Ok, finally, here it is. Somehow, this thing took me ages to write. I was inspired by a throwaway line in the new Trek film, so technically, there's a spoiler for that line in my text. It's nothing significant, though.
He's been staring into the darkness for as long as he can remember, but it never gets any clearer than this: shadowy figures in the distance, blurry and featureless, whispering words he doesn't understand. Accompanied by a nagging feeling of urgency lingering in his heart. Fleeting glimpses of a life before the darkness, but never substantial enough to grasp them.
*****
Normally, cadet cruises are tedious affairs full of dull routine drills, small humiliations and sleep deprivation. Not so this time. A few hours ago, the U.S.S. Colbert, operated by Starfleet Academy sophomores under the supervision of a few officers, discovered a small, quaint ship slowly drifting through space.
Through one of its cramped and low-ceilinged corridors three cadets move briskly, over-motivated and overconfident during their first away mission.
Stopping abruptly in front of a locked bulkhead, Ayoka Edusei, specialising in Engineering, shouts, “Hey, the energy source is behind this door.”
Hearing this, their team leader, a blonde, handsome man in his twenties, grins broadly at her and bursts through the door, momentarily disregarding his combat training.
“I don't believe it!” he exclaims enthusiastically as his flashlight reveals the four cryogenic units, only one of them activated.
“Kind of creepy,” the older Doctor, who entered the room behind him, mutters.
“I'll see if I can do something about the light,” Ayoka says and starts working a control board integrated in one of the walls.
A few minutes later, the lights come on, courtesy of the mobile power unit they have brought along.
“Neat!” the team leader smiles at the African engineer, ever the charmer.
Suspiciously eyeing this, the dark-haired doctor steps up to the cryo unit, his acerbic remarks unintelligible as he mumbles them to himself while waving his medical scanner over the unit's occupant.
“Definetely human,” he starts to say before being interrupted by his comrade, who has rubbed off the dust of the unit's transparent lid in the meantime.
“Not just any human,” he gasps, finding himself unexpectedly face to face with his childhood hero.
Shooting his friend an annoyed glance, the doctor sighs, “Care to enlighten us, Jim?”
“Don't you know who that is?”
“I'm a doctor, not an encyclopedia.”
“That's Jonathan Archer, gone missing about 80 years ago.”
*****
Whatever he tries to do, he can't get any closer to the shadowy figures receding before him. And however hard he tries to listen he can't figure out a word of what they are saying. Are they even trying to tell him something? Deserted and bodyless in the darkness he's all concentration, willing it to make sense. In all the eternity he's been here, he hasn't succeeded.
Suddenly, the scenery is changing, for the first time ever, his hopes for clarity dashed as the silhouettes slowly fade away. The darkness is still there, its colour changed to a reddish grey. This is not reality. This is just a dream.
*****
He wakes up, blinking into a brightness he hasn't known for a long time, and hears the firm voice of a young man say, “Welcome back, sir.”
Out of reflex, he answers in a rasped voice, “Don't call me sir.”
While he's waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lighting level of his surroundings he sits up, a feat that turns out to be much more wearisome than anticipated. I wonder how long I've been in here.
Three young humans, none of them older than 30, look at him curiously. They wear what appear to be silver coloured EV suits, only thinner than any he has ever seen. One of them, a dark-haired man, holds a scanner in his direction whose type he doesn't recognise. At least they've taken off their helmets. That has to count for something.
“Admiral,” the young man standing on his right – the same one who addressed him earlier - begins, “may I just say it's an honour meeting you.”
At the edge of his peripheral vision Jonathan Archer catches the man with the scanner rolling his eyes. Looking at the beaming young man to his right, he can restrain himself just in time not to correct him that he's actually retired.
“I'm sorry, are you Starfleet?” he asks him, sounding half insecure, half incredulous.
“Yes, we are.” the blonde man replies proudly.
His movements still unsteady, the retired admiral points to the insignia on the man's ev suit. “Sure? It's turned in the wrong direction.”
“Um. I assure you we are who we claim to be, sir.”
