Two years ago, Star Trek had a fan fiction contest where winners would be featured in an official anthology called Strange New Worlds. I wrote a Next Generation story that I dearly loved, and writer pals told me it was really strong and really touching -- and, perhaps most importantly, it felt tonally right with voices in character.
Well, it didn't make it into the anthology. But after some urging from friends, I've posted it on FanFiction.net. After the jump, here's the first act of SIGHT -- when a strange entity aboard a wrecked Starfleet vessel, Picard and Data wrestle with how to notify the deceased crew’s surviving family.
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I am alone. Stuck in limbo, a black silent void with no shape or form.
Then they arrive.
I don't recognize them at first, or notice much of anything really, even after the lights come on. It takes several seconds for the random thoughts to quiet and form into coherent ideas: I may be the only one here. Where is here? Who am I?
Why don't I know that?
Illumination doesn't clarify where I am. It just changes what I see. First comes a searing white, a different kind of blindness. Then shapes emerge, out of focus and out of reach. At best I recognize three humanoid beings standing around a dim room, a lot of grays and whites painted in between the blurry shadows. They hesitate, then slowly walk in, broad angled colors above black trousers, two of them in yellow and one in a dark shade of red.
Uniforms.
Starfleet uniforms.
I don't know if I actually smiled, but at least inside, I tried to. A memory, a definite, fully formed memory with all of the blanks filled in: Starfleet, the exploration and defense division of the United Federation of Planets.
And my former employer, though I can't recall my actual job or where I served.
Other memories are locked inside my brain, bubbling just beneath the surface. What else can trigger them?
The officers examine the space, waving their devices at different corners of the room. I try to focus in on details, but every time fatigue washes over me and all I want to do is shut down, take a rest, regain my strength.
But I tell myself to keep fighting, to stay present. The limbo has been my home for too long, and now a rescue team is here, just meters away. I watch, waiting until they're within earshot.
The three officers take their time surveying the far end of the room. They're meticulous, going from left to right, and as they approach, my vision remains hazy—that part hasn't changed at all—but I can see that the red-clad one is female. She is moving towards my corner, and as she turns to look my direction, I finally say something.
"Help me." My voice is weak and crackled, like an infection has ravaged my throat. Which very well may be the case. In fact, that's what I prefer. Infections can be cured. I imagine damage to the throat and windpipe might call for an uglier recovery process when compared to Starfleet Medical's army of antibiotics.
The female officer turns but I can't make out her facial expressions. In fact, I can barely hear, though I call out again, a second and a third time. She steps my way, hand waving the device, and I can tell that she's searching for me.
I must be buried under scrap. The room, the facility—or is it a ship?—it's difficult to tell with my blurry vision, but there are different shades of gray and patches of black sprinkled across the room. No color, at least no seemingly active panels. Damage, perhaps, or something that caused power loss and isolation. I force out another call, and she leans over, device beeping as she waves it over me, and her eyes lock in.
That much I can tell, despite the hazy view.
Her device—a tricorder, I recall now—is probably doing a medical scan. I realize that though I want to wave, I can't move. Am I covered in debris? Maybe, but I can't even flex a finger or wiggle a toe. In fact, I feel nothing: no pain, no tension, no sensations at all.
I take back preferring an infection. Give me some assurance that I won't need a bionic spine. "Help me," I say again. My voice is getting scratchier, spawning all sorts of inner panic. Anxieties race through my mind, and it takes a tiring amount of willpower to calm down, focus. "I can't feel anything."
The female officer leans in close, and though it's fuzzy, I see distinct ridges across her nose. Bajoran. Information floods my mind, facts and figures about Bajor and its people, its historical conflict with the Cardassians. She must be a refugee, given the current Cardassian control of Bajor. I may have smirked at this little epiphany; it's hard to tell since I can't feel anything, but after being in purgatory seemingly forever, it's nice to know that the minutia of intergalactic politics still lives in my head.
"I've got something here," she says before waving over the other officers. The two yellow/black blobs move into view, and I can see that they are both male, one of them has dark skin with some sort of adornment over his eyes while the other appears very pale. Both pull out tricorders, their distinct songs passing over me, and I can feel my strength starting to slip.
"I'm very tired," I say. The world fades to black as I concentrate on my hearing and speech. "I need help."
One male officer takes in a sharp breath. "What's happened here?"
