MISSING LINKS

This fourth Story in the LAST FRONIER Series has more of a TG element in it than its predecessors. Be it Reincarnation or something else, a certain story author wakes up to find him/herself in the body of his own creation—or IS she a creation? The only thing M12 knows to do is to use her knowledge of Webber to “fake” being her until she can figure out what is going on and how to fix it. Things get more complicated when Zee is kidnapped and our author is forced to take actions more suited to a real heroine than a mere storywriter.

The Last Frontier IV

DARK NOISE

Part 1
By Marina Twelve

   It was sort of like waking up in the middle of the night after moving into a new house. There is the momentary shock of finding one’s self in “strange” surroundings. Seconds later, of course, when the cobwebs of sleep clear from your brain, you remember where you are and all is well once again. ---Only this time there was no memory. I truly was in a different room and a different bed than I had been in the night before and I had no memory how I had gotten there.
     Indeed, I didn’t seem to be in a room at all---more like a BOX, come to think of it. My “bed”, or at least the mattress, was somewhat narrower than the queen-sized bed that I remember climbing into that night. Immediately to my left, was a dark, smooth wall that contained the mattress on that side. On my right a similar containing wall, which seemed to be made of white plastic or glass, that seemed to glow slightly from the presence of some light source on the other side of it.
    At the foot of the mattress was a dark wall similar to that on the left, save for the fact that its surface was interrupted by a small numeric display screen that flashed the time, in blue numerals, as being “5:04 AM.” I could also “sense” another wall at the head of my bed, that, along with the “ceiling” that hovered about four feet over my face, served to confine me on all sides.
    Of course, these realizations took place in mere seconds, taking a lot longer to describe than experience. The next series of experiences were even more profound, but took place in an expanse of time no longer than the first.

The only thing that prevented me from jumping up, wide awake, was an overall feeling of extreme fatigue. I couldn’t seem to move, or at least felt too “heavy” or exhausted to do so. As I contemplated my confines, I became aware that my head appeared to be lying in the midst of some odd fibrous substance, that tickled my cheeks and ears. A flow of warm air from an unknown source blew a wisp of the stuff across my face. Instinctively, my right hand came up to brush it away.

Whap! On the way up, the back of my wrist struck something soft and very sensitive in my chest region, where “I” shouldn’t be at all.—-This time I DID jump up. I felt a weight shift in my upper body as I assumed a “sitting up” position---only that wasn’t sheets or blankets.

“What the hey?” I had what appeared to be boobs! The light was dim, but bright enough to see the two hemispherical forms jiggling from my chest. They were big, but not really gigantic, I figured a good “C” cup size.

Oddly enough I was almost as shocked and fascinated by the appearance of my HANDS. Smaller, sleeker, unfamiliar. . . WOMANS’ hands!—-Holy shit!---everything “hit me” at once. Now I was aware of the long hair that caressed the sides of my face and tickled my shoulders, the odd “tight” felling in my crotch and the smooth, long legs that stretched out in front of me. There were no sheets or blankets. I was nude and I was a WOMAN!

A shock like that is enough to wake anybody up. I found myself pushing away, backing up towards the head of the bed as if trying to put some distance between myself and this strange body. But of course, it moved along with me. I turned to see that the head wall was made of a glass mirror. Unfortunately, due to the low light, I couldn’t see anything in it save for a dim silhouette with dark spots where my eyes and mouth should be.

I was in a near panic. I could feel the hairs stand up on my neck. Bravely, as if to confirm my initial conclusions, I nervously brought my shaking hand up to my crotch. I managed to touch it for a split second, as if testing to see if a stove burner was hot. I managed to touch it again and explore with my fingers. I could feel a definite slit, along with some smaller flaps of loose skin along the inside and a very sensitive clit.

That was enough for the moment. I wiped the moisture off my hand onto the mattress. My worst fears have been confirmed. Funny though, although I am a hetro male, I had often fanaticized about what it would feel like to be a woman, was a fan of such “TG” stories, and have even written a few. Now I was experiencing the REAL thing. Trust me, though. It was not “exciting” but absolutely terrifying.

The fact that I was “locked up” in this “box” also did little to settle my nerves, but suddenly I just “knew” something. I reached about midways down the dimly glowing wall, at the bottom, close to the mattress, and found a handle. When I pulled it back, there was a low whirring sound as the “wall” seemed to lift upwards and slide into the “ceiling”.

The “wall” wasn’t a wall at all, but a “door” of some sort, which opened to reveal what looked like the interior of a stateroom aboard a ship or something. I swung my long legs around and off the mattress. My feet found the floor about 18 inches below.

It was now obvious, as I sat on the mattress, what the “Box” was. Yes, it was a bed fitted into a recess in the wall of the stateroom. The translucent door panel could close and help control the temperature inside, making the sleeper comfortable without the need for any sheets or blankets. “Cool”, I thought for a second, it was an interesting idea.

With the door open, there was a lot more light, and I could see myself a lot better on the mirrored panel on my right. “My God!” I exclaimed to myself as I saw the reflection look back at me. The, “long”, well-built woman had wavy reddish blonde hair that hung to just past her shoulders. Her eyes were an odd, intense blue that seemed to look into me. I knew who she was. She was the very image of how I had envisioned Leslie Webber!

But why? “What the hell’s going on here?” I thought. “Perhaps this is just a dream?” I tried “pinching myself”, for whatever that was worth, to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. If this WAS a dream it was sure realistic as anything I had ever experienced. “Have my fantasies finally caught up with me?”

The fantasy angle made little sense though. Webber, though quite sexy and beautiful, even to myself, still was not my “ideal”, however. I was more partial to “well rounded” dark eyed brunettes. If this was a dream fantasy, Leslie Webber would not be who I would have expected.

