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Text File | 1995-04-09 | 51KB | 955 lines

                     SWEET SAVAGE STAR TREK

                               by
                       Assorted N. Varied



                            PART TWO
                      The Legacy Continues

When last we saw our crew...
                                #
     Meanwhile, at his console, Data gazed at the screen on which
he had inadvertently picked up the events occurring in the
captain's private quarters. The android cocked his head
quizzically.
     "Interesting," he said. There was a note of
scarcely-suppressed envy in his voice, a glimmer of longing in
the depths of his jonquil-hued eyes.
     Someone was approaching.  Before he could blank the screen,
that person came up behind him and laid a pale, delicate hand on
his shoulder.
     "It is interesting, I agree," a lyric, trilling voice said.
     Data looked up.  The intruder looked back.  Their eyes
locked--almost literally.  The two went into a feedback loop that
Data could break out of only with the greatest difficulty, and
only by re-focusing his attention on the half-pip on the
intruder's collar.  "You must be--must be--"
     "Lieutenant JG Pixel, reporting for duty, sir."  The female
android smiled. She had pink lips.  Her skin was a shade less
waxen, but her eyes were the same shade of jonquil as his own.
And she was female.  Oh, yes, she was definitely--almost
defiantly--female.  And beautiful.  Data felt a fresh surge of
joyous interference that threatened to override his logic
circuits. He mustered all his urbane human mannerisms.
     "Of course.  Lieutenant Pixel.  I had been informed that you
were going to be assigned to the *Enterprise*.  For training."
     "Yes, sir.  For training."  The radiantly beautiful android
glanced back at the screen where Lovely and Picard had turned to
doing very odd things with their rubber duckies.  "Is this part
of the training I shall experience?"
     "Ah, no," Data replied.  "It is not in the manual."
     Pixel cocked her head in an uncanny replication of Data's
cogitative gesture.  "I see no immediate application for the
training procedures these people are demonstrating."
     "I believe this is what is called human interrelationary
extracurricular activity."
     "Is it necessary to immerse the body in water coated with
that white substance to engage in this activity?"
     "I believe that a non-aqueous substitute could be provided
if you were interested in experiencing a similar form of
entertainment."
     Pixel blinked at the screen.  "I am concerned only that full
immersion coupled with the activities shown here might damage
some of my circuitry and thus my fitness for duty."
     "I am certain that we can arrange that neither your nor my
circuitry is damaged.  And, may I add, you look exceptionally fit
for a variety of duties."
     The lovely android smiled again.  Her teeth were like
pearls; in fact, they really were pearls.  "I am yours to
command..."
     Data's head twitched to one side, unaccustomed as his neural
synapses were to hearing such a phrase.  "Yours to command..."
His mind swiftly indexed through several thousand possibilities
before he deliberately shut down that program and shifted to
another, designated only by it's initials, "K-S."  He stood and,
extending his arm towards Lt. j.g. Pixel, said, "I believe
liaisons of this fashion are best achieved within the privacy of
one's own quarters.  The standard question, I believe, is 'Your
place or mine?'"
     "I have no other place than by your side," Pixel responded.
Data's head twitched again as he lead her towards the turbolift.
     The doors were just closing as First Officer Riker entered
the bridge.  He stared at the duo and frowned.  Just what was
going on here?  And where was the Captain?
     "Computer," he brayed, "where is Captain Picard?"
     "Working.  Captain Picard is in his bathtub, engaged with a
rubber--Correction, Captain Picard has left his quarters and is
proceeding down corridor J-9, outbound.  Warning, sensors
indicate an allasomorph is in close pursuit, now breaching
bulkhead H-10.  Appropriate clean-up details should be dispatched
to deal with the slime."
     A rubber something? Riker thought.  Then he thought of Data
and whoever that female was.  And where was Geordi?  And Worf?
Swift inquires led to equally swift responses from the computer,
ending with, "I am afraid I cannot process that request at his
time as I am accessing a counter-gender neural bank.  Please try
back in three human-perceived seconds."
     Riker stood in a rigid fashion, as his spine stiffened in a
most dramatic backwards arch.  "Why am I the only one alone?  I
am male, handsome of body and face, rigid in all manners and
ways, yet I find myself alone on the bridge.  COMPUTER!  WHERE IS
COUNSELOR TROI?"
     "I told you, I am unable to process that request at this--"
     "Fine."  He slapped his rigid chest, activating his
communicator.  "Deanna, report to the bridge."
     There was a breathless pause, then a breathless voice
replied, "I'm sorry, Imzadi, but I...I'm engaged in...counseling
at this...at this time.  Please...please call me back in...in a
few...few (oh my) minutes."
     There was a pop as the air cleared.  There was a pop as
Riker's spine collapsed.  He fell into the captain's chair,
alone.  All alone.  The screens around him bleeped and thlthp'd
and pogworped.  His options were few and he turned towards one...
                                #
And now, on with the show...
                                #
     He turned toward his heart's passion, his clandestine
desire, his torment of Tantalus.  Riker, arching to relieve the
increasing stress in his towering right shoulder, headed to his
quarters, seeking what he wanted--no, needed!--in his moment of
loneliness and longing.  He turned toward a nameless member of
the bridge crew, startling her as his elbow popped and cracked.
     "Mister.  Take the con."
     He strode to the turbolift, muttering, "Ththp.  I am I,
William Riker, Exec of this starship..."
     He hummed the overture to "Man of La Mancha" while the lift
whizzed and whirred, delivering him to his concealed passion, the
curves and low moans that he so desired, the subtle luminosity of
his true love in the lowered lights of his inner cabin.
     "At last," Riker thought, caressing the image of his secret
desire in his mind, all but touching... No!  That would be
presumptuous, to imagine such joy too soon.  But, he could no
longer hold back his eagerness to inspire such responsiveness.
