[MiSTing] Mercator: Into the Void [TNG, XOVER, MEMIST] [CASTLE] [1/4]
David Thurston
The following is a MiSTing of a little bit of tripe that I wrote a few
years back. For those of you taking notes, I called this a "novel sim"
when I wrote it, as it was going to be an ongoing adventure that would
continue for many of these "novels." In reality, this is the only
complete one, and is very painful to me when I go back over it. Maybe
this will help me work through a tough patch in my writing "career."
As always, this, and all my MiSTings can be found on the MiSTing
SatelLITE at http://www.students.wfu.edu/thurdl01
Any comments, compliments, and critiques can be sent to thur...@wfu.edu
Join me then, as we venture towards Star Trek: Mercator, Book One: Into
the Void.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Season 10 theme music]
Somewhere in Time and Space...
TWAING!
[1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... ...]
[The Satellite of Love main bridge. There is a discussion going on among
the
regular bridge crew.]
Tom: So you see, not only did he not like The Nutcracker, it ended up his
least favorite piece among his own creations.
Mike: [Seeing Cambot now on] Oh, hey, and welcome to the Satellite of Love.
We're just discussing authors attitudes towards their own works. Tom
here has just finished telling us why Tschiakowsky hated his most famous
work, The Nutcracker Suite.
Crow: Well, now, I think it is a bit unfair to summarily say that he hated
it.
Most of the music at that time was written for the money, and not for the
notes on paper. It is well known that he made very little money off of
The Nutcracker while alive. Thus the piece failed, and he wouldn't have
liked it very much.
Mike: Well, it looks like that was a bad example. How about Picasso, then.
It
is reported in many places that when he created a work he didn't like, he
wouldn't paint over it, or use turpentine to "erase" it, instead he would
waste a perfectly good pallet by burning the offending piece.
Tom: Well, all artists are a bit temperamental.
Crow: If I remember correctly, though, there was one comic strip that was so
disliked by the author and his readers that in the last strip the main
character was killed!
Mike: Well, that's rather harsh.
Tom: But it is similar to the Nutcracker example, someone disliking a
commercial
failure more than disliking the piece of work itself.
[The yellow light begins to flash, Mike notices it, and turns from the
conversation]
Mike: Commercial sign, we'll be right back.
Crow: I wonder if any commercial makers feel that way about their work.
Tom: How could they not.
[Planet Buffer]
[Commercials]
[The discussion is still going on, and has appeared to have advanced little
during
the break.]
Tom: But think about it, Mike, there must be some of them out there that
detest
their works when the reread them a few years later.
Crow: Yes, but we are talking about fanfic writers. They have no soul, so
how can
they like or dislike their works?
Mike: That is an interesting argument. Almost like one hand clapping...
[The three begin to think for a moment, staring in different directions.
The mads
light begins to blink.]
Mike: Oops, the Zen Mistress is calling.
[Castle Forrester. All of Pearl's new equipment is there.]
Pearl: Ah, hello Mike. As you are aware, I am trying to receive my full
accreditation
as a Mad Scientist. In my mind, then, a mad scientist isn't truly a mad
scientist until they have tampered into God's domain! Today I am working
on human
cloning!
[SoL]
Mike: No, Pearl, stop and think! Does the world really need identical
copies of
anyone?
[CF]
Pearl: Yes, yes. Brain Guy gave me that whole guilt trip, so I thought
about it long
and hard before deciding that HA! I just don't care! That's why I had
this
installed this morning...
[Pearl walks towards stage right, the camera follows her to reveal a large
pink box
labeled, in large, happy letters, The Easy Clone Oven.]
Pearl: Now, all I have to do is take a sample of my DNA. That's what Brain
Guy is
here to do. Brainiac?
Obs.: Right away.
[Brain Guy makes that little...sound. Pearl's hand shifts, as though
something was
made to "appear" using film editing. There doesn't appear to be anything
in
her hand, though.]
Pearl: Ah. Now, all I have to do is place it on the special Easy Clone
Rack, turn
on the little light bulb, and set the timer for two hours.
[As Pearl says this, each action is carried out by Bobo, who then turns,
looking
visibly upset.]
Bobo: Two hours? What will we do until then?
[Pearl gets an evil glint in her eye, and stares right at the camera.]
Pearl: So, Mike, your experiment today is a rather long work written by
someone
identifying himself as Duncan MacBeth.
[SoL]
Tom: Duncan...?
Crow: MacBeth...?
Mike: Wow, this hurts already.
[CF]
Pearl: We have traced this down as a pseudonym, however.
[She walks a bit more to the right, where there is a mug shot.]
Pearl: He is really David Thurston, a.k.a. McDLT, a.k.a. Duncan MacBeth,
a.k.a.
thurdl. He is armed with a Thinkpad, and, judging from this work, should
be considered very dangerous! Remember to chew 40 times, or else you are
going to choke...HARD! Brain Guy...
[SoL. Sirens and lights]
Tom: McDLT?
Crow: Duncan MacBeth?
Mike: FANFIC SIGN!
[6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... ...]
[The trio enters the theater, and sits down.]
Crow: Well, he knows Shakespeare obviously, so maybe it won't be *that*
bad.
Mike: If it wasn't that bad, would Pearl be sending it to us.
>Star Trek: Mercator
Tom: Shush, you two, it's starting.
Crow: Mercator, eh? You know what this means?
Mike: No Troi?
Tom: No Wesley?
Crow: Exactly!
>
>Book One:
Tom: Book *ONE*?! Tell me this doesn't imply more.
Crow: Maybe this is an abandoned work.
Mike: Yes, optimism, that will carry us through!
> Into the Void
Crow: Next week, a doctor with a flashlight will show us where fanfiction
comes from.
>
>Chapter 1
Tom: Call me Ishmael.
Mike: It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking
thirteen.
Crow: The majority of Terrans were six-legged.
Mike: Been reading Wilson again?
>
>Captain's Log, Stardate 50123
Crow: My toupee is now sentient, and has taken hostages in main
engineering, threatening to shoot them unless I take acting lessons.
>Captain Richard Thorn
Tom: Shakespeare was wrong, it doesn't smell as sweet.
> recording:
> The starship U.S.S. Mercator launched today with much ado.
Mike: About nothing!
Tom: Too obvious.
Mike: But the name Duncan MacBeth begs every Shakespeare reference it gets.
> The
>third Trailblazer-class launch in as many months, I had almost expected the
>excitement to die down a bit by now, but it was not as though I didn't
>approve of the fanfare, it almost ferments this new rank and position into
my
>mind.
Crow: Well yes, commas are the same as periods, so I can use them instead.
Mike: He shouldn't log under the influence of fermented ranks.
> The crew is looking forward to the mission on the outskirts of the
>Federation.
Tom: [Overdone western accent] A-yup, out on the outskirts of civilization,
bringing la' an order to those who don't want or have it [spitting sound]
> The extended nature of exploration missions usually does not
>sit well with all officers of the fleet,
Mike: But then, neither does the mess officer's Chicken Cordon Bleu. Looks
like neither will be stopped, though.
> but this should be a great
mission,
Tom: YEAH MERCATOR!
Crow: WE'RE THE GREATEST!
>
as
>everyone here actually wants to be here. The powers-that-be in the
>Federation were actually surprised by the number of volunteers for the
>Trailblazer project.
Mike: Zero probably surprised them.
Tom: Would acting on armed threats count as volunteering?
>Our course now takes us from the launch facilities at McKinley
>Station, earth orbit, with a fortunate pass by three planets, as an
alignment
>allows us a tour of Jupiter, Saturn, and Pluto.
Crow: Not to mention Mickey and Goofy!
Mike: Alright, no more Shrödinger's Cat for you.
> I suppose I should say a short 'hi' to Gerald Cunningham
Tom: He's dragging in the Cunninghams...it's Skolnick all over again!
> at the Pluto
>outpost.
Mike: Ironically, Gerald gives him the cold shoulder.
> I always thought he was crazy for accepting a post as a scientist
on
>that frozen chunk of rock, but it was always his personal dream.
Crow: So, then, a career underachiever?
Mike: Pretty much.