“Perhaps I have been writing too many ‘Last Frontier’ stories?” That thought flitted across my mind. But as I quietly sat and took in my surroundings the reality of the environment began to impress itself upon me. This was NO dream. Did I know where I was? A very good guess would have been Leslie’s quarters on the Retribution.

I began to realize that I was not going to be waking up from this “dream” any time soon. “It looks as if I AM Captain Leslie Webber.” I thought to myself.

But what was I going to do? Who could I ask about what the hell was going on? I started to feel very alone. The “reality” of this world began to strongly impress itself upon me. THAT was a daunting, disturbing realization. If this was real, then I would be responsible for this ship and the other people on board. Those people look up to Webber and put their faith in her. Then I thought of something else. “Until I get it straightened out what is going on, I am going to have to BE Leslie Webber-—or at least ‘fake it’.”

“Damn! What would happen if they noticed that there was something ‘wrong’ with me.” I wondered. “Damn! What if we get into a real combat situation? Would I be able to fight?” While Webber was a soldier and a hero(ine) I sure wasn’t. “I could get us all killed!”

The first task of passing myself off as Webber, might not be as difficult as I may have initially feared. I had invented the character. I know practically everything about her—-I think, -- But then again the question comes up “If Webber is a fictional character, then why does everything in this world seem so real?”

Now things started to get really confusing. I remembered when I first conceived “The Last Frontier” story. I planned to design a Sci-fi “space opera” from the ground up, owing nothing to ‘Star Trek’, ‘Star Wars’ or it’s predecessors. I tried to be more “realistic” with a new “future projection” based upon my historical expertise, and a more reality based “science” and technology---although derived from some of the more unconventional theories that I have studied. The result was, in my opinion, a darker, though more “probable” future universe than is depicted in the ‘Trek’ series. A universe having more in common with the old West than anything else.

As a writer, “Captain Webber” was a peculiar mystery to me. She emerged “full blown” from her appearance to her personality. Authors tell about how some of their characters may seem to “come to life” and have a personality of their own, often doing things seemingly beyond the control of the writer. Leslie Webber was a character like that -–in spades. I never had a character “come to life” like that in over twenty years of writing stories.

Not only did she have a personality and will of her own, I seemed to know all kinds of insignificant stuff about her. Like she always locks doors, (especially bedroom doors) behind her. She sleeps in the nude---not out of comfort, but as a kind of refusal to wear “feminine” undergarments and nightgowns. Initially this had a source in her “denial” problems, but had since evolved into a habit.

I was now starting to consider that perhaps there might be a reason for my connections to Webber that went beyond the mere “creation” of her. “What if she was a REAL person who lives in the future?” I thought.

“She IS a “psychic”, something like myself. Perhaps we developed some sort of “trans-temporal” “telepathic link” when I “created” her?”

“Perhaps I really didn’t create the character at all, but actually made “telepathic contact” with a real person who was like the character I had envisioned?”

That theory, though wild, seemed to explain a lot about both how I “knew” so much about her and why she seems to exist in a reality just as real as my own had been. But then again, this brought up other questions. The primary one being “What the hell am I doing in her body?”

“Did we swap bodies or am I sharing it with her?” I wondered. “What happened to my own body—or mind?”

“Damn!” a frightening thought crossed my mental landscape, “Did I die?”. . . Whoa! This was getting too weird.

Then I thought of something else. “Do I, John Thomson, actually exist at all? Could I be the dream, and Webber be the reality?”

“After all, Webber is quite psychic and also ‘mentally unstable’. Could she have finally ‘snapped’ and dreamed ME up as some kind of alter personality? Could she have had a stroke or something that “scrambled” HER mind?”

The effects of my mental ramblings forced me to “regroup” and consider the situation logically. First things first. What did I know? The only reality I could be sure of is the here and now, wherever and whenever this “here and now” was.

As to WHO I was I really couldn’t be sure. The only ‘reality’ I was now aware of, was that I was this Woman that I knew as ‘Leslie Webber,’ who seemed to have my own consciousness, and that I was aboard her ship.

“So what to do about it?”

Okay! I first had to make sure that I was physically intact. The thought that I might have had a stroke, embolism or a brain tumor that triggered this event, whatever it was, HAD to be checked out.

“ Hell,” I thought. “If I really AM Leslie Webber, These might be the first symptoms of something that could leave me a mental cripple, even less than I am now-—or even worse.”

I saw the com-screen by my desk. I “knew” how to operate it. That was a good, although mysterious sign.

I got up off the bed. Immediately, I noticed that my “balance” was off. My legs seemed to bend differently and I had to rotate my hips a bit to get my feet in the correct position to walk. Fortunately, I adapted quickly, perhaps “too” quickly. After a couple initial “stumbles” I managed to get into the rhythm of the walk and made it to the desk.

“Doc!” I said over the com. He, like myself, did not have the image on. Neither of us looked “decent” this time of the ‘morning’.

“Isn’t a little early?” he replied.

“Don’t ask me any questions, Doc. I need you to do a full blood check and a cranial scan on me immediately.”

“Why? Is there something going on that I should know about?”

“I said no questions! If the tests show anything then we can talk. Otherwise it’s none of your business.”

I did not want Doc or the others to worry about me or know about my mental state if it were only that. I had a feeling that I could fake my way through it and eventually get some insight on my own on how to solve the problem----Only I had to be SURE that there was nothing physical involved. Negative results from Doc’s scanner would insure that my brain was all right and the blood tests would eliminate the possibility of drugs, toxins or infections might be affecting me.

“Can you be in Sick bay in ten minutes?” He asked.

“Sure.” I replied.

There wasn’t time for a shower, and I looked like hell, but I did what I could. So as to not look too “distressed”, I put on a bathrobe and brushed my hair.---There! I didn’t look too bad. Then I walked into the “familiar” passageway, two doors down to where I “knew” Doc’s Sickbay was located.

