The Cholmondely-Smythe Year

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 502236.0. After another uneventful mission patrolling this rather frighteningly dull sector, we have nothing to look forward to except more boring patrols. Now I understand why no-one else volunteered for this duty on board the Psycho. I’ve been here for a month now, and all Starfleet has done is send us on the least important, most futile missions it can jolly well find. If the crew would at least complain as well it might be more spiffing, but they almost seem to relish the boredom!

“Counsellor Hill seems to have settled in with the crew much more easily than have I, although I suppose ‘with great power comes great responsibilities’ and all that, can’t be mixing with the lower classes too much, what? We are currently review the minor difficulty of her not being in possession of anywhere to conduct her sessions other than someone’s quarters, which are apparently unsatisfactory. On a happy note I have located a broom closet off the Bridge that will make a splendid Ready Room, once I have made certain modifications.”

Captain Cholmondely-Smythe sat smartly in the command chair, casting an eye over the same bridge he had been staring at for weeks as they catalogued gaseous anomalies in the Klondike Sector. After the number of times the Psycho had been assigned this it might have been reasonable to expect that the crew would be able to zip through the cataloguing process fairly speedily. It probably would have been true, as well, had it not been for the crew involved.

Invariably, the course of events would be: Damerell would get them lost, Wall would get them even more lost and nearly fly into a plasma cloud or other dangerous object, Hill would find their way out but then the computers would throw up an error and electrocute him, and Stark would have yet another culinary emergency in the middle of engineering, which would either result in a near-catastrophic core failure or him getting in a steaming huff. Or both. Only then could the cataloguing begin and, Cholmondely-Smythe had to admit, they were not too bad at that. It had reached the point where most of the anomalies could be identified simply by looking at them through the viewscreen.

“That’s a Class 52, isn’t it?” Damerell asked as they finally approached the latest target, the excitingly named K110-6TT/Q.

“Yep,” Wall agreed, “although it’s the sub-variant Gamma.”

“Nearly,” Hill called out, peering into his viewer. “Try again.”

Dr Jackson, who for lack of anything better to do was occupying an empty chair near the back of the bridge, squinted at the screen. “Ooh, ooh!” he started bouncing in his chair. “There’s a combination, sub-variant Gamma and an Omicron flux realignment. Look, it’s got that twisty purple bit in it!”

Cholmondely-Smythe shook his head and sighed. Why were the crew apparently geniuses at identifying gaseous anomalies, yet total incompetents when it came to their real jobs? He had briefly considered the possibility that they were idiot savants. He watched as Damerell failed yet again to complete the first level of Pac-man on his console. They were definitely at least half of that.

Cholmondely-Smythe stared vacantly at the viewscreen, watching the coloured gases swirl on the screen. It took a few moments before what he was seeing registered.

“Number One!” he shouted to Hill, “Analyse what we’re seeing, there’s a good chap.”

Hill frowned. “Confirmed. The gases all appear to have begun to move in a counter-clockwise direction, around a central point. I’m also reading an increased density of gases bearing 000 mark 4, around 2000 kilometers distant. It’s almost… Captain, exponential increase of particle flux and neutrino emissions! Get us away from here!”

“Implement!” Cholmondely-Smythe shouted, simultaneously grabbing hold of the handles on his chair, and Wall slammed the ship into reverse, throwing everyone except the captain to the floor. As those around him were struggling to regain their seats, he watched the viewscreen in fascination, as the entire gas cloud seemed to distort peculiarly, then collapse down into itself.

When it seemed there was nothing left, a blinding flash of light blanked out the viewscreen as the automatic filters kicked in, just slowly enough to leave pulsing afterimages in front of Cholmondely-Smythe’s eyes. The viewer faded to reveal a ragged, flickering tear in the fabric of space.

“What is that?!” he demanded.

“Um,” Hill replied eloquently, “judging by the tidal neutrino emissions, I’d say it’s a particularly unstable wormhole. It’s weird though. The readings keep flickering between that and being completely normal. it’s like it’s phasing in and out of existence, somehow.”

“Very well. Now would you care to hazard a guess as to why it jolly well appeared?”

