Star Trek: Department of Temporal Investigations - 01 - Watching the Clock

by Christopher L. Bennett

  Gradually over the decades, Andos had risen through the ranks, not aggressively pursuing advancement but not rejecting it either. She had decided to become a field agent once she reached full growth at age 188, and twenty-two years later had earned promotion to assistant director of the San Francisco branch office—arguably the most important one, as it oversaw Starfleet’s embroilments with temporal phenomena. It had been there that she had fostered the career of Gariff Lucsly, her finest agent, and later his partner Dulmur. Eleven years ago, though, she had accepted the post of Director, bringing her back to Greenwich where it had all begun—in more ways than one.

  The symmetry of her career path brought Andos comfort, as did her proximity to the Prime Meridian. With her homeworld razed in the Borg invasion, these things were her only remaining anchors in reality. Of course, as a Rhaandarite she had a complete understanding of the psychological underpinnings of that illusion; indeed, it operated on a rather elementary, even juvenile level of cognitive processing. Yet she also understood perfectly why she allowed it to bring her comfort. In this profession, any such sense of anchorage was a valuable focal point, a reminder of her priorities and responsibilities. Seeing through the symbol didn’t render it useless. After all, what was sentient interaction but the exchange and negotiation of symbols?

  The Axis of Time, Andos thought. The name suggested it held a similar symbolic value for its occupants. They might feel their culture, their identity, revolved around it. Did they have the same sense of it, though, as something to which a single consistent reality should be anchored? Or did they perceive it as something around which reality could rotate into many forms?

  Privately, she admitted that Dulmur had been right. This was a sink-or-swim mission for Teresa Garcia. Andos had evaluated the potential social and psychological dynamics on levels that humans didn’t even have vocabulary for, and was confident to eight degrees of freedom that the novice agent’s sexual infatuation with Ranjea would not critically undermine the many assets she brought to the job. But there were many unknown variables on the mission ahead. And if Andos had overlooked some critical factor, the consequences could be profound.

  But then, in this profession, when were they not?

  U.S.S. Capitoline NCC-82617

  13.18.14.1.17 15 Mac 1 Caban (A Monday)

  21:58 UTC

  Ranjea could sense Teresa Garcia’s anticipation from the moment he passed along the order that she accompany him aboard the Capitoline. Even though he took care to keep his manner entirely professional, he knew that she saw this as a sexual opportunity. He could sense her hope that he intended the same, but could tell that even if he made no moves upon her (as of course he would not), she would inevitably come to him.

  The Vesta-class starship could reach the Axis of Time in under an hour at slipstream speeds, but in order to save on precious benamite, it would use the drive only in short hops and travel at warp between them, for a total travel time of just under nine days. The first hours aboard were spent in briefings on the Titan’s recent encounter with the Vomnin Confederacy at the Axis site, as well as a broader review of that vessel’s earlier encounters with them, first as an ally of the Pa’haquel in the effort to regulate the Gum Nebula’s cosmozoan population, then intermittently over the remaining two months the vessel spent within that region of space. Ranjea looked forward to meeting them and experiencing their own particular forms of beauty, both of sensation and of thought.

  Once they were shown to their adjacent quarters for the night, Ranjea chose not to disrobe for bed, for he knew he would be receiving a visitor shortly. Indeed, it was not long before Teresa Garcia came to his door, attired in a loose robe of Deltan design. Its complex red and gold hues brought out the rich brown of her eyes, and its cut revealed much of her athletic limbs as she moved. “May I come in?” she asked, her tone making the request an invitation in itself.

  “Of course, Teresa. I’ve been expecting you.”

  She seemed surprised but heartened that he’d granted her access so readily. Clearly she’d expected to have to cajole him first. “You mean you . . . want me here?”

  He escorted her in and let the door close behind them. “There is something we need to resolve between us, Teresa. I see no benefit in delaying it.”

  “Neither do I,” she said, her skin flushing. She adjusted the folds of her robe, exposing more of her flesh with affected casualness. “Do you like it?” she asked. “I replicated it just for you.”

  “It’s lovely,” Ranjea said. “And it flatters you. I thank you for the beauty of this sight. But you must know, Teresa, that this cannot lead where you wish it to.”

  “I know!” she cried with impatience. “I know the drill. I’d lose myself. I’d be addicted.” She gazed up at him, her great dark eyes glistening with tears. “But I love you, Ranjea. That’s already an addiction. It’s the same kind of chemistry in the brain. The same craving, the same need,” she said, stepping toward him and placing a hand on his chest. “The same pain of withdrawal. So what more harm could it do when I’m already hooked?”

  “Teresa . . . please.” He guided her to a chair, taking the couch just opposite her, close but not intimate. “Addiction is such a . . . crude metaphor for Deltan intimacy. It is nothing so vulgar as that. Our minds are predisposed to unitive experiences—to a sublimation of the sense of self, a perception of oneness with another being. When we make love, our sense of ourselves as individuals disappears. We join together wholly. We not only love each other, we become each other.”

  “Like a Vulcan mind meld.”

