The Universe's Mixer

While the storm had raged, Amelia had been stuck in her apartment. She'd even been forced to head to the basement at one point, after spotting a tornado on the horizon. While the scholar in her wanted to witness it all first hand, she'd had enough sense to lay low until it was over. Common sense, and no small amount of fear. While she seldom succumbed to such emotion, this storm was more than she had ever seen, and the destruction following its wake was enough to scare even her. She could not recall ever witnessing such a powerful storm.

Once things had calmed down enough to make travel a possibility, Amelia put on her jeans and a pair of rubber boots that she really couldn't remember buying. She grabbed a few flashlights, her emergency tool belt, and her parasol, then gingerly made her way through the devastation to the Library. She needed to know if everything was alright there. She considered her position and the exhibition area a gift from the City as much as appropriate compensation for dragging her here and forcing her to face the truth about herself. Present or appeasement, Amelia took her responsibility very seriously. Besides, she enjoyed her work.

( Her heart sank when she saw how dark and deserted it looked. )

"Anything. As long as it's not whiskey. How about...that." Amelia pointed at a bottle at random. It was something she couldn't pronounce, and she knew for a fact she had never tried it before. The bartender asked her if she wanted a margarita, or straight up. She had no idea what a margarita was, and figured her best bet was to find out if she even liked the alcohol before mixing it with something, so she went with the straight up. The bartender filled a shot glass, placing it in front of her, following it up with a salt shaker and a small dish of lime slices.

Amelia eyed the salt and limes in confusion. Was she supposed to put those in the shot? Not wanting to appear completely inept, she smiled at the bartender. "Can I get you one?" She wondered if his smile was simple acknowledgement of the offer, or if he already suspected she had no clue what to do with it. If he knew, he had the decency to pretend not to notice as he slowly went through the maneuvers of licking his hand and sprinkling the salt on it, then waited for her to do the same as he took the shot in his hand.

He licked his hand? Amelia could think of little that could be more disgusting and unsanitary at the moment. It was something she NEVER would have done before. Which meant it was exactly what she was going to do now. Following the bartender's lead, she sprinkled the salt, then held the glass up as if to toast.

"Ready?" asked the bartender. "Lick, drink, bite." Amelia followed him in near unison, licking the salt and slamming back the shot. It caught her breath, but as soon as she put the lime slice in her mouth, the sensation seemed to ebb.

"Mmmmm. That's good! I'll have another, please."

"Careful with that. It'll get to you fast. There's a reason they call it 'Ta Kill Ya.'"

Amelia nodded, not really listening, or caring. She had always been able to hold her whiskey fairly well. How bad could it be? The bartender, for his part, declined her offer of another, apologizing that he was on duty, and had to keep a clear head.

This time, as she lifted the glass to drink, she mumbled to herself bitterly, "Here's to you, Elizabeth Peters."

The facts were impossible to ignore. And there was no longer any denying them.

Amelia might have been able to pass of the meeting off Mr. Spock. Someone from far away, and likely from the future. And that rude Irish man in the park, who claimed to be a leprechaun. She might, might, have been able to excuse the fact that she'd not only met someone by the name of John Watson, but had also met a man named Sherlock Holmes. A man that acted every bit the part of the man in the book she'd once read.

All those things might have been possible to invent a logical explanation for. Surely Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson (who had never told her if he was a doctor or not) could be considered a coincidence. Perhaps Mr. Holmes had only grown to the man he was because he had the unfortunate name of a character that made him strive to be like him. And neither one of them seemed like the literary counterparts she was familiar with. There were plenty of ways she could explain it off.

( Until she took his advice. )

Amelia had always considered herself a clever woman- more clever even than most men she had encountered. Her skills of deduction were admired by many; even her beloved husband occasionally, albeit grudgingly, had admitted to admiring her intelligence. Yet for all her reasoning, this was one puzzle where the solution continued to elude her. ( A puzzle... )

Sweeney was sore.

