King Ghidorah as Satan (kinda sorta)... Radar O'Reilly as a
sword-wielding immortal… and Peter Kirk as the 'Son' of Godzilla... all this
and more slouches from the none-too-balanced mind of fanfic legend Rob Morris.
And so, when he wrote me with the revelation that he’d been inspired by one of
my stories to write a continuation/response, it seemed to me even money whether
or not I’d be able to assimilate the result—especially considering the one he’d
chosen.
“Off the Beaten
Path” is, without question, my most disturbing tale—even more so
than Nature of the Beast. Some time
ago, Rob and I, still somewhat unfamiliar with each other’s work, had agreed on
a gentlemen’s (stop giggling) wager
that our worst individual piece was sicker than the other guy’s.
Well, I won a provisional victory… and I think below is the
spoils.
“Getting Out Of Dodge”
by Rob
Morris
and Joseph Manno
The
It was all going well enough, he thought. Still, he really wished
that last Cardassian merchant hadn't outright begged to be let through. The
man’s impassioned little speech about how while the civvie government wasn't
perfect, but at last (and at least) was theirs, had almost swayed him. But the
fellow had been too effective at dodging them in the past, and there was no way
he was going down without his ship. Thus, they’d quickly reached an impasse...
and the trader had just as quickly departed at maximum warp.
But “going well enough” seemed an odd state for an operation like
the Maquis. Nothing much happened anymore, as the muddled leadership tried once
and for all to decide whether they’d deal with the new Cardassian governing
body, the Detapa Council. According to their contacts, it wasn’t doing very
much actual “governing” at all, and was likely far more anxious to have troops
and ships defending them from the Klingons than playing real estate games in
the DMZ.
The Klingons. You gotta love ‘em. The
spoon-heads have their first possibly-reasonable government in centuries, and
what do the turtle-heads do? They invade. Fuckin’ morons.
He sighed.
"Maybe I'll watch the Sisko infiltration tapes again. Those
are always good for a laugh."
What had that man been
thinking, trying to quietly inquire about Eddington? Admittedly, Starfleet
officers had their strengths. Undercover work, though, was simply not among
them—especially when it came to infiltrating a group that consisted mostly of
former members.
What was it Dad used to say when I lied to him? “Don’t
bother... I can count the hairs on your ass while you’re running.”
And Eddington had shown he could do the same to Sisko—more than
once. Still, now, he was as gone as
Chakotay. The passionate man with all the grandiose, flamboyant schemes and big
speeches was in jail, while the pragmatic, somewhat reluctant leader of few
words was God knew where. Most felt the former had made the game more personal
than it really needed to be. Eddington, though, had liked it personal… and, he had to admit, the Maquis had scored some
of its most significant victories with him at its helm.
There was still amused debate over whether Chakotay would have
involved Sisko's freighter captain “girlfriend,” Cassidy Yates, in that one
replicator scam. Yates, too, had made a complete
fool of DS9’s commander… though, from
what he’d heard, she’d eventually smoothed things over in the, ahem, time-honored fashion.
Sisko’s obviously thinking with the wrong bald head—though I
really can’t blame him. Cassidy’s a nice little piece.
“Jesus… I’m reliving our high points. If that's not a sign of how
bored we all are, I don't know what is."
"Well, I don’t think boredom’s gonna be a problem much
longer."
What the–?
In this place, sneaking up was simply impossible—especially
considering that just about everyone had tweaked their personal tricorders for
proximity detection. After the first few grudges had ended with dead or maimed
principals, the survivors had caught on quickly. He’d been one of the first to
rig his own; no one got near without
alerting him.
Yet there it was,
silent… and here was–
"You?"
Of all the people who could magically appear in his room, this one
could make a run for “least wanted.”
"Listen,” the newcomer said. “You have two hours to get the
hell out of here. Warn whoever you feel is worth warning, but you have to leave. I can't say more than
that."
Nick Locarno narrowed his eyes, and barely avoided the urge to rub
some sense into them.
It was, indeed, Wesley Crusher… or someone who looked an awful lot like him.
He rolled over on the cot, a not-unimpressive trick considering
how narrow it was, and threw out the first thing that came to mind—all while
reaching under his pillow.
"Nice try, Changeling. But the Maquis don't have any problem
with you. Don't give us one."
The man or thing in the Starfleet lieutenant's uniform rolled
his/its eyes, then said, “
“Hey!”
"Satisfied that I'm me?"
Nick nodded.
"Oh, absolutely."
His target shrugged.
"Something like that, yeah. It'll
reach me halfway through the next century, if I let it. But I don't have time,
and neither do you. Now take Jean and get out."
"Why are you doing this?"
Crusher glared and answered, "Maybe friendship doesn’t end
just because one side thinks it
did."
Nick snarled, “You
wouldn’t know friendship…”
“…it if blew up in the ship next to me?”
And with that, Crusher was gone.
Instantly, Nick grabbed the tricorder, and started reconfiguring.
What was it? Someone doubting their loyalty to the cause…? An
obscenely well-planned practical joke…? A Feddy trap…? He decided that, whether
test, trap or joke, it was a damned good one.
And on the off-chance it was all legit? Word had it that the
little bastard had become some sort of freaky time-traveler.
Would be just his luck to
get handed power like that.
"Please let him have been a holo, or a Changeling… or, better
yet, a damned delusion. God, please
don't let there be...."
Beep.
"…chronitons."
He felt a headache coming on…
…followed closely by a sense of dread.
***
He rapped on her door, hoping she would respond quickly… and
praying that, for once, she would be alone.