Hill shrugged. “Buggered if I know.” He glanced down, and raised an eyebrow. “Sir, there’s an unusual reading… I’m picking up a high level of chroniton radiation. I don’t…”

He trailed off and lifted his eyes to watch the viewscreen. Dimly, as if it knew damned well it should not be doing it, the odd tear pulsed, and the faint image of a ship began to appear through it.

“Identification!” Cholmondely-Smythe demanded. Hill frowned at his board.

“It’s an Excelsior-class vessel,” he reported, “badly damaged,” he added. “Hold on…” Under his control the viewscreen focussed on the scarred saucer section. Under the damage they could read, “US- trem-,” and under it, “NC-” He shook his head. “I can’t make it out.” He shook his head, trying to clear it of a sudden fuzziness. When he looked back up, Captain Olding was sitting in the command chair. After a second of disorientation Hill, along with everyone else, was completely unaware that things had changed.

“Don’t bother.” Olding had risen from his chair and was staring in utter disbelief at the vessel. “Don’t you recognise it?”

Hill shrugged.

“Oh for crying out loud Commander, it’s not that bluidy hard! It’s the Extreme! You remember, t’bluidy ship Maroid tried to stop us stealin’ t’Psycho in. Maroid was transferred off, but then it disappeared at a Klingon outpost during an attack by Orion pirates.” When Hill looked blank, Olding sighed. “T’apparent desertion of t’Extreme caused hostilities between the Klingons and the Federation, which the second Khitomer Conference was meant to deal with – I’m sure you remember that?” Hill went red.

“That would explain the croniton radiation, if they’ve been thrown forwards in time,” he commented.

“Bleep… wrtzfgl… mind the gap… I am receiving a distress call,” Bleep intoned. Olding glanced around, trying to comprehend the situation. “Go on then, let’s ‘ave it.”

“This is Captain Rachel Hairyman of the USS Extreme, we have been attacked by Orion pirates at the Klingon outpost on Noreindeer 7. We are requesting assistance.”

Olding listened to the message, then sat back in his chair. “Hairyman… wasn’t a Hairyman captain of the Disposable-A at its launch?”

Most of the crew looked blank and, though he was the only one who had no choice in the matter, it was Bleep who answered. “Bleep… wrtsfgl… mind the gap… Yes Captain. It was noted in the media at the time. Barely a year after Rachel Hairyman was lost in the battle at Noreindeer 7, her brother John was killed heroically saving the passengers of a liner caught in an energy ribbon, despite the ship being inadequately resourced.”

“Thank you Mr Bleep. Hail them now.”

“Bleep… wrtsfgl… mind the gap… Unable to comply captain, their communications system is severely damaged, the distress signal is being broadcast on emergency power.”

“Humph. Very well then. I’ll lead a landing party… no wait, that’s against regulations now isn’t it?” Olding sighed. Sometimes he wished he’d never managed an emergency transport up to the Psycho before they went haring off after ex-Admiral Forster. At least he wouldn’t have been in the middle of a war with the Klingons then. “Commander Hill, take Doctor Jackson and Stark over to see what you can do to help. Don’t tell them where or when they are, understand?”
Hill nodded and headed for the turbolift, closely followed by Jackson. Olding sat back in his chair, watching the battered ship on the screen.

 

Minutes before, down in Fred’s Bar, the bartender had been about to test a new concoction of his, a mixture of two parts vodka, one part Salurian gin, one part Andorian kuresh, a mixer of choice and a tiny, tiny dose of his special ingredient, a deceptively strong hallucinogen from the gardens of his supplier on a remote Federation outpost. The ingredient required care in its administration, and the drink had to be mixed using a special device, the exact workings of which he had never bothered to learn.

The machine still humming to itself after its induction fields had mixed the drink to perfection, he had just taken a gulp of the fizzing, indigo liquid when Wall threw the ship into reverse and he was thrown headlong into the bar, mildly concussing himself. His hand hit the controls of the machine and it hummed into life, putting it on a setting he had never tried. It cast a web of invisible fields around the bartender, protecting him, sealing him inside a bubble of his own reality.

