Goedel, Escher, and Bach... I Remember You
A Star-Trek: Voyager/Highlander Crossover
by Henry Wyckoff

Standard Disclaimers Apply. Don't know what they are? There's a whole, wonderful FAQ that many wonderful volunteers have spent whole weeks developing, so look it up there, please.

It was quite tranquil on the bridge during the "night shift," not that night had any meaning on a ship that swam through a sea of stars. At least there was a relative kind of day and night here, which helped to maintain the overall sense of sanity. On the bridge, the lights were on at half power, but on the bulk of the ship, the lights were either off or turned down really low. The members of the night shift crew were virtual nobodies who wouldn't be recognized in a lineup, but they were nevertheless quite essential; they kept the ship runing so that those who would be recognized would actually have a ship to steer.

The Nightman, as the night captain was so lovingly called by the crew, was one of the Maquis. Nobody knew his real name, so they settled for that. When he'd joined the Maquis, he had earned a very special reputation when letting his worth be known, and hence the name. He would admit that he was from Earth, but would not say much about himself. Few of the Maquis did. It was rumored that Chakotay had shared a mission with the Nightman. It was a mission that only they had survived, and in some tense moments, Chakotay had learned something disturbing about the Nightman, but what it was -- or if anything had really happened -- neither one would say. But it was Chakotay's friends who would say that the day Chakotay had come back, he 'd been different . . . more cautious and slightly sadder.

The Earth natives, if asked, would've bet that the Nightman was at least of Mediterranean blood, if not nationality. His accent was indeterminate, and often shifted without his knowledge, as he never really paid much attention to it. At one moment, he would speak with a slightly Dutch accent, and at other times, it would be faintly Irish, Southern USA, or some form of American Indian accent. Other times, it would be a blend of all of them. But that wasn't uncommon on worlds that had become true melting pots.

He was 168 cm tall, and only about 70 kg, so he appeared to be neither fat nor thin. He was not muscular, but acceptably healthy in an in-between sort of way. He certainly didn't appear to be athletic, but anyone who'd been with him on away missions could certainly attest to the fire in his soul that made him an asset in the spots where melee erupted. Many individuals on this ship owed their very lives to the Nightman and his capacity for cold, focused violence that was just as familiar with fists and knives as it was with phasers and torpedoes. His Mediterranean emotion was coupled with the reflexes of a general and the cold mind of a Vulcan that could often mask the fire of his heart underneath. A mask that had fooled many Federation opponents.

"Status report?" asked the Nightman in a soft voice through the intercom. "Engineering?"

The anonymous voice immediately responded, "All in control. Nothing wrong."

"Very good. Nightman out." He looked around the bridge once more. All in control. Nothing wrong. But why did he feel a sense of dread . . . something that gripped at his very being? He looked at his wrists, and at the scars that still marked them, after all these years . . . all these years . . . the flash of memory hit him. It wasn't the visual flashback seen in the movies, but rather an instant of pure knowledge that gripped his conscious mind. It was a knowing. A knowing of exactly how something happened . . . and when.

"What are our long-range sensor readings?"

"Nothing worthy of note." The response was too reflective.

"Please scan with long-range scanners." His tone hid his irritation quite well. Inside, he fought with a great desire to strangle the man for his complacency.

"Asteroids . . . an uninhabited solar system . . . it must have seen recent heavy activity."

That sent an electric flash through the Nightman's nervous system, and he fought very hard to damp down his near-reflexive snap. "That's impossible! Scan for military activity!" He didn't know how he knew that it was impossible for this to be a natural cause, but somehow he knew.

Tension mounted on the bridge as everybody felt the sudden change in the Nightman's personality. A few moments later . . . "Nightman?" It was remote sensing, "We've found a surface isotope distribution that's unusual for planets of this class."

A 'surface isotope distribution' is a very basic measurement that says a great deal about an object; the frequency distribution of every detectable element and isotope of that element, with assumptions made about the statistical error of frequency and isotope identification (which could be easily misinterpreted due to space dust). If a planet is scanned, then the assumption is made that the surface of the area directly stimulated by the ship's sensor will send an "average" value. On the scale of a vertical hemisphere, it can provide patterns quickly enough to make snap decisions . . .

. . .such as if a planet had been destroyed, or was about to be destroyed.

"Give me the short story."

"It's been destroyed within the last month, sir. Spatial turbulence is still elevated by planetary particles."

"What's the absorbency rate?"

"Which frequency?"

"Visible light."

"Eighty percent."

He whistled. "So it was bloody powerful, whatever it was . . . "

A Betazoid who was working in Communications suddenly grabbed her head, as if she had been hit by a powerful headache, and then painfully lifted her head until she stared at the profile of the Nightman. But she said nothing. Whatever the Nightman subconsciously projected might have been painful, but she was Maquis too, and was too used to using passive reception as a tool.

After a few moments that seemed like hours, the Nightman came to a decision. He looked over the incoming reports, asked a few pointed questions about statistical analyses, independent measurements, and assumptions made on measurements. A few more remote sensing scans were made. A few moments later, he tapped the console on the armchair, "Captain?"

" . . . Hmm?" came the instant reply. It was 0300, ship time. "Yes?"

