The young lieutenant is visibly flagging. Partly this is because I have been plying him with Melurian brandy which is about a hundred and seventy proof and will melt the fillings out of your teeth out if you're not used to it. Mostly it's because, well, when he asked me if I had any stories about Starfleet's oldest heroes, I don't think he had my sorts of stories in mind.
"So, there we were," I continue, "and we were just starting to get down to business when there was this hammering on the door and a voice yelling come out, I know you're in there. And he was like, oh God, it's Janice, and I was like, what's the problem, you told me about Janice, you said she was cool, and he was like, no, that was Janice Rand, this is Janice Lester, oh God, and I was like, jeez, Jim, you could at least give me a cheat-sheet or something, couldn't you?..."
Club 47 is much classier than it used to be, back in the day. There's the dance floor, for people who like dancing, and on the other end there's the observation deck, for people who like staring at space, and in between is a seating area where people can meet and talk. Or, in my case, do rambling diatribes until innocent young lieutenants pass out. The booths are quite quiet, just at the moment, though out of the corner of my eye, I spot someone sliding into a seat nearby. A Vulcan woman, dark haired, grey-eyed, elegant in science division uniform.
"So, Jim's like, we gotta get you out of here or there's gonna be a scene, and I'm like, Jim, this is a space station, I can't exactly climb out of the window and shin down the drainpipe here, what do you suggest? And he's like, we gotta think of something, oh God, where are my pants? And this Janice is still pounding away on the door and... excuse me a minute." Something just clicked in my miswired brain. And it's not like Lieutenant Whatshisface is paying attention any more.
So I slip out of my seat, and shuffle over, and slip into the seat opposite the Vulcan woman.
She quirks her eyebrow at me. She looks like she's waiting for someone... and it's not me.
"I never forget a face," I tell her.
Her eyebrow remains quirked. "A useful accomplishment," she says with deadpan cool.
"No, I mean, I never forget a face. Even after I had my Borg implants yanked out - well, most of them." I've still got a fair bit of cyborg junk cluttering up my system. Not to mention a left eye which doesn't work properly, so I have to wear a patch most of the time. I reckon, though, even with all that, she should still remember me. "I meet someone, I remember what they look like, I can put a name to the face. Even if it's been a while. Even if it's been quite a while... Dr. T'Mev."
She opens her mouth, reconsiders whatever she's about to say, and closes it again.
"See, I know how I come to be in the twenty-fifth century," I say. "Same way I got into the twenty-third - the time warp in the Stygmalian Rift. Two and a bit more trips across that, and here I am, slightly beat up and frazzled, but still alive. And here you are, not looking a day older than when I last ran into you, at - where was it, Starbase K-22, right? Easily a century and a half ago, and you look, well, just like it was yesterday. So what's the secret, Doc? Do you moisturize?"
"Admiral Grau," she says.
"Oh, call me Ronnie, everyone does. You were very helpful when you were counselling me, back in 2263. Of course, you didn't manage to keep me out of trouble in the future, but you didn't know the whole story... come to that, I didn't know the whole story, back then." I thought I just had a normal, healthy, neurotic self-destructive obsession with the time warp that had snatched me into the future. I didn't know, at the time, that it was home to a homicidal fire god who'd sunk his claws into my brain and was trying to get a foothold in our reality. It's these little details you always miss out on.
"I can see," says T'Mev, "that we need to have a conversation. It will, regrettably, be complex in the extreme. There are factors of which you are not aware."
"You said that back at K-22," I say. "You seem awfully fond of that phrase."
"I must make a note of that," says T'Mev. She shifts in her seat, a little uncomfortably. Since she's Vulcan, this is the equivalent of a full-on panic attack in another species. "Do you recall any other details of our last meeting?"
"Plenty," I say with a snort. "You have to admit, the whole business got pretty memorable."
"Indeed?"
"All right, you weren't around for most of the shooting. That was when you left me with your little blonde friend. The one with the gosh-awful phony accent and the obvious Greek island tendencies..." I'm slowing down as the full situation starts to dawn on me. "And the... very fancy... retrofit ship.... Oh no. This is some sort of Temporal Investigations shenanigan, isn't it? Can you have just one shenanigan? Nobody'll tell me if it's one of those words that's always plural."
"I think you have the gist of it," says T'Mev. "I would caution you not to say too much more. The meeting of which you speak has... yet to occur, in my personal time line."
