Alternative Universe: Well, folks, because I'm insane enough to combine seaQuest, Voyager, and DS9 all together into one plot, there are some obvious changes! You'll notice the "obvious changes" quickly, I think.
Rating: Consider this PG, simply for safety's sake. There is some violence involved and some rather difficult topics at the beginning of the story (much like the stories "Away from Monsters" and "Monsters Return" in my seaQuest universe), but things quickly change in tone from there. Mild language warning, too.
Archiving: Just ask first. I'll probably say yes. :)
Cautionary Advice: (Clearing throat) Be prepared for a hefty dose of "suspension of disbelief." There is a degree of the intentionally ludicrous here. :) But remember . . . I warned you!
Length Advisory: Be prepared for a long haul! Currently, I haven't even set a cap on the number of parts involved . . .
Summary: seaQuest, plus Deep Space Nine, plus Voyager equals . . . lots of fun! Here's the short synopsis: Captain Bridger commands a starship, the Voyager both reaches earth and doesn't, and the Defiant gets sucked into yet another wormhole! Hmmm . . . crazy, isn't it? Well, of course it is . . . this is Sheri writing! :)
And now, in a galaxy far, far away (err . . . sorry, wrong story) . . .
Let us join our hero as he awakens out in the middle of nowhere . . .
Infinity: A Crossover
Part Two
You're Taking Me Where?
The blackness ended to be replaced by stark, harsh, painful white. It glared against his consciousness. It stabbed at his mind.
Sounds accompanied the white glare. Low voices tensely fought with one another, arguing over what he could not hear. Not that he cared much; he couldn't recognize the voices, making the source of their dispute of little importance to him. More voices then: several clamoring for each other's attention, then quieting moments later. He felt a cool device placed against his neck and a slight pinch, then dropped back into a hazy sleep.
*****
He suddenly awoke what felt like only moments later. His head was hot, heavy—stuffy. It hurt to move his neck or to flutter his eyelids against his cheek. He could have sworn that even the air hurt as it pressed his skin. Again, there was noise, but this time the noise seemed to be the throbbing hum of engines. As this strange thought registered on his mind, he felt something . . . shudder.
Engine shudder, his mind sleepily whispered. He'd know it any day. Though he wasn't of legal age to fly a shuttle by himself, he'd flown enough to know the feel of a shuddering warp engine if he were blindfolded. His flight supervisors said he was a natural. He couldn't agree more. The flight panels felt like an extension of his own arms. They were almost as natural to him as high-speed quantum physics, antimatter theorems, gravitational formulae, advanced mathematics, and worm holes. He was a devout physicist with an uncontrollable, almost wild passion for flying: an unusual mix, to say the least.
Inwardly, he grimaced as he listened to the engines shimmy. God, who the hell was flying this damned thing?
Suddenly, his mind caught up with the question and wondered, What the hell is this damned thing and why the hell am I here?
Two very good questions. Lucas swallowed hard, trying to calm his increasing nausea, then focused on sliding his eyes open. What met his eyes forced him to whimper and shut the same eyes as quickly as he could. All he saw was twisted, grotesque . . . sickening. It shimmered around him like some sort of holodrug run awry. His head again pounded as the light pierced his skull. God. What the hell was going on? What was wrong with him?
Images of a fist pounding into his body abruptly entered his mind. A fist and his father's crazy black eyes glaring at him, demented, absolutely beyond reasoning. The fist again pounding into him, then again, then again . . .
He groaned, the sound catching in his throat. It wasn't just a nightmare. He was sure of it. He could remember that fist all too well as it raced in towards him.
It had really happened. His father had beaten the crap out of him.
Again, he peeked his eyes open, this time forcing himself to keep them open. It was too important for him to know where he was. He had to know. He had to know with whom he was traveling, how many people there seemed to be around him, and what they seemed to be doing with him. He had to know where his father was. He had to know . . .
Slowly, the images began to coalesce, to quit shifting so badly. He could make out a face here and there, but, strangely, none of them seemed even remotely familiar. They were all about forty or so, all dressed in formal attire—some even in uniforms—but most in blaring white.
One caught him staring in confusion, then smiled slightly. "Hello, there," she said softly, breaking off a soft conversation with a woman beside her and leaning in towards him. She gently rested her hand against one of his. "How are you feeling?"
His tongue felt heavy with disuse. Again, he swallowed hard, then croaked, "O—okay, I think—"
She silenced him, carefully sliding a hand under his head and a cup of water against his lips. Gratefully, he swallowed the blessed liquid, thinking it tasted better than any concoction he had ever had before; need made anything taste all the better. He then blinked at her as she rested his head back again. "Thank—thank you. I didn't realize . . ." He paused, trying to get his sluggish mind into some semblance of order. Again, he blinked. "Um—I feel a bit dis—disoriented. Like nothing is connecting right."
