Disclaimer: Not surprisingly in a fanfic, I don't own any of these characters. Star Trek still belongs to Paramount, and Babylon 5 belongs to JMS, along with all of their associated stuff.

When the Looking Glass Shatters

Part II - Futureshock

Chapter 1

"Alright Doctor, we're here, where's the circus?" Sheridan tried not to appear as impatient as he felt, but he didn't think he was succeeding. Wait, he thought sourly, why am I trying not to look impatient? I damn well am! True to Picard's word, there had been a meeting that morning, but the outcome was less than he could have hoped for. Two hours of deliberation had yielded no new answers for their current dilemma, punctuated by exhortations from Junior to make their way to Earth. Well, he had to admit to himself, it had indeed yielded answers... just none he liked. Lieutenant Commander Data had announced that there was no sign of life at all in this version of the Epsilon Eridani system, which had hit Babylon 5's command staff harder than any of them would admit. Until they'd seen for themselves that the system was barren, it had been easy to dismiss the very notion of being in another universe.

Chief Engineer LaForge, Lennier, and Data had pooled their abilities, and not been able to come up with any way of returning to their respective realities. Stephen Franklin was the only member of the command staff left behind, and he hadn't been himself lately, sometimes spending more than twenty-four hours at a stretch buried in Medlab. That problem aside, Franklin was the chief medical officer, not a command officer. As a result, Sheridan was desperately worried about the situation back on his station, but lacking any other alternatives, had finally agreed with Picard to proceed directly for Earth.

The Enterprise was towing the White Star through warp, both ships grappled together with their respective tractor beams, and they'd now been in transit for several hours. That brought Sheridan back to his current frustration.

Across from him, standing beside the large holodeck doors, Julian Bashir grinned hugely, giving no outward sign that he'd even noticed Sheridan's dour mood. "Trust me, you'll love this." He held up one of the commonplace Starfleet data padds, and turned away from the people gathered around him, to face the large holodeck doors.

Ezri Dax stood on tiptoe, which still put her several inches below the doctor's own height, and tried to peek over his shoulder. "What is it, Julian?" she asked plaintively, trying and failing to read the text on the tiny screen.

"Hang on," he said, not looking up while his fingers danced across the small controls. "Let's just say that Quark isn't going to be too pleased with me when we get back to Deep Space Nine."

The reference meant nothing to Sheridan, and beside him, Delenn's furrowed brow told him that she hadn't understood either, and what's more, she was just as impatient as he was, though trained diplomatic savvy had eliminated nearly all of the outward signs of that. Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he looked for Ivanova's expected reaction with grim amusement. If even Delenn was feeling the strain, Ivanova would be just short of frothing at the lips.

To his disgruntled surprise, she returned his gaze coolly from over the top of a steaming coffee mug. It was probably her fourth cup today. He nearly chuckled, recalling her reaction that morning when she'd figured out how to make the computer produce a cup of honest-to-God coffee, without having to sneak some plants into hydroponics, and waiting weeks for just enough beans for a few pots. After the meeting, Data had tried to explain the replication process to her, not entirely successfully.

"Commander," he had said, after she'd pointed out the fortune of the Enterprise crew in having plenty of real coffee aboard, "our replicators are capable of producing a large menu of items from a number of worlds. Since we do not need to carry the items themselves, the actual form the food takes is largely a factor of the accuracy of the replication program."

"Wait a minute," she'd replied looking down into her cup, "so you don't actually carry any coffee aboard? Then what is this?"

"Coffee," Data had answered unhelpfully. "The replicator rearranges the correct mass of matter into a chemical duplicate of the coffee and the cup it is held within."

She'd set the cup down hard. "So it's not real?"

He'd frowned at that. "In every sense of the word, it is entirely real."

"But it doesn't come from a bean."

"No."

"Then it's not real." She'd sighed happily, and taken another sip. "But I don't care, because it tastes real."

