The Ninth Man

 Episode Name:  The Ninth Man

   Written By:  Daedalus

         Cast:  Harris and Oscar.

  Produced By:  Starfleet

  Directed By:  Oscar

     Aired On:  Sat May 07 17:52:47 2005

     Stardate:  54951.7

Time: Sat May 07 15:20:49 2005

Stardate: 54951.4

The image is that of a small, old, creaky Federation Starship -- an Apollo-class Light Cruiser, perhaps, or one of the new wave of Hermes-class partial refits -- soaring at warp, against a backdrop of stars. As the camera passes over, we see she is the NCC-32759 USS Chengdai, and, as the background noise of conversation occurs, we cut to an interior ... a small, cramped ward room for a small, cramped light-cruiser that pulls duty mostly as a small, cramped, high-speed, armed personnel transport. Chengdai's ward room has been turned into some kind of Captain's Galley, and there's a seven officers squeezed around a table, picking at the remains of a meal. Four of these are LTJGs, still clearly young and exuberant, as is one of the two full Lieutenants. Seniormost to them all are two men -- senior in rank is a Lieutenant Commander in Command maroon, while senior in age to all but a few is Lieutenant Robert Sean Harris, a guest at the table, where the conversation is about border politics, military history, and all the things that make adventure ... adventurous. "Quiet, you chuzzlewit," says Lietuenant Commander Charles Bauer, as he flicks a small hard wheat roll at one of the junior Lieutenants in Science or Medical teal. "Now, Lieutenant Harris, before Doctor Gallows so rudely interrupted you, you were saying something about Hortas and beautiful young Armory Officers...?"

Harris leans back in his chair with a grin. "Yeah, apparently I've been chosen to be the daddy to the baby while it's on 419," he replies to Bauer. "She even named it after me. It's interesting to watch it interact with Lieutenant Turtledove, to be honest -- I swear the blasted thing purrs whenever she touches it -- and then she makes me feed it, to boot. Junior runs through rocks like you wouldn't believe."

This gets a laugh from one of the other LTJGs, seated next to 'Doctor Gallows'. The Andorian slaps the table. "You *feed* the thing? I'd be afraid to lose a hand. My grandfather used to tell me horror stories about the Janus mines as a child. Children of Keth Birev /grow up/ fearing we'll encounter a nest of the things while ore-mining." Bauer stops the Andorian officer by interjecting: "As you were, Mister Birev. If the Old Man lets us take shore leave after we've dropped off the Lieutenant, we'll see about getting you a date with---" But whether the date is with Turtledove or the Baby Horta is unclear, as Bauer is himself interrupted by a chirpy noise, and a rumbling voice: "Bridge to Ward Room. Get Mister Harris out here on the double."

Well, hey, it's always good to be called on the carpet while you're not even at your own posting. With an upswept eyebrow, Harris pushes to his feet. "On my way." As he heads for the doors, he adds to his tablemates, "We've got some good docs on 419, so sure... try to hit that dating scene. With luck, it won't hit back too hard." Then, onward and outward.

. o O Harris thinks, "What now?"

The bridge of Chengdai is small, as befits the ship itself -- a single command chair, two forward consoles for Flight Control and Ops, two rear consoles on the command well railing for the Tactical and Mission Ops officer, and a single, generic, auxiliary console between the lift and ward room doors. All but the aux console are occupied, and a large, thick-bodied Tellarite in command maroon and 3 full pips rises from the Big Chair. Commander Borkhel, skipper of USS Chengdai, turns to the temporally displaced Operations officer. "Lieutenant," he says, his voice a gruff growl with a hint of puzzled exasperation.

Harris nods to Borkhel as he enters. "What can I do for you, Commander?" he asks as he approaches -- but doesn't violate the sanctity of -- the command pit.

