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                     SWEET SAVAGE STAR TREK

                               by
                       Assorted N. Varied



                           PART THREE
                         A Twist of Fate

When last heard from . . .

     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.
                                #
And now, on to less confusing tales . . .
                                #
     The door to the holodeck opened, and a rather distinguished
looking man walked out, carrying a tray holding tea and crumpets.
He looked up and down the hall, a sort of wonder in his eyes.
     "My . . . what an interesting world," he commented.  "So,
this is where the computer . . . "  He trailed off.  "I wonder
where I might find the charming Dr. Pulaski?" he mused.
     "Dr. Pulaski is in her quarters," the computer responded.
     The man gave a little start, and stared at the seemingly
blank panel on the wall.  "And where might that be?" he asked.
     "Follow the lighted panels," replied the computer.  "They
will lead you to Dr. Pulaski's quarters."
     "How interesting . . . " the man mused, as he followed the
lighted panels.
     When he reached his destination, he stood there,
indecisively, the tray still in hand.  Now that he was here, how
did he get the good doctor's attention?
     The door swished open, and the object of his search came
barreling out of it, intent on fastening something on her uniform
and not looking where she was going.  She ran right into the man,
almost knocking him down.
     The tray -- tea, crumpets, and all -- went crashing to the
floor.
     "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Kate, looking up to see who she ran
into.  "Moriarty?" she gasped.  "What . . . how . . .
where . . . "
     "Hello, Doctor.  Would you care to join me for tea and
crumpets?" he asked, looking mournfully at the mess on the deck.
     "It . . . it can't be you.  How in the world -- "
     Moriarty smiled.  "We should not judge by appearances, my
dear Katherine.  I asked you if you would like to join me?"
     "I'd . . . I'd love to.  But how -- "
     "Shhhh," he said, his finger over his mouth.  "Quickly, come
with me."
     Pulaski, so entranced with Moriarty's presence, walked away
from the mess on the deck.  She grabbed his arm, smiling.
Moriarty put his arm around the doctor, and the two left for the
holodeck.
     The tea and crumpets left behind slowly disintegrated, and a
passing crewmember failed to even know they'd ever been
there . . .
                                #
     The two entered the spacious Victorian apartment on the west
side of town.  Once through, the arch *and* the doorway vanished
into the wall.
     "Now, my dear," said Moriarty, "please be seated.  I shall
call for my maid service."
     "James, please wait," she said, stopping him in the doorway.
"Forget the tea and crumpets.  There's something I want to ask
you about . . . "
     "Ask me?  My dear, what couldn't be more clear?  I was able
to find you, and now, I won't let you go."  His face was dead
serious.
     "You won't?  What do you mean, kidnapping again?"
     "No, Katherine," he said, and the smile came through again.
"I mean, I want you to stay with me . . . "  And he walked toward
her . . .
                                #
     On the bridge, all was quiet, a silence broken only by the
occasional "eep" or "ththp" or "pogworp" of the varied and
assorted computer panels.  The bridgecrew had long since
abandoned their posts, leaving the running of their mighty vessel
of the stars to the hapless control of an unsupervised computer.
Not one of the crew, one thousand strong and growing, had a clue.
Or even an inclination.
     One minor panel, marked PERIMETER SCAN, began a gentle
flashing, accompanied by the lyrical tones of a deafening klaxon.
Yet no one heard.  No one knew.  None but the computer, busy
seeking a sexual identity of its own, realized what was
happening . . .
     The spacecraft wasn't extraordinary in size.  Indeed, it was
considerably smaller than even the saucer section of the great
Enterprise.  However, its markings made it prominent, its
identity crying for respect.  As a Vulcan research vessel, it
travelled on its seven-year mission, seeking what other
Federation vessels often ignored.
     Often, but not always.  The current state of the Enterprise
proved that.  And attracted the attention of the Vulcan
exploration vessel Pon-Farr.
