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Text File | 1995-04-10 | 18.8 KB | 367 lines

                     SWEET SAVAGE STAR TREK

                               by
                       Assorted N. Varied



                            PART FOUR
                     Suddenly, A Conclusion!


     To recap: Jean-Luc and Will were scheduled to fight to the
death, over who would possess the vivacious/curvaceous Deanna
Troi.  This was at the command of SWMBO, leader of the Vulcan
research vessel Pon-Farr, who had sensed that the entire starship
was deep in the pon farr.  Worf was conducting a level by level
search of the Enterprise, intent on recovering his one true love,
the androidette, Lt. j.g. Pixel (that and recovering his
fractured leg).  She, meanwhile, was in pursuit of her one true,
i.e. Data, who is off doing something unrecallable.  Beverly,
meanwhile meanwhile, is intent on finally getting as close to
Jean-Luc as his uniform (which is, therefore, quite jealous), or
even closer.  Geordi has vanished in pursuit of his own pursuits.
Will is suffering from spinal collapse and lost of lines, and is
being tended to by the aforementioned Troi, who Jean-Luc has
forsaken.  The reason for this forsake is the cry from Wesley,
who is alone on the bridge (surrounded by cats), having
hot-rodded the starship's engines.  Only to discover that they
are no match for a starship that is designed from the
lower-saucer-ring out to be fast, deadly, and violent, namely the
ISS Enterprise, with its mirror crew, commanded by the Loathsome
Captain Picard.  Intent on taking the USS Enterprise, and
plundering its data banks (which would reveal that the
semi-sentient computer is intent on its own levels of pon farr),
he has launched his initial assault, pounding on the shields and
deflectors of Our Beloved Enterprise.
     MEANWHILE, there's this other assault craft, complete with
punk rockers, that also wants to attack Our Beloved.  It suddenly
finds itself attacked by a canine-like nebula formation.  (As I
give sub-plots, I tear them asunder.)

And now, to the thrilling climax . . .