He looked up in time to see, though an alcohol, drugs and concussion induced haze, the rift open and the Extreme stagger through. Somehow, he was aware when the world around him changed. Glancing at his sleeves he saw that the tassels had disappeared and he was now wearing a sleek, dark grey outfit. The western theme bar, before his eyes, metamorphosed into a bland, uniformly grim Starfleet recreation facility. Staring in utter confusion at his reflection in the window, and unable to stop a part of his brain seeing the knarly, intense patterns in the bulkhead, he called the bridge.

“Fred to Bridge.”

“Aye lad, what’s up?”

The bartender was lost for words. Olding should be dead, shouldn’t he? Lost saving the Disposable-A.

“Uh,” he stuttered, “Ah’m comin’ up cap’n,” he said, “Ah need to have a talk to ya.”

“Very well.”

Shaking his head, Fred headed for the bridge.

 

Hill, Jackson and Stark materialised on the bridge of the Extreme. It was a mess, and bodies were strewn everywhere. Jackson performed a cursory check, and pronounced no survivors. Hill gave him a look when groaning started from two separate areas of the damaged command centre. They located the two survivors and began to administer aid. Stark fiddled uncertainly with various consoles, surprising no-one more than himself when under his direction the emergency lights flickered unsteadily on. Hill’s communicator beeped. It was Barfoot, who had beamed onto the lower decks.

“There aren’t very many survivors here Commander,” he reported. “Our medical staff are dealing with them on board.”

“Acknowledged. What about the ship?”

“Well, technically, I think the correct term is ‘buggered’, but with some work I think we can upgrade that to merely ‘shagged’.”

“Right. Carry on.” Hill glanced at the survivors, who were still unconscious. He tapped his badge. “Hill to Psycho, four to beam directly to sickbay. Leave Stark behind.”

Stark looked up eyes wide as the others disappeared. “Hey!”

 

Fred cautiously entered the bridge. It was completely different to how he remembered. There was only one centre seat. Counsellor Hill was stood next to Bleep in the security chief’s position. The bridge was packed with people, twice as many as there would normally have been. Olding stood and met him by the turbolift.

“Something the matter?” he asked. Fred stared at him, unable to believe his heavily-drugged vision. He reached out and poked Olding on the forehead.

“Bluidy stop that right now!” Olding demanded, grabbing Fred’s wrist. “Now tell me what’s wrong with you?”

“This- it’s all wrong cap’n!” Fred gestured around the bridge. It looked perfectly normal to Olding. Grey, utilitarian, military, heavy reinforced duranium struts and girders. The Psycho had been heavily modified when it arrived in the future to conform to the standards of this era. Seventy-five years of on-off war with the Klingons had made the Federation very good at building warships.

He said as much.

“The war shouldn’t be happening, that ship…” Fred pointed at the vessel on the viewscreen, against the backdrop of the pulsing rift.

“The Extreme,” Olding supplied.

“It shouldn’t be here! You…” he trailed off, suddenly uncertain. How could he tell the captain that he wasn’t meant to be here? Olding raised an eyebrow at him.

“Now Fred,” he said, soothingly, “‘ave you been drinking, lad?”

“Listen to me cap’n,” Fred pleaded. “You know me, Ah don’t cry wolf!” Suddenly he looked at the front of the bridge. Damerell was at navigation but the helm…

“Where’s Gav boy?” he asked, dreading the answer. Hearing him, Damerell spun round, tears standing in his eyes. He began to bawl uncontrollably. Olding gave Fred a disgusted look.

“Now look what tha’s bluidy done!” he said. The lieutenant-commander at the helm leant over to him.

“There, there old bean,” Helmsman Cholmondely-Smythe patted Damerell on the shoulder. Damerell wailed louder.

The captain leant in to Fred. “Wall was killed barely two weeks ago,” he muttered. You know that, you held his bluidy wake!”

Fred shook his head. “Ah don’t remember that Cap’n,” he said. “Ah… remember a very different past to y’all. Somethin’s very wrong.”

Olding was troubled. True, his bartender had never lied to him but this story was more than a bit farfetched. Just as he was about to speak the intercom sounded.

“Captain,” it was Commander Hill in sickbay, “I think you’d better get here quickly. The captain of the Extreme is asking questions.”