Doctor Havelock was up and about, making some final adjustments to his scanner, a metal, doughnut shaped “halo” about two feet in diameter and six inches thick, that hung in a horizontal position above a chair. It could slide up and down from a vertical track mounted in the wall. Doc, Like me, was dressed only in a bathrobe.

He directed me to sit in the chair, which I did. He took my left hand and pressed a small pen shaped device to my index finger. I felt a slight sting as it took a blood sample. Doc. Then plugged the “pen” into a slot on his medical console.

“We’ll let the blood test run as we do the scan” he said. “You know, if you really suspect that something is wrong, you need to be honest with me and describe the symptoms.”

“That’s just it, Doc.” I replied. “I can’t describe it and even if I did, I am afraid that you would not understand.”

“Try me.”

“Just run the goddamned Scan Doc. I just want to make sure that I am healthy, physically at least.”

“Now we are getting somewhere” He replied as the “doughnut” descended over my head and images began to flit across the near by com-screen.

“I think it’s a BT thing Doc.” I said, not being entirely honest. “It’s not really your department, but I wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything more serious before I went to talk to Zee. And Doc, keep word of this quiet.”

My explanation seemed to satisfy Doc’s curiosity. He checked the results of the blood test “No problems here” he said.

The scan also tested negative. I left to go, but suddenly “thought” of something else.

“What about a Brainwave Pattern mapping?” I asked.

“A BPM too?” He sighed. “I suppose we can handle that.”

Doc removed the doughnut from the track on the wall and replaced it with a dome shaped device, about the size of a helmet.

Why I thought of a BPM, or even knew about it, was beyond me at the moment. I knew that it could be used to establish identity if DNA based tests could not be preformed or relied upon. Indeed, the old Captain Webber’s identity in his new female body had been established this way, as no two person’s brainwave patterns are the same.

What the BPM would show in my case would be interesting indeed. Would it match Webber’s at all? Would my personality carry its own unique pattern? What would happen if BOTH myself and Webber shared the same skull?

The test, after the rather involved setup, took only seconds. “All normal Captain.”

The results surprised me. Indeed, they SHOCKED me. “Are you sure, Doc? Does it match the BPM on file?”

“Matches to the last microwave.” Said Doc. “I do see some signs of stress in the prefrontal region, though. You seem to be worried about something.”

I was in shock, but I dared not show it. The matching BPM could only mean one thing. I WAS Leslie Webber! No mental telepathy, no mind swaps, no “spirit possession” or “skull sharing”--- I WAS her. So why did I think that I am some guy named John Thompson who lives on Earth some 200 years in the past?

“Uh. . .Thanks Doc.” I managed to say. ‘I’ll be going back to my quarters. Remember, keep this just between us.”

I wasted no time getting back to my quarters and locking the door behind me.

“God! Oh God!” I moaned to myself. “What in heaven’s name happened to me?” If I hadn’t been confused before, I certainly was now. According to some very accurate tests, I actually WAS Leslie Webber. John is the “imaginary” character, not Leslie.

“Could I have “dreamed up” an entire lifetime for John? The guy’s 50 years old and I am only 38 chronologically and 30 biologically.”

---But then again time compression is not uncommon in a dream. I remember reading, in a psychological text, about a man who dreamed that he was being tried in the French revolution and sentenced to the guillotine. He woke up when a broken rail from the headboard fell across his neck.---apparently he dreamed the entire thing in the fraction of a second as the board struck his neck.

Perhaps it WAS possible to have “dreamed Up” John’s life. I really didn’t know. All I DID know was it was Leslie’s reality that was in force now and not John’s. I WAS Leslie and was living in her world and I had to deal with that fact.

That being decided, I also realized that if I am Leslie, I am in very serious mental trouble. My ego is telling me I am not who I think I am. It is “John’s” consciousness that appears to be in charge and not Leslie’s.

One bit of encouragement, however was that I seemed to be able to remember or have access to any part of Leslie’s memory only by “requesting” the info. If I had a question about Leslie, all I had to do was think about it and the answer would come. But it was not like “regular” memory, being there immediately, as one needed it. Each bit of data, however, required a deliberate effort. —At least from Leslie’s end. . . MY “John” memory seemed to function normally .

Another thing I noticed about that was once I recalled something, it became readily accessible like my “normal” memory. If it kept up, eventually I would recall and have all of my “Leslie” memory readily available to me once again.---But would I then become “Leslie” again or remain “John”?— and if not, what would happen to John? Would I cease to exist as a consciousness or would I go on as Leslie? How long would it take?

I was getting wrapped up in my mental machinations once again. I had to take a break. A shower suggested itself. I removed my robe and walked into where my bathroom should be. A glass cylinder about 30 inches in diameter greeted me. The front automatically slid open and I knew where to go and knew what to do. I stepped inside.

Another good sign. My ingrained habits seemed to not require a deliberate recall of memory.

The water came on from hundreds of little jets that surrounded me. It all seemed computer controlled. More water sprayed on my lower portions than around my head and hair, making my hair damp, but not soaking wet. The water felt “soapy” and had a fragrant smell.

I felt that my bladder was full, but I dreaded undergoing the “indignity” of having to sit down to pee---at least not this soon in the game. So I spread my legs a bit and ‘let go’ in the shower. The shower water spraying on my legs seemed to mask any other sensations other than “relief” and I could ignore this “problem” at least for a couple more hours.

The soapy water soon turned off and came back on with a more “normal” feel and aroma—Apparently I was now going through the “rinse cycle”. The water shut off once again and suddenly I was struck by a blast of warm air emitted from a ring of vents in the shower floor.

I was soon warm and bone dry. The door opened. I followed my “instincts” and walked over to the dresser and removed a pair of clean, plain white panties. Obviously I had to wear them, but saw no need for anything any more “fem” or “frilly” than they had to be. I put them on and figured a bra was next. But that was not to be the case.

