Admiral Kathryn “Iron Balls” Janeway was still young.
This magnificent bastard had feasibly centuries left before something surprising which surgeons and herbalists couldn’t shove back in or bind reared up, so despite appearances that Edwarian Egyptologists had just dug her up, statistically speaking the old girl was very, very young, not that that makes the creaks, pops and twinges the artefact her once scrumptious physique produces with eclectic rhythm had done become any less deafening. Medical Science couldn’t force the human body to maintain in a state of perpetual youth, thank god, but it could stretch out the twilight years to 10, 20, 30 times what some shlub from the 20th century would expect to be a decent innings, even though a bog standard Vulcan could effortlessly make a human being seem like a sill born gold fish by comparison, so what the hell did it matter that the choices Kathryn had made wittingly without any clever forethought throughout the last few days had designed an epic suicide attempt where if everything went even just a touch off kilter, she’d only be flushing a century and a half of really good golden years at most down the sonic toilet because ambition to become glorious is rewarded in spades if that bearded git Fate don’t got a well placed shovel a’swinging to hack into something vital, but that’s just life. Life is murder and the complaints department is shut down for the weekend.
Maybe Janeway should call what she’s diving craggy stone face into a time-crisis, but hell bugger it, all that “time this” and “temporal that” doublespeak was just pretentious masturbation anyway by uppity futurists in love with the smell of their own ass, and it’s not like there was just a single crisis trying to wreck her at this one moment, it was a crisises storm. What she had done to this far. What she was doing to push on a little further. What she had yet to do. What she was destined to do but didn’t really feel like was in any way a good idea any more… Hardly the fight of her life, hardly the fight of her week, the Admiral had stayed minutes ahead of charges of election tampering, fraud, embezzlement and antitrust, lied to a child who thought of her as an aunt, no not a grand mother, an aunt, yes an aunt not a grand mother, it’s not so unbelievable that she could be B’Elanna’s albeit minutely older sister… All leading into the head of this new fit, wrestling a Klingon degenerate of radically illegal technology to become the absolute Mistress of Time. Mark had always said that she would have made a decent Mistress. Mark had problems. Mark had so many problems, that 70,000 light years seemed like a good idea. Kathryn is bolting down a road paved with good intentions after offending some very bad, and very bad smelling very well armed people, only to then fall down a stinky rabbit hole this 24th century (silver) fox knew full well enough that those idiots would be compelled to trek through right after her down to their mutual and compiled doom. Fortunately their doom would wrack up hours, hopefully years before her own expiration, but it’s a dark quandary figuring out if you’d rather be marked for death or outright dead given what a right wanker anticipation can be.
In all, a rough 72 hours.
There are 6 impossibly well armed battle cruisers jamming up her behind her little shuttle at near super luminal speeds with maybe four thousand Klingon’s in total seething about inside, making sure that their engines keep rolling and their disrupters keep blasting at the puny Federation female who is half way through transversing a tear in the galaxy’s integrity that’s grabbing yesterday by the sack & forcing that powdered wig wearing p’tahk to say uncle. When I became mistress of Time all I got was this lousy T-Shirt. It’s grim. The army of death behind her doesn’t just “look” grim, it is grim. Time is bloody nigh. So It’s a good thing the Admiral has a first class plan for all those steerage class Klingons or Kathy would really be up shit creek. Which is why she has a smile on her dry, bitter, wrinkled old cracked mug as she sails right out of gods bottom crack into an all too familiar a space lane from her youth: Banjoman’s backyard.
The consistency of the stunning beam used by Caretakers Array to pacify his rape victims had been pulled apart and intellectually flossed by her Vulcan, some other impressive geniuses, and Harry Kim too in the first few weeks they had been lost in space to make sure they would be fooled again next time they ran afoul of a Caretaker. She remembers the inspirational speech she gave the science team “If some one doesn't find a counter measure to this gadget, we’re all going to be filled up with Caretaker babies eventually, so hop to it.” Knowledge is power. Set a course for adventure her mind is on an old romance. Iron balls baited her pursuers with her exposed rump, which if they goosed her would make many boots, maybe some sets of gloves and some wallets for their children out of her rugged hide, towards Caretaker’s sexual assault factory, sure they were sure they had her, but it was they who were about one and a half minutes away from a good nap and she who would be free to take care of business, which doesn’t seem like the widest margin in her masterplan that she has to avoid death by an armada of mangy sociopathic carnivores behind her who are already picking phantom human meat out their snaggle teeth from the idot to test their patience before the senile sex offender god in front of her starts with the smiting, and what’s he/It going to do when it/he notices that his smite doesn’t take with her? But then Tom’s theory on Caretaker was that he was an idiot who has to use an idiots guide to Caretaking manual… But really if the Kazon could take him in a fair fight what the hell chance does he stand against her cheating lying time travelling ass?
