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                   The Section Nine Irregulars Present:



                         SWEET SAVAGE STAR TREK II:
                 T H E   S H A D O W S   O F   G N O R P H


    Written by Delia M. Turner, Jim Shaun Lyon, Lisa Blanc, Tashana (Eileen
     Parkman), Gemma (Tinker Strother), Rich Welty, KittibearRoo (Fredricka
                            Black) and Jon Woolf.

                Edited by Eileen Parkman and Jim Shaun Lyon




        A glamorous gloom glowed grayly over deserted Ten-Forward as
the doors closed with a sulphurous hiss after the Strangler.  Dangling
limply half across the bar, the victim slowly slid to the floor
behind, leaving a glistening trail of blood and some mysterious
grisly substance smeared glutinously over the gleaming counter.
Glasses glittered on the tables, also glutted with some mysterious
grisly substance.  The aura of menace was unspeakable, but no one was
there to grasp its gruesommness...
        Hours later, the doors opened again.  "What died in here?" said
Commander William T. Riker as he strode through, conveying intensity
through a certain skewedness in the joints and the camera angle on
his electric blue eyes.
        The victim, who shall remain nameless, vanished into thin
air, as if taken by the Devil itself.  Perhaps it was the devil.  Per-
haps it was Evil incarnate.  But it most certainly was weird.
    A nameless victim, whose disappearance would never be known,
at least until the ship returned to Starfleet.
        Unfortunate, for his disappearance might have given Captain
Jean-Luc Picard an insight into the terrible ordeal he and his crew
were about to undergo...


        It was cool in the lower corridors of the ENTERPRISE.  A
coolness seemingly enhanced by the low lighting of ship's night
cycle.  Humming melodiously to herself, Yeoman Cassandra Foresythe
made her way to the Captain's cabin with a still steaming pot of Earl
Grey tea on a tray. Captain Picard had reported a malfunction in the
food synthesizers in his quarters to Engineering at the beginning of
his watch. There were other, rather more important glitches in the
ship's systems to be tended to and Geordi had yet to get a round to
the Captian's problem. Thus, the yeoman -- knowing how the Captain
enjoyed his tea before retiring -- had volunteered to make a pot for
him and see to it that it got to his quarters.
        As she approached his door, Cassandra gave in to temptation.
That tea smelled so delicious and reminded her of almond candy which
was her one vice. She could resist it no longer. Carefully balancing
the tray in one hand she lifted the bone china cup to her full lips
and took a quick swallow. To cover her little indescretion Yeoman
Foresythe refilled the cup and then touched the door chime.
       "Come," came that distinctive voice and the door swished open.
       "Good evening, Captain Picard!" she said brightly as she
entered. Her smile transformed into a look of astonishment as her
hand went for her own throat and she stumbled. The tray hit the floor
with a silver clatter and the sound of breaking crockery. She saw
Picard take a step in her direction even as his hand slapped his com
insignia.
        "Doct-ahr Chrushah! Medical Emergency!"
        Cassandra Foresythe's last mournful thought was that she had
spilled the Captain's tea.


        In all of her years as a physician, Doctor Crusher had seen
nothing like this.  she had been so involved in her own thoughts that
she had forgotten to tell Captain Picard how the Yeoman was.  Captain
Picard sensed something was wrong and gently touched Doctor Crusher
on the arm as she was on her way out of his quarters to go to sick
bay.  She turned towards the Captain looking very perplexed.  "What
is it, he said."  "I don't know, she replied.  Her respirations are
very shallow, her pupils constricted, and there is some internal
damage to her mouth and throat.  I must do some further testing."
"Very well doctor; please keep me informed."
        Back in sick bay the prognosis of the young Yeoman did not
look good. Dr. Crusher could find no virus, or bacteria which she
knew she would not. She knew that whatever it was had been ingested.
It was obvious by the damage done to the mouth, but she could find no
chemical traces of anything.  Whatever it was it was now attacking
the Yeoman's lungs, heart and kidneys.  She wearily got up from her
desk and stretched.  She knew it was time to tell the Captain what
little she knew.  The Yeoman had been poisoned by something that
neither the doctor nor her vast medical computer was familiar with.
She checked her patient one more time before leaving for the
Captain's quarters; only to discover that Yeoman Cassandra Foresythe
was dead.
        "Damn, I've lost ANOTHER patient! The medical board will have
my license for sure! Unless, unless I can pin this on the Captain!",
Dr. Crusher thought, in a near panic.
        "Sure, I can say the Captain had Yeoman Cassandra in his
cabin and she wouldn't bow to his lascivious demands. In a rage,
Jean-Luc must have poisoned her tea with, with, Aldeberon Draino,
which is well known to cause mouth and throat injuries, if not heated
enough to inactivate the caustic leaves." This was getting better and
better. Ever since Jean-Luc denied parentage to Wesley, and hadn't
paid any child support, Dr. Crusher had been looking for the perfect
moment to seek her revenge!
      "Tonite," she thought, "The Captain sleeps with the asteroids!"
       As her thoughts grew wilder and more incoherent, a strange gas
continued to seep from the air-vents of Sick Bay. Frothing and
mumbling, Dr. Crusher staggered out the door, muttering about
malpractice insurance, professional ethics, revenge, and Jean-Luc's
bone structure. Her mane of hair (seven inches longer than the week
before) swept back from her finely-etched face to reveal that her
porcelain skin was sprouting glistening red hair, and her lips
distended, forming a vestigial snout with delicate but pointed fangs.
      "Retribution!" she howled, dropping to all fours and loping
down the corridor, her tousled auburn hair rippling in the wind of
her passage.  She looked even lovelier than ever.
       In Sick Bay, Cassandra Foresythe lay, a picture of dewy
innocence and undeserved death, while the noxious gas flooded the
room. Suddenly one of her iridescent eyelids flew open, followed by
the other, and she sat bolt upright, the picture of girlish
confusion.  "The Captain's tea!" she wailed, rose from the stretcher
as if nothing had happened, and tripped lightly from the room to
finish her task.


       When the poisoner finally managed to get the viewscreen to
display Sick Bay, the room was empty, though foggy.  "Curses!"
snarled a familiar voice, and the villain, ignorant of the surprising
consequences of the poisonous mist (it was intended merely to
sedate), began to plot another dastardly deed...


Meanwhile, elsewhere on the Enterprise...

        PERSONAL LOG, Commander William Riker
        Stardate 43044.6
        As recorded in my First Officer's Log, I've been granted the
        chance to attend the First Inter-Fleet Gaming Seminar due to
        Captain Picard's request to the Admiralty.  Thankfully, our
        trip to Amber Nine won't be very far out of the way for the
        Enterprise, and I'm looking forward to some rest...and some
        heavy poker playing.  I've invited Counselor Troi to
        accompany me to the Seminar.  With any luck, our week stay
        will be timed correctly with the Enterprise's completion of
        its mission to Gamma Thiopa III.

        Riker looked carefully at the computer simulator on his desk,
his mind ignoring the continual chiming of his door buzzer.  When he
finally registered, the sound, he looked quizzical.  "Enter," he
said.
        "Distracted?" said Deanna Troi once she'd entered.
        "Just going over some strategies.  I'll be facing Commander
Suvik of the Independence in a seven-card stud round robin."
        "Sounds fascinating."  Deanna wasn't in the least convincing.
        "And you seem incredibly enthusiastic."
        She smiled.  "I'm just interested in the interpersonal
relationships involved in these games.  The psychology is
fascinating.  Here we have comrades, friends, shipmates, all suddenly
moved into opposition.  It's a chance for some very interesting work.
I might even get a paper out of this."
        The door buzzer rang again.  "Enter," said Will, this time
not oblivious to outside distraction.  Captain Picard and Beverly
Crusher entered through the doors.
        "Interesting news, Number One, Counselor Troi.  The
Enterprise's mission to Gamma Thiopa III has been delayed until
further notice.  Which means that..."
        Riker finished his sentence.  "You'll be staying here in
orbit.  A week's worth of shore leave for the crew."
        "Absolutely."  Picard beamed.  "I can think of a number of
things I'd much rather do than a simply convoy mission to the Thiopa
region.  I'd like to accompany the two of you down to the surface."
        "Of course, sir.  Dr. Crusher?"
        "I'd be delighted," Beverly replied.
        "Wonderful.  We're slated for beam-down to the reception in
about two hours," Picard said.  "Meanwhile, the USS Justice and the
USS Allegheny have arrived in orbit."
        "The Justice?" said Riker.  "Isn't that the ship that..."
        "Yes, it is.  I'm going to pop over there for a few minutes
before the reception.  Would you all care to join me?"
        "I, uh, have some work to finish up in sickbay.  We're still
looking into the Cassandra Foresythe case.  As a matter of fact, Troi
said she would help me with a few things."
        "Well, then, until later," said Picard.


        Riker and Picard beamed over to the USS Justice.  Originally
a frigate of the Chandley Class, the USS Justice was unique to
Starfleet.  It had been converted into the only ship of its
design....a ship of law and order. Specifically, the USS Justice,
NCC-9100, was the long arm of the Judge Advocate General's office, a
ship that would travel around from place to place as sort of a
floating Supreme Court.  Of its officers, 95% were assigned to the
JAG's General Office out of Terra, including its captain, who was
waiting at the transporter console.
        Picard smiled as he left the transporter platform.  "Philipa
Louvois. We meet in the most unlikely places."
        "Of course, Jean-Luc.  With a major gambling session about to
take place, is it any wonder the long arm of the law is waiting in
orbit?"
        "These are Starfleet officers, Philipa. "
        "Humans, Picard.  Remember that."
        "Ah, yes.  You remember Will Riker, my First Officer."
        "I wouldn't forget him.  Good to see you, Commander.  Well,
Picard, I see my new command has surprised you."
        "Not surprised, Philipa.  I always knew you'd make it back
into the Fleet someday."
        She smiled.  "Not a top of the line craft, but yes....Would
you both care for a drink before the reception?"
        "We'd be delighted," said Riker.


        A dark corridor.
        Suddenly, a flash of light.
        A cloaked, cowled figure moved through the corridor that had
become dark again, passing the main gangway hatch on his way to
points upward.  He stopped, passed his hand over the metal plaque
that decorated all such foyers.
        USS JUSTICE, NCC-9100.  "...WITH LIBERTY, AND JUSTICE FOR
ALL."
        The cloaked figure smiled, an evil laugh. This would be so
much simpler.  These people were not nearly as alert as those he'd
encountered on the Enterprise.


        Lance Sterling, Lieutenant Junior Grade, newly promoted and
transferred to the USS Justice, stopped to comb his hair in the
mirror, and left his cabin, on his way to the bridge.  He paused
momentarily to remember the wonderful communique he'd received only
this morning from Ensign Krista Lovely, his former co-worker in his
days back on the Enterprise.  Then he trudged onward...
        ....straight into the gaze of the cloaked stranger.  Although
he didn't see him.
        But the stranger was paying attention.
        Sterling made his usual entrance into the navigator's office
to collect some charts before heading up to the bridge.  At this
hour, the office was empty, and Sterling would only be there for a
few minutes.
        Or so he thought.
        Chuckling silently to himself, the stranger followed him
in...


       Captains Picard and Louvois, both lithe and supple, sharp and
spunky, wily as whippets, strode nimbly into the lounge, followed by
Riker, whose thoughts were elsewhere.  That conversation with Picard
and Crusher on the Enterprise...there had been something odd about
Dr. Crusher's face, some hint of distortion, and a sheen on her
opalescent skin as of fur.  Had fashions in facial structure veered
toward the lupine in the last week or so?  Had the Doctor performed
plastic surgery on herself again?  With an effort, he dismissed the
thought, realizing that his companions were already seated across
from each other, deep in discussion, with the slightly combative air
that marked all their encounters.  Phillipa turned towards him
intensely.
       "How about you, Riker?  Are you a namby-pamby social
contractarian like your waffling, weaselly Captain, or do you face
the facts and acknowledge the functionality of utilitarianism?"
       "Uhh, I--Excuse me?" said Riker, puzzled.
       "Justice, Number One, Justice!  What's your philosophical
stance?" demanded Picard impatiently, his brow furrowed and the light
of battle in his eye.
       "Oh!" exclaimed Riker, and a puckish gleam came into his eye.
He liked nothing better than a good argument. "Actually, as a games
theorist, I believe in the principle of 'to each according to his
threat advantage.'"  He sat himself firmly in another chair, his
frame poised.
       Philipa looked disgusted, and started raving at the
Enterprise's First Officer in Esperanto.  Picard loftily interrupted
in Urdu, with judicious quotations in Chinese, and Riker realized
what was afoot.  "Excuse me," he said urbanely, and stood by the
expedient of raising one shoulder to shoulder level.  "I just
realized I have to look something up in the...in the navigator's
office."  He left, looking determined and purposeful, but feeling
wistful.
       "I thought he'd never leave," sputtered Philipa, and kicked
her long-lost Jean-Luc in the shins.  He retaliated by striking her
with a handy piece of statuary, and rolling and scratching they
tumbled to the floor, arguing over the mutual acknowledgment of
principles.  Philipa loved a good argument, and Picard always
obliged.


       Meanwhile, Riker, for want of anything better to do, actually
headed for the navigator's office.  There was a curious shuffling
noise coming from behind the door, and he hesitated before palming
the access panel. The doors parted to reveal a scene of hideous
horror, and without an instant's hesitation, Riker charged toward a
thick blanket of black smoke and fog that lingered over the form of
Lieutenant (JG) Lance Sterling and his pile of navigational charts.
        Riker called for assistance, but his voice was muffled.
Besides, it was too/HARD2/LIB/PROG/SSST.2he black fog started to
dissipate, and then as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.
Riker helped the sturdy blond young man to his feet.
        "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come in
when you did, sir, I....Commander Riker!"
        "Ensign Sterling....or, should I say, Lieutenant now.
Congratulations. What exactly happened?"
        Almost as soon as Lance tried to open his mouth, a breathless
Picard and Louvois, who'd been arguing about something not very
important a little while ago, came huffing and puffing 'round the
corner.  "What....what hap-.....happened?" said Philipa.
        "This big, black cloud of smoke appeared as I was gathering
my navigational charts.  If Commander Riker hadn't scared it off,
then I don't know what would have happened."
        "What do you mean, scared it off, Lieutenant?" said Louvois.
"You don't scare off a cloud!"
        "No, sir, but it wasn't a cloud.  It was....dark, evil.  I
could feel my own fear.  It was terrifying."
        Riker tapped Louvois.  "You were saying something about
justice?  Now it looks like you've got a real case on your hands.
Something killed our own Cassandra Foresythe, and now it appears the
same thing tried to kill Lieutenant Sterling."
        "Yes," said Picard.  "The Enterprise and the Justice will
remain in orbit around Amber Nine.  I'd like to contact the
Allegheny and have them participate as well.  And I believe the
USS Independence is en route here...?"
        "Yes, sir.  She's scheduled to arrive in six hours.  Oh,
Captain, before I forget to mention it...a certain doctor has just
been appointed to the Allegheny.  I thought you should know."
        "Who, Number One?"
        "Dr. Pulaski.  She took the assignment only a few weeks ago.
Scuttlebutt from Fleet Central says that she was requested by Captain
Aurora Darkwind and..."
        "Katherine Pulaski is under Aurora Darkwind?"  Picard's mind
was doing flip-flops.  Crusher, Pulaski, Louvois and now Darkwind,
all making haste to Amber Nine. He thought to himself...."Didn't I go
through this *last* year?"


     Meanwhile, back on the Enterprise, Dr. Crusher labored over the
screen of her micro-analytico-philosopho-cuisinart, thrusting back
her locks with one impatient, slender hand.  What was she going to
do?  The cellular samples from the mysteriously disappeared deceased,
Cassandra Forsythe, were undergoing rapid and rampant mutation.  One
moment they appeared to be a mysterious intoxicant closely related to
water, the next they were a gene-specific virus of massive virulence.
This was impossible.  And what had happened to the victim?  Beverly
herself wasn't quite sure; all she knew was that she had found
herself crouching on the deck in front of Captain Picard's cabin,
howling like a coyote.  When she made her embarrassed way back to
Sick Bay, Cassandra's body was gone and it was as if nothing had
happened.  Yet now she had to use the depilator several times a day.
She was too young to be going through this change, she thought
frustratedly, and programmed a medical synthesizer to whip her up a
hormone cocktail.  She tossed it down, and her face underwent a
slight convulsion which seemed to emphasize her jaw.
     Wesley wandered in, looking serious, transcendent, fragile, and
slightly disapproving.  He was carrying a porcelain cup and saucer,
which he set down on the counter.  Full of a delicate amber-scented
infusion, it seemed somehow inappropriate in the gleaming modernity
of the laboratory. "What are you doing, Mom?" he asked languidly.
"Still all wound up about that Yeoman Catawba Forthright?"
     "Cassandra," said his mother sternly, "and I would have thought
you'd know that.  She was very pretty."
     "Was?" said Wesley, thinking of higher things.  "She still is.
She gave me a cup of tea in the hallway just now.  I don't know why
you're worried about her, Mom.  She seems fully functional to me."
     "Fully functional?" yelped his mother, rising and turning to
face him. "Wesley, you didn't--oh, you wouldn't--you couldn't-- she's
alive?"
     "Mom, you're so confused," said Wesley paternally, and rewired
one of the diagnostic beds with his pocket manicure set while his
mother rushed out.  She successfully restrained an urge to bark
excitedly, but nonetheless her son noticed something strange.
Meditatively, he sipped his tea, and as he did, strange things began
to happen.  The long arm of the cloaked stranger had touched another
helpless victim.