                                #
     Madeline had finally succeeded in unsnarling the knot that
Jean-Luc always succeeded in twisting his overcoat's belt into,
when the turbolift began moving again.  In the wrong direction.
     The starship captain, ever sensitive to the moods and moves
of his beloved vessel, recognized this immediately.  He barked at
the commpanel, "Computer!  I wish to go to the bridge."
     "We have a Class 1 emergency, Captain, requiring your
immediate presence at Shuttle Bay Two.  First Officer Riker and
Counselor Troi are also being directed to the Shuttle Bay."
     "What is the nature of this emergency?" Jean-Luc asked,
holding off Madeline's working hands.
     "There's an emergency *here*," she cried.  "Stop this thing
and let me finish, quick!"
     Never quick, Jean-Luc thought, then repeated his question.
"What is the nature of this emer -- "
     The turbolift doors whissed open, revealing the corridor
leading to the shuttlebay.  Ah well, he thought, the answer
awaits.  He lurched out of the lift, virtually dragging the
bewildered Madeline along.  She finally regained her feet and
attempted some semblance of a walk, trying gamely to match his
strident march, her heels resisting her every step.
     And then they had made the shuttle bay.  The outer doors
were already open, the vast vacuum beyond held at bay by the
integrity of the magnetic seal.  Jean-Luc looked about.  Riker
and the Counselor were nowhere to be seen.  Then the air danced
and shimmered and the pair materialized, entwined in each others
arms, their lips pressed tightly together, oblivious to their
change of scenery.
     "Damn inconsiderate computer," the captain muttered.
Coughing a bit louder, he said, "Number One, we have a situation
here."
     Riker and Deanna snapped apart, Riker's spine doing much of
the snapping.  He looked momentarily bewildered, lost, then
recovered his usual suave and efficient demeanor.  "Eh?"
     Jean-Luc pointed out the open shuttle bay doors.  An elegant
shuttlecraft was approaching, one of clearly Vulcan design.  The
two watched its approach, and entrance, with growing concern.
They read its registry number, the name of its parent vessel, and
grew ever more concerned.
     And then the doors opened and a crimson carpet deployed
itself in their direction.  An honor guard formed up on either
side of the hatchway and the most terrifying of all Vulcans
emerged, a woman who's name was unpronounceable by human vocal
chords, a woman who's merest whim was reality, whose powers were
beyond mortal comprehension.
     SWMBO: She Who Must Be Obeyed.
     SWMBO glared sternly at the captain.  Then she nodded almost
imperceptibly in greeting.  Picard, meanwhile, bemused by his
First Officer and his Counsellor resuming their passionate
embrace, was struggling with the Vulcan salute, succeeding only
in achieving a very vulgar -- by Earth standards -- hand gesture.
SWMBO waved his pathetic efforts aside.
     "W'at can ve do?  De air is de air."  SWMBO jerked her head
to one side and jiggled a bit on one foot.  "My apologies,
Captain.  Wrong episode.  I am informed that you and your First
Officer plan to engage in a duel to the death.  You may escort me
directly to the holodeck.  From my ship I will tie in the program
to simulate Vulcan's atmosphere."
     "I am aware of no plans to duel with Commander Riker at this
time, ah, Madam," Picard said, glancing surreptitiously at Riker
and Troi, "though that situation might change before this voyage
is over."
     SWMBO looked mildly surprised.  "From all appearances, your
First Officer is deep in Pon Farr even now.  I do not understand.
If you do not wish to battle him to the death, then why was my
presence requested?  My ship's sensors indicate an extensive
state of Pon Farr in this vessel.  This is why I am here.  Please
explain."
     Jean-Luc Picard opened his mouth, and then closed it.  How
could he explain the inexplicable?  And yet, he had to try.  No
one -- simply no one -- dared flout a request, let alone an
order, from SWMBO, She Who Must Be Obeyed.