Olding laid a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “Sorry lad, duty calls. Lieutenant,” he spoke to security chief Hill. “You’re wi’ me.” Fred suddenly realised she was wearing the gold uniform of the services division.

Olding and Lieutenant Hill arrived in sickbay just in time to catch the tail end of Captain Hairyman issuing dire threats unless she was told exactly what was going on. Olding sighed.

“There’ll be no need for that,” he informed her. He stood in front of her, and Dr Jackson tried to hide behind him. “Captain Chris Olding, USS Psycho,” he informed her. She glared at him.

“I know you, Olding. I’ve heard of your crew.”

Olding hesitated, then remembered that this ship was, indeed, from their time.

“Aye, well, we need to talk abou’ a few things lass,” he said uncomfortably. The other surviving bridge officer groaned on the next bed, and Lieutenant Hill moved to speak to him. He groggily sat up and Hill stopped in her tracks. Despite her insistence that she was only an empath, at that moment Olding was sure he distinctly heard her voice echoing in his head, breathing, “Hubba Hubba!” He glanced at her to see her staring at the Extreme bridge officer. She gave herself a little shake and examined the readings on the biobed. Ignoring them, Olding spoke instead to Captain Hairyman, deciding to forego subtlety completely.

“Look lass, you and your ship have been catapulted eighty-odd years into t’future. Your ship was thought destroyed by the Orion attack. The Klingons, due to lack of debris, decided that you were never there and the Federation’s failure to defend the Klingon outpost has plunged us into nearly eighty years of war with the Klingon Empire. We nearly had it all patched up a few months after the incident with the Second Khitomer Accords, but the assassinations of both the Klingon Chancellor Angie and President Tracey, which we came this bluidy close to foilin’,” Olding looked frustrated, and Hill stared down at his feet, “put a stop to that. We chased one o’ the renegade admirals and wound up fallin’ through a temporal vortex that brought us here, a few months ago. We’ve been patrollin’ ever since.” Olding didn’t mention what Fred had said, about the war being ‘wrong’.

Hairyman sat in stunned silence, as did the other Extreme crewman, who took a deep breath and spoke.

“Lieutenant Rocky Calypso,” he introduced himself, striking a pose. Classic first-officer material, Olding thought wryly. Hill would appreciate the sleekness of it, if no-one else did. “This might sound like a stupid question but, what happens now?”

Olding looked at him with sympathy. “Right now, Lieutenant, I’d suggest you take a moment to recover while I deal with the situation.”

With that, he turned and headed for the bridge.

 

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 502236.2. Well, all I can say about this is it’s a right bluidy mess and no mistake. Captain Hairyman’s injuries have kept her confined to our sickbay for the last day, but she’s eager to get back to her ship. I don’t blame her, but I’ve got a feelin’ things aren’t that easy. After my conversation with our bartender, I don’t know what to do. If he’s right, and this whole thing shouldn’t’ve ‘appened, can we put it back the way it was? I’ve been workin’ with Bleep to try to resolve it. Unfortunately, from the current state of t’Extreme and what we know about the battle at Noreindeer 7, Bleep has predicted that if t’Extreme goes back through t’rift, they’ve got a less than ten percent chance of survival. I don’t know if I can bring myself to order over a hundred people to their certain deaths. Even if they are Starfleet officers.”

Lieutenant Hill had managed to regain some of her composure and was helping both Hairyman and Calypso come to terms with their predicament. When it was clear Hairyman wanted some time alone, she took Calypso for a walk to the arboretum, one of the few places left on the ship the crew could go for a quiet rest. They sat together on a bench, and she noted with sad amusement the words ‘GW woz ere’ carved into the wood.

Stuck for something, anything to say, she wished for the first time that they had a Counsellor on board. The idea had been introduced decades ago, but what with the war it had been decided that the expense just wasn’t worth it. When he sniffed loudly she gave him a hanky, which he blew his nose into with a sound rather like a foghorn. He handed back a dripping hanky, which she deposited into a handy waist receptacle.

She regarded his profile, an odd feeling inside her. He was handsome, no doubt about that. He also seemed like a nice person, although he did seem a bit anal about Starfleet regulations. For some reason, she found herself wanting to comfort him.