This was his night, and he slipped into his private chambers,
gazing upon his veiled beauty...
     His trombone.
     But, he heard another low, melodic counterpoint to his
thoughts.  What was Minuet doing here?!
     "What are you doing here?" he asked Minuet as she stepped
out of the shadows from the adjoining bedroom.  Her long red gown
tapered to the floor, resplendent with sequins that sparkled in
the dim light.  She was, quite simply, one of the most beautiful
sights he'd ever seen.
     "William," she spoke, her melodic voice reminiscent of the
soft, seductive charm of a Siren, "I'm here for you."
     "For me?  I haven't thought of you since the day you
vanished without a trace."
     She frowned.  "How can you say that to me?  I know your real
feelings; I know you think of me as much as I think of you."
     "You're a computer image," he retorted.  "You're not real.
I punish myself every day for allowing myself to forget that."
     "I'm a woman.  And you, my dear First Officer, are a
man...."  She caressed his cheek, first with her hand and then
the back of her palm, turning away from him in a half circle and
heading for the door.  "Will you come with me?" she asked, her
back turned.
     He hesitated.  Made a decision.  And stuck with it.  "Of
course."  Eyeing his trombone, he picked it up as he followed
Minuet outside.
     Making their way through deck twelve, Riker and Minuet were
hardly noticed, the occasional passerby concentrating more on his
or her duty than their First Officer or an exceedingly beautiful
woman.  Even the trombone didn't turn a head, though Riker kept
it under his arm as if he were on his way to a concert.
     At last...holodeck three.  "Computer," said Riker, "the
Bourbon Street Bar."  And the doors opened onto a sight
exceedingly familiar to both of them.
     It was quiet now.  The bartender was polishing the counter.
The band had gone home.  The chairs were all upended and on the
tables.  Riker removed one from the table nearest to the stage,
and then took advantage of the silence. With a childlike prance,
he made no haste in jumping onto the dais and, noticing Minuet's
soft smile, started to blow.
     When he was finished, his one-woman audience applauded
softly.  "That always gets to me, William."
     Riker smiled.  "Makes for some really beautiful
conversation, you know?"
     She touched his forehead.  And something inside Riker's mind
clicked.  It was though something had fallen into place.  The
last time he'd been here, she'd wanted something.  And
now...could it be?  He wrapped his arms around her.
"Minuet...what are you here for?  What do you want?"
     Minuet gave him that sweet smile again.  "William, I'd think
that that would be obvious by now.  Of course, I want you!"
     She raised her lips to his....
                                #
     There was a frantic pounding echoing through the corridor
outside Sickbay.  The turbolift doors buckled and bowed, and
reluctantly pouted open, expelling a writhing, furious Captain
Picard.
     "Well, if THAT's how you feel," said a voluptuous voice and
the doors slammed shut with a vigorous hiss.  Dr. Beverly
Crusher, who had just been going to work, stood perplexed in the
doorway and watched as Picard, twitching in an amazing way,
desperately wrenched a reluctant zipper down and wrestled his
uniform off.  The uniform, thwarted, gathered itself into a ball
and bronzed itself, rolling away singing "My Sweet Alice Blue
Gown," followed by Sue Admiral Clark, all of Beverly's manly
medical myrmidons in blue, and a hopeful-looking, hooting
allasomorph.  Beverly and Jean-Luc were alone together (except
for the doleful maintenance man vacuuming the slime).
     The Captain, unclothed, attempted to perform the Picard
Maneuver and winced.  This was her moment.  Beverly said, in a
mock-stern tone, "Captain.  You are under too much stress.  I am
declaring you unfit for duty."
     "Is that an ordah, Doctah?" he snapped.  Beverly gave an
involuntary glance back down the corridor.
     "No, the Horta's in Engineering, Jean-Luc," she said
patiently, and pulling the long-treasured hypo from her coat
pocket, she stepped forward and applied it to his well-formed
shoulder.  She had developed the inoculant herself in secret,
long hours of laborious fantasy, and she called it the
Tsiolkovsky Suite.  She waited.
     A silly smirk spread across his features.
     "Bev," he said dreamily.  The smirk extended down to his
elbows.
     "You will call me Admiral, Captain," she said reprovingly.
     "Oh.  That's right.  I will," he said, and followed her into
Sickbay, the smirk clinging to his ankles.
     As they entered Sickbay, Beverly quickly looked around to
see if any orderlies were in the vicinity.  There were none.  By
this time, the smirk had progressed to Picard's toes and was
working its way back up his body.
     "Oh, my," thought Beverly, "I think I might have gotten
carried away..."
     "Admiral..." Picard said.  "Admiral...do you know you're
very...hrmph...attractive?"  The smirk had progressed back up to
Picard's face.
     "Why, Jean-Luc, I didn't know you cared."  Beverly slipped
up next to him.  "Thank you."  She leaned closer, her lips almost
touching his.
     The doors to Sickbay swished open.  "Doctor, do you have any
non-aqueous substance...Oh, Captain, I did not know..."  Data
trailed off uncertainly.  Lt. Pixel clung to his hand.
     "Oh, Data, perhaps we will see some more training," Pixel
said, brightly.
     Picard's smirk had progressed back down to his knees.  He
smiled at Pixel.  "Ah...young lady...have we met?"
     Picard took a step forward.  It seemed, from his point of
view, as if the deck jumped up to greet him, rather like the
uniform had.
     "Oh, my," thought Beverly.  "I definitely got carried
away..."
     "The captain appears to be ill, doctor," Data observed
cautiously, as Picard remained lying on the deck of Sickbay.  The
captain began humming "Frere Jacques" in mindless, contented
tones, his smirk now a shimmering puddle that engulfed his body.