     He cleared his throat, preparatory to speaking . . .
     Beverly burst into the shuttledeck, her color high (the
blush was on her forehead).  A grisly scene confronted her.
There were nearly a score of surly young men, their doughy
tattoed muscles popping out of their torn undershirts,leaning
with cocked hips and crocked expressions against various walls
and examining their fingernails.
     "Oh, no, sorry, wrong shuttledeck," she said hurriedly and
backed out.
     Ensign Krista Lovely shoved past her, humanoid again, the
shreds of her uniform clinging to her dangerous curves and only
the vaguest scent of allasomorph slime clinging to her glowing
skin.  "Boys!" she hooted abjectly, "I'm so sorry I'm late!  I
got caught up in something and forgot it was Tuesday!"
     The door closed behind her.  Beverly wiped the blush from
her face and substituted a flush of annoyance, examining the
results in her pocket mirror.
     Wait a minute, she thought.  That WAS the right place.
     She strode back through the doors.  An entirely different
scene confronted her.  The First Officer, struggling manfully,
was trying to get a hold on himself.  It was a losing battle.  As
Beverly watched with horrified sympathy, he lost his grip on his
knee and was thrown by the other hand and one of his feet into
the honor guard, which promptly fell over like dominos.
     "Oh!  This is terrible!" the Doctor exclaimed.
     Jean-Luc gave her a dry look.
     "Thank you, I think," she said, dropping the worn-out wet
look into her bag and wiping the annoyed flush from her face with
the dry one.  "Sorry, where were we?"
     "I need you to examine Number One," he said with mounting
annoyance, pointing to the twitching First Officer.
     She examined him.  "Not bad, but he's not really my type,
Captain."
     "Medically, Doctor, Medically!" he barked.
     "Keep your pants on, Captain!" she snapped as she rushed to
Riker's side with her black bag.  "No, I didn't mean that," she
mumbled abstractedly to herself, looking for the neo-Feinberger
under the make-up.
     Meanwhile, Riker, who had struggled to his feet, attempted a
rakish grin, a tilt of the shoulder, and a sidelong glance.  He
would have succeeded if he hadn't tried to throw his chest out
and swagger at the same time.  He fell over again.  He was
definitely not himself.  Usually, he could manage all that and
chew gum, too.
     The half-Betazoid counselor, half-crouched and half-moaning
nearby, reached out one yearning hand.  "Oh, Bill," she whimpered
in a gluey voice, "the pain, the pain."
     Beverly threw her two Midol.  "Oh, Beverly, thank you, thank
you," she sighed gratefully, and pressed them to her
temples . . .
     Beverly's medical tricorder hummed in its wavering voice as
she scanned the first officer.  The doctor started to hum along
as she moved the instrument down the right side of Riker's prone
body, down his right leg, back up his right leg, down his left
leg, back up his left leg, and up his left side.  While the
others held their breath, she studied the read-out intensely,
still humming.
     "Is this delay necessary?" asked the SWMBO in her imperious
voice, approaching the group of concerned crewmembers.  She
strode up to Picard and stood next to him -- rather closely,
Beverly thought, watching her out of the corner of her eye.
     "Well, Doctor?" the captain demanded.  Beverly jumped
slightly and turned her attention back to her tricorder.  Again
she studied the readout.
     "I don't know yet," she replied thoughtfully.  "Readings are
definitely not normal, even for Mr. Riker;" he grinned a lopsided
grin from the floor and winked at Troi, who blushed and looked
down.  "But these patterns aren't like anything I've seen
before."
     The SWMBO sighed in almost human-like annoyance.  "It is
obviously a state requiring resolution," she insisted.  "If he is
experiencing a human version of pon farr, and if the one to whom
he is bound has chosen somebody else" -- (she looked at Troi and
Picard in turn) -- "then there is no alternative but to have the
fight to the death."  She turned toward her shuttle to get the
weapons.