        Later, in 10-Forward, Wes sat, dripping the gooey Pomade on
the tastefully decorated chairs, talking to Will.
        "When will puberty finally happen to me, Commander?" ,said
Will, replacing the fallen Pomade with a well practiced movement.
        The Commander, noticing a new female alien walking into the
lounge, said "Huh? What? Sorry, Will, I wasn't paying attention.
Would you excuse me?" Will started pounding his head on the table and
creating a large oil slick when Quinan came over to the table.
        "What's bothering you, Wes? Is it that Will can't leave any
female aliens alone and you can't find any who understand Nanites? Is
that what's bother ya, Bunkie?"
        Before Will could answer, a hot, throbbing phaser flash hit
the hull, setting off alarms and spilling drinks as far as the eye
could see.


        Onboard the Justice, Captain Picard sat in a daze in the
chair he'd been granted in the conference room.  Deanna sat within
arm's reach, staring at his grey eyes.  She couldn't help but feel
his emotions...trepidation, uncertain doom.  It was rare that Troi
felt this emanating from her Captain; it just wasn't in his spirit.
        Still, two deaths had been reported.  Or was it something
else.  Something totally different?  She couldn't help but wonder...
        The doors to the conference room opened.  Captain Philipa
Louvois stepped through, along with another woman, very tall, raven
black hair and piercing brown eyes that made Troi squirm.  This was a
woman who meant business.  No-nonsense.  Complete authority over
everything she surveyed.  And Picard jumped...not in the traditional
sense, but Troi could feel the overwhelming surge of trepidation
she'd detected before suddenly permeate the air.
        "Picard, I'd like you to meet--"
        "Captain Aurora Darkwind," finished Picard.  "It has been a
long time, Captain."
        "Too long, Jean-Luc," she answered from plum rose lips.
Aurora Darkwind and Jean-Luc Picard had both been assigned as
Lieutenants to Starbase 44 Reichart, where they'd experienced a
brief...and very satisfying...affair. Darkwind had been transfered
off the base before Picard could have said goodbye....but then again,
maybe if things had been different, he might not have been able to
say the words themselves.
        "It's good to see you," she continued.  "A long time since
Starbase antics and wild fancy parties."
        "You were always the life of the party, Aurora," he said.
        "Ahem," said Louvois, subtly clearing her throat (or perhaps,
not so subtly...)
        "Sorry.  Won't you sit down, Captain Darkwind."  Picard
waited while Louvois was seated at the head of the table, followed by
Darkwind at the other side (more toward's Picard's end, noted Troi)
and a briskly handsome, black young man.
        "Oh, forgive me, I'd like to introduce Commander Feinstein,
my first officer."
        "Commander," nodded Picard.
        "Commander," nodded Troi, who noticed that the entire time,
Feinstein had been looking straight at her.  There was something
truly exciting about the man.  Perhaps it was the way he looked at
her with those big brown eyes; perhaps the way in which he carried
himself.  She hadn't felt anything like this in a while...
        "Down to cases, shall we?" said Louvois, breaking the silence
that had crept into the room.  "We're here to discuss the mysterious
death of Ensign Cassandra Foresythe of the Enterprise and the attack
on Lieutenant Lance Sterling of the Justice.  Captain Picard, since
your Chief Medical Officer has not checked in as of yet with the
results of Ensign Foresythe's autopsy, I can only believe these two
instances to be related."
        "Agreed," said Picard.  "Captain Darkwind, I would very much
like your CMO to join mine in the medical part of the investigation."
        "Doctor Pulaski?"  She hesitated, then suddenly smiled.  "Ah,
of course, she served on the Enterprise.  I'd nearly forgotten.  Very
well, I will ask her as soon as possible."
        "Then I see no further need for this meeting," said Philipa.
"Adjourned."
        "Thank you, Philipa.  Captain Darkwind, would you mind
escorting me to the Enterprise?  I'd like to show you around, if
possible."
        She smiled.  "Of course, I'd be delighted.  Feinstein, return
to the Allegheny."
        "Uh...I'd like to go with him, Captain," Troi said.  "I'd
like to visit Doctor Pulaski, if you don't mind."
        Picard nodded, then led Darkwind off on one arm (the sight of
which, Troi noted, made Philipa very tense.)  Troi escorted Feinstein
away, while Philipa followed the two captains.  The five were just
about to round the corner to the turbolift when all of a sudden...
        RED ALERT!  RED ALERT!
        "Louvois here.  Report."
        "Red alert, Captain.  The Enterprise is under attack!"


     As the drinks spilled, they catalyzed with the grey grisly
substance that had soaked into the surface some days before, and a
peculiar purple cloud began to rise. Wesley, whose pomade (since it
covered the entire surface of his skin in a fetching oil slick)
protected him from the evil plotter's overwhelming poison, leaped to
his feet, but the rest of the occupants of the lounge fell to the
floor and shrieked as one, "Unidentified cruiser of unknown origin
firing blasts of previously unencountered energy!!  Red Alert!!  Red
Alert!!"  And if you think that's easy to shriek as one, try it at
home with your friends some time.  Faintly perturbed, Wes looked down
at Riker, who was shrieking with the rest, and then looked
quizzically at Guinan, who still stood statuesquely surveying the
scene.
       "So tell me," continued Guinan with a subtle and restrained
leer, "Would you go out with an older woman if she had a working
knowledge of subatomic memory storage?"  She glided closer.  "EVERY
male on this ship is a younger man to me."
       "No, No," said Wes innocently, as everybody began getting back
to their feet. "I was banging my head because I've felt weird ever
since I drank some tea earlier today.  My neck itches."  His neck did
indeed, now that she looked closer, seem somewhat inflamed.  In fact,
she could have sworn it was several inches longer than usual, and
there were large brown spots appearing on his...golden pelt?
       "Wes!" exclaimed Riker, looking up at him because he was at
least three feet taller than usual.  "You're turning into a giraffe!"
The long neck of the evil cloaked figure had extended across space
once again.


     Aurora's already firm grasp on Picard's arm tightened even more,
causing the austere but well-constructed Captain of the Enterprise to
restrain a grimace of mingled pain and pleasure.  A flood of memories
was returning to him now, many of them curiously threatening.  Troi
could sense the apprehension increasing, but it didn't seem to have
anything to do with the condition of his ship. One by one, he peeled
Aurora's fingers off and touched his communicator.  "Riker.  Report!"
he snapped.  Troi noticed that Captain Darkwind had her trim foot
neatly planted on Picard's instep, and she was bringing all her
weight to bear, but he didn't seem to notice.
     "Captain," she said hesitantly.
     "Yes?" rapped out all three Captains, all three focusing their
piercing gazes on her vulnerable, delicate face.
     "Oh, never mind," she said, nestling closer to the divine
Feinstein, who seemed to appreciate the gesture...
     The turbolift doors opened onto a scene of complete chaos.
Picard, Louvois and Darkwind expected to see a long, narrow corridor
leading straight to the Justice' main transporter room.
Instead...they only saw darkness.
     The black Cloud was back.  Only this time, it was angry.
     "Back in the turbolift," shouted Picard.  Philipa stood
poised, in cold fear, but Aurora grabbed her, tugging at her
waistline in a scene that would have made fans of the famous PM
cringe in fear.  (Hey, a little continuity is good for the soul!!)
Picard waited for both women, then poked Philipa, remembering the
earlier confusion.
     "Deck Five," Philipa screamed.  Nothing.  No soft,
mellifluous male voice.  Not even a voice reminiscent of a certain
Betazoid jewish mother and... no, never mind, save that continuity
problem for another day.  "Turbolift, Deck Five."  Nothing again.
     Picard shrugged.  "Deck Five," he said.  Nothing.  "Oh, well,
it was worth a try.
     "It's coming for us!" screamed Aurora.  She Who Wasn't
Susceptible To Common Fear got really afraid, really fast.  Picard
made a mad dash from the turbolift along the side of the corridor,
grabbing Philipa and Aurora by their tunics and heading straight away
from the noxious Cloud.
     "Follow me," screamed the sultry, sullen, well-muscled,
moody, restless, wild, enigmatic, dark, brooding, somber, mysterious,
savage, frenzied, sensual, impetuous, barbaric and ruthless Captain
Picard.  Aurora Darkwind was caught in the grip of a violent stream
of adjectives, but managed to break them away as she followed.  Even
Philipa, who would usually be buried under the bureaucracy and
continuous legal B.S., was strong enough to trudge onward...
     Only, it was too late.  The Cloud gained on them.
     "Aaaagh!" screamed Aurora.  Philipa did the same.
Picard....well, can you imagine Picard screaming "Aaaagh!"?  Can you?
I didn't think so.  Picard grumbled as the enveloping Cloud seized
the three Captains like a blanket.  And then...
     It was gone.
     The Cloud vanished.  And so did the three Captains, into the
ether.


       Abruptly, Beverly came to her senses.  She looked around her
in bewilderment, and realized she was in Transporter Room Three,
where the shimmer on the pad revealed only the ghostly outline of a
cloaked figure, departing the Enterprise for--where?
       "I must have had some reason for being here," she muttered,
pulling her lab coat more firmly around her as she laboriously stood
up.  "And why was I down on my hands and knees--Oh!  Chief O'Brien!"
       The Chief, pale, gripped the console firmly as if to hold
himself up, but smiled tightly, watching her for sudden moves.  He
wasn't getting paid much in this episode, so he didn't have any
lines, but he threw every ounce of talent he had into a sideways
flicker of his eyes.  Beverly, brushing herself off (and leaving
floating clumps of undercoat all around her), swept out of the room
as if she had suddenly remembered an urgent sick call.  She needed to
sit down and pull herself together, so she headed for Ten-Forward.
Suddenly the ship lurched, every light in the corridor started to
flash, and a voice like a baritone holding his nose stated flatly,
"Red Alert.  Red Alert.  Red Alert."  She broke into a run, then a
trot, then an elegant canter, and finished up at the doors of the
lounge with a pirouette, a dip, and a split.  A sight of devastation
greeted her as the doors opened.
       A full-sized giraffe was seated at one of the tables, morosely
drinking a cherry herring through a straw.  The giraffe was morose
because a full-sized herring won't go up a straw, and you should have
seen the mouth on the beast.  Either beast.  Riker, absolutely
exuding command presence through every bodily orifice, stood in an
athletic if abstract pose in the center of the room, banging on his
communicator pin and saying, "Captain?  Captain?  Now would be a good
time to answer."  The ship was lurching to the blasts of the
unidentified ship's phasers, though how the heck a phaser beam can
make a ship lurch in space only a cross-dimensional physicist could
explain with enough conviction not to make it sound really idiotic,
and every occupant in the lounge was doing a staggering ballet back
and forth across the room to indicate that the ship was tilting,
though with artificial gravity why the ship would tilt...Excuse me.
       "I'm taking command!" husked Riker, tearing a nubile blonde
from his chest and forcing his way through the chorus.  "Doctor,
you'll have to take the helm.  Come with me!"  And he hoisted her up
from the floor where she hadn't quite managed to get out of her
split.  Together, they raced to the bridge, leaving Guinan to glide
over to the giraffe and stare into his melting brown eyes.  The
giraffe, appalled, stared down at his melting herring bashfully, and
the herring stared back meltingly.  It was a very hairy herring, he
noticed.


        Unbeknownst to anyone in 10-Forward, Data was shaken "awake"
by the impacts and the subsequent claxons. He had been thinking about
whether he understood Godel's work, but couldn't decide. He threw
another 30 multiprocessors on the problem and hoped to have it solved
by lunch.
        While in truth, Data did not sleep, he did power down to
minimal levels during the sleeping hours. He found it both refreshing
and cheaper. But when jostled awake, he often inadvertently enabled
his bootstrap routine and had to go through a full memory check.
Since this lasts 8 hr 37 min, this gives him time to ponder life, the
universe and everything. Since he had accidentally disproved Fermat's
Last Theorem (much to the annoyance of Captain Picard) the last time,
his favorite problem was gone. He was dying to explain it to someone,
anyone, but people would run, screaming from the room whenever he
broached the subject.
        I wonder if Captain Picard IS Wesley's father, as the old
wise ones claimed or was Wesley a random parthenogenic mutation, as
most sane people thought? He suddenly thought of an easy test to
prove Wesley's parentage once and for all, plus show that pi was
really an integer, when his memory check routines finished and
distracted him.
        "Oh, well, I will worry about that one later. What were those
claxons about anyway?" thought Data, when suddenly his door swept
open and there stood Lt. Yar, unannounced.
        Data's head tilted one "tock" to the right and he blinked his
jonquil-hued eyes, resetting his reality circuits. "Correct me if I
am mistaken, Lieutenant, but are you not dead?"
        Tasha smiled gently and stretched her arms toward her former
bed partner, advancing slowly. "Why, whatever gave you THAT silly
notion, Data?"
        "I had assumed that when you were attacked by Armus,
pronounced dead by Dr. Crusher, mourned by your shipmates and
"buried" in space, that you were dead. Perhaps it was incorrect of me
to make such an assumption, albeit based upon the facts and
circumstances of the time. This leads me to ponder the validity of my
own programming where death is concerned. I should like to
discuss..." Tasha silenced the android by placing her right index
finger over his lips.
        "Hush now, we have more important things to "discuss," she
purred in his ear. In the dim night lighting of the ship, Data failed
to notice the black cloud-like shadow which followed Yar into the
room. "Why don't we pick up where we left off, my jewel of an
android?"
        Data looked puzzled as Tasha began to kiss him, beginning at
his forehead and continuing down, across his cheek, pausing as she
reached his neck. "Let me prove to you it DID happen," she sighed,
lifting her head slightly and smiling. The soft lights reflected
briefly off her glistening fangs before she buried them in Data's
neck. Her deep red eyes gleamed with evil satisfaction.


        Jean-Luc Picard awakened groggily....not the way he usually
woke, full of life and vigor (and plenty of gusto!)  He felt as
though he'd been through the spin cycle, or at least a very violent
martini, shaken not stirred.  Matter of fact, if he had been through
a violent martini or two, he wouldn't have remembered, because his
memory wasn't doing so hot at this point in time.
        Turning to his side and seeing the bodies of Philipa Louvois
and Aurora Darkwind changed all that.  Suddenly he recalled
everything, the cloud in the corridor and how he'd been propelled
through a mysterious vortex. Now, he was all action.  He stood up
immediately, performed an EG that would have left all but the most
stolid fan jumping on a table screaming and proceeded to wake Louvois
and Darkwind.
        "Where are we?" asked Aurora, her hair whipping in the wind.
The very fact that her hair was whipping in ANY wind told Picard that
they were no longer on the Enterprise.
        "I have no idea," Picard said, "but I intend to find out.
Captain Louvois--"
        "When was the last time you called me that?" Philipa intoned.
        "Never mind.  I want you to check that way--" and he
performed....yes, that's right....a PM!  An honest to goodness PM!
"--and Captain Darkwind and I will go this way.  Aurora?"  He offered
his arm to Aurora, who grasped it and threw Philipa back a sarcastic
look.
        When Picard and Darkwind were safely out of earshot, Philipa
kicked at the ground.  "Damn that pompous ass!  Where does he think
he gets off.  Oh yes, and that trading post hussy who calls herself a
Captain.  She's probably slept with half of Starbase 11 and....what's
that?"  A scuttering noise up in the corridor.  "Is there someone
there?  Hello?  Hel-...oh, no....no....NO!"
        The corridor fell silent, as Philipa vanished.


        Beverly Crusher awakened in her bedroom.  When had she fallen
asleep? she wondered.  Last thing she recalled was seeing a giraffe
in Ten-Forward. It was only after repeated thought that she realized
she had fainted and was taken to her own quarters.
        Beverly stood up, realized that she felt like a Regulan
bloodworm that had been shot out through Torpedo Bay 4, and lay back
down on her bed. The doorbuzzer sounded, ringing through her ears.
Beverly called toward the visitor to enter.
        "Dr. Crusher, I'm going to give you another sedative.  You've
been through a lot," said the visiting female.
        "Wha-- what happened?" asked Beverly.
        "You went to Ten-Forward, ran from there screaming and ended
up in the Hydroponics lab, collapsed on the floor like a fried egg
sandwich, screaming something about Deck 11.  When Lieutenant Worf
tried to search Deck 11 he couldn't find anything."
        "I....why can't I remember?"
        The woman smiled.  "Traumatic experience will do that to you,
Beverly."
        "Do I...do I know you?"
        "Of course you do," she said, "you just can't see because of
the medication.  It's Kate Pulaski."


        Chief O'Brien, following a hard day at the transporter
console, succeeded in his walk to his quarters....something he didn't
think would ever happen.  Today had been a most unusual day.  Nobody
had seen the Captain, people were complaining about giraffes....all
this, and he still hadn't gotten some decent lines.
        "I have solved the problems of universal conundrum!" he
exclaimed into the corridor, found that he'd rather not have any
lines at all than say something so stupid, wished he could retract
it, decided he couldn't and trudged onward.
        He stopped at his door.  He could hear scuttling inside. He
opened the door.
        "Hello?" he said.  "Hello?"  Again, no response.
        A woman stepped from behind the curtain.  "Hello, O'Brien.
Would you like some tea?"  And Cassandra Foresythe stepped forward,
offering her cup...