I found myself going into a closet and picking out a tan jumpsuit that seemed to be covered with zippers. The zippers ran along the legs, arms and chest areas. To my surprise, the fastener teeth were very thin and almost microscopic in size. I soon saw the need for the zippers, the suit fit my body very closely, matching it almost curve for curve. It didn’t fit as skin tight as an elastic garment would, but it was “close” just the same.

I could see that it had a rather sturdy bra built into it. So Leslie would not be wearing a separate bra after all. I zipped everything up nice and tight. The outfit fit me like a glove-—but was comfortable. Now when I walked, I didn’t feel that I would shake something loose.

I brushed my hair once more until I felt it looked “socially acceptable”. It didn’t take near as much work as I had feared. I slipped on a pair of black boots with a “normal” looking 1 1/2 inch heel.

I felt that I had to apply some makeup. No problem (?) My face looked remarkably even and clear and usually did not require a foundation. It was a positive side effect of it not having gone through some thirty years worth of the acne, bumps and “dings” as a normal woman. Having had a complete DNA construction, the face was physically only less than two years old.

I applied only a bit of brick red eyebrow pencil and a stroke of matching liner on my upper eyelids. This was followed by a touch of mascara. I felt “weird” doing this. Apparently Leslie still feels uneasy about wearing and applying makeup, but I “know” that I see it as a “necessity” to look attractive—-as it can be an important, “distracting” edge should I get in a combat situation. I finished up with a bit of light pink lipstick. Now I was ready to face the rest of the crew and hope for the best.

I reported to the bridge, greeted Melissa and Bill and sat in my chair behind the helm console. Oddly enough, if either of them thought that anything was wrong with me they didn’t mention or act like it. In fact, they didn’t seem too “talkative” at all. Both of them appeared to be immersed in their own projects or reading stuff off the com screens, which was all right with me. I didn’t feel like getting involved in any conversations right now. The only reason I was here was that I felt that, at this time of day, I would be "expected" to show up on the bridge.

Now that I had made my obligatory appearance, I decided to run back to the Telemetry room. Zee should be at her station now. Perhaps she could shed some insight into my little problem.

Zee, the attractive, though hairless, Lakota Indian woman sat calmly at her Random Field Screen. She didn’t see me come in.

“Zee” I said, initially startling her.

She turned, greeting me with a smile, but then a worried look crossed her countenance. Being a trained Biotelemetricist, a technologically assisted psychic, she immediately knew something was wrong.

Well, if my cover was going to be blown, I could think of no one better than Zee to “fess up” to.

“You want to tell me about it, Les?” she asked.

“That’s just it, Zee.” I replied. “I’m not really Leslie. . . At least I don’t think that I am Leslie, but everything around me tells me that I am. . . Does THAT make sense?”

“Hmmm.” Zee replied. “Did you have the Doc check you out?”

“Yes, a Brain scan, blood work he found nothing unusual.”

“Okay then, I’ll bite. Who do you think you are?”

“My conscious mind tells me that I am John Thomson, I live in Canton, Mississippi in the year Two Thousand Three. But THAT can’t be right, now can it?”

Now Zee looked really worried. It didn’t make ME feel any better myself. “When did you begin to feel like you were this John guy?”

“This Morning. I woke up in Leslie’s bed. I was her. . . Me. . . Damn! I am so confused I don’t know what is real and what isn’t.”

“But I see that you are dressed,” Zee replied. “ You saw the Doc, you also know who I am . . . How the devil are you functioning?”

“My mind tells me that you are all, myself included, fictional characters that I dreamed up. I am allegedly a story author, and since I created you, I know everything about you.”

“The brain is a remarkable instrument, Leslie. It can create it’s own “realities” to compensate for loss of function. Thinking that you are another person and everyone else are characters from a book or a video show are not all that unusual in such cases---when the brain is forced to make sense out of what appears to be a nonsensical situation.”

“But Doc tells me that my brain is OKAY!---Unless, it is JOHN who has had the stroke or whatever and is dreaming THIS up HIMSELF---Oh GOD!”

“Don’t fret Leslie, there are several other possibilities.”

“I know! But the more I thought about them the more confused I’ve become. I really don’t know WHO I am or who is real and who isn’t. I only am faking the part of Leslie, because this world seems more real to me at the moment, despite what my mind is telling me.”

“Calm down Leslie!” Said Zee. She put her hands on my forehead and closed her eyes. The effect was comforting, but I knew that she wasn’t comforting me, but “reading” me.

A few seconds later she opened her eyes and released her grip. Some of the fear had left her face.

“Well? What is it?” I asked.

“Do you believe in Reincarnation, Leslie?”

It was an odd question. I “knew” that Leslie was not much of a “metaphysical” or “spiritual” person, but “John” was, and quite well “educated” in the subject. But “Reincarnation” didn’t make much sense, at least not in this situation.

“Are you suggesting that “John” might be a “past life” or something?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I am suggesting.”

“But I thought people were reborn in babies’ bodies, Leslie is an adult. And wouldn’t a new soul or mind show up on my brain scan?”

“It’s not like that at all, Leslie. John has always been a part of you since your birth. The brainwave scan would show nothing new because you are the same “Leslie” you always were, mentally at least.”

“Well, if I AM Leslie OR John, I sure as hell don’t feel the same as I always was---none of this makes any sense.”

“You have had a “Spontaneous recall” of your past life as John.” Said Zee. “Your inherent Biotelemetric ability was able to let you recall it, but your untrained, “uneven abilities” have allowed you to recall it all too well. You have accessed the entire data set that WAS John-—including his ego, so you think of yourself as John and not Leslie.”

That made sense. At least as much sense as anything else that happened to me this morning. I thought about it a second and then realized---

“Oh Shit!” I replied “You are saying that I am quite literally out of my mind?”