> Thorn leaned back from his computer screen for a moment,
Tom: Tipped a bit too far, falling out of his chair, hitting his head, and
dying. The end.
Mike: Tom, this is only chapter one...can you at least wait until we hit
the double digits to get dark?
> pausing
>the recording of the launch log.
Crow: And pawing the hologram of Troi.
> His eyes slowly began to glaze over with
Tom: Sweet booze.
>nostalgia thinking about the old times posted with Cunningham aboard the
>U.S.S. Jung. The Jung was a small science vessel out near the frontier
>between Federation space, and the great unknown that still existed in part
of
>space beyond.
Mike: The rest of space beyond, however, was left up to the imagination.
> Thorn's dream had always been to pass beyond, and into the
>unknown, exploring, as Starfleet had been designed to do.
Tom: Funny, everything we have seen so far suggests that the purpose of
the fleet is to form angst filled love triangles.
Mike: You shouldn't base your entire view of an alternate television reality
on its fanfiction.
Crow: For instance, I watched an episode of Sailor Moon that Bobo snuck up
to
me last week, and there wasn't one instance of bestiality.
Mike: And now, let us never mention Oscar again.
> What he never
>understood was Cunningham's frozen dream to be a scientist on the distant
>Plutonian Outpost, from which point Sol was but a distant point of light,
and
>the only heat was man made.
Crow: I should shush up, shouldn't I?
Mike: A-yup.
Tom: You know, there is a musical in that sentence somewhere.
> Neither had any idea that they would both make it to where they
>wanted to be.
Tom: Where the bullcrap flies, on mountains high.
Mike: No, that's where they belong.
> Thorn had been promoted recently, to his utter surprise, and
>given command of the small Trailblazer-class U.S.S. Mercator.
Crow: For those of you who joined us late...
> The withdrawal of the Constellation-class vessel from the fleet as the
>vessels had drawn in unrepairable damage, and were just falling into disuse
>had left a hole in the fleet.
Tom: Almost as large as the hole left in my parsing processor after that.
> The Trailblazer was seen as a way to fill
this hole.
Mike: Why do I see Thorn here as a bit of a square peg in that case?
> The craft was small and maneuverable, as well as one of the fastest
>ships the fleet had to offer.
Crow: Come to Fanfiction Supplies Unlimited, where we only carry the newest
and the best!
> The main body of the vessel revisited a
>Constitution design, with the rear shuttle bay, however the rest of the
ship
>was entirely new.
Mike: Alright, get your rendering software ready, I think we are heading
into
the breech.
Tom: Or the void...
Mike: Uh, yes.
> Where the saucer section should have been in any other fleet vessel,
>there was, instead,
Crow: A giant statue of Bob Dole, for reasons that were unlikely to be known
soon.
> a swept back wing design accented by a central mounted
Mike: Small mouth bass.
Tom: Yup, twelve pointer, I'd say.
>sensor array. The end of the wings was transformed into the warp nacelles,
>moved up
Tom: To the east side.
> from the engineering hull. The warp engines could also be folded
>in for ease of landing planetside.
Crow: Actually, I think that sounds kind of cool?
Mike: Really?
Crow: No, but I have this fear of pain if I do not say so.
> Thorn stared at the words on the screen, as they burned white on
>black.
Tom: I think the racial metaphors here should be left an exercise to the
individual.
> He could think of nothing further to say, but somewhere in his mind
>he was worried that he should say more.
> So there, but for the grace of God go we.
Mike: I need a cliché, but not just any cliché, I need the most overused
cliché possible!
Crow: Cliches Unlimited, for all your cliché needs.
> Thorn looked for a moment at that line he had just added to the log.
Tom: So then he's doing lines?
Mike: No.
Tom: But--
Mike: No.
>He scrolled up the log,
Crow: Thorn, and his amazing stunt sphincter.
> and reread it all with that final line now added
in.
>Thorn's brow furrowed with thought, slowly deciding that that last sentence
>sounded entirely too forced, and went back to delete it.
Crow: Maybe this author DOES have some sense of decency.
>The launch log of the captain had exemplified many of the most
>memorable missions in fleet history.
Mike: Notably the launch log from near the beginning of exploration. "Just
sit right back and you'll hear the tale, the tale of a fateful trip..."
> In grade school, he had even once had
>to memorize Captain James T. Kirk's log from the first mission of the
original
>U.S.S. Enterprise.
Mike: Which is odd, since the first mission of the original Enterprise was
under Captain Robert April.
Bots: Faaaaanboy!
> 'Well,' he though to him self, 'here's to the record books!'
> He toasted the screen with his coffee mug,
All: WOAH!
Tom: Flame throwing coffee mugs...I think I'll like the future!
> and then saved the log,
Crow: For his proctologist--
Mike: Alright, I am calling a moratorium on "log" jokes until this is over.
>watching as it automatically sent along subspace to the record keeping
>division of Headquarters.
Mike: Vinyl will not die!
> He took a deep sip, finishing off the mug, and
>decided it was about time for another tradition.
Tom: Please say it isn't the one involving the live geese, leather chaps,
and a half gallon of Chinese brown sauce.
[Mike and Crow scoot to the right.]
Tom: Oh, so I'm the only one who had to go through that?
> He stood, placing the mug in the replicator to be recycled through the
>ships systems.
Crow: Unfortunately, the mug was plastic type 7 "Other" and could not be
accepted.
> Giving his uniform a quick straightening,
[All make cloth tearing noises.]
> he headed out of
>the door onto the bridge. He wasn't quite sure yet weather he liked the
idea
>of the bridge being placed in the middle of the ship.
Mike: Nor was he sure *whether* he liked the rainstorm that the
environmental
controls were creating.
> Starfleet insisted
that in
>many previous designs, the dome of the bridge stuck out like an ancient
>automobile hood ornament,
Crow: Wow, I had never noticed that, but that is a great idea!
[Ramchips appear in front of Crow.]
Mike: Crow, don't kiss up to the author.
Tom: [Obi Wan] I sense a great disturbance in the forth wall.
> so had decided to protect the bridge by a better
>placement within the ship, namely: halfway down the 'neck' of the ship.
Tom: But then, no one ever seems to aim for the "hood ornament," just like
no one ever aims for those scrawny necks on the Klingon vessels.
> Most of his new senior staff was present on the bridge. He couldn't
>blame them.
Mike: Bad, bad crew. Come on, desert your stations!
> When he was posted as first officer aboard the Jung he had
>stayed on the bridge nearly one full day after launch, wanting to soak in
>everything he could about the Oberon-class vessel.
Crow: [Falsetto] So then I asked him when I was going to see the Jung, and
he
said you're SOAKING in it. Tee hee!
> He had been surprised
>the leeway he had had in selecting his own senior staff on his first
captaincy.
Tom: But after his request consisted only of the Swedish Bikini team, the
fleet soon altered their decision.
>More often than not, the first mission crew of a captain was selected more
by
>the fleet than the commanding officer.
> He signaled to his first officer,
Mike: Who then got caught while stealing second.
> a Bolian
Crow: Bolian! One shot!
Mike: Come again?
Crow: Bolian spotting, apparently they are an inexpensive alien, so they
are often used as extras. So whenever you see one, you take a shot!
Mike: My fault for asking.
Tom: Shot of what?
Mike: I think that is one we shouldn't hear answered.
> commander named Hurr, that
>he was not coming on bridge to take command, and was merely...passing
>through.
Tom: The signal consisted of him crossing his legs, and jumping up and
down until he found the head.
> Hurr sat back down in the center chair, and looked at Jupiter
>coming up on screen.
Mike: Who Mourns for Adonis! But I think that was Apollo.
Bots: FAAAAAANboy!
> Thorn then stepped up to the turbolift, and stepped in as the door
>finally opened for him.
Crow: Then he did a jump to the left, and stepped to the right.
[Mike reaches under his chair, and puts a bag on his head.]
> He turned to watch the doors close behind him,
>closing off the bridge, as he began the traditional ship launch tour.
Tom: Followed by the traditional initial sacrifice of a young security
ensign.
[Mike removes the bag.]
>
>Chapter 2
Tom: Electric Boogaloo!