"You can explain to me a very odd thing, Mister Harris." His big arms fold across the former Security Officer's chest. "About an hour ago, another Starfleet vessel entered our wake, and started sending a steam of repeated messages requesting we drop to warp, haul to, and receive a passenger. The IFF identified the ship as USS Cyrano, with a registry code so new that thing must barely be out of drydock. I didn't even know we *had* such a thing as a Squire-class Runabout, but that's what the computer tells me it is." A shrug. "No orders. No explanations. No .... nothing. Just a request. A request which conflicts with my orders to get you back to Four-One-Nine and Mister Hastings back to Dulcais Sector Groundport as soon as possible." He steps forward to the railing. "So for the past hour, I have sent back repeated refusals. Until 3 minutes ago, when the the IFF code ... changed." He gestures to the aux console. "I should like, Mister Harris, to know why we are being hailed by Federation Two, asking, again without orders, for the courtesy of either accepting a boarder from them, or handing you over."

"Well, sir... I don't know how to answer that. So, two answers come to mind -- I've managed to make someone -really- angry at Headquarters or Empryean House -- or, well, they've decided that it's time to make me an admiral based on my age." Harris offers the best grin he can summon while trying not to look confused. "Either way, I'm willing to go over there so you can meet your dropoff for Mister Hastings. If it is Federation Two, I'm certain they'll be more than able to drop me at home. If it isn't... well, I've always liked adventures."

. o O Harris thinks, "What in the bloody blue hell is going on here?"

. o O Harris is confused -- very much so.

Borkhel grunts. Nods. "Report to Transporter Room one, then." He turns. "Conn, slow us to Warp 4, and tell Federation Two she can match exact speed and heading. I will not drop out of Warp, but if they're willing to risk it, they can send their man over to meet Mister Harris, alone, in our Transporter Room." Back to Harris. "You *can* handle a Transporter, yes?"

"Last time I checked," Harris replies as he heads toward the lift. "I'll keep you posted, sir."

Cut to the opening of Transporter Room One on USS Chengdai. A Vulcan in Cadet Grey -- clearly the ship's acting Transporter Chief -- departs with a nod and a "Sir" to Harris as the human enters. In a moment, Harris is alone in the hollow room, its console blinking with the indicator that USS Cyrano is ready to send over its man.

Harris steps behind the transporter console and looks over things for a moment or two. "Alright, then. Let's see what you've got, shall we?" He hits the transmit toggle to speak to whomever or whatever it is that wants to talk. "Energizing."

<CONTEST> Harris contests Shipboard Systems/transporter vs Moderate and Succeeds.

<CONTEST> Harris contests Shipboard Systems vs Moderate and Succeeds.

There is the usual whine and sparkle, and within a moment, there is a dapper man in a dapper suit -- double-breasted tunic, dark hair slicked back, a mustache and soul patch on his face. He carries a metallic attache case at his side. He waits for the energy effects to die down before he steps forward.

Harris looks up to confirm what the screen is saying, and that his visitor isn't a patch of goo or worse. After he's satisfied that's not the case, he steps out from behind the console and extends a hand. "Welcome aboard the Chengdai, sir. I'm Lieutenant Harris."

. o O Harris thinks, "And just who the hell are you?"

Oscar extends his own hand. "Oscar Cesar-Garcia, Lieutenant Harris. Special Envoy of the Federation Science Council." A pause. Then, as the hand shake continues, just as it's about to end: "So you're the Man-Out-of-Time, eh?"

"One of several, sir," Harris replies as he extracts his hand from the other man's grasp. "It's not a large group, at any rate. What can I do for you?"

. o O Harris thinks, "FSC. What have I done that attracted the attention of -them-?"

. o O Harris thinks, "Or... even, what did the other me do to fly onto their radar?"

Oscar says, "Well, that's the Five-Bar Question, Lieutenant." He sets the case down. Leans against the console. "The Science Council has ... heard fragmented reports of what happened last month at Station Four-One-Nine. Starfleet Command's been less than forthcoming. From what I can gather, the suspicion is that whatever temporal anomaly you folks encountered had something to do with some top secret project at the FSC's alleged temporal operations subdivision" -- Oh, right. DTI=FSC -- "...the kind of thing the spy guys and military planners used to call 'Black Ops'. And, as a result, the FSC is being kept in the dark while Starfleet Command puts all its mallards on the mile-marker, so to speak." He shakes his head. "Nonsense about a temporal investigation team at the FSC aside, the Council doesn't like being in the dark because the military has decided we don't get to belly to the table, and you strike me as being the most sympathetic to something like this." In short, he's a ... salesman for the FSC's point of view, then. "So I guess I'll ask point-blank: Have you received any direct or implied orders not to discuss this with any representives of the FSC, or am I one step ahead of the Admiralty, getting to you before they do?"