“No, it’s not quite like that, Leslie. It’s a little mental glitch is all. You have instant access to John’s memories now, so you seem to be him. Leslie’s memories are all still there, only “shifted” over a bit. It takes a bit longer to access them because the “addresses” have changed. But once you remember something it permanently becomes part of “you” again.”

“Yes, I noticed that. It takes a bit of deliberate effort to access a “Leslie memory” the first time. Gosh! How long am I going to be like this? Will I ever be Leslie again? Then what’s going to happen to John?---ME”

“Relax, it will just take some time is all. As you remember more and more about Leslie, the more Leslie you will become. You will always be aware of John’s memories, as they are a part of who you once were and you have total recall of him now. But as more and more of Leslie re-emerges, you will gradually find your ego shifting from being John to being Leslie.”

I thought about what Zee said. I hoped she was right. “If I recover as you say, I will think of myself as Leslie, but have both John and Leslie’s experiences and skills to draw from. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Recalling past lives is a good thing. It gives us insights into who we once were and the deeper parts of ourselves. It’s just that YOU appeared to have had an unusually strong experience.”

“How long will it take for me to function as Leslie again? I mean what if we get into some kind of trouble? For the time being, I am John the Geologist, not Leslie the soldier and my knowledge base is almost 200 years old?”

“It will all come back to you faster than you think. Perhaps a few days. . . or weeks. . . I hope”

“Let’s hope for all of our sakes that it comes back sooner rather than later. I have enough disadvantages as it is, I would certainly hate to have to face an emergency or an enemy with my mind not operating at full efficiency”

“Hey, you are beginning to sound like Lesley already.”

“Just common sense, Zee. The truth be told, I’m scared shitless. Are you going to tell the others about me?”

“Not unless you want me too—or only if they become worried. See if you can continue to “fake it” with them for the time being. If you can pull it off , all the better for all parties involved, yourself included.”

I thanked Zee and went back to the bridge. Something else was bothering me. Had This John Thompson actually existed? Or is this reincarnation stuff only a crock? One of Zee’s crazy beliefs, or something she told me to ease my concern?

Melissa Connor, my first officer was still at her post.

“Melissa, I need you to do something for me.” I said.

“Do a com net search for a man named “John Thompson”, Born 1953, Earth, U.S.A. District, state of South Carolina.”

“Might I ask what this is about, Leslie?” Melissa replied.

I thought about it for a second, then I realized “Hell, I am the Captain of this ship I don’t owe anybody any explanations.” But I decided to be a bit more polite about it.

“Not now, Melissa” I replied. “Oh by the way, keep the information until I ask for it. And if the guy died any time significantly beyond four November 2003, I don’t want to know about it. Understand?”

“Understood Captain, but why do---“

“Just do it! Please?”

Perhaps I shouldn’t have said the please. But I was serious. What if this wasn’t quite what Zee had said it was? If John had died that last night or a few days later, I could live with it, but what if this is some kind of time glitch instead of a mental one?

Hell, if I hadn’t died the night of the fourth of November, 2003, there was still a chance that I might be “going back”. What if I find myself back in John’s bed tomorrow morning or next week, I would surely NOT want to know the date or year, later on, that I WOULD DIE.

What else did I want to know---or NOT know about the guy? Would he amount to anything? If not, I wouldn’t want to know THAT any more than I would want to know the date of his death. I never realized that there was so much about my own future (If I had one) that I would rather not have known.

“Got it!” said Melissa, unexpectedly. I didn’t think she could find it that quickly.

“Uh. . . Don’t tell me anything about him yet” I managed to stammer. Now I only managed to stir Melissa’s curiosity even more.

I quickly recovered my composure, “Tell me if he existed, Melissa—and nothing more?”

“He certainly did exist Leslie. DO you know what he---?“

“No MORE!” I said cutting her off. “Make a file of it someplace. Only give me information on this case as I ask for it. GOT THAT?”

“Yes, Captain.” Melissa replied. She looked at me questioningly, but she knew I meant what I said, and I knew that she would comply with my request. I began to realize that it felt good to be a Captain. People did what you said and would not argue with you about it. It was an interesting feeling to have such control over others.

But NOW what? I hadn’t a clue as to what we were doing or where we were going, but I didn’t want to sound suspiciously ignorant. Of all people, I should know what our current destination and mission was. I couldn’t just ask. After some thought and a few awkward moments of silence, I managed to frame an innocent sounding question.

“What does our schedule look like Melissa?”

“We should reach Rakia Two in just under three hours. A and I number fifty seven will arrive two hours later.”

From what she said, I now could pretty well guess that we would be escorting a transport ship after meeting it near Rakia Two. Where we would go from THERE would be another matter. I would deal with that later. I had five hours to think about it.

“If there is nothing else,” Melissa spoke again, “Then I will leave things in your hands Captain. All courses have been plotted. I will see you at zero eight hundred hours.”

Melissa was leaving me by myself! I started to say something, but then I “remembered”, yes, this was the end of her watch. She had to sleep sometimes too. We were the only actual ex-Space Command officers on board. One of us had to always be on the bridge around the clock. Bill’s watch was “staggered” between our own. Doc would replace Bill some six hours from now. Poor Bainbridge, the engineer, and Zee were “on call”, when needed, 24 hours a day.

“Fuel” something about fuel impressed itself on my mind. I wondered about it. “Should I ask Bill?” I thought to myself. Was my concern really something legitimate, part of Leslie trying to assert itself, or merely a drifting of my own mind. If I ask the wrong questions, especially about something I am supposed to know, I could give myself away.

I decided to risk it anyway, to trust my “gut instinct”. If it lies to me, then I’ll blow it, but I have to rely on something, I thought, or I would blow the game anyway.

“Bill!, What’s the fuel situation look like?”