>
> Thorn stepped off of the turbolift in Main Engineering, one of the last
>stops on his tour of the small Mercator.
Crow: How small is it...?
Mike: It's so small that the crew has to stow all their blank.
Tom: The Match Game skit, ladies and gentlemen, give it up.
> He had been to all the science
labs,
Mike: It was so small, it had "Magic Grow Crystal" sets for science labs.
>a general pass of quarters,
Tom: Oh, so then it was so small, the quarters were as packed as rush hour
on the New York metro.
Mike: That's the spirit.
> as well as a look in of the various
recreational
>bays, holodeck
Crow: It was so small, the holodeck was just the bird from a Visa card.
> to exercise.
Mike: It was so small that the exercise facility was a three-year old
"Thigh-master."
Tom: That was fun.
> The deck was nearly spotless,
Crow: Since we aren't on the Enterprise, that is to be expected, isn't it?
> a view seldom seen by anyone.
Tom: [Auzzie] Roight, now, this is a part of the outback that few people
get to see. Here is one of the reasons roight here. This here is
the deadliest snoake in all the WOR--ERK!
> Often
>the Engineering deck quickly became a mess as there were blown conduits
>and various other parts and pieces lying around.
Crow: And shenanigans, and goings-on, and the things with the exploding
and the hurting and the fremenslaggen.
Mike: Sounds like OSHA would have a field day there.
> There were a few crewmen
>walking about, none of which were doing anything more than just a few
>minor diagnostics before the ship was to launch.
Tom: Wait, if they haven't launched, how was Hurr watching Jupiter fly
by in the last chapter.
Mike: Just don't think about the inconsistencies.
Crow: Actually, probably just some pleasure crystals. [Stoner] Oh, woooow!
I can see Jupiter!
> He had already gotten the first report from his new chief of
>engineering, though it contained nothing that seemed too serious.
Crow: Bah! Doesn't know the first thing about being a Starfleet Engineer
then.
> Every
>ship Thorn had served on had one or two bugs that weren't even picked up
>on the shake down cruises of the vessel,
Tom: Like that odd one where you say "isosceles," and--
[Tom is launched out of his seat.]
Mike: I thought I fixed that.
> and apparently the Mercator was
>not going to break the tradition.
Crow: Damn, these guys have more traditions that Tevia!
[Tom floats back over, a bit slowly.]
Tom: Oh, let's save that thought.
> Thorn looked around the deck, and eventually was able to pick out the
>thinning brown hair of his Chief Engineer.
Crow: [Begins to hum the A-Team theme]
Mike: Huh?
Crow: Just a hunch.
> He walked up, dodging the
>engineering crew that was going about its tasks,
Tom: So with no stray parts, and only a "few crewmembers," Thorn finds
himself searching for people and dodging others?
Mike: Just calm down, I'm sure continuity will restore soon.
Crow: Pleasure crystals, I'm telling you!
> and tapped the chief on
his
>shoulder. Three Padds went flying into the air, accompanied by a shocked
>yelp as Thorn did so.
Tom: He hasn't quite got his juggling method down pat.
> "Don't do that," he said while turning around, "uh...sir."
Mike: Wah, wah, waaaaaah.
> "Sorry about that, Barclay,
Crow: See, Reginald "A-Team" Barclay.
Mike: Either that was a good guess, or your Fourth Wall Blocking software
is breaking down.
Crow: Probably isn't Y2K compliant.
> how are those systems looking."
> "Well, sir, we, uh, have gotten the bug out of the system.
Tom: Big, hairy, ugly thing too.
> It, uh,
>seem-seems that there was a bit of, uh, faulty conduit that needed
>replacing. None of the biopacs were damaged, though, so we should have a
>clean ride. I, uh, have the faulty conduit here if you want to examine
it."
Crow: Barclay, ladies and gentlemen. Ha ha! He'll be here all week!
Mike: Well, at least some characterization is there.
>Barclay looked around for a moment, then grabbed a blown out piece of
>circuitry from a table near by.
Tom: So clutter free save for this blown circuit?
Mike: Alright, down boy. You'll blow your dome up if you keep at this pace,
and that's becoming overused to the point of cliché!
Tom: Well, then it would fit in with this piece.
> "That's not necessary, commander, I'll take your word for it," he said,
>then gripped Barclay's shoulder, "I trust you."
Crow: Wow. Does anyone else feel warm and fuzzy right now?
Mike: Nope.
Crow: Oh, well, must have been those old Pentium chips I ate.
> Thorn allowed himself a slight smile. Many people had warned him
>that Barclay might not have been the best choice as Chief Engineer. He had
>talked to Geordie LaForge, though; who had convinced him that Barclay was
>perhaps the best officer he could have chosen.
Crow: Though he neglected to ask LaForge's advice on semicolons.
> It was his opinion that
>Barclay could be stellar if only he had that little bit of confidence that
he often
>lacked.
Mike: Isn't that like saying the Sahara occasionally lacks rainfall?
> Thorn tended to agree.
> "Okay, then, I'll dump it in for repairs... can't waste any parts on a
>mission this long."
Tom: In case you're just joining us, it will be a long mission.
> "Very good, commander, keep me posted on how things are going."
Crow: Yes sir, they're going well. Still well. Oops, slight problem, okay
fixed. Still well...
Mike: Uh, thank you commander.
> "Uh, yes sir."
> Barclay returned back to the engineer's console
Tom: And resumed continuing to work.
> where he had been
>working, trying to remember what he had done with the armful of Padds he
>had been carrying just a few moments earlier. He suddenly remembered,
>and stooped to get them off of the floor.
Crow: Ah yes, mile a minute laughs aboard the USS Mercator.
Tom: I give them three months TOPS in deep space.
> He straightened for a moment,
and
>tried to remember where the designers had put the part recycle panel. He
>found it, and, placed it in the platform, and watched it vanish.
Mike: So he found the panel, put it on a platform, so they can no longer
recycle stuff. Got it.
> Barclay looked around the bay at his new crew.
Tom: Irritated that they were just sitting, waiting for the evening to
come.
> He was used to
>being people's superior officer, but never the chief of the department. He
>had heard whispers,
Crow: Paranoia will do that to you.
> beyond his normal paranoia,
Crow: Do'h, no fair. Mike, the author is riffing his own work.
Mike: Now why would he do that?
> from the members of his
>crew.
Tom: As they were all providing off-beat political gossip to U.S. News.
> He realized that his reputation had preceded him, and that worried
>him to a certain extent.
Crow: You mean that part about always being upstaged by Wes?
> He had been able to defeat his holodiction many years ago,
Mike: Hi, I'm Reginald, and I'm an addict.
Tom: Hi, Reg.
Crow: Sadly, his H.A. peer group was later found to be just another
program.
> and he
>now had it under control,
Tom: Though he kept a Visa card on him at all times for an emergency fix.
Mike: Didn't we use that one already?
> or so he had been told on occasions.
Crow: By the whispers. The gawd awful WHISPERS!
> In the
>meantime he had been able to become one of the leading experts in the field
>of holography over the many years.
Tom: Why am I reminded of Uncle Duke being hired by the Redskins for his
expertise in "sports medicine."
> However good his credentials looked,
>however, there was always Barclay the Holo-junkie, Barclay the wreck,
>Barclay who many wondered how he had gotten as far as he was.
> He knew all these opinions of him,
Mike: And knowing is half the battle.
Bots: GooooooOOOO JOE!
> and made it his goal in life to
>change them.
Crow: But he had made the same promise so many years ago about his
underwear,
and...
> However, he knew this would take a lot of work to get beyond
>many of those preconceptions.
Tom: Are we sure that there aren't two people at work here, one writing
the first half, and one the second half of the sentences?
> He looked down at one of the Padds that he had picked up,
Mike: [Reginald] Hmmm, Make Money Fast...
> and
>began transferring the information from it to where it was needed in the
>computer. Basically it was full of last minute instructions from Starfleet
that
>needed to be added into the computer.
Crow: For no logical reason, the use of the word "basically" makes me lose
some
confidence in an author.
Tom: Really? You have confidence in this "Duncan MacBeth"?
