Not the Place I Thought It Was... A This Time Round story by Allyn Gibson "You can't go in there," Polly says firmly, clipboard in her hand looking vaguely threatening. He ignores her. It's clear from his stance that he's seen her type before, and he's never given that type much thought before. Or rather, he's never given that type much attention, a very different thing than thought. Thought implies caring, and at this particular moment, he doesn't much care, except for gaining entrance. He just stands there, looking in through the doorway into the bar beyond. "Excuse me," he says. His voice is quiet, low, sounding as though it originated somewhere beneath the floorboards. She blocks the doorway, as much of it as her small frame will allow. "Sir? I've told you already. You can't go inside. It's not allowed." He fixes his eyes upon her, and suddenly she feels very, very small. She's petite, maybe five-six with heels, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds when sopping wet. She realizes that he's looking down at her, with eyes so dark, so deep, so purple that they seem to go on forever into infinity. And it dawns on her. He's finally seen her, taken notice of her. He knows that she's there, in his way, and now is her only chance to be assertive, to do her job, and do it well. She clears her throat. "Sir," she begins, "you'll have to leave before-" She doesn't finish her sentence. He shoves her, hard. She goes down, falling backward into the chair behind her, and he strides into the bar. She finds her breath, realizing that she'd been holding it for the few moments that he'd been standing there in the entranceway. She feels her hand go weak, and the clipboard rattles to the floor. That had never happened to her before. A customer passes by on his way out the door. He's a regular, she knows she 's seen him a hundred times before, but for the first time since she'd started working here, she can't remember his name. Or even if he has a name. She takes a deep breath, and that refreshes her. She bends over, picks up her clipboard, and looks up at the bar. The unwanted guest stands there, and it's time for her to get back to her job: making sure the riff-raff doesn't come inside. And once that's done, she thinks, maybe a long vacation is in order. * * * "You're not Cap," he says. Adric runs the dishrag over the glass, trying to clean it. Sadly, he realizes, cleaning this one glass has been the most excitement he's had all day, until possibly now. "No, my friend, I'm not Cap." Adric looks at the customer closely and doesn't recognize him. "You've not been here before, have you?" The man's expression doesn't change. "Maybe. Maybe not." He looks around. "The place seems familiar, but maybe it's not." Adric prides himself on some things. His photographic memory, for one. The man is wearing what is clearly a uniform, more specifically, Starfleet. The purple shoulders, the red turtleneck, the black jumpsuit. That says Starfleet to him, circa 2375. The place gets a few of those through it, but not many. Deciding he has the upper hand in any conversation, Adric says, "So, which ship is yours?" The man turns his attention back to Adric, and then Adric truly notices. Down the right side of his face runs a scar, almost from the eye to the chin, standing a hard white against the skin. And his eyes! Adric, in all of his travels, had never seen purple eyes before! "I thought we didn't talk business here," he says. "But then, you're not Cap." Adric shakes his head. "No, I'm not Cap." Adric stares openly at the man's scar. "Who gave you that scar? Looks nasty. Probably hurt, didn't it?" The man reaches across the counter, grabs Adric by his lapels, and pulls Adric's face close to his. "The man who gave me this scar, he could wipe this floor with you. Did you know that?" Adric gulps audibly. "No. No, I didn't know that." "Well, he could. And do you know what I did to him?" "Uhm, no. No, I don't." The man's eyes squint, and Adric can't bear to look away. "I killed him. So, do you know what that means?" "No," Adric hears someone say in a very high pitched voice, almost girlish. Then Adric realizes that it's his voice he's hearing. The man lets go of Adric's lapels, and he falls onto the counter. "That means that I could wipe the floor with you, too, if I had to, and not break a sweat doing so." He laughs, and Adric feels his blood run cold. "Might be fun to try, though." Adric looks up to see Polly approach the bar. "Sir, you really shouldn't be here, and I can have you removed," she says. The man sighs. "Look, all I wanted was a drink. A Xenexian ale, or possibly a fine imported beer. Is that too much to ask in the Captain's Table?" Polly splutters. "The Captain's Table?" she says incredulous. "The Captain 's Table! Is that where you think you are?" "I was starting to wonder." He cocks a thumb at Adric, still sprawled on the bar. "I couldn't picture Cap hiring such milquetoast as his bartender, since he's happy enough doing it himself." Polly shakes her head. "I'm sorry, sir, but this isn't the Captain's Table. You'll have to leave. Please don't make me insist." "That's all right, ma'am. He's with us." Adric looks up at the newcomer. He's a younger man, mid-thirties, sandy-brown hair, a yellow velour shirt. James T. Kirk himself. Polly consults her clipboard. "Are you certain, sir? He shouldn't be here." "But he is," Kirk says. "And that makes all the difference, wouldn't you say?" Polly sighs. "If you insist, Captain Kirk." "I do insist." He flashes her a smile that makes her heart melt, as only James Kirk can do. The man looks at Kirk, then at Polly. "Thank you, sir," he says. "It's an honor and a privilege." Kirk shrugs it off. "James Kirk, captain of the Enterprise." He extends his hand. The man takes it. "Mackenzie Calhoun, captain of the Excalibur." He looks