“Commander Connor says we will easily reach Rakia two so long as we maintain our present speed and heading.” He replied. They sent us a J-com a couple of hours ago they have the antimatter bottles full and ready to install when we get there.”

“That’s good to hear.” I replied, “Do you feel up to taking us into the fueling dock?” Another guess on my part. I assumed he was being trained in helmsman duties as well as being a gunner.

“Sure thing Captain, I was hoping you would ask. I’ve already plotted my course and approach.”

That was a relief. I had no idea where the fueling docks were at Rakia Two or what to do when I got there. Not at the moment anyway.----- Yes, NOW the memory came. The fueling dock is a space station, orbiting around the planet. Not only is it convenient to shipping, It’s an excellent precaution against accidents should one of the antimatter containment bottles rupture. The explosion would only take out the space station and not some populated city had it been surface based.

I spent the next three hours quietly sitting in my chair and seeing what I could make myself “remember” about Leslie. But it was hard to do, especially when I didn’t know what questions to ask myself. Sure, I could remember incidents from my stories. What I thought I created I was actually “remembering” except backwards from a future context. ---But now I actually was remembering a PAST life. . . Damn! This was confusing.

The ship must have been on autopilot. Bill killed time by checking the data on com-screens, monitoring the systems and keeping track of things on his notebook screen---some kind of “palm pilot” thing. Yes, with a small crew, everybody has to learn everybody else’s job. I could see that Bill was devoted to his studies.

I checked the com-net, J-net, Jump-net, or however one wanted to refer to it. It served to tie all of the ship’s computers and the colony networks together across the interstellar space of the entire Confederation. I knew it depended on EM wave transmissions to J-com relays, automated devices, floating out in interstellar space, that used jump technology to instantly pass the signal across vast distances to other relays that repeated the EM signal to the receiver.

It was sort of like the Internet I remembered in my “John life”. But there were a lot more Video “pages” than text. And it could be accessed by voice rather than keyboard---although that was still an option for silent communications.

All FTL (Faster than Light) communications between planets and ships, both civilian and military, depended on the J-net. J-com messages were the equivalent of interstellar e-mail—-although mostly video clips instead of text. Of course this didn’t allow for two way conversations, because of the delays, but it was the only known way to communicate across light years of space---Short of using a BT’s Mental telepathy, that is, but there were not enough BT’s around to make that a practical system.

I would have thought that the system would be a LOT faster and a lot more advanced appearing than it was in my own time. But considering the time the signals took to travel to and from the nearest relays, It preformed little better than what I was used to. Of course the Planet based networks would blow me away with their high-speed performance and how they formed part of a single massive computer in itself.

I played around with the system. I noticed a few things that disturbed me. Most shaking was the fact that News reports seemed unreliable. There were thousands of News networks, and from what I could see, they couldn’t seem to agree on anything. Between rumors, politics and wishful thinking and stories that conflicted with each other, it seemed impossible to get a clear picture of what was going on in the Confederation. No wonder Morris hadn’t heard of me. No wonder he couldn’t separate fact from fiction. Here you could pick and choose, pretty much, your own reality.----Yet another aspect of this universe that harkens back to past times, the days of “Yellow Journalism” where newspapers in the isolated territories competed for their readership, by publishing anything, that came across their desks and even deliberate fiction.

Before I knew it, the time had past, and we were approaching a huge black disk, that seemed to bristle with articulated tunnel/arms, not unlike the “spider’s” on our own ship, but without the nasty hull perforator assembly on the ends. It was the fueling station that orbited Rakia Two. The surface of the semi-arid desert like planet could be seen below.

Several ships of various sizes and configurations were already attached to the station, via access hatches and docking ports, to several of the articulated tube tunnels. Cargo, fuel and passengers could pass along the tunnels to and from the station itself.

“Take her in Bill!” I ordered.

“Aye Captain!” He replied and grabbed the helm.

“TCV Retribution, Port Adrienne, BS4, Requesting position to dock and take on fuel.” He spoke into the come system. He sounded quite professional.

“Retribution Permission to dock granted. Proceed to D-P four.” Came the response.

“Aye Retribution to D-P four.”

My com-screen beeped. The flashing text told me that I had a message. Somehow I knew which screen icons to press. The message was from The A&I offices In Waynetown, on the planet’s surface.

They wanted me to personally pick up the cargo manifest at the main office. It was too risky to transmit the data over J-com or other telecommunications systems where Syndicate backed Raider crews might be able to listen in.

Damn! I didn’t want to do that. I don’t know why, but I “felt” that Waynetown was not a pleasant place to visit. I knew that Zee would want to come along too. She would want to have physical contact with an item that would be carried in the transport ship, so she could later “Tune in” on it, psychically, for tracking purposes.

I would take Bill along too, for extra firepower and backup, should we run into trouble. As Doc said, weapons-wise, Bill was as good as three men on the ground. But I would have to keep one eye on him, as he had a way of finding trouble on his own.

I gathered Zee and Bill together and we did one last weapons check. My 100 over 10 pistol was strapped into position on my thigh. I suddenly realized that I had not attempted to fire it or do any weapons practice since I woke up in my altered state this morning. Oh God! What if I have to use this thing? Bill put both his 120 over 8s in his holsters, butts facing forwards, of course.

That always made me nervous (How did I know that?). It seemed to me that an enemy would have an easy time grabbing one of Bill’s own weapons and shooting him with it. But Bill had his own peculiar method of drawing his guns with both hands, from opposite sides, to unleash a hail of well aimed bullets that could decimate all but a small army. Who was I to mess with success?

Zee Kept her 50 over ten well hidden beneath the short, hooded “poncho” that she always wore. There was no need, In my opinion, for her to hide her bald head. She was well built and beautiful, about my size but a little more “rounder” in places. I felt her “hairstyle” was sort of “cool” and added to her “character”. But she insisted in keeping her head covered anyway. “To avoid sunburn” she always said, but I suspected she still felt very self-conscious.