       Commander Feinstein, still carrying the diminutive Deanna,
trudged wearily from the Transporter Room aboard the Allegheny.  Troi
was busily rearranging her hair into a dramatic, voluptuous cascade,
and had changed her clothes somewhere along in the way in an
intriguing and perplexing manner.  His smooth, capable arms clasped
her in all the right places, and she looked forward to an
entertaining afternoon.  Derek (they had introduced themselves rather
thoroughly on the way, a process which involved calling cards, raw
eggs, and a duck) seemed just her type.  Tall, dark (very dark) and
his balance was slightly off-center, especially since he had started
carrying Troi.
       "Do you mind if I put you down, or is this part of Enterprise
protocol?" he panted.  His eyes were bulging with exhaustion, but on
him it looked good.  In fact, on him anything from Nugillian
elbow-hats to a Dacron leisure-suit would have looked good.
       "Oh, no, not at all," husked Deanna, slithering down him like
a snake down a flagpole.  "Do you like serving under Captain
Darkwind?" she continued from the floor, examining his knees with her
dark glistening eyes.
       "Well, she always makes the bridle too tight, and her
spurs--Oh! You mean as her First Officer," stumbled Derek, bashfully
doing a kind of Charleston.
       "Green Alert!! Puce Alert!! Tangerine Alert!!" shrieked a
hyperthyroid voice from the speakers, and the warning lights began to
blink on and off in ragtime rhythm.
       "Oh, dingleberries," declared Derek, "I have to dash,
darling."
       "I see you have computer problems, too," remarked Deanna as
they burst onto the bridge.  The viewscreen display was upside-down
and inverted, so it was difficult to read the characters on the ship
raining phaser blasts on the Enterprise.
       "Commander Feinstein!" blurted an attractive ensign of
indeterminate gender, crouching at the controls with a haunted
expression and a baseball bat. "The Gambler's Express has gone
berserk!"
       "The senior citizen's free transport to Amber Nine?" exclaimed
Feinstein in disbelief, clutching Troi to hold himself up.  "All
those sweet old people?  An alien entity of indeterminate origin and
utter omnipotence must have possessed them."
       "No, sir, they're screaming 'Party! Party!' and playing
Russian Roulette with the torpedos.  I think there were free
intoxicants this trip."
       Indeed, it did seem that the USS Royal Flush was moving both
slowly and erratically, doing entirely unnecessary belly-rolls and
hitting the Enterprise with maybe one out of five blasts.
Nonetheless, the damage was extensive. "They're broadcasting a
message, Commander," said an imperturbable Vulcan at the
communications console.
       A cracked voice wavered over the speakers.  "USS Royal Flush,
Captain James T. Kirk commanding.  Enterprise, we're taking control.
Surrender or die!"
       "Some old bozo with delusions of grandeur," remarked
Feinstein, and settled himself in the command chair.  "Should be a
piece of cake."


        Kate Pulaski grabbed Beaker #7, with some noxious concoction
only the Mistress of Mind Erasure could create.  Of course, this
concoction had nothing to DO with mind erasure, but you get the idea.
        "Results of test seven?" asked Kate.
        Beverly Crusher, who was the only other occupant of the
laboratory - especially now since the two had locked themselves
inside without any hope of anyone getting in but the Captain, and he
was nowhere to be found (a fact that made Beverly nervous, since
Philipa and Aurora were missing as well) - shook her head.
"Negative."
        "Damn.  There must be something we can isolate.  We can't
even find out who's poisoning everyone with this lycanthropic tea,
much less how in the world we're going to solve the problem."
        "It has to be someone on board, Kate," said Beverly.  "Which
means it must be a crewmember."
        "Starfleet security scan would have picked up any terrorists
before they were assigned to the ship."
        "True.  Keep looking.  There has to be an answer somewhere."
And the two doctors set back to work.


        On the bridge of the USS Allegheny, things were heating up.
"Royal Flush, this is Commander Derek Feinstein, acting captain of
the USS Allegheny. Respond please."
        "Allegheny, this is Captain James T. Kirk."  The viewscreen
lit up with the face of a beleaguered old man....one that both
Feinstein and Troi recognized all too well.  The great James T. Kirk,
hero of the Enterprise...and one of Starfleet's proudest legends.
        And now who was about to ruin that legend.
        "Captain Kirk," said Derek, "your threat is laughable, not to
mention against every code of Starfleet regulations known to us.  On
the authority of Starfleet, I place you under arrest for--"
        "Barglesnaff!" cried Kirk.  "You won't get away with this!
You won't!"  The viewscreen snapped off.
        Deanna Troi was puzzled.  "Derek, there's something not right
about this.  I didn't feel any sensibility from him.  Almost as if he
were under the influence."
        "Of?"
        She smiled.  "Ah," he said.  "Ensign," he called to the
communications officer, "have Dr. Paye report to the transporter room
along with a contingent of security men.  We're beaming aboard the
Royal Flush.  Deanna, I'd like you to join me."
        "You couldn't keep me away," she said, caressing his back.
        "Uh....Ensign, make that in 20 minutes."  And Derek leapt up,
picked Deanna up, carried her across the threshold into the
turbolift..and they were off.


        Geordi LaForge, who until now had been stuck in the
Enterprise's engineering section, minding his own business, now was
on his way to the Bridge. Nobody told him anything, he thought.  Why
in the world did they transfer him down here in the first place.
He'd had so many more lines up on the bridge, not to mention the fact
that he was visible there.  Now...oh, well, he thought, at least I'm
a Lt. Commander now!
        He rounded a corner, and bumped straight into Worf.
        "Uh oh," said Geordi.  "What's wrong now?"
        "Wrong?  How do you know something is wrong?"
        "I can see it in your face, Worf.  Every time you get
agitated you get this look in your eye like you want to kill....okay,
so you always look that way.  Fine.  What's up?"
        Worf paused.  "I am trying to determine what monstrous evil
has overtaken this ship."
        "Evil?  What kind of evil?"
        "Something has turned the boy, Wesley Crusher, into a
giraffe."
        "A giraffe!"
        "Yes."  Worf growled.  "A lycanthropic poison has manifested
itself on this ship.  The Captain is missing along with the Captains
of the Justice and the Allegheny, I cannot reach Commander Data or
Dr. Crusher and Commander Riker won't answer his page."
        "Sounds cool.  I guess I'll go back and be bored in
Engineering."
        "Wait a second, Mr. LaForge.  You said you were bored, you
didn't know anything was happening."
        "Right.  I did say that!"
        "But....you did not feel the attack on the Enterprise?  By
the Royal Flush?"
        "The attack....oh, yeah, that attack!  Sure I did.  That's
why I was on my way to the bridge."
        Worf growled even more.  "Geordi..."
        Geordi began to laugh.  "You know, Worf, I've always wanted
to tell you something.  You know, you're the ugliest sonnuvab*tch
I've ever met."
        "Geordi, I..."
        "And you're a terrible security chief.  You'd have figured me
out by now if you'd been any good, like Tasha..."
        And with that, Geordi smiled.  Worf noticed it was a smile
that he didn't recognize.  Instead of the normal smile he usually
flashed, he had two fangs.  And with his laughing, Geordi.....
changed.  A flash of light....and all Worf saw was a bat.  A vampire
bat.
        The Geordi-bat flew through the corridor, Worf chasing
it...until it was gone through a ventilation duct.
        "By Kling," he swore.  "I must find Dr. Crusher."
        Worf passed by the transporter room, hearing a terrible
laughing sound inside.  He peered in.  A laughing hyena, wearing the
insignia of Chief O'Brien, stood there.  He looked at Worf, and
laughed some more...


       The redoubtable Captain, aka Admiral, aka Lieutenant (after
the barfight with the blondes and the bikers in Cleveland they'd
busted him again, but he worked his way back up before the forced
retirement) sat slightly hunched in the captain's chair.  His
incongruously golden, curly hair gleamed, his blue eyes glittered,
and he worked his face exaggeratedly to indicate deep emotion.  It
was a kind of signaling system he'd worked out. If he didn't contort
his face, the dignified Vulcan who stood beside him never quite
understand how he was supposed to take things.
       "I'm going to get her back, Spock," he snarled with
inappropriate fervor, and stabbed with clawed hands at what he
thought might be the torpedo controls.  They didn't make ships like
they used to.  The true Captain of the Royal Flush, bound and gagged
and festooned with popcorn strings and cheese dip, struggled
red-faced on the floor while a pair of octa-centagenarians played
poker on his belly.
       "Indeed," said the haggard but still upright actuarial
statistician with the ears and bangs, wondering for the thousandth
time why the Captain had bothered to have so many face-lifts that the
dimple in his chin was actually his navel.  He absent-mindedly tried
to mind-meld with himself, and was overcome with a fit of giggling
when he noticed what he was thinking.  He'd become positively
frivolous after he finally achieved Kolinahr.
       "For God's sake, Spock!  Can't you ever be serious?  That's
the Enterprise out there!  The Enterprise!" and the ship did an
unintended loop-the-loop when he banged his fists down on the
controls.
        "Captain, please," said Spock.  "We are already operating on
what Mr. Scott would have once called 'chicken wire, spit and polish'
I believe.  Wild maneuvers with this ship's Lang-cycle fusion engines
will not help matters at all."
        "I'm aware of that, Mr. Spock.  I'm also aware that you're
playing the pirate extremely well."
        Spock nodded.  "Why, thank you, Captain.  May I add that it
comes naturally to you as well."
        Kirk grinned.  "Indeed.  If the good Doctor McCoy could be
here now, he might start in on both of us.  Why I ever took this
assignment--"
        "Captain, may I be permitted to say, Starfleet hardly left
you any alternative.  They called you back out of retirement, forced
you to take a secret intelligence mission, then called for me to be
your 'henchman,' as it will.  Even so much as to bind and gag the
real captain--" and he pointed down to the floor at the
popcorn-string-bound gentleman "--to confuse matters thoroughly.
Now, if this Commander Feinstein beams aboard our vessel, as he
no doubt will, there will be nothing to stop our capture as saboteurs
and conspirators."
        Kirk looked toward the viewscreen, then back at Spock.
"Still, you must be having a good time."
        "I do not have a 'good time', per se, sir."
        "Yes, you do, Spock.  Admit it."
        Spock only stood there, silent.  "Fine," said Kirk.  "We're
on a mission, Spock.  We must make Captain Picard believe we've
flipped our lids, gone off our rockers, lost our deck of cards, et
cetera.  And then we must commandeer the Enterprise...."
        "Which you will no doubt enjoy, sir..." added Spock.
        "Of course.  I guess I *am* a pirate at heart."

                        * * * * * *

(Re: Kirk's Secret Mission.  It's not to figure out later, it's to
figure out now.  I figure this is a safe way for me to jump into this
madness.  Herewith the tale of how Captain James Tiberius Kirk became
Federation Secret Agent Whiskey One, code name Star Wolf for reasons
which should be obvious.  Ready?  OK, let's rock and roll...)

     As his hands caressed the helm console of the Royal Flush,
Kirk's mind flashed back to a month ago, in his cabin in Ireland.
He'd been jolted out of a dream about the Good Old Days by a knock at
the door.  Upon answering it, he found himself facing .  . . his old
Academy nemesis, Finnegan!
     This promptly rendered Kirk speechless.  It took him almost a
minute to find his voice, and he immediately lost it again when he
noticed Finnegan was wearing Admiral's insignia.  "Finnegan," he
finally choked after downing a Voice Finder pill, "what the blazes
are you doing here?"
     "Hey, Jimbo," the old Irish devil replied.  "Nice to see you
again too."  He struck a heroic pose.  "I'm here on a mission for
Truth, Justice and the Federation Way."  He held out his hand for
Kirk to shake.  Kirk did .  . and got a shock from Finnegan's
hand-buzzer.
     "Haven't changed, have you?"  Kirk said as he massaged his numb
hand.  "So what's up, you practical-joke junkie?  Last I heard, you
were X.O. on the destroyer Hannibal, escorting ore convoys from Merak
2."
     "Ah, well," Finnegan said offhand.  "You know me, Jimmy.  I
couldn't leave well enough alone.  Tried to improvise a
phaser-powered ore processor.  Ended up wrecking two freighters and
putting Hannibal in spacedock for a month."  He grinned like the
demented elf he was.  "So I got booted off the ship, put in hack
planetside, then shifted to Special Branch."  He giggled. "Can you
imagine it?  Me a spy?"
     "No," Kirk said.  "I guess that shows nothing's impossible.  So
what brings you out to see an old has-been?"
     "'Cause you're all we got, Jim.  Things must be really bad,
hey?"  Finnegan snickered again, then turned as serious as he could,
which wasn't very. "Anyhow, we've been getting reports of funny
things going on at the Starbase on Amber Nine.  Too many people have
been going leave-happy.  Some of 'em turn up dead.  Others turn into
animals.  Rumors of a mysterious stranger lurking around.  And a few
ships leaving there have just disappeared Into the Wild Black
Yonder."  Again that demented grin crawled across his face ... then
crawled off again, leaving behind the closest thing to a grim
expression Finnegan's face could produce.
     "We in the Special Branch figure there's only one guy savvy
enough to figure this out and foolish enough to try it.  You, Jimbo.
Spock is on his way from Vulcan, he'll join you aboard ship.  And
we're trying to find Monty Scott and the rest of your crew of crazies
to back you up.  Wouldn't count on getting them, though.  So far,
it's just you and Spocko."
     Kirk nodded once.  He would have nodded more, but the first one
gave him a crick in his neck.  "So what ship have I got?"
     "The Royal Flush," Finnegan answered.  "We've given her a fast
refit, wired the warp drive back together, repaired the weapons
systems.  We even managed a cloaking device that actually works more
than a third of the time."  Again that wild Irish grin.  "This one
works almost half the time.  So off you go to Amber Nine.  The
Enterprise is on her way there right now, and you'll be able to join
forces with her.  Who knows, if you're lucky you might be able to
grab her and leave Picard to handle the Flush."
     Finnegan handed Kirk a communicator.  "Just signal 'em, and
they'll beam you aboard.  Then clobber the regular skipper, and she's
all yours."
     Kirk did so, but as he did a thought made its way through his
aged brain. "Finnegan," he asked, "if you burned two freighters and
got booted into Special Branch, what are you doing with admiral's
stars?"
     "Oh, those?"  Finnegan shrugged.  "I stole 'em." And the
transporter engaged and whisked the Old Man away to his new command.

                          * * * * * *

     Chief O'Brien, or what still remained of Chief O'Brien under the
matted, dingy spotted pelt and the toothy rictus grin of an overfed
hyena, trotted down the corridor, nervously sniffing at the air and
flinching at stray noises.  There had to be carrion somewhere in this
cave, even if he couldn't smell any.  A falsetto scream came from an
open door, and he cringed and bared his fangs, but when nothing
attacked, he scuttled forward and peered inside.
     There was going to be carrion there soon, he saw with delight,
because a fascinating battle was underway between two of the
two-legged creatures that infested this cave.  One, blonde but with
properly pointed teeth, appeared to be trying to bring down another
by the neck, but her prey was struggling.  He also didn't smell like
food.
     "Tasha, please!" bleated the victim, bashing his assailant
against one wall and then another.  "This is not how I understood our
relationship. Was I in error?  In what way can I correct this
misunderstanding?" and he spun around, spinning the attacker in a
blinding blur.
      "MRRRRFFGRR," grated the zombie vampire were-Tasha.  She didn't
let go.  She couldn't. Data's highly advanced synthetic skin was
self-sealing for small punctures, and her fangs were just the right
cross-section.
       O'Brien barked.  The struggling pair froze and stared at him,
one out of the corner of her blood-red eyes, one with innocent amber
ones. O'Brien began to laugh, as was his nature, and the weird noise
echoed through the ship.  Before the unbelieving hyena's eyes, the
two creatures began to change...


     Feinstein and Troi (who was only along for the ride) stepped to
the transporter aboard the Allegheny, and Feinstein snapped to his
away team, "Phasers on stun!  And don't hurt any of the old geezers
if you don't have to."  He seized Deanna, planted a burning kiss on
her (magenta today) rich lips, and chests heaving passionately, they
disappeared and reappeared on the bridge of the Royal Flush, which
was deserted. Somewhere in transit, Deanna had changed clothes again,
and now was in a skintight burnoose with a deep V-neck.  She looked
stunning.  It was her equivalent of the phasers.  The away team drew
their phasers and scanned the area, but nothing seemed to be
happening.  "Commander!" barked the Allegheny's security chief, "The
computer's saying something."  They listened.
       "Eight, seven, six, five..." said a deep voice from the
speakers.
       "Allegheny!" screamed Feinstein.  "Get us out of here!
They've set the self-destruct!"  But it was too late.
       "...three, two, one...Happy New Year!" screamed the computer,
and blew kazoos and paper streamers out of every available opening.
The senior citizens (except for the two were responsible, who had
beamed off the instant the invaders arrived) poured back onto the
bridge, embraced up Derek and Deanna, and screamed, "Party!  Party!
Party!"
       "Oh, what the heck," said Derek urbanely, covered with
confetti, and leapt into the fray, dragging the doubtful Counselor
with him.


       In Ten-Forward, only Guinan and Wesley the were-giraffe were
left. Everybody had rushed out when General Quarters were sounded,
making an inordinate amount of noise in which bleats, brays, caws,
and howls were mixed. The lovely Cassandra Foresythe worked fast, and
half the crew had been affected by her tea.  Guinan was staring into
the afflicted boy's eyes, which were very large and very brown.  And
very high up.  It was hard on Guinan's neck. Suddenly, she realized
that the eyes were coming down to her level.  Was he becoming only a
boy again?  Kind of a shame, she'd been looking forward to a giraffe.
After a few hundred years of knocking around the galaxy, variety had
become the spice of her life.
       But no...He continued to shrink, and finally she sat at the
table staring at a hamster.  A very cute and serious hamster, but a
hamster nonetheless.  "No matter what Jerry Penacoli is supposed to
have done, <joke for Philadelphia residents only> it's not my style,"
she said, got up, and went back behind the bar.  The hamster pouted.