Beverly stood still, unhearing, as her eyes raked the length of
his prone, sweat-and-smirk-lustered form with a savagery she
hadn't known her eyes possessed.
     "Could it not be a variant recreational activity?" inquired
Pixel, peering down in interest as Picard's eyes gradually
focused on the feet gathered before him.  "His expression is not
one of discomfort."
     "Frere Jacques" became inexorably tangled with "Alouette,"
and still the captain lay, and hummed, and glistened.  Beverly,
though shamed and appalled that her prank had put her commanding
officer in this position, was yet determined not to let such a
unique situation go unexplored.
     "No," answered Data confidently.  "The fact that he is lying
on the floor alone, combined with his feverish appearance--"
     "Data," Beverly interrupted distractly, her eyes still
taking in the sight before her with an intensity that was
beginning to frighten her.
     "Yes, doctor?" Data answered with some puzzlement.
     "I'll, uh, tend to the captain.  Why don't you and your
friend try Engineering."
     As the Sickbay doors whooshed shut behind them, Beverly
tentatively knelt beside Picard.  "Jean-Luc?" she cooed, her
blood beginning to pound through her veins like powerful,
undeniable tidal waves of long suppressed passion.
     "Hmmmmm?" came the languorous response.  "Was there
something you desired, dear doctor?"  Her injection gave his
slurred tones a throatiness that constricted her diaphragm as a
firm, warm hand would squeeze a wet rubber duck.
     "Oh, Jean-Luc!" sighed Beverly.  "How I've longed to tell
you--"
     The sickbay doors whooshed open, and a voice cried
"Jean-Luc!  There you are!  I've been looking everywhere!"
     Beverly looked up to see the figure of Deanna's mother,
Luwaxana Troi.  Luwaxana looked rather flushed and her eyes were
rather glazed.
     "I just got off the holodeck.  That bartender...  Jean-Luc,
are you paying attention?  Oh, Jean-Luc..."  Luwaxana trailed
off, a definite predatory gleam in her eye.
     Beverly stood up and faced Luwaxana.  "Now, see here,"
Beverly said.  "If you don't mind, we are having a private
conversation!"
     From the deck came the inexorably entwined refrains of
"Frere Jacque" and "Aloutte."
     "Yes, I can see you were," said Luwaxana, taking in Picard's
state of (un)dress and the flushed face and glazed eyes of Dr.
Crusher. "But, Dr. Crusher, didn't Jean-Luc tell you?"
     "Tell me what?" asked Beverly, suspiciously.
     "We are to be married!  At the next spaceport!  Or was that
William?  Or that marvelous Worf?  Or the bartender?  No matter!
I was supposed to marry one of them, anyway!"
     Beverly stood staring at Luwaxana, not wanting to believe
that her Jean-Luc would forsake her for this person.
     Picard raised his head.  His expression was almost back to
normal, but he was still humming "Frere Jacque."  The tune halted
abruptly.
     "Ah.  Mrs. Troi.  How nice to see you," he said, the picture
of urbanity.
     He started to stand up.  "Ummmm.  I seem to have misplaced
my uniform..."
     The sickbay doors whooshed open again, and the discarded
bronzed uniform rolled in, eeping pitifully, wanting nothing more
than to be once again on Picard's marvelous body.
                                #
     The door hissed shut behind Data and the lissome Pixel.
"These are my quarters," he said.  "These are my computer screens
and my work stations, and my access maintenance boards--"
     "This is very nice," the ravishing Pixel said.  She touched
her flawless synthetic hair.  "Do you have a place where I might
freshen up?"
     Data looked perplexed.  Then his confusion cleared.  "Ah.
Freshen up, as in 'to refresh.'  To cleanse oneself, to remove
from one's body real or imagined contaminants.  To make more
wholesome--"
     "I do not think the words mean precisely what they appear to
imply.  It is something I read once, a phrase that a human female
often uses when she is alone at last with a human male."  Pixel
looked around the room.  "Does your rank not entitle you to
another room in addition to this one?"
     "Yes, the one humans use for sleeping.  It is there, behind
that door.  But as you well know, neither of us has any need for
sleep.  When I feel the need to shut down for recharging I do it
here."  The waxen-faced android indicated a mat on the floor.
     Pixel opened the door.  It screeched in protest, being very
much in need of lubrication after long disuse.  "You did say
something about non-aqueous substitute for that white foam the
humans were employing in their extracurricular interrelational
activity.  I am most curious to see what that substance might
consist of."
     "Of course.  I have been considering the problem and believe
I have the correct solution."  Data strode over to another,
smaller access door that screeched even louder as it opened.  He
leaned over the tub and began entering a series of equations on
the console.  In moments a creamy foam began filling the recess.
Data turned back to the admiring Pixel.  "It is a form of plastic
foam, non-hardening and non-aqueous.  It is perfectly safe.  And
I believe it might even last longer than the foam the captain and
Ensign Lovely were employing."
     With a small but elegant bow, the android courteously
indicated the freshly-filled tub.  "After you, my dear Pixel."
                                #
     Riker, his spine feeling much better and his posture
considerably improved, exited the holodeck.  The doors shooshed
shut behind him just as he realized--"Damn!  I forgot my
trombone!"
     He turned immediately, and crashed full-tilt into the doors.
He backed up and tried again.  Dabbing at his slight nosebleed,
he scowled at the uncooperative doors.  The doors reflected a
bland surface that bounced his scowl off and onto a passing
crewman, which sent him stumbling immediately in the direction of
Sickbay.  Riker slapped his communicator.  "Data!  Why in the
hell won't these damn holodeck doors open!"
     No response.  Riker strode off manfully in the direction of
the Second Officer's quarters.  These doors, unlike those of the
holodeck, opened immediately at his approach.  "Data!  Are you in
here?"
