I thought you wanted to go home, Mr Rasmussen?" he pointedly asked.
This seemed to refocus the tall human's focus on the goal of what they were doing here. He nodded back eagerly.
"Very, very much so. Yes."
Brooks smiled and looked back down at the readings, taking a moment to bask in his own genius, standing on his father's shoulders.
He had taken the experiments his father had started, and turned them into a means to harvest the very chronitons of the temporal events themselves. Provided there were enough test subjects inside the experiment to trigger them.
And now, with Rasmussen's time pod replica built, he could truly embrace everything that travelling through spacetime had to offer.
"Good," Brooks smiled thinly to Rasmussen's affirmation, "And you will. Quite soon."
On the other side of the wall, the experiment continued…