     "Jean-Luc," Beverly whispered, her voice betraying the
tiniest of concerns as they rode the turbolift to the bridge,
"I'm worried.  Why are we riding *on top* of the turbolift?"
     The ship rocked heavily to port, responding to another blast
from the unknown assailant.  Jean-Luc managed a faint smile.  "It
seemed safer than my *last* trip in the turbolift."
     The lift stopped just below the level of the bridge, pouting
in frustration as the grand captain motioned to the two sweating
men to *whoosh* the doors open for he and his CMO.  There was a
grunt of effort, a suddenly exhalation of air as they succeeded,
and the doors parted, revealing a quiet and mostly deserted
bridge.  The lone exception -- the cats, having better things to
do than make themselves obvious targets, having left -- was the
young, able, brilliant, terrified Wesley Crusher.  He stood in
the middle of the bridge, turning to the turbolift, and . . .
      . . . smiled.  Jean-Luc and Beverley stepped onto the
bridge.  On the main viewer was a precise duplicate of the
Enterprise, only one far more heavily armed. And before the
starship captain could question the situation, the air shimmered,
and seven figures appeared, one of whom was startlingly familiar.
Jean-Luc cleared his throat.  "Mr. Crusher, what have you done?"
     "I've followed your example," the precocious and
irrepressible youth replied.
     "He surrendered," said the Horrific Captain Picard, of the
ISS Enterprise.
     "What?" Jean Luc queried.  "My example?  And who is this
outlandish -- "
     "But, sir, you always surrender at the first sign of attack.
There was Q, and -- "
     "Mr. Crusher, that was last season!  We learn, we adapt, we
respond to complaints.  We.  Are.  Flexible.  And people demanded
that I *not* surrender, and -- thus far! -- I had been
successful."
     "But no longer," Picard snarled, almost drooling at the
sight of such boundlessly glorious conquest.  "Your ship is mine,
as are its crew of . . . Crusher!  What is the size of this
Enterprise's crew?"
     A simple lad, that in better clothes might have resembled
dashing Wesley, seemed to shake himself from an elsewhere stupor.
"Definitely one thousand and two, definitely.  Definitely
. . . one thousand and -- "  There was a brief hesitation, a
moment's lack of surety.  Then: "Definitely one thousand and
*four.*  The Kinnisons have given birth to their second set of
twins, again girls.  They -- "
     "Spare me the sloppy details."  Picard turned to Jean-Luc.
"And now, *captain*, your ship is mine, as is its crew!"
     Jean-Luc looked around.  His bridge was invaded by bizarre
people, his noble crew reduced to cowering sheep, his very
command during the last few weeks -- or had it been
months? -- had been at best a mockery of Starfleet's intentions,
and he himself had behaved like an irresponsible lust-ridden
cadet.  For the first time he wondered if he had the stuff it
took to command a ship that was subject to the whims of
egotistical producers and writers during the regular season,and
to over-imaginative fans during the off-season.  Should I have
stayed on the Stargazer, he wondered wildly, in relative
obscurity, giving those mandatory Shakespeare readings every
other Tuesday and devoting myself to my bathtub-toy collection?
     His thoughts seemed to swirl about him in an
ever-accelerating vortex of confusion and doubt.  As through a
veil he saw and heard the mirror crew securing his ship, and felt
reality slowly slipping from his grasp . . .
     Well, damn that, thought a voice from deep within Jean-Luc's
psyche.  If he can't handle this, I guess I'm going to have to.
And the character of Dixon Hill, a long repressed facet of
Jean-Luc's own warped personality, emerged into the mangled mind
of the captain.
     Too bad I don't have my real clothes, thought Hill, but this
will have to do.  Looking about, he saw the mirror Riker menacing
Troi, and the mirror Worf casting lascivious eyes on Dr. Crusher.
     "They will never yield to you -- never!" screamed Riker in
an uncontrollable fit of jealousy.
     "Perhaps we can find ways to . . . seduce them," said mirror
Picard in a devious tone.
     "Folks, listen!"
     As one, both crews turned toward the Jean-Luc/Hill entity.
His slick, oily smile held the promise something, and their
attention was drawn to him. The regular crew only hoped he could
somehow save their ship from servitude to this band of perverted
space pirates.
     "May I have your attention please -- attention please!"
Hill's voice took on the sing-song tones of a practiced huckster,
or perhaps a musical comedy star of the 20th century.  From
somewhere, music began to accompany his words.  The mirror crew
was entranced.
     "I can deal with your trouble, friends, with a wave of my
hand -- this very hand!"  Hill gave the Enigmatic Gesture a
dramatic flourish.  "Please observe me if you will: I'm Professor
Dixon Hill, and I'm here to organize an Enterprise brass band!
Prrrrr-dum!"  Hill's impression of a snare drum was flawless.
     "Oh, think, my friends, how can stealing our ship ever hope
to compete with a gold trombone?"  Riker added his impression of
a trombone; eyes turned toward him in admiration, then back to
Hill.
     "Remember, my friends, what a handful of trumpet players did
to the famous,fabled walls of Jehrico -- these ladies'
resistance'll come a-tumblin' down." Mirror-Worf howled in
anticipation.
     "Well, a band'll do it, my friends; oh, yes, I said a brass
band, do ya hear me?  I said Enterprise gotta have a brass band,
and I mean she needs it today. With Professor Dixon Hill on hand,
Enterprise is gonna have a brass band, assure as the lord made
little apples; and that bands gonna have free access to the
holodeck.  Geordi, Data, Riker, Wes.  And you'll see the glitter
of artificial lights, and you'll see people who don't really
exist!  And you'll feel something  akin to the electric thrill I
once enjoyed, when Cyrus Redblock, Minuet, Tasha Yar, the great
Moriarty, and," here Hill's voice took on a hushed tone of
reverence, "Joe Piscopo -- all appeared on the holodeck on the
very same, historic day!"
     The mirror crew repeated in astonishment, "Joe Piscopo?!"
     Hill nodded and smiled, waiting for the music to go into
"Seventy-Six Trombones," his smile become transfixed.  Soon, a
timid voice whispered from off stage, "I didn't finish it, sir!"
     "WHAT!?" hissed Hill through clenched teeth.
     "I couldn't come up with much for 'Seventy-Six Trombones,'
sir," the voice continued.  "Sorry, sir!"
     "You realize you'll never be nominated for another Bronzed
Pool of Smirk Award, don't you, Ensign Wilkerson?"
     "Yes, sir," she said in shame, and slunk off abjectly to her
cabin.
     Meanwhile, back on the bridge, Hill's audience was beginning
to get uglier. But Riker realized Hill's scheme, and decided it
was up to him to continue the musical diversion.  Thanking the
forces of the universe for the hunch that had prompted him to
store his trombone in a compartment on the bridge, he silently
got it out.
     The haunting strains of the theme from The Flintstones,
played in a blues arrangement, filled the bridge, and both crews
were soon listening as though to a Lorelei.  Mirror Riker walked
slowly toward the First Officer, elbows strangely held close to
his body, and back bent.  When the song was finished, he said, "I
must have it."
     "Does that mean I can have your accordion?" asked Mirror Wes
though the drool.  Mirror Picard smirked a strange, contorted
smirk that made Beverly catch her breath.
     "Yes, yes!" replied Mirror Riker impatiently.  "Only I must
have this curved instrument of gleaming brass that makes such
bewitching sounds!"
     "Well, of course, it does require some ability," said Riker
indignantly. But he already knew what he had to do, though it
broke his heart.  Telling himself it was for his captain, his
ship, his own skin, he handed his beloved instrument to his evil
twin.
     "Here," he said as the other took it.  "You try one -- how
about 'Goodnight, My Sweetheart' from The Music Man."
     Mirror Riker slowly raised the trombone to his lips, and
cautiously produced the notes, or most of them, to the haunting
ballad, as the sound track added orchestration.  Riker, overcome
by the sight of his beloved in the hands of another, began to
sing his own version of the lyrics.