  “Somewhat, but more on a sensual, empathic level. For us, this . . . deferment of self is natural, commonplace. We can subsume and recover ourselves at will. But for a human . . .” He shook his head. “You could completely lose your sense of yourself as a distinct being. It is worse than addiction, Teresa. At least an addict can function if she receives her fix. If I made love to you . . . your very identity would be in jeopardy.”

  She rose again. “I don’t buy that,” she said. “I’ve heard stories about Klingons and Orions taking Deltan sex slaves. I know it’s possible to survive the experience intact.”

  “For Klingons or Orions, perhaps, particularly in coercive contexts. For those with low empathy. But humans . . .” He smiled. “Look at what you have done in a few short centuries. You have overcome the differences among yourselves and become one world. You have seen past your differences with other species and shown them the path to greater unity. You have the potential for the same kind of empathy we have. It is not mature enough yet for you to handle our levels of intimacy. But it is enough to make you highly susceptible to the loss of self.”

  She studied him carefully, her eyes still brimming with passion, yet calculating at the same time. “Okay, granted. But who says you have to go all the way? Can’t you . . . hold yourself back? Have sex on just a bodily level?”

  Ranjea considered his reply carefully. Such low-level sex play was well within the Deltan repertoire, an appetizer before the genuine act or a quick, friendly flirtation between casual acquaintances. But what Teresa sought was a deeper bond of love, and if he entered into sex with her, he could not fail to respond to that need and draw her into unity. After so long away from his home and his loves, he had needs of his own. Yet if he confessed that what she sought were even theoretically possible, it would only make it harder to dissuade her. So he said, “Such restraint is not the Deltan way. For us, the meaning of the act is in the completeness of the bonding, separate beings becoming one in flesh, mind, and spirit. To join on only one level . . . it would be hollow, incomplete.”

  “But it wouldn’t be to me!” she cried. “I don’t want to sound selfish. But . . . you’re so kind, Ranjea. So giving. I can’t believe you won’t even try, when I need this so badly.”

  “You desire it badly. That is not the same as need.”

  “And what about your desires?” she asked, stepping closer. “You said I was beautiful. Even if you can
’t experience it fully . . .” She let the robe drop. “Isn’t half a loaf better than none?”

  Ranjea did not look away from her nudity. She offered it to him as a gift, and he took it in that spirit, even if he could not embrace the full intent. She was indeed quite beautiful. Her vast dark eyes, full lips, and light brown skin were almost Deltan, yet her thick black hair, on her head and elsewhere, made for an exotic highlight. Her body’s contours were compact and elegant, strong yet soft. He admired her beauty as a work of art.

  Still, he could offer her only apology. “Teresa, again, I thank you for this gift. But . . . I don’t wish to offend you, but although I appreciate your beauty, I’m simply not sexually stimulated by it alone. Deltans’ main avenue of arousal is pheromonal, and you don’t have a strong enough scent to entice me.”

  She blinked, taken aback. He hoped he’d finally convinced her, though he feared he had hurt her feelings in the process. Yet after a moment, she gathered her resolve and closed the distance between them. “Then maybe you just need to get a better whiff of me.”

  Her kisses were long, deep, and passionate. She administered them with appreciable skill as her hands roved deftly across his arms and back. Ranjea accepted the experience but did not respond in kind. “I’m sorry, Teresa,” he said when she finally realized she was unable to evoke the desired reaction. “For me, arousal is not an involuntary process. It’s completely under my control.” He stroked her hair, offering comfort. “I wish I could give you the fulfillment you seek, but what you ask of me is simply . . . not healthy. Not for either of us. You need to let go of this desire.”

  She pulled away, flinging herself into the chair. Her nude body trembled as she fought off tears. “How? I’ve tried, Ranjea, I’ve tried, but you’re just so beautiful. I love you. I need you so much.”

  “No, Teresa. What you need is a connection. You’ve been torn away from your own time, your lifelong goals. Your world, your very family, has become alien to you. Your introduction to this time was an act of persecution and rejection for the choice that stranded you here. And of all the friends you trained with, none managed to become field agents alongside you.” He came over to her and put his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head up. “You feel willing to risk losing yourself in me because you believe it would make you feel a part of something again.”

  She no longer held back the tears. Her eyes alone told him she knew he was right. “It hurts,” she said. “Please. I need you.”

  Ranjea stroked her silky hair. “Yes. But not in the way you think.”

  He slid his hands down her bare shoulders and arms until they clasped hers. He concentrated, and after a moment, her anguish began to fade. She looked up at him with wonder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  They simply held hands for a few minutes more. Finally, Teresa pulled away, frowned slightly, and asked, “What did you do? It’s like . . . the pain was still there, but it . . . didn’t matter so much.”

  “A taste of the unitive experience,” he told her. “With the sense of self diminished, things like pain and sorrow don’t seem as important. It’s something we use as a therapeutic technique. It works on physical as well as emotional pain.”

  She blinked several times, tension starting to return, and she self-consciously retrieved the robe and covered herself. “But it doesn’t last.”

  “No. It’s an aid, not a cure.”

  “But if you could give me that much . . .”

  “It’s not the same. Trust me.”