Gingerly, like a person reaching into a tank of piranhas to pick up a bar of gold-pressed latinum, she reached over and took his hand. He stared down at their hands, and glanced up with a small smile. He brought her hand up to his lips and lightly kissed it. She felt a thrill go through her.

Oh no! she thought, I’m falling in love with him. Damn it!

Then she surrendered herself to the feeling and leant into him, tilting her head back as he tilted his forward, bringing their lips together.

 

Olding went down to the bar to talk again with Fred. The bartender was nursing his head. The effects of the drink were beginning to wear off, and he was developing the mother of all hangovers. Although he didn’t know it, the batteries on the device were beginning to run low, and the effects of the protection field were beginning to wear off. He was starting to lose his memory of specifically why things were so wrong. Olding sat at the bar, and Fred poured him an orange juice.

“Fred, I need to know whether sending the Extreme back is the right thing to do.”

Fred sighed. “Ah don’t know Chrissy-boy. Ah do know that if you do, chances are everything will go back to normal. But mah normal ain’t yours right now, is it?”

Olding shook his head, but sighed. That tallied with something Bleep had mentioned. If the Extreme did go back and could hold off the Orions for just a few more minutes, the chances were fairly high that Klingons would arrive and see them attempting a valiant defence, thus preventing the war, eighty years of bloodshed. He noticed Fred looking at him with something like pity, which irritated him, so he downed his drink and left the bar without a word.

 

Damerell had come to the arboretum to try to regain his composure. He rounded the corner to the bench where Wall had carved his initials. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Lieutenant Hill and an officer he didn’t recognise dressed in a really old uniform were on the bench. In point of fact, the officer was lying on his back and Hill was kneeling over him. As Damerell watched Hill ripped open the front of the officer’s uniform and bent down, beginning another passionate kiss.

“Uh,” Damerell said. Hill was up off the bench like a shot, blushing furiously. The officer sat up more slowly, as if a little dazed. Hill grabbed his hand and dragged him past Damerell to the door. She paused beside the stunned navigator.

“I’m watching you,” she said, “so be careful, okay?”

Damerell nodded, and they left him still staring at the bench.

 

Some time later, Olding called a meeting in sickbay, where Hairyman was still recovering from her injuries. Lieutenant Hill and Lieutenant Calypso had beamed over to the Extreme to help with the repairs that Barfoot and his team were conducting. They gave a report on the condition of the starship.

“As Barfoot would put it, Captain,” Lieutenant Hill said, “it’s officially ‘shagged’. It can manoeuvre, has just over minimal weapons and thirty percent shields.”

“The crew is in reasonable condition, those that are left,” Jackson put in. “Though that’s barely a third of the original complement.” Captain Hairyman winced. Commander Hill spoke next.

“I’ve been putting together a program for temporal rehabilitation of the survivors,” he said. “I thought we could help them, given our own experience.”

Olding was surprised. His first officer never normally displayed that kind of initiative. He was probably feeling insecure after their time jump, and the presence of Calypso.

Olding looked around the assembled officers. The bridge was in the dubious care of Damerell, with Bleep to perform just about every other task. Commander Hill was drumming his fingers on Hairyman’s biobed, surreptitiously trying to get the scanners to remove her clothing on the screen in front of him. Lieutenant Hill was standing close to Lieutenant Calypso, and as Olding looked away he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Calypso slip his fingers through the security chief’s. Jackson was hovering in the background, sulking over having been overruled by his medical staff about amputating Captain Hairyman’s left leg. Stark, who someone had finally remembered was stuck on the isolated bridge of the Extreme, was spending most of his time glaring angrily at Commander Hill.

Olding’s eyes met those of Rachel Hairyman, who met his gaze steadily. He looked away. She knew. Somehow, she knew what he was going to say.

“I know this isn’t goin’ t’be a popular decision,” he began, and flushed when he saw Lieutenant Hill look sharply at him, “but I think… I believe our best option here is to send the Extreme back through t’rift.”

There were a few seconds of absolute silence, in which Olding stared at his feet and shuffled them.

“Sir, you can’t be serious!” Commander Hill exclaimed. “If we send them back through…”

“It’ll be almost certain death for us all,” Captain Hairyman finished.

