Disclaimers: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, Marti Noxon, Fox Television Productions, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Television, Kuzui Enterprises, and UPN. Highlander belongs to Davis/Panzer Productions, Gaumont Television, and Rysher Entertainment. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine belongs to Rick Berman, Michael Piller, and Paramount Pictures. Ship information/pictures were taken without permission from Star Trek: Utopia at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dimension/8041/ships.html and the Federation Starship Guide at http://www.durfee.net/startrek/starships.html. Any copyright infringements were not intended. This story was written for entertainment and not for profit.

Spoilers and Timing: In the Star Trek universe, this takes place sometime during the war with the Dominion. There are spoilers for yet unwritten parts of "An Immortal Life #6: Sidelines."

Note: This is part of a series spinning off from the main stories in my Immortal Life universe. It contains several spoilers that might or might not pertain to yet unwritten parts of "Sidelines."

Summary: Commander Mark Harris is assigned to Deep Space Eight, Starfleet's "starship pit-stop." Everything is going okay considering that Starfleet is at war with the Dominion. Then his old ship, the USS Excursion, shows up half-destroyed after a battle, and everything starts going downhill.

I have a ton of original characters in this one. It might get a little confusing. If it does, here's a list of original characters:

Admiral Parrington - the CO of Deep Space Eight
Lt. Jessica Coleman - human member of Alpha Crew
Lt. Mil'nor Bataal - Andorian member of Alpha Crew
Lt. Commander Kira Nivar - Bajoran/Human/Trill mix member of Alpha Crew
Captain Jules Kibar - of the Excursion; cousin to Joel
Commander Richard Petrovsky - of the Excursion; Russian ancestry
Lt. Commander Blakelee Elmwood - Joel's half-sister; head engineer of Excursion
Dr. Joel Kibar Elmwood - civilian; Blakelee's half-brother; head medic on Excursion
Lt. Commander Kava Ek'noor - Andorian; assistant tactical/security chief of Excursion
Lt. Jihal - pilot of Excursion; Ginger's fiancé
Head Nurse Ginger Gray - Jihal's fiancée; head nurse of Excursion; civilian

It's been a long time since my last visit to Sunnydale, California. It's changed quite a bit from the small town I grew up in. The Hellmouth was closed, so the hotspot slowly moved to another continent. There was nothing left to attract those many magic users and demons that became more powerful on the Hellmouth. After those power-hungry ones left, the rest weren't that big of a threat. There were still some vampires and lesser demons living in town, sure, but then those types were all over the galaxy.

You all know me as Xander, but in the twenty-fourth century, most of the people I work with know me as Commander Mark Harris. Ever since the war with the Dominion started, I was assigned to Deep Space Eight, a little starship pit stop near the front lines. Starships, and other friendly crafts, come to our little station to get repairs done. When I said it had been a long time since I was last in Sunnydale, what I really meant was that I hadn't even been near Earth for at least seven years. The last time I was there was to attend Starfleet Academy. When I graduated, I got my first assignment on the USS Excursion and eventually wound up at the station. I hadn't seen the planet Earth since.

Working on a space station was interesting, and it never got boring. The best thing was that there were no vampires where I was, and I hadn't run into too many Immortals, either; all there was were the repair crews, the great expanse of outer space, the occasional damaged vessel, and me.

No one on the station was aware of the fact that I was 2400 years old. No, all of them thought I was twenty-four-old young man with a talent for working wonders in repairs. That reputation was fine by me. I didn't like going around advertising what I was to everyone I met. In the twenty-fourth century it wouldn't be as big of a deal, but I was used to keeping that part secret from as many people as I could.

Back to my role on Deep Space Eight. I was one of the senior staff. I was in charge of one of the best repair teams on the station and in the rest of the Federation; that's probably my pride talking, but they are really, really good. There were three clean-up crews and seven repair teams assigned to the station. Repair teams supervised clean ups and did the technical parts of the repairs, while the clean-up crews were responsible for clearing spaces of fallen bulkheads or broken consoles. I commanded Alpha Crew, a group of three of the best engineers/repairmen I have ever met in my entire Starfleet career, all two hundred years of it.