"I'm allowed to discuss what's not classified, sir," Harris replies simply. "Anything beyond that is something that should be taken up with Starfleet Command, Dulcais Sector Command, Station 419-U Command -- or even the two representatives of the FSC that are aboard the station at the moment." Insert the eyebrow raise here.

Oscar says, "Yes, well, they seem to be rather in the dark themselves, from what I gather." He shakes his head. "And, frankly, reading your file was more interesting. I feel I know you better. I don't know *them* at all."

Oscar's voice is clearly hinting. But at what, who knows.

Harris considers the other man for a moment. "There were a group of people who wished to meddle in the timeline, and, in fact, had done so before in some kind of recursive self-fulfilling predestination paradox loop thing." Apparently Harris isn't terribly up on the technical jargon, or he's playing dumb. "They were stopped, and as a result, our timeline ended. Of course, given the Anomaly's nature as a temporal anchor, our little band of castaways from that timeline got drug along in the temporal reset. That's pretty much what happened in a nutshell."

. o O Harris thinks, "You don't know me, and I'm not willing to play your games here."

Oscar hrms. "A nutshell? Sounds like a coconut shell masquerading as a sunflower seed husk." He considers. "And our 'representatives' on your station? They were dragged along, as well, I take it?"

Harris takes on a vague expression of distaste. "Everyone within the the Anomaly's sphere of influence came along for the ride, yes."

Oscar nods. "I can only imagine your ... disorientation. But that's why I came to you, frankly. You've been through this disorientation before. You'd be best suited to deal with it, and discuss it rationally. Frankly, I'll be honest with you, Lieutenant: the reports from the FSC's 'representatives' as you put it, have been lacking. That's why I'm here."

"What, you want me to rattle their cages?" Harris asks, drumming up a smile.

Oscar says, "Well, that's the problem, isn't it? Clearly, they represent a Federation Science Council that, if the rumors of this old timeline of yours are true, is less than trustworthy. How can I trust them?" He motions. "You, though. You're a low-manure-tolerance kind of guy, Robert Harris. You sound like you could be of use to the Council in this, and so far, you admit you've got no orders to avoid co-operating, right?"

Harris folds his arms over his chest. "As long as it doesn't tread on things that it's my duty not to divulge, I'm open to answering your questions. I take my duty -very- seriously, Mister Cesar-Garcia."

Oscar says, "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about." He nods, finger stroking the soul-patch below his lower lip. "So, let me ask you this, hypothetically. If the Federation Science Council *did* have a temporal operations division, that operated legally but quietly, with some classification but without this nasty black ops stuff, would that interest you, as a Man Twice Outside Of Time?"

Harris leans back against the bulkhead. "I'll be frank, sir -- I don't think that anyone has any business mucking around with time. It's not our place to change the past to affect the future, and the whole business is..." he pauses, searching for a word, "...distasteful, and extremely so at that. While I would imagine that, again, hypothetically speaking, your temporal operations division would be tasked with preserving the timeline as it is now, that just really translates to 'keeping the Federation safe from temporal intruders', and I'm also willing to guess that it's by any means necessary."

Oscar immediately holds up a hand, as if trying to placate: "Of course, Lieutenant. Don't get me wrong. If this ... temporal investigation branch did exist, of course it would have to have some law enforcement authority, and there'd be the occasional tangle, the occasional use of FSC resources independent of a hosting Starfleet post's resources. But Starfleet would handle *most* of that, the way it always has handled things -- as the enforcement arm of a legally empowered advisory body. Such a Department of Temporal Investigation would mostly be eyes and ears. Scouts and investigators and scientists and historians. Adventurers looking to soar in fast, get out quick, and report back to the Powers-that-Be. Not so much 'black ops' as white hats on fast horses. And, yes, more interested in making sure the timeline stays 'normal' and preserved and making sure that nobody tries to mess with it either accidentally or on purpose. As for means, there'd be a list of prescribed DOs, a list of proscribed DON'Ts, and the rest would be ... common sense." A pause. "Hypothetically."