She smiled at this, then patted his hand gently. "That's understandable. You were pretty badly hurt." She looked away, a frown briefly crossing her face before she looked back at him, her face again carefully cleared of anything but a calming smile. "You'll probably feel disoriented for awhile, so don't worry about it."
The lady sitting beside her whispered into her ear, then disappeared with a quick look at him. Lucas watched her leave, then asked, "Where . . . ?"
A nervous laugh. "Yeah, I was wondering when you'd get around to asking that." She sighed, again looking away from him. Lucas saw an uncomfortable frown flicker across her face, an angry drawing of the brows, before she again turned to him. He was amazed at how calm her face seemed after just seconds ago looking like she was about to explode. "You're on the Federation passenger shuttle Delphi, and we're currently approaching the Denorios Belt. We're heading towards Deep Space Nine."
Lucas could only stare at her, shocked. He blinked several times. Finally, he squeaked, "You're taking me where?"
Deep Space Nine was one of the more distant of ports in the United Federation of Planet's governing power. It was ominously close to the Cardassian border: the "no man's land" of space where skirmishes and terrorist attacks were a way of life. Since the peace treaty with Cardassia and Bajor, the Federation and Cardassia had been at a kind of hostile peace: always ready to cram hatred or knives down one another's throats, the weapon of choice depending on the level of hostilities at the time. Few but the very hardy of heart ventured into Deep Space Nine's space. It was just too close to the border. It was the Wild Wild West of Space. And, as such, Lucas couldn't even begin to imagine why on earth he was being taken there.
A soft voice caught his attention. "Nancy, I'll take over now. Thanks."
Lucas's visitor nodded, quickly patting his hand before standing and walking away without a look back. Lucas's gaze followed her away, then he looked up at his new guest. The man was stern, dignified, with eyes that almost burned into his own. The sharp, almost piercing hazel of those eyes cut through his mind, a knife against his currently over-sensitive nerves. Gracefully, he sat next to Lucas, a whip-like power in the liquid, assured movement of his muscles, in the elegant but unconscious command of his carriage. He smiled slightly.
Lucas knew this man . . . or, at least, he knew of him. He'd seen him on the vid screen during newscasts or the like. He'd even seen him at a few of his father's parties, though he'd never actually spoken to him. He was Admiral Bill Noyce, one of the uppity-ups of the Federation's powerful Starfleet. This was the same Fleet that had approached him several times about joining their ranks only to be flat-out denied. He simply didn't want to spend his entire life in space. He sure as hell didn't want to stay there so long that he no longer remembered what earth looked like, which was what many people said happened to Fleeters. He wanted a life on earth, one that didn't mean fighting a new enemy almost every week and hoping to God you didn't get eaten alive by some nasty unknown alien. He'd leave that to those who really craved death and dismemberment, thank you, anyway.
So . . . he had to wonder what Noyce was doing on the way to Deep Space Nine on a passenger shuttle that just happened to be carrying him there, too—and right after his father had just beaten the living daylights out of him.
"Hello, Lucas. It's good to see you awake," Noyce began softly, studying Lucas with an almost possessive stare. Lucas shivered, wishing the man would look at anyone but him. He looked like a cat about to pounce on dinner. "How are you feeling now?"
He supposed the question was inevitable, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why these people were here with him—or why he was "here" in the first place. He sighed. "Okay, I suppose. A bit tired and achy." That was a bald-faced lie if he'd ever heard one. He felt much worse than "tired and achy," but he wasn't so sure he wanted Noyce to know it. "Um . . . why . . . ?"
"Why are you here?" Noyce finished for him. Lucas only nodded slightly, then felt his brows raise as Noyce sighed tiredly. "That is the question, my young man. And it's a very involved question at that."
Playing with the soft blanket that he'd suddenly realized was covering him, Lucas simply waited for the man to continue. He wasn't disappointed. "It would seem your . . . father . . . and you haven't been . . . getting along well lately?"
The question was carefully asked. Lucas looked at him with a pained frown, then nodded. It wasn't as if he could deny the obvious, anyway. Judging from the painful ache and burn along his entire body, his father had pounded into his body with marvelous efficiency. No one could ever say the man wasn't thorough.
A troubled silence passed, then Noyce asked gently, "Has this happened before, Lucas?"
Lucas couldn't truly see how this was any of the Admiral's business, but he nodded slightly. "A few times," he mumbled finally, forcing himself to look up. He blinked. "But—he's never hit like this. Normally, dad just raises a fist or two, not . . ."
He couldn't complete the thought, visions of his father's hateful, enraged eyes burning through his mind. He loved his father—well, he did most of the time, at least—but now . . . how was he supposed to even walk into the same room as the man?