I believe this to be a rhetorical question, but I answer anyway. "I can't remember. I may have a broken neck. Maybe," I hesitate at speaking a worst-case scenario, "crushed limbs. I don't know. I don't feel pain. I can't move. Please, just take me with you."
The trio pause long enough for me to wonder if they are still there. "Intriguing," the other male officer says before the tricorder beeps again.
Intriguing? Children's science fairs are intriguing. The growth patterns of fungus in controlled environments are intriguing. Trapped, possibly dying amnesia sufferer is not what I'd call intriguing. I want to retort, but my pleas have tapped out my reserves, and my spike of irritation at the word "intriguing" drains me further.
Footsteps move away from me, and three voices commence a discussion. I decide to save my energy for now, focus on what I can hear. Finally, the voices stop, and after several seconds comes the distinct clatter of metal. From across the room, one of the male officers speaks. "LaForge to Enterprise," he says, "we've encountered something here. We're going to bring it back with us, but it'll take some time to get things ready."
"How much time, Commander?" a crisp English accent says.
"Data?"
"Approximately," the other male voice says, this one closer to me. In fact, his voice is mixed in with the clanging metal. "Between one hour, twelve minutes to one hour, forty-three minutes."
"Should I have sick bay standing by?"
The far man—LaForge, apparently—hesitates. I hear him start and stop several times before he manages to get an answer out. "I don't think that will be necessary," he says, "but Counselor Troi may have her work cut out for her."
"Acknowledge. Picard out."
I let the world remain dark, taking in the mechanical symphony of metal and composite debris being removed. Time becomes as blurry as my vision, and I don't say much other than the occasional "thank you" to my rescuers. The male officer—Data—may be accurate in his estimate of freeing me, or he may be wildly off. Fatigue, injury, infection, illness, dehydration; I run through all of the maladies that could potentially plague me, and wonder how long it will take to treat them—or if it will even be possible to walk again on my own.
At some point, Data announces that he believes it will be safe to move me.
"Sir?" LaForge says.
"Yes," I manage.
"Do you have a name?"
"I'm sure I do. I just can't—" The scratch in my voice is getting worse, and though I repeat my last few words, something is preventing all the right syllables from coming out clean.
LaForge starts to say something but Data interrupts. "Geordi, if I may," he says before his voice gets closer. "Sir, I am going to give you something that may help. Is that alright?"
It's too bad I can only grunt an affirmative rather than speak. Otherwise, I would have told him that his help was "intriguing."
I hear a rustling of movement, along with a tricorder scan. "What are—" I start my question, but I don't finish it. Whatever Data did, suddenly my voice is stronger. "What was that?"
"We're just patching you up a little bit," LaForge says. "Gotta make sure you'll make it in one piece to our ship."
I open my eyes to find that my vision is clearer. Not quite perfect, but blurs have sharpened into lines and shapes. Whether these were temporary stimulants or actual wound treatment, I won't complain. All three lean over to look at me: the female Bajoran with her light auburn hair cropped close, LaForge with some form of optical visor, and Data, whose appearance makes me hesitate.
His skin is gray, colorless. I focus on the pale gold of his eyes.
"I am an android," he says, as if he could read my thoughts.
An android.
Intriguing indeed.
"Of course you are," I say when nothing else comes to mind. "Your ship?"
"That's right," the Bajoran says, "the Enterprise."
Starfleet's flagship. I recall this, along with the fact that I've never seen the vessel in person. My lucky day. "I still can't move. Despite your treatment."
"Let's just take things one step at a time," LaForge says. "How about your memory? Your name, what you were doing here? This place?"
"It looks like a lab. But that's just conjecture." The fact that my voice is projecting loudly, strongly, clearly tickles my senses, and I get the overwhelming urge to grin. "Before you got here, I was barely conscious. It took all my strength to call out to you. But little things, like seeing your uniform, they triggered details in my memory. I'm sure it will all come back over time."
"You've obviously been through a lot. We're going to give you something to stabilize you. You'll probably feel," LaForge looks at Data "a little tired. But enjoy the rest."
Even as LaForge talks, I begin fighting the urge to shut down. My vision fades out again, and though no scratches return to my voice, it's becoming harder to push the words out. "Sleep," the Bajoran says, and it sounds like a magnificent idea.
The last thing I hear is LaForge hailing his ship. "LaForge to Enterprise," he says. "Three to beam up. And some cargo."
Read the rest at FanFiction.net