"I'm probably not the right guy, to be honest," Harris replies after a moment of thought. "I'm a pilot by training, sir. My main scientific areas of expertise are in astrogation and stellar cartography, and I'm pretty handy with a phaser, but I'm no scientist, and I'm not a police officer either. So, really, the job I -might- be qualified for on your list is 'scout'."

. o O Harris thinks, "Why me? Why not Meg, she's the one that's been gallavanting around in time."

Oscar says, "It's a position that needs filling, Mister Harris, and while we're being blunt, let me double-down, as they say in my native Nevada, and note that your own reputation is as something of a two-fisted man of action who lines up on the right side but occasionally has ... control issues. A 'DTI', if it existed, would be more willing to put up with fast flying cowboys than Starfleet is. I saw just this morning that you were turned down for promotion because of recent reprimands. Think about it. Even if this 'DTI' doesn't exist, it could, and the FSC are the guardians who guard the Guardian of Forever." A pause. "You've heard of it, I trust. Your clearance is high enough."

Harris nods once. "I've heard of it," he replies softly. "I've also heard of the problems that have been caused by using it."

Oscar says, "That's because most folks use it offensively, as you note. Only a few know to use it defensively or perceptively." A moment's smile. A sly, quick, quiet addition: "For example, I know a fellow named Judson Hendricks who recently made *very* interesting use of it."

"He's dead." Harris raises an eyebrow, turning a new, mostly suspicious look upon the other man.

. o O Harris thinks, "I've got you now."

Oscar smiles. "Good. Let us both dispense with the manure, then, shall we?"

Harris nods firmly. "That's preferable."

Oscar nudges the attache case forward to Harris with his foot. "The access code to this briefcase is at Level 9 Clearance on the FSC scale. It doesn't even *exist* on the Starfleet scale." A pause. "What's in that case, and the briefing that accompanies it now, verbally, is so classified that only 8 men have the details right now. You will be the ninth. The other eight, I am sure, will be of interest to you. They are the two field investigators who brought it to our attention, myself, my boss, who holds the equivalent rank to a Vice-Chairman of the Federation Science Council, the Chairman above him, President Bromm Gazan... and two others." A gesture. "That's why this ship became Federation Two the moment I set foot on it. Because what's in that case will confirm that this offer is being made with the full approval of the President. Can you accept, as part of that, that this is so very classified that you will, as the ninth man, be the only Starfleet officer who knows it, and even then, you likely will remain a Starfleet officer for only a few more months by discovering it? If not, say so now, and I take my case and go and we'll forget I was ever here."

. o O Harris thinks, "Whoa, wait a minute."

. o O Harris is surprised. Very much so.

"Why me?" Harris asks after a moment as he just -stares- at the case. "Why not my wife?"

Oscar says, "There's an answer for that, but I can't tell you until we're agreed." He holds up a hand. "Before you answer, understand that this is ... a trial period, Lieutenant. And let me trust you enough to make this re-introduction." He holds out his hand. "Senior Agent Oscar Cesar-Garcia, Special Assistant to the Director of Temporal Investigations for Asset Debriefing." He inhales, exhales, hand still out there for Harris to take. "This is not black ops, I give you my word. This is the real DTI, the one that exists *here* and *now*, and we want you on-board, Lieutenant, and we're willing to expose a great deal to you to make that happen, because Agents Duncan and Soral are damaged goods as far as we're concerned, and we need a man onboard we recruit, and we can trust. Now, that's as free a peek as you get. So take my hand and agree, or tell me to get lost."

. o O Harris thinks, "How ironic, the people with the timeline under their thumbs insist that there's no time."

<PROVE> Harris has the flaw of Impulsive at -1.

Harris is silent for a long moment, then looks up and takes the man's hand. "Alright, sir, I'm in."