     (The Love Song of Will Riker)

     "Good night, my trombone, good night, my love,
     Sleep tight, my trombone, sleep tight, my love.
     I must release you to help our plight,
     So goodnight, my trombone, good night.
     May spit-valves tend you, if spit there be.
     May fortune send you soon home to me.
     I wish it may and I wish it might,
     So good night, my trombone, good night.

     True love can occur between man and brass.
     They don't understand, but it's true.
     But now you're not with me, a lack and alas,
     My limp, idle lips suffer, longing for you.

     May spit-valves tend you, if spit there be.
     May fortune send you soon home to me.
     I wish it may and I wish it might.
     So good night, my trombone, good night.
     Good night, good night . . . .

     Emotion and the strain incurred in reaching a high "c" made
Riker gag lightly, and the harsh klaxons of a furball alert
filled the bridge.
     "Damn cats," Riker muttered as he switched it off.
     The evil Picard, in skintight synthetic black lizard-leather
foray suit, was a terrifying sight, his oiled head gleaming
gelidly in the overhead lights and his sharpened fangs glistening
with a moist venom.  Jean-Luc, a reasonable man, paused for a
moment as if waiting for a commercial break.  When none came, he
realized that they were truly in an alternate universe, beyond
all hope of rescue . . .
     "Ooooh," breathed the mirror-Dr. Crusher, whose name fit her
far better than it did the gentle Beverly.  She sauntered
voluptuously toward Jean-Luc. "If the crew is ours, can I have
this one?" she hissed in the general direction of the evil
Picard, fixing Jean-Luc's baffled hazel eyes with her torrid
glare.  "I could oil him down, put a collar on him, he'd be so
cute!  Can I keep him, Captain?"
     She drew one blood-red talon gently down Jean-Luc's
increasingly outraged face, leaving a thin line of blood. Behind
her, mirror Picard was momentarily distracted by a coating of cat
hair that was wrapping itself around him, and gentle Beverly
leaped into action with a shriek.
     "Get away from him, you snake!" she said, and ripped off the
evil doctor's stunning auburn wig.  Her wicked twin grappled with
her, and the two fell to the deck, wriggling and flailing.  The
evil Doctor's wig cautiously crawled to the turbolift, looking
for freedom.
     "Good Lord," said Jean-Luc.
     His counterpart, frantically beating off the cat-hair, said,
"You will now phththurrender.  Thphthurrenthpher.
AIIIIPHTHGHPHTH!" as the wave of animal fiber crested to the top
of his head and he fell into a furry heap.
     "Natural animal magnetism," said mirror-Worf, imperturbably
kicking his captain in theXuL|4e . . .
     Picard consumed the consuming hair like so much
follicle-laced spaghetti.  Standing, he turned to the handsomely
stunned Jean-Luc and proclaimed, "Victory is mine! You have
nothing else to send against me. I am the stronger, the nastier,
*and* the more manly. I have women *crawling* at my feet, begging
for leg splints. My ship *leaps* at my every whim and command.
What have you to offer?"
     Beverly stepped forward, chin jutting forth in pure
defiance. "He has the entire league of DSSPS, er, DSEGP, uh,
DS -- "
     "Thank you for your assistance, Beverly, but that will be
quite enough."  Jean-Luc turned to Picard.  "See here, isn't your
own universe enough for you? Must you sully up *my* series?"
     Picard considered the question.  It was, afterall, a good
one. Wasn't one universe enough?  Weren't there already worlds,
and time, enough for hate? How many massacres could one enjoy in
a day, let alone a lifetime? How many sadistic tortures could one
perpetuate on helpless beings of one stripe or another?  Wasn't
enough . . . enough?
     He opened his mouth to reply, hand poised in his own
rendition of the EG and PM (a twisted, malformed conglomeration
of the two), when the ship rocked beneath their feet.  Obviously,
another plot complication was arriving.
     Blast, thought Jean-Luc, as if things weren't complicated
enough. Maman, give me strength . . .
     And then there were the screams.  Tens of thousands of
demons, baby demons, howling baby demons, like rabid lions,
tigers, and/or bears. It was horrifyingly horrific.  The only
notably good detail about the screams was that they were *not*
coming from *his* crew. Rather, the Dread Captain Picard and his
minions of evil were withering in agony, in surprise and
alarm . . .
     . . . and vanishing.  All was suddenly quiet.  Peace
reigned.  Day broke out over a nearby planet (just for the proper
effect) and the sounds of twittering birds could be heard.  Life
was, once more, grand.
     "Jean-Luc," Beverly whispered, at once anxious and nervous,
"what happened?"
     "Apparently there was a twist in logic, my dear chief
medical officer. It would appear that our erstwhile visitors were
consumed by a focused plot hole."
     "How . . . how ghastly?"
     "Yes.  Let us hope that such things continue to happen to
*someone else,* and not our own tender crew.  My question, at the
moment, is *who* could perpetrate such a wrenching of all logic?"
     "Are we not masters of logic?" asked SWMBO, standing framed
in the open doorway of the turbolift.
     "You are indeed, SWMBO," Jean-Luc acknowledged.  "And, on
behalf of myself and my crew, our deepest thanks."
     SWMBO stepped to one side.  Will Riker walked onto the
bridge, just a shade less stiff than before, but otherwise fine.
His smile added just the right touch of curl to his beard.
Behind him came the stunning counselor, Deanna, suffused in a
warm glow.  And behind her came Geordi, warming his hands in her
glow, and also smiling.  And behind *him* was Data, half-carrying
Worf, who appeared to be recovering from his several dozen
Pixel-inflicted wounds. Both appeared happy, content, and quite a
bit relieved.
     Jean-Luc looked about the bridge, at his personnel returning
to their stations, to their regular duties, and was content with
the universe. Things return to an even keel, he thought.  The
world turns and so does the great wheel.  He looked at SWMBO.  "I
have you to thank for this, as well?"
     She shook her head.  "No.  It is a thing of nature.  It
comes and it goes.  Perhaps in the next season, one that I
believe your people call 'silly', it will return."
     Jean-Luc nodded, understanding.  He took his command chair
and looked ahead, out the forward viewer, towards the glittering
horizons that awaited them all. "Mr. Crusher," he intoned, the
eternally firm voice of command, with a gentle touch of the EG,
"*Engage!*"
     The starship rushed towards the heavens.