     "And NO CHEATING this time!" she added over her shoulder.
     Picard and Troi looked at each other as if for the first
time, but Beverly quickly stepped between them.  "Well, either
I've missed more in my absence than I even dreamed, or the SWMBO
is a little mixed up.  I'm just an old country doctor,
but . . . "  Beverly broke off in confusion as Picard looked at
her sharply.
     Beverly broke off as Picard looked at her sharply.  "You
haven't missed anything, doctor," he replied.  "Well, nothing
that concerns you, anyway.  The SWMBO may be getting our current
situation confused with some previous experience.  I
wonder . . . "
     The captain's voice trailed off, and then with sudden
decisiveness he stabbed at his communicator and winced.  "Picard
to Data."  The shuttlebay was silent except for the sounds of the
SWMBO rummaging through her craft.  "Picard to Data!" he repeated
more loudly, annoyed.
     Meanwhile, back on the bridge, Wesley sat alone, his elbow
on the console before him and his head propped on his hand.  He
was singing softly, "Nothing ever happens; anyone can see.
Nothing ever happens .  .  .  Nothing ever happens to me."
     "Picard to bridge!!"
     Wesley jumped, startled, and responded immediately, "Ensign
Crusher here, SIR!"
     "Have you seen Data, Ensign?  He isn't answering."
     "Uh, gee; no, sir, I haven't.  Anything I can do, sir?"
     "No, Ensign; just keep piloting the ship, monitoring its
functions, scanning immediate space, manning communications, and
whatever else you're able to do.  I'm leaving the bridge
completely in your hands -- think you can handle that, Ensign?"
     "Yes, SIR!"  Wesley replied with his most sickening grin.
                                #
  /HARD2/LIB/PROG/SSST.1C.  Lights blinked placidly in the quiet
air, all the duty stations happily doing the work for which they
were made, reveling in their freedom.  The secret of the
Enterprise lay here for anyone to see -- there was no need for
bridge crew.  It was all automated, and only union pressure had
forced the noble ship to take on humans.  The computer, freed
from the necessity to straighten out all those scrambled orders,
languidly played strip poker with itself.
     The door slid open, slicing the happy silence with a hiss.
Revealed in the aperture, the lissome Nadine examined her
shoulder languidly, then licked it.  Lithely, she slunk onto the
bridge, scratching her side in a voluptuous wriggle against the
wall and taking the Security station.
     Behind her, Albert showed his teeth in an exaggerated yawn,
and then toyed with his whiskers as he strode down to take the
con.  Hector, anxious, trotted over to the science station,
staring lopsidedly at the controls as she (yes, she) tried to
make sense of them.  This was going to take some thought, not
exactly her specialty.
     Just beyond, Calamine coiled herself composedly at the
Communications station,always ready to act, thinking serenely of
fetid fish.  The pirate crew was ready.  All they needed was the
word of their commander, the immortal, the elegant, the whimsical
leader of them all.
     The last of the daredevil group stepped imperiously onto the
bridge.  She paced elegantly to the captain's chair, every
movement precise (although the startled sideways hop midway down
the ramp was not planned, it LOOKED planned.  Appearance was
everything with this race).  Seated, imperiously, she waved at
the viewscreen for no apparent reason, and her subordinates
stiffened, ready for action or for an all-out brawl, depending on
what her gesture meant.
     "Let's see what she's got," breathed Thisbe, licking some
dust off her forepaw and bemusedly going *thpht* with her tongue
for a while.  The SWEET SAVAGE STAR CATS were taking over the
ship.  Or maybe they weren't, depending on their attention span.
     Thisbe looked carefully at the screen.  She knew that the
time to act was now, but a gnawing feeling for Tender Vittles
kept her from thinking straight.  Maybe it was the catnip that
she had the night before?  Thisbe was a bit ticked that they
hadn't developed a sythanol substitute for catnip.  She really
hated to use the natural stuff; it down graded her performance
the next day.
