The Federation colony on Arkrusus had begun as a scientific research outpost established to study the crumbling ruins of the Crystal City. Archeologists had pegged the age of the city at somewhere between six and seven million years, and though little remained of the once great metropolis, the secrets of the decaying city had begged to be studied from the moment Starfleet had stumbled across its partially buried mass.
Eventually, the community of scientists and researchers had grown sufficiently to request incorporation into the nearby Rudyard Colonies, and thus became an officially represented Federation colony.
That same colony maintained a small Starfleet outpost that had originally served to protect the community from Cardassian incursions, though the system had never suffered an attack, not even at the height of the Dominion War. Starfleet personnel who occasionally needed a break or a place to lie low for awhile regularly took up residence here, assigned to whatever make-work posting was offered.
The facility’s most recent addition was one Lieutenant Pava Lar’ragos, formerly of the starship Gibraltar. Off shift, he sat at a table in the smoky tavern in the city’s commercial concourse. Clad in civilian clothing, he was unshaven, unwashed, and well on his way to being drunk. A half-empty stein of Kelvan lager sat atop his table, flanked by two of it’s now empty brethren.
Lar’ragos reached out a hand and gently flicked the flat, yellow tear-drop shaped crystal that lay in front of him. It spun slowly and it’s facets caught the dim illumination from the overhead lamp, sending twirling motes of light careening around the otherwise empty booth.
He was working up the courage to do something foolish. It was idiotically reckless, he knew, and broke so many rules, regulations, and ethics that if successful it would likely take a panel of experts years of investigation to truly grasp the magnitude of his crime.
Still, others had accomplished such unlikely goals before. The odds against him succeeding were astronomical, true, and the price of victory would no doubt be terrible. And yet, there was precedent.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” A voice sounded from out of the shadows. It wasn’t an overheard snippet of random conversation, Lar’ragos knew. It had been directed at him.
The Starfleet officer gave no indication that he’d heard, but beneath the table his hand grasped the combat knife secured within a cargo pocket of his baggy pants. He briefly wondered at his own reaction. He was in a bar in a safe and civilized commercial promenade on a Fed colony. Even if the person who had addressed him had surmised his plans, Lar’ragos was at little risk of physical harm. He decided that some habits, some reactions, were simply so ridiculous as to be pathetic. Here he was in a pen of sheep, doing his best to play himself off as just another one of the flock, and yet he still fancied himself the wolf in the fold. Lar’ragos let go the knife and let his hand drop into his lap.
“Is this seat taken?” The voice spoke again. A man stepped into the pool of light cast by the table’s lamp. He was tall and thin, his dark hair cropped close to an angular skull. Human by the look of him, Lar’ragos surmised. But then, he reflected, many people made that unwarranted assumption about him as well. The man’s pale skin contrasted sharply with his dark clothes, especially the worn leather-like jacket that was draped over his lanky shoulders.
The man slid into the booth across from Lar’ragos and gave the El Aurian a knowing smile. “I know what you’re thinking, mate. It’s not worth it.”
Lar’ragos examined the man silently for a moment, then took a slow draught from his lager. “You Temporal Investigation types do get around, don’t you?”
“Time cop?” the man blurted, clearly amused by the notion. “I don’t think so. Lousy pay and even worse equipment. Have you ever seen one of your Federation’s Mark I time pods?” His eyes widened and he laughed again, “Oh, of course you haven’t. Well, a fellow like yourself should still be around by the time they field them. Stay away from them ‘til they work out the kinks.” He shivered for emphasis, “Chronometric distortive necrosis, not a pretty picture.”
Lar’ragos spun the crystal idly as he focused his formidable attentions on his guest, “Who are you and what do you want?”
“I’m just a bloke here to offer some friendly advice,” the man replied gamely.
“I don’t have any friends,” Lar’ragos said coldly. “Not anymore.”
“Alright, then. We’ll call it a stern word of warning if you like.” The man’s otherwise jovial tone took on an edge.
“Fine, we’ll skip the whole ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ routine. I have to do this.” Even to Lar’ragos the argument sounded flimsy.