Data's reaction had been priceless. He'd looked like someone who'd bitten into a lemon coated with syrup while being informed that Cleveland, Ohio, was the geographical center of the universe. Ivanova had wandered off while Data's face had tried to decide what the proper expression to assume was.

So Ivanova was now mellowly sipping yet another cup, and was clearly enjoying it enough that any new surprises were not worth a full scale tantrum, even though it was now nearly a full day since they'd escaped the Shadow attack in Sector 14, and there seemed to be no progress in getting back to where they belonged.

Marcus hovered nearby, considering the doors warily, lest another holographic monster come charging through. He was also holding a cup of coffee in one hand, while the other tapped out a tuneless beat on his thigh, never straying far from where his fighting pike hung. Sheridan had no doubt that if there was another holo-monster involved in Bashir's plans, Marcus would be more than ready for it.

His thoughts were jarred back to the immediate present by the computer's atonal whistle, announcing the readiness of whatever Bashir was planning.

The doctor grinned cheerfully, and turned back to them. "I thought after all we've been through, we all deserved a night on the town."

Punctuating his words, the heavy holodeck doors slid apart with a mechnical vibration.

"Julian, you didn't..." Ezri said warningly. Then she breathed, "You did," with such a tone of dismay, that Marcus chuckled in response.

Bashir strolled in, leading the way into a warmly lit room, which Sheridan quickly realized was a nightclub of a type that had gone out of style centuries ago. The place was empty, as far as he could see, save for a bartender behind a long counter of polished teak and worn brass. A stage was set into one wall in a prominent position easily visible from any of the small tables arranged in front of it.

Gesturing for everyone to clear the doorway and enter the room, Bashir crooked his arm around Ezri's, and wandered towards the stage, just as a small door along the same wall swung open. It seemed anachronistic aboard a starship, a wooden door with a hinge, although in their present surroundings, the smooth holodeck archway felt even more out of place. Striding confidently into the room, a thin, silver-haired man in a tuxedo stopped short upon seeing the small uniformed crowd in front of him. A beaming smile creased his sharp features as he called out, "Hey, palie-boy!"

Bashir grinned and waved. "Hello Vic." Turning back to the others, he said, "This is Vic Fontaine. He runs this place."

Vic came around the nearest table, sparing everyone in the group a friendly look as he shook Bashir's hand. "So, they finally finished the holosuite maintenance?"

Looking chagrined, Bashir shook his head, avoiding Ezri's glare. "Not exactly."

Peering past the doctor, Vic examined the holodeck doors and what he could see of the corridor beyond, then whistled. "Not in Kansas anymore, am I?"

"Welcome to the starship Enterprise," Bashir said expansively.

Vic whistled again, more appreciatively this time. He crossed to the arch, and leaned forward as if to look around the corner, and down the length of the corridor. His head abruptly vanished.

Sheridan, who had been trying to figure out some of Fontaine's and Bashir's odder comments, felt his jaw drop, and behind him, heard Ivanova squeak, and her thankfully emptied mug drop to the carpeted floor.

Almost before he was sure he had seen what he had just seen, Vic leaned back, a wry smile on his suddenly existant face. "Whoops, sometimes forget myself. So," he continued, gesturing to the small mob gathered nearby, "who are our guests? Those sure don't look like Starfleet uniforms, and they don't have bumpy foreheads... or spots," he added, tilting his head.

Deciding to assert himself before he completely lost control of the situation, Sheridan stuck out a hand. "Captain John Sheridan." He pointed to each of the others in turn, "My first officer, Commander Susan Ivanova, Marcus Cole, and Ambassador Delenn."

"Hey, any friends of Julian's and Ezri's, are friends of mine," Vic said cheerfully. Then he backpeddled. "Ambassador, did you say? We don't get too many dignitaries at a place like this. Pleased to make your aquaintence." Donning his most charming air, he bowed deeply, and raised Delenn's hand to his lips. Having seen many strange greetings from different races during her tenure on Babylon 5, she took it in stride, and returned the bow gracefully, allowing a smile to show in her eyes.