     The reply came from within.  "Here, Commander."
     Riker covered the distance between the entrance door and the
private portion of Data's quarters in a couple of strides,
severely straining some thigh muscles in the process.  He stopped
short in the doorway, his carefully suppressed expression of
agony giving way to one of open astonishment.
     The androids, obviously unclothed, sat at opposite ends of
the tub.  Creamy plastic foam barely covered Pixel's equally
creamy, totally unnecessary and nonfunctional but magnificently
sculpted secondary female gender characteristics.  Both Data and
Pixel solemnly clutched yellow rubber duckies, rubbing their
beaks together.
     Riker could scarcely speak.  "Wh-what in the *hell* do you
think you're doing?"
     "We are engaging in an extracurricular interrelational
exercise, Commander."  Data looked at his duckie, his face
faintly puzzled.  "Though I must admit there seems to be
something lacking.  I must be doing it wrong."
     "I agree," Pixel said.  "Though my experience is as yet
merely hypothetical, my reading on the subject suggests--"
     "Oh!  Forgive me!  Commander Riker, may I present Lt. JG
Pixel.  She has been assigned as my assistant.  Lt. Pixel,
Commander Riker, our First Officer."
     Riker nodded curtly.  "Lt. Pixel.  Data, get dressed.  I
need your help. The holodeck doors won't open and I left my
trombone inside."
     Pixel responded first, her expression matching the quizzical
frown that creased Data's otherwise smooth complexion.
"Commander Riker, is not the relationship between you and your
trombone one of personal proportions, one that should not require
the interloping of either Data or myself?"
     Riker felt his spine arch, pulling his shoulders back in a
chest-thrusting gesture.  He looked at the android j.g. with an
expression of alarm, surprise, disgust, and outright
incomprehension.  How, he thought, could such a device *not*
understand a man's relationship with his trombone?
     His face eased, as did his spine, allowing him to breath
once more.  He turned back to Data.  "Mister, that was an order,
not a request."
     "Aye, sir."  The android rose out of the non-aqueous
substitute and brushed the clinging foam from his synthetic
covering.  Removing a fresh uniform from the closet, he turned to
Pixel and said, "You should accompany us.  This may prove of
educational interest in your understanding that a trombone is not
always a euphemism."
     She rose and Riker tried not to appear too forward in his
appreciative gaze.  "It is not?" she asked.
     "It isn't," Riker said.
     Suitably attired, the android pairing followed Riker down
the corridor, towards the stubbornly sealed doors of the
holodeck.  Just to be certain, Riker approached the doors, and
once more they refused him entry.  He gestured, a movement of
supreme frustration and annoyance.  "See?"
     "Yes sir, I believe I comprehend the situation at hand. If
you would please stand aside, I will attempt a remedy that is
direct and swift.  It may prove damaging to the integrity of this
holodeck area, but it will suffice to rescue your trombone from
the area.  Satisfactory?"
     "Just open the goddamn doors!"
     Data looked perplexed.  "Sir, is your employment of such
dialogue, such colorful metaphors indicative of displeasure
and/or anger at my performance?"
     Riker's voice was like the crack of a whip. "Don't steal
phrases from other adventures, Mister, especially when they
involve that *other* crew."
     There was a hesitancy to Data's reply, a feeling that the
look of perplexment on his otherwise immaculate features would
freeze into his never, undying expression.  "Aye, sir."  He
turned to the doors, extending his hands, and stopped.
     The walls vibrated.  *Something* was trying to get out.
     Data took a step back.  Riker took two steps back.  Pixel
took one step forward and allowed Data to back into her.  He
turned, surprised, and she said, "This *is* an interesting
sensation.  What is it?"
     "Suspense, I believe," Data responded, considering the
option of adding several dozen alternate definitions and
explanations.
     The doors throbbed and bulged.  The retaining locks tried
valiantly to contain the pressure, but to no avail.  The
hydraulics yielded with a tremendous *whoosh* and the doors pried
open.  Smoke and steam billowed from the room, flashes of light
punctuating the suddenly appearing moody darkness.  The strobe
effect was eerily reminiscent of other adventures, which Riker
cared not to ponder at this moment, for out of the smoke, the
swirling mist, emerged the figure of Captain Picard, followed
closely by CMO Berverly, as well as a bewildering variety of
other crewmembers of all six genders.  They rolled out of the
holodeck, entangled in the slime of the allasomorph, pursued by
Security Chief Worf and several other Klingons, all shouting,
growling, and flailing at the creature (and, more often, each
other) with swords and clubs.
     "Stand aside, Number One," the Captain said, "or join in."
     "Your trombone, Mister Riker," the good doctor remarked,
handing over the precious instrument.
     "Orgy," explained Mr. Worf, howling in delight and slashing
at the nearest partner.
                                #
For those tho have lost track Of Our Story:
     Ah, you've got to fill in the blanks with *some*
imagination.  Picard was last seen overly-intoxicated by Bev's
mysterious potion.  Meanwhile, the allasmorph was in pursuit, by
punching through the assorted bulkheads.  Now, it catches Picard
(and Bev), but keeps going out of pure plot momentum, spilling
into the holodeck where Worf was (is, ever shall be, etc.), and
carries on into the next, gathering still more twisted
explanations, and crewmembers, as it goes.  Finally, it undergoes
a complete contortion of logic and reappears, with all, as
described.
                                #
     Worf stopped in mid-howl.  His brooding, ebony glare settled
on the luscious, firmly-constructed Pixel.  "You're new here,
aren't you?  And you might look like a human but you aren't one
of them."
     His resonant bass went subsonic, frightening the allasomorph
into re-forming as a giant jonquil-hued duck that went waddling
and quacking off down the hallway and causing various other
non-Klingon crew members to pause in their activities and shift
about uneasily. "If you can hear this..."