“No, you don’t.” The man’s eyes burned into their counterparts. Lar’ragos, usually so adept at reading other’s motivations, found his senses overwhelmed by a flood of conflicting information. There seemed to be no end to the depths contained in those eyes. Pain and loss lived within, and both cocooned a whisper of madness.
“You think it’s the right thing to do,” the man said. “Go back and save your friend. Simple, right? You don’t know the half of it. You’re an amateur trying to perform a surgery after a single course in basic biology, only the stakes here are much higher. You foul this up, and you could annihilate her, yourself and everything else on this plain of reality.”
Lar’ragos picked up the crystal and held it up to the light. “I’ve got plenty of time to teach myself what I need to know. All the time in the universe, in fact.”
“Oh, please!” The man rolled his eyes. “There’s a reason you surrendered that craft in the first place. You didn’t trust yourself to keep it, and this situation shows exactly why that was the right decision.”
“It’s sitting in a storage bunker someplace, collecting dust. After all the death and destruction he wrought with the damned thing, you’d object to my doing some good with it?”
A look of disbelief washed over the man’s features. “And what do you suppose twisted him? He didn’t start out a maniac. Far from it. He was a scholar, a scientist, a person of deep compassion and a yearning to help those less fortunate.” The man reached out and took a drink from Lar’ragos’ mug, then gestured to nowhere in particular with his finger. “But he wasn’t ready for what he found out there. He got in too deep, made too many compromises in an attempt to do the right thing. For all his good intentions, when his blundering killed entire worlds and wiped out whole timelines, he cracked under the guilt.” The man sighed deeply, “Ever since it’s been ‘king of this’ and ‘ruler of that’... the whole id unchained kind of thing.”
His eyes narrowed and Lar’ragos growled, “You think that’s what I’m doing? Cracking up?”
“Not yet,” the man’s smile returned, and suddenly he was ebullient. “We’re survivors, you and me. Oh, we’re both sodded wrecks in our own right, but here we are after all’s said and done, still kicking.”
As he gripped the crystal in his hand, Lar’ragos spoke quietly. “As much as I mourn her loss, this is less about her than it is my friend, my captain. She died a hero’s death. Before her time, sure, but that’s how she’d have wanted to go out. My friend, on the other hand, can’t forgive himself. It seems he’s decided to poison every remaining relationship he has in order to punish himself for his sins.”
“That’s his choice,” the man observed as a hint of compassion crept into his voice. “What’s that got to do with you?”
“It’s taken me four-hundred years to forgive myself for the things I’ve done,” Lar’ragos said, barely above a whisper. “He doesn’t have that long.”
“That’s his battle to fight, not yours. You can help him to the extent that he’ll allow it, but bringing her back won’t change how he feels about the choices he’s made. Besides, what gives you the right? You’re not a god.”
That gave Lar’ragos pause. He finished his drink, wiping his mouth with one sleeve. He‘d finally sorted the wheat from the chaff and had managed to pin down a handful of vivid images from his mystery guest’s past. “Really, that’s rich coming from the guy who makes life or death decisions for entire civilizations on a regular basis.”
The man’s quirky smile appeared once again, “That’s because I’m the one who picks up the pieces.”
“That by choice or assignment?”
“Choice,” the man affirmed. “There’s simply nobody else to do it. Not anymore.” He extended a hand. “Give me the crystal and you won’t have to torture yourself with this anymore. It will be my burden.”
The weight of the device was substantial, though Lar’ragos sensed that was due more to it’s significance than it’s actual mass.
“You’re old enough to know better,” the man pressed.
Slowly, hesitantly, Lar’ragos handed over the device, damning himself for his weakness the entire time.
The man pocketed the control crystal and placed his hands back atop the table. “You’ve made the right choice. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but someday you’ll see the wisdom in it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Lar’ragos grumbled as he toggled the menu reader set into the table top and ordered himself another stein of lager.
The man rose to leave, but paused as he stepped out of the booth. “One more word of caution. He’s still out there, and he’s planning something.”
Lar’ragos started at this admission, and looked to the man with a fearful expression. “What does he want now?”
“Your friend‘s head on a stick,” was the man’s portentous reply. “He has debts to pay.” With that the stranger vanished back into the shadows.