"It is my pleasure as well, Mr. Fontaine," she said. His encounter with the door, and its results, had startled her more deeply than she cared to admit, even to herself. When he'd first come into the room, she'd believed him to be another member of the starship's crew, perhaps in suitable costume. Now that she know he was a holodeck creation, she did not know quite how to proceed. More disturbingly, however, was that he seemed to know that he was in fact a mere trick of light and force-fields. She wondered briefly how he'd reacted when he learned about his status, or if he'd been programmed to know. Humans had a curious habit of outsmarting themselves, she reflected. No Minbari would have had the gall to attempt to upsurp the universe's perogative for creating life.

Vic grinned again, and leaned back to get a better look. Delenn noticed that his eyes lingered for a moment on the bone crest that delicately framed her chesnut hair. "Please, please, just Vic." He nodded to the crest, and went on, "So, Ambassador, which race do you represent in particular? I don't think I've ever seen your kind before, and I'd thought I'd seen 'em all."

"You wouldn't have," Bashir cut in knowingly. "Our guests aren't exactly from our neck of the woods." It was amazing how quickly he fell back into those obscure turns of phrase around the holograph, he thought, mildly amused. "Actually, they're from an alternate universe... which is in fact where we all are right now, but I'm getting ahead of myself."

"No kiddin'?" Vic replied. "Do you people just go looking for every crazy thing in the universe on purpose, or something? Don't answer that," he implored, with a long suffering sigh. "Alright Julian, but Quark told me all about the last time you guys did this, and I'm telling you now, if I see an evil twin of anybody, I'm shuttin' down fast. Capiche'?"

Palms out in mock resignation, Bashir chuckled. "Understood, but I don't think that's going to be a problem."

"Sure, whatever you say, palie-boy," said Vic skeptically. Then his expression lightened considerably, and he easily slipped back into his practiced hosting routine, calling over to the silent barman, "Yo, Frankie, lay out a nice spread. The whole nine yards!" As the bartender disappeared through a doorway behind the bar, Vic turned back. "Well, if you're all looking for a good time, you came to the right joint. Mi casa es tu casa.

"In the meantime, Ms. Ambassador," he went on, gallantly crooking his elbow, and placing Delenn's hand in it, "why don't you tell me a little more about where you come from? It's about time these jokers stumbled on to a nice alternate universe for a change."

"You wouldn't have said that if you'd seen our hasty departure," Bashir said ruefully to their retreating backs. Ezri snorted, and pushed him down into a padded chair at the nearest table. She took the seat on the other side, so she could talk to him directly, over an expanse of white tablecloth and a small candle burning cheerfully within a low glass jar.

Delenn glanced over her shoulder, and catching Sheridan's eyes, shrugged her shoulders in tacit apology, before turning back to Vic Fontaine. A fleeting feeling of jealousy and resentment washed over him, before he could supress the irrational emotion. Something of it must have shown on his face, for Ivanova's brows knitted, and she quietly asked, "Captain, is there something wrong?"

Shaking his head, and turning his eyes to his second in command, Sheridan said, "No, it's nothing, Commander."

"In that case, why don't we all just claim a table?" Marcus suggested. "We may as well sit back and soak up some illusory ambience. What the hell else is there to do?" That remark was uncomfortably truthful, and cast an unpleasent dampener on further conversation. For indeed, at the moment, there was literally nothing they could do towards getting home. Marcus strode over to another nearby table, a discreet distance from where Ezri and Bashir were talking in low voices, and helpfully pulled out one of the chairs, and motioned for Ivanova to sit.

