http://www.trekiverse.org/archive/2000/story/tng/OutThere From news.gdw.com!imci5!imci4!newsfeed.internetmci.com!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!bham!not-for-mail Thu Mar 7 14:22:42 1996 Path: news.gdw.com!imci5!imci4!newsfeed.internetmci.com!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!bham!not-for-mail From: soa01mdj@gold.ac.UK (Matthew Jones) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: Fiction: Out There Date: 7 Mar 1996 09:50:07 -0000 Organization: University of Birmingham mail to news gateway Lines: 230 Sender: mail2news@sun4.bham.ac.uk Message-ID: Reply-To: soa01mdj@gold.ac.uk NNTP-Posting-Host: sun4.bham.ac.uk Out There. The Starship Enterprise is, Im told, the flagship of the Fleet. Capable of traversing galaxies in a matter of days, it has explored more unknown space than any other vessel in the fleet. And whilst its massive arsenal could destroy a city from orbit, its mission has always been one of exploration and peace. Its task to seek out new life and new civilizations, as I believe the phrase goes. But for me it has become a prison. Let me reassure you, Ive not been thrown in the Brig by the strong Klingon arms of Commander Worf. No I am not a criminal, not yet at least. Although it would be true to say that I am not and probably never will be a member of this intergalactic community. But wait, I am getting ahead of myself, first I better tell you how I came to be here at all. My name is Michael James, like you I am from Earth, although you wouldnt recognize the planet that I know. I was born in Leicester, England in 1968. Yes, thats right, Im from the Twentieth Century. Born in a time of motor cars and pop music, cancer and capitalism, safer sex and space rockets. Its quite bizarre the way that your history has remembered my time. Emphasizing things that always seemed so trivial and barely mentioning some of the things I held so dear. I still get quite depressed that none of you have even heard of Derek Jarman or Christopher Isherwood, and yet all of you seem to just adore Benny Hill. How did I get to be here? Thats the next question on your lips, right? Well Geordie LaForge is still trying to work that one out. Theres been a lot of technobabble gabbled around me. Scientists in mustard shirts muttering about spatial anomalies, space/time distortion and temporal nexus points. But if you ask me this is just a load of long words which really mean that they have absolutely no idea. It certainly doesnt appear that they can get me back. I wish they could get me back. Does that surprise you? I would imagine it does. Bet you cant think why I would want to leave this peaceful utopian future for your warring, polluted, troubled past. Bet you think I should feel privileged, fortunate to be transported to better times. But Im not. And Im not alone. For the purple swirling tunnel which tore me out of my time did not just bring me here. There are fifty-eight of us. Fifty-eight human beings out of time. Wandering about the confusing corridors of the Enterprise with the biggest case of culture shock on record. We come from different times, different cultures, united only in our disorientation. Commander Riker eagerly separated out those time travellers from your future, talking about the strategic military advantage they offered, and grinning like a boy who had just stolen his best friends new toy. Those of us from the past are, according to Data, only of historic interest. Someone should teach that boy a few social skills. Two travellers didnt last long. Died of shock, they are saying. One was from Ancient Egypt, the other from 1950s Nebraska - he thought he was being abducted by alien invaders who were going to do experiments on him. Poor sod. Theyve left the rest of us alone. Given us quarters, booked us in for crisis counselling with Commander Troi, and shown us where the bar is. I met Dianna Troi this morning for my session. I explained that in my time I was also a counsellor, working with people with HIV and AIDS. When she said that she didnt know what HIV and AIDS were I cried for the first time since I arrived here. I didnt stop crying for half an hour. Horrible deep sobs that hurt as they forced their way out of my chest. I wasnt sure what I was crying for at first. A world where sex doesnt have to be so directly connected to death? Or because all those people who died in those terrible years have been forgotten? Maybe I was just crying for me and how lost I feel in this place. Dianna Troi asked me about my family so I showed her the picture of Ivan Ive been carrying around in my wallet for the last two and a half years. She looked at the small passport photo blankly. Ivan has always hated the picture because hes smiling in it. He likes the pictures of himself where hes looking all thoughtful and moody. I love showing the picture off. Theres a huge part of me which is just so proud to be the lover of such a beautiful man. Its vain and shallow I know, but I cant help myself. Dianna was clearly struggling with something as she looked at the photograph. This is ... ? Ivan, I said helpfully, but it didnt seem to help much because she still stared in puzzlement at the tiny picture. I see and Ivan is ... your brother? The question caught me unawares. No, I began, and an awkward, nervous laugh escaped my throat. Confused, I took the picture from her and looked at it as if to check that its still of Ivan. No. Were not brothers. I mean Im white and hes black ... I lost confidence in what I was saying. Of course we could be brothers - adopted or something - but I was surprised that this was the first connection that she made. I felt wrong-footed. Why didnt she say, Oh hes really cute - how long have you been together? like everyone else always does? Black? She asked, frowning. Ive not heard that before. Is that a reference to the colour of his skin? We stare at each other for a moment. Im suddenly aware that Im a very long way from home. Her face was calm but Id been in her business long enough to know that she was working hard beneath her professional mask. Im not sure I understand exactly how you are related, she managed eventually. Is he your friend? I was really unsettled then because it was so clear that she meant friend friend and not euphemism friend. Then this feeling came out of nowhere. A cold stone sinking down to the pit of my stomach. I swallowed hard and felt an urgent need to be clear. To be understood. Ivan is my lover. We are partners. I said, quickly. Too quickly. Id not been this uncomfortable coming out since school. Im gay, I added, half after-thought, half defiance. You do know what that means? Please know what that means. She shook her head slowly. Im afraid I dont. I am trying hard to understand what youre saying. Perhaps we are having difficulty communicating because we come from different times and different cultures. I felt my anxiety levels rise a few notches. I tried out a few