Post:Fade-Out

On a gray, wind-scoured plain, Jordan Rampart faced the Founder.

The Founders – changelings, shapeshifters – had no genders.  Yet this one, 'she', had the form of a human female.

'She' stood at the center of everything... yet only another link in a chain, of countless individuals, countless lives, details and incidents.

The Founder regarded him with her own cool air, seemingly neutral, seemingly benign, disinterested yet astounded, and subtly agitated.  She shook her approximation of a humanoid head.  In a soft voice nearly lost in the bitter wind, where not a strand of her mimicked hair moved, she said, "I never knew."

Rampart observed her, without comment or expression.  She sounded disappointed, as if she had gotten to the end of a book anticipating a great climax, instead finding a big letdown.

Few people realized how much everything mattered.  Everything was connected... interconnected.

It was nothing new to Rampart.  Nothing surprised him anymore.  He had learned, long ago: The history of the universe was a long, endless row of dominoes, which ended where it began.  Once the first fell, so did all others.

The Founder had trouble with it, the enormity of her people's role – making more of it than it was worth, Rampart thought.  He saw it in her face: Her new, changing face.  Her features had grown more finely tuned, human-like, in human company.  In time, that face would no longer change.  In time... an era four billion years in the past... she would abandon those features in favor of a more rounded look, in solid form.  So would her fellow changelings.  They claimed that they were once solids.  Indeed they were.  They would become solids... 'again'... and lose their shapeshifting ability.  It would serve them for a while longer... centuries, millennia, until they fulfilled their role in life's grand scheme.  They would become solids, until one day they returned to a shapeshifting state for another ten millennia, bringing them to the present moment... at which they would go back to do it all over again, as now transpired.

Meloc II.  Amazing, that this cold, bleak planet laid at the crossroads of time and destiny.  Rampart fancied that it resembled the northern latitudes of Europe; ancient Germany, perhaps, land of his purported ancestors, before Earth's overpopulation by humanity, in the time of ancient Celts and Indo-Aryans... before the Greeks, before the Roman Empire... before everything.

Growing up, he thought his ancestors came from Europe.  Now everything would come before that.

In less than a year, Jorr Hegga's colony would take root on this very spot.  First: The scientific research outpost, established to monitor after-effects of quantum-folding... the result of the UFS Arcadia's presence, erasing a UFS Arcadia from an alternate universe.  Then, the discovery of thesichon, a substance which did not exist before that event... and yet, defying causality, always did.  Hegga, chairman of Bulfinch Design & Testing – already positioned, in the right place at the right time – would claim first rights.  It would explode from there.  The colony grew – would grow, fast.  Hegga, a Humanist, would turn it into a haven for others wishing to escape the all-pervasive alien presence in human societies.  The Arcadia colony would be born.

And in less than thirty years, Jordan Rampart would try to destroy it.

Rampart surveyed the ground beneath him.  It was only hours since the Arcadia's visit.  Environmental conditions were still fluctuating.  Vision augmented by comtacts, and other ways of seeing, he could almost see the ghost ship in its final resting place, the alternate Arcadia, the very first UFS Arcadia, from that other reality... the continuum 'folded', collapsed into this one by command of Captain Stephen April... taking the ship and all aboard with it: All dead, gone, as if they never were.  Only memories remained, in the minds of a distinct few... those allowed to remember.

Rampart did not serve aboard that Arcadia.  His term came later, a few years from now, a brief, one-time opportunity as captain.  He had no idea, then, how his fate and that ship's intertwined.  But he did not have to remember.

In that other reality, before the merge, Arcadia traveled to galaxy M87.  Returning, they discovered, too late, that they had picked up a biogenic lifeform, a malevolent intelligence which killed the crew and caused the ship to crash here, on the second planet in the Meloc system... coming to its final rest where Rampart now stood.  April, commanding this reality's Arcadia, believed the entity had been dissolved, destroyed in the fold... deconstructed at the quantum level.

He was wrong.