Deep Space Eight had entered one of its rare periods of relaxation and laziness. A few days had passed since the victims of the latest big battle with the Dominion departed from the station, presumably to enter another battle before returning to DS8 for more repairs.

(senior staff meeting)

Let me tell you a little bit more about the number one repair team on the station. Alpha Crew, besides myself, comprised on three people. One member was Lieutenant Jessica Coleman, a human born and raised on a small colony established on Julius II. The planet had the oddest weather, so the colonists always ran into all kinds of problems; hard winds would tear up the fences, or freak lightning storms would fry their equipment. Jessica picked up quite a few of her skills while helping to keep the colony together. Give her a laser and a power screwdriver and she'll work wonders to a ship's hull and inner wall construction, not to mention engine systems.

Then there was Lieutenant Millonorachent "Mil'nor" ch'Taal, an Andorian. Mil'nor specialized in bizarre computer problems like the ship's computer suddenly developing a personality. We haven't had one of those, but ever since we heard about that happening with Dr. Bashir of Deep Space Nine, Mil'nor had spent quite a lot of time theorizing how that happened and predicting how it could happen again. One of Mil'nor's best qualities was genetic. Andorians could stay calm during tense situations, and while most people would get frustrated after working on something for several hours, Mil'nor would stay be calm. This trait worked well for the lieutenant; he was good at solving difficult engineering problems that eluded most other people. However, when he did run out of patience, another of his Andorian traits might come to fore, and that was his violent tendency. Miraculously, the infamous 'Andorian fury' seemed to solve as many engineering problems as often as it didn't. One well-placed kick and he could fix a dozen different problems; it was often amazing how well the computer systems responded to being abused. His engineering training took care of the rest.

The third member of my crew had a Bajoran mother and a Joined Trill for a father. Lieutenant Commander Nivar-Laun Kira was the designer, or renovator, or architect, or whatever you wished to call her. She oversaw any changes a starship's crew wanted to make to their vessel. Want to turn a leisure ship into a fighter? Go see Kira; she'll already be planning the best changes to make before you're done talking to her. She was a miracle worker when it came to confronting problems that might arise from a ship converted from something else entirely. Nivar-Laun was my second-in-command.

As for me, I've never been very good with a ship's engines. I’m more of a quick repairs kind of person. Got a door that refuses to slide open or a replicator that gives you soup when you order pasta? I’m your man. Have a faulty console that refuses to cooperate? I'm your man. Need to keep Mil'nor from punching a hole through another bulkhead? I'm your man.

After leaving the senior staff meeting, I headed directly for the stations' bar and grill, which was commonly known as 'The Spinning Top.' When the doors swished open and I walked inside, I spotted my crew sitting around a table near the bar. My crew was conversing with two of the five members of Beta Crew. They didn't notice me walking up to them. I decided to have a little fun.

"Lieutenants, Ensigns," I said, as stiffly as I could manage it.

Their animated conversation grounded to a halt as they realized an officer had addressed them. All five of them turned to me, trying to look as respectable, and as innocent, as possible. When my teammates realized that it was me, they relaxed and directed glares at me, making me smirk.

The two Beta crewmembers turned in their seats in order to see me. They looked about ready to stand up and salute. I rolled my eyes and motioned for them to relax. Both of them had been transferred here only a few weeks ago; they hadn't yet heard the rumors about me being really lax with protocol when I'm off duty. I didn't mind; breaking in the new men might be entertaining.

"How's everyone doing?" I asked as I sat down.

"Good until you showed up," Jessica said, half-teasing.

My hand flew up to my chest. "You wound me with your words."

She rolled her eyes. Mil'nor handed me a glass of my favorite synthetic beer. I mean that in a sarcastic way. I hate synthehol. No matter what people said, synthetic food and beverages always lacked taste. Taking the alchohol out a alchoholic beverage just defeated the purpose.

Unfortunately, only synthethic beverages are available on a Federation space station. I've drunk so much of the stuff that I probably wouldn't be able to drink as much of the real stuff as I'm used to without loosing my sobriety.

At least, that would be the case if I didn't have my own stash of real liquor back in my quarters.