Plagued with dark thoughts but strangely unburdened, Pava Lar’ragos sat alone with his drink and pondered both past and future.
Eventually, the community of scientists and researchers had grown sufficiently to request incorporation into the nearby Rudyard Colonies, and thus became an officially represented Federation colony.
That same colony maintained a small Starfleet outpost that had originally served to protect the community from Cardassian incursions, though the system had never suffered an attack, not even at the height of the Dominion War. Starfleet personnel who occasionally needed a break or a place to lie low for awhile regularly took up residence here, assigned to whatever make-work posting was offered.
The facility’s most recent addition was one Lieutenant Pava Lar’ragos, formerly of the starship Gibraltar. Off shift, he sat at a table in the smoky tavern in the city’s commercial concourse. Clad in civilian clothing, he was unshaven, unwashed, and well on his way to being drunk. A half-empty stein of Kelvan lager sat atop his table, flanked by two of it’s now empty brethren.
Lar’ragos reached out a hand and gently flicked the flat, yellow tear-drop shaped crystal that lay in front of him. It spun slowly and it’s facets caught the dim illumination from the overhead lamp, sending twirling motes of light careening around the otherwise empty booth.
He was working up the courage to do something foolish. It was idiotically reckless, he knew, and broke so many rules, regulations, and ethics that if successful it would likely take a panel of experts years of investigation to truly grasp the magnitude of his crime.
Still, others had accomplished such unlikely goals before. The odds against him succeeding were astronomical, true, and the price of victory would no doubt be terrible. And yet, there was precedent.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” A voice sounded from out of the shadows. It wasn’t an overheard snippet of random conversation, Lar’ragos knew. It had been directed at him.
The Starfleet officer gave no indication that he’d heard, but beneath the table his hand grasped the combat knife secured within a cargo pocket of his baggy pants. He briefly wondered at his own reaction. He was in a bar in a safe and civilized commercial promenade on a Fed colony. Even if the person who had addressed him had surmised his plans, Lar’ragos was at little risk of physical harm. He decided that some habits, some reactions, were simply so ridiculous as to be pathetic. Here he was in a pen of sheep, doing his best to play himself off as just another one of the flock, and yet he still fancied himself the wolf in the fold. Lar’ragos let go the knife and let his hand drop into his lap.
“Is this seat taken?” The voice spoke again. A man stepped into the pool of light cast by the table’s lamp. He was tall and thin, his dark hair cropped close to an angular skull. Human by the look of him, Lar’ragos surmised. But then, he reflected, many people made that unwarranted assumption about him as well. The man’s pale skin contrasted sharply with his dark clothes, especially the worn leather-like jacket that was draped over his lanky shoulders.
The man slid into the booth across from Lar’ragos and gave the El Aurian a knowing smile. “I know what you’re thinking, mate. It’s not worth it.”
Lar’ragos examined the man silently for a moment, then took a slow draught from his lager. “You Temporal Investigation types do get around, don’t you?”
“Time cop?” the man blurted, clearly amused by the notion. “I don’t think so. Lousy pay and even worse equipment. Have you ever seen one of your Federation’s Mark I time pods?” His eyes widened and he laughed again, “Oh, of course you haven’t. Well, a fellow like yourself should still be around by the time they field them. Stay away from them ‘til they work out the kinks.” He shivered for emphasis, “Chronometric distortive necrosis, not a pretty picture.”
Lar’ragos spun the crystal idly as he focused his formidable attentions on his guest, “Who are you and what do you want?”
“I’m just a bloke here to offer some friendly advice,” the man replied gamely.
“I don’t have any friends,” Lar’ragos said coldly. “Not anymore.”
“Alright, then. We’ll call it a stern word of warning if you like.” The man’s otherwise jovial tone took on an edge.
“Fine, we’ll skip the whole ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ routine. I have to do this.” Even to Lar’ragos the argument sounded flimsy.
“No, you don’t.” The man’s eyes burned into their counterparts. Lar’ragos, usually so adept at reading other’s motivations, found his senses overwhelmed by a flood of conflicting information. There seemed to be no end to the depths contained in those eyes. Pain and loss lived within, and both cocooned a whisper of madness.