       Elsewhere...aboard the Justice, the evil, vile, loathesome,
despicable, rosy-cheeked, scum-sucking, finger-licking cloaked figure
wrung its hands in despair.  Every member of the ship's complement of
lawyers had screamed in delight, packed a briefcase, and beamed out
to ambulance-chase once the Enterprise was attacked. The only human
left on the ship was the pathetic and confused (if noble-browed,
wholesome, healthy, broad-chested, virtuous, and attractive) Lance
Sterling, who was staggering around on the recreation deck hooting
"Krista!  Krista!" in a poor imitation of an allasomorph hoot.
Cassandra Foresythe was wasting the precious lycanthropic tea aboard
the Enterprise, the black cloud had taken off on its own, and NOTHING
was working the way it had been planned.  The cloaked plotter
activated the transporter beam, and as it shimmered out of sight, it
threw back its hood. It was...It was...Oh my stars and garters, it
was...Sorry. Disappeared before I got a chance to see who it
was.


       Meanwhile, in the Enterprise Sick Bay, Kate Pulaski held up
beaker number 479, said, "This should be it," and drank it down. As
she did, a bat shot out of an air vent like a bat out of h**l, and
unearthly laughter echoed outside.  Kate began to change. "No, I
guess that wasn't it," she remarked dryly, and licked her paw.
     Beverly emerged from her isolation lab, looking around
quizzically for any sign of Kate Pulaski.  Seeing none, she assumed
Pulaski had popped off for a quick drink in Ten-Forward and returned
to her work.  She failed to notice the dark stranger, looming in the
shadows, that followed her back to the lab...


     Will Riker stepped onto the bridge....and stopped dead in his
tracks. The Enterprise was orbiting Amber Nine.  It had been attacked
only hours before.  The USS Justice and USS Allegheny weren't
answering their calls.  And a former Starfleet hero was bent on
destroying them.  So, what Riker saw on the bridge should have been
impossible.
     It was empty.
     Or, at least....almost.
     "Stay where you are, Commander."  A man Riker recognized as Jim
Kirk stepped from the shadows, followed by a tall Vulcan who could
only have been Spock.  "I don't want to hurt you."
     "You're forgetting your oath, sir," said Riker.  "Besides, you
can't hurt me.  I'm Commander William T. Riker of the USS
Enterprise."
     "So what?  I'm Captain James T. Kirk, formerly of the
Enterprise!"
     "I know that.  I also know that you're breaking your oath to
Starfleet. Sir, you're one of my heroes.  I can't believe that you
would have broken your word."  He saw Spock approach him.  "Stay
away, Mr. Spock."
     "It's the only way to be sure," said Spock, curiously to Kirk.
     "I know," Kirk acknowledged.
     To Riker's eternal confusion, Spock stepped toward him, raising
his hand. He placed his fingers on Riker's head....and for a brief
time, both were oblivious to the world around them.  Then...
     "He is still with us, Captain."  Spock turned to Riker.  "I'm
sorry, Commander, but a Vulcan mind meld was the only way to be
certain..."
     "Certain of what?"
     Kirk lowered his phaser, pulled out a photo-ID card from his
tunic.  Spock did the same.  "We're with Federation Special
Security," said Kirk.  "We're on a mission to determine strange
instances on Amber Nine.  It looks, though, that we're a little
late."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Haven't you heard?  Half your crew has been turned into
animals.  Someone broke into Station Tango Sierra last month and
stole a revolutionary new drug. When used on animals, it enhances
their intelligence, makes them capable of learning new things much
easier.  The scientists were attempting to enhance some of the higher
life forms in a selective breeding experiment. However, when used on
humanoids, the drug is much more unpredictable.  At full strength
injected into the body, it is enough to kill....but it now appears
that when diluted, as in food or drink, it merely changes their
metabolic and genetic structure."
     "In simple language, Commander," added Spock, "it turns them
into animals. The drug was originally discovered on Daled Four--"
     "The homeworld of Salia....and the allasomorphs!"  Riker was
incredulous.
     "Exactly.  We're unable to discover exactly how it was stolen,
but we DO have a clue as to whom."  Kirk set a document down on the
OPS station, and Riker leaned over to read it.  "Intelligence says
that a small scout vessel docked at Station Tango Sierra a week
before the drug was stolen.  Since Tango is such a massive space
station with ships coming and going all the time, no one put two and
two together until recently.  Now, the scout vessel was illegally
marked, using forged registration.  We managed to clear through the
red tape...and found something remarkable.  The engines for the
vessel needed a consignment of terrilium...which no vessel known to
the Federation needs."
     "Meaning?"
     Kirk shook his head.  "There's only one race in our history that
needed terrilium.  The Vegan Tyranny."
     "I remember reading about them.  The Vegans disappeared in the
early 21st century after fighting a brutal war with the Andorians...
and when they vanished, they took almost all of their remains with
them.  The Andorians believed that the race was cybernetic in origin,
part machine, part man.  They were part of an Empire that ravaged
many parts of the galaxy."
     Spock spoke up.  "We believe that we know who is responsible
because of this, but we need proof.  We need your help, Commander.
Your Captain has disappeared along with Captains Louvois and
Darkwind, and we believe that they are being held somewhere."
     "You have it, but....how much danger are we in?"
     "One heck of a lot," said Kirk.  "Come, we have much work to
do."


     Beverly sensed that someone was watching her the moment she
entered the lab.  With a heave, she leapt backwards, turned
around...and jumped right into Worf's arms.
     "My apologies, Doctor, but I prefer Klingon women."
     "Another time, Worf," she said, and started to laugh.  "I
thought you were the killer."
     "I was attempting to discover if you had been turned by the
poison that has infected the ship," Worf said.  "I have located the
Captain."
     Her eyes lit up like meteors.  "You have?"
     "I managed to trace an ion trail that was used by whomever
transported him and the people he is with.  It leads...you're not
going to believe this one, Doctor."  He paused.  "Wrigley's Pleasure
Planet."
     "WHAT?  I leave him alone with Philipa and that Darkwind lady
and he gets himself transported to Wrigley's.  Well, we'll see about
that.  How long would it take us to shuttle there?"
     "Five hours at warp two, Doctor Crusher.  Provided the Sakharov
hasn't been affected by whatever damage our systems have maintained."
      "Then let's get started, Worf.  Let's try to find Data, he's
the best pilot I'm afraid we'll be able to get at short notice."
      "He's probably also the only one," said Worf.  Trusting Data to
pilot a shuttle for Worf was like asking him to officiate at your Bar
Mitzvah.  It was something he'd have to get used to.


      A woman sat in a chair in a darkened stateroom on the
Enterprise.  Behind her was a large group of books and historical
tapes.  One in particular had been removed and was sitting on her
coffee table.
      RECOLLECTIONS OF THE VEGAN TYRANNY, by Tera Mithrak.
      Mithrak's book was an account of all the Federation had learned
about the Vegan Tyranny, and what few encounters with the remains of
its people had been detected.  Evidentally, the Tyranny had been able
to prolong its life by its people assuming spiritual forms....and
there was one in particular that the woman had read about.  She
leaned forward, to study the book, and then sunk back into her chair.
      Cassandra Foresythe had always been fascinated by history.
      As if in a trance, she started singing.  "Hail, hail, fire and
snow, call the Angel, we will go....far away, for to see...Friendly
Angel, come to me..."
      And a malevolant darkness consumed the already dim room.
      The Gorgon appeared....and began laughing.


     Meanwhile, back in Data's quarters, the two combatants had
undergone their startling transformation.  Tasha, an albino panther
with wary blue eyes, tore free from her captor with alarming ease and
crouched on the other side of the half-darkened room, her tail
lashing.  She was glaring at Data, who looked much the same as usual,
except for several glistening drops that welled up on his neck.  He
put his hand to the wound and examined the fluid.
     "I'm--leaking!" he gasped, turning even paler when he realized
he'd used a contraction.
     "No, sir, you're bleeding," prosaically said O'Brien, who had
himself turned human again in the interim, not that it made a whole
heck of a lot of difference to O'Brien.  Or anybody else in the room,
either.
     "Don't!  Wasn't!  Can't, We're, He's, They're, Ain't!" shrieked
Data with considerable emotion of indescribable complexity.  The
panther, bewildered, shook her head, grunted, and loped out of the
room.  Data seized O'Brien by the shoulders, kissed him, and dashed
out of the room himself, ramming into the door-frame on the way and
denting himself instead of the structure for a change.  "Ouch!" he
yodeled enthusiastically.  "That hurt!" and punching and pinching
himself, he trotted after Tasha, the strains of "Couldn't!  Wouldn't!
Hasn't!  Weren't!" faded into the distance.  O'Brien didn't have any
more lines, so he did the hyena laugh again.


     In Transporter Room 43 of the Enterprise (there were enough
people jumping back and forth at this point that all the rooms were
busy), the cloaked plotter shimmered into sight and threw back her
hood.  The divine and delectable Ensign Krista Lovely, undercover
allasomorph, a picture of dewey innocence, stepped lightly from the
platform and went to look for Jean-Luc.  All she'd wanted was him all
along, and everything kept getting in the way.  If she could just get
him to drink some tea, he would be an allasomorph like her, and they
could get together properly. On the molecular level, that is.
     Her sweet wholesome villainous countenance lighted up at the
thought as she tripped gaily down the hall, and then she tripped less
gaily over a fleeing albino panther.  Its pursuer skidded to a halt,
staring down at her.  "Ensign Lovely!" exclaimed Lt. Commander Data.
"You're looking lovely today!" and the erstwhile were-android, with a
fearsome leer, leaned down to help her up, and clasped her feverishly
to him in an embrace of unmistakable intention, saying, "Did you
notice my contraction?"
       "I am not going to touch that line," gasped Krista, and
fainted.
       Bewildered, Data inquired earnestly, "Didn't you find that
funny?" but she hung limp in his arms.  "I guess I don't have the
humor part right yet," he remarked to the air, relishing his
new-found grasp of the spoken vernacular, and put her down, surprised
at how heavy she felt to his too-human muscles. The panther had
disappeared from sight, retching, when he made his joke.  Tasha never
did have much of a sense of humor, anyway, so that didn't count as
audience reaction.  He tried to remember another joke, but his memory
failed him at the moment.
       Two figures appeared from a side-corridor, and Data squinted
at them.  He couldn't quite make them out - they appeared curiously
fuzzy. One cried, "Data!  Come on - we need you to pilot the
Sakharov.  We're going to rescue Captain Picard," and he recognized
Dr. Crusher and Lieutenant Worf.
       "Captain Picard?  But he's aboard the..." and Worf seized his
arm to drag him with them. "Ouch!" he said.  Now that the novelty had
worn off, he wasn't sure he was too thrilled with this pain business.
And there was something wrong with his eyesight.  Everything farther
than four feet away was sort of blurry.
       Behind the little group, Krista stirred languidly, raised
herself onto one elbow, and decided she needed a little change.  Her
outlines blurred, and melted...


       Elsewhere on the ship, Kirk swung his walker around, and Spock
hobbled swiftly with him, while Riker followed behind, wondering if
it was safe to trust these motheaten old geezers.  Then he noticed
something.
       "Did you know you two have some kind of mysterious bond
between you?" he asked incredulously.  "You seem strangely attached."
       The entire male crew of the Enterprise screamed as one,
"B*lls**t!" from the farthest decks, and the two legendary heroes
grimly ignored him. Riker decided it wasn't worth an argument, but he
was peculiarly fascinated by how they managed to stay just close
enough to keep the chewing-gum string from breaking.
     A few minutes later, Kirk, Spock, and Riker were back on the
bridge.  As they entered the empty room, a sensor queeped for
attention, which Spock promptly gave it.  "Captain," he said, "There
is a ship approaching planetary orbit.  Very large, no identification
beacon, but it carries minimal armament."
     "On screen," Kirk said.  "Can you identify her?"
     "I know that ship," Riker said.  "That's the passenger liner
Niblick." Both Kirk and Spock looked at him quizzically.  "A very
expensive cruise ship for astrogolfers," Riker explained.  Kirk
nodded, but Spock still looked confused.
     "Hail her," Kirk ordered.  Spock did so, but got no response.
He then used the Subspace Auto-Bypass Ship-Remote-Control-Grabber
(never mind how it works, nobody knows, it just does) to get visual
contact with the Niblick's bridge.
     The screen cleared -- and Kirk found himself staring at a very
large otter, sitting in the Niblick's Captain's chair.  Almost at
once it metamorphosed into the Niblick's captain, Wedge Nicklaus.
"Hello, Captain Kirk," he said. "Think you could give me some help?
Half my crew's on the holodeck, trying to set up their own
ecosystem."
     "Sorry, no can do," Kirk answered.  "I have more important
things to worry about."
     "Yes you can," Nicklaus said.  "See, Kirk, I'm driving here.
I'm on course for you, my weapons are locked, and my ship's shields
are solid as irons."
     "Stop blowing sand, Wedge," Kirk replied.  "You carry only two
old phasers and no shields.  We could hole you in one shot.  Your
ship isn't signaling its ID. That makes you a bogey."
     "All right, all right," Nicklaus replied.  "So I exaggerated.
But a little birdie tells me you're investigating this shapeshifting
stuff.  If I were you, I'd steer clear of the whole mess.  More
trouble than it's worth. Mysterious strangers, black clouds, drugged
tea -- geez.  I've got an intruder aboard, but no two descriptions of
it agree.  Like it can change shape whenever it wants."  He gurgled
suddenly, then changed again, this time into an octopus.  The octopus
slithered down off the chair and headed for the turbolift, looking
for a handy aquarium.
     Spock cut the connection.  "What's our next step, Captain?"
     "Check the computer," Kirk said.  "Every log file it has.  Also,
contact the other ships in orbit.  Try to find out where Captain
Picard is.  I'll have his head, leaving his ship in an emergency
situation."
     "'Scuse me, Jimbo," said a new voice, "but wouldn't you prefer
all of him?" The turbolift opened, and Finnegan stepped out.  "Picard
got transported to Wrigley's Pleasure Planet," the Special Branch
agent went on.  "Don't know how, but I know he's there.  So are
Aurora Darkwind and Philippa Louvois. And we'll need them and every
other unaffected person we can find to figure this out and stop it.
Get this crate moving, Captain.  We're following that shuttle that
just left and going to Wrigley's."


       After a period of prolonged darkness while everybody present
waited for Shaun to get there with the coffee and the English
football results, Picard made a command decision.  "Captain
Darkwind!" he barked masterfully, "We must take action!"
       "That's my ear next to your mouth, you scrumptious thing, you,
and I'm going to be deaf for at least a week," she replied, gnawing
tenderly on what she took to be his ankle.
       "Sorry.  Thought it was your elbow.  But if you puncture that
duck, I'm going to bite the damned ear off."  Aurora, repelled, spat
out shreds of yellow rubber, and they spent a perturbing if
stimulating five minutes reclaiming various of their limbs that had
been artfully distributed by the turbulence of the long-distance
high-power transporter beam, as well as a surprising variety of the
limbs of other people, most of whom were still in a transport-shock
coma.
       "Why is it so dark?  Where are we?  And what are all these
people doing here?" demanded Picard, heaving what felt like three
Klingons in wet-suits off Aurora's legs.
       "I know what I was trying to do," she purred, which given that
she had a heck of a command voice herself produced some peculiar
vibrations in Picard's skull, "But you woke up too soon."  Picard
remembered just what it was that had soured their relationship, and
some even more peculiar vibrations took a pogo-stick hike down his
spine.  Where was Philipa? He needed protection fast.  This woman
could be dangerous.  No. Correction.  This woman WAS dangerous, he
thought desperately, retrieving his elbow along with a portion of
shredded sleeve.
        Aurora Darkwind lightly caressed Jean-Luc's back as they
stared around themselves, looking at the others sitting intently in
the large open cubicle. There were Ferengi, there were Klingons, and
Romulans and Gorn.  There were Andorians and Tellarites and Vulcans
and Bzzitniaks and Rutebagans and Gnorphians and Barglesnaffites
and...
        Then Picard remembered that the Gnorphians and the
Barglesnaffites had been to war, and no one had seen either race for
600 years. He turned to Aurora.  "I don't know about this place, but
I'm beginning to think that..."
        And suddenly, everything changed and Picard was dressed in a
black tie dress suit, seated in a plush reclining chair.  Aurora was
in a pink taffeta dress.  Before them was a silver platter, a silver
teapot and some bone china teacups, saucers and a pitcher of cream.
        Light poured in from the window above them.  They were in a
little house with lush greenery surrounding it.  The sky was blue.
It looked like a peaceful afternoon on Old Earth.
        But of course, Picard knew immediately that it wasn't.
        "What is this?" snapped Aurora.
        "Someone's trying to trick us into believing we're somewhere
other than where we are.  Back in that room I saw extinct lifeforms;
our hosts didn't seem to compensate for that fact, and they realized
it too late.  So they brought us here....wherever here is."
        "But....I thought we were safe for the moment."
        "For the moment....maybe we were."  Picard looked
incredulous, a degree of which no one had ever seen.  "I'm beginning
to even doubt my own mind, which is something I never suspected I
would do.  I have this curious urge to jump on a table and recite 'A
Christmas Carol'."
        "Then...by all means, do."  Aurora smiled, knelt in front of
the coffee table with her hands folded, her beautiful dark hair
folding down over her neck.
        Picard stood up, raised a foot onto the table and....stopped.
        "What am I doing?  I'm acting mad."
        "Seems all right to me."
        He knelt before her, grasping her shoulders and breaking her
concentration.  "Aurora, something is inducing apathy in you.  It's
causing you to become euphoric without reason.  You have to break
free of it."
        "Damn you, Jean-Luc," she cried, "I've wanted nothing but you
for so long, and now..."  Tears started to form in her eyes.  "I love
you, Jean-Luc Picard.  I've always loved you."  And with that, she
kissed him.  It was one of the greatest kisses in Picard's life,
filled with passion that could have destroyed hearts on any planet in
the galaxy and...<eesh, I'm getting flustered> <just kidding>
        When their lips parted (you think I can write this mushy
stuff forever, don't you.  Forget it!) Aurora seemed calmer.  "My
problem is that I can't have you.  You're a Captain, and so am I.
The decision seems clear.  Goodbye, Jean-Luc Picard."  Aurora rose
from the knelt position, and ran into the hallway.
        Picard sat there in the living room, not uttering a word.
        Aurora turned the corner toward what she believed would be
the front door....and ran into the black cloud.  She screamed....but
Picard, only twenty feet or so from her, could not hear a sound.
        And Jean-Luc Picard was alone, in an empty -- and possibly
nonexistent -- house.
       ...but not for long.  A flustered, tattered, outraged,
indignant, attractive, panting Philipa Louvois dashed in through the
door behind him. "Captain Picard!" she shouted, "Thank Grod I've
found you!  Is it a jungle out there or what?"
       He turned slowly and with enough dignity to knock over a Mack
truck, not sure this wasn't another illusion.  Philipa, struck by the
full force of his dignity, staggered slightly but managed to remain
standing, which should say something about how she compared with a
Mack truck.
      "Come look, you self-important twit!" she said, and dragged him
to the doorway.  It was indeed a jungle out there.  They took a
tentative step forward, and as they did, the house disappeared and
everything changed again...
       ...Hacking through the jungle with his machete, Picard,
stripped to the waist but wearing a divine pair of whipcord jodhpurs,
protected his precious Philipa from the festive <little party hats
and streamers> undergrowth.
        Abruptly, a terrifying shriek split the air, and an enormous
anthropoid ape (species Pongidae Edgar Rice Burroughs), dropped
athletically from a handy if improbable vine.  Its piggish red eyes
turned red with equally improbable passion as it sighted Philipa, and
it advanced menacingly toward her, sweeping Jean-Luc aside with an
impatient twitch of its massive arm.
       Another fiersome cry rent the atmosphere, and a divine,
god-like, 100% WASP savage male clad only in a strategically placed
imitation leopard loincloth appeared as if by magic from above,
facing down the vicious ape with only the authority of his piercing
grey eyes, the only indication of his fury the throbbing red scar
beneath his shock of black hair.
       "This is ridiculous," gasped Jean-Luc, turning down several
drunken propositions from the undergrowth as he struggled to his
feet.
       "Yes, but remember how many books he sold," answered Philipa
dreamily, devouring the ape-man with her eyes and a dainty teaspoon
she happened to have handy for just such an opportunity.  [quoth the
Raven, "No.  No more."]