There's the feeling of urgency again. He's supposed to reveal to them something important. Closing his eyes, he tries to remember. A chaotic stream of memories crushes down on him - a nervous Vulcan on the couch in his house, travelling on a Tellarite ship in questionable condition, a shoddy bar on a space station in the middle of nowhere, an ambush and then...
“Romulans!” he blurts out, “they look like Vulcans. Probably infiltrated us for years.”
“Yeah, we know that.” the alleged Starfleet officer sadly says.
That's odd, Archer thinks. Or maybe I am. In a suspicious tone, he asks, “What date is it?”
“Stardate 2257 point 1 point...”
“Stardate? Sounds like something from one of Trip's silly movies.”
At the nonplussed stare of his comrade, the doctor chimes in, “I believe a CE date would be helpful.”
The cadet closes his eyes as if to calculate. “It's 2257 CE.”
“You're kidding.”
*****
The darkness stretches into infinity. The shadowy figures move closer to him, their sole listener. As they move in on all sides, their colour changes to a sickly grey. More and more details become discernible. He can even see their faces, but he will never feel the satisfaction of recognition, as undistinguishable as they are. The spectres whisper to him, slowly getting louder. He wants nothing more than to escape from their encirclement but there's nowhere to escape to, just more darkness, in which the figures would catch up with him, anyway. He knows because he has already tried that. Countless times. For all eternity he's trapped here.
*****
He wakes up from a fitful sleep, his heart still heavy. Disoriented, he looks around the dark room. In its far corner the shadowy figures look on calmly, making him question his state of mind before they turn back into the silhouettes of unfamiliar furniture only moments later.
He expected to wake up in his house on Vulcan he moved into upon becoming Earth's Ambassador. Only after his gaze comes to rest on Athos, his dog, peacefully sleeping by his bed, does he figure out where he is. His own apartment.
Sighing, he falls back on his pillow and stares at the digital clock on the bedstand. 03:17 it says in neon red. Another day. 2257.8.7. Day 211 in the 23rd century for him. Will I ever get used to this?
Later that day Jonathan Archer takes his usual leisurely stroll over the grounds of Starfleet Academy, accompanied by the usual stares and whispering by the cadets and officers. Who could blame them for the slightly annoying behaviour? After all, to them he is something of a living legend, someone tumbled out of a history book or a pulp historical novel.
While Athos runs off chasing imaginary prey, the former Admiral pauses to take a look at the city skyline - oddly-shaped skyscrapers of steel and glass glimmering in the sun, shuttles circling through the clear blue sky between them. Against this backdrop, the Starfleet compound with its open fields, flower beds and palm trees seems like a green oasis, populated by people wearing mostly red and rather short skirts.
What a strange new world.
He used to think that those strange new worlds Zefram Cochrane alluded to in his famous speech at the Warp Five Complex, later modified to be Starfleet's motto, had to be located far away from Earth. As a boy, he imagined hundreds of them with unusually coloured plant life and skies, architecture defying gravity, home to aliens in all shapes and sizes. It had never occurred to him that one day, his own planet would seem so alien to him.
His first adventure in this new world was a tour of the Colbert he was given by the vessel's very excited Captain herself. All was relatively well – after all, how different could basic ship design be in this century? - until they stepped on the engineering deck, a maze of pipes somehow connected to a number of tanks that supposedly represented the warp core. As he stood there, stunned by the bright complexity, unable to grasp the basic engine setup he realised he was thoroughly out of his depth.
He remembers this exact moment well. Remembering seems to be all he is doing these days, anyway. Even now, he's on the way to another meeting with Thalyn Evan, the Professor of Modern and Contemporary History, who is eagerly interested in hearing and recording his first-hand accounts of events now deemed significant.
Of course, when he set out to do these things more than a hundred years ago, he had no idea that one day, they would become historical. So he didn't memorise most of the details nor did he have time to be overly reflective of what he was doing. Who would have thought that once, there would be a fierce debate over his motives for helping the miners on Doloran against the Klingons? He still has to think of something for that. “Because it felt right.” just wouldn't cut it.
In reality, the meetings with the professor aren't that bad. Actually, he finds chatting with the gentle and humorous professor rather pleasant. So why then is he stalling?