> Barclay felt a bit of doubt welling
up
>in him about why Starfleet would choose to give last minute upgrades just
>after launch.
Mike: Anyone notice that the paranoia here is written almost TOO well?
Crow: Well...yeah!
> "Now now, Reg,"
Tom: There there. There there.
> he lightly scolded himself,
Crow: Before dragging out the chains. He really had been a bad little
engineer.
> "you're getting paranoid
>again, and that is not a good thing, now is it." "No it isn't,"
Mike: [DeForest Kelly] You're not crazy if you talk to yourself, only if
you answer.
Tom: And now a moment of silence.
> he
replied,
>then quickly looked around to make sure no one had caught him talking to
>himself.
Crow: WOAH!
Tom: What?
Crow: It felt like he was looking directly at us.
Tom: Wow. Creepy.
> Satisfied that no one had, he returned to his work.
> He watched as the console that he was working at filled with text, and
>tried to catch little bits and pieces of it. Unfortunately the text was
>rolling by too fast for him to catch any of it.
Mike: I remember this episode. Next he starts grabbing chunks of text, and
stuffing them in his mouth.
> Barclay sighed to himself, and then turned to the crew reports,
Tom: Morale is low. There is talk of mutiny. We dream of quitting, and
becoming lifeguards on Risa. Death to the balding one.
Crow: Holy cow! Risa is hiring?
Mike: The Dilbert skit, ladies and gentlemen.
> and
>the duty rosters that he had been working on. He was trying to get the
shifts
>worked out to a level that satisfied him.
Crow: Let's see. Start shift at 11 am, two hours for lunch at noon, then
the
rest of the day off. Sounds fair.
> He had been working on this
starting
>at nearly one month before launch, and still had one or two alterations
that
>still needed doing.
Tom: Letting in the pants, and lengthening the sleeves.
> Barclay punched a few commands into the Padd,
Mike: Ouch, ohh! Careful on the equipment!
> which switched the
>shifts of two of the crew.
Crow: Ha! I decide who lives or dies. Now DANCE, puppets!
> He thought to himself
Tom: As opposed to...?
Mike: Thinking out loud
Crow: ...to himself.
> how many times he had
>been switched from one shift to another on board the Enterprise, and
>decided that most of the crew would be prepared for a possible rotation, or
>even multiple rotations, in the next few months.
> He turned as he heard the console that he had been downloading into
>beeped for attention.
Tom: *Beeping* you bleeping idiot!
Mike: Now now, don't get all tense.
> "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."
All: WOAH!
Crow: This all took a turn for the worse.
Tom: And he's so...nonchalant about it.
> Barclay griped at the console, as he turned
>to see what it wanted.
Mike: You never pay attention to me anymore. I want a divorce.
> He found that all of the information was in the
>computer, and just needed the authorization code of the chief engineer.
> "Computer, recognize Barclay, Reginald, Lieutenant Commander.
Tom: [Majel Barret] Nope, never heard of him.
>Code..." he took a moment to make sure he entered the right code, "Beta-
>one-niner-Alpha-four."
> He watched the code copy into the console, then blink red as the
>authorization was accepted. It then promptly disappeared from the screen,
>and the computer continued to move the new commands into the central
>computer bank.
Crow: Is it me, or would it have been better to ask for the authorization
BEFORE copying in unknown material?
> As a precautionary measure he set up a Padd to create an external
>copy of the information. "One of Reg's best qualities," LaForge had told
>Thorn, "is his mild paranoia.
Tom: And his ardent devotion to the Pope. No, that's two, Reg's TWO
best qualities are...oh forget it, I'll come back in.
> Many might see it as a fault, but for an
>engineer, it's a great habit to have. One can never have too many back-ups
>on file."
Mike: Sadly, obsessive-compulsive disorder set in, and soon every PADD on
the ship was filled with backups of Free Cell.
> The Padd began to take in all of the information, and he smiled to
>himself as it came in. The instructions were completely added into the
>computer bank, with a backup in the Padd.
Tom: Nobody will be allowed in during the exciting Data Transference
scene!
> Barclay filed the Padd away in
>an area he had set aside for such information, then went about with his
other
>duties.
Crow: He should have thought about the before leaving spacedock!
> He, too, had his own tour to take of the engineering section,
Mike: We're walking, we're walking, we're walking...
> making
>sure that everything was going as it should as the ship got underway. He
>adjusted his uniform,
Tom: I know Jean-Luc Picard. Jean-Luc Picard is a good friend of mine,
and Reginald Barclay, you're no Jean-Luc Picard.
> and was off.
Crow: Oh, we've known that since the first episode he appeared in.
>
> Deep in the bowels of the engineering bay, the chief of engineering
>had lovingly placed a small pile of padds.
Mike: One slightly higher than the other, for a nice two level effect, with
a little path running between them.
Bots: [Excited] A path! A path!
> One of these padds slowly blinked a yellow light, giving no further
>warning of what else was to happen.
> Within the padd, a small conduit set itself off,
Crow: By accessing a joke so racist it offended itself?
> and became a pile of
>ashes, and a puff of smoke, which was quickly taken care of by the
>environmental systems.
>
Tom: What?
Mike: Oh, I'm sure it will be important later. Make a note of that one.
Tom: Right.
[Planet buffer.]
[Commercials.]
>Chapter 3
Crow: Ah! A blessing to count!
Mike: That being?
Crow: At least it's going by fast.
Tom: Odd, that.
>
> 'Ah,' Thorn thought to himself, 'last stop.' He walked down the
>hallway from the turbolift towards sickbay.
> Thorn had missed the old design that Starfleet vessels had had
>around a century ago to nearly ten years ago.
Mike: Random thoughts ahead, prepare for plot turbulence. Please return
all contrivances to their full and upright locked position.
> He had always felt that
>design to have much more open and airy hallways.
Tom: [Falsetto] Oh, but all this place needs is some pastel colors, a
few mirrors, and maybe some throw pillows.
Crow: Oh yes.
> Ever since the beginning
>of the Dominion threat, and especially at the start of the war with the
>Cardassian-Dominion alliance everything had started to look so
militaristic,
>so constricted, it almost sent a shiver along Thorn's spine.
Mike: *Almost*? Oh, glad we avoided that potential emotional response.
Back
to the two dimensional pandering!
> He walked along,
Tom: After zero-hundred hours. Out in the time controlled artificial
lights,
thinking of almost shivering.
> his footfalls muted in the carpeting,
Crow: Darn, cause those deaf, dumb, and blind feet sure have a great
footfall.
> an aspect he
>also didn't like.
Mike: He sure isn't the easiest customer to please, is he?
> He had always felt a bit of reassurance in hearing a
soft
>footfall or even a light clicking of boot on a hard floor,
Tom: Though you must admit he has a point, Mike.
Mike: Yeah, I guess...wait, you don't even HAVE feet!
> this carpeting,
>however, completely eliminated that.
> He tried not to think about it, and watched the doors for the sign into
>sickbay. A few meters down the hallway he saw the double doorway that led
>into sickbay.
Crow: But no sign, so he just kept walking.
> Taking a right into the bay,
Tom: He found himself walking right out of it. Hehe.
> he found it as equally clean as the
>engineering bay, but that was not as unusual as it would be in engineering.
Mike: [MacBeth] But later in the trip, the bay would be scattered with hypo
injectors, medical tricorders, and random body parts that had to be
removed.
>He looked around the sterile environment of sickbay,
Tom: What this place needs is some drapes, and maybe some friendly
wallpaper.
That'll bring the room to life.
> trying to find the
chief
>medical officer.
Crow: Is this a ship tour, or the finals in the Where's Waldo national
competition?
> Not seeing him, he flagged down a nurse that was passing him.
Mike: And it looks like he has pointed the flag up. Out of bounds will be
a side-out for the serving team, and they will not like that.
>"Excuse me, ensign, but where is Doctor Markham?"
> The nurse looked around a bit, "he's...not here."
[All erupt in applause]
Tom: [Ensign] Thank you, I'll be here all week.
> "I can see that perfectly well, ensign, do you know where he is?"
> "I...not sure,
Crow: Oh, brick wall, and he was doing so well thus far.