       Meanwhile, Riker, Finnegan, Kirk, and Spock all crammed
into the tiny shuttle, and after a furious squabble over who got to
drive, Riker and Kirk shared the pilot's seat and the occasional
elbow, while Finnegan did an absentminded jig in the back and Spock
practiced his behind-the-back soul handshake, looking grave and
majestic and remarkably old for a Vulcan. The tiny ship ahead of them
appeared to be having trouble of some sort. Crouched in the pilot's
seat, peering at the screens, Data was desperately trying to decipher
the read-outs with his worsening vision, while Worf scowled balefully
(or perhaps grinned cheerily, who knows?) at the viewscreen.
"Doctor," said Data hesitantly.  "I'm afraid I have something to tell
you."
       "Not now, Data, for heaven's sake.  Keep your eyes on the
read-outs, Data.  Data!  Data!" she screamed, as he swerved
desperately to avoid ramming two news-ships here to cover the
space-battle, and swerved back again when he appeared to be about to
graze the solemnly rolling Royal Flush.  Worf growled, whether in
fury or the joy of danger I couldn't tell you without consulting the
script, and drew his lips back so far they rolled over his nose and
chin.  The effect was comparatively esthetic, revealing the tattoed
pattern on his gums, but unfortunately he was a nose-breather, so the
noise rapidly became unbearable.
       "Doctor, let me put it this way," said Data rapidly, swooping
under two pleasure-craft crammed with ambulance-chasers. "Are you a
licensed optometrist? If not, we'd better turn back."
       "Well," said Beverly, doubtfully, and not realizing the
implications of the statement, started rummaging in her bag.
She began extracting all sorts of paraphenalia from her seemingly
bottomless bag....a medical tricorder, hyposprays, tweezers, a dry
martini (shaken, not stirred), a dog-eared script, skateboard, a
nameplate emblazoned with the name Cheryl, a bare bodkin, hall
tree....."Aha! Here they are -- I knew I had these antiques in here
somewhere. Is this what you're babbling about, Data?" Beverly
produced a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses with a flourish.
"Whatever do you want with these things?"
       Data squinted at the eyegear and smiled. "Yes! That's exactly
what I wanted!" He grabbed them eagerly and put them on. "I can see
again! I'm so happy...I'm so happy I could...SING!!" He jumped out of
the pilot's seat and began an elaborate Busby Berkley-type tap
routine. "But when you see them all dressed up....You'll know why my
favorite is.....the SALAD!" He executed a particularly difficult time
step and began humming "Hello Dolly".
       Worf quickly grabbed the controls of the tumbling
shuttlecraft, interrupting Data's impression of Fred Astaire in
"Royal Wedding". The former android came to his senses after a moment
of intense irritation at the wheezing Klingon's maneuver. He returned
to the pilot's seat and took the controls again.
       Now wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and with tiny beads of sweat
gleaming on his pearl-like skin, Data acquired a sprightly air of
satisfaction as he piloted the tiny shuttle into open space.  "This
is quite enjoyable when you can't extrapolate every move," he
remarked, "almost--exciting.  Yes.  It's definitely exciting."
       "Data," said Beverly doubtfully, whacking Worf on the back of
the head several times until he rolled his lips back down, "are you
sure you're all right?"  She moved to the front of the shuttle and
peered over at him.
       "Never better," he said, smiling so widely he actually showed
some of his teeth.  "I've never been...I can't remember being...I'd
venture to say it's impossible...that I've ever felt better."
       Beverly, who had been timing the contractions, said
laboriously, "Five! Data--you're human!"
       "All too human, my dear doctor," he replied, his eyes fully
dilated, and kicked the Sakharov into mini-warp drive, crashing the
gears in the process and making euphoric <eeps>.


     "Captain," Spock said.  "Wouldn't it be better to have the
Enterprise rather than just this shuttlecraft?  We could get to
Wrigley's Planet much more quickly."
     Kirk nodded, then mumbled quiet curses as his neck muscles again
seized up. Spock activated the communications console and used the
shuttle's Remote-Ship-Control-Grabber to get control of the
Enterprise's helm. Minutes later the starship had caught up to the
shuttle, and Riker guided it back into the shuttlecraft bay.
     Once back on the bridge, Riker took the helm and set course for
Wrigley's Planet.  Meanwhile, Kirk headed for Sickbay to get an
anti-arthritis booster shot, and Spock and Finnegan began planning
what to do once they reached Wrigley's.


     He held his weapon with a certain lackadaisical anticipatory
panache that only he could achieve successfully.
     "You," he snarled, grabbing a passing crewmember and casually
throwing him against a bulkhead, "where am I?"
     "Uh, you're on the Federation Starship Enterprise, sir," said
the somewhat startled crewman.
     "Federation?" the man, dressed in a gorgeous costume of black
leather and silver studs said.  "Federation?"  he repeated, with a
look of almost malicious delight.
     Spock looked up from his station, a look of dread passing
momentarily over his features.  "Captain," he started.
     "What is is now, Spock?"
     "I sense a malevolent, paranoid, somewhat homicidal presence on
the ship."
     "Spock, it's probably just the vegetarian pizza you ate for
dinner.  You know what onions do to you. Besides," Kirk added with a
touch of regret in his voice, "you know there are no paranoid
homicidal maniacs in this universe."
     Spock, still somewhat shaken, murmured "Perhaps you're right,
but still..."


       Ignoring Data's aerobatics, Beverly stared, trance-like, at
the constellations surrounding the Sakarov, her thoughts now distant.
She wondered what had become of her poor, tortured Jean-Luc. Then her
feral green eyes narrowed dangerously - if he was having a good time
with _those women_, she would have to get violent with him.
(Hmm...come to think of it, wouldn't that be such a bad idea. You
know what they say, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips
and chains...") This pleasant thought was interrupted by a soft tap
on the shoulder from her once-synthetic companion.
       "You look tense, Dr. Crusher," Data's eyebrows lowered in an
expression of concern.
       "I'm beginning to wish you still had an 'off' switch," she
growled, shruggin his hand from her shoulder.
       "Off switch!" Worf exclaimed in surprise. His solemn
expression turned to one of pure joy as he filed the information away
in his macro-headed brain.
       "I feel it's my duty to cheer you up," Data proclaimed.
Beverly only glared at him maliciously, her features beginning to
change again. He didn't heed the warning. Data cleared his throat and
curled his lip.
       "Are you lonesome tonight?" he began, singing the chorus from
a song by a long-dead King.
       "Data! So help me!" Bev snarled.
       "...now the stage is bare..." he continued, gyrating his hips
in a strange manner.
       Just a Dr. Crusher was about to clip the singing fool across
the face, the shuttlecraft bucked, sending its occupants flailing
through the air. They finally landed together, in a heap on the
floor, with a resounding THUD!
       "Nice going, Zippy!" Worf barked.
       "Huh?" Data responded, at a most unusual loss for words.
       "You just scraped the side of that derelict ship with the
shuttle," Beverly hissed, shoving at the very heavy Klingon resting
on her legs.
       "It's not my fault. After all, I'm only human," Data added
defensively. Then a smile played across his expressive lips. "Yes, I
am, aren't I?"
       "I vote we jetison him," Worf sneered.
       "I vote that I drive," Bev sighed.
       "I vote we play naked Twister," Data offered with a grin.


       Meanwhile, on the so-called derelict, Brittany Collins slid
out of her plush Captain's chair as her ship lurched forward. The
surprised woman landed with an ungraceful _thwump!_
       "Alright, who's the wise guy?" she shouted, the whine waking
the bridge crew who had been dozing on their consoles. She flung a
whisp of auburn hair over her shoulder and noticed that the bottle of
"Perfectly Pink" nail polish she'd been using before the impact had
toppled and deposited a sticky pink trail down the front of her
low-cut, cleavage-revealing uniform.
       "Arrgh!" she exclaimed. "Okay, what happened?" As usual, her
sleepy-eyed crew gave no answer -- they were oblivious to everything,
as they preferred to be.
       "That shuttle rear-ended us, Brittany...ur...I mean, Captain,"
said a mysteriously chipped Ensign.
       "Why, the nerve..." she growled, becoming more angry and
shrill by the moment.
       "That's a shuttle from the U.S.S. Enterprise."
       "So??" Brittany retorted.
       "Well, the Enterprise is a fine ship -- best in Starfleet,"
the Ensign continued.
       "That piece of junk dented my spaceship," she screeched. Fire
all phasers at that grey menace!!"
       "Yes, Ma'am!" grinned Gunther, her over-sized Andorian
Security Chief.
       "Fire! Fire! Fire!!"
       "Um, Captain," the strange Ensign hedged.
       "What? What? What?!"
       "We don't have any phasers, or other weapons, for that matter.
Remember?" He smiled calmly and handed her a cup of tea to soothe her
nerves.
       "Oh...yeah. Gunther, do we have a transporter?" she asked,
sipping the tea and regaining her composure.
       "Last time I looked we did, Ma'am."
       "Okay -- good. You go down and beam those blaggards aboard and
detain them. They're not getting away without paying for the
damages."
       "Yes, Captain. It's head-cracking time," the huge Andorian
smiled. He turned and rushed to the turbolift doors, promptly
smashing right into them.
       "I really must get that fixed someday," Captain Collins
remarked. "Oh, well, maybe I can add it to the charges we foist off
on Starfleet." She took another sip of the strangely heady tea. "And
thank you for the tea, Ensign..." She turned to find the young man
gone and only the barest wisp of a black cloud fading away.


       Back on the Sakarov, Data, Beverly and Worf had managed to
untangle themselves and climbed back into their seats, with Beverly
in the pilot's seat. Just as she was about to speed out of the sector
and head for Wrigley's Pleasure Planet to rescue her beloved
Jean-Luc, a strange but familiar sensation flowed over their
bodies...
       ...And they appeared on the transporter pad of the Grand
Voyager. Before they could focus on their new environment, several
pairs of hands grabbed them and began to drag them away. Worf
struggled mightly against Gunther and lost, a new experience for the
Klingon. Data was definitely rethinking his newly-found appreciation
of the sensation of pain.
       "Now what??" Beverly growled, beginning to look a little long
in the tooth.


       Elsewhere on the Grand Voyager, Science Officer T'kai was
staring at her assistant, who had just been engulfed by a large black
cloud. "Most interesting," she mused, torn between her Vulcan need to
study the phenomenon and her Romulan desire to fight the intruder off
with her bare hands. The indecision kept her motionless.
       The cloud, chuckling evilly, released the hapless scientist,
leaving him scuttling across the deck in search of a convenient
mousehole. "Perhaps I should report this to the Captain," T'kai
thought aloud. She turned to a nearby com panel. "T'kai to Captain
Coll..." she began. Her report became a series of hisses and miaows
as the cloud surrounded her. With one last laugh, the mysterious
assailant left the Grand Voyager. T'kai began chasing her associate.
       "T'kai? T'kai? Did you call me? Where are you?" the com panel
squawked as Brittany tried to understand the message. "I'm getting
tired of all of this nonsense and I have a migrane. Lieutenant T'Kai!
Report to my office immediately!!!" The com panel shut off with a
resounding CLICK! T'kai released the mouse's tail, purred a response
to Brittany's order and left the lab, heading for the Captain's
office.


       Gunther and his security team marched the confused Enterprise
trio down one of the merchant ship's cramped corridors toward the
Captain's office. Suddenly, one of the team "ack-gacked" and turned
into a wart-covered toad.
       "You've been contaminated, too," Beverly said. "Why don't you
let us go and we'll try to help you find a cure."
       "Nice try, beautiful, but..." Gunther's reply was cut short by
the appearence of black cat.
       The feline crossed the floor in front of the Enterprise
officers, pausing to twine its lithe body through, in, and around
Data's legs. Still looped about the hapless were-android, the cat
began to transform back into an exotic-looking halfbreed woman.
T'kai, suddenly aware of her position, and liking it very much,
paused in her change to undress Data with her violet eyes, while just
the tip of her tongue ran laciviously over her lips. She tossed her
mass of midnight curls over her shoulder and curled her tail about
his waist. With a sigh guaranteed to melt ice, she purred, "I want
you."
       Lieutenant Commander Data, have only been human for a few
short hours, was totally unprepared for the heady rush of hormones
which pounded through his body like a herd of Kirellian nerth. With
an unlikely snort and whinny, he clamped his mouth to her hungry one.
Liplocked in a passionate kiss, the couple was totally oblivious to
the approach of a rather large and potentially dangerous tiger.
       Beverly and Worf backed away, trying to pull the couple with
them while Gunther pulled in the opposite direction. The ferocious
jungle cat let loose a terrific roar. Data and his lusty companion
finally woke from their dreamy trance - their lips parted with a loud
"Pop!" Once again, bodies went flying about as the strange tug-of-war
ended.
       "Keep your hands off my science officer!" Brittany, returning
to her normal appearance, yelled at Data.
       T'kai, also completely humanoid again, blushed a delicate
olive. "Ah.. Captain Collins, this isn't what you think..."
       "Isn't it?" growled the auburn-haired captain. Worf stared at
her with naked desire dripping from his chocolate eyes. Here was a
woman he could enjoy, claws and all.
       T'kai and Brittany squared off for a cat-fight (quite
literally). Gunther stepped between the two felines to try and stop
the fight. Instead, he only managed to provoke the combatants and
they attacked him instead. The Captain lunged for his legs. As he
side-stepped the tiger and thumped her on the head with one
ham-fisted hand, T'kai launched herself onto his shoulder and sunk
her teeth neatly into his earlobe. Suddenly, she was humanoid again,
with no trace of her were form. The Andorian casually threw her at
Data and turned to face his commanding officer. The tiger leapt at
her blue target, knocking him down. She bit down on his arm -- and
was a woman again.
       "That's it!!" cried Beverly. "The cure is in Andorian blood!
But I MUST be certain." With that, the Enterprise's chief medical
officer transformed into a fox and bit Gunther squarely on the nose.
"Yes!! I was right!! Oh...sorry about that. But I had to be sure,"
she apologized, offering the bewildered security chief a tissue.
"Would you mind coming to the Enterprise for a few tests?"
       "Wait just a minute! No one's going anywhere! You're the bozos
who dented my ship and you'd better have some insurance!!" Brittany
yelled.
       "Now, Captain, the damage isn't substantial," husked the
lovely science officer, still clinging seductively to Data's chest.
"You did more damage last month at the 3rd Annual Gala Ball and
Drunken Orgy, remember?" T'kai closed her eyes and playfully nipped
Data's lip while kissing him. She opened her eyes to gaze up into
bewildered golden ones.
       "Inquiry, who are you and why are we siting on the floor?"
Data lifted T'kai off his lap and placed her gently on the floor.
"Ah, Doctor Crusher, Lieutenant Worf. Can you tell me where we are?
It seems I was deactivated for a time." He looked around the corridor
outside Captain Collins' office, trying to correlate his last
memories with his present position.
       "Not now, Data," hissed Beverly, motioning him into silence.
       Brittany's eyes misted over and a look of carnal bliss melted
her features like hot fudge. "How could I forget last month, T'kai?"
Suddenly pulling herself together and clearing her throat several
times, she turned on Dr. Crusher. "But that doesn't mean you're off
the hook. The ship we can fix, but what about my injuries??" She held
up her right index finger to which a well-manicured but broken nail
clung in desperation. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to
grow this stupid thing?!"
       Beverly rummaged through her medi-kit once again and pulled
out a small vial. "Hang on, all is not lost. C'mere." And she applied
some super-glue to the damaged nail.
       Soon, Captain Brittany Collins of the Grand Voyager was whole
again and feeling like her old self. She agreed to waive all charges
and drop any damage claims against the Enterprise. T'kai and Gunther
permitted Dr. Crusher to take some blood samples for anaylsis. Not
wanting to waste any time in synthesizing a cure for the
were-sickness, Beverly wished them well and pushed Worf and a
still-bewildered Data onto the transporter pad.
       With a sigh of relief, Brittany watched them go. Then, to
celebrate the occassion, she announced it was time for the 4th Annual
Gala Ball and Drunken Orgy. Every member of her hearty crew responded
with a cheer (and a few hoots, squeaks, squawks, and even an eep or
two, for good measure).