His musings come to an abrupt end because Athos – back from ravaging through several beds of multi-coloured Tellarite carnations no doubt – impatiently jumps around him, yapping gently.
“Yeah, you're right.” Archer says, smiling down at the dog, “We should be on our way. Thalyn's probably waiting for us already.”
At that, Athos starts dashing in the direction of Thalyn Evan's office located in an unremarkable building of beige concrete with a glass facade on one of his sides, which houses both various laboratories of the Physics department and the Academy's small History department, for reasons no one has figured out.
Following the energetic beagle at a brisk pace the former admiral can't help but chuckle over the beagle's behaviour. A present by Starfleet's current Commander in Chief, Athos was picked from several beagles of exquisite breeding because he looks strikingly similar to Porthos.
As Athos and his owner enter the building, the slender Andorian professor meets them half way down the stairs leading to her office.
“Good to see you, Sheratreth,” she says, using his honorary rank in the Andorian Imperial Guard as always. Holding up a recording device, she continues, “I remembered I have this so we might as well go for a walk outside while we talk. It's such lovely weather and it will also be more... fun for your dog.”
Archer nods in agreement, smiling.
“By the way, where is he?”
“Mmh?”
“Athos.”
“Oh no.” he groans, realising that his dog has once again run off to cause some mischief while he wasn't paying attention.
Scanning his surroundings for his elusive pet he catches a glimpse of the beagle turning right into another hallway and starts off after him.
The hallway Athos runs along, unsuspecting of the dangers of the world, leads to the experimental transporter technology lab, its door open as usual. Within, a Vulcan and a human argue.
While he is listening to his student talking himself into a rage Lorak, distinguished Academy instructor, wonders why he decided to join Starfleet 99 years ago. For the 447th time. At the time it seemed logical.
Taking advantage of a short break in the Lieutenant's flood of words, Lorak says, as calmly as possible, “Interplanetary beaming is impossible.”
“No, it isn't!” The young man exclaims and continues in a slightly calmer tone, “I already told you...”
“Mr. Scott,” the dark-skinned Vulcan interrupts him. “You are not the first to claim this. But there are theoretical limitations on the range of transporters.”
“You're not even listening!” the young man yells, his Scottish accent heavy due to his agitation. “I keep telling you that it's not as limited as you think. When Emory Erickson...”
“Emory Erickson's teleportation experiments killed several people. I always wondered why he was even allowed to continue...”
“Well, yes, but that's not the point, the point is that some of the parameters in the equations don't need to be so limited.”
“You already said that. And I concur, you might be able to beam something simple, a fruit for example, over a certain distance...”
“I'm talking about living beings!”
At the edge of his vision, Lieutenant Scott sees a dog enter the lab. In the spur of the moment, he grabs the dog, sits him down on the transporter platform and rushes over to the transporter console, shouting, “I'll show you.”
Lorak barely has time to lift his eyebrows in surprise before the dog vanishes in a spiral of yellow light. He surely didn't see that coming. Even after all these years, a deeper understanding of emotional responses still escapes him.
At that moment Archer enters the lab, slightly out of breath and sees Athos vanish.
“What the hell is going on here? What happened to my dog?”
Startled by the intrusion and stunned by the sudden appearance of his former Captain in the doorframe, Lorak needs a few moments before he is able to respond.
“Admiral,” he says insecurely, then continues in a firmer voice, “Maybe Lieutenant Scott would like to explain.”
“Of course,” the Lieutenant says cheerily. “I've beamt it to Base 6 on Mars.”
“What?”
Smiling, Scott adds, “Don't worry, Admiral, I just wanted to prove that interplanetary transports are possible.”
Having stunned everyone into silence, he turns to the communications console, raising the Mars Base. “This is Academy Lab 5. You can send the dog back, now.”
“We would, but we haven't received anything.”
“What?” Scott shouts into the microphone in disbelief. “How is that possible? The concept is waterproof.”
If looks could kill, Montgomery Scott would drop dead on the spot. Sheepishly, he looks at the furious Admiral, stuttering, “I'm sorry.”
