<> Incoming subspace message for Commander Paul Velden. <>
The voice of the computer was soft and melodious enough for Paul to think that he was still asleep, but when the computer restated its message, Paul had no choice but to accept reality and realise that someone was calling him. At 4 in the morning, no less. Slowly he got out of bed, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, nearly fell back into bed again, and finally stood up with a loud moan. " Computer, lights," he ordered, and squinted against the bright lights when the computer obeyed him. Again he moaned. Why couldn't he receive incoming subspace calls at normal hours?
He put on his uniform jacket in order to at least appear ready for duty, and made his way to the monitor. When he pressed the activation button, a young human, slightly younger than Paul himself, appeared on the screen. The caller was obviously not in Starfleet -- there was no uniform, nor did he wear a commbadge -- and Paul was quite sure that he didn't have anything to do with his Vulcan foster parents either. Was this, perhaps, a classmate from the Academy?
But in the state of sleepiness Paul was in at the moment, he didn't feel like asking the polite and proper questions. "Who are you?" he asked instead.
The person on the screen smiled, and his smile seemed eerily familiar to Paul. "Of course," he said after a few moments, as if realising something. "You wouldn't know me, would you?"
"Wha-" Paul began. "Who are you?" He got the feeling that the caller knew something that he didn't, and it bothered him. "Did we meet somewhere?"
"Meet?" the caller seemed to take a few moments to consider Paul's words. "No... No, I don't think you could say we ever met... Although I have known you all your life."
"All my life?" Paul looked at the caller intently. He seemed familiar somehow, but Paul was sure he had never seen him before. "But..." He paused to take in the implications of what this man was saying. "All my life?" he asked again.
"I know it's hard to believe, Paul, and you'll probably be mad with me for even suggesting this, but..." He smiled. "I'm your creator."
Paul didn't know whether to laugh out loud or be totally aghast. He was probably too tired for either. "My... creator," Paul repeated. "You created... me?" Finally settling for utter surprise, he eyed the person on the screen with wary eyes. He was far, far too young to be his father, that was for sure. Last time Paul checked, he was still human and no android, so that was impossible as well. How, then, could this scrawny little pipsqueak, barely his own age and a definite reject if he were ever to enter the Academy, be his creator? It just didn't make any sense.
"I know what you're thinking," the person on the screen told him. "How could I, this scrawny little pipsqueak, barely your own age and a definite reject if I were ever to enter the Academy, be your creator?"
Now Paul's jaw dropped. "You... How did you...?"
"I put those words in your mind, Paul," said the caller. "You see, I write stories. Posts. And in most of those posts, you are the main character. You exist in my mind and on paper."
"What?" Paul couldn't believe it. "You're saying that I'm not real? That none of this is real?"
"You, Captain Torn, the Atlantis, even the Federation and the entire future you're living in. It's all a collection of stories, thought up by dozens, if not hundreds or thousands of people all around the world. You," he continued as he pointed at Paul, "are just a part of the story."
Paul rubbed his eyes warily. "I must be dreaming," he mumbled. "This can't be real."
"Oh, it's real all right," the caller said. "But only on paper. Only in the story. To the outside world -- *my* outside world -- you, the Atlantis, its crew and the entire Frontier Fleet, are nothing more than characters in a story."
"You called me... just to tell me that?"
"There's a purpose to this story, too, Paul. It's... a tribute, so to speak, to the collection of stories that is Frontier Fleet."
"But if you're in the outside world, and I'm just a character in a book..." Paul began confusedly. "How... How is it that you can communicate with me? What are you, then?"
"Words on a page, Paul," said the caller. "Words on a page. Like you, I'm merely a character in a story. But that's not important right now."
"It's... not?" Paul asked. At this point, he was feeling increasingly annoyed and insulted. Here was some guy who had called him out of bed in the middle of the night and was telling him that he was as insignificant as a character in a story. No, in fact, that he actually was a character in a story. Preposterous! And the worst of all was that he was discounting it all as unimportant. "If this is not important... Then why are you calling me?"
"You're just a means to an end, Paul," the caller continued. "Through you, I can spread my ideas and thoughts to the readers of this story. Very un-Kantian, I know, and a blatant violation of the categorical imperative, but since you're not really a person, it doesn't really matter anyway."
Paul shook his head. "What?"
"Never mind. You know what day it is today? In your time, I mean?"
Paul rubbed the bridge of his nose. He just knew he would be suffering from a headache for the rest of the day. "It's *very* early in the morning," he replied, "August 26th, 2392. But if you're really the writer of this story, you should know that."
"I know. It's a rhetorical question. To make the readers aware of the significance of that date."
"Significance?"
"Yes, Paul," said the caller with a smile on his face. "The formation of Frontier Fleet was 392 years ago. In your time, that is."
"No," Paul countered, feeling the urge to prove the caller wrong, "it was exactly one year ago. I should know, I was there. There was a celebration and everything."
"You know, I'm starting to think I shouldn't have called you," the caller said. "Maybe I should have called someone whom I've written to be more accepting of a higher power... Someone like Prylar Nivas. You simply don't understand."