about. "Where are we? This isn't the Captain's Table, but it must be close." "We'll explain, Captain. This way." Kirk gestures at a table in the corner, and the two of them head off for the corner. Polly looks at Adric, still sprawled on the counter. "Adric, what are you doing?" Coming up with witty explanations isn't Adric's strong suit. "Trying to see if I can take a nap and get paid for it." Polly shakes her head. "If you think Francois will let you get away with that, you've got another thing coming." Adric stands up, and brushes down his smock. "Yeah, but what Francois doesn 't know-" "-can't hurt Adric," Polly finishes. "Am I right?" Adric smiles, and Polly realizes he's giving her his best pick-up smile. After James Kirk's killer smile, Polly feels her stomach go queasy. "You know it," he says, and Polly feels her bile start up. "Excuse me," she says, and she runs for the toilet. "What I'd say?" Adric asks to no one in particular. Not that anyone would have listened to him anyway. * * * The first thing Calhoun notices is the number of different eras of Starfleet around the table. One uniform dates to the founding of the Federation, and another seems to come from the future. But Starfleet is Starfleet, no matter which era, and Calhoun takes a proffered seat. "A newcomer, gentlemen," Kirk says, inclining his head towards Calhoun. "I think introductions are in order." "Agreed," says Calhoun. "Mackenzie Calhoun, USS Excalibur." Around the table they introduce themselves. James Kirk of the Enterprise. Spock of the Intrepid-II. Pavel Chekov of the Potemkin. Robert deSoto of the Hood. Data of the Enterprise-F. Hiro Matsura of the Daedalus. Some names famous, others not. All part of the brotherhood of Starfleet captains. "From which era do you come?" asks someone on Calhoun's right. Commodore Data, from a future Enterprise. The uniform Data wears is one which Calhoun is unfamiliar with, green with black trim. "Twenty-three seventy-six." Data inclines his head. "Tell me, how are the Federation's relations with the Sindareen in your time?" Calhoun inhales deeply. "The Sindareen? Hardly a threat, I'd say. And certainly they're not going to coming knocking anytime soon, not with the Federation/Klingon/Romulan alliance." "Curious," says Data. "Your future is not my past. I've yet to find anyone who shares my past." Kirk picks up a shot glass and takes a drink. "That's not true, Commodore, and you know it. I share your past, as does Captain Spock." "That is true, Captain, but clearly there has been an alteration in the timelines at some point between your time and mine. I'd like to pinpoint that discontinuity." Spock steeples his hands. "What difference would that make, Commodore? Your timeline, as best we can determine, no longer exists." Data nods. "You are correct, Captain Spock, and we have had these conversations many times in the past. However, I refuse to believe that I am the only survivor of my timeline, and that I can return to it at some point." deSoto shakes his head. "Commodore, I sympathize. We all do, quite frankly. But we've had ample evidence, time and again, that your timeline no longer exists." He pauses to take a shot of Romulan Ale, then continues. "You may be the very temporal refugee that you fear you are. I wish there were something more I could say on the matter, but it's all been said, time and again." Calhoun picks up the bottle of Romulan Ale and pours himself a shot. He downs the shot quickly, and feels it burn all the way down. "What's the problem?" Around the table everyone sighs. Everyone, that is, except Commodore Data. "Do you know what this place is, Captain Calhoun?" Calhoun shakes his head. "I don't, I'm afraid. The Captain's Table it's not, though." Data nods. "You are quite correct, Captain. The Captain's Table this is not. But like that bar, this bar exists outside of time as well. Some of us belong in this place, while others here at this table do not. Captain Kirk, Captain Spock, Captain Chekov, and myself, we all readily gained admittance here. I suspect that the others, like yourself, 'slipped through the cracks,' so to speak. The complex circumstances that give rise to the appearance of the entrance to the Captain's Table have brought each of you here instead, with possibly dire results." "I don't understand," says Calhoun. Spock answers. "Commodore Data's theory, Captain, is that it is the appearance of persons who do not belong here that caused the destruction of his timeline." Pavel Chekov shakes his head. "Preposterous, Keptins. The Commodore has told us his tale of woe many times. This place," he gestures, "has notink to do with his confinement here." "Confinement?" Calhoun asks. Kirk nods. "Unfortunately, if Commodore Data attempts to leave, he'll be destroyed." Kirk packs away another shot. "Because his timeline no longer exists, neither does he, and as long as he's here, outside of time, he can continue to exist. But his existence out there," and he gestures at the entranceway, "would come to a very quick end if he attempted to leave. The universe knows he no longer belongs." Hiro Matsura continues. "There's nothing we can do, sadly. He'll have to remain here." Calhoun shakes his head. "And you are all content with this?" deSoto answers. "What would you have us do, Captain? There's nothing to be done." Calhoun feels a smug smile spreading across his face. "We're Starfleet officers, all of us. Since when did Starfleet turn out defeatist thinking Captains?" "Never," Kirk answers loudly, slamming his shot glass against the wooden table. Calhoun looks at Kirk and smiles. "Precisely. There's a way out of this. There always is. And since we're here, we make the best of the situation." Spock raises his eyebrow. "And that would be, Captain?" Calhoun stands, shoving back his chair. "We start by taking over the bar." ---