Chapter 1
Tammas Parkin Arblaster Garcia awoke with a start, coming up out of the bed gasping, and in pain. He was compelled to stand, putting weight on his feet to kill the leg cramps. He stood, hands touching the wall, waiting for the cramps to go away. Once the pain was gone, he calmed, then cursed again. It was as if his entire life was a dream, and because of the suddenness of his waking he had lost the dream contents. One technique for not losing a dream on waking was not moving until you had recalled details and anchored them into waking conscious. The leg cramps were so bad, there was no way he could lay still. He was moving out of bed before being solidly conscious of what he was doing. It took time to orientate. He was in his private suite at Club Bliss. He couldn’t identify the when. He was alone. How long had it been since he cycled last? How far had he gone this time? He hadn’t remembered waking up at this particular place before. Was this a new reset point? If it was, he was lost.
Brock entered his room, carrying a weapon. The Ferengi pointed the weapon at him. Garcia had clarity about the where and when. Try as he could, he couldn’t recall the precise dialogue that was about to happen.
“So you think you’re a god? You can just sleep with anyone you want and it’s okay?” Brock asked.
“This is about your sister?” Garcia asked.
“She’s my sister! We’re colleagues! There are rules of engagement,” Brock said. “You didn’t ask my permission. You didn’t pay me.” “She initiated,” Garcia tried.
“You always have an excuse. You took advantage of a helpless, cognitively impaired, female being…”
“She is not cognitively impaired and helpless isn’t even on the map…” “You and I are done. Consider this my resignation. I am taking my sister and going home,” Brock said.
“Now, hold on,” Garcia said. “There’s some technicalities we need to sort…” “No, there is not!” Brock said. “Stay away from my sister. If you come around again, I will kill you. That's it.”
“She used alien tech to try and control me. In the process she forged a permanent telepathic link. If she doesn’t spend time within a certain proximity of me, she will suffer severe depression, perhaps even experience suicidal ideation.” “In other words, she’ll be normal,” Brock said.
“What?!” Garcia asked.
“Women are supposed to be depressed! Rules of acquisition. A happy woman won’t celebrate your return,” Brock said. “Every male past the age of 4 understands this one. A satisfied woman won’t spur you to work harder.” “What is wrong with your species?!” Garcia asked.
“So much for your enlightened, culturally sensitive Fleet perspective,” Brock said.
“There are some things that are just wrong, Brock,” Garcia said.
“I agree. Sleeping with my sister was one of them,” Brock said.
“You can’t have the acquisition rule, ‘go where the market takes you,’ and then get mad when the capital gets acquired,” Garcia said.
“My sister is not a market!” Brock snapped. “She is not resource.”
“Either she is a citizen, with all due rights, or she is property,” Garcia said.
“You’re about three seconds from dying…”
“Brock, you don’t have a clue…”
Brock discharged his weapon. Garcia’s bed was cut in half. It was surprisingly louder than a normal Fleet weapon. Silence followed. Then the noise of both ends of the bed collapsing inwards. Embers of burnt cotton descended like orange, black snow.
“You think I don’t know a set up when I see one? I will go to the Grand Nagus and tell him how you used my sister, my inheritance, and enslaved other women to be in your secret sex cult fleet,” Brock said. “I thought we were friends, but you have to have it all! Your level of greed is pathological. You have no moral boundaries. You can expect that you will be hearing from my legal accountants. I will take this all the way to Federation President if I have to. You slept with the wrong woman. You want to see the Ferengi at war, well, you won. Prepare yourself for your worst nightmare. Let the litigation begin.”
Brock backed out of the room. The door shut. Garcia stood there a moment, sorting. The room smelled of burnt mattress, metal, and ozone. He remembered having an electric HO scale train in one of his childhoods. He made himself go to the replicator.