Ignoring the chivalrous gesture, Ivanova walked past him, and dragged a chair over from another table, which she uncermoniously dropped into. Looking crestfallen, Marcus sat in the chair he'd drawn up for Ivanova. Sheridan sighed as he settled into the other chair, the original second at the table, and tapped his fingers broodingly. A glance across the room showed him where their erstwhile host had gone, leaning against the bar, apparently engrossed in conversation with Delenn, who was ramrod straight on the barstool, hands folded primly in her lap.

"So, has anyone seen Garibaldi since this morning?" Ivanova asked, breaking the silence.

Sheridan perked up. "Now that you mention it, no, I haven't." He frowned, suddenly wondering what kind of trouble his security chief could find aboard a single starship. It was a sure bet, if there was some to be found, Michael Garibaldi would be the one to step in it up to his knees.

There was a long pause, which gave Ivanova a moment to notice Marcus's conspicuous silence. "Ok, Marcus," she said finally, giving him time to wilt under her glare. "What do you know?"

Marcus tried hide his smile by looking cowed. "I think I've got a fairly good idea where he might be..."

*****

"And this," Worf said proudly, hoisting a weapon from a broad rack in front of them, "is the newest model of the type three phaser rifle. It has computer assisted targeting, a full range of settings from light stun to outright disintigration, a direct link to the ship's computer, and power pack capable of sustaining seventy-two seconds of continuous fire on maximum setting." He handed the sleek, yet stubby rifle over to his audience.

Garibaldi whistled, and turned it over in practiced hands, examining the black padded stock and dark grey trimmings. Pulling it tight against his shoulder, he pivoted, squinting down the length of the barrel towards the wall at the other end of the aisle of similar weapons racks that lined the armory. "This top piece interferes with the sighting plain," he said critically, lowering the weapon and flicking the offending attatchment with one finger. Where a scope would have been on a PPG assault rifle, or old slugthrower, was a boxy, light-grey chunk of equipment that featured a pulsating blue glow where the eyepiece would have been on a scope. "How're you supposed to aim it?" By this point, he was fairly certain he was missing something that should have been obvious. It had been that way with the other weapons the Klingon had shown him.

Worf's face twisted into what may have been an amused expression, though Garibaldi still wasn't sure if he was reading those facial movements correctly, and he flicked a tiny touchpad on the top of the scope attatchment. Instantly, the blue glow resolved into a tiny video image, complete with rangefinder data, what appeared to be friend-or-foe recognition markers, and a small targetting reticle. Pressing another key on the top of the scope, Worf wordlessly demonstrated how to zoom in and out. "Normally, the targetting sensors are left off-line aboard a starship," Worf explained. "In such close quarters, the weapons are normally sufficiently accurate fired from the hip."

"What about recoil?" Waiting for Worf's answer, Garibaldi hefted the weapon again, and sighted it down the aisle on a wall panel at the other end.

"Negligible. It is a particle weapon, so there is a kenetic shock on the target, but it is almost completely dampened by the rifle." Worf reached across to another rack, and pulled out a weapon that was unlike any of the others in the room. "This is a Klingon disruptor pistol." He bared his teeth, adding, "Klingon weapons designs do not include such... amenities. There are only three settings, equivalent to heavy stun, kill, and disintigrate."

Lowing the phaser rifle, Garibaldi eyed the oddly gothic pistol clamped in Worf's hand. It almost looked like something you could cause grievous injury with, without the hassle of pulling the trigger. "I'll take your word for it," he said. "So how does that stun setting work, anyway?"

"It is sufficient against most beings with central nervous systems." Seeing that Garibaldi was apparently looking for something more, Worf amended, "Perhaps a demonstration is in order. Follow me." He replaced the disruptor on the rack, and lifted a second phaser rifle, turning to walk towards opposite end of the armory from where they'd entered, and the dour noncom who'd let them in.

Still clutching the rifle Worf had handed him earlier, Garibaldi followed, curiosity getting the better of him. After turning through one narrow passage between weapons racks, then around another corner, he found himself staring at a set of very familiar-looking doors. "Hey, these look like the doors that led to the – "

Worf turned to look over his shoulder at the smaller human, as he keyed the doors open.