It’s nap time for the monsters pursuing Admiral Janeway because Caretaker only likes to have sex with sleeping people.
“Thank you Banjo Man you randy old bastard.” Janeway mutters to herself.
Kathy gropes the illuminated LACARS touchscreen like her lovers love handles unloading a immediate furious bolt of canned-bitchslap from her customized anti-sporositian beam weapon nailed to the underbelly of her swift little shuttle, which will quickly cripple, sterilize and brain damage Caretaker 6 months before he’s destined to get his end away with her first and favourite crew, upending the timeline and creating a fantastic paradox that’s going to screw over a lot of the little people and gods alike. WAMMO! Our geriatric heroine directs a site to site transport to the Arrays control deck where Kathryn is not completely sure if upon arrival she still won’t have to scuffle hand to hand with Caretaker if she’d only clipped the dirty old bastard. Man plans, God laughs. Woman plans, God hides. Upon materializing in the in the heart of her enemies camp with nothing noticeably punchable within arms reach, the estimable time traveler humbly claims all in the name of the United Federation of Planets, herself and the 24th century, then steadies amid an unexpected chuckle as the once Admiral in charge of Administrative Affairs confirms what Tuvok said 2 decades ago was the gods honest truth, the control interfaces for everything here is just macros, mummery and pictographs a child might use before they had learnt how to read. Baby’s first pangalactic tractor beam. Caretaker hadn’t been left behind to look after the Ocmapa because he was the most capable, or responsible, but he had been abandoned because he was the most disposable member of the Nacene crew that had blanched the Ocampan biosphere a scant millennium earlier. How damn humiliating that her greatest foe was a moron, again.
Even without an audience to praise her, it was time for some momentously sarcastic words “There’s a new Caretaker in town.”
No time to puff out her chest.
It’s depressing how less it puffs out these days and more so droops.
But it’s time to move onto the next stage of the plan.
Without much effort Admiral Janeway finds the reference points for the demon planet with which she had had a child, and then grand children and millions if not billions of great grand children with, that special defense batteries had to be mounted on Pluto and Cheron to tell her progeny that they were not human beings and they were not crew of a distantly misplaced starship and that they should just keep moving along because Earth was currently full up on their quota for returned Voyager crews.
But this new Caretaker, Janeway that is, it’s funny how the first time around that Kathryn had turned down the job because of the Prime Directive and good taste, and now that she wasn’t such a fresh green puff of hotdog water that diabolically cobwebbed brain could see how to make the entire universe dancing to the beat of her drum. She knew how to use a few trillion tones of Quicksilver entities to the benefit of the complete galaxy and it wasn’t about making another Voyager today.
Change through omission.
Thumping a couple massive buttons that could have been made for the visually impaired, or chronically impaired, Kathryn Janeway, aged never you mind, instantly strip mines that distant world of trillions of tons of it’s highly exotic indigenous polymorphic life-forms, that in all appearances seem to be a gooey blot of shiny liquid metal the size of a small moon which without a doubt if Janeway cared to strain the ethical chewy atoms of the process she was setting into play, Kathryn would easily make it into the superhitler museum of Evil for creative crimes against sentient life, but her plan to win out the day has to navigate inbetween several temporal sand-traps which may or may not prick her priorities more gingerly than that the Omega Directives have already kicked in because Voyager won’t be there to save the day in 6 years , but as long as she’s ripping planets in half with a fraction the Array’s determination, she might as well throw half the sun warming the planet inventing that dangerous technology at Unimatrix 001 just to make sure that the Borg are running around like chickens with their heads cut off too flustered with their own new problems to accidently run foul of any of her long term goals, or open any provocative apertures into fluidic space.
The Borg are Skragged.
Of course not every crinkle in her perfect design can be remedied years before the fact by a massive tractor beam that can fold into contact disparate and explosive situations removing untoward obstacles creating excess utility and a potential idyllic retirement with instant clear results. There’s the need for a lot of elbow grease in the days ahead if Admiral Janeway wants to make a future so perfect that her doppelganger indigenous to this timeline isn’t such a bitch that she will feel compelled to backstep too and rewrite all the good work on her checklist of awesome feats too just like she’s been forced to overwrite the half arsed shenanigans of the last old lady Janeway that raped her timeline setting up a dark future in which qualifies as the tits up of all dystopias… Only an idiot trusts Captain Kathryn Janeway to be a screw driver when with all her might she wishes she were a hammer, and you can call it self loathing but the only damn way to guarantee satisfaction after the dust settles is to kill herself while she’s still an idiot child in her third decade completely unintouch with her inner clotpole compelled to contentiously sneer at all and any power that insists it knows better than she.