“Pickle juice, dill.” A jar of pickle juice arrived, one pickle. There was jar of peanut butter already on the stand. He removed the pickle, dipped it in the peanut butter and ate it. He then drank the juice in one go. He put the jar back. It was recycled. He entered the bathroom and stared at the mirror. He mentally touched his neural implant and ascertained the whereabouts of his inner companions. Troi was in an office, on the Pathfinder, speaking to Lt. Reginal Barclay. This image didn’t make sense and he wondered if it were real. Their conversation was pleasant, almost too pleasant, overtones of deeper relationship than what was on the surface. She laughed at his joke and touched him. Garcia wanted to be sick, tuned away from the inner sight and focused on his body in the mirror. The sensations from his body started with weight. He felt heavier. He was heavier, but he felt heavier than he actually was. He touched the artificial womb. Babies were kicking. He tried to remember if he had ever gone far enough into the future that they were born. He found himself groping for information and couldn’t find it. The absence of information that should be there bothered him. He turned back to what he could see inside. Lal was in Sickbay, on the New Constitution, reading aloud to the incubators- the artificial wombs. There was evidence the babies were responding to her voice. Duana and Ilona were on the Pathfinder, actually engaging in work. They were utilizing the two manifestation orbs, whereas Lal was a hologram, projected through Kelvan and Kalandan tech. She was as solid as Losira. Troi was using the same Kalanadan holographic interface.
All of this was likely adding to the decline in short term memory. It also slowing down the psychic evolution he was experiencing. He told himself this was a reasonable trade off. He told himself to say it again, only more convincingly. He tried to make it mantra.
Garcia stared into the mirror. He hardly recognized himself anymore. He found a subtle loathing towards the image. Losira came up behind him, touched his shoulder. The touch communicated love, compassion. She was there, but not in the mirror. This wasn’t her hologram self, manifesting in real world, but an artifact of a projection directly into his visual centers of the brain via the neural interlink. He could see her- she was wearing Pathfinder uniform. Silvery, gold highlights, miniskirt, dark gold, sparkly hose, silver boots. She had a glow about her. It was subtle. She herself was bright, more illuminated than real objects in his vision. The aura helped him understand that she was a communication signal. The look of her increased his wanting of her. He could smell her. She had a complicated scent identifier, an unidentified flower, and something cooking; maybe peanut butter cookies. Another artifact that told him she wasn’t here was the absence of a baby bump. Her primary avatar was pregnant and solid real, and would remain real until the child came to term.
“Your presence is desired on the Pathfinder,” Losira said. He could hear her. Her voice was kindness, melodic.
“I am finding it increasingly difficult to make decisions,” Garcia said.
“This one is easy,” Losira said. “Come back to the Pathfinder.”
“Why?”
“Because I am asking you to,” Losira said.
“Give me an hour,” Garcia said.
Losira nodded and walked out of his visual center. He leaned into the cabinet, stared at himself longer. He wondered what he was hoping to find. Something redeemable? If he sought companionship, he would be comforted. He didn’t want to be comforted. Alone, but never alone. Clothing arrived on the counter. Pathfinder uniform. Silver, gold highlights. He touched it. Rainbow refractions in the material. Collar designation of Admiral. He felt as if it were a joke. He got in the shower and stood under the water. The twins always responded to the water. He felt an emotion. He wasn’t sure he was feeling what he was feeling, but his brain translated it as joy. He felt disconnected from the mood.
Dressing was a chore. He was off balance putting on his underwear and pants. He nearly fell over. He took his clothes to the bed and was going to sit on it but decided to use the chair. Underwear. Pants. He stood, took off the baby pack and put on a shirt, and put the baby pack back on. Babies did not like being put down. They welcomed being back. He put a maternal shirt on over the pouch; it was poncho and blended nicely with his uniform. It had no collar and the sleeves were short.
He went down to the club, staying on a path that minimized the blaring sound of music from the club proper. The sound tech could make a path of zero noise, but walking out of a zero zone into full sound usually disturbed people. Low sound helped people acclimate. And, allowed for the patrons and staff to communicate needs. He paused to see a performer on stage. The species was amphibian, a mollusk species that was able to camouflaging to such a perfect degree that its shapes, colors, and textures could mimic real things or create patterns that could spur one to hallucinate. It became a coral, and bloomed a dozen flowers, drawing them away one at a time to reveal something new in increments, something new and enticingly sexy, until all the flowers were gone and it was human, female. Dancing, she became something else. Shadows and lights.
Cleo startled him. She laughed, and hugged him, and then kissed the babies. She was half dressed, skirt, and top, and lots of glow in the dark paint. Different areas of the club illuminated different patterns, so she changed as she pushed through the club. Her blond hair was clipped short, and was sort of an Egyptian bowl cut. “I love you two so much!” The babies responded. Then she came back to Garcia, who had returned his attention to the performer.