" – ah," Garibaldi finished, gazing into the pale grey gridlines of another holodeck. Hesistating only a beat, he followed Worf into the room – a smaller one than the last one he'd seen, his eyes told him, but one thankfully free of charging monsters. Behind them, the heavy doors rumbled shut.

"Computer," Worf commanded, glancing reflexively upward, "load combat simulation, level one."

Garibaldi couldn't resist a smirk when Worf's confident demeanor collapsed at the computer's reply; "Unable to comply. Requested program does not exist."

"It has been several years since my last tenure as security chief aboard a starship," Worf offered by way of explanation. "No doubt they have since changed the program names." He took a step backwards into the doorway arch, focusing his attention on a flat black display panel.

"No doubt," Garibaldi echoed drily.

Worf ignored the slight jibe, and ordered, "Computer, display a complete listing of tactical simulation programs."

Moving to stand next to the big Klingon so he could see the screen more clearly, Garibaldi watched as a list in orange text popped into existence. Almost immediately, Worf growled. Leaning in closer to read the text, he quickly saw why.

The list was relatively long, and broken into segments. Under the segment labelled "Level 1 Infantry Combat Simulations" was a listing of perhaps fifteen or twenty programs. All but one had an additional tag in parenthesies attatched, reading simply, "Incomplete." The remaining one said only, "Ancient West."

Scowling darkly, Worf grumbled, "I iwill/i be speaking to Mr. Boral about this." He really had no desire to see that miserable program, or any variation on it, ever again. But he had promised the human a demonstration, and the more difficult scenarios would be a less than conducive learning environment. Gritting his teeth, Worf plunged ahead, and said, "Computer, activate Ancient West scenario."

Even knowing what to expect, Garibaldi jumped upon suddenly finding himself outdoors, bathed in sunlight – blindingly bright after the more comfortable light level in the armory. The overhanging doorway arch they were standing in was nestled in position from where they were looking down a dusty, sawdust-packed road, leading away from them between rough wooden structures, and a white clapboard church at the end of the path. He became gradually aware that he could smell an unpleasent blend of rotting wood, horse dung, and woodsmoke.

Worf led him out from the arch, which helpfully shimmered and vanished behind them. They were still within the shade provided by an overhang above their heads, which Garibaldi realized was the facing for a stables. He was surprised when Worf shoved a wide-brimmed hat into his hands, and put one on himself. He hadn't even seen where Worf had aquired them from, though he hoped he looked a little less rediculous than the Klingon, who's nearly white hat contrasted sharply with his alien features, dark grey uniform, and swaying ponytail.

"Computer!" Worf called out, stepping into the sunlight, "Create a barricade facing the town, defensive index three." With an audible electronic buzz, several items appeared directly in front of Worf, clearly a defensive position, but arranged to look natural, composed of a small pile of bricks and several sealed wooden barrels, reeking of fresh pitch.

Glancing back, Worf motioned for Garibaldi to take up a position behind the barricade. Then, still standing, Worf said, "Computer, begin program."

The town, which had been eerily silent, suddenly erupted into life. Horses neighed from in the stable, and churchbells rang poderously, twelve times. Garibaldi felt like he was in the middle of a bad vid; high-noon, deserted streets, and a wooden building decked out with classical saloon doors could bode nothing good.

Sure enough, someone shouted, and turning to follow the sound, Garibaldi thought he saw movement in a second floor window. The muzzle flash that followed was startling, but his instincts kicked in, and as he dropped, he heard the bullet crack overhead. Definately not in Kansas anymore, his mind shouted irrationally. More like Arizona, or New Mexico.