     "Certainly I can hear you, and respond appropriately," Pixel
replied in a girlish subsonic.  "Is there anything you wished to
know?"
     "I know all I need to know!" Worf responded in a joyous
subsonic roar.  "You are mine, all mine!"
     A chorus of disgruntled subsonic mutterings arose from the
other Klingons, causing Worf to turn on them, fangs bared.  The
chorus immediately re-assembled itself and four of the members
began singing "Frere Jacques" in barbershop harmony.
     Worf turned back to his new inamorata, arms outstretched.
"Now, let me show you the Klingon way."
     "I have read about that."  Pixel smiled sweetly, took one of
Worf's arms, and slammed him into the bulkhead.  Worf staggered
to his feet, shaking his head.  One-handed, Pixel lifted him over
her head and tossed him a dozen yards down the galleyway.
     Solicitously, she followed and helped the dazed Klingon to
regain his feet.  "Am I doing it correctly?"
     "M-more than correctly," Worf responded, his heart in his
eyes.  "At last!  I have met a female who is more than my
equal..."
     Lt. JG Pixel, quickly growing bored with Klingon-tossing,
wandered off aimlessly.  Oh, what's a young android to do, she
thought tempestuously, tossing her mane of cinnamon-flavored
synthetic hair.  Impulsively, she tied it up with a licorice rope
she found lying, unused, in the corridor.
     Data could have fulfilled all my longings in a feed-back
loop of truly monumental proportions, but all he seems willing to
do is give me that perplexed look of his.  And the Klingon only
seems to want me to inflict bodily harm upon him.  She sighed.
There was only one truly interesting male among those she had met
so far, if one did not count the bearded one with the strange
posture deviation.  Jean-Luc....
                                #
     Unknown to her, Worf struggled to his feet, gamely ignoring
his broken right femur, and staggering after her.  "Wo-man,
wo-man," he chanted to himself, not taking the energy required to
go subsonic.  "My woman."
     He gnashed his fangs together in anticipation of using them
to bite her delicious shoulder.  "My she."  Mr. Worf was rapidly
losing all trace of human, or for that matter, Klingon
civilization and was reverting to proto-Klingon behavior.  A
dusty cat screeched at the sight and smell of him, and ran,
yowling, for the nearest air-shaft.  The Klingon barbershop
quartet tackled him in an unsuccessful attempt to subdue him and
carry him off to sickbay. He shook them off like drops of water.
     "My she!" he roared, biting them all repeatedly on their
shoulders as well as other more tender portions of their anatomy.
"My she, mine!  Kill!  Kill!"
     The situation was threatening to become serious...
                                #
     Riker took his trombone.  He caressed it lovingly as he
walked back to his quarters.  His lips desired the touch of the
instrument.  As he rounded the corner he could see her there,
cheeks aflame with fury.  Storms welled in her eyes.  Bridled
passion was about to be set free.
     "How could you, Will?" asked Deanna accusingly.  "I thought
I was Imzadi to you.  But you reject me for that," she pointed at
the tubular instrument in his hand, "that thing."
     He could not explain the depths of the passion he felt for
her.  He also could not explain the even deeper depths of passion
he felt for the trombone.  He had forgotten his lines.
     "Uh," stammered Will Riker.
     "I sense your confusion," she said, stepping closer.  She
placed a hand on his jutting chest, longingly searching for the
zipper that would free him; escort him into her world.
     The softness and warmth of her body made him wonder if the
trombone was really worth it.  Really worth losing her a second
time.  Again he responded, "Uh."  He knew that without the script
he could find no suave and debonair way to maneuver her into his
cabin.  It looked like the hallway again for the two of them.  At
least this time there were no school tours planned, to the best
of his knowledge.
     She slowly placed her hand around the tubular instrument,
grasping it firmly.  "You won't need this anymore..."
                                #
     In the darkness of the cargobay they waited.  Lurking.
Scheming.  Preparing to make their assault.  They thought they
had planned it perfectly.  How could they have known about him?
     Lt. Commander Bob Hovorka, editor of EONS, the Enterprise
On-line News Service, was not just any man.  He was a visionary.
True, he was scoffed for the belief but he held fast to his
views.  He could not foresee the exact timing of their arrival,
but he knew it would be soon.
     In retrospect, he should have known that it would be the
day.  Some rare, sudden and fortuitous space turbulence caused
his alarm clock to fall off his shelf and onto his head.  This,
in turn, caused him to wake in great pain.
     He walked through the corridors of the crew quarters, hoping
to reach his office without further incident.  He had been
getting some complaints recently and these weighed heavy on his
mind.  Some of the most vile detractors said he wouldn't know a
story if he tripped over it.  Suddenly, he tripped over an
ill-placed trombone.
     "Oops, sorry Commanders," he said, helping himself up after
the trombone offered no assistance.  He still couldn't figure out
what those people meant when they said he wouldn't know a story.
More importantly, he needed a headline for this shift's
installment of EONS.  Where did they expect him to find one?
It's not as if stories were lying around the corridors.
     He reached his office just as a nameless security officer
contacted him.  The officer said that the ship was being overrun
by side plots; mighty events happening for the sole purpose of
carrying the characters away.  It had happened.  His vision was
true.
                                #
     Meanwhile, alone on the bridge, Ensign Sue Clark was
revelling in her new-found power.  The captain had left her in
command of the Enterprise!  She was congratulating herself on how
smoothly things were going when, suddenly, and without warning,
she received a message...
     "Enterprise, this is the Liberator.  Permission to come
aboard?"
                                #
     "Well," Data said to Lt. Pixel, "I hope that silliness with
Cmdr. Riker's trombone is finally over.  Now, while the Captain
and Cmdr. Riker are both busy, we can finally get back to what we
were doing."