"C’mon, Jean!"
He wished he'd known the Starburst would be a failure.
He wished that Josh had gotten out.
He wished he'd known that Crusher would break ranks (though, on
reflection, he probably should have
known; the little bastard had always been so damned earnest).
He wished he hadn't tried to sound so big during his efforts to
cover up, that taking full responsibility hadn't been the only way to face himself anymore.
But mostly, he wished things had gone better with Jean Hajar.
He kept the results of those wishes in a corral at the back of his
mind—for all the good it, and they, had done him.
At last she answered… and clearly recognized the voice.
"What the hell do you want?"
For a long moment, he waited for her to add, “I’m armed.” It was what she’d said the last time he’d come to
talk.
Telling the truth was out, at least for now; she’d think he’d gone
space happy.
"Johnson again. He wants us
to set up at one of the sensor blinds near system's edge."
Nick found he still hated lying to her, but knew he wasn’t really
good at anything else… and maybe never had been.
She sighed loudly, but didn't argue. Johnson, if that was even his
real name, often paired up people known to dislike or hate each other, figuring
they'd move quickly to get the mission over with… and subsequently get away
from each other again.
He briefly considered trying to grab a Peregrine off the main hangar deck, but then rejected the idea.
Those had security posted when not being flown, and with his luck the guard would be someone who didn’t like him—a
not-too-uncommon stance around here… or anywhere, he had to admit. Instead,
Nick headed for the shuttle bay; together he and Jean boarded one of the only
warp-capable craft there. It wasn’t exactly a fighter, but the Maquis had given
her a few teeth, and souped her up more than a bit.
Wordlessly, they performed a preflight check and immediately got
underway, falling easily into old patterns. They’d always worked well together…
…and Nick found himself remembering a time when he’d hoped they’d
be good together, too.
Jean, though, wasn’t
reminiscing. Her face, wearing far too many betrayal rings beneath those
still-lovely eyes, showed even less patience with him than usual. Still, she
didn’t want to be the first to speak.
The contest lasted about twenty minutes; then, she shot him a
fresh glare and asked, "What's with you?"
"Why would anything be ‘with' me?"
“Well, usually, whenever you get me alone like this, you try to
apologize for ‘everything.’”
And they both knew just how big a word was “everything.”
"Maybe I finally realized there's too much to apologize for,
and that you won't accept it, so why bother?"
To that she had no answer… but her anger seemed to fade a bit.
They continued to cast furtive glances at each other, but neither
said another word. Nick knew they both wanted to capitalize on what seemed a
chance to… what...? clear the air...? bury the hatchet...? smoke the
peace pipe...? but the hurts between them just
wouldn’t allow it.
The subsequent flash of light would have made him happier had it
been insight… but the shockwave that slapped at their little ship told him
otherwise.
They grabbed their chairs and held on, each augmenting the seat
belt with a desperate grip.
"What the Hell was that?!" Jean cried.
"Look."
They didn’t dare risk an active sweep… but the passive sensors
told them more than enough.
"The base,” she
whispered. “It’s gone."
Even without visual enhancements, both could make out pieces of a
hollowed-out asteroid floating up and apart. Hajar continued analyzing data,
and shook her head in disbelief.
"
"How could the Cardies have gotten through? The scout
positions at the border...."
Hajar's eyes went very, very wide.
“…and polaron-based
weaponry.
"It’s The Dominion.
The Spoonies are being backed up by Jem'Hadar escorts—a lot of them. Merciful Allah, there’s a whole fleet out there!"
Assuming the Dominion scanners aren’t better than ours, that
is… and that no one looks out a porthole and sees us.
Over the next few hours, they sat in silent horror. Twice, a
Jem’Hadar fighter passed within 500 kilometers of their position… and each
time, one of them had to restrain the other from a panicked—and unquestionably
fatal—attempt to escape.
Eventually, content with the day’s work, the Dominion fleet
withdrew. Gul Dukat's oldest son had received a birthday present like no other…
and the quiet of space had become, in one terrible afternoon, the quiet of the
tomb.
He felt her take his hand.
“Nick? Where will we go?"
She was turning to him, some level of forgiveness necessitated by
the tragedy that had unfolded.
He didn’t know what that
said about him… but he had a pretty good idea.
"If we're very, very lucky? We're going to find ourselves a Starfleet ship and get ourselves
arrested. Bet they've never seen a pretty face quite like mine in
He had deliberately set himself up for a warp-speed comeback on
her part, but she wasn't biting. Instead, Jean Hajar looked down.
"There's something I didn't tell you before we left. The
Weasel appeared to me—in my quarters. I tried to punch his lights out, but he
did a temporal whammy and slowed me to a crawl. He said… he said that he had to
warn me."
“Weasel” was, of course, their name for Wesley Crusher.
Nick had wondered why
Jean had trusted him—why she’d come along so readily.
Now he understood.
It had nothing to do with me. I should have fuckin’ known.
He pulled, practically yanked, his hand away.
Jean’s expression combined shock, hurt, anger… and something else
he couldn’t read.
It seemed as if it would never work out for them.
Perhaps it was just too late.
Perhaps it was time for him to stop trying.
"So,” he asked, setting his “Nova Squadron Leader” mask back
into place, “what did ‘Wonder Boy’ have to say?"
"‘Watch out for Prime Eleven.’ What in Allah’s Hundred Names
is Prime Eleven?"
Nick Locarno, after a moment’s thought, did some simple math, and
counted in a certain way.
“I don’t know…
“… but ‘Prime Eleven’ equals
Thirty-One."