Beside him, something howled, and he glimpsed a blast of orange light as Worf put his phaser rifle to use. He straightened as far as possible in his crouched position, deciding that he wasn't going to let Worf show him up. He scanned the area carefully, before picking out someone rushing out of the saloon entrance, towards a water trough, which he apparently intended to use as cover for the lever-action rifle he carried. Tapping the scope button the way Worf had showed him, Garibladi cranked the power setting to it's lowest, and swiveling, caught the runner in mid-step. He sprawled flat as the beam caught him, but almost immediately, was making a woozy attempt to stand and continue his flight. Well, that explains what 'stun' means.

Worf dropped the groggy shooter with a hit that pitched him forwards into the dirt, his back a mass of scorched flesh and burned cloth. Garibaldi winced in sympathy; that looked too familiar.

Thumbing his weapon up several settings, he took aim at a sharpshooter on the saloon roof, ignoring the puffs of dust kicked up by nearby shots and the whine of bullets that were slowly chewing up their barricade. His first squeeze of the trigger sent the gunman reeling – a dangerous situation on the edge of any roof, and he went over the side, impacting the ground with a meaty crunch.

"Heavy stun," Worf said, observing the shot critically. "If he had not fallen, he would have come around in several hours."

"I can see the use in that," Garibaldi returned. Indeed, he was suddenly wishing the two Starfleet vessels had shown up a day or two earlier. It would have been awfully nice to be able to just stun the whole room during that barroom brawl he'd broken up the morning of their arrival. "What about highest setting?" he asked, professional curiosity getting the better of him.

Worf grinned ferally. "Observe," he said, pointing out a small blacksmith's forge, where at least several shooters seemed to be hiding. He pulled the trigger.

It took them both almost a second to realize the weapon hadn't fired. "Weapons settings above twelve are not available in level one tactical simulations," the computer announced.

Growling his frustration, Worf said, "Computer, override weapons settings lockout, authorization, Worf, Lieutenant Commander, access command, cHaDI'ch."

The computer chirped a response, and Worf leaned into the rifle.

One entire wall of the blacksmith shed simply ceased to exist. Garibaldi winced at the sharp sound of the blast, and the fate of those inside, even if they were just holographs. There were no flames, or even charred bits of wood – there was only dust and smoke rapidly clearing in the strong breeze, pieces of shattered wood strewn across the ground, and a hole in the wall that a tank could drive through. Without changing settings, Worf turned the rifle on one of the gunmen who'd foolishly left cover to examine the damage. Instead of the gory explosion Garibaldi was half-expecting, the man simply vanished in a bright orange glow.

"I hope you're gonna be payin' for that," someone drawled behind them.

Even Worf looked startled, Garibaldi noticed with grim amusement. They'd both made a classical blunder, too busy seeing what the weapons did, to pay as much attention to their surroundings as they should have. But the big square-jawed man behind them didn't seem inclined to attack.

He glanced at them both, then spat a reddish wad of tabacco into the dust at his feet. Someone else, hidden in the shadows of the stable, leaned out around a post, and called, "John, I think they're trying to make a run around the sides, and cut us off here."

The big man behind them grimaced, and nodded, then looked meaningfully down at Worf and Garibaldi. "No more demolition. If I hear another place fall down... well, I'll have my eye on ya'."

When he turned away, Garibaldi caught a glint of metal on his chest. A sheriff's badge.

"There should be no unnecessary characters in a tactical simulation," Worf said, voicing his disapproval. "Computer, who created this simulation?"

"This level one tactical program was created by Alexander Rozhenko and Lieutenant Reginald Barclay on stardate 46271.5 , modified by Lieutenant Barclay on stardate 48271.7, and modified for training purposes by Lieutenant Boral on stardate 53511.3."

Worf muttered something unprintable in Klingon. Garibaldi wondered again how he'd gotten into this mess, and found his mind wandering. He'd heard that Doctor Bashir had arranged yet another holodeck program that he wanted them to see, and fleetingly, he hoped theirs was something a little less... explosive. He ducked as another bullet slapped into the wood next to his head.