"Nightman here. We have a potential red-alert. Your instant presence is required. I'm beaming you here immediately. Nightman out." Before the Captain could protest, or even think to, he slapped another button, "Computer. Emergency transport: Captain to bridge."

Within a second, Captain Janeway was standing on the bridge with an annoyed look on her face. She was dressed in her nightgown, and before she could express her irritation, the Nightman said quickly (but in a stone-cold voice that was not reactionary or fearful), "Captain, our long-range sensors have discovered a planetary system recently attacked by weapons so powerful that they've destroyed the surfaces completely and increased spatial turbulance by a magnitude of three." She looked confused as she tried to wade through all the jargon, but her look of confusion left her when the Nightman added, "Captain, I've seen this before. I may be wrong, and believe me when I pray to God that I am wrong, but what we've observed is the signature of Borg activity."

Captain Janeway's expression was now one of shock and skepticism.

The Betazoid clenched her teeth once more, and she began to look at the Nightman in something approaching irritation, but he didn't notice. He looked back at the monitor, whispering under his breath, "But God help us if the Borg ever get as bad as . . ."

Nobody heard it, or the rest of his mumbled sentence. Good thing too, or else they'd start asking questions . . .

*

He looked at his hands, a transparent film of red covering them. No matter how much he clawed at his hands or washed them, the red would always remain. His eyes closed tightly as the memories flooded back. The sounds of ripping metal beams, air escaping through hull breaches in loud screams, the even louder screams of the wounded and dying --

"I hate you!" he growled sharply to the air.

He did that a lot now. Talk to himself. Or the air. Sometimes he'd say things without even making the mental command -- it just happened. He was beginning to wonder if he were starting to lose his mind.

Feeling that he was about to lose his sanity, he began to run. It was then that he noticed what was around him. He hadn't noticed anything except the memories for the last few miles. He was in a grassland now. The last thing he'd noticed was in the foothills of some barren mountain. He was on foot, so he must have travelled those miles, but he didn't remember walking or running them.

"I'm sorry!" he screamed. The only thing was, he didn't know what he was sorry about. All he knew was that he was full of sorrow, fear, hate, pain . . . and the total absence of happiness.

He stopped running, breathing heavily. Now his lungs ached, but only for a moment.

Time was playing tricks, because now he stood at the outskirts of a new village. Everything looked new; the orchards, the houses, and the dirt roads. In the distance, children played and people worked. With the surroundings, it could have been any Catalonian village from the old days, even though this was not Earth.

He didn't know where he was, or the name of this place, just that it wasn't Earth.

One foot moved ahead of the other again and again, until he was greeted by a few people who had noticed his approach. Two male humans, a female Vulcan, and a female of some unknown humanoid race. Their looks were friendly but openly suspicious too.

A familiar greeting if he thought so himself.

"I don't recall seeing a crashed ship," remarked one of the humans, who looked every bit like a Mexican farmer from the old days, complete with the white shirt and the wide hat. "How far have you walked?"

He shook his head, "I don't know. I --"

He couldn't speak, the voice of Locutus screaming in his brain: "Resistance is futile."

They patiently waited for him to continue speaking. "I had to get away. The Borg -- " He shook his head. Then he collapsed. Even though his consciousness might have fled him, the memories hadn't . . .

. . ."You are awake." It had the calm and measured sound of a Vulcan, but on opening his eyes, he found the human equivalent. A prim and proper Brit, with her hair immaculately combed, wearing a cotton dress without the hint of a wrinkle or imperfection. She sat on a rocking chair, a short wooden table next to her, where a steaming cup of tea sat. It smelled like pekoe. Her accent sounded like it came from outside of London. Maybe Yorkshire.

"I guess I am." He just stared at the ceiling.

"The others were talking about you, wondering what they should do. Mr. Jenkins wondered if you were insane from your marching, and Mr. Vanderpolt raised the thought that maybe you are insane to begin with."

"And what do you believe?"

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "I think that I should believe nothing without further observation. Maybe you're exhausted, or maybe you have seen too much for such a young man." She nodded towards the nearly unusable uniform that was piled up on top of his other belongings. "That says that you served in Starfleet. By your rank, you had moved places." She looked directly at him. "What would make you leave such a position?"

He stared at the ceiling. Then he began to cry, holding his hands up to his face, as if he could somehow force the tears to stop flowing from his eyes. "They won't go away . . . All I can see are their faces . . . hear the screams. I couldn't do anything! All I could do is watch!" Or at least, that's what he heard himself say. Maybe it was all incoherent due to his sobbing.

But the Brit nodded, understanding what they had in their hands. She left him to himself and returned a little while later with a tall, well-muscled man with a square face and the smile of a simple man. "This is Francois," she said, "and he will be your host."

He shook his head, "I don't understand."

She knelt down by his side, so that she could look at him at an even level. Her face was still reserved, but showed some compassion. "I understand what you are going through," she almost whispered. "And the only thing that will see you through is hard work. It is also the only way you can stay here, at the only settlement on this planet. You will hoe vegetables day in and day out, and you will learn to forget."

*

. . .and for a while he had forgotten. But all good things must come to an end. His eyes left the screen and returned to the Captain, who hadn't even noticed his moment of thought.