Before venturing to M87 in that other reality, Arcadia had to travel through Dominion space, in the Gamma Quadrant, to reach Nonallix B, a singularity which propelled them to the distant galaxy, fifty million light years out.  In exchange for passage, the Dominion's rulers had exacted one condition: A representative, permitted to accompany them.  The Federation and Starfleet Command agreed.  That representative turned out to be a changeling, a Founder, code-named 'Deliah'.  They had no idea who Deliah was: The same Founder 'female' who led the Dominion's war against the nations of the Alpha Quadrant.

Like another changeling, the half-Borg Proteus McCoy, 'Deliah' returned with the ship.  In the fold, two realities merged and combined.  After-effects were seen and felt in little ways, by those most likely to be affected – different birth-dates, different physical forms, before compared to after – until those affected could barely remember, if they remembered at all, that there had been a difference.  Rampart consulted April's logs, citing dreams, fleeting memories, impressions of events from a life he had both lived and never lived.  Proteus McCoy, and the alternate Arcadia's Bartokian security chief, Eve Ordalani – a product of different origins compared to the Ordalani who captained the UFS DeSoto – had apparently been erased.

One more traveler on that ship survived: A passenger, not a member of that crew.  'Her' different molecular structure ('she' had no gender) enabled her escape, before the fold.  The biogenic entity which possessed the crew did not or could not possess pure changelings as easily as fixed-form organics, whom changelings called 'solids'.  Deliah was not erased.

In a sense, none of them were.  They 'returned', at the quantum level, to their quantum basis, the most fundamental elements from which they were created.  Proteus McCoy, a Borg-changeling hybrid, became scattered Borg nanoprobes and changeling DNA, from which he might have originated, if not for a different history... a different Joanna McCoy, a different Borg collective who conquered the Federation in the 23rd century.  Eve Ordalani, DeSoto captain in this reality, was never a genetically engineered, steel-skeletoned super-soldier, born from cells of Kimberley and Phillip Ordalani, who likewise never existed (except, again, at the quantum level – yet those quanta determined different macrocellular structures; different Bartokians, perhaps).  The alternate Arcadia discorporated, its quanta rendered into the very ship that discorporated it.

But with the Founder, something different occurred: Perhaps it was her allomorphic structure; perhaps interaction with the fluctuating energies which brought her to Meloc.  She merged with her counterpart in this reality, gaining a perspective neither knew prior.  Through her, it spread into the Great Link, the collective mass of her fellow changelings: Not so much memories, but impressions... fomenting an urge to return to this place, in search of a new path, one that separated her from the Link, years from now.

She had contacted Rampart.  Only with his help could she return here to this time, the year 2382, with the quantum flux still fresh.  In space beyond the atmosphere, April's Arcadia had just jumped away.

Rampart knew she would contact him.  He knew why, and what would come next.

"We spent so much of our existence despising and fearing solids," she said.  "To know this... to know where we came from, and where we will return....  Solids.  We are solids.  Were.  Are."

At least she understood what it meant.  She had gotten the author's message.

"It brings a sense of peace."  She nodded.  "Yes.  Closure."  Her head lifted, to the great superconductor poised neatly in the sky: A massive device of beautifully breathtaking design, shaped like alternating horseshoes joined at their tips.  It would power their trip: A transporter, unlike any other.  "We founded the Dominion," she said.  "Now we will be the founders of all life.  No longer will we wonder what ultimate fate awaits us.  Now, we know."

Rampart followed her gaze, watching as the great gold mass gelled, flowing into the temporal transporter.  The Great Link: A collective mass of changelings, thousands of them, about to embark on a trip that would take them far, far into the past.

Before joining them, the changeling, not really female – yet – regarded him with the face customarily worn, dealing with the Federation.  Rampart remembered that face, in broadcasts from her trial after the war.  In the final hours of the conflict, she sought to decimate Cardassia, sending millions of Cardassians to their deaths.  Cardassia: The planet, the people, to whom everyone owed their existence.  Without that sacrifice, Cardassia would not have joined the Federation.  Rampart would not have gone to Cardassia, and he would not now exist, to make this day, here, on Meloc, possible.  Their lives, their fates, their destinies were inextricably linked: Theirs, and every lifeform that ever existed.  Without them, any of them, no one would exist.