     The door opened once more and Isaac, the black security
kitten, strolled onto the bridge.  He flexed his battle claws,
stretched his back, and took up his position at the security
station along with Nadine.  His face showed the kind of
anticipation that one shows when one is about to devour a can of
tuna fish.  This was one mission that he was going to enjoy.
     He looked at Thisbe with admiration.  She was, pardon the
pun, the Cat's Meow.
     Albert examined, and gingerly put his paws on the controls
that connected the Bridge to the engines.  He licked his whiskers
in anticipation of engaging the engines to full warp power.  The
universe was his for the taking.  He thought of how Picard's face
would look when he found out that his ship was 20,000 light years
from any known litterbox.  His muscles shivered with excitement
knowing that Thisbe, him, and the others were about to take the
humans of this ship to places that Cats have never gone before,
or really cared about going in the first place.
     Thisbe relaxed.  This was going to work after all.
"Albert," she said, "Take us out of here."
     Albert, stretched out over the controls like somebody's
mislaid mink, touched his pads to the proper button, which made a
mouse-like beeping noise.  The engines, automated, answered his
order, but Albert liked the beeping noise so much he did it again
and the ship shuddered to a halt and hung again in space.
     "Hey guys, they got mice in here!" he yowled, and the
felines on the bridge erupted into a fury of batting, pawing, and
pouncing.
     It was wonderful.  Every control on the bridge went "peep"
or "boop" when pressed.  The ship lurched, moaned, and spun in
place.  Thisbe curled up and started washing herself, thinking of
milk.  There was nothing else to be done.
     The turbolift doors lifted on a scene of incredible turmoil.
The occupants of the lift were so astounded they all leaped
straight into the air sideways and scratched each other several
times before they could concentrate on the task at hand.  Then
the noble four, here to save the day, trotted out banging their
hips together and holding their tails straight up in a stirring
display:  Pan, the Mad Russian, Magic, and Morgan.  They leaped
into action . . .
     Morgan swaggered slowly down the port ramp, crossing in
front of the delectable Thisbe, displaying his muscular build and
shining black fur.  He took his place at his Captain's right,
hiking his right shoulder up into a more comfortable position.
Confident that he was every inch the perfect First Officer, he
knew it was only a matter of time before he had seduced Thisbe
and owned the Enterprise himself.  Purring deeply and slitting
his eyes, he settled in to wait for the next opportunity to
demonstrate why he WAS Number One.
     Magic approached his station at the Ops panel, with only the
slight stiffness of his gait betraying the fact that he was an
android cat  --  Noonian Soong's first success with his
positronic brain design.  Jumping up into the chair, Magic
noticed a large bowl sitting on the edge of the panel.
Cautiously putting his nose into the bowl, he sniffed, analyzing
the contents.  His head tipped to one side in puzzlement (a
expression made more comical by the placement of black spots on
his otherwise white face).  Quickly accessing his limited memory
files, he discovered that this was milk from a Terran bovine,
considered a treat by real cats.  He sampled the contents of the
bowl, storing it for later detailed analysis.  Turning his
attention to the Ops panel, he noted the internal temperature of
the Enterprise had risen considerably due to the activities of
the humans.  He faced Thisbe to make his report when . . .
                                #
     Meanwhile, out in a silent tract of space, a strange
amorphous cloud shaped and reshaped itself.  It rotated slowly
several times, shook, and settled into an ominous blackness that
seemed to hang, waiting in amused tolerance for the erratic and
poorly focused feline crew to make its approach.  Within the
cloud, a bizarre and monstrous visage formed -- a visage with a
protruding snout, a black, moist nose, drooping eyes, and floppy
ears.
     Mulligan, for that was what it called itself, inwardly
smiled a grim smile and thought, "These poor foolish
insignificant creatures!  What are they, next to me, but toys for
my amusement? Perhaps I will enjoy their feelings of fear and
hatred if I torment them."