> sir, but if I had to guess I'd say he's probably in
>quarters."
> Thorn looked around sickbay,
Tom: [Thorn] Nope, damn, they're not here.
Mike: What are you looking for?
Tom: Well, I know I left plot points around here SOMEWHERE.
> seeing everything in order. There was
>no real reason that the CMO had to be present in sickbay at this time, but
it
>was considered cricket for the department chiefs to be present in their
>departments for when the captain made his ritualistic tour of the ship.
Crow: [Heavy British] No, it's just not cricket!
Mike: Please never say "cricket" again.
> Thorn realized he had nothing else he needed to do in sickbay,
Tom: A realization I had come to oh, say, three PARAGRAPHS ago! Get ON
with it, man!
> so
>decided to leave before one of the nurses remembered that he was a bit
>overdue for his annual checkup.
Mike: Bingo!
Crow: What?
Mike: Oh, I made this little bingo card with Star Trek cliches to use in
the emergency case of fanfics like this. Somehow I hoped it would
take longer.
> He turned and went back out through the
>doors that he had just entered.
Tom: It freaks me out when he just walks right THROUGH the doors like that.
> He began to walk down the hallway towards the chief medical officer's
>quarters. He went for a few meters before he suddenly realized that he had
>no idea where he was going.
Crow: Ladies and gentlemen, the captain of a exploration craft!
> He walked to the side of the hallway,
Tom: Crashing into it, killing himself instantly, the end.
> and touched one of the
>computerized direction pads.
Mike: You know, that's still illegal in 14 states.
> "Computer."
Tom: BING!
[Mike reaches out, and touched Tom on the dome.]
Mike: Robot.
Tom: Right again! We're dealing with some fast learners today!
> The lilting female voice of the computer answered him, "working."
> "Could you show me the way to
Crow: San Jose.
> Doctor Markham's quarters?"
> As a response a series of lights began blinking in sequence to lead
>him to his destination.
Tom: Those last five lines could have been condensed into a conjunction
and a handful of words. Then, I believe, this world would be a much
better place to live.
> He started to follow them to the turbolift, which
>automatically took him to the deck he wanted.
Crow: Mike, shouldn't the medical quarters be on the same deck as the
sickbay
for quick personnel response?
Mike: I'm sorry, but sometimes the dramatic overcomes the logical.
> Once there the lights came on once again to lead him about halfway
>down the hallway towards his destination.
Tom: Nope, read it three times, and I still can't make head or tails of
THAT one!
> He stopped outside of Doctor
>Markham's door, and pressed the door chime.
Mike: Door chime!
Tom: And right again, VERY good.
Crow: Touchy-feely type, this Thorn.
> No response.
> He touched the chime again.
Crow: He certainly seems to be ENJOYING himself!
Mike: You alright there?
Crow: It's a machine thing, you wouldn't understand.
> "Who is it?"
Tom: No, no. It's "Who's there." Let's try again, shall we.
> came the rather irate reply from the other side of the
>door.
> Thorn touched the intercom for into the room,
Crow: Intercom!
Tom: It's a dead joke.
Mike: [Thorn] We need a doctor! The participles are taking over, and we
need
a cure!
> "It's the captain."
Crow: No, it's the intercom, you're the captain.
> The door slid open, and there was standing the chief medical officer,
Mike: Just don't try to parse it, boys, I need the two of you functioning.
>doctor Jojo Markham.
[All burst out laughing]
Tom: [Fighting back the laughter] Gee, maybe he should get back to his home
in Yuma, Arizona, where he once belonged.
Crow: I have, officially, lost any respect I may have still had for this
author.
> His black hair was completely out of place,
Mike: What with it growing out of his forehead and nose and all.
> and he
>had deep bags under each of his eyes,
Tom: Jojo's gotta brand new bag!
> which looked like they had been
>etched into his skull at much pain.
Mike: I can empathize with that one.
> "May I help you captain?"
Tom: No, me captain, you doc--oh, wait, never mind.
> Markham's voice croaked out of his throat
>as though it took great effort to form every word.
Crow: So he's Mike Tyson then.
> "Are you alright, doctor?"
> "Not entirely, haven't gotten much sleep lately, and I think it's
>beginning to catch up with me."
> "Well, then," Thorn said, trying to look sympathetic,
Mike: Wow, awkward.
> "I'll let you
sleep
>then. I hope you feel better."
> Thorn watched the door close again,
Tom: He strikes me as a man who has seen his share of doors closing in his
face.
> as Markham trudged off to the
>bed in the back room of his quarters. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'this
is
>a great start. Physician-heal thyself.'
Crow: Wow, a hyphen. Don't think I've seen one of those before.
Tom: But shouldn't there be another one.
Mike: There's a deeper problem, though. Who just thought that?
> Thorn went over a small mental checklist of the places he had wanted
>to visit on this brief walkabout.
Crow: So many punch lines, so little time.
> He stopped for a moment to make sure he
>hadn't missed anyplace,
Mike: Please, no.
Tom: [Preview guy] Heart pounding tour action!
> and when he was certain he hadn't he walked down
>the hall towards the turbolift he had just gotten off of.
[Heavy coughing]
Tom: Allllll-righty then!
> Thorn signaled the turbolift,
Crow: Coming back for seconds, then?
> and waited a few moments for it to show
>up.
Tom: He then looked around nervously for a moment before slipping a twenty
into the turbolift.
Mike: Are you guys, just maybe, taking that a bit too far?
Crow: Never!
> When it did the doors opened to reveal
Mike: Patrick Stewart!
Tom: Ray Romano!
Crow: The cast of the short lived Hee-Haw Honeys!
> Herman Miller,
Tom: [Thorn, mumbling] Rotten two-timing...Oh, hi Herman.
> Thorn's chief
>technical officer.
Mike: That would be different from the engineer how?
> "Captain," he said, snapping to attention.
Crow: Suddenly this has become quite a libido workout.
Mike: Well, you can stop it right now.
> "At ease, Lieutenant," Thorn said as he walked into the 'lift.
Tom: Ah, 'at ease,' a phrase etched indelibly into Thorn's psyche.
> Once
the
>doors had closed, he checked that the destination was already the main
>bridge, and then turned to face Miller. "So, what do you think of the
Mercator
>so far?"
> "She's a nice little ship, sir, it'll be a pleasure serving on her."
Crow: A pleasure servicing--
Mike: I knew those Pentium Libido chips were dangerous.
> "Nice to hear, lieutenant. You settling in alright?"
> "Yes, sir, I'm ready to go, just getting to the bridge now to take my
>post."
Tom: That would be the technical station then?
> At that the turbolift doors opening on the main bridge cut off their
>conversation.
Crow: Shhh, they don't suspect anything.
> Both the captain and the tactical officer
All: Ohhhhhh...
Mike: And I was looking forward to having a technical officer.
> left the 'lift to
take >their respective posts.
> The Bolian first officer stepped up out of the central chair,
Tom: Like one of those birthday cakes then.
>
allowing
>Thorn to take his seat.
> "Hurr," Thorn began, lowering himself into his chair, "what is our
>current status?"
> "We are still on course out of the Sol system, just past Jupiter,
Mike: So before Thorn was taking his tour--
Crow: Pre-launch tour!
Mike: Right, pre-launch tour, the first officer was watching Jupiter, and
they
have just now passed Jupiter. What is this, an Apollo rocket?
Crow: Pleasure Crystals.
> and
we
>should be out beyond Pluto in a little over two hours."
> "T'Pat?"
Crow: I hardly KNOW her!
> The Vulcan officer that was at the Ops station looked over at the
>captain.
Tom: Ah, more Vulcans. By now I think a good name for one would be T'Ken.
> "Two hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty one seconds."
Crow: THANK you, Data.
Mike: Wrong series.
Crow: Force of habit.
Tom: Shut up, Wes--er...
> "Thank you, T'Pat."
Mike: Well I'll be damned.
> Without saying anything further,
Tom: [Clears throat, then, with flourish] Anything further!
> the female Vulcan looked back at the
>viewscreen.
Crow: Ohhh, lotsa shinys!
> "Keep us on course, three quarter impulse, and take us to warp two
>when we leave the solar system, on the course laid into the computer."