     "Yes, Data, let's go back to your quarters..."
     They entered the bathroom in Data's quarters, and Data
punched in the equations for the non-aqueous foam.  The tub
filled rapidly.  The androids stripped down and entered the
foam-filled tub.
     "Well Data, what do we do now?  Do you have any experience
with these *human* customs?" Lt. Pixel asked innocently.
     "Yes I do," Data said, and smiled inwardly.  He began to
reach for Lt. Pixel, but suddenly he stopped, torn by indecision.
     "What are you waiting for?"
     But Data could not move.  Forming in his mind was an image,
at first vaguely defined, but soon growing more intense.
     "Tasha....", he gasped.
     "Data," the image of Tasha said, "don't be afraid.  You
showed me you had what it takes, now GO FOR IT!"
     With that Data leaped at Pixel, and their android passion
filled the small room.  Foam flew everywhere.
     Suddenly, the foam around the androids turned to liquid.
Data thought to himself, "What the h*ll????"  Before either could
react, there was a loud "KA-ZAP", and both androids found they
could no longer move.  "Short-out!!" they both thought, but
neither could speak.  Although their motor functions were not
working, they could see, hear, and feel everything around them.
     And if things weren't bad enough, they quickly became worse.
Data, in his eagerness to be with Lt. Pixel, had not inquired
into the actual use of the foam he had conjured up.  It turned
out the foam was used for making emergency repairs; when heated
up it would flow freely, but when the heat was removed, it
hardened.  And that's what had happened. The now-liquid foam
around them suddenly hardened to a rock-like consistency, locking
the two androids together in some improbable sculpture.
     "What if the *Captain* hears of this," thought Data, "or any
of the crew??  I'll never be able to give an order again!"
     After more that 3 hours stuck like that, they heard the door
to Data's quarters open.  "Data?" called Geordi's voice.  "Are
you in here??"
     Geordi noticed the partially open door to the bathroom.
"Data, I thought we were going to go to the holo...."
     His voice trailed off as he saw what was in the bathroom.
Geordi's eyes bugged out so far they almost squished into the
visor.
     "What happened???"
     When he received no response, he realized the androids were
powerless.  Fortunately, the spot on Data's back which held the
reset switch was not covered by foam.  Geordi pressed it.  Data
found he could now move his head and speak, but that was all.
     Data quickly explained to Geordi what had happened.  "Get us
out of here, but do it quietly.  No one can know.  There's a
phaser in my locker."
     Geordi got the phaser, and had soon melted away all the foam
around Data. Geordi then tried to pull Data out of the tub, but
Data was still held fast.  Geordi moved in for a closer
inspection.  A small chuckle escaped his lips.
     "What's so funny??" demanded Data.
     "Nothing," said Geordi, barely unable to contain his
laughter.  "I'll be right back."
     Geordi ran out of the room, and the moment he reached the
hall completely broke down.
     After what seemed like an eternity to the trapped androids,
Geordi returned.  "What is going on, Geordi??"
     "Well, it seems that, uh...", Geordi began to giggle again,
"Uh, some of your body parts are, uh..."  Geordi could not bring
himself to say the words.  "Uh, welded together."
     Geordi could no longer contain himself and began laughing
wildly again.
     "Well just fix it, Lieutenant!!!  And stop LAUGHING!!!!"
     "OK", Geordi said, regaining his composure, "but I'm going
to have to do this myself.  You realize if I brought a welding
crew, this would be all over the ship..."
     "Just do what you have to do, Lieutenant, and make it
quick."
     "OK...you asked for it."  It was at this point that Data
noticed one of Geordi's hands was hidden behind his back.  Geordi
suddenly revealed what he had been hiding.  Lt. Pixel's eyes
widened, and Data gasped out "Noooo..."
     "No choice, commander", said Geordi, and bent to the task,
crowbar in hand.
                                #
In the interest of equal time for non-humans....
     Worf is finally off duty after pulling another 3 consecutive
shifts in a row.  The corridor around the holo-deck is clear.
     "Computer, load exercise program 5 of Lt. Worf."
     After a few beeps and squeals the panel replies, "Program
complete, you may enter when ready".
     The doors open with a rolling rush.  Worf takes a final look
down the corridor before entering.  The doors behind him and bang
shut.
     "Computer, access denied without prior permission."
     "Acknowledged", the computer voice replies.
     "Execute program," he barks.
     A low growl is his only warning as he spins around and
blocks a knife thrust to his belly.  He steps in and backhands
the female klingon across the face.  His other hand twists the
knife out of her hands.
     The female smiles seductively as she slams a ringing blow to
his knee.  Worf smiles standing stock still, the blow not
effecting him at all.
     With a judo move he learned from Riker he swivels her around
his leg and slams her to the ground.  Her scream echoes
throughout the chamber.  Both of his hands go around her throat
and squeeze.  Her eyes bug out, she convulses under him.  Finally
she lays still.  Her hands reach up and start stroking his
forehead.  His hands relax somewhat and his breathing gets
heavier and deeper.
     He pulls his hands away from her neck and starts stroking
her hands.  The sweat is rolling off of his body.
     "Had a hard shift", asks the female?
                                #
     "Closet," said Picard.
     He heard the familiar quiet hiss of compressed air
indicating that the closet door had opened.  It was a comfortable
sound, one that was so common it required no thought to identify
it.  He had heard that sound thousands of times and knew what
would be there for him when he would turn to choose today's fresh
uniform.
     But as soon as the door opened he sensed that something was
different.  He relaxed his hold on his beloved bronzed rubber
duckie and was instantly alert.  As he stood there he could feel
the air in his cabin gently caressing his bare shoulders.
Thinking...  Planning...  Reviewing options...