Jonathan Archer just looks at him silently. Oh, you will be.
Strange New World
He's been staring into the darkness for as long as he can remember, but it never gets any clearer than this: shadowy figures in the distance, blurry and featureless, whispering words he doesn't understand. Accompanied by a nagging feeling of urgency lingering in his heart. Fleeting glimpses of a life before the darkness, but never substantial enough to grasp them.
*****
Normally, cadet cruises are tedious affairs full of dull routine drills, small humiliations and sleep deprivation. Not so this time. A few hours ago, the U.S.S. Colbert, operated by Starfleet Academy sophomores under the supervision of a few officers, discovered a small, quaint ship slowly drifting through space.
Through one of its cramped and low-ceilinged corridors three cadets move briskly, over-motivated and overconfident during their first away mission.
Stopping abruptly in front of a locked bulkhead, Ayoka Edusei, specialising in Engineering, shouts, “Hey, the energy source is behind this door.”
Hearing this, their team leader, a blonde, handsome man in his twenties, grins broadly at her and bursts through the door, momentarily disregarding his combat training.
“I don't believe it!” he exclaims enthusiastically as his flashlight reveals the four cryogenic units, only one of them activated.
“Kind of creepy,” the older Doctor, who entered the room behind him, mutters.
“I'll see if I can do something about the light,” Ayoka says and starts working a control board integrated in one of the walls.
A few minutes later, the lights come on, courtesy of the mobile power unit they have brought along.
“Neat!” the team leader smiles at the African engineer, ever the charmer.
Suspiciously eyeing this, the dark-haired doctor steps up to the cryo unit, his acerbic remarks unintelligible as he mumbles them to himself while waving his medical scanner over the unit's occupant.
“Definetely human,” he starts to say before being interrupted by his comrade, who has rubbed off the dust of the unit's transparent lid in the meantime.
“Not just any human,” he gasps, finding himself unexpectedly face to face with his childhood hero.
Shooting his friend an annoyed glance, the doctor sighs, “Care to enlighten us, Jim?”
“Don't you know who that is?”
“I'm a doctor, not an encyclopedia.”
“That's Jonathan Archer, gone missing about 80 years ago.”
*****
Whatever he tries to do, he can't get any closer to the shadowy figures receding before him. And however hard he tries to listen he can't figure out a word of what they are saying. Are they even trying to tell him something? Deserted and bodyless in the darkness he's all concentration, willing it to make sense. In all the eternity he's been here, he hasn't succeeded.
Suddenly, the scenery is changing, for the first time ever, his hopes for clarity dashed as the silhouettes slowly fade away. The darkness is still there, its colour changed to a reddish grey. This is not reality. This is just a dream.
*****
He wakes up, blinking into a brightness he hasn't known for a long time, and hears the firm voice of a young man say, “Welcome back, sir.”
Out of reflex, he answers in a rasped voice, “Don't call me sir.”
While he's waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lighting level of his surroundings he sits up, a feat that turns out to be much more wearisome than anticipated. I wonder how long I've been in here.
Three young humans, none of them older than 30, look at him curiously. They wear what appear to be silver coloured EV suits, only thinner than any he has ever seen. One of them, a dark-haired man, holds a scanner in his direction whose type he doesn't recognise. At least they've taken off their helmets. That has to count for something.
“Admiral,” the young man standing on his right – the same one who addressed him earlier - begins, “may I just say it's an honour meeting you.”
At the edge of his peripheral vision Jonathan Archer catches the man with the scanner rolling his eyes. Looking at the beaming young man to his right, he can restrain himself just in time not to correct him that he's actually retired.
“I'm sorry, are you Starfleet?” he asks him, sounding half insecure, half incredulous.
“Yes, we are.” the blonde man replies proudly.
His movements still unsteady, the retired admiral points to the insignia on the man's ev suit. “Sure? It's turned in the wrong direction.”
“Um. I assure you we are who we claim to be, sir.”