       Tripping lightly, Beverly leaped from the transporter pad (and
promptly tripped heavily over a scrawny, mangy, Chief O'Brien),
trying to rush down the corridor with her samples.  O'Brien, baring
his yellowed teeth in one last desperate lunge (he hadn't been able
to catch anything for days), bit Beverly in the ankle and promptly
became himself again, not that it mattered, really. With a vague and
bewildered expression, he rolled his eyes at her and managed a
doubtful smirk.  Beverly glared at him, shook her auburn tresses,
said "Hmph!" and stalked down the hall (with a fetching limp) to her
laboratory to synthesize the antidote.
       Data and Worf split up, Worf to engineering and Data
to the bridge, to see if they could salvage some order in the
zoologically infested ship.
       Left alone and line-less once again, O'Brien shrugged, trudged
out the door, and was promptly pounced upon by an elegant lynx.  She
sunk her fangs deep in his shoulder, and promptly became Doctor
Pulaski, though she didn't relax her bite until she nearly tore her
teeth out.
       "Feh!" she said in a ladylike and elegant way, rose from the
supine and bashful O'Brien, and strode down the hall to look for Dr.
Crusher.  Meanwhile, several marsupials, a bat, and a half-grown
crocodile leapt upon the supine de-lined O'Brien, who wailed (but
wasn't paid for it) and covered his head, and Doctor Pulaski was
waylaid on her way by a warthog and several flamingos.
       By the time Beverly lifted her lovely head from the microscope
and exclaimed, "That's it!"  everybody aboard the Enterprise had
bitten somebody else and been cured of the mysterious disease
(including Wesley the hamster), except for Ensign Krista Lovely, who
was just naturally that way.


        Jean-Luc Picard awakened in darkness.
        If this happens one more time, he thought, nursing his
terrible headache, I'm going to get testy. Then he put that thought
into the back of his mind.  He was already terribly upset.  Every
time he tried to become acquainted with the reality around him,
someone knocked him out.  Or better yet, threw him into a dark
closet.  The last memory he had was jumping about the singing
asteroids of Rousseau Five, a place that he and several other members
of his crew - including Wesley Crusher - had become quite fond of in
the holodeck because of its sheer beauty.  And after all, he was a
romantic.
        "Aurora? Philipa?"  No answer from the shadows.  A small
amount of light was trickling into the room from a small crack on the
wall....a very distant wall, at least a hundred meters away.  Some
huge room, he thought.
        Then the lights came on again...
        ...and Picard was surrounded by yet another reality.  The
light on the wall vanished, and colors swirled around him until he
was lost in a blizzard on a planet of snow.
        Picard curled his parka....where had that come
from?...tightly round his body, then began to walk forth, toward
where that light from the dark wall had come from.  He had finally
figured out what was going on...but the distance confirmed the fact
that he wasn't where he thought he was.
        Over an ice cliff, into a deep crevasse, he moved forth
through the snow.  The whiteness around him blinded with harsh
brilliance.  Yet he moved toward the spot, the very place where he'd
seen the light...in that other reality, or one not quite so distant.
        Nothing in his way but the crevasse etching forth...and then
he stopped dead in his tracks.  Or, rather, he was stopped.  He put
his hand forth again, and still, touched an invisible wall.
        "Holodeck," he cried.  "We've been stranded in a damned
holodeck. Darkwind, Louvois, can you hear me?"  Still nothing. He
looked around into the air.  "Arch," he cried, but there was no
response from that either.  This, plus the fact that the size of this
holodeck was simply too vast, convinced him he was no longer on the
Enterprise, meaning that he HAD been captured.
        "I'm not going to submit to this any longer," said Picard
into the wind.  He removed his parka quickly, exposing his uniformed
body to the elements, and threw it to the ground, then escaped from
the crevasse.  A cold blast hit him square on in the front, and he
was propelled to the ground.
        "Do you hear that?" he shouted again.  "I will not permit
this any longer."  Briefly, he swore to himself: this had better
work, I'm freezing my ass off!
        He waited...and waited...and waited...
        ...and the ice field faded.  Blackness again.  And then, from
behind him, where the other side of the crevasse had been, light
poured into the room.  Picard picked himself up off the ground,
turned around...and saw Aurora Darkwind (clad in a LEATHER hunting
outfit) (that was for Lisa Blanc!) and Philipa Louvois (in flowing
judge's robes) flanking a man whose face he could
not see through a cowl.
        "Please come with me," said the man, "we have much to
discuss."


       "What's it?" inquired a masterful, light, geriatric voice from
one of the diagnostic beds in Sick Bay.  Beverly whirled around.  In
her absence, one of the techs must have been tending to a patient,
who was now lithely swinging himself down to the floor.
Abstractedly, she admired the breadth of his shoulders and made a
mental note to ask him for the name of his plastic surgeon.
       "Who are you?" she demanded.
       The stranger strode up to her, grasped her by one arm, and
said, "That's not important now."  Up close, he had golden eyes.  For
an ancient geezer who'd obviously undergone several remodeling jobs,
he was quite a dish, and his hands were strong and commanding.  "Tell
me what you found."
       "It's..." for a moment she couldn't remember.  Somehow it
seemed so unimportant.  "Oh!  It's a cure for the lycanthropic
plague, based on A-A-Andorian blood," she stammered.  She fought an
overwhelming urge to swoon, or pant, or shriek, or something equally
indelicate.  "Who are you? WHAT are you?  How do you do that?" she
gasped.
       "I am Captain James Tiberius Kirk," he said, looking deep into
her eyes and taking the antidote from her nerveless hands.  "I'll
take it from here, dear," he continued, clenching his jaw muscles,
looking brave, sucking his gut in, and hobbling toward the door.  It
wasn't until the panels had whooshed shut behind him that Beverly
realized she'd been a victim of the famed James Kirk close-up.  She
wiped the vaseline and gauze from her eyes, and dashed after him.


        Commander William Riker breathed a heavy sigh, and looked around
the bridge, which was kind of quiet right now.  Not that it SHOULD have
been; it was the middle of the day, normal ship's time, but then this wasn't
a normal day anyway.  He'd already been through quite a lot, and would have
liked to go to his quarters and pull the sheets over his head, listening to
some soft music and maybe looking at a few luscious babes on the holo-screen,
but alas, that was not to be.
        The situation had rapidly changed since the lycanthropy, presumably
induced by Gorgan, the "Friendly Angel" (yeah, right, he was just about as
friendly as a Mugato, though not quite as foul-smelling!) (hey, you ever slept
with a Mugato?  You'd know what I mean!), had been reversed aboard ship.  At a
meeting between his senior officers, the First Officer of the Justice, Donald
Maxwell, the first of the Allegheny - that Feinstein character, Riker noted -
and Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, he'd informed them of the presence of the
Gorgan and how it possibly related to each and every one.  To further the plan,
all officers present were asked to keep it quiet.
        "Does that mean we cannot provide accurate reports?  If we are in mixed
company..."
        "Data, don't ruin a good plan," Riker had answered.
        So the events that had followed had been sound.  Kirk and Spock had
been beamed back over to the Royal Flush for some last minute work on the
mission.  Worf, Data, Chief O'Brien and Dr. Pulaski, the best game players of
the lot (excepting himself, Riker thought - hey, when you're hot, you're hot!)
had just beamed down to Amber Nine to investigate there (by sitting in on a few
games, Pulaski thought they could win some information - little did Riker know
that's the furthest thing from her mind).  The Justice would remain in orbit
to monitor the situation while the Allegheny - with Deanna Troi, Derek Fein-
stein and Lance Sterling aboard - would travel to a point about two hours
out of the system....where the USS Independence, the ship that failed to arrive
at Amber Nine, sat, its automatic beacon turned on.
        Riker wondered if a wild party was going on on the Independence, almost
transferred himself to the Allegheny, considered it again, said "Forget it,"
and warped the Enterprise out of the system for good, toward Wrigley's Pleasure
Planet.
        The bridge was still quiet.
        Until, of course....
        "Estimated time of arrival, four point six hours, sir," chimed Wesley
Crusher like clockwork.  He could always ruin a good silence!
        "Shut up, Wesley," said Beverly, seated next to Riker.  Although
technically, Geordi LaForge was his first officer, he was down in Engineering
working on the ship's engines, and Riker needed someone he could trust and
depend on.  So, Beverly, thinking that First Officer would be a really neat
thing to be, said, "What the hell?  I could use a diversion" and joined him on
the bridge.
        The mighty ship sped on through the black night.


        Elsewhere...
        The shimmery glittery funky sparkle of the transporter beam vanished,
leaving behind four very interesting deposits.  Humanoid deposits (well, three
of them.....being called humanoid made Worf very mad....and you know what
happens when Worf gets mad!).
        Worf, Data, Pulaski and O'Brien stood in a deserted plaza.  Marble
constructs and metal hangings decorated the plaza; it looked like a modern
shopping mall.  But there the similarity ended; shopping malls were always
crowded, and this one wasn't.
        "Where the hell is everyone?" asked Pulaski, to virtually no one.  Worf
pulled out his tricorder, examining the area.
        "Sensors detect....no life in the general vicinity."
        "That's impossible!" said O'Brien.  "How can the entire gaming group
vanish into thin air?"
        "Maybe they all left for a better card game," said Data.
        "Maybe they knew you were coming," replied O'Brien.
        "Could be that they don't like androids," said Pulaski.
        Worf glared at the three of them, then walked toward a far corner of
the plaza.  He didn't like this one bit.
        How could the population of Amber Nine simply have....disappeared?


        Krista Lovely, Possessed Public Enemy #1, wandered through the corridor
of the Enterprise.  It was on its way to somewhere, but she couldn't possibly
care less.  Whatever course it was on, it would soon vanish, just like all the
others.  But....that was not her concern.
        Krista opened the door to someone's private quarters.  It just seemed
like a good door to open.  She stepped inside, and closed the door.
        Behind her...a voice.
        "Hello, my friend," said Cassandra Foresythe.  "You know what they say,
two heads are always better than one."
        And Krista Lovely could only smile.


        In Ten-Forward, which was empty, Guinan sat looking out into warpspace.
        She felt....uneasy.  She hadn't felt this way in a long time.
        "I know who you are," she said to the wind.
        And the wind answered back.  "Same to you, oaf!"  And the Gorgan
appeared in the corner....


        Within two hours, the USS Allegheny had arrived in orbit about a small
Class-D planetoid well away from the Amber system.  In orbit about the planet,
the starship Independence, which had failed to respond to any pages so far.
        Troi looked at Feinstein.  "Derek, I don't like this.  I'm not feeling
anything from the Independence.  It's almost as if...there's no one there!"
        "But that's impossible."  Feinstein's large, muscular, black body slunk
into the Captain's chair that he knew all too well - Aurora had trained him
well.  "We heard from Commander Suvik only six hours ago!"
        "Nevertheless, it appears as though....wait a minute.  I'm feeling
something.  I don't know what it is...but...oh my--!"
        Deanna turned white as a sheet.  As snow.  As Snow White.  You ever
notice how Deanna has the uncanny ability to look like Snow White?
        "I'm wishing....I'm wishing..." she could say and ---
        No, back to the story.
        "Deanna!" cried Derek Feinstein.  "What is it?"
        Suddenly, the viewscreen came ablaze with the image of a single person.
Deanna Troi gasped....she hadn't believed Data when he'd reported her existence
at the meeting back on the Enterprise, but now...before her very eyes...
        "Allegheny, this is USS Independence.  Captain Natasha Yar, at your
service!"  Tasha - or whatever it was - saluted them over the airwaves...


        And on the Grand Voyager, things weren't as they had usually been.
        The crew had vanished.  Like the crew of the Independence.  Like the
men and woman and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri on Amber Nine.
        All but one, who sat in the Captain's chair....humming....
        "Hail, hail, fire and snow..."
        She rose.
        Captain Brittany Collins, her eyes possessed with piercing red energy,
laughed a hideous laugh, as a mesmerizing glowing blue form appeared in front
of her...


       Troi gasped, slumped, and fell decoratively over a handy railing, while
Derek watched appreciatively.  "That's...that's...that's..."she gasped, and a
passing ensign goosed her helpfully.  "Thank you," she lisped demurely to the
ensign, batting her large and limpid eyes.  "I have a problem with feedback
loops."  She continued, returning to the languishing pose, "That's not Tasha.
Somehow I know it, Derek, I just know it. Aside from the fact that she's dead
as a doornail and I felt her die, something doesn't ring quite right here...I
feeeeeeel it."
       The image in the viewscreen raised her eyebrows, adopted an aerobic
pose, and flipped her shock of blond hair to one side, thereby exhausting her
acting repertoire completely, but the way she looked, who cares? "Deanna!  How
can you say that?" she crooned in a Betty Boop voice. "You're my best friend in
all the world.  Bad actors never die, they just smell that way.  I've been
promoted, that's all, risen even farther than I ever expected, above my level
of incompetence. Come over and visit my new ship, won't you?" she continued to
croon, strumming a handy ukelele and tautening her derriere. The viewscreen
cleared, showing only stars, several tumbling garbage cans, and a waving
tourist.
       "Now I know it's not her," said Deanna to the oblivious Derek, who was
admiring his deltoids.  "Tasha never knew how bad she was, and if she did,
she'd never admit it."  Derek, suddenly realizing she was speaking to him,
reassembled his anatomy and sat up.
       "Well, I suppose we should assemble an away team, since we have a
dangerous and improbable situation and no particular reason to go over there.
Isn't that traditional on these occasions?" inquired Derek.
       "I don't know why not," breathed Deanna huskily, and they lightly
skipped to the turbolift to put on their invisible space-suits.


"...two heads are better than one."
       Obligingly, Krista reassembled herself, and two sets of perfect teeth
now gleamed at Cassandra, four blazing blue eyes, two elegantly sculpted noses,
and a partridge in a bear pit.  "That's not what I meant," snapped Cassandra,
and Krista apologetically got rid of the extra head.
       "What's the plan, Cassandra?" she said sweetly.  The erstwhile
Enterprise ensigns were both so lovely they could peel paint at twenty meters,
so the atmosphere in the small dark room was heating up a trifle. Cassandra
absentmindedly removed her clothes by tearing them off.  She was still somewhat
affected by her poisoning, temporary death, and other insignificant recent
events.
       "Devastation.  Degradation.  Depredation.  Decoration," she said
suavely, and Krista's eyes lit up.  Literally.  They glowed a kind of ghastly
green.  Krista was just being her usual charming self.
       "You mean a big party?" she said eagerly.
       "That's just what I mean," answered Cassandra grimly, and trailing a few
shreds of cloth strategically draped around entirely irrelevant pieces of skin,
she strode to the door.  "To Ten-Forward!" and Krista crept submissively after
her down the corridor.  It made a nice change from tripping gaily.  Maybe next
she would gallop energetically, or stumble wearily.  Life was always
interesting to Krista.
       One of Beverly's medical technicians, wearing the usual impassive but
somehow bewildered expression her assistants always had, watched dazedly from a
side corridor as the peculiar parade passed by.  The last couple of days had
been entirely too strange for words, and just as he had established an intimate
relationship with a trusting wombat, it had turned into an elderly hydroponist
he didn't know.  Working aboard the Enterprise was entirely too exciting.
Maybe he would transfer to a spy ship in the Neutral Zone, just for a rest.