"If all you do is tell me that I'm insignificant and that I'm not even a person... How would you react?"
"Probably the same way," admitted the caller. "But, sadly, I don't have time for long discussions about personhood, or to explain what the world you are in is really like. We're on page three already, you know, and I would like this to be brief. You see, my intention was to write a tribute. And, of course, the word 'tribute' sparks memories of the song with that title."
Paul raised his eyebrows. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't," said the caller. He almost seemed proud. "You don't know a thing about 20th and 21st century culture or music. Unlike some Frontier Fleet characters, you don't have the slightest clue what TV programmes are popular in 2006, or what music is being listened to now. You have never heard of Daleks, Goa'uld, light sabres and the like. You are a realistic, 24th century character, not simply a 21st century human who just happens to live in the 24th century."
Paul blinked a couple of times. "Huh?"
The caller smiled. "Exactly. Anyway, back to the tribute. You see, I was going to tell a story of how a ghostly, fiery image of Admiral Baine appeared before me and told me to write the best post in the world, or he'd eat my soul. And then I would go on to say that I did write the best post in the world, but it was lost, and this post was simply a tribute to it." He paused for a moment and shook his head with a chuckle. "But then I started writing this post, and you got involved, and all of a sudden, it didn't seem so funny anymore. I mean, here we are, writer and character talking to each other about the fundamental existential possibilities of the world you live in, and I should talk about a silly incident which didn't even happen?" He snorted. "I think not! It would radically undermine the seriousness of the conversation, and it would be altogether bad storytelling. Don't you think so?"
Paul tiredly ran a hand through his hair and didn't even try to stifle a yawn. "Right," he said. "Whatever you say." He sighed deeply. "I must be hallucinating. No one can be as insane as you seem to be. You're nothing but a figment of my imagination, that's what you are."
The caller smiled broadly. "Actually, Paul, you're the figment."
"That just goes to show that I am right," Paul replied, "and that you are insane. Only a crazy man would talk to a figment of his imagination."
The caller seemed perplexed. "I... hadn't really thought about that, come to think of it. Which is odd, considering I just put those words in your mouth."
"Glad I could help," Paul said sarcastically. "Now if you'd kindly write me back to sleep... I have a lot to do tomorrow."
"Of course, Paul," the caller said with a nod of his head. "But, really, you don't have a lot to do tomorrow. I just make you think that you have a lot to do tomorrow. If I write any other posts for August 26th 2392, I will make sure you have a lot to do. And if I write a post for a later in-game date, I will make you think you had a lot to do on the 26th. But in reality, Paul, in *my* reality... You really don't have a lot to do. If anyone has a lot to do, it's me: I have to write you."
Paul angrily slammed his fists on the table in response. "Look here, mister! I don't know who you are or why you're doing this to me, but I don't take kindly to being told I'm insignificant. If you're deluded enough to think that you're my writer, then fine. It seems absurd to me, but fine, if you want to think that you're the writer and I'm nothing but a collection of words and ideas, then go ahead. But don't bother me with it. If your reality is so damned superior to mine, then stay in your reality. Get out of mine; you don't belong here."
"Paul, listen-" began the caller, but Paul cut him off.
"No, you listen to me! I have had enough of your arrogance, your alleged superiority. If you call me again, I will have Starfleet security on your tail so fast that you won't know what hit you. Just stay in your reality and out of mine, all right? I want nothing to do with you!"
The caller just smiled. "That might not be so easy as you think," he said. "But you're right. Perhaps this was a bad idea. I won't trouble you again, Paul. I like you, you know that? You're my favourite character. To think that I've upset you, is... Well, upsetting, in a strange, twisted way."
"Good!" Paul shouted back. Before the caller could say anything else, Paul quickly closed the channel. He moved to his bed and crashed into it with a deep sigh. "What a lunatic," he said to himself. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if this is all just a dream." With those words, the tired Commander Paul Velden fell asleep, knowing full well that he was much, much more than simply words on a page. Anyone who claimed otherwise had to be stark-raving mad.
When he was fast asleep, the door to his quarters opened without a sound, admitting entrance to... something. It was not a person who entered the room. A series of large letters floated towards Paul's bedroom and simply hung there. Paul would have been able to see the letters if he had simply been awake. If he had seen it, he wouldn't have recognised it, however. The series of letters, combined to form words, were unfamiliar to him. He would recognise the words and letters, of course, but their meaning would be lost to him. To others, centuries back, the words might have held some meaning. Some might even describe it as a 'posted by... tag' -- a term utterly unfamiliar to Paul.
As the 'posted by... tag' floated out of the bedroom and into the living room of Paul's quarters, a voice accompanied it, echoing through the rooms. "Words on a page, Paul," the voice echoed silently. "Words on a page."
Floating silently amidst the echoes, the 'posted by... tag' drifted into place. The room suddenly changed, and all space and time vanished, leaving only a white background. The furniture in Paul's room disappeared, and even Paul's corporeal form itself vanished, leaving only black and white markings. The markings took their place on the white background, forming words, fixed to the piece of paper.
As if happy that it completed its task, the 'posted by... tag' took its own place at the bottom of the white background... There to remain for all eternity.