I had long since given her back that big knife that she kept in a sheath behind her neck. Damn! That “pigsticker” was nearly as big as a roman short sword. She would have no trouble “scalping” a guy at the NECK with that thing. The only time I saw her pull it though, was on the guy at the mining colony, who she claimed made her bald. Despite her appearance, she could be quite vicious if she wanted to be. If Doc hadn’t disarmed her, I KNEW that she would have literally peeled the man’s head like an apple.

“Alright, I am not going to give you my standard lecture.” I told them, “You know that this is a dangerous place, so be careful. WE all need to stick together.” Not a bad little speech, I thought to myself. Something Leslie would say.

Zee did have a point about the sun. I followed Bills lead and put on my wide brimmed hat. They sort of made us look like “futuristic cowboys”, but fashions born out of practicality and necessity can last for centuries.

We passed down the tube that now connected Retribution’s passenger compartment to the station and climbed aboard the stations own Surface shuttle that made hourly runs to the planet below.

The station’s shuttle deposited us on a landing pad behind a row of two and three story buildings, near the center of town. The sun was hot and clouds of dust hung in the air. I assumed that Leslie “knew” this town, but I was not 100 percent sure. but I wasn’t going to ask Zee or Bill for directions.

I could make out the silhouette of a taller building, ten or twelve stories high through the haze. That had to be the A&I offices.

We walked down a path from the landing pad, between a couple of buildings and emerged onto what appeared to be a main street. For a city of the future, it certainly looked archaic. It reminded me of the old photographs of “Dodge city” in the days of the old west.

Large ATVs, rather than horses, however, churned up the dust on the wide, though unpaved, streets. The buildings, for the most part, were small and had a makeshift look about them. The better structures were built of locally available materials, such as stone and brick, but many were pieced together out of scrap and other surplus items, such as cargo containers and, here and there, a few old space ship hulls.

Metal grates formed the “sidewalks” that were filled with a wide assortment of people, that ranged from farmers and ranchers and their hired help to ‘space drifters’, outlaws and, judging by their outfits, even a sprinkling of Syndicate men.

Generally speaking, Waynetown was “neutral territory” everyone tended to keep to themselves, even the Syndicate people. Indeed the Syndicate men were usually the best behaved of the bunch, while on the “Surface” anyway. There was an unwritten “code of conduct” amongst them “not to make any more trouble than was necessary”, when on the surface, as it was not “good for business”.

Most of the trouble came from the unaffiliated outlaws and drifters. And the occasional outraged private citizen, who decided to take justice into his own hands. And trouble there was. There was, on the average, two duels, or shootouts a day, most of the time with fatalities. All this information slowly filtered into my consciousness as I took in the sights.

I led the way up the sidewalk, towards our objective. Zee followed behind me, and Bill took up the rear. We had not traveled half a block when I spotted a familiar face. Captain Akita of the Syndicate ship, Enforcer Eight, led a small entourage of men coming from the opposite direction.

His face stiffened and he drew himself up taller as he recognized me. He stared hard at me as he approached. “Well, well If it isn’t Captain Webber, the scourge of the stars.” He said as he paused a few feet in front of me.

“Small world, Akita. I haven’t seen you around lately” I replied with a smile. “How’s the raider business?”

He glared back at me. Apparently he wasn’t in a good mood. Business must have been bad.

“You are out of uniform, did they kick you out of Space Command again?” He replied.

“God Damn!” I heard one of the men standing behind Akita say to one of his companions. “That’s Captain Webber!”

“I’m a civilian if that’s what you mean,” I replied, “but I still have my starship and a Quell full of quarks for you if you want to come get them.”

The man behind Akita looked concerned. He tugged on Akita’s sleeve “Beggin’ your pardon Sir”. He spoke softly, but I was able to hear him anyway. “Be careful what you say to her. They say she’s crazy---bad crazy.”

I could hear the combination of awe and fear in his voice. My, it felt good to have a reputation.

Akita looked at the man with disgust. “Shit!” He directed the expletive towards the man. He then turned to me once again. “And YOU . . . You just stay out of my way.”

“Hey, that’s MY line!” I said as he and his party pushed his way past me.

I didn’t know at the time what was eating Akita. I had no argument with him. He was not one of the officers that participated in my rape, as far as I knew. I had only encountered him a couple of times in space. Once when I bluffed him out when I was chasing Konstantin.

The QUELL wasn’t recharged, but he didn’t know that. I was in a ‘mad dog’ rage when I threatened to scatter his sorry atoms across half a parsec with it. He wasted no time jumping out of the vicinity. And I couldn’t fault him for that. A wise Skipper does not need to be anywhere near an obviously whacked-out woman who is pointing a planet killer at him.

The second time we met, at the beginning of my last mission, he KNEW the QUELL was loaded, and he also knew my reputation. He didn’t hang around long then either. Still, from his end, the wise thing to do, but I hadn’t really intended to blast him at that time, unless he wanted to make trouble.

Perhaps I hurt his pride? If that’s the case then-- fuck him! I had other things to attend to now.

We were startled by several gunshots that came from somewhere down the street. A small crowd was beginning to form. “Just a shootout” I said instinctively. “Happens all the time around here.” Must be something routine, as I didn’t seem interested at all.

Bill broke away from our group, and ran over to where the people were gathering. I started to call him back, but changed my mind. A few minutes later he came sauntering back. “Just a couple guys who shot each other over a whore.” He said, forgetting his manners. “. . . Opps, sorry, ladies.” We smiled at him and continued towards our destination.

Great! I was right. I saw the Antaries & Iridani Transport Corporation and the huge A&I logo on the tall building. We went through the “security” station on the ground floor and were directed to the “lift” that would take us to the shipping office.

After another security check, a receptionist directed us to a Mister Logan’s office. Logan introduced himself and we shook hands all around.