     He didn't move.  After agonizingly long seconds, he turned
slowly, ever so slowly towards the closet.
     A startled gasp escaped his parted lips.  Although he tried
mightily to suppress it, an exquisite shudder of pure delight
rippled through his attractively muscled shoulders and torso.  He
stood there taking in the unfamiliar sights of what normally was
a dull and uninteresting clothing storage area.
     But there was no clothing on the vision in front of him;
none at all.  He made a move to call security, but stopped
immediately.  How would he explain her?  And what would security
really do?
     He let out his breath.  Slowly.  "So you're here again." he
said.
     She tossed back her long shining red tresses.  Her deep
black eyes seemed like pools in which he would drown unless he
could break away.  Her body was alive and oh so desirable as she
replied in a low husky voice.
     "I told you I'd find you." she said.  "You've never changed
your security code.  Not since our academy days.  I can always
get into your closet."
     "How long can you stay?"
     "Not long, Jean-Luc, not long at all.  After all, I'll be
missed."
     The frustration mounted in him again.  How COULD he get
involved in a closet romance?
                                #
     Worf was at his station when suddenly the sensors picked up
an object in space.  He snarls has he tries to discover what it
is.  He contacts Picard in sickbay
     "Sir I am picking up a object off stern of the ship."
     "Have you identified it Lt. Worf?"
     "Yes sir it appears to be a humanoid male in a wheelchair
with a rabbit, a gopher, and a penguin shouting, 'AHEAD WARP
ZILLION!!!!!!!!!!!'"
                                #
     Drained of energy after his myriad of adventures (you
*could* call juggling the likes of Beverly Crusher, Phillipa
Louvois, Krista Lovely et. al. a myriad, at least *he* could...)
Jean-Luc Picard stopped cold in Corridor C13.  He looked around.
It was very quiet; most of ship's personnel were in other parts
of the massive cruiser, intent on their own duties.
     Jean-Luc could hear his own breath.  And his thoughts ranged
from going back up to the bridge, to confronting Ensign Lovely
once again, to simply returning to his quarters and pulling the
sheets up over his eyes.
     No, he thought, this is for the birds.  I'm going to the
holodeck.
     He whisked himself away to his own private little world, his
illusionary playpen that Captain's privilege could allow him.
First, he donned the usual garb he wore in his holodeck
excursions: the hat, the shirt and tie and coat, everything that
was basic and usual in 1941.
     And he stepped inside...once again, in the middle of a
corridor at night. As always, the woman at the far end was
mopping the floor, like she always seemed to do when he walked
away from the Enterprise and into San Francisco, in another time.
     The sign on the far door said, "Dixon Hill, Private
Investigator."  His office, Dixon's office, the one he'd grown
accustomed to.
     Jean-Luc, or shall we call him Dixon Hill, opened the door.
A familiar face greeted him.
     "You've been playing around again, Dix.  You're going to get
caught by Lieutenant Bell in something nasty if you don't stop
moonlighting, you know."
     "I'll worry about that when I have to, Madeline," he said to
his secretary, the woman who always seemed to be there when he
wanted her to.  What was it about Madeline that made him smile?
She was a holodeck creation, but unlike Minuet, seemed to have no
soul outside of the confines of this private little world.  It
would be nice were she to become unfettered by this intangible
existence, but alas, such was probably not to be.
     "Well, the files you asked for are on your desk.  I'm going
home."  She got up, put on her coat.
     "Are you busy tonight?"
     She seemed startled.  "Busy?  Not particularly, why do you
ask?"
     "Well, I was just thinking; we had fun the last time we went
out together, thought you might enjoy accompanying me to Rex's
Bar for a drink."
     "I dunno, Dix, you could get used to this."  She smiled.
"I'd love to."
     Picard/Dixon led Madeline to the bar that, although Picard
had only been there once, Dixon Hill knew very well.  The door
was open, and only a few customers, buried in their beverages and
their sorrows, sat at the bar.  Rex was not around, so Dixon and
Madeline sat down at one of their tables.
     Picard caught the waitress, ordered two drinks, and went
back to the table.
     "Interesting, Dix, we've even got a usual table."
     "Yes.  Madeline, may I ask you a question?"
     She looked shocked.  "Sure."
     "I'd like to try something.  There's a place I'd really like
to take you, but I'm not sure if it will work.  But then again,
it did work before."  He thought of how Minuet was able to loosen
herself from the holodeck and it just might work.
     "Whatever happens, do not be afraid."  He turned to the
wall.  "Computer, exit."
     The Arch, and the doorway into the other world, showed up.
     "Dix, what is that?"
     "I'll tell you later.  Come with me..."  Picard led Madeline
through the arch, and then into the doorway.  And, unlike the
last time he'd really seen this--when Cyrus Redblock and Felix
Leech had vanished--Madeline kept her tangibility.  So much for
theory.
     Picard led her into the real world.  At last, he thought, a
real honest-to-God normal woman.  I'm going to feel SO much
better....
     "Oh, Dix," said Madeline, her voice in awe.  "I knew Rex had
a back  room on the joint, but I didn't know it was so large."
     Picard smiled to himself for the whole world to see.  He
finally had a woman that did not care for his power.  That did
not desire him based on past exploits or tawdry gossip.  And,
most importantly, did not know about Bev, Phillipa, Krista, et
al.
     "Madeline, this is not exactly Rex's bar," he said, aiming
for the phrasing that would throw her into his arms.  "This is a
new world."
     He clasped her hand into his, and escorted her to the
turbolift. "This is my world."
     "Oh, Dix," sighed Madeline.  He bosom rose and fell in
rhythm with her tumultuous breaths of rapture.  "If this is
yours, how come we ain't got enough money to pay the phone bill?"