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he,” Cleo said.
“He?” Garcia asked.
“You forgot?” Cleo said.
“I probably should get my brain checked,” Garcia said.
“Pregnant brain?” Cleo asked, laughing, hugging him reassuringly.
“That’s not a real thing,” Garcia said. “Yes, it is,” Cleo said. “Times two.” “I am a man,” Garcia said.
“So, you think you’re immune?” Cleo said. “Just being in a room with a pregnant woman affects your brain, too. Visually, your brain is responding. You’re breathing in the same hormones that she swimming in. You don’t live in vacuum, Tam.” “I just have a lot on my mind,” Garcia said.
“Want me to help with that?” Cleo asked. It was more than flirting. She had been pushing for time with him since they met. He had accommodated her, and she still wanted more.
“My bed is broken,” Garcia said.
“Again?” Cleo said. “Was it that Yeoman of yours?”
“No,” Garcia said. “It was Brock.” “Really? I thought you were hetero..” “I am,” Garcia assured her.
“I am not so sure. The way you were looking at Jynso…”
“He was looking like a female,” Garcia said.
“It is okay, Tam. Bisexuality is actually normal for most species. It’s more than physical. It’s a symbolic act that unlocks higher functions of love and interaction between members of society. Take the Etero tribe from your planet, that believes that drinking sperm is a rite of passage of all adolescents,” Cleo said.
He resisted the urge to be sick. He tried to frame it in sociological paradigm, reminding himself sexuality is more as much a social phenomenon as it is biological.
“You’re studying Earth cultures?”
“Most of our patrons are humans and Klingons. It’s in my best interest to understand our clientele, biologically, culturally, and historically,” Cleo said. “By understanding the varied interaction patterns from culture to culture and era to era, I can better help normalize sexual thoughts and emotions. You’d be surprised, as enlightened as humans think they are, they are still rather backwards in disseminating knowledge on sexuality. Holodecks is not necessarily good for sex education. More often than not, the people that come to club Bliss are lonely. They’re lonely because they think there is something perverse or pathological in their libido and their wants, which causes them to isolate. Isolating themselves only suppresses the biological urge, which can’t be done forever, or even well, and that results in behaviors, usually behaviors that reinforce their idea that they’re broken. They come here because this allows them to vent some energy in the least destructive way.”
Garcia’s perspective of her evolved in that moment. “What?” she asked.
“How would you like to be the new club manager,” Garcia asked. Cleo hit his arm. “Don’t fool around.” “I already fooled around,” Garcia said.
“Did you fall in love?” Cleo asked.
“Fuck, you have so been doing your homework,” Garcia said. “I want to be close to you,” Cleo said.
“Cleo, I am promoting you to full manager. You’re in charge of Club bliss. You will be part owner, we share the profits, minus the stipend going to Brock until I sue him for breach of contract. Which reminds me, hire a Ferengi lawyer to serve him papers. Derelict of duties. Left his post unmanned. Threatened me with violence. He destroyed my bed. Make that happen today. You have full autonomy to run Club Bliss and our alternative revenue schemes,” Garcia said.
“You have to sleep with me right now…” “I am not that kind of boss,” Garcia said.
“The hell you aren’t!” Cleo said, and drug him into the nearest, private,
‘entertainment’ booth.
Captains Losira and Simone were present when he arrived on the Pathfinder. Losira had her hands behind her back. So did, Simone. He had experienced the new boundaries with Losira sufficiently that he no longer protested, but it still felt abnormal. Simone, well, this was her norm, minus a couple months every seven years. She swears it was, and will only ever be, just the one time. He had evidence it could go either way. Garcia was presently in the ‘we’ll see’ camp. He suspected there were Pathfinder crew betting on outcomes. He was further certain that the betting was started by Duana and Ilona.
“You cycled,” Simone said. “You agreed to return to Pathfinder on cycling. We need to debrief you.”
“I don’t remember that arrangement,” Garcia said.
“How far did you go?” Losira asked. Garcia searched his memory.
“Come with me to Sickbay,” Simone said.
“No,” Garcia said.
“Excuse me?” Simone said.