A charged sigh from the Admiral, and Lucas looked over in surprise; yes, the man was definitely upset. The hazel eyes sizzled, but he quickly patted Lucas's hand as he saw the questioning, almost fearful look in his eyes.
"It's all right, Lucas. There's nothing to be frightened of." He paused, looking away for a moment. He looked back at Lucas. "Your father and I have made an . . . arrangement . . . for your safety. I'm more than pleased to tell you that he won't be harming you again."
Silence. "Arrangement?" Lucas finally asked, voice taut.
Lucas's tense word echoed around the now-silent shuttle. He abruptly noticed that, except for the two of them, the shuttle seemed suddenly—empty. He knew that wasn't true, but it made him nervous nonetheless. Where had everyone gone?
Noyce dodged his question with a question of his own: "Do you recognize me, Lucas?"
Lucas glared at him, suddenly more than annoyed at the older man. Just like an adult to skirt the issue . . . "Yeah, of course I do. I may have had the hell beaten out of me, but I wasn't deprived of my brains. You're Noyce." Lucas's voice was testy, almost down-right rude. "You're the one who's been after me for the past year or so."
"Well, it's good to see you're back to your normal, polite self," Noyce said wryly, shaking his head. "And, yes, you're right. I have been after you for a year now. It's rare to see talent like yours . . ."
Again, Lucas glared at Noyce. He interrupted, "You know, I get the funny feeling your 'Arrangement' is going to be to your benefit more than mine. How about filling me in on the details of why I'm here in this absurd part of the galaxy?"
The wry grin flickered across Noyce's face, and he shook his head with a soft snicker. Lucas thought the snicker didn't quite fit with the older man's appearance, and he wondered what other types of surprises the man had up his freshly-pressed sleeves. "Always to the point, I see, Lucas. Well, that's good, actually." He paused for a moment, inhaling deeply before saying, "I have taken custody of you, Lucas."
Custody! Lucas looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Surely—surely he'd heard wrong? It had to be a mistake . . . right?
Silence. Noyce continued, "Actually, Starfleet has custody of you. We've . . ."
"Just like that?" Lucas finally managed, blinking. He sat up, ignoring the intense pain that shot through his head and body. "Just—presto! I'm yours?" He shook his head quickly, then winced as an explosion of fireworks passed before his sight. "No! I don't think so, Admiral. Absolutely, positively, irrefutably, irretrievably, impossibly—"
"Lucas, please! You'll hurt yourself," Noyce interrupted, quickly pressing him back against the shuttle bench and covering him up. He sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. Finally, he shrugged. "I know this sounds pretty bad. I know it. Believe me when I say this. But, given the circumstances, we couldn't see anything else to do. It was that or do the unthinkable: leave you with your father."
Lucas felt like he was going to achieve meltdown any second now. His anger was burning through him, boiling, seething. He gave the Admiral a scathing look. "Oh? Is that the only thing you could see doing? Either leave me with . . . him . . . or take me into your own 'protective custody' . . . a 'custody' that you've been wanting since you knew about me? That seems mighty convenient, now doesn't it?"
Noyce sighed. He shrugged, not meeting Lucas's gaze. "I know what it sounds like, Lucas. I know it sounds like . . . I planned this. I didn't. In fact, I had all of five minutes to come to a decision on what was to be done . . ."
"Five minutes!" Lucas again sat up, throwing Noyce's hand away from him. "You decide the course of my life in five minutes, and you expect me to be understanding?" He pressed his lips together, wanting to hit the man. Hell, he'd take hitting anyone right now. "You know what it sounds like to me, Admiral? It sounds like opportunism. Highway robbery. Thievery. Blackmail. Burglary. Bribery," Lucas said, drawing the list out with an angry frown and punctuating each word with an angry wave of his hand in front of Noyce's nose. He shook his head. "Can you tell me that's not what this is? You've been wanting me to join the Fleet for over a year, and now—bingo!—here is your chance . . . without bothering to ask me what I might want on the matter, you draft me into the Service! It's nothing better than piracy!"
After a moment, Lucas let his tirade die, then inhaled deeply, trying to calm his shaken nerves. An unusually quiet Admiral Noyce quickly took the chance to speak. "I understand your anger, Lucas. I truly do, though you may not think so. I'm not your enemy. I just . . . I didn't see a lot of options at the time. Perhaps I acted incorrectly. But none of this changes the simple fact that what has been done has been done. Your father did something that was highly illegal, and I'm afraid that you, too, must pay for that action. It was that or leave you with him, and I couldn't do that."