Tom: Hmmm, a random tour, and a slow trip meant to sound scenic. Let's all
hope this Gerald Cunningham doesn't end up being a big kneed stutterer.
Crow: I aM GeRaLd. I tAkE CaRe oF tHe PlUtO OuTpOsT wHiLe tHe MaStEr iS
AwAy.
> Thorn sat back in his chair,
Mike: Tipped back, and fell over.
Tom: There's just not enough slapstick in Trek.
> ready to just enjoy the ride out through
the
>solar system.
Crow: Boldly going without the aid of plot or action.
> He always enjoyed touring the Sol system on the way out to a
>mission.
Tom: With captains like this, it's amazing mapping missions even begin.
> He had practically memorized every feature of the planets,
Mike: And will now recite them in alphabetical order.
> from
the
>stripes of Jupiter,
Tom: Which are storm clouds, and change as much as the clouds over earth do.
> to the barren craters of Pluto,
Tom: Which, that close to the Oort Cloud, would be probably added to
frequently.
> accented by the bright
>lights of the Plutonian outpost that was studying the solar system from
these
>frigid depths.
Crow: Sound familiar, Mike?
Mike: Low blow there.
> Thorn allowed the cushioned leather seat of the chair to relax him
>away from the length of the day.
Tom: [Thorn] Damn, three chapters over already in less than two hours.
We're
in for the long haul. At this rate, a decade of exploration will take
43,830 chapters.
[Planet buffer.]
[Commercials.]
>
>Chapter 4
Mike: A New Hope...for plot.
>
> "Sir, we are outside the orbit of Charbdis, and heading into the Sol
>Oort cloud."
> Thorn looked up at T'Pat as she gave the report,
Tom: With those short-short skits that the female crew was always forced
to wear, I'm not surprised.
> then turned back
>down to the young ensign John Smith.
Crow: So, we've gone from "Jojo" to John Smith. Do I want to know the
thought process behind these character names?
Mike: Probably not.
> "Alright, then, ensign, give us warp
>two through the Oort cloud, then up to warp four once we're clear."
Tom: He mixes and matches his orders to keep everyone awake. That's it.
No bad writing here...oh who am I fooling, WE'RE DOOMED!
Crow: Come on, we've had worse.
Tom: Such as?
Crow: "The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of
the baren land which dominates large portions of the Norgolian empire."
Tom: No, stop, I believe you!
> "Aye, sir."
> Thorn leaned back in his chair,
Mike: How far back does this chair go.
> and watched the rear image of Pluto
Crow: There's a great Mickey joke there, but I think I will let it slide.
>and its giant moon Charbdis become but a faint point in the distance.
Tom: So, Captain, how was Gerald?
Crow: [Thorn] Do'h!
>Switching his gaze up to the main viewscreen,
Mike: Notice it doesn't say what he was watching before.
Crow: Probably the yeoman.
> he saw the thin expanse of
>comets that now served as a gateway into the rest of the galaxy.
Tom: All he needs now is the Keyholder.
> Beyond the Oort cloud he could see only the wide dispersal of distant
>stars, burning points, some hundreds of light-years away.
Mike: This one's for you Carl. He could only see the billions and billions
of stars, some billions and billions of miles away.
> He thought about
>his own sun, Sol, which was now only a large star behind them.
Crow: He thought of the third planet of that system, and how happy everyone
seemed to be when they heard he was leaving.
> Whenever Thorn looked out into the expanse of the galaxy, he always
>felt overwhelmed by the fact that so many of these stars were inhabited.
Tom: It would be a damned boring series if they weren't.
Mike: As opposed to now?
>Many of those distant points of light represented millions, even trillions
of
>lives orbiting them. He started picking out familiar stars, and the
>civilizations that they supported.
Mike: Then, in a sophomoric display, he opened and closed his pointer finger
and thumb in front of his eye chanting "I am squishing your culture!"
> His eyes slowly began to glaze over
Tom: New fast acting cataracts.
> as he watched the points of light
>in the distance.
Mike: There must be, gosh, a million of them.
> His mind slowly slipped away,
Crow: But for Thorn, it is more of a coming home than slipping away.
> so that he barely noticed
>when his helmsman called out, "accelerating to warp four, sir."
> "Wha?" he let out,
[Barely restrained laughter.]
Tom: Our hero, ladies and gentlemen!
Mike: Let's bring Barclay back in.
> as his mind slowly registered the report, and came
>back from the fuzziness that he had been floating in.
Crow: Oh, do I hafta come back, it's so warm and comfortable in the void.
> "Oh, thank you
ensign,
>steady as we go."
> Thorn rubbed his eyes a bit, just now realizing how very tired he
>was, and how long of a day he had had. He looked around, and noticed that
>the lights had already begin to dim into the ship's artificial night.
Tom: Wouldn't that be counterproductive, since crews work all hour shifts?
Mike: Just smile and nod.
> "Long day, sir?"
> Thorn looked over at Hurr, who had just made that statement. "Very
>long, Hurr," he replied, stifling back a yawn, and failing.
Crow: The yawn scene, our tension for the chapter.
Tom: I know how he feels right now.
> "Well, Hurr, you have the bridge, as for me, I'm heading off to bed."
> Thorn got up from the captain's chair, and walked over to the turbolift.
>With a whisk of the doors he was gone.
Tom: Beaten to a bloody, yet fluffy, pulp.
> Hurr got up, and moved over to the vacated captain's chair, allowing
>himself to lean back a bit, and soak in exactly how comfortable it was.
Crow: Then cringing at how uncomfortably warm it was.
> He
let
>out an unconscious sigh of content as he snuggled into the soft padding of
>the chair.
> "Wow," he mused out loud, to no one in particular, "this has been a
>long day. Guess I should have expected that from launch day."
> "Hear, hear."
Mike: We're proud of you.
> The voice was John Smith's from the helm station.
Tom: Which was freaky, since John Smith himself was in the exobiology lab.
>"But, I'm glad to be here. Wow, first commission right out of the academy,
>I've been looking forward to this for four long years."
> Hurr allowed himself to smile at the wet behind the ears ensign.
Crow: [Hurr] Yes, he will make an excellent human shield one away mission.
> He
>had also been excited by the opportunity of his first commission, and could
>understand the ensign's enthusiasm. Hurr also hoped that this posting went
>much better for the young Smith than his own first posting had.
Mike: Cue flashback.
Crow: Damn.
>
> "Keep going, we've got to get through!"
Crow: Out of context, that's a great little line.
> Ensign Hurr was a member of the Fauquet crew, assigned as a guard
>to the K't'nga
Tom: Gadsundheit.
> conference.
Mike: Must be a new NCAA expansion.
> His brigade was the outer rim of defense, and
>was therefore the first planetside line against anyone who wanted to attack
>the conference.
Mike: Probably Duke, coached by the preserved head of Krzyzewski.
> They didn't know where their assailants had come from,
Tom: You see, when two assailants really love each other.
> or weather
Crow: So they weren't very observant.
>they had been able to get through the ships assigned to protect the planet.
If
>that had been the case, they had no way to know if there was anyone in
orbit
>to come for them, or to provide them backup.
Mike: Got it?
Tom: No.
Mike: Good.
>His squadron leader, a Lieutenant by the name of Johanna,
Crow: If her last name is Kepler, I leave now.
> had been trying
>to get them through the enemy lines that had been advancing on them.
Mike: Maybe it would help to sketch this as it comes.
> Hurr
>had been one of the lucky not to be felled by the first line of fire,
Crow: Instead he fell in the lack of proof reading.
> and
now
>the battle had come down to more of a hand to hand combat, as tight
quarters
>didn't allow any ease of aim or firing.
> Hurr had come face to face with one of the alien invaders. He looked
>deep into his (her?) face,
Tom: Ah, so Hurr knows all about the crying game.
> trying to pick out what species it was. He went
>through his memory, but was unable to recognize it from anything he had
>been shown in the academy.
Crow: Should this really be the number one priority at this moment in time?
> The face suddenly disappeared to be replaced by a fist that filled
>Hurr's vision. He quickly ducked, taking the assailant by the stomach,
>running him forward; able to force him into another of the attacking aliens
>behind him.
