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