Lieutenant Hill, whose face had gone deathly white at Olding’s words, finally reacted. She stepped forwards and drew back her hand as if to slap him. He was about to grab her when she hesitated, but when he lowered his guard she clobbered him with a powerful right hook. Grabbing Calypso’s hand, she stormed out.

“Well,” Olding sighed, nursing his painful jaw, “that went about as well as expected.” He glanced around. “Thank you everyone,” he added, “now I’d like to have a word with Captain Hairyman.”

When his officers made no attempt to leave, he glared at them.

“Alone!”

Making quiet “Oh!” noises, they left. Olding and Hairyman looked at each other.

“Look lass,” Olding began, but Hairyman overrode him.

“I understand the reasoning, captain,” she said wearily. “The rift is still there, so we should go back through, cause as little pollution of the timeline as possible.”

“Aye,” Olding shrugged. “It’s not just that, though. I have a… source… who seems certain that all this,” he waved his hand around, “shouldn’t be happenin’. That the timeline has already been polluted… by your leaving of your original time.” Hairyman stared at him. He tried to explain. “My source is someone I trust. Can’t say any more than that. Thing is, lass, according to the best of Starfleet’s projections, the war will be over in six months. With us on the losin’ side.” Hairyman gasped.

“I didn’t know things were that bad!”

“Aye, well, not that many people do. According to the information you’ve given us, and what we know of the movements of the Klingons after the destruction of the Extreme, sorry,” he added as she frowned, “if you go back, with t’ repairs we’ve made, there is a bluidy good chance you’ll hold the Orions off until the Klingons arrive…”

She gave a grim smile. “And our sacrifice could prevent eighty years of bloodshed?”

Olding nodded.

“Bummer.”

 

Several hours later, Olding, Hairyman, Calypso, Barfoot and Lieutenant Hill assembled on the bridge of the Extreme. Hill was avoiding Olding’s gaze. He gingerly touched the burgeoning bruise on his face. He and Hairyman faced each other in front of the command chair. They shook hands.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Captain,” she said. He nodded.

“Good luck.” It seemed rather hollow, somehow.

Lieutenant Hill turned to Lieutenant Calypso. He opened his mouth to speak, but she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, passionately. Olding watched with raised eyebrows, and Hairyman hid a smile behind her hand. Barfoot went bright red and looked busy doing nothing at an engineering console. When it became clear that they were not going to stop any time soon, Olding coughed. Reluctantly, they parted. Barfoot and Hill took up positions flanking Olding, and he tapped his badge.

“Olding to Psycho. Three t’beam away.”

Just as the beam caught them, Hill held out a hand to Calypso, who returned the gesture.

Then the bridge of the Extreme faded from view.

 

Once back on the bridge of the Psycho, Olding watched as the Extreme manoeuvred cautiously, testing its systems. “Good luck,” Olding whispered.

The silence was broken by Commander Hill.

“Oh crap! Klingon bird of prey decloaking, bearing zero-one-five mark four-five!”

“Intercept!” Olding shouted, and Cholmondely-Smythe threw the Psycho forwards. They managed to connect one phaser blast with the Klingon, but it just shrugged it off and launched one torpedo that impacted the saucer of the Extreme. The bird of prey re-cloaked, leaving the Psycho and Extreme waiting tensely.

“Bleep… wrtsfgl… mind the gap… we are being hailed by the Extreme.”

“Put it on,” Olding was dreading this.

Lieutenant Calypso’s face appeared, smudged and strained.

“Captain Hairyman has been killed,” he said tonelessly, as if unable to believe what he was saying. “I- I request permission to take the Extreme back through and finish this.”

“Agreed,” Olding replied. “But not until we’ve patched up the damage just done”

As the channel was cut, Commander Hill approached Olding.

“Sir, they’ll never managed to make a difference without Hairyman in command. I’m sure Calypso will do his best but…”

Olding frowned. For the second time in a day, his first officer had made a good point. It had to be some kind of record.

“Oh bugger it,” he muttered. “Hail t’Extreme.”

“Bleep… wrtsfgl… mind the gap… go ahead sir.”