Mike: OK, Hurr rushed the alien, spinning the alien around and over another
alien behind Hurr?
Crow: No no, the other alien ran Hurr forward, despite being taken by the
stomach, and over the alien behind Hurr.
Tom: You're both wrong, Hurr rushed the alien, pulled him forward, and
judo flipped the alien onto another alien behind him, Hurr.
> Quickly spinning up,
Mike: He spins up, but doesn't keep his knees locked, that'll cost him
three tenths of a point.
> Hurr noticed another form above him.
Tom: The dreaded 1040.
> This time,
>however, Hurr was unable to duck as well, and saw a hot flash of metal fill
>his vision. Then all he could see was the red of his own blood, until the
>blackness of unconsciousness took him over.
Crow: Wow, action. Why do I have a feeling I should treasure it while it
lasts?
>
> The blackness lifted from Hurr's vision,
Mike: Silly, you just had your eyes closed.
> replaced by an overwhelming
>brightness. He blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the level of
light.
> "Is this...the afterlife?"
Tom: So he just assumed he would go THAT way?
> Alerted by the noise nearby, a nurse turned,
Crow: Grabbing her scalpel like a butcher's knife.
> and headed over to
>Hurr's bed. She tried to gently push him down.
Mike: Gently push his head down with the pillow?
> "You're lucky to be alive here ensign,
Tom: Lucky for HIM, maybe...
> most other people would be in
>the afterlife after the blow you took.
Crow: I won't say it.
> But no, this is the medical
facility on
>board Starbase 283," the young human nurse patiently explained.
> "What happened?"
> "You were in battle on the outskirts of the K't'nga settlement. An
>unknown alien species was swarming it. You were in the front line of
>combat, and took a nasty hit with a knife."
> Hurr's vision finally adjusted to the hospital room, but he was still
>disoriented, almost as though nothing had any depth to it.
Mike: Oh, such subtle foreshadowing.
> Hurr ran this
>through his head, wondering what could cause this problem.
Tom: Any chance of "this" being a two-by-four?
> Hurr suddenly came across a stomach turning conclusion, and ran his
>hand over the gauze patch, which was covering where his right eye should
>have been.
All: EWW!
Mike: How necessary, in the big scheme, was that?
> Hurr looked up at the nurse with his remaining eye.
Tom: [Hurr] We need more cliches, marry me.
> "As I said...you took quite a blow."
> "What...what does this mean for me?"
Crow: It means you will become Jewish, and spend the rest of your life
singing
and tap dancing.
> The nurse took something from a nearby table. "We have been
>experimenting with various items over the past couple of years,
Mike: Oh yes, things with the stuff and the gizmos and the whatits, Ho-yeah.
> and believe
>we can implant you with this cybertronic eye replacement. You'll be one of
>the first recipients of this technology."
Tom: Is this just all a giant back story to create another connection to
Next
Generation, via the visor?
Mike: 'Fraid so.
> Hurr then felt the pain begin to return, and something took him back
>into the land of nod.
Crow: Thank you, thing.
>
> Hurr awoke on the bridge of the Mercator,
Tom: Now THAT had to have been quite a blow...
> not realizing that he had
>even fallen asleep.
Mike: How odd. See, even, odd...
Tom: Yes, very funny dear.
> He tried to think at what time nostalgia turned into a
>dream.
Crow: Usually around the fourth Saurian Brandy.
> He looked around the bridge, hoping that no one had noticed, and
>decided that he, too, should dismiss himself to his quarters for a good
night's
>sleep.
> "T'Pat, you have the bridge," he said, as he moved from the
>comfortable captain's chair towards the door to the turbolift.
Mike: Noone ever understood his insistence on calling it the "bat pole"
though.
> "And T'Pat,
be
>careful about that chair?it's
Tom: What huh?
Crow: I think he meant to say "trp["
Tom: Oh.
> more comfortable than it looks."
> T'Pat watched the Bolian commander walk out of the bridge,
Tom: [T'Pat] oh yeah, shake it don't break it.
>wondering exactly what he meant, then moved down to take her position
Mike: Assume the position.
Crow: Thank you, may I please have another?
> as
>the acting commanding officer of the vessel.
>
>Chapter 5
>
>4 Months Later
Tom: We're spared!
Crow: 4 chapters for a few short, uneventful hours, and NOW he decides to
skip ahead a few months?
Mike: I'd call those hours anything BUT short.
>
> Thorn watched the graceful curves of Deep Space Nine shrink from
>view through the window in his readyroom.
Mike: I always thought DS9 had some nice curves on it, rrowr!
> He didn't want to dwell on his
>final view of the last outpost of the Federation,
Crow: Nor the fireworks that DS9 was launching.
> but he couldn't help
himself
>from doing so.
> There was a bit of romance about the last port before setting across
>the ocean to the New World.
Tom: But not the kind of romance we can discuss and keep our PG rating.
> Thorn had found himself thinking in terms of
>early earth exploration of the Americas to try and explain how he felt now.
Crow: Funny, cause I really feel like giving his Lewis a good Clarking
myself.
Mike: Ow.
>He felt a bit of comfort in knowing that others before him, throughout all
the
>ages, had felt what he was feeling now.
Tom: Yes, feeling the pervasive burning...of hemorrhoids.
> Admiral Garrison, former commanding officer of the Constellation
>class U.S.S. Fredricksburg, had sent Thorn a message along those same
>lines.
Mike: [High pitched] ...and when they say "do not take orally," you best
believe them.
> Thorn had been impressed that the high brass of Starfleet
Crow: High Brass of Starfleet...is that the new Trumpet ensemble?
> had taken
>the time to notice his mission, and send a personal message of "be careful
>out there, and remember, I've been there before."
Mike: And button up your overcoat
When the solar wind is free.
Tom: This is bad enough without one of your show tunes.
> Thorn heard the message screen from his table slowly rise up and
>beep a few times.
Crow: Oddly, Thorn has the same method of foreplay.
> "Incoming message" glowed in soft red letters on the
>black background, just below the Starfleet emblem. Thorn reached over to
>access the message, to see where it was coming from.
Mike: I see where it's coming from, and it looks like a bad head trip, it
should really just mellow, and zap it down a few notches.
Tom: Thank you Dan Asher.
> "Plutonian Scientific
>Outpost Alpha," the screen said.
Crow: The screen's talking again.
Mike: Sure, its just Marel Barrett.
Crow: Oh yeah.
> Thorn had never understood why they
>called it outpost "Alpha", as there were no other Plutonian outposts
previous,
Tom: Nor any tense and form agreement, previous.
>and it was doubtful anyone would be willing to build another on that frozen
>rock.
> Thorn acknowledged the message,
Tom: [Condescending] Well thank you, all high Thorn!
> knowing exactly whom it would be
>from.
Mike: That's a first. I don't think we've read a fanfic with "whom" in
it before.
> He waited for the image of his friend to replace the light blue
>Starfleet emblem.
Tom: I don't think Thorn is THAT important that he can change the symbol
of the fleet to the likeness of his friends.
> He was disappointed when another image appeared
>instead.
Crow: Dammit, someone is subspacing their butt again.
> "I am Doctor Hector Jacobson," the figure that did finally come on
>screen said.
Tom: Yes, I am a doctor, as I make with the cutting, and the examining,
and the doing of the things with the stuff, and oy you wouldn't
believe the day I am having. I tell you, it is meshuginas what
they expect from me and murphnl murph snuorf.
Mike: [Holding his hand over Tom's mouth] That's enough there.
> "Captain Thorn here, doctor, what may I do for you."
Tom: [Still yiddish] You can do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around,
what do I look like, someone who needs your help?
> "I am afraid, captain, that I must be the bearer of bad news.
Tom: But then, what is good news now adays. Oy, everything has just gone
to gesphultham in a handbasket, so that I can't hardly watch the news
anymore.
Mike: I said enough.
> Doctor
>Cunningham is dead."
Crow: Well, one fewer non-plot point to keep track of. Now, what about the
self-destructing data-padd?
> Thorn stared blankly at the screen,
Crow: I like toast.