  She winced, stifling a sob. “Okay, so tell me. How do I get over you?” She shook her head. “I feel like a fool, trying to seduce you like this. I’m . . . I’m a professional. I’m your partner, and . . . and that’s what I need to be. So how do I stop . . . stop wanting you? Stop loving you?”

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “You just have to stop craving me.”

  “But how do I do that?!”

  “The same way I avoid craving you, even though I admire your beauty.”

  She scoffed. “Okay, that’s not an answer.”

  Ranjea guided her to the couch, holding her hands. “Someday I’ll tell you why I became a DTI agent. For now, let’s just say . . . I inherited a mission. I was charged with an obligation, one that I felt a passionate need to fulfill, and I failed. So believe me, I know what it’s like to have a passion frustrated. To be unable to remove that passion from your being even though you know it’s unattainable.

  “But the key is not to fight the craving . . . simply to accept it as an end in itself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell me. When you see a glorious sunset, or a magnificent ringed planet, do you desire to possess it?”

  “. . . No.”

  “But you do appreciate its beauty.”

  “Yeah. But . . . it’s not something I can take home with me. I mean, I could take a picture, but that’s not possessing the thing itself. That’s just taking a longer look.”

  “Is that the only reason? If you could possess it, would you want to? Does it frustrate you that you can’t?”

  “No. I just . . . enjoy it for what it is.”

  “The beauty is its own reward. It enriches you even without being possessed.”

  “Right.”

  “So why not engage with other forms of beauty the same way? Instead of seeking to possess, to make them part of yourself, can’t you simply celebrate them as they are? Let yourself become part of them?”

  She nodded. “Subsume the ego. Don’t think of the self.”

  “Exactly.”

  She looked him over. “So I can think you’re utterly gorgeous, and love looking at you, but not go crazy wanting to have you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So . . . can we practice?” She gave a wicked grin. “Maybe you could take off all your clothes and I could try to look but not touch?”

  He chuckled. “I think that’s rather too advanced a lesson for the first night. I think you should simply go to your quarters and sleep.”

  “Hey, I showed you mine! It’s only fair!”

  “Goodnight, Teresa.”

  She winked. “Well, it was worth a try.”

  He led her to the door. “If you need me, Teresa, I will be here. I will give you the connection you need. But as your friend, as your confidant, and as your partner.”

  Teresa reached up and stroked his cheek. “I appreciate it. And, um . . . if you ever need someone to talk to about your . . . troubles . . . I’m here.”

  His hand rested upon hers. “I value that greatly, Teresa.”

  Despite her confident smile, he could tell she was shaking as she left. She would have a rough night. But he could tell he’d made the breakthrough. He looked forward to the more meaningful relationship they could now begin to build.

  Vomnin Space Station Bezorek

  13.18.14.2.5 3 Kankin 9 Chicchan (A Tuesday)

  14:36 UTC

  Titan was a fascinating ship. Teresa Garcia had never seen so many different species, particularly nonhumanoids, living and working together on a continuing basis. There had been nothing like it in her time. Indeed, the crew included members of multiple species that the Federation hadn’t even met yet in her time, like Choblik and Pak’shree, not to mention ones that had been hostile in her day, like Ferengi and Cardassians. It was inspiring proof that the Federation’s ideals of cooperation were achievable. For someone who’d been pulled from her own peaceful, prosperous time to find herself in the aftermath of the worst horrors in Federation history, seeing something like Titan was a great comfort that the future was still headed in the right direction.

  Assuming the Axis of Time didn’t end up derailing the entire past. Unluckily for the Federation, by the time Titan’s advanced sensor arrays had detected the temporal anomaly, the Vomnin Confederacy had already staked a claim and made contact with the inhabitants of the inverted spacetime (timespace?) within. They’d even built a station adjacent to it, where Titan and Capitoline were current
ly docked. Titan’s captain, William Riker, and his diplomatic officer and wife, Commander Deanna Troi, had raised concerns with the Vomnin about the risks posed by the Axis, but the Vomnin were more interested in the opportunities it presented. Bezorek Station was administered by the Vomnin Bureau for Historical Resource Development, the department that managed the exploitation of the advanced remnant technologies on which the Vomnin had built their civilization. The galaxy was littered with still-viable devices left behind by extinct ancients—from the ruins of Camus II to the Iconian gateways to the Guardian itself—but the Vomnin’s home territory within the Gum Nebula had an unusual abundance of dead civilizations due to its turbulent conditions. The BHRD was the most powerful and important agency within the Confederacy, and they’d refused to recognize the authority of a starship’s diplomatic officer to negotiate with them on an equal level, even though Troi was authorized to speak as an official Federation ambassador.

  And so the DTI had been called in, though Garcia could tell from Riker’s attitude that he wasn’t thrilled about it. But to Garcia’s surprise, Troi and Ranjea had greeted each other with more warmth, as well as familiarity. “I was the one who debriefed her about the Caeliar temporal loop following the Borg invasion,” he told Garcia later as they headed for the meeting room aboard the Vomnin station, where Troi had arranged to meet them. “As well as the Orishan tesseract incident of Stardate 57443. It was Agent Faunt,” he added wistfully, “who spoke to Captain Riker.”