The Founder said, "This is a great honor."

"Just part of the chain," Rampart commented, breaking his silence – knowing he should not have said it, knowing how damning that could be, for the founders of the Dominion.  She would ponder it.  In time it would torment her, all of her kind.  They might not consider it an honor then.

Wreaking resentment... It was what Rampart did best.  Everyone had their role to play.

They would fulfill theirs.  The Dominion's shapeshifting founders understood that, the necessity of it, better than most.  Better than any 'solid'.

Except Rampart.  No one understood that better than he did.

"And what will become of the Dominion?" the Founder asked, in parting.  "I suppose you will absorb them into the Federation, as we tried to absorb you?"  The Federation already had embassies on important Dominion worlds – Dosi, Draiax, Karemma, Kurill Prime.  The Jem'Hadar weren't overly important anymore, with their new breeds, reverting to a primitive, dual gender society, as they were before the Founders transformed them.  The Federation would not have their military muscle to add to its arsenal... as if it was needed.

Rampart fixed her with his characteristic grim stare.  "They have to give up their gods sometime."

Her gaze lingered on him.  "Take care of them," she advised, with that queenly regality to which she was accustomed.  "Do not forget where you come from, as well."

"Nor you."

The changeling liquefied, morphed into a bird and flew into the shimmering pillar.  The tail end of the mass lifted into the giant floating edifice, and in moments it vanished.

So ended the reign of the Founders.  So began another.  But it had already begun.  It had always been.

Rampart was no changeling, and did not share their 'future'... but would owe his future to them.  Dominion cloning technology would help him to enforce the will of the new gods: The Halj'rai.

Rampart shifted his view, transing to a specific time-point, to verify nothing had changed:

306 ce.  2369 on the old calendar.  Vilmor II, a dull, lifeless planet.  A genetic puzzle spanning worlds and eons had been assembled, by officers from different species: Klingon, Romulan, Cardassian, two humans and an android... and her.

"Life evolved on my planet before all others in this part of the galaxy," the being stated... spokesperson/representative of the Seeders, in a holorecording of the solid form she had taken... would take... yet undeniably the same face – omitting the exact truth, that the Seeders came from the future.  Temporal integrity had to be maintained.  "We left our world, explored the stars and found none like ourselves," she said.  That part was true – of the changelings, and the Seeders.  "Our civilization thrived for ages.  But what is the life of one race, compared to the vast stretches of cosmic time?  We knew that one day we would be gone, and nothing of us would survive – so we left you.  Our scientists seeded the primordial oceans of many worlds, where life was in its infancy...."

The words faded to a blur.  Rampart heard it all before.  He knew the fates of the people standing on Vilmor II's rocky surface, oblivious to the fact that they were being watched.  Picard would become Federation president, return to Starfleet with an admiral's commission, retire into seclusion.  A Ferengi youth gang would break into his home, bypassing automated security, and beat him to death with a model of the ship he once commanded, Stargazer.  It could almost be said that the Ferengi finished what they started: They had destroyed that ship, Picard's first command.

"Commander."

In a corridor, Vallien turned at Lieutenant Sarca's approach.  Though both came from the same province on their planet, red-haired Sarca was much younger in years... and, thanks to the lingering effects of the so-called 'emotion virus' which ravaged Vulcan, more prone to the feelings raging within, as a result – emotions many Vulcans struggled once again to suppress, as they did in the old times, centuries ago.

Vallien knew the bitterness of that struggle.  He had fought long and hard himself, exerting and channeling the strength Vulcans possessed into control of his emotions.  Contracting the virus had nearly ended his career in Starfleet two years past, forcing him to take leave.  Fortunately, the sirenahr discipline practiced by his people, the Ikanim, in their homeland amidst Vulcan's northern latitudes, proved crucial to saving all the peoples of Vulcan.  Sirenahr, unlike kohlinahr, saved him.  Adept in the discipline, he became a teacher to others as he regained control of his faculties and his life's direction, and resumed active duty.  Now a lieutenant commander, he was Vashak'ti's executive officer.