There's the feeling of urgency again. He's supposed to reveal to them something important. Closing his eyes, he tries to remember. A chaotic stream of memories crushes down on him - a nervous Vulcan on the couch in his house, travelling on a Tellarite ship in questionable condition, a shoddy bar on a space station in the middle of nowhere, an ambush and then...
“Romulans!” he blurts out, “they look like Vulcans. Probably infiltrated us for years.”
“Yeah, we know that.” the alleged Starfleet officer sadly says.
That's odd, Archer thinks. Or maybe I am. In a suspicious tone, he asks, “What date is it?”
“Stardate 2257 point 1 point...”
“Stardate? Sounds like something from one of Trip's silly movies.”
At the nonplussed stare of his comrade, the doctor chimes in, “I believe a CE date would be helpful.”
The cadet closes his eyes as if to calculate. “It's 2257 CE.”
“You're kidding.”
*****
The darkness stretches into infinity. The shadowy figures move closer to him, their sole listener. As they move in on all sides, their colour changes to a sickly grey. More and more details become discernible. He can even see their faces, but he will never feel the satisfaction of recognition, as undistinguishable as they are. The spectres whisper to him, slowly getting louder. He wants nothing more than to escape from their encirclement but there's nowhere to escape to, just more darkness, in which the figures would catch up with him, anyway. He knows because he has already tried that. Countless times. For all eternity he's trapped here.
*****
He wakes up from a fitful sleep, his heart still heavy. Disoriented, he looks around the dark room. In its far corner the shadowy figures look on calmly, making him question his state of mind before they turn back into the silhouettes of unfamiliar furniture only moments later.
He expected to wake up in his house on Vulcan he moved into upon becoming Earth's Ambassador. Only after his gaze comes to rest on Athos, his dog, peacefully sleeping by his bed, does he figure out where he is. His own apartment.
Sighing, he falls back on his pillow and stares at the digital clock on the bedstand. 03:17 it says in neon red. Another day. 2257.8.7. Day 211 in the 23rd century for him. Will I ever get used to this?
Later that day Jonathan Archer takes his usual leisurely stroll over the grounds of Starfleet Academy, accompanied by the usual stares and whispering by the cadets and officers. Who could blame them for the slightly annoying behaviour? After all, to them he is something of a living legend, someone tumbled out of a history book or a pulp historical novel.
While Athos runs off chasing imaginary prey, the former Admiral pauses to take a look at the city skyline - oddly-shaped skyscrapers of steel and glass glimmering in the sun, shuttles circling through the clear blue sky between them. Against this backdrop, the Starfleet compound with its open fields, flower beds and palm trees seems like a green oasis, populated by people wearing mostly red and rather short skirts.
What a strange new world.
He used to think that those strange new worlds Zefram Cochrane alluded to in his famous speech at the Warp Five Complex, later modified to be Starfleet's motto, had to be located far away from Earth. As a boy, he imagined hundreds of them with unusually coloured plant life and skies, architecture defying gravity, home to aliens in all shapes and sizes. It had never occurred to him that one day, his own planet would seem so alien to him.
His first adventure in this new world was a tour of the Colbert he was given by the vessel's very excited Captain herself. All was relatively well – after all, how different could basic ship design be in this century? - until they stepped on the engineering deck, a maze of pipes somehow connected to a number of tanks that supposedly represented the warp core. As he stood there, stunned by the bright complexity, unable to grasp the basic engine setup he realised he was thoroughly out of his depth.
He remembers this exact moment well. Remembering seems to be all he is doing these days, anyway. Even now, he's on the way to another meeting with Thalyn Evan, the Professor of Modern and Contemporary History, who is eagerly interested in hearing and recording his first-hand accounts of events now deemed significant.
Of course, when he set out to do these things more than a hundred years ago, he had no idea that one day, they would become historical. So he didn't memorise most of the details nor did he have time to be overly reflective of what he was doing. Who would have thought that once, there would be a fierce debate over his motives for helping the miners on Doloran against the Klingons? He still has to think of something for that. “Because it felt right.” just wouldn't cut it.
In reality, the meetings with the professor aren't that bad. Actually, he finds chatting with the gentle and humorous professor rather pleasant. So why then is he stalling?