“You think it’s the right thing to do,” the man said. “Go back and save your friend. Simple, right? You don’t know the half of it. You’re an amateur trying to perform a surgery after a single course in basic biology, only the stakes here are much higher. You foul this up, and you could annihilate her, yourself and everything else on this plain of reality.”
Lar’ragos picked up the crystal and held it up to the light. “I’ve got plenty of time to teach myself what I need to know. All the time in the universe, in fact.”
“Oh, please!” The man rolled his eyes. “There’s a reason you surrendered that craft in the first place. You didn’t trust yourself to keep it, and this situation shows exactly why that was the right decision.”
“It’s sitting in a storage bunker someplace, collecting dust. After all the death and destruction he wrought with the damned thing, you’d object to my doing some good with it?”
A look of disbelief washed over the man’s features. “And what do you suppose twisted him? He didn’t start out a maniac. Far from it. He was a scholar, a scientist, a person of deep compassion and a yearning to help those less fortunate.” The man reached out and took a drink from Lar’ragos’ mug, then gestured to nowhere in particular with his finger. “But he wasn’t ready for what he found out there. He got in too deep, made too many compromises in an attempt to do the right thing. For all his good intentions, when his blundering killed entire worlds and wiped out whole timelines, he cracked under the guilt.” The man sighed deeply, “Ever since it’s been ‘king of this’ and ‘ruler of that’... the whole id unchained kind of thing.”
His eyes narrowed and Lar’ragos growled, “You think that’s what I’m doing? Cracking up?”
“Not yet,” the man’s smile returned, and suddenly he was ebullient. “We’re survivors, you and me. Oh, we’re both sodded wrecks in our own right, but here we are after all’s said and done, still kicking.”
As he gripped the crystal in his hand, Lar’ragos spoke quietly. “As much as I mourn her loss, this is less about her than it is my friend, my captain. She died a hero’s death. Before her time, sure, but that’s how she’d have wanted to go out. My friend, on the other hand, can’t forgive himself. It seems he’s decided to poison every remaining relationship he has in order to punish himself for his sins.”
“That’s his choice,” the man observed as a hint of compassion crept into his voice. “What’s that got to do with you?”
“It’s taken me four-hundred years to forgive myself for the things I’ve done,” Lar’ragos said, barely above a whisper. “He doesn’t have that long.”
“That’s his battle to fight, not yours. You can help him to the extent that he’ll allow it, but bringing her back won’t change how he feels about the choices he’s made. Besides, what gives you the right? You’re not a god.”
That gave Lar’ragos pause. He finished his drink, wiping his mouth with one sleeve. He‘d finally sorted the wheat from the chaff and had managed to pin down a handful of vivid images from his mystery guest’s past. “Really, that’s rich coming from the guy who makes life or death decisions for entire civilizations on a regular basis.”
The man’s quirky smile appeared once again, “That’s because I’m the one who picks up the pieces.”
“That by choice or assignment?”
“Choice,” the man affirmed. “There’s simply nobody else to do it. Not anymore.” He extended a hand. “Give me the crystal and you won’t have to torture yourself with this anymore. It will be my burden.”
The weight of the device was substantial, though Lar’ragos sensed that was due more to it’s significance than it’s actual mass.
“You’re old enough to know better,” the man pressed.
Slowly, hesitantly, Lar’ragos handed over the device, damning himself for his weakness the entire time.
The man pocketed the control crystal and placed his hands back atop the table. “You’ve made the right choice. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but someday you’ll see the wisdom in it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Lar’ragos grumbled as he toggled the menu reader set into the table top and ordered himself another stein of lager.
The man rose to leave, but paused as he stepped out of the booth. “One more word of caution. He’s still out there, and he’s planning something.”
Lar’ragos started at this admission, and looked to the man with a fearful expression. “What does he want now?”
“Your friend‘s head on a stick,” was the man’s portentous reply. “He has debts to pay.” With that the stranger vanished back into the shadows.
Plagued with dark thoughts but strangely unburdened, Pava Lar’ragos sat alone with his drink and pondered both past and future.
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Doctor who?