       In Ten-Forward, Guinan leaned intently over one of those furshlugginer
tables that made everybody look like they were wearing a flashlight aimed
upwards in their undershirts, and on the other side of the table, the Gorgan
gazed back at her.  "Tell me more," she said in her level and gravelly voice.
"I love to listen."
       The Gorgan, sobbing and clutching a handkerchief, continued to babble
out its life story, and Guinan continued to look sympathetic. Guinan, the truth
be told, came from a race of audiophilic perverts of great ingenuity, and there
were members of her race wherever there was irregular sexual conduct and the
urge to talk about it.
       When the Gorgan had purged itself of all its filthy secrets, massive
misdeeds, and several really embarrassing faux pas, all that was left on the
chair was a meek puddle of protoplasm.  Confession might be good for human
souls, but for Gorgans it was poison--without evil and guilt, there wasn't any
there there.  Guinan blandly regarded the pool of pseudo-cellular matter,
signaled the maintenance mechanism to suck it up and spit it out into space,
and sighed.  Since the lycanthropic poison had ceased to exert its fearsome
power, things had quieted down in Ten-Forward. No matter, this was the
Enterprise.  Something was bound to happen soon.
       Abruptly, Ensign Krista Lovely, now leaping loopily, burst into the
room, followed by the intense and unclad Cassandry Foresythe.  "Guinan, can we
reserve Ten-Forward for a party tomorrow," howled Krista, grinding her insteps
into her armpits.
       "Yeh, yeh, yeh, yeh, yeh," growled Cassandra.  "Party.  Maim.
Dismember."
       "Let me check the calendar," answered Guinan, her dolorous face
brightening slightly.  This would do for entertainment while she waited for
something interesting to happen.  "Yes, I think we can fit you in."
        "Wonderful," said Krista.  Cassandra whispered over her shoulder,
"mutilate, destroy, plunder," and Krista shrugged her off.
        "My pleasure.  Have either of the two of you seen Ensign Crusher
recently?"  Guinan noticed that both looked oblivious.  "Oh, well, if you do,
send him down here, will you?  I have a terrible headache..."


        Outside Ten-Forward, which Krista and Cassandra had just left, beaming
and generally feeling good about themselves, the two ladies (ahem?!) stopped
dead in their tracks.  Krista turned to Cassandra.
        "Did you feel it?  The Gorgan has ceased to exist..."
        "Yes, sister," said Cassandra.  "But he lives on...in us.  This is
going to be quite a party, is it not?"
        "Oh, yes."  Krista looked at.....the camera!  That's the ticket.  One
of those shots that would have made William Shatner green with envy!  Looking
straight into the camera with all the passion of the devil itself.  "Quite a
party.  They're all going to die laughing!"


        When the shimmer of the transporter beam faded, all Deanna Troi and
Derek Feinstein could see through their invisible space suits was darkness.
They noticed that they'd beamed aboard the correct place - the Bridge of the
USS Independence - but Tasha was no longer there.  Derek's tricorder failed to
pick up any life at all....any human life, that is.
        Scurrying about in the Captain's chair was a smallish, black panther.
Troi smiled.  At last, she understood.
        Derek scratched his head.
        "Don't you see, Derek?" said Troi.  "The tea worked both ways.  Made
some of us turn into animals, and made this animal turn into a wanna-be Tasha.
That explains the better-than-usual acting!"
        "Oh," he said, disinterested.  "I suppose we should try to find the
crew, too."
        "Certainly," said Troi, scratching the were-panther behind the ears. To
the panther, she said, "Well, 'Tasha', here's looking at you, kid."  And with
that, she contacted the Allegheny and the two returned to the ship.
        Once aboard, Lance Sterling whisked around from his Ops chair.
"Counselor Troi, Mr. Feinstein, what did you find?"
        Troi shrugged.  "Only a flimsy answer to a terrible plot hole!  Oh,
well..."
        Feinstein shrugged, too.  "Deanna, do you have any plans for dinner?"
        "Why, no..."
        "Good..."
        Sterling shrugged like they'd shrugged as Feinstein carted Deanna away.
Life aboard the Allegheny was never dull...


        Krista Lovely and Cassandra Foresythe returned to the latter's quarters
on the Enterprise.  Once inside, they closed the door, sat down at the
communications board, and contacted the third member of their Triumvirate,
already appraised of the plan.
        "It's going nicely, sister," said Krista, to the young lady on the
viewscreen.  "You should cross paths with the Enterprise very soon.  If I know
Commander Riker, he'll be more than happy to let you aboard."
        "Very nice."  Brittany Collins nodded.  "I shall be there shortly.  To
the mission!  Party on!"


        And on Deck 34 of the Enterprise....
        ....the black cloud had returned.


        The Enterprise sped through the endless black night like a ghost image.
At least, it would have appeared that way to someone outside the warp envelope.
The way it streaked across the heavens...
        Never mind the techno-babble.  It wouldn't serve any purpose.  Suffice
it to say, the Enterprise appeared majestic...both inside and out.
        Beverly Crusher couldn't be bothered with that fact.
        She was too busy in Sickbay.
        Leaving Riker to his duties on the bridge, and her son Wesley driving
the ship like he always did, and Geordi in engineering playing with
his...his... his engines, for Ghu's sake! (what else would he be playing with)
and the rest of the crew doing their own bits of work here and there while the
ship sped toward Wrigley's Pleasure Planet and adventures unknown, Beverly
decided to get some work done analyzing the makeshift cure to the lycanthropic
tea in Sickbay.
        She was so wrapped up in her work that she almost didn't notice the
ship's sudden lurch back into real-space.
        "Dr. Crusher," came Riker's voice over the comlink, "please report to
Transporter Room Six."  And she was on her way.  A little groggily, as she
hadn't had any sleep for days, but such was the life of a surgeon.
        Halfway to transporter room six, she stopped, breathed deeply, and
moved on again.  These things were becoming increasingly difficult knowing that
somewhere, out there, Picard might be in trouble.  At least, they were almost
there.  She realized that whatever had drawn them out of warp-drive, it was
probably someone in medical trouble.  At that moment, she decided she hated
that person for stopping the ship.
        Not that she'd not perform her medical duties to the best of her
abilities.  Far from it.  She simply wanted to heal whomever it was, and then
rip his/her lungs out.
        Briefly, she hoped it was Philipa Louvois, and then entered the
transporter room.
        "Captain Collins," cried Beverly.  Riker and Geordi were flanking the
woman she had met two days before.  "Fancy meeting you here."
        "Matter of necessity, Dr. Crusher.  As I was just explaining to
Commander Riker and Mr. LaForge, my ship was propelled along this course after
the crew vanished into thin air!"
        "They what?"  Beverly looked at Riker, who only shrugged.
        "T'Kai detected some strange energy readings from deep within the Grand
Voyager.  Next thing I knew, Gunther and his entire security team had vanished.
Then, the bridge crew.  I was the only one who remained on board."  She turned
to Riker.  "You have to help me!"
        "I'd be....delighted," he said, looking at her....though not at her
face.
        The famous Will Riker Hormones kicked in, and he carted her away.  Bev
and Geordi remained in the transporter room.
        "I don't know about you, Doc," said Geordi, "but I don't like the looks
of this one."
        "Me either," said Beverly.


        In case you're hopelessly lost in this story, Captain Brittany Collins
failed to mention something very important.  Actually, she never really knew
what the energy reading was, but let's take a little jaunt back to that fateful
moment on the Grand Voyager when Gunther and his men were swallowed....
        "Ohmigodohmigodohmigod," said Security Goon #4.
        "Back!" cried Gunther, his Andorian antennae cringing at the sight of
the strange black cloud that hovered in corridor C17.
        And suddenly, it swallowed them up...
        Feel better?  I knew you would.  Back to the story...


        Today, the present day...
        The black cloud hovered in a corridor on the Enterprise.  How it jumped
from that ship to the Voyager and back again, we might never know.  Let's just
assume that it doesn't travel by transporter, or shuttle, or in the back of a
Chevy Pickup, and suspend our disbelief enough to realize that it's there,
sitting there, looking pretty weird.
        And suddenly, the blackness coalesced into a shape.
        The shape of a humanoid.
        A humanoid that smiled.
        And continued walking...


        Of course, I should mention the fact that he was a psychopath, dressed
in leather and steel, but I won't.


       Worf, having turned the corner, found himself in an enormous
amphitheater, a great bowl with what looked like a round stage in the center,
and deep regular grooves radiating from the perimeter to the center.  He stood,
puzzled, for a moment, and then abruptly the entire construction began to move.
It was revolving around that center stage, beginning to spin faster and faster,
and he staggered and grabbed at the nearest railing to keep from falling.  What
was going on?  The centrifugal force of the accelerating wheel flattened his
brow ridges and moved his hairline even farther back, while his lips drew back
most attractively from his teeth.
       "Worf, where are you?" he heard Dr. Pulaski's drily puzzled voice from a
distance, but he couldn't answer.  Suddenly, from a great chute overhead, an
immense, gleaming, silver ball the size of a boulder dropped onto the center of
the spinning wheel, and with a boom it promptly bounced high in the air and
started crashing across the grooves.  The wheel began to slow.  Worf, despite
his Klingon heritage, cringed slightly as it crunched away and almost rolled
straight at him, but in the nick of time it flipped over into the track next to
him, rumbled to the edge, and wobbling slightly, came to a stop.  The wheel
slowed, halted, and a thunderous voice said, "45 black."
       Worf scrambled over the shallow wall of the wheel, ran back around the
corner, and cannoned into Doctor Pulaski.  "Doctor," he growled. "We've got to
get back to the enterprise."
       "Why, Worf, what's the matter?" she inquired with a steely smile,
hauling herself up from the pavement.
       "Transporter malfunction," he said, flinging a glance behind him as the
noise of the wheel turning began again.  "Our proportions are slightly off.  I
was just aboard a roulette wheel."
       "Well, that would explain why the stores in the mall were apparently
made out of cardboard, with magazine pictures pasted on the walls," she said.


       The famous Will Riker hormones kicked off just as the famous Brittany
Collins bootheels kicked up, and Will cringed and fell heavily to the floor.
"I do not appreciate being...carted off," she snarled adorably, brushing her
prominent anatomical features off.  Her shoulders, silly. "Besides, you are too
large for me.  I like my men small and winsome."  She strode off down the hall,
while Riker's eyes bulged.  He felt particularly small and winsome at the
moment, so much so that the famous Riker Grin in the Face of Danger had been
swallowed inadvertently and was now appearing in his nether regions.
       "She was supposed to appreciate that," he husked to Geordi, who was
standing in the Transporter Room doorway.  "Women like men to be masterful,
don't they?  Or have I gotten it wrong?  I must have misread the book."
       "I don't like the looks of this one," repeated Geordi, now pointing to
Riker, and Beverly, appearing behind him, agreed and rushed to the First
Officer's side with her medical kit.


       Meanwhile, in fact very mean, while Beverly was attending to Brittany's
erstwhile would-be swain, Captain Collins searched for the soul-mates she knew
to be aboard the Enterprise, her shoulders back, her chest up, and every other
promontory equally elevated.  She caused several collisions in the corridors.
Finally, after she'd ridden the turbolifts aimlessly for a few minutes, she
emerged to find Ensign Krista Lovely and the unclad Cassandra doing a pagan
dance around an impromptu fire on Deck Eleventy. "There you are!" she barked.
"There is no time to waste.  Have you sent out the invitations?  Arranged for
the caterer?  Contacted the florist?  We have some serious sedition, pillage,
and assault to conduct, and I find you dilly-dallying!"
       Krista, covered with some recently acquired computer-generated blood,
and a hapless crewmember's hairpiece, not to mention the string of skulls she'd
ordered from Stores, looked abashed.  "We were just trying to get into the
mood," she said apologetically.  "And you weren't here yet."


        Captain Jean-Luc Picard, Commanding Officer of the USS Enterprise,
master of the most powerful ship in Starfleet's arsenal and commander of men
and women, sat powerless in a broken chair.
        Flanking him, Aurora Darkwind and Philipa Louvois, both Captains who
held silent as they stared forward.
        "I'm sorry we had to put you all through this," said the gnome in front
of them, who had removed his cloak to reveal a four-foot tall, wizened, twisted
frame of a body, finally uttering a sound for the first time since he'd
'rescued' Picard from the icy death in the holodeck.  "Your minds were being
monitored and it was necessary to keep you diverted until the monitoring
subsided."
        "Pardon me for almost total disinterest," said Aurora, "but who the
hell *are* you?"
        Reminding Picard of a wise old alien being he'd seen in an old film on
Holographic Box Office a few months before, an alien who commanded a great
power called the Force, the gnome stood as tall as he could, straight and
proud. "I am Gnorph, High Master of the Gnorphians."
        "B-but...the Gnorphians were destroyed countless millenia ago by the
Barglesnaffites!" cried Philipa.  "Took a whole chapter in 'Combined Galactic
History, Volume Four'."
        "I assure you, the Gnorphians survived.  We traveled to many parts of
the galaxy, and finally came here to this planet, where the last of us opened
this cosmic amusement park."
        "I don't understand," said Picard.  "Where exactly is here?"
        "Why, Wrigley's Pleasure Planet, Captain Picard.  You were accidentally
brought here....or, I should rather say, you were purposely taken from the
Enterprise and it just so happened that this was the place you ended up - the
last place your kidnapper wished you to be.  Oh, well, so much for coincidence.
It's really a mathematical--"
        "I don't mean to be rude, but would you kindly make some sense, sir,"
interrupted Picard.
        "Very well," said Gnorph.  "Long, long ago, the Gnorphians ran a
massive Empire dedicated to pleasure and amusement.  We created hundreds of
amusement planets throughout the universe; two of them in this galaxy, the
planet called Wrigley's and a second one discovered by Captain James Kirk a
century ago in the Omicron Delta system.  Unfortunately, there are those who to
put it simply, have no sense of humor.  Two races, especially, who went to war
almost immediately after they each met our mighty fleets.
        "The first, the Barglesnaffites, were a race of nightmarish accountants
who were interested in little more than our profit margins, how much money they
could make off our blunders.  Tax here, tax there...it became a terrible
scourge, and we went to war.  Fortunately, the Barglesnaffites overlooked one
important thing."
        "And that was?" asked Philipa.
        "Tax returns," answered the gnome.  "With the money they would receive
from their tax returns, they could afford expensive vacations on our beautiful
worlds.  And so the Barglesnaff Dominion collapsed, and the members of that
race became our greatest customers.
        "The second scourge was much more severe.  You - but not you personally
- have already met the Vegan Tyranny, which was finally destroyed by the
Andorians before Terra rose to power in the Federation.  These cybernetic
warriors achieved discorporeality, adapting energy forms.  With that, they were
able to sneak in and pull the plugs on all our equipment, and our EMpire
collapsed.  They also destroyed our race, and the few survivors fled to the far
reaches of space, to secretly continue repairs on the amusement park worlds
until the galaxy needed them again."
        "I understand," said Aurora.  "But what does this have to do with what
hit our ships?"
        Gnorph frowned.  "A terrible, terrible mistake.  A trap, created
millenia ago to destroy the last vestiges of the Gnorphian Empire.  One of your
lot, a very bright young lady named Cassandra Foresythe--"  Picard gasped.
"--stumbled upon it.  Very simple, a chant that would bring the last member of
the Vegan Tyranny's soul back to haunt.  Unfortunately, that wasn't the last of
it.  Instead of bringing back this one entity, the Gorgan, the chant brought
back two."
        Picard, Aurora and Philipa looked at each other, lost.
        "A very bright Gnorphian who survived both wars," continued Gnorph,
"took to evil ways, and eventually aided the Gorgan in achieving his semblance
of reality.  In return, he achieved something we can only call 'piggybacking',
a real deadly trap if there ever was one.  For when the Gorgan was called, the
Gnorphian traitor would appear too.  Fortunately, on the Gorgan's first
appearance a century ago, the traitor was in the middle of spending his OWN tax
return on a fantastic vacation to Enlightenment Seven's third moon - oh, what a
beautiful sunset, have you ever--"
        "Get on with it!" commanded Picard.
        "Very well.  This time, we have not been so fortunate.  The traitor has
been manifested as a black cloud--"
        "That swallowed us!" cried Aurora.
        "--that kidnapped you two and sent you here, accidentally.  The cloud
creature has also done far worse....he has kidnapped the entire population of
the planet Amber Nine, and the crews of the USS Independence and the SS Grand
Voyager."  A gasp from the three Captains.  "I cannot find where he/it has sent
them."
        "So how do we stop it?" asked Picard.
        "There is only one chance.  The Gorgan has been eliminated by your own
crew, Captain Picard, but the traitor still remains.  And his power reigns over
three people now.  Originally possessed by the Gorgan, the three - Krista
Lovely, Cassandra Foresythe and Brittany Collins - are now under the evil
influence of this malevolent being.  I fear that your crew is in trouble."
        "Oh, sh*t," said Philipa.  "What should we do, Picard?"
        "Get back to the Enterprise, for starters," he answered.
        Gnorph smiled.  "Your wish is my command...."  He snapped his fingers,
clicked his heels three time, said "There's no place like home," to the wind,
and suddenly, the four were in an altogether familiar location...
        ....the deserted Conference Lounge, two minutes before the party in
Ten-Forward -- which would end all life on the Enterprise -- was slated to
begin.


        Riker awaited the wonderful moment where the party celebrating the
defeat of the Gorgan would begin, only two minutes away.  He spotted Guinan at
the bar, Wesley sitting next to the Listener lifeform, Beverly and Pulaski
chatting in the corner about her mind-erasure technique, and Geordi, Worf and
O'Brien teaching Data how to play seven-card stud at a table.  Krista, Brittany
and Cassandra were mixing with the rest of the crew.
        It was nice that Worf's team, which had failed to locate anyone on
Amber Nine, had returned in a shuttlecraft just in time for the party.
        It was nice for the three ladies, too...
        ...who waited for the drinks to be poured, and Death would begin.


     Death, however, waited in the lounge, next to the Ten-Forward.  Death was
iminently infamous throughout the known galaxy (and parts of the galaxy that
were better left unknown), for a slight problem involving tardiness.  Death,
you see, was the preeminent, penultimate, Neo-heavy metal , post-rap-classical,
new new wave rock band of the 25th century.  They were now three hours late for
their performance, and the audience in the Ten-Forward was getting a tad
restless. . . . .