                            EPILOGUE:

     It was quiet, late in the ship's "night" cycle, and the
solitary figure moved onto the starship's primary holodeck.  He
sealed the arch behind him, securing it as he had been
instructed.  Straightening, he ran his hand over his smooth scalp
(still, such a strange sensation), and said, "Computer, cancel
extrapolation."
     The holodeck shrank and vanished, as did the man's size and
appearance, his uniform shifting from red to gold, leaving him
standing in a gray-walled room. One wall panel slid aside and he
was joined by two companions, one a tall Vulcan, the other a
kindly-appearing human.  "Well?" the latter asked.
     "'Holodeck,' eh?" he asked the Vulcan.  "An interesting
concept.  And the computer's extrapolations were quite . . . "
He managed a wry grin.  "Quite extraordinary."
     "I oversaw the programming myself, Admiral."
     "Figures.  Well, I hope these things *don't* become standard
equipment.  Too much chance of slipping reality completely.  Come
along, gentlemen.  We have our own plot holes to perpetuate!"
     The door hissed shut behind them, futures (and histories)
awaiting abuse another day.
     And the adventure, as it always will, continues . . .

                     SWEET SAVAGE STAR TREK
           (a.k.a. One Unforgettable Summer Silliness)
                 From the CompuServe SF/F Forum


                       Thrust Upon You By:
                    (in order of appearance)

   Valerie McKnight -- Barbara A. Meissner -- Delia M. Turner
           Barb Delaplace -- Lisa Blanc -- Ira Stolle
           Carmen Carter -- Jim S. Lyon -- Bob Hovorka
                 Eccentrica G. -- E. Gallumbits
                      -- YOUR NAME HERE --
           Sasha Miller -- Cory Sims -- Marte Brengle
         Lori Newbold -- marilyn wilkerson -- Sue Clark
              Lisa Blanc -- Dan Krantz -- Ed Isaacs
            lori gillespie -- Tashana -- John Gibson