different names. Homosexual? Queer? Not even a feint glimmer of recognition. Bender? Pouf? Faggot? I was getting desperate now, using the words Ive always hated. Invert? Pansy? Shirt-lifter? Finally in utter desperation I explained exactly what being gay means. That its about having sex with someone of your own sex. That its about women being in love with women, men with men. Her continuing puzzlement angered me - it was as if she was being deliberately obtuse - and I ended up shouting ridiculously at her: Its about girls shagging! Men fucking each other for Christsakes! And thats when she put her hand to her mouth as if she feared that she was going to be physically sick and ran from the room. Now its so obvious. I wander about the ship and theres not a trace of gayness here at all. Fashionable intellectuals were always arguing in my time as to whether there was such a thing as a gay sensibility: an identifiable, definable style, culture or essence of gay experience. Well there must be, because its conspicuous by its absence here. Im in the bar. A black woman serves me a drink. She looks friendly, receptive, but Im past talking. The drink is blue and sweet, but it does the job. I order another and stand by the large window which looks out into space. I should feel awed by the view, but Im feeling too angry and ... and too lonely for that. In the bar, people are sitting and chatting in couples or small groups. No one else is alone. I cant help but look for any sign of gayness here. In London, I could spot a gay man at twenty paces. Hair, shoes, clothes, grooming were the methods of communicating that vital information to each other. That, and the way that youd hold eye contact for a microsecond longer than you properly should. Not always because you fancied each other, but just to say: Yeah, me too. Here everyone I get eye contact with smiles openly back, like they are just waiting to be my friend. There is a curious functionaryness about these peoples lives. They all wear uniforms, even the civilians wear one-piece one-colour jumpsuits. Their quarters all look the same, decorated in the same safe, inoffensive colours. The art is terrible and looks mass produced. There isnt any pop music or pulp fiction. Everyone looks happy but no one looks excited. Content but serious. Grown-up. There isnt one thing on this ship that could be described as camp (although the robot officer, Data, comes close as his flat emotionless voice sounds to me as if hes continually taking the piss). I fantasize for a moment that without queers to brighten things up, straight people live without frivolity, eccentricity and irony, but that cant be true. Worf enters the bar and strides over, barely able to conceal his discomfort at talking to me. Hes from a race of religious fundamentalists, where they would probably roast faggots over an open fire if they had any, which of course they dont. No one does. Not anymore. The Captain, he informs me without making eye contact, has requested an audience with me. Im wanted in his ready-room. An innuendo surfaces, and I only just stop myself from saying it out loud. Worf would probably rip my throat out. Its only then that I realize that so much queer humour is about resistance. Resisting authority. Being powerless but fighting back anyway. Back in 1996, Id long since stopped going on demos and marches, having exchanged radical politics for a cozy home life. Now I feel like burning something down. Picard is standing with his back to me by a floor-length window which looks out into space. Hes drinking tea. Its Earl Grey - even from the door I can smell the perfumed aroma. It reminds me of home. He dismisses Worf and offers me a drink. I refuse. He sets his cup down, too polite to drink alone and looks at me steadily for a moment. I hope you have been treated well. Why wouldnt I be? He must have heard the anger in my voice because he looks away for a moment, frowning. I realize that I dont want to make this easy for him. This is difficult for us. Were not used to ... to someone like yourself here. Its new and sometimes what is new can be frightening. Why arent there any queers here? No one will tell me. He winces. Ive never heard that word used to describe human beings before. It sounds ugly, derogatory. And yet you choose to use it to describe yourself. We used to use it as a way of asserting our dignity. Turning the words bigots used against us around. You still havent answered my question. No. I havent, have I, Michael. I must admit that I didnt know the answer to your question until a little earlier in the day. When I heard of your encounter with Counsellor Troi, I asked Data to compile information on ... this situation. Hes analyzed Star Fleet historical records and presented me with the necessary information. And? I ask. Slowly, Picard tells me what I need to know. Its hard for me to understand. The language of science has changed dramatically since my time. They no longer use the terms that even a lay-person like myself was familiar with from the newspapers and television programmes in the Twentieth Century. But it seems that in the early part of the Twenty-Second Century, Earth scientists discovered why some people are gay and some people are straight. They were able, by controlling a series of biological, psychological and environmental variables, to ensure that a child would grow up heterosexual if thats what the parents wanted. Within two generations there werent any gay people anymore. Not anywhere. No more queers. No more lesbian filmmakers, no more gay musicians, no more dyke writers, no more queer philosophers, no more gay painters. No more activists, no more politics, no more pride. And once there werent any people to make it, to be it, the culture starved and died. Without people to breathe life into it, to make it relevant, gay cultural icons began to look out of place, awkward, irrelevant. Dear old Oscar was the first to go, but not before someone had put an adaptation of The Picture of Dorothy Grey on a West End stage. I doubt the passing of many of the others was noticed: Genet, Sackville-West, Rita Mae Brown, Foucault, Vidal, Baldwin, Mishima. Those that were kept on were remade. Apparently Whitman is still quoted with the same tiresome frequency. Before I leave, my eyes settle on the copy of the complete works which Picard keeps under glass. I decide not to say anything. I feel the gentle tug of acceleration as I pilot the shuttle out of Bay Three and out into the long, endless night of space. Seven months of planning have gone into this moment, in a few seconds Ill know whether the artificial blind spot Ive paid the Ferengi to introduce into the ships sensors really works. I cant stay. I dont belong in this future. Im not sure where Im heading. Just out there somewhere. The huge saucer-shape of the Enterprise begins to shrink on the rear screen as Im swallowed by infinity. Matthew Jones. Comments would be welcome.