     They stepped into the turbolift.  "Halt!" he commanded to
the computer.  "Do not allow this turbolift to move until I give
further orders."
     He smiled gently, looking into the limpid pools that were
her eyes.  "I am master of all here, it is mine to command."
     The attraction between them was electromagnetic.  "Oh Dix,"
she sighed again, falling into his arms, drawn to his body.  "Are
you sure my fellow won't hear about this?"
     He gently placed a finger upon her lips.  "Shhh," he
whispered, "he  won't."
     Just then, a sudden, rare and fortuitous pocket of space
turbulence rocked the Enterprise and sent them, sprawling, onto
the floor.
     The alarm sounded.  "Computer," demanded Picard, "what
happened?"
     "Enterprise collided with a group of micrometeorites.  The
ship's shields prevented any structural damage."
     "Bridge."  Picard frowned; the turbolift did not move.
"Computer, I said, Bridge."
     "Unable to comply," came the soft, feminine voice.
     Madeline smiled.  "What, you got a nasty operator, eh Dix?"
     "Computer, identify problem."
     "Due to turbulence, the turbolift control circuits are
unable to  function.  Damage control has been alerted.  Estimated
repair time, 23.7 minutes."
     "Y'mean, we're gonna be locked in here for 23 minutes, Dix?"
She clutched onto Picard's jacket.
     "It appears so."
     "And nobody's gonna come get us until then?"
     "Sure looks like it."  Picard looked at the young woman's
eyes, filled with something that just didn't seem like fear.
     She looked back at him.  "Good," she said, and kissed him...
                                #
     Alone in the corridor except for a bewildered half-naked
maintenance man covered with allasomorph slime, a woman wearily
made her way home from work past the holodeck entrance.  The
doors still gaped open, and inside were the remains of yet
another bizarre revel.
     Must have been bridge crew, she thought, they never clean up
after their parties.
     It was lonely being a civilian on the Enterprise, for
although it was supposed to be a family ship, none of the crew
ever got married or had children who weren't ingratiating genius
dweebs with gerbil grins.  She was the only real civilian on the
ship.  All the rest were actually bridge crew, or they were
modified holodeck projections, seen only in the background.
     She stepped carefully over an interlocked quartet of
snarling Klingons tied by their hair to each other, and waved to
one of her favorite projections, a Vulcan in a mini-dress.  He
waved back.  He was an attractive man, if she could get within
twenty meters of him.
     She came to the turbolift and waited.  And waited.
Something was wrong, probably another bimpamfarfeling rare and
fortuitous pocket of space turbulence.  Every DAY another rare
and fortuitous ontological glitch.  She sighed with exasperation
and turned away.  It was the service tube AGAIN, all four hundred
and eighty-five levels (because of the dimensional boondoggle),
and her without her sneakers.
     Just as she turned away, the doors hissed open, and a
dissolving holodeck projection in a peculiar outfit stalked
out--if it's possible to stalk when there aren't any legs to
stalk with.
     "Madeline!  Wait!" roared a familiar voice from the
turbolift, and the legendary Captain Picard appeared framed in
the doorway.
     The rapidly disintegrating projection pointed a fading
finger at the Captain and shrilled, "I said nothing below the
waist on the first date, and I meant it!"
     "You certainly did," muttered the captain, contemplating her
lack of nether regions.  She disappeared with a pop.  Picard, his
broad shoulders slumped, his head bowed, stood vulnerable and
dejected in the doorway.
     This is my chance, thought the civilian woman, and leaped
toward the doorway.  She ducked under Picard's elbow and into the
turbolift.  He gave a start and turned around, but the doors
closed on his face.
     I'm too tired and I have a headache, she said to herself.
I'll rip his uniform off next time.
                                #
     Outside the turbolift, Captain Picard banged his noble brow
on the doors.  It was never going to happen.  Never.  Maman had
been right, he was just too nice.  He happened to look down, and
realized he couldn't see his feet.  Or his legs.  In fact, there
was nothing below his waist.  "No!" he said in horror, and backed
away on nonexistent legs.  As the dissolve reached his chin,
though, a quirky smile touched his lips.  He laughed as he faded
into nothing.  He wondered who had called up the image of HIM on
the holodeck.
                                #
     Seconds after the holodeck-produced image of Picard
vanished, Cheshire-cat-like, with his smirk lasting a few seconds
longer than the rest of him, Beverly Crusher turned the corner of
an adjoining hall, walking cautiously, but with barely
constrained eagerness.
     "Jean-Luc?" she called softly, looking about.  "I think we
should get back to the holodeck before you..."
     Her voice faded away into disappointment as she realized he
was gone, and a sob tore at her throat.  "No!" she moaned.  "Not
again!"
     As she sank to a heap on the deck, she wondered why she had
ever come back.  What had made her imagine that she could find
happiness and fulfillment with the man who had filled her
thoughts for the past year.  Why had she gotten all of those
stupid rubber ducks, and what would she do with them now?
Perhaps Data and Pixel might want them, she thought abstractly,
not noticing the tears running down her face.
     "Picard to Dr. Crusher," came the sudden voice on her
communicator.
     "God DAMN you and your rubber ducks!" Beverly responded
savagely, viciously.
     "Not now, Doctor," Picard's imperturbable voice responded.
"I'd like you to join Number One and myself on the shuttledeck."
     "Oh?" said Beverly, with some interest.
     "Yes, doctor; I'd like you to examine him to determine
whether his hormonal activity has increased."
     "Don't see how it *could*," Beverly muttered, standing up
and wiping her face.
     "Nevertheless, Doctor," came the dry response.  "Report here
immediately.  Picard out."
     Beverly wondered if she had time to freshen her face a
little as she hurried toward the turbolift.  Well, I have to get
my bag from Sickbay anyway, she decided.

<to be perpetuated...>