Not the kind of sore after a grand night on the town or from a cheerful romp No, this was the sort of sore that told him that he hadn't slept in his bed last night. The sort of sore that indicated he was waking up on a park bench that was far too short for his long frame. ( He came to that conclusion when he realized that he was on his back and that his legs were partially dangling off the plank he was laying upon. )

I have now spent several weeks in this strange location, known to all simply as the City. As suddenly as I arrived here, I may just as suddenly return home, and in preparation that all I have experienced be left behind when the event occurs- for I have no doubt I shall someday be reunited with my beloved husband and son- I have taken to carrying my journal with me at all times.

I have met many people, one so far, in particular, that is not even of this planet. (A concise record of that encounter can be found in the previous entry.) Such a strange place, and I feel I have yet to discover many of its wonders. It is a far more enlightened time, both scientifically and culturally, than England of the late 19th Century. Such astonishing gadgets, I hesitate to think how Emerson would behave with so much technology at his disposal! And I need not assure the Gentle Reader that I quickly adopted the far more casual attire so widely accepted here. I have never been one to be seduced by the experience of shopping for anything more than is necessary, yet such marvels as are available here could only be ignored by one pursuing sainthood, of which I have no inclination. Oddly, I have found women now wear corsets only as a fashion statement, and as outer rather than under wear! (I for one am quite relieved to no longer be constrained in such a manner!)

( continued... )

In the Time of Awakening, the philosopher, Surak, came out of the desert and brought change to all of Vulcan. He proposed a life of logic as a means for ending the brutal warring between the clans. He offered a means for uniting the people of the planet as one. He was a force of reason against hatred and violence and brutality. But peace could not exist without a final battle. There was a group who opposed the teachings of Surak. Surak referred to these lost souls as those who marched beneath the raptor's wings. The last war on Vulcan was fought between the followers of Surak and the opposition. In the end, the opposition fled the planet, colonizing another, light years away, and continuing the emotion-driven life that the rest of Vulcan vowed to keep in their past.

Spock, being half-human, understood what it must have been like for those dissidents. The struggle for control of one's own emotions was difficult enough, but when in the company of others who were driven by feelings, it was nearly impossible. The more time he spent on the Enterprise, the more he could feel himself losing his logic. What worried him was that it was almost a relief. He felt as though he had been burdened by the hardships of his ancestors. And he had two competing set of ancestors to be burdened with.

The path of his father's people was one of peace and control. The path of his mother's people was one of curiosity and the thirst for knowledge. His training on his home planet taught him to submerge his desires to follow his human path, that, in the end, it would only cause him pain and suffering. But where was he now? An adult. A man of two worlds. And having chosen the Vulcan side, he was still experiencing pain and suffering.
( He needed balance. )

After John left, Amelia was rather at a loss what to do next. She needed a plan. Her logical manner of thinking suggested a place to sleep and other necessities for survival were of paramount concern. She opened her chatelaine bag to see how much money she had and discovered three things; She didn't have any money, there was a mysterious key, and she now had a very odd sort of device with numbered and lettered buttons.

The key was her first concern. She looked behind her at the building she'd been in when she woke up in this strange place. The Manchester. Raising an eyebrow, she shrugged to herself. Why not? Anything was possible. So she strode purposefully back into the building and upstairs to the room she had exited from earlier. Taking a deep breath, she tried the key.

( It turned the lock with ease. )

Something was wrong. The voices of the people outside Sheapard's were gone. So were the sounds of anything else. No people, animals, carriages. None of the usual bustling activity Cairo played home to.

Amelia opened her eyes to find herself in a strange, dimly lit room. Only moments before, she'd been on the terrace enjoying a cup of tea, and now she was in what appeared to be a hotel room, though it was almost too friendly to be a hotel. It had all the evidence of being some sort of apartment. She looked around quickly, relieved to discover she was alone. That was unlikely to last long, so she knew she had to hurry.

No doubt this was the work of that genius of crime, the Master Criminal. He must have drugged her tea! Only Sethos would be so bold as to kidnap her in broad daylight. She wondered how he managed to bring her here. There really was no accounting for his cunning, and after his recent confessions toward a certain regard he held for Amelia, it was not inconceivable that he would try again. Emerson had interrupted them the last time.