*I need to thank M– a fellow Space: 1999 fan & friend for the conversation one night about the atrocity that is known as 'the talking trees' episode. An idea came and, originally, I thought I was going to be writing a section for my other story, Space: 1999 – Year 2: A Journey Behind Closed Doors but when I sat down to write,
the MUF was obviously saying Oh, Hell No, you're not!
Well then, I needed a break from researching and plotting for that story, so…what does a girl do?
Well, she comes up with this story in the interim.
Afterall, the Doctor says that timelines are fixed, they can not be rewritten. River Song says, "Oh, yes they can Sweetie"
Captain Kathryn Janeway – USS Voyager NCC-74656 said "Time Travel. Ever since my first day in the job as a Starfleet captain, I swore I'd never let myself get caught in one of these godforsaken paradoxes. The future is the past, the past is the future…it all gives me a headache."
Anna Davis says, "Neither past nor future. The future is the past."
The laws of time, of space...maybe they're not as fixed as we've always thought.
We exist here, and in another time.
Parallel lives?
But which is the real one?
And so, off we go to the godforsaken paradox that is parallel timelines, where time itself splinters into multiple, coexisting realities.
Or does it?
Oh, how delicious!
THREADS OF THE BROKEN FUTURE
One man's choice sends ripples through time, unknowingly setting in motion a chain of events that will fracture the lives of countless souls across the universe. As the consequences of his decision cascade through space and time, the boundaries between choice and destiny blur. Innocence is corrupted, and the future fate of a gentle girl hangs in the balance - between the path of goodness and light or one that leads to darkness and the point of no return.
Moonbase Alpha – August 29th, 1999
Consciousness drifted back into him slowly, like a heavy fog lifting over a desolate landscape. Pain wove in and out, threading itself through shadowy images that lingered in the depths of his mind—faint, distant, yet still present. Everything was muted, veiled in a haze that clouded his senses.
The first thing he truly felt was the ache, a horrible throbbing that pulsed beneath the surface of his skull. Then, the smell crept in—sterile, sharp, and medicinal. The air was heavy, recycled gases pushed through the ventilation system, each breath filling his lungs with something that felt artificial, processed. It wasn't fresh—it was forced.
Sounds followed, filtering through the mist in his groggy brain. He caught the soft hiss of a door sliding open and the muted thud of footsteps. They stopped, and for a moment, there was only silence, thick and oppressive, until voices broke through.
"How is he?" a man asked, his voice distant, carrying an edge of concern.
A woman's reply followed, her tone clear but weary, as if fatigue had long settled in. "He's lucky. He has a thick skull. He'll survive."
"Has he come back around?" the man's voice pressed, his question laced with a hint of impatience.
"Not yet," she said softly, the words weighed down by the lingering tension. "It might still be a while. That was quite a concussion he suffered."
"I see," the man murmured, his voice dropping to a thoughtful whisper.
There was a pause—thick silence that pressed against his mind as if the air itself had frozen. Then the woman's voice returned, a bit more guarded, as if hesitant to bring up the next subject.
"Has there been any word from Commissioner Simmonds?" she asked, her tone tinged with frustration, almost daring hope to creep in.
"No," the man answered, his voice low, regretful. "Not a word."
The woman sighed, a soft sound that echoed with bitterness. "I didn't expect there would be. Time and again, he's refused to listen," she said, her voice turning sharp, edged with quiet anger. "He's hell-bent on suppressing the truth."
"Don't give up hope, Doctor," the man replied gently, though there was a hint of doubt beneath his words. "Remember, the Professor is still trying to follow that rumor. And if it's true... your findings may be seen with open eyes."
A brief, humorless chuckle escaped her. "It's only a rumor, Paul. We don't know if there's any truth to it."
"Just between you and me," Paul said, his voice dropping into a near whisper, as though the walls themselves were listening, "I'd be more than happy to see Gorski relieved of duty. He's little more than putty in Simmonds' hands."
The woman sighed again, but this time it was deeper, heavier, like a burden she couldn't shake. "I appreciate your silence, Paul."
A thick silence followed, oppressive and confusing to the man lying in the bed.
"Let me know about him, when you know more," Paul added. "I must get back to Main Mission."
Footsteps again, fading into the background, then the soft hiss of the door sliding open—a faint whoosh as it closed behind them.
His mind struggled to follow, the conversation twisting in his head.
Gorski?
Paul?
The names echoed in his groggy brain, bringing a surge of disorientation.
Main Mission?
This wasn't right. That was a very long time ago.
His thoughts blurred, trying to organize themselves into something coherent.
What the hell had happened to him?
The pounding in his skull flared again, like Carter had landed an Eagle on top of it.
He tried to make sense of the images flickering behind his eyes, but they only made the pain worse, a pulsing throb that clouded everything. Those images... just thinking about them...His head felt like it would split open.
He groaned, forcing his eyes to open. The effort was monumental, each blink a battle, but when they finally cracked open, the blurred edges of the room filled his sight.
Nothing made sense.
The room was... wrong.
Very, very wrong.
He shut his eyes again quickly, retreating back into the darkness.
Even the small glimpse of his surroundings had only added to his confusion.
The known universe had shifted, contorted into something that sent a chill of dread through the man lying in Medical Center.