“Here is the cargo manifest for A and I number Fifty Seven.” He said as he handed a notebook sized com-screen to me.

I tried to pull up some “Leslie memories” to activate the screen. Apparently it didn’t work THIS time. I “knew” what to do and what to press, at least I thought I did, but nothing came up. “Shit! There’s something wrong.” I muttered out of frustration.

“Nothing’s wrong” Said Logan. “The manifest is blank.”

“Then what the hell is this about?” I said.

“A diversion. I’m sure that you have noticed the Syndicate personnel walking around town this morning. There are even a few Raider and Enforcer captains among them.”

“yeah,” I replied. “ I met one of them I knew on the sidewalk, on way over here.”

“They are watching our traffic like vultures for this shipment.” Said Logan “Just which ship do you think are they going to target, The one deadheading back to the terminal at Indihar Three or the vessel being escorted by one of our most dangerous security contractors?”

“I see your point. Just what the hell are you transporting?”

“I don’t want to say, the fewer people who know and the less those people DO know, the better.”

“I can live with that.” I said. “But the escort rate will still be the same. You are aware of that? Even though there is nothing in that ship, the bad guys don’t know it and the risk is just as high as if we were guarding the real thing---whatever that is.”

“No problem Webber.” Said Logan

I signed the paper, and half the escort fee was put into the Webber Enterprises account. We would receive the other half when the mission was completed.

We Left the building and began our walk back to the landing pad. If we hurried we would make the next flight, and would not have to wait an hour for the next one.

My long legs carried me at a fairly quick pace. Zee and Bill kept lagging behind, so I had to stop every so often to let them catch up. Darn, I hate to walk with slow people---I did THEN and I still do now. I was the first to reach the alley way that lead to the landing pad.

Foolishly, instead of waiting for the others to catch up, I rounded the corner on my own. Two men, in civilian garb, stood facing me, about thirty feet away.

“It’s Webber, Roy! GET HER!” the one on the right shouted, as they both reached for their guns.

I didn’t have to think about it, it just happened. My arm reflexively jerked back and my gun instantly appeared about chest level and simultaneously fired, TWICE! It surprised me nearly as much as the two fellows that now lay atop each other on the dusty ground. Blood slowly oozed out of their shattered skulls.

I noticed that I was holding my gun in an odd position. My wrist braced against the side of my ribcage, my elbow slightly back. Yes, it came to me, the typical fast draw position. The hand grasps the weapon, the upper arm moves back and the lower arm up, bending at the elbow, then firing the gun immediately as it reaches a near horizontal position. All in one smooth quick motion. None of that first pulling the gun out and then swinging the arm foreword to aim. That extra motion takes time and aim should be instinctual, just like pointing a finger.

I knew from my writing that Leslie could draw and fire in four one hundredths of a second, give or take a thousandth or so. Witnessing such a feat was something else again, only I didn’t see it. Such movement is faster than the eye can follow. Still, the speed was comparable to fast draw champions of my own time, and they used the single action revolvers.

Bill rounded the corner, both his guns were drawn. He saw me standing over the bodies and relaxed. He holstered his weapons. “What happened, Captain?”

“They drew on me, Bill, and they knew who I was.”

“Do you recognize them?” Bill asked

“No,” I replied, “They look like a couple of space drifters to me. One thing for sure, they weren’t professionals. I nailed the second one before his gun cleared his holster.”

“I think someone put them up to it.” I continued “You know, show them a picture of the target, pay ‘em a few bucks, and hope they get lucky.”

By now a crown of rubbernecks began to gather in the alley. Constable Parker pushed his way through and began to take notes. He looked at me and shook his head.

“I thought we broke Jack asses like them from taking shots at you years ago, Webber.” He said.

“If you haven’t noticed, I look a bit different now than I did then.”

“Yes, I have noticed,” he said with a grin. “I suppose they though that you might be a bit easier to take now.”

“Well, I had to show them the error of their ways.” I said. “I’m just as quick as I ever was, and a whole lot meaner. I can only hope that these fellas serve as examples and help spread the word. It can save lives and make your job a bit easier.”

“You know the drill, I’ll just take your fingerprints and the usual DNA sample, and you can go on your way, unless you want to hang around to see the I.D. results I get from these guys.”

“No thanks, Parker. J-com them to me later. We have a Shuttle to catch back to the station. Bill! Zee! Lets move it.”

I saw Bill, but where was Zee? “Zee, come on! We’ll miss our ride.” I hollered to where I had seen her last.

“She’s not over there.” Said Bill.

By now the crowd had began to disperse, but I still couldn’t see Zee. I ran out into the street, looked one way, and then the other, still no sign of her. “Zee! Zee!” I hollered, but saw no sign of her.

Damn! I said as the Shuttle landed. Bill and me continued to wait for Zee. My first guess was that she had to make an emergency run to a restroom, but when the shuttle took off without us, I began to worry.

I heard a roar, behind some other buildings about a block away, another shuttle was taking off from another pad. A private one, black with syndicate markings, It might only had been a coincidence, but I had a bad feeling about it.

It was nearly time for the next Shuttle. Bill and me had checked all of the nearby buildings, but there was still no sign of Zee. No one claimed to have seen anything.

There was definitely something wrong. It was not like Zee to leave us like this. I told Parker to keep an eye out for her. Better than that, he told me that he would send his deputies out to search for her. He would let me know immediately if he found something.

By now I was getting a very strong feeling that Zee was no longer on the planet. Someone was up to no good. I didn’t feel good about Leaving Rakia Two without a crew member, but I now had a responsibility to Protect the crew of that Transport Vessel. Zee would be somewhere out there too, so space was the best place for me to be at the moment.

One thing was for sure, someone was going to be mighty sorry for messing around with Zee, and likely already was. And they would be a lot sorrier when I caught up them.

Continued in Part 2