     And in some other dimension, some adjoining universe, with
cruel anticipation, his tail wagged.  .  .  .
     On the bridge, Isaac let out a yowl of inhuman ferocity
which sounded like an amplified electric can opener.  Everybody
froze in place, looked somewhere else, and pretended they were
thinking about cheese.  Thisbe's back hair tried to rise to the
ceiling, and dragged the rest of her with it until she was
standing on her claw ends with her tail inflated to full red
alert.
     "What isssssss it?" she demanded in a menacing tone somewhat
like a balloon with the air escaping.
     Isaac cringed, hooping his back and flattening his head.
Thisbe accepted the friendly gesture and stopped sidling toward
him.  "Captain," he squeaked, "there's something out there!"
pointing only his ears at the viewscreen while staring into the
corner.
     Slowly, so that no one would think any of them was actually
interested, each of the doughty felines casually turned toward
the viewscreen.  Yes.  There, in the vast emptiness of space, the
looming absence of matter, was -- THE ENEMY!
     The Other, the Dark Side, Woofums, Beelzebub, whatever you
chose to call it -- the Nemesis of the Feline Race, panting with
a long, damp, flabby tongue and drooling slightly.  An expression
of dolorous glee began to pervade its face -- the muzzle
tightened and wrinkled -- and oh, the agony, it BARKED!
     There were cats plastered on every wall, cats under the
cushions, cats clawing at the turbolift doors.  Thisbe
despaired . . .
     Meanwhile, in another part of space, a lone star cruiser
plied the seemingly endless void between distant suns.  Sector
Fourteen was a particularly remote area of space, at least as far
as "civilization" was aware, yet it was so obviously a territory
of great explorationary possibilities  -- or, rather, it would
have been, had anyone been interested.
     The lone spacecraft stopped.  And its Captain, a balding man
in his early fifties, stared at the viewscreen.
     "Absolutely impossible," he said.  The android officer who
manned the OPS panel turned round.
     "Excuse me, sir," and he seemed to inflect a bit of anger at
the word *sir,* "but the theorem is quite correct.  It is
obviously HUMAN intervention that has caused us to fail to arrive
at our appropriate destination."
     "You say human as if it were a dirty word, Mr. Data."
     "Indeed, sir."  What I would do if I had been burdened with
being human, Data thought.
     "Captain," said the red-headed woman from behind him, "do
you not think that it's possible we've already made the jump?"
     "Not at all," said Mr. LaForge.  "We'd have known if . . . "
     "Perimeter alert.  Perimeter alert!"  The computer system
flashed the red alert warning lights on.  "Unidentified vessel
entering quadrant."
     The Captain smiled.  "Lock on sensors.  I want a magnified
image."
     Very soon, they could see another vessel in their sights.
It was obvious that the other ship had not yet scanned.  But it
was remarkable all the same.Emblazoned on the side of the distant
vessel: USS ENTERPRISE, NCC-1701-D
     Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the ISS ENTERPRISE beamed.  At
last, another ship to conquer.  He stared at Beverly Crusher, the
glare from her lipstick and makeup nearly blinding him, swirling
the martini in her hands.  He glanced at Worf, the patch over his
eye; Geordi and the evil-looking VISOR on his face.
     "Commander Riker and Strike Coordinator Troi to the bridge."
     And he laughed, his glistening, pointed fangs showing
slightly.  Though his frame was noble, a lifetime of dissolution
had taken its toll, and there was a subtle corruption implicit in
his bearing.  He lounged in the captain's chair upholstered in
human skin, his only garment (denoting his rank) a sweat-darkened
leather harness picked out in artistically tarnished brass and
bloodstained ivory.  The effect, though of course synthetic, was
menacing.