“Stand by Lieutenant,” Olding said simply, and then headed for the turbolift. “You have the bridge, Commander.”

 

Olding had to ask something that had been bothering him since this had started, of the one person who could answer him.

“Howdy Chrissy boy!” Fred said cheerfully as Olding stormed into the bar. Olding slammed his hands down on the bar top and took a breath.

“Fred,” he began, and then hesitated. “Fred, why did you react the way you did when you saw me t’other day?”

Fred frowned. “What d’y’all mean cap’n?”

“When you saw me on the bridge, you poked me in the forehead. Why?”

Fred sighed. “Cahn’t y’all guess?”

Olding nodded, finally accepting the conclusion he had been wanting to deny. “I shouldn’t be here should I?”

Fred shook his head. “Nosirree. It’s all gettin’ rather hazy now, but I’m pretty sure in the real reality, y’all are dead.”

Olding swallowed. “Bugger.” He shook his head. “Sod it,” he declared. “If I’m not gonna exist, I’m gonna go out wi’ a bang. Ta Fred.”

Olding charged out of the bar. Fred watched him sadly.

“So long, Chrissy-boy. God speed.”

 

The repair crews had beamed over once again, rerouting relays and reinforcing the hull breach with emergency forcefields. Anything to give the Extreme a better chance back at Noreindeer 7. The best part of a day later, and the ship was once more ready to depart. Olding gathered his senior crew around his chair on the bridge.

“I’m not entirely certain how to say this lads,” he said, “but I’m goin’ with t’Extreme back into t’past.”

Olding was getting good at reducing his crew to absolute stunned silence.

“But- if- why- huh?” Damerell asked, intelligently.

“I don’t want to go in to all the details,” Olding said, “but I have good reason to believe that this is an appropriate course of action. Also, if I go with t’Extreme, we increase our chances of achieving our goal by…” he looked at Bleep.

“Bleep… wrtzfgl… stand clear of the doors please… ten percent.”

“Which is probably worth it,” Olding smiled grimly. “Commander,” he turned to Hill, “I’m relyin’ on you to protect us until we get through t’rift. That Klingon was only a scout, there’ll be others.”

Hill swallowed, but nodded. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Do better,” Olding told him. He looked around the circle. This would be the last time he’d see any of them, whether he survived the battle or not. He wanted to remember their faces. Well, he could do without seeing Damerell’s mug in his head, but the others were okay. Jackson, Stark, Barfoot, Damerell and both the Hills solemnly regarded him. He shook hands with them all, and Lieutenant Hill spoke.

“Captain, I want to come with you.”

Olding shook his head. “I’m sorry lass, but I need you here to help defend us.” He smiled sadly. “He knows how you feel.”

Blinking back tears she turned and walked away, returning to her post. Olding coughed uncomfortably.

“Right. Better be off. Try not to bugger things up too much.”

He took one last look around the bridge of the Psycho, his ship. Straightening his shoulders he strode towards the turbolift. Damerell began to sing.

“For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow…”

For the last line, the entire bridge crew joined in.

“FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD FEELLLOOOW! WHICH NOBODY CAN DENY!”

Olding stood in the turbolift and smiled out at them.

“You bluidy bunch of idiots,” he said fondly, as the doors closed on his view of the bridge for the last time.

 

He beamed directly to the bridge of the Extreme, where Calypso was waiting for him. The lieutenant got up out of the centre seat.

“She’s all yours Captain,” he said. Olding shook his head.

“She’s your ship, Lieutenant.”

Calypso shrugged. “I’d be better off taking tactical, to be honest sir,” he admitted, “I’m a bit of a crap starship commander.”

“Go on then.”

Olding sank into the oddly contoured seat as Calypso moved to stand behind him.

“Let’s go change some history,” he said.

 

Commander Hill watched as the Extreme headed for the rift, his exultation at being in command of the Psycho slightly tempered by the fact that Olding was going off to sacrifice himself for the sake of the galaxy.

“Close escort, Mister Cholmondely-Smythe,” he ordered.

“Spiffing!”

“Shut up.”

“Bleep… wrtzfgl… mind the gap… the bird of prey and two Klingon cruisers have decloaked and are moving in on separate intercept courses Commander.”