Sarca was clearly flustered.  "The changelings demand different accommodations for their quarters.  They want the old furniture removed and replaced."

"They're our guests," Vallien said.  "Accommodate them."

"Accommodating them has been our primary focus.  Nothing makes them happy."  Sarca sighed through gritted teeth, muscles twitching in his face.  "It's as if they're trying to provoke us.  Don't they know the risk in testing a Vulcan's patience?"

"Lieutenant, be calm."

"I'm trying.  I'm having... trouble."  Sarca enviously regarded Vallien's cool composure, almost jealous.  "I never knew emotions could be so powerful.  What hope do we have of controlling them?"

"We've managed, in the past."

"Commander, I... I find that I... like these feelings."

Vallien shot him a look of warning.

"I want to... break something," Sarca said.  "The anger, the rage... They make me feel strong.  Stronger than I ever felt before the crisis."

"Emotions nearly destroyed us, if you remember.  Rage and anger lead to destruction.  That's why we must suppress them."

"There's no guarantee that it would happen again.  Aren't emotions natural?  We eat, and sleep, and breathe, as nature intended.  Should we not also feel?  Perhaps if we stopped trying to deny our emotions, and embrace them—"

"Lieutenant, return to your quarters and meditate."

Sarca blinked.  "But... the changelings—"

"I'll handle them.  You're off duty.  That is an order.  I'll come by later and assist you."

Sarca glared at him, took a deep breath and nodded.  "Very well, Commander."  He walked off.

Vallien continued down the corridor.  The Vashak'ti was unique, and yet it was not.  It was not the only Starfleet vessel, nor the first, staffed primarily by Vulcans.  The USS Intrepid, Constitution-class, 23rd century, claimed that honor.  However, it was the sole Quantum-class starship so crewed — named for the historic site on Vulcan where the forces of logic overpowered Vulcans who clung to the ancient ways of emotion, in a great, final battle.  It was, Vallien felt, a serendipitous coincidence.

"Bridge to Commander Vallien.  We're in range of the Arcadia.  Stand by to transport."

From the captain's chair, Dominic Gray stood up.  He couldn't believe what he was seeing.  The Vulcan standing in front of him – a seemingly youthful blond male, wearing a Starfleet uniform, command division – returned the casual apprehension.

"Captain Gray."  The Vulcan cocked his head.  "Is something wrong?"

"Er... no, Commander.  Of course not."  In the corner of Gray's eye, Arcadia's first officer, Dante Winters, watched from his own chair.  Gray held out a hand.  Winters leaned forward, placing a padd in it.  "I'd like to know what this is about," Gray said.

"Captain, our ship has a long journey ahead.  You've seen the transfer order."

"I know why.  I'd like to know why, why.  The particulars."

"I'm sorry, Sir.  I'm not at liberty to share that."

Gray sighed and pressed a thumb to the padd.  "Okay then.  He's all yours."  Lieutenant Fade, Arcadia's (former) ops chief – a changeling – was now reassigned to the UFS Vashak'ti, by order of the Federation Council.  Fade had already beamed to the other ship; only this formality remained.

"Thank you.  Good to meet you, Captain Gray."  The Vulcan man stepped back, giving the bridge a last look.  "One to beam over."  In the blink of an eye, he was gone.  On the screen, the Quantum-class Vashak'ti shifted, turned about, and went to warp.

Winters got up.  "Captain, if you don't mind my asking... Do you know that man?"

"I know of him.  His name's Vallien."

"Sounds familiar," Winters said.

"He served aboard this ship for several years, until two years ago.  His departure was shrouded in mystery."  The captain sat down.  "But I'm more concerned why the Council's gathering up changelings."

Winters sat down too.  "Didn't they rule the Dominion?"

"Used to.  Most of them disappeared.  Since then, the Dominion's been falling apart."

"So I've heard," the first officer said.  "The Jem'Hadar and the Vorta, at each other's throats... races revolting, planets splitting off... civil wars..."