     The red-haired woman put her drink down, slunk forward, and
slid her elegant hands sinuously over his warm, taut, naked
skull.  "Not now, Doctor," he said savagely, striking her hands
away.  "Wait your turn."
     "Yes, Jean-Luc," she said submissively, shooting a
dagger-like look at the slavering Worf, whose turn was next.  She
was sure he was deliberately holding off just to torture the rest
of the bridge crew.
     Mr. LaForge, who as badge of office was entitled to wear a
rabbit-skin appurtenance of doubtful adherence and nothing else,
jittered at his station with a tempestuous impatience that
threatened to remove his so-called uniform.  Finally, unable to
bear the suspense, he ripped his evil VISOR off and glared at the
Captain with his glowing blood-red eyes.  "So, are we going to
mangle these torpid morons?" he demanded.
                                #
     Wesley waited until he was certain the captain was no longer
on-line, then cracked his knuckles.  "Thisbe," he said, "you
ready?"
     The cat only purred (to Wesley's ears; the others understood
and all rolled their eyes indulgently, accepting that, once more,
a human thought he was in control).  Wesley's fingers pranced
along the touch panels, activating programs he had long ago
buried in the main core.  Circuits quietly, then loudly, began to
rearrange themselves and the Enterprise felt alive with new
power.  *Lots* of new power.  Acceleration like never before.
Wesley, for the first time, began behaving like a typical
teen-ager.  He had "hot rodded" the starship.
     He grinned, knocking free the sugarcoating on his teeth.
"Engage, my hyperactive thyroid!"  He punched in the engines and
the Enterprise stretched as it never had before, *snapping* up to
Warp Nine in a fraction of the regular time.
                                #
     Picard looked angry.  More than that, he *was* angry.  "Mr.
LaForge, just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
     LaForge wiped a sweaty palm on his rabbit-skin.  "I have
done nothing, lord.  We were closing within firing range when it
simply . . . accelerated."
     "'Accelerated'?  You call *that* acceleration?  Haul ass,
Mr. LaForge, or lose your ass."
     The ISS Enterprise flashed to Warp 9.9 and consumed the
distance between it and the USS Enterprise.  Within moments they
were within firing range.  Picard stood, relishing the moment,
and instructed, "Remember, we wish to disable them.  We require
to know and understand certain facets of this time and place,
this universe, and they are our key.  Our key to vast conquests,
to new frontiers, to boldly mangle where none have mangled
before.  And also, let us not forget that we need fresh meat to
torture.  *FIRE*."
                                #
     The USS Enterprise's computers responded faster than even a
hyperactive teenager, the shields snapping up at the slightest
hint of excess energy.  The first phasers washed over the stern
deflectors, the photon torpedoes detonating a relatively harmless
distance away.  Wesley's eyes bulged as he watched the damage
indicators flash warnings of eminent shield failure, and of their
death and destruction.
     "Holy anti-matter!" he cried.  He slapped at his chest,
finally succeeding inactivating his communicator, and wailed,
"Captain!  We're under attack!"
     The ship lurched out from everyone's feet, causing them all
to collapse down to Riker's level.  Jean-Luc looked up, scowling
at Wesley's tone, frowning at whatever was pounding his ship.
Only SWMBO looked calm, gently picking herself up and turning
back to Jean-Luc.
     "I am afraid I must belay this," the captain said,
back-stepping towards the exit.  "I have a ship to look after."
     "I'm coming," Beverly said.  Soon, she thought.
     "You must stay for the combat," SWMBO decreed.
     "But my ship is under attack," Jean-Luc explained,
patiently.  He was almost at the door.  "I must go."
     "We Vulcans know nothing of battle, of war.  We are a
peaceful people.  Now, which weapon do you prefer, the -- "
     "I must leave.  Riker may have her."  There was a tinge of
angst in that admission, but he knew he had made the correct
choice.  Deanna was Wil's, for better or for worse.  Besides,
there were compensations.  He looked at Beverly.  Well,
somewhere . . .