The two ensigns excused themselves and walked across the room to sit at the bar. I shook my head, amused. "How'd they do?" I asked my crewmates and friends.

"Book-abiders," Jessica said. "Too new to both the station and Starfleet." She shook her head in disgust and sadness. "Hope they aren't doing that everywhere. Types like that are too young to be in the middle of this shit."

We all knew Jessica's feelings about the war with the Dominion; after all, they were our own. War always brought so much death and pain, and we've seen some pretty nasty casualties on those damaged ships that come through here. There was a medical station in the next solar system, and if a ship was too damaged to go there immediately, their wounded were brought to the medical station in Deep Space Eight's shuttlecraft, which tended to serve as ambulances more than anything else because of it. DS8 even had three emergency medical teams for that sort of scenario, and it's happened often.

After a moment had passed, conversation resumed. "I think you owe us all a round of the good stuff, Commander," Mil'nor reminded me.

"Maybe another night. I've got a date," Kira admitted.

Jessica looked up, her interest peaked. "A date? And who might the lucky man be?"

Kira smiled excitedly over the brim of her synthehol glass. "Ensign Jopell Havarlon, the new recruit to Gamma Crew."

"I talked to him a few days ago," I told her. "Seemed like a nice…boy."

"Sir, he is not a boy! He's older than you are, sir: twenty-seven."

If she only knew. "Jessica, dropped the 'sir,'" I chastised her, teasing. "We've been off-duty for," I glanced at my wrist-watch, making a big show of checking the time with a critical eye, "an hour and twenty-three minutes. Until Delta Shift, you call me Mark and I call you Jessica. You know that."

"Sorry Mark," she said, blushing a little. "It's been harder to discern between working hours and relaxing hours the last few days, that's all."

"Thank God that it's over," Kira said.

Mil'nor nodded his asset. "After having to deal with the most stubborn weapons system I've ever seen, I am happy for any kind of reprieve."

Kira nodded in agreement. "You were beating that thing so hard that I was afraid we would end up installing a new one."

"We should have. It would have made things so much easier."

Two beeps sounded through the area from the station's Comm System, alerting all present that an important message was about to be announced. "Commander Harris, please report to Admiral Parrington's office."

The announcement left me puzzled. I stood up, wondering why the admiral would want to speak to me. Parrington was an older, physically anyway, man who commanded his own ship for thirty years before, during, and after the time when the Federation worked out an alliance with the Klingon Empire. Afterwards, instead of retiring, he took the command position at the station. All of that was public information; I hardly knew the man personally. We hardly ever talked outside of a senior staff meeting.

"I didn't do it," Jessica blurted. I gave her an exasperated look before I left the Spinning Top and headed left down the circular corridor. The Spinning Top was named after the shape of the station, and the popular bar was located in the center part of the huge top-shaped structure while the admiral's office was located three levels above.

I exited one of the four glass turbolifts and took a right down another circular corridor to the admiral's office. Only a few steps out of the lift, I felt the Buzz of an Immortal presence. It made me halt in my tracks in surprise. Behind me, a member of Delta Crew had to serve to avoid running into my back. What are you waiting for, old git? Get moving. No Immortal is dumb enough to challenge you on a station. Now get moving.

I rounded the bend in the corridor and found the right door. Admiral Parrington told me to come in after I rang the bell. When I entered, I saw the admiral sitting behind his desk, while his Immortal guest sat facing him in another chair. It was man. His brown hair was cropped short.

"Commander Mark Harris, this is Doctor Nathaniel Adams," Admiral Parrington said.

Methos stood up and turned to face me, a half-smile on his face. "Mark," he said, purposefully stressing the name. I hadn't used that first name in over thirteen hundred years and he knew it. "Good to see you. It's been a while."

I smiled in relief. Methos, I could handle. "Nathan," I greeted, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged.

"So you two do know each other," the admiral said. His expression remained blank. I wondered what was going through his head. "Dr. Adams is going to be the chief of our new emergency medical bay."