Oscar says, "Excellent." Then lets go of Harris' hand. "As you may have guessed by my title, the man above me *is* the Director of Temporal Investigations for the Federation Science Council. Six weeks ago, he and I were hailed personally by two low-ranking field agents we have keeping watch on the Guardian of Forever from within a larger cover team of Science Council scientists." He laughs, as if suddenly self-aware of the irony of needing to mention that the Science Council *has* scientists. And his toe nudges the case closer to Harris. "Two men emerged from cover at the Guardian, Mister Harris, both claiming to be former operatives of a so-called Temporal Response Team, the elite of a 'Timefleet' operating out of Station 419. One of them claimed to hold the rank of Captain, and the name of Judson Hendricks. He claimed to be a recursive iteration of a Lieutenant Comamnder" -- a pause, then he continues --"excuse me, a *Commander* Michael Edwards, himself a sometime ally and sometime foe of this 'Timefleet conspiracy'. He was anchored by the small event horison of the Guardian of Forever, one of only *two* Temporal Anchors in the Federation, when the timeline changed. Our agents, and the normal research team, are based far enough back that they are not normally anchored, you undersand, and DTI is now reviewing the idea of a permanent agent up close to stay anchored in the event that something happens to your station." He pauses there. "I'll give you a moment to absorb that before I continue."

Harris nods slowly as he absorbs that. "Alright."

Oscar says, "We assigned him the codename of ORPHAN, obviously enough. Since Judson Hendricks should not, at all, exist. His associate, we code-named SABOT." A flicker of smile. "You'll learn about SABOT later on, assuming this probationary period works out. His stories were no less interesting. But, here's the thing, Lieutenant: we can't figure out if we trust them, and Agents Duncan and Soral have been unable to get us what we need to confirm that they are who they say they are. That's where you come in. Can you confirm for me that Judson Hendricks is who he has claimed to me? His picture and his story are on a PADD in that briefcase."

Harris lifts the briefcase and places it on the console. "I don't see why not," he replies with a shrug.

Oscar holds up a hand. "You needn't do this yet. I'll give you the code before I depart, and I'd prefer that you contact me later. You're the Operations Manager on your station, for now, so if you can't get priority encrypted communications time, nobody can. That's the other reason for you and not your wife. The third is because she was one of the people named as being a former member of this so-called black-ops 'Temporal Response Team'. Until I know more about what's happened, Lieutenant, that's a big strike against her as far as the Director and the Chairman and the President are concerned. And, honestly, President Gazan's a big fan of old pulp style holonovels, the kind that Earth and Tellar and Andoria all developed at various stages, but Vulcan and Alpha Centauri never did. He likes adventure. He likes ... well, overblown and romantic stories, Robert. He thinks you're a hero in the making. I've been directed to offer that for the next six months, you'll report to me regularly, and get training materials, and by the end of this year, you'll be discharged from Starfleet with full honors, and become a sworn agent. That's my goal here. Can you live with being the only one of Nine Men who know everything about what the universe was in your old timeline, and why it isn't in this one? Can you deal with being the Ninth Wise Man in the galaxy?"

"I can," Harris replies after a moment, nodding firmly. "Before I do, though -- I suppose that once I accept, there's no going back?"

Oscar says, "You can walk away up until the time you swear in as an agent, Robert." He says this almost ... well, benevolently. "If at any point up until then you find you can't hack it, you'll get sealed orders directly from your C-in-C to forget everything you've learned. After that, once you're in, you're in."

Harris takes a breath, then nods. "Alright. I'm in."

Oscar says, "Three cheers for the Nine Wise Men, then. We should start an old time baseball team, with our own top jerseys." He smiles, turns for the transporter dais. "The password for the lock on that case, by the way, is 'Alpha Nine Alpha Grand Slam'." Cesar-Garcia steps up onto the dais. "We'll be in touch, Lieutenant. For now ... if you will ... Energize."

Harris steps behind the console and nods as he works. "Have a safe trip, sir." A few moments, and then he works the sliders.

And after a moment, Special Agent Oscar Cesar-Garcia fades away, and the console reports that the 'Federation Two' designation has shifted from USS Chengdai to USS Cyrano. The former ship, without much more hestitation, picks up speed, bringing a slightly wiser Robert Sean Harris that much closer to his home, and his destiny.