“Blanket spread torpedoes at the bird of prey. Helm, keep us moving around the Extreme, stop the Klingons getting a clear shot.”

The Psycho fired a barrage of torpedoes that made the bird of prey veer off, juddering with near misses. Her phasers raked the neck of one of the cruisers and the ship rocked as her shields absorbed the disruptor blasts from both cruisers, intercepting those meant for the Extreme. The Excelsior-class ship lashed out with her own phasers, catching the other cruiser, and increased her speed towards the rift.

“Follow them!” Hill shouted, and the Psycho lurched severely as blasts from all three vessels impacted the engineering section. In return, two torpedoes hammered into the bird of prey, obliterating it.

“Stark to bridge, we have a slight problem!” the intercom sounded.

“Evasive!” Hill said, “fire at will! What is it?”

“There’s a bit of a core breach happening down here, and apparently our coolant tanks have ruptured, so there’s only about two minutes until detonation.”

“Ah.” Hill sighed. And things had been going so well. “Can we eject it?”

“I dunno. Can we?” Stark asked someone off the intercom. “No, apparently not. The ejection mechanism’s been slightly damaged as well.

“Bleep… wrtzfgl… mind the gap… fifty seconds until the Extreme enters the rift,” Bleep reported. “And the Klingons are hailing us.”

“On screen,” Hill ordered grimly.

A bulky, angry Klingon appeared on the viewscreen.

“I am Captain Klumpf of the Klingon warship Dha’Kulah. Surrender and we will beam you to safety.” The Psycho rocked again.

“Shields down to twenty percent,” Lieutenant Hill reported.

“Bleep… wrtzfgl… I’m afraid I can’t do that Dave… I was going to say that. Thirty-five seconds.”

“We will not surrender to you, Klingon!” Hill shouted. “Fire!”

The phasers struck out, combined with a torpedo that burst through the weakened shield and caused serious damage to the Dha’Kulah. Klumpf fell out of his command chair.

“Very well,” he snarled, “then die!”

“Bleep… wrtzfgl… mind the gap… fifteen seconds.”

“Warning, warp core breach in five seconds,” the computer pointed out.

Hill stood from the command chair. “Ramming speed!”

 

Olding watched in shocked disbelief and no little pride as the Psycho catapulted forward and ploughed into the lead Klingon warship, obliterating them both in a tremendous explosion as her warp core went critical at the same time.

“Five seconds to horizon,” Calypso reported. “Three… two… one…”

The ship shuddered…

 

The viewer faded to reveal a ragged, flickering tear in the fabric of space.

“What is that?!” Captain Cholmondely-Smythe demanded.

“Um,” Hill replied eloquently, “judging by the tidal neutrino emissions, I’d say it’s a particularly unstable wormhole. It’s weird though. The readings keep flickering between that and being completely normal. It’s like it’s phasing in and out of existence, somehow.”

“Very well. Now would you care to hazard a guess as to why it jolly well appeared?”

Hill shrugged. “Buggered if I know.” He glanced down, and raised an eyebrow. “Sir, there’s an unusual reading… I’m picking up a high level of chroniton radiation. I don’t-” He hesitated. “It looks like a ship but-” the reading faded, as did the wormhole.

Cholmondely-Smythe stared at the blank screen for a long moment. “So much for that bit of excitement,” he said. “Log it, Number One, then proceed to the next gaseous anomaly.”

“Yes Captain.”

 

Down in Fred’s bar Fred picked himself up from off the floor behind the bar. Seconds earlier he had been caught in a massive explosion, then suddenly he was here. He warily eyed the drinks machine whirring to itself. He had a complete memory of the last couple of days but something told him…

“Computer, what day is it?”

“Stardate 502236.2.” Two days ago.

“What’s the location of Captain Christopher Olding.”

“Captain Olding is not on board the Psycho.”

Fred smiled to himself. Olding had done it.

Stark entered the bar at that moment and perched on a stool. Fred wandered over.

“So,” he said, leaning over the bar, “Tell me all about… Chris Olding.”

Stark gave him a funny look. “Fred, you were on this ship before I was. You probably knew Captain Olding better than I did.”

“Oh yeah. Never mind.”