"Why doesn't he have to pay for his crime?" Lucas finally snapped, at last coming to the heart of the issue. He swallowed hard, then met Noyce's eyes. "He's the one who went crazy. He's the one who beat me to a pulp. And he's the one, seemingly, who's going free. Why do I have to pay for his mistake?"
Noyce looked away for a moment, his face drawn—very tired. Lucas could see the man had been struggling over this decision, and it had taken its toll on him. His anger softened somewhat as he saw Noyce shake his head to himself, obviously holding an internal dialogue: a debate, a heated argument. Noyce had never impressed him as an asshole, despite Lucas's recent words to the contrary. He didn't seem the type to engage in piracy or opportunism. Lucas wondered what was truly going on that he might never know. Because of his age, he knew—he damned well knew—that people kept things from him, and he had a nagging suspicion this might be one of those 'things.'
Finally, Noyce looked back at him. The elegant face was pained even: lines Lucas hadn't noticed suddenly appearing, then quickly vanishing as Noyce hid them. "I wish . . . Lucas, I'm so sorry. Please believe me when I say this. I would rather talk you into the Fleet any day than having to . . . bring you in against your will. That isn't something I like to do, especially with someone like you. Please, Lucas, understand that I mean this. I'm not just saying it."
After a moment, Lucas nodded, his gaze never shifting from the other man's face; he believed him. Though he wanted to ignore the signs that told him of Noyce's honesty, of his integrity, he knew those signs spoke the truth.
Noyce continued: "I do wish things were different. Between you and your father, certainly, but—perhaps even more—between society and the public official."
Lucas stared at this, then paled as sudden realization hit. Abruptly, he understood what was happening. It was sickening, but he understood it. Only too damned well.
Noyce inhaled deeply, then plunged forward. "Because of your father's . . . position . . . in government, the truth of what happened . . ."
He paused, unable to continue. Lucas saw the pain on his face—rigid grooves entrenched in the man's skin—then sighed. He shut his eyes. "It's . . . okay. I understand, Admiral. I understand the problem. A scandal right now could undermine the Federation when it is already too weak from the recent war with the Borg."
As he ran a shaking hand through his hair, Lucas looked over at the Admiral. He was amazed to see the shocked, almost disbelieving expression on the man's face. After a moment, he said, answering the unspoken question, "There are certain things you learn living with a politician, Admiral, and one of them is the delicate balance of power. My father and I could never agree on anything, but that was one thing I did learn early on. And I'm responsible enough to know that if the Federation falls, we slip right back into pre-Federation bloodshed. I obviously don't want to be at the center of such a slip."
He paused, looking away, one question eating at his insides. Several minutes of silence passed between them. Finally, Lucas looked up, carefully holding Noyce's gaze with his own. His voice was hesitant, almost frightened, when he asked, "Did . . . did my dad . . . protest your plan? Did he fight it . . . at all?"
What Lucas was really asking, in a rather evasive, convoluted manner, was whether his father had wanted him home or not: whether his father had been more than happy to get rid of him or not. He saw his father's fists, saw the hatred in the man's eyes, repeatedly replaying in his mind. Right next to that image played one question: did his father want him at all? Did his father hate him completely? Was he worth less than garbage to the man he had so much tried to please?
Noyce was silent for some time, his eyes trained quietly on his hands. After weaving and unweaving them together five or six times, he looked at Lucas. He met his gaze. When his answer at last came, it was soft, gentle—but also refusing to hide the truth. "Lucas . . . this is a difficult thing for me to say to you. By all rights, your father—your father should thank God every time he sees you that he has such an understanding and intelligent son. But . . . I'm afraid we don't always do what we should. We don't always see what is right in front of us."
He paused uncomfortably, then continued, "I'm sorry, Lucas, but you need to know the truth. I won't lie to you. Your father . . . no, he didn't fight this. He didn't say a thing against giving the Fleet custody of you. The man's a moron for it, but . . ."
His voice drifted. He seemed surprised when Lucas asked, "What of my mother? Did she, too, just . . . say nothing?" Lucas could feel tears threatening to pour from his eyes, but he had to know. He had to know the truth.
Again, a sharp breath, then Noyce simply nodded his head. He finally said, "She didn't fight it. She asked where we would likely assign you, with whom, that type of thing . . . but no, she didn't try to stop us. I'm sorry, Lucas. Truly."
Strangely, Lucas knew that Noyce meant it; he was sorry for what had happened. And so, too, was Lucas. More than he could put into words. It felt like a tight clamp squeezed around his chest, his lungs, his heart. It hurt.
Nancy returned with a pain killer, one that was better timed than she could have known—though, perhaps, she might have known, judging from the kind expression on her face. As the liquid seeped into his blood stream, Lucas thankfully closed his eyes to the pain and allowed his mind to drift into oblivion.