The Dominon War will take care of this universe’s Kathryn Janeway because there’s no way in hell this Janeway is letting that janeway within half a galaxy of her best laid schemes, but it’s time to fetch her screw driver. A week, meek, callow powerless man that with bend and mush to her persistence and be the perfect instrument to manifest her will. A man who should be executed for crimes he is going to commit, a man who played her like a fool and killing him one for that sort of indignantly just isn’t the sort of limited satisfaction a woman with as much harpy and sore loser DNA as Admiral Kathryn Janeway can accept as a half measure. Time travel allows Kathryn to torture and kill her enemies over and over again, and anyone that had ever dared to turn up her nose shouldn’t be surprised if fate takes matters into her own hands.
It’s like baby’s first LCARS. Defining the targeting lenses towards the inner comforts of Federation Space, Kathryn steals a Federation starship from exactly where it was supposed to be stolen, exactly how it was supposed to be stolen and then fractures time again making her timeline completely impossible and opens up the possibility of an infinite number of bright and dark potential futures, I mean, so what if she’s killed every one she knows, because Kathryn has also given both to everyone one she knows too infinitely, it’s not like there’s an reason that at this late stage in the game it time for doubt and second guessing after killing trillions in the last few minutes and the next 25 years of future history the instance she arrived in the past skewing everything that might have supposed to have been whimsyly is not the time to sob about more blood on her hands, because there just comes a point where unless you’re swimming in it, there’s a point of maximum retention or critical mass as far as blood on your hands goes and causing the evaporation of 25 years of time is well past the point of no return or redemption.
Marking off the checklist.
One Federation Ship in parking orbit of Car… JANEWAY’s Array.
The Nova Class science vessel Equinox was somewhat worse for wear, but this time at least, the Caretaker was not going to full them with his little babies, and they weren’t going to spend the next 6 years being beaten down until can’t tell right from wrong and they might as well be wearing used toilet paper than Starfleet Uniforms for the honor they have left after… was it that they done broke bad, or was it that they didn’t own what they did? For gods sake! Half of Janeways crew were violent terrorist hell bent on seeing to the destruction of the federation and leaving cinder in the space where Cardassia had let let it’s freak flag fly… it all would have turned out so differently if Rudy Ransom (his parents hated him.) had just surrendered to federation justice the first moment they met instead of sacrificing her crew of 150 to save his crew of 12 for a couple hours because he didn’t understand how completely and inexorably screwed he truly was.
But that was then, and this is now.
Janeway opens a hailing channel.
The image on a hovering holographic forward monitor view screen was all too familiar.
Starships really did not abide well with this method of transition. It’s a freakish rupture to the congestion to be reasoned as a serious technical palsy.
“Wake the hell up.”
Women in her family have always sounded older than god.
“I said wake the hell up.”
The soot stained rag dolls, dazed and confused, the cats paw to the queen of all bitches, begin to take account of their lot in life to be at the horribly uneven mercy of some dick god on a holier than thou crusade to strap man kind into the dog box and turn the hose on the scruffy beggar… It must be Tuesday.
“My Name is Captain Rudolf Ransom or the United Federation of Planets Starship Equinox… Are you responsible for what has happened to my Ship?”
Rudys crew is coming to, righting themselves into their duty stations, superior drill training autopioloting them into figuring out what the heck happened before the other shoe drops wrecking their world more utterly. Equinox’s broke down bridge is alight with a series of rife unfathomable realizations…
A little brunette with a bloody nose “Captain, this is incredible.”
A middle aged Andorian whose antennae are in spasm “Captain, I’m registering damage reports all over the ship and…”
Janeway’s good friend Noah “Tie me up, it feels good” Lessing “Captain Sickbay is being swamped by… “
The leaky brunette again “I don’t understand… We’re on the other side of… The galaxy.”
Ransom gloms onto that nugget like a kick in the nuts.
“What the hell?”
The look on his bitchslapped face. Janeway prays that she never carried herself like such a babe in the woods when Kim told her what god did the same to them. It was time to rejoin the conversation, because this clueless exposition could twaddle on for hours as they try to work up how buggered they really are.
“Don’t look weak.” Janeway orders.
The fractured mass of barely alive, possibly unthinking which is lucky since they’re drowning in the unthinkable, frazzled Starfleet officers look back to the Avatar of the “old” woman looking down from the 6 by 15 foot monitor they moniker as their view screen is foaming derision.
“Even if you had remembered to mute the transmission, your body language screams surrender. If this is how you presented yourself in the Delta Quadrant, how you represented Starfleet and the federation in the delta Quadrant it’s no damn wonder you were eaten alive.”
“Who, who are you?”
“Who do you think I am?”
Ransom looks at his tarred and feathered crew, views his devastated bridge, coughs, questions fate what the hell he had ever done to deserve this lot in life and… “A seemingly omnipotent human being playing without lives as if we were bugs dressed in what I can assume is some type of Starfleet uniform that I am not completely aware of but shares enough similarities with my own that I know what those stars on your collar are supposed to mean… You’re a Q from the Q Continuum.”
The old crone suppresses a chuckle, but decides to roll with the punches “Curses… What gave me away?”