     In the Conference Lounge, Picard, Philipa, and Aurora sorted themselves
out.  They had a tendency to arrive in a tangle whenever the Gnorphian had
anything to do with the method of transportation. The elderly, dwarfish,
wrinkled, wise, contorted Gnorphian perched blandly on the table top, wondering
why it took them so long. Finally, sweating and swearing, Aurora won the
tug-of-war with Philipa, but Picard wriggled free at the last moment and stood
braced against the far wall, ostentatiously wiping his brow with his forearm
while both women glared commandingly at him.  "You humans are easily distracted
by your physiological urges," said the gnome wisely, raising one wrinkled
forefinger to say something incredibly profound.
     What it was will never be known (which is lucky for me, because I am
incapable of thinking up profound dialogue at 8:30 in the morning) (let alone
any other time of the day), because Picard said, "Not now, Captains! We have a
ship to save, a galaxy to defend, peace in our time!"
     Philipa nodded "All right, how about," checking her pocket calendar,
"Tuesday at 4:00."
     Aurora said, "That's good for me.  Jean-Luc?" and he nodded briskly.
Straightening their shoulders and various rumpled bits of uniform, the vigorous
trio strode from the room while the gnome hastily trotted after them, wailing
"Wait!  I had something profound to say!  It was in the script!  Wait!"  He was
adorable, but short and hairy, and no match for the pantherlike Captains.


     Meanwhile, in the darkest deepest corridors of Enterprise (some of the
light-bulbs had blown out there), the other Gnorphian, the immortal renegade
sadistic sociopath Gnorphian, sauntered suggestively, now permanently separated
from his eternally hellish companion the Gorgan.  His outfit made a stunning
fashion statement, a statement made at the top of its lungs and with a hacking
cough.  Perfectly tooled black leather clung with desperation to his long,
gently swelling calves, to his flaring rib-cage, glided suggestively down his
wiry arms, circled his corded neck with a fondling clutch.  Here and there,
mostly there, the exquisite leather suit was picked out in pointed steel studs
(sitting down must have been excruciating), and crescents and stars of hammered
silver.  He'd spent several centuries thinking up this outfit, and he had
decided that he preferred being a black-leather sociopath to being a black
cloud.  Gave a personal touch to his depredations.  Speaking of which, he had a
strong hankering to abuse, mortify, savage, or torture somebody.  It had been
several hours since he'd sadistically dismembered anybody, and he was getting
an appetite.  This immortal evil genius stuff took a lot of maintenance.
     He paused, mused in the darkened corridor, sent out mental feelers. Yes!
There were great numbers of potential victims thronging to Ten-Forward, ripe
for plucking.  A vile and poisonous leer spread over his face, dripping
slightly.  He wiped it off and stalked away, his spurs jingling, his chains
jangling, and the collection of auto parts he dangled behind him banging and
jouncing and ripping the carpet in his trail.


     In Ten-Forward, the entire population of the Enterprise had jammed itself
into the lounge, flattening the tables and crowding the corners. Guinan was
voluptuously slathering authentic Dippity- Doo into Wesley's hair, while he
watched her in mingled terror and fascination, his upper lip lifted slightly
and his doelike eyes widened to convey both emotions.  He was fiddling with a
gadget, something vague to do with force-fields, microelectronics, cognitive
biology, and vanilla that he had thought up this morning. It was designed to
save the day in a future episode, but it wasn't quite finished yet.  Guinan
began to work Dippity Doo into his neck, and he dropped his lower jaw slightly
to indicate I won't say what.
     Dr. Crusher said to Dr. Pulaski, "Is this it?" and applied the
mind-erasure machine delicately to a strategic spot just above her temple. She
promptly forgot whatever it was she had been intending to erase, something to
do with her deceased husband, whatever his name was.  She stared disappointedly
at the apparatus, sure it hadn't worked.
     "I'm not sure," said Pulaski urbanely, having used the machine herself a
couple of times in the last few minutes and wondering where the hell she was
and who this woman was.  "I think you have to move it up a little and to the
right."  That sounded good.  She wondered what the machine was for. Beverly
obliged, and for a while the two distinguished scientists smiled vaguely at
each other, full of well-being and mental health.  The mind-erasure machine
would have been a big seller in the psychoactive pleasure- drug industry, but
unfortunately nobody ever remembered what it was for after they tested it.
     Commander Riker's neural pathways had undergone considerable
reorganization after the blow of Captain Collins' rejection - his right
shoulder kept alternating with his left shoulder now, his hips kept switching,
and he couldn't keep himself from raising his eyebrows suggestively and
twinkling, but he had never felt better. He glowed with vigor, with animal
spirits, and he couldn't wait for the party, especially with Captain Picard out
of the way.  He dared to hope the inconvenient old geezer was gone permanently,
and maybe--just maybe--the Enterprise was his to command.  He stood surveying
the genial crowd in Ten-Forward, spotting the increasingly acrimonious poker
game, the bunch playing Drivel Pursuit in the corner, the square-dance on the
ceiling, and he examined the stage which stood stark and bare, waiting for the
band to appear.  Ensign Krista Lovely wriggled up to him, wound herself around
him, grasped what would have been his lapels had he had any, and planted a kiss
blam on his mouth, then slunk away, leaving him with a goofy grin.  This was
just how the Enterprise would be run when *he* was in command.
     His reverie was rudely interrupted by a harsh, unfair, unfeeling, pushy,
demanding bark from Captain Jean-Luc Picard, who appeared at his elbow and
said, "Number One, wipe that expression and that lipstick off your face!  We
have an emergency!"
     "Why, Captain!" he stammered, "I thought...I thought...I thought you
were..."
     "My God, a thought actually passed through his brain," muttered Picard.
"There's hope for him yet."  He absentmindedly passed one absolutely gorgeous
hand over his head, tugged his uniform top down with masterful presence of
mind, and made an enigmatic pointing gesture at the crowd, thereby fulfilling
his contractual obligations for this episode.
     "No time for that, Number One," he snapped.  "You can kick the brain into
gear later.  Right now, we must find Ensign Krysta Lovely, Ensign Cassandra
Foresythe, and Captain Brittany Collins, and subdue them.  We are in terrible
danger!"
     "Subdue the most toothsome, delicious, exquisite morsels aboard the
Enterprise?" gasped Riker.  "Right away, sir.  You can take Captain Collins,
though."  And he darted away, his right shoulder and forehead leading the way.
     "Wait!" snapped Picard, but it was too late.  He hadn't been able to warn
his First Officer about the Gorgan possession.  Oh, well.
     There was a shriek from the crowd.  It was Riker, who had had the
misfortune to attempt to subdue the porcelain-skinned, delicate Cassandra
Foresythe.  He struggled to draw his phaser, but the sweet young thing had
wriggled away in the mob, and he only succeeded in stunning several Engineering
gremlins.
     Picard, who had already drawn his weapon, was scanning the crowd.  He
spotted Captain Collins, and noted that Aurora Darkwind and Philipa Louvois
were placed along the far walls awaiting his command.  That was nice of them,
letting him have a turn being in charge.  He couldn't wait until Tuesday.
Grimly, he indicated the formerly vivacious Brittany.  Aurora and Philipa
nodded.  They made their way towards her, while obliviously she held an armlock
on a xenobiologist and pulled his nostril hairs out with a fork.
     The good Gnorphian, arms folded, regarded the scene with disgust and
distaste.  It didn't look like a real party to him. Far too boring and sedate.
Well, after all, his race had perfected the art of entertainment to a
ridiculous level, and after a few millennia, one does get jaded.
     The doors to the lounge whooshed open with an extra-special hiss designed
for the occasion.  The evil Gnorphian, jingling, jangling, clunking, and
clanging, appeared framed in the aperture, lips contorted in a devil-may-care
sneer, borrowing heavily from James Dean posters and a little bit (god help us)
from Sylvester Stallone.  "You are all doomed, useless mortals," he snarled,
aiming an industrial bolt-cutter phaser at the room full of terrified
crew-members.
     "You!" gasped the good Gnorphian, cringing.
     "You!" said Guinan in genial astonishment, dropping Wesley abruptly as she
stood up.  She'd been right.  Something interesting *had* come along.
      "Do you know *every* omnipotent evil-minded implacable monster in the
galaxy?" inquired Picard from nearby, where he stood holding the unconscious
Brittany Collins under one arm.
      "Well, I get around," admitted Guinan, and glided across the room toward
the Leather One.  It was kind of a hovercraft effect, which was handy because
there were a lot of people between her and the glutinous Gnorphian, people over
whom she simply coasted with a crunch.  I mean, have you ever actually *seen*
Guinan's feet?
      The diabolic Gnorphian, eyes rolling wildly, attempted to escape, but
Guinan seized him by one well-shaped elbow, guided him gently to a table, and
sat him down.  "So, tell me all about it," she said with a tranquil smile.
Sweating and convulsing, the monstrous being stared at her with horror.
      "I knew I was right to hire her," commented Picard to Philipa, who was
dangling the decorative Cassandra Foresythe by her earlobes.
      But the vicious and adorable Krista Lovely was still at large, and the
band was finally ready to start.  The lights lowered.....and the band ascen-
ded the stage.  They were still in the throes of their usual pre-concert
argument.
      "But I wanna play the rap version of 'Please, Mr. Postman'", whined
Destruction (aka Waldo Emerson (no relation)) the drummer.
     "We're doing the metal version of 'Baby Love', and that's final!" growled
Death, their lead singer.  His real name was Delbert Eck, but he had gotten rid
of everyone who ever knew his real name, including his mother.  (No one
mentioned his mother in his hearing, either, for reasons better left unsaid).
     The band began tuning up, which mollified the crowd somewhat, since nobody
could tell the difference between that and their regular performance, anyway.
As Delbert (I mean Death) scanned the crowd, he suddenly became aware of a
black leather clad entity in the corner, chatting (not so chummily) with
Guinan. (Yes, everybody who's anybody DOES know Guinan).  As the band launched
into their opening set (the classical verson of 'Sweet Little Sixteen'),
Delbert suddenly remembered where he'd seen that particular entity before,
and turned to his black drummer, pointing at the sociopath.  "I've seen him a
bunch of times!  He's our biggest fan.  He's always around Death concerts,
getting autographs and the whatnot."
        The drummer sighed, turning to the short girl on keyboard.  "Are we too
late?" she asked.
        The band played on.
        Picard and Riker stood in the middle of the room, while everyone else
was oblivious to the actions around them.  It was like the middle of a dream;
the two men stood there, waiting for something to happen...and it did.
        "Don't move a muscle, Captain," said Krista Lovely from behind Picard.
She was holding a phaser, set on kill.
        Picard turned around.  The band stopped playing, and suddenly the room
was a scene of chaos; people ducked and dove toward the walls.  Guinan, who had
talked the sociopath into a great bereavement and sat consoling the poor
bawling being, looked upset.  Pulaski, Beverly, Aurora and Philipa, who sat in
a corner playing bridge, looked upset.  Even Wesley, who was telling fifteen or
sixteen unattentive get-a-lifes about his technical prowess, looked upset.
        "You don't want to kill me, Krista," said Picard.  He spotted Worf pull
his phaser out of his pocket from the corner of his eye, and shook his head no.
He didn't need that.  "You were possessed by a terrible spirit, young lady.
The spirit is gone--" and he indicated the mass of protoplasm that the
sociopath had turned into on Guinan's barstool "--and no longer needs you."
        "We've got Brittany and Cassandra, Lovely," added Riker.  "Both of them
have snapped out of it.  It's really easy, all you have to do is want to be
free."
        "But I don't want to!" she cried.  "I want one thing.....to destroy you
all.  Hey, it's not much to ask, is it?  I mean, come on, everyone has a dream
right?  A little fantasy.  Mine just happens to be killing everyone in this
room.  Call it a whim, but I intend to do it."  She raised her weapon at
Picard's head.  "Starting with you, sir..."
        Picard had had enough.  The Great Communicator of the Starfleet era,
the one who talked his way out of situations, ducked into a roll, knocking
Krista toward the doorway.  Riker grabbed for her phaser, but missed it.  The
crowd screamed.  Picard was slapped senseless by Lovely, granted incredible
strength by the sociopath's spirit inside her, and he careened over toward the
bridge game.  Krista raised herself, stood in the doorway....
        ....and then the main door to Ten-Forward opened, and twenty Starfleet
officers in Death costumes immediately flanked her, weapons trained on the poor
possessed Ensign.
        The drummer and the keyboardist rose from the stage, also with phasers
they had taken from their cases drawn.
        Krista lowered her weapon, and fainted.
        "Sorry we kept you in the dark, sir," said the keyboardist, who removed
her outlandish wig and glasses.  Deanna Troi stepped down from the dais,
flanked by the drummer - Derek Feinstein, who thanked Delbert for his band's
help and proceeded to outline his views for a Death Galactic Tour.
        The Starfleet officers in Death drag took their costumes off, and
Picard could see their true identity -- the Security contingent from the USS
Allegheny.
        "We couldn't inform you for fear of the sociopath reading your mind,"
continued Troi.
        "But how did you find out?" asked Riker.
        "Gnorph told us.  While you were stranded on Wrigley's Pleasure Planet,
the gnome appeared to us and told us of your predicament.  Thankfully, we were
able to make the rendezvous on time.  Not a bad bit of rescuing, eh, Captain?"
        "No," he agreed, "not bad at all."  Picard hugged Deanna.  Turning to
Death, er, Delbert, he said, "Mr. Death, you and your associates have our
thanks."
        "Eh, no problem, Picard.  We're getting paid a bundle for this!"  He
hadn't been informed of the tremendous lien put on his estate by Deanna - who
had been able to wrestle the needed information out of Picard'd mind - but one
of these days, would get VERY upset.....
        "And now," said Picard, turning to Gnorph, "what of you?"
        Gnorph smiled.  "What of me?  Yes, yes, with all my work done, I should
be off.  Wrigley's Planet and the whole galaxy are saved, thanks to all of you.
If I ever need your services again, I'll be sure to call."
        "What about the missing crewmembers, and the population of Amber Nine?"
asked Worf.
        "You'll find them back where they were before.  All is as it once was.
Now then....I'm off.  Captain Jean-Luc Picard?"
        "Yes?"
        "May the Force be with you!" Gnorph the gnome cried, and vanished from
sight.
        Picard stood smiling, that wonderful enigmatic smile he always gives
when he's extremely happy with the situation.  And all was finally, after days
and days of wonderfully undaunting confusion, well again.


        CAPTAIN'S LOG; Stardate 43047.2
        With the successful completion of this mission, the Enterprise has
        returned briefly to Amber Nine.  The rock band Death has been booked
        as a star attraction at the Interfleet Gaming Seminar, which the
        starships Allegheny, Independence and Justice will be staying for.
        My crew has elected to return to duty, however.
                Brittany Collins, Cassandra Foresythe and Krista Lovely have
        all returned to normal, thankfully.  The Grand Voyager has returned
        to the spacelanes, while the Royal Flush, commanded by James Kirk,
        has set down on Amber Nine, joining into the Starfleet-wide games.
        After all, Kirk always was a gambler at heart.
                Most of our respective ships' personnel have returned to
        their vessels and to normal duty.  I hate long goodbyes.
                And of course, Gorgan, the sociopath and Gnorph himself
        are gone.  Three beings I hope I never meet again.


        "You hate long goodbyes, Jean-Luc?" said Aurora.  "That's not what I've
heard."   She reached over and planted a kiss on his firm lips.
        Riker and Beverly Crusher, who stood over the transporter console with
O'Brien, cringed.  Philipa Louvois and Derek Feinstein, standing next to Deanna
Troi, did the same.
        Aurora Darkwind stepped onto the transporter pad.  "Come along, dear
heart," she said to Derek, who stepped up onto the dais.
        Turning back to Troi, he said, "It's been real babe, but must dash.
Until we meet again..."  The transporter beam sparkled, and Aurora and
Feinstein vanished.
        "I guess once a slut, always a slut," said Philipa, whacking Jean-Luc
on the posterior.  "See you next time, Jean-Luc.  Dinner's on me."  Philipa did
the sparkly flash and vanished.
        Picard noticed Riker, Troi, Beverly and O'Brien were staring at him.
        "Do we not have duties to return to?  Things to accomplish?"
        "Um, right, sir.  We're on course for Gamma Thiopa, as was our original
course.  We should make it..." he checked the chronometer "....only four days
ahead of schedule.  You did say a week, sir."
        "So I did," said Picard.  "Four days to play, Number One."  And Picard
left.
        Beverly looked at Riker.  "Did I ask for this job?" she said, and
departed.
        "What are you looking at?" asked Riker of O'Brien, who only smiled.
Faintly, Riker could still see the laughing hyena in their transporter chief,
but put it aside.  It couldn't be...could it?
        Nyaaah.
        Troi smiled.  Riker could never hide his feelings.


        Before returning to the bridge, Picard stopped in his quarters.  Very
curiously, atop his coffee table sat a silver teapot, a bone china jug of milk,
three saucers and a china cup.
        Picard smiled faintly, sat down in his chair, poured himself a cup of
the hot tea, and sipped at it.  He put the cup down, waited for about two
minutes, then rose to his feet.
        He felt fine.
        Things were back to normal.
        Without a moment to lose, Picard left his quarters.  No more
lycanthropy, no more evil spirits.  Only himself, his crew, his ship and the
stars.
        Which was the way he always wanted it anyway.


        And the adventure, as it always will, continues....






                                THE END





"Sweet Savage Star Trek II: The Shadows of Gnorph"
Copyright (C) 1990 by the SF & Fantasy Forum
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