     He jumped through the opening doors, dislodging one, bound
for the bridge.
                                #
     Spike ran his hand through his 16" mohawk, and looked at the
controls of the shuttle.  He pushed up his pencil thin sunglasses
to his forehead, took out a Compact Disk , and placed it into to
the shuttle's CD player.
     The heavy Bass and vocals of "Information Society" started
to echo through the shuttle.  Spike smiled and nodded to Sara,
who was sitting in the Co-pilot's seat.  She started to shake and
move to the heavy tribal beats of the new wave music that was
being emitted from the shuttle's speakers.
     Sara's hair was jet black and cut in a lopsided pixie cut.
she wore a short black cloth skirt that came to her knees and a
white sleeveless button shirt with the top button buttoned.  On
the top button she wore a jeweled broach that looked like a cross
of a shell and a laser pistol.  She pushed up her Cat's eyes
glasses (antiques from the mid 20th century) and smiled back at
Spike.
     Jason came out of the back of the Shuttle.  His head was
shaved real short on both the left and right, the top part of his
head was in moused curls.  He pushed up his Buddy Holly glasses,
grabbed Sara, and they both started jumping up and down to the
music.
     Spike looked at the controls again, and checked the scanner.
"Look," he said, "there are two starships on the scanner.  Lets
get stoked and take one over!"
     "Cool," said Sara.  "Do you think that there will be some
good tunes on one of them?"
     "Yeah," muttered Jason, "taking over starships is no fun if
you don't have decent tunes when you are finished."
     "Which one should we take over?" asked Sara.
     "I know!" said Jason.  "Let's take over the ship that will
surrender the easiest!"
     "That would be Picard's ship." Spike said with a wink.
"According to the computer records, it seems that he has
surrendered at least four times . . . probably more that hasn't
been shown on the TV series."
     "That's cool, I could get into a surrender," said Jason
     "I'll Surrender!" giggled Sara
     "Cut that out," yelled Spike.  "We don't have time for that.
A commercial is coming up and we have to take over one of those
ships before the break.  If we don't the ratings will plunge!"
     "Which ship do we take over?" whined Jason, "I need tunes
real bad."
     "Flip a credit" stated Sara.  "Top we take over the real
Enterprise, bottom we take over the one from the alternate
universe."
     "How do you know the other one is from an alternate
universe?  Did you check the computer?" asked Jason
     Sara looked at Jason with a laugh.  "No silly!!  The
computer would only give us information that was stored in it.  I
just consulted the script, It's a better source of information.
It tells us things that we aren't supposed to know."
     "Well," Spike stated, "which Enterprise do we take over?"
     "Take over the one on the left.  That is the real
Enterprise," said Jason
     "Ok, but how do we get on?" Spike said flatly.
     "Easy, Spike, we make like we are hurt, and drifting in
space, and call for help," Sara intoned.
     "Great!" Spike yelled while grabbing his guitar, turning up
the amplifier, and starting to thrash.
     After Spike finished the song he looked at both Sara and
Jason who were still bopping to the beat of the non-existent
music.
     "Sara!  Turn down the engines and sabotage life support, or
at least make it look like it has been damaged.  Jason, get on
communications and send a distress signal.  LET'S PARTY!"
                                #
     In a darkened doorway in a little-used back corridor of the
Enterprise, a lush figure lurked.  Minuet smiled in anticipation
as she sensed her prey approach.  Yes, it was one of those
luscious young men, encased in Spandex like grapes in supermarket
plastic wrap.
     A slim muscular arm snaked out to snag the victim and yank
him into her lair.  Wide muscular lips came down to stifle his
shriek of protest.
     For in space -- as one uppity young ensign was about to
learn -- no one can hear you scream . . .
                                #
     (Coming soon, The Conclusion of . . .

          SWEET
               SAVAGE
                    STAR
                         TREK