His musings come to an abrupt end because Athos – back from ravaging through several beds of multi-coloured Tellarite carnations no doubt – impatiently jumps around him, yapping gently.
“Yeah, you're right.” Archer says, smiling down at the dog, “We should be on our way. Thalyn's probably waiting for us already.”
At that, Athos starts dashing in the direction of Thalyn Evan's office located in an unremarkable building of beige concrete with a glass facade on one of his sides, which houses both various laboratories of the Physics department and the Academy's small History department, for reasons no one has figured out.
Following the energetic beagle at a brisk pace the former admiral can't help but chuckle over the beagle's behaviour. A present by Starfleet's current Commander in Chief, Athos was picked from several beagles of exquisite breeding because he looks strikingly similar to Porthos.
As Athos and his owner enter the building, the slender Andorian professor meets them half way down the stairs leading to her office.
“Good to see you, Sheratreth,” she says, using his honorary rank in the Andorian Imperial Guard as always. Holding up a recording device, she continues, “I remembered I have this so we might as well go for a walk outside while we talk. It's such lovely weather and it will also be more... fun for your dog.”
Archer nods in agreement, smiling.
“By the way, where is he?”
“Mmh?”
“Athos.”
“Oh no.” he groans, realising that his dog has once again run off to cause some mischief while he wasn't paying attention.
Scanning his surroundings for his elusive pet he catches a glimpse of the beagle turning right into another hallway and starts off after him.
The hallway Athos runs along, unsuspecting of the dangers of the world, leads to the experimental transporter technology lab, its door open as usual. Within, a Vulcan and a human argue.
While he is listening to his student talking himself into a rage Lorak, distinguished Academy instructor, wonders why he decided to join Starfleet 99 years ago. For the 447th time. At the time it seemed logical.
Taking advantage of a short break in the Lieutenant's flood of words, Lorak says, as calmly as possible, “Interplanetary beaming is impossible.”
“No, it isn't!” The young man exclaims and continues in a slightly calmer tone, “I already told you...”
“Mr. Scott,” the dark-skinned Vulcan interrupts him. “You are not the first to claim this. But there are theoretical limitations on the range of transporters.”
“You're not even listening!” the young man yells, his Scottish accent heavy due to his agitation. “I keep telling you that it's not as limited as you think. When Emory Erickson...”
“Emory Erickson's teleportation experiments killed several people. I always wondered why he was even allowed to continue...”
“Well, yes, but that's not the point, the point is that some of the parameters in the equations don't need to be so limited.”
“You already said that. And I concur, you might be able to beam something simple, a fruit for example, over a certain distance...”
“I'm talking about living beings!”
At the edge of his vision, Lieutenant Scott sees a dog enter the lab. In the spur of the moment, he grabs the dog, sits him down on the transporter platform and rushes over to the transporter console, shouting, “I'll show you.”
Lorak barely has time to lift his eyebrows in surprise before the dog vanishes in a spiral of yellow light. He surely didn't see that coming. Even after all these years, a deeper understanding of emotional responses still escapes him.
At that moment Archer enters the lab, slightly out of breath and sees Athos vanish.
“What the hell is going on here? What happened to my dog?”
Startled by the intrusion and stunned by the sudden appearance of his former Captain in the doorframe, Lorak needs a few moments before he is able to respond.
“Admiral,” he says insecurely, then continues in a firmer voice, “Maybe Lieutenant Scott would like to explain.”
“Of course,” the Lieutenant says cheerily. “I've beamt it to Base 6 on Mars.”
“What?”
Smiling, Scott adds, “Don't worry, Admiral, I just wanted to prove that interplanetary transports are possible.”
Having stunned everyone into silence, he turns to the communications console, raising the Mars Base. “This is Academy Lab 5. You can send the dog back, now.”
“We would, but we haven't received anything.”
“What?” Scott shouts into the microphone in disbelief. “How is that possible? The concept is waterproof.”
If looks could kill, Montgomery Scott would drop dead on the spot. Sheepishly, he looks at the furious Admiral, stuttering, “I'm sorry.”
Jonathan Archer just looks at him silently. Oh, you will be.
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