"Whoo boy." Where did I leave that Melurian brandy? I might need it myself, if I'm going to have to cope with temporal paradoxes. "So... should I just get lost, or what?"
"I... think it may be helpful to have your input," says T'Mev, slowly. "This is an unexpected development, and it may be possible to use it to our advantage." She purses her lips in thought. "There is a situation. It involves events in the twenty-third century, and in this time period. It might, in fact, be advantageous to have input from someone who is present in both eras. I must admit, it did not occur to me that such an eventuality might even be possible."
"Well, that's me all over," I say. "My spirit-twinkle makes life's rainbow shine bright. So... what can I do, and what shouldn't I do?"
"I assume that I will brief you on the overall situation," says T'Mev.
"Yeah, but you don't say anything about coming from the future," I say, "because I'd remember it, if you had." Oh, God, this is going to get complicated. I really envy Lieutenant Passed-out, right now.
T'Mev raises her head sharply and looks over mine. "Well," she says. "I was supposed to meet some people here, to discuss the situation... and I see they have arrived."
I turn. There are two people coming towards us, and in the largely Starfleet environment of Club 47, they kind of stand out. Especially the shambling one dressed as a hobo, with a ragged anorak sort of thing covering his upper body, and the hood not entirely shadowing his face. His face is green, with a triple-ridged forehead and scaly skin. Suliban. I remember when the Suliban were trouble, but since the end of the Temporal Cold War - if that particular shenanigan can really be said to have an end - they've been relegated to a sort of nomadic lifestyle on the fringes of Romulan space. Which, I guess, is why this one's accompanied by a Romulan. More specifically, a female Romulan in nondescript green and brown clothes, who I happen to know is an Admiral in the Republic navy; she is dark and fine-featured, and her face gives nothing away. Her name is T'Laihhae, and I haven't seen her since... the Siohonin business, which was not exactly my finest hour. She greets me with a guarded nod.
"Hold on," I say. "We first met, um, at ESD, right?"
"I had just brought the news of the Hegemony's planned attack on Andoria," says T'Laihhae. Her dark eyes narrow a little. "Is this relevant?"
"Maybe." I turn back to T'Mev. "I don't remember her from the twenty-third century."
"No," says T'Mev.
And, "No," says the Suliban, in a voice like death. "The timelines, they knot together, but not then. Here, perhaps, or nearly here.... Veronika Grau, I have to call you Ronnie, because everyone does. It's been a long time. I saw you, but you never saw me...." He sits down next to T'Mev, which can't be much fun for her if she has a sense of smell. I scootch over on the bench to make room for T'Laihhae. She gives me a very doubtful look, and takes a seat.
"Ronnie," she says. "Jolan tru. I confess I did not expect to meet you here."
"Nevertheless," says T'Mev, "it seems she is involved. It is fortunate that she happened to be here... or, rather, it was preordained that she should. Apparently."
"Knots," says the Suliban. "All tangled up in knots. All wrapped around the one knot that ought to stay tangled up for ever. Watch out for the man with the knife."
"Called Alexander?" I ask. The Suliban nods. T'Mev and T'Laihhae both look blank. "Earth cultural reference," I say, "never mind. So, who's your Suliban friend?" I ask T'Laihhae. I can't remember if Club 47 has a dress code or not. I guess not, if this guy made it through the doors.
"Thyvesh," says T'Laihhae. "He has been... very helpful... in the past."
"And will be helpful in the past, later on," says Thyvesh. Helpfully.
"Thyvesh is the last of the Suliban genetic augments from the Temporal Cold War," T'Laihhae says. "His brain is sensitized to chroniton radiation, to the extent that his consciousness is out of phase with the normal timestream. He sees things. Things that are, or will be, or might be."
"I see things," Thyvesh confirms. "Priyanapari."
Oh boy.
"I first met Thyvesh at the Priyanapari system," says T'Laihhae. "Since then... he has helped me, discreetly. But he has always chosen to remain in the background, unacknowledged. Until now."
"Because of Priyanapari," Thyvesh adds.
"Oh boy." I say it aloud, this time. Everyone looks at me. "Well," I say, "I wish you luck with it. You'll need it." I grin at T'Laihhae. "See, I was there, in the twenty-third century. So I know how it's meant to turn out."
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