“I would like to speak with Data,” Garcia said.
“You may speak with Data,” Simone said. “You will not leave this ship until I am satisfied."
Garcia was sorting the statement.
“That was not an invitation to engage in sexual activity,” Simone said.
“I wasn’t thinking that,” Garcia said.
“You were so thinking that,” Losira said.
“Yeah, she didn’t have to know that,” Garcia said.
“You were just actively with someone,” Simone said. “You think I can’t smell her on you?”
“He has always had a high libido,” Losira said.
“Or one of the neural implants is malfunctioning,” Simone said.
“Wait wait wait. Implants? Plural? I just have the one…”
“You will not leave this ship until you have satisfied me in Sickbay,” Simone said. She turned and left.
Garcia stood there with Losira, watching the Princess leave. She was wearing the Pathfinder Uniform, trouser options, with a maternal shirt. He forgot when she was due. It looked like it would be soon.
“I wish she would use another expression,” Garcia said. “Why? Can’t get no satisfaction?” Losira said.
“Why do I feel like there are a lot of jokes being made at my expense?” Garcia asked.
“Increased paranoia due to frequent temporal shifts, and bilocating,” Losira said. “You really should go to Sickbay first.”
Garcia shook his head no. He wasn’t ready to spend time with Simone.
Data’s laboratory was on one of the lower levels of the Cone section. It was one of the compartments with slide out sectioning to increase work space. It also increase the number of view ports. Data looked up from his station, frowned, and went back to work.
“Be with you in a second,” Data said.
Garcia went to the far end of the slide out. He searched the sky for the triad-star system they had discovered. On not locating it, he assumed the system must be on the other side of the ship. He searched for other recognizable patches of the sky. He found nothing. He was just as lost in a sea of stars as anyone would be. Data’s second became a minute. It became five minutes.
“Data?” Garcia asked.
Data pushed away from the desk, rotated his chair, and faced Garcia. “What?” It was harsh. It was so charged with emotions Garcia wondered if this was Data. He found Data’s in multiple time streams, and remember his was emotional, and aged. This was what data would look like if he was human and older. Garcia used a site to site replicator to manifest a chair. He went and sat down in front of Data. He tried maintaining eye contact with Data, but the fierceness in them made him look away.
“Is it me, or has the whole of Fleet become angry, melancholy?” Garcia said.
“You’re not melancholy?” Data asked.
Garcia frowned. “I am in flux. I waver between euphoria and despair, and touch every level between the two,” he said. “This will pass. I was so close to an epiphany today, I think I am a little more on the angrier side of things than just melancholy.” Data said nothing. Garcia’s eyes came up to try and read his face. It was not the Data he remembered and loved. This was an old man. This was a human face, aged, wise, kind… Not grandfatherly kind. Angry? “I have this song fragment in my head, and I can’t get it out, and I can’t resolve it, and it’s distracting me,” Garcia said.
“You’re bringing me a song fragment?”
“Well, there’s some other things I would like to sort with you. I don’t suppose you want to link with my chip and do a brain scan,” Garcia said.
“The last time we did that, you nearly died,” Data said. “I was seriously reprimanded.”
“I am sorry,” Garcia said.
“I chose that. That was on me,” Data said.
“So no?” Garcia confirmed.
“No,” Data said. “I can shift through the data Simone collects. You should go see her.”
“I think she wants to kill me,” Garcia said, too cavalierly.
“Paranoia,” Data said.
Garcia met his eyes. “I get the sense all of you are colluding against me.” “Tam,” Data said. “You asked us to build a time machine. We built one. A huge one.”
“The Elemartay Star system?” Garcia said.
Data opened a hologram showing the three stars. They were in extremely tight orbit, chasing each other, never colliding. The inner space was devoid of matter. The further out one went from the stars, the more matter one found. A sheet of dust and larger particles and clouds and lightening. In a way, it was like looking at a specular, 3-D record.
“Given the correct velocity, any star could potentially result in a slingshot through time,” Data explain, using holographic animation. “The proximity of these three stars, combined with the extreme mass of each which is literally churning the fabric of space time, combined with the enmeshment of electromagnetic fields, has resulted in a temporal conduit. Threading the needle between these stars results in a natural flow of particles backwards and forwards through time.”