"Medical bay?" I repeated, a little confused. "Is that really necessary, sir?" Methos gave me a glare that the admiral didn't see; he probably figured that I didn't want Methos around. He shouldn't have been so flattered; he was one of the only two Immortals that I wanted to see out there in deep space. No, I was wondering why we needed a medical bay when there was a hospital in the next solar system.

Parrington answered those questions. "The ships that come here tend to have some pretty high casualties. Lately, more often than not they die in the ambulances on their way to the medical station in the Haven Solar System. Dr. Adams will be in charge of Deep Space Eight's new medical bay, which will be converted out of one of our old docking ports on Level 2. It will have all the equipment he needs to help any casualties that either can't or don't have to make the trip to the hospital. The crew of the Traveler, which brought the doctor here, is in the process of moving all of the doctor's equipment to Level 2. I want you to show Dr. Adams around the station and help him get settled in."

"Yes sir." I turned to the old man and presented the door to him with a sweep of an arm. "Shall we?"

I gave him the grand tour, taking him to all the major attractions on the station. We went from the admiral's office to the Methos' quarters where he dropped off his things. From there we stopped by the docking bays where I proudly displayed our repairing tools, then we went to the medical bay where the machinery was still being set up. After that, we preceded to the observatory, located on the uppermost tip of the station, before taking a peek at the vacant mess hall. I concluded the tour at the doors to the Spinning Top.

As soon as the bar's double doors slid open, Methos smiled in relief. "After being stuck on the dullest military ship in Starfleet for over a week, it is good to know that there's some place on this side of the fight that isn't painted gray."

I could understand that. After a long day it was always refreshing to go to a place like the Spinning Top. It had been modeled off of a twentieth century bar, complete with brown faux wooden walls, dartboard, and pool table. The only thing missing was the smoky atmosphere that I saw so often in the movies.

After a few greetings and introductions, Methos and I sat down at an empty table with two sythabeers. "So how exactly did you wind up here, old man?" I asked him, curious and suspicious that it had something to do with me.

"You can thank quite a few higher ups for that," Methos said, confirming some of my suspicions. "I know a few of them personally. They're in touch with the Watchers, so they know I'm an Immortal. They know you're one, too. That's all they know, thankfully. One reason they want me out here is because I'm a good doctor. The other is because they want the universes' oldest geezers far enough away from the front lines not to wind up dead right away but close enough in case something bad happens that we're required to fix."

It didn't surprise me that the higher-ups knew about the Immortal community. I'd been present thirty years ago when a member of the Watcher Tribunal held a meeting with a few of Starfleet's highest-ranking officers. That's a story for another time, though.

"Just what do they expect us to fix?" I asked Methos, feeling weary of whatever he might say.

His voice was laced with sarcasm and a little frustration, maybe even some anger. "Surprisingly enough, they didn't tell me. But if I had to make an educated guess, I'd say that they might want us to do something that a mortal wouldn't survive."

I nodded my agreement and sighed. "If they try to force us, we have to find a way to leave and fade into the background." Methos nodded. I smiled wryly. "If they ask politely, though, we could at least pretend to consider it before we try to disappear."

He smiled back and changed the subject. "It's been, what? Thirty years since we last got together?"

I shrugged. "Sounds about right."

"I see you went back to the Academy, but then, so did I." He squinted at my chin. "Where did you get that scar?"

My hand automatically slapped up to touch the small, three-centimeter scar that marked the point where my throat met the underside of my chin. I silently cursed the fragility of an Immortal throat. Any injuries short of beheading inflicted to an Immortal would heal, no matter how extensive they were. However, if the injury occurred anywhere on my neck, it would heal, but only to a point. Some Immortals were lucky enough to walk away with only scars; others might suffer permanent damage to their throats. The one Methos noticed was the latest scar I'd acquired. I had two other scars. One was located near the bottom of the right side of my neck, and the other formed a little 'x' on the back of my neck. My Starfleet uniform thankfully hid both of those old scars. The third scar, the one Methos had never seen before, was very conspicuous.

I'd tried many times to have it removed. Starfleet possessed that technology, after all. Unfortunately, a good regenerator was hard to come by on a space station without some inquiry into why I needed it. They'd want to know why I had such a curiously shaped scar in that particular spot. So I simply had to ignore it and hope no one would be curious enough to ask about it. No one even saw it most of the time; it wasn't visible from a distance, and the person needed a good view of my neck to catch sight of it.

"It's classified," I told him. "I can't share the details."

Methos' eyes narrowed. "Would it be along the lines of something that no mortal would survive?" he asked, bringing to mind what he'd said only a few minutes ago.

"Possibly," I said.

No doubt, he'd try to find out more about my scar on his own, now that I'd given him a clue about where to look. I wondered if he could break into classified Starfleet files.

"How long have you been here?" he asked, dropping the subject for now.

"Four years," I answered. "How long have you been practicing medicine, doc?"

"Three," he answered. "I spent quite a bit of time in Starfleet Medical trying to catch up on modern medicine. You wouldn't believe how much has changed in six hundred years."

"I can imagine."

One of the wonders of living on a space station is that you're allowed to get a decent night's sleep. Alpha Team was on duty only every other shift, and we never had to work at any times during the day except Alpha and Delta shifts.

That's what we were told when we were first assigned on Deep Space Eight. In practice, though, it's a nice theory, but in four years it hasn't once become reality.

The latest example of this took place the next morning when I was awakened at two AM. I'd been asleep for three and a half lovely hours when my COMM badge gave off its annoyingly cheerful chime. "Nivar-Laun to Harris."

I glared at the badge but tapped it anyway. "Harris here."

Kira sounded just as awake as I felt. "Sorry to wake you, sir, but Admiral Parrington has ordered all repair teams and clean-up crews down to the docking bays and airlocks. We're expecting a group of Federation vessels to arrive at any moment. All of them are heavily damaged from a run-in with the Breen and the Cardassians."

"Understood. I'll be down ASAP. Harris out." I said, reluctantly hauling myself off the mattress.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at Airlock IV. The rest of Alpha Crew and a medical team were already there. The other teams were split between Airlock VII, Docking Bay II and Docking Bay V.

"What do we know?" I asked as soon as I'd reached my team.

Kira answered, "Six Federation ships and two Klingon birds of prey were retreating from a battle with the Cardassians when Breen warships came out of nowhere. Both birds of prey and two of the Federation ships were destroyed in the battle. The four surviving ships are on their way here."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Commander."

We waited, watching through the windows at the blackness of space beyond. Ten minutes later four blurs appeared in the distance. The four dots quickly became the shapes of four starships dropping out of warp. Three of the ships maneuvered to other parts of the station while the fourth came closer and closer to us until it finally attached itself to the docking clamps just outside the airlock.

(blend w/ later description)

I took in a number of details when I could still see all four ships. The ship heading for Docking Bay V was a centaur-class starship. Half of its upper decks were missing. The lights that illuminated the ship's name painted on the hull were burnt out. The ship attaching itself to the clamps at Docking Port IV was the USS Endeavor, a Nebula-Class starship with what appeared to be minimal hull damages. The ship heading for Cargo Bay II, a Cheyenne-Class starship designated the USS Geronimo, had a half-gone warp narcel with a barely-attached engineering section. It looked like they'd had to eject their warp core; the Endeavor had used a tractor beam to haul it to the station.

I took all of this in with only a few glances before I turned my attention to the fourth ship as it attached itself to Airlock IV. I knew immediately that it was an akira-class starship. When I saw it's serial number, I gave a start. It was the USS Excursion. There were external damages to its bridge section, engines, and warp narcelles. Four out of five of its phaser banks appeared to be off-line.

As the docking clamps successfully latched onto the starship's airlock, I mentally reviewed all the technical details I knew about the Excursion. Length: 437 meters. Maximum warp: on the record, 9.975; off the record, 10.610-with a little help from external forces. Crew: 1090. A former cruise ship that could hold a maximum of eight hundred crewmembers and a thousand passengers before being converted into a Starfleet vessel nine years previous. Now, it could hold a maximum of eleven hundred and fifty crewmembers and five hundred passengers if it felt so inclined.

How did I know so much about the USS Excursion? The answer to that was a simple one. I used to be assigned to it.

Part Two

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