> this statement not totally sinking
>in. His composure slowly dropped,
Tom: So he broke that ivory bust of Beethoven he had?
> and his eyes lost focus, staring down at
>the table.
> "H-How did it happen?"
Mike: He tried to read this story all in one sitting.
> Not getting any reply to his question, he looked back up at the
>message screen, which was now black, and receding back into his desktop.
Crow: Which is how Thorn's evening often ends.
>Thorn watched it fall,
Mike: Not a word there, goldie.
> then quickly signaled for it to come back up, and
>placed a call through to this Doctor Jacobson.
> He waited for the call to go through.
> And waited.
> And waited.
Tom: Nothing outlasts the dormancy power of Over The Edge, it just keeps
waiting, and waiting, and waiting...
> And finally got a reply from another new face.
Crow: So it's that John Travolta/Nicholas Cage thing?
> "This is Lieutenant JG
>Paul Harvey,
Mike: Wasn't that the rabbit?
> I'm sorry, but the doctor has placed strict orders not to be
>disturbed.
Crow: He doesn't like those starving African commercials.
> Thorn grumbled a bit at this. "Lieutenant Harvey,
Mike: Now I ask you all while reading this to imagine Jimmy Stewert's voice.
> this is Captain
>Thorn of the Starship Mercator," Thorn hated pulling rank, but at this
point
>was boiling over in anger. "Doctor Jacobson just disturbed ME deeply by
Tom: [Thorn] Giving me the mental image of Roseanne in a thong. [Tom] On
second thought, I wish I *hadn't* said that.
>contacting me, telling me that one of my oldest friends, Doctor Cunningham
>has died at your outpost, and would not tell me anything more."
Crow: He was killed by a fatal attack of commas, and we fear it is
spreading.
> The Lieutenant looked a bit flustered at this. He then composed
>himself as quickly as he could. "Yes, captain, Doctor Cunningham is dead,
I
>am sorry of your loss. Now, sir, I have more that I need to do. If you
don't
>mind--"
Tom: I would hate to be the mortician on this base. [Solemn] Would you like
the deceased wrapped in cellophane, or just stuffed?
> "Oh, but I do mind, Lieutenant, now, could you please give me some
>details of this occurrence?"
Crow: So we finally have a plot point, and it is washed down with whining
and apathy.
> Lieutenant Harvey lowered his eyes,
Mike: Cause he couldn't stand to tell Thorn some lies and narrow his eyes.
> then pulled them up again.
Tom: People are just having a tough time keeping them in their sockets
recently.
> "I'm
>sorry, sir, but I cannot. And please, sir, this order comes from the
Outpost
>commander, so you do not have authority to countermand this order."
> Thorn cursed himself.
Crow: Don't do that...it's our job.
> Had he really been that transparent in his
>plans to try and countermand?
Tom: I'm not transparent, I'm just written that way.
> He could think of nothing else he could do,
>except to wait out the order, until whatever had been classified, for
whatever
>reason, was lifted.
Mike: [New Yorker] Whatever.
Tom: [Same] Fuhgedaboudit.
> "Thank you, Lieutenant, I would, however, appreciate any information
>when it is deemed releasable."
> "Of course sir," Harvey said, and the screen went almost immediately
>black.
> 'This is too damned strange,' Thorn thought to himself,
Crow: A conclusion I had come to a few chapters ago.
> then rested
>himself back for one last journey through his memories of Gerald
>Cunningham.
>
> Gerald Cunningham found himself extremely cold. That's all there
>was--cold.
Mike: Cold, and the tangy flavor of Worcestershire Sauce.
> No light, no heat,
Tom: No motor cars, not a single luxury.
> no color, no taste, no smell, no sounds,
Mike: No plot.
Tom: No storyline.
Crow: No sense.
> nothing
but
>intense, bitter coldness.
Tom: Which isn't all, seeing as he is DEAD and all.
> And yet, there was something else, just in front of him, yet an infinite
>distance away.
Crow: Stand back, this manuscript needs room to get metaphysical.
> Close enough to touch it, yet so far away, it was nothing.
>One photon, one single photon it seemed, beckoning him forward through
>the void.
> He obeyed the silent command, and moved himself, he knew not
>how,
Mike: But how?
Tom: [Over dramatized] ACTING!
Mike: Brilliant!
Tom: Thank you.
> in the direction he perceived as 'forward.'
Crow: But he also perceives the sky to be "lemony-sweet" in this little
world
of his, so this doesn't account for much.
> The photon grew, and he realized just how marvelous it was.
Mike: Ohhh, shiny!
> It grew into a solid white light in front of him. Light and, he slowly
>discovered, heat.
Tom: What about the sound and taste? Don't leave us hanging!
> The numbness in his fingers began to caress the heat that was
>coming from the light ahead of him.
Crow: Hey now, no touchy-feely of the unearthly glow!
> The feeling began to return in each
>stiffened digit.
> The light kept growing in front of him, a beacon, dragging him forward
>into the heat.
Mike: But I don't wanna go to school, just let me float in the void for five
more minutes!
> His mind was absolute clouded over,
Tom: Losing all sense of tense.
> he had no thoughts,
Crow: Not that this was something new, mind you.
> no
>memories, except the thought of warmth, and the memory of freezing cold.
> He moved towards the light,
Tom: Assuming he had kicked the bucket, bought the farm, and rung down
the curtain. Have we missed any cliches?
> and it filled his whole vision, until the
>darkness was also added to his memory.
Mike: Thankfully he has that handy "M+" button.
> He felt solid ground beneath his feet once more,
Tom: Just before he felt the earth
move
under his feet, and the sky tumble down?
> and began to move
>forward through the light.
Crow: If he ends up aging rapidly in a white hotel room, I'm gone.
> What he saw, however, was not the bliss of the
>hereafter.
Mike: Ah, so he went the *other* way.
> Instead, what Cunningham saw was something that he could not
>understand, nor had ever seen before in his life, or, what he assumed was
>now his afterlife.
>
Tom: Is this supposed to be suspense, Mike?
Mike: I think.
Tom: Just making sure.
>Chapter 6
>
> Hurr watched the captain move slowly and silently from his
>readyroom, over to the turbolift, then off of the bridge.
Crow: [Hurr] Hey! Who died?
> The first
officer
>watched the closed doors for a few moments, trying to read out of them what
>was happening,
Tom: Let's see, Deck 01, main turbolift...
> but got nothing in reply other than the flat gray color of
the
>doors.
> A few of the other bridge officers exchanged some silent, questioning
>glances,
Mike: Wow, its so pensive you can almost feel it. I can hardly contain
my suspense and intrigue [yawns].
> but it was soon dropped.
Tom: More dropped glances. The entire crew is soon going to need that thing
Hurr got which wasn't explained.
> Hurr, without thinking, looked up at
T'Pat,
>but the Vulcan officer was just looking forward at the screen, nothing
>obviously readable from her face.
Crow: Remarkable, since she was going through Pon Farr.
> Hurr told himself that the Ops chief would not be able to read any
>strong emotions, except in the case of physical contact.
Mike: Why can't authors just post these little reminders, instead of having
characters think out backstory and exposition?
> The Bolian turned
>his face back to the main viewscreen.
Tom: A difficult feat since he didn't move his head, just his face.
> The streaking stars on the screen
Crow: Is that legal?
>soothed him, and slowly swept away the curiosity from the departure of the
>captain.
Mike: At least the cleaning service is efficient.
> A small beeping sound from behind Hurr brought him out of this
>trance-like state.
Tom: Geepers, this guys life is just brief interludes between daydreams.
He's making Walter Mitty look down to earth.
> He craned his head to look at the tactical officer, from
>where the sound had come.
Crow: Yeah, it's usually not good when your officers beep.
> Herman Miller was hunched over the station, taking a look at what it
>was trying to report to him.
Mike: Yes girl, what is it? Did Timmy fall down the well?
> "Sir," Miller paused for a moment, taking one
>last look, "I am picking up some slight wreckage on extreme long range
>sensors."
> "How far?"
> "It reads at,"
Crow: A third grade level. It needs Hooked on Phonics! Hukt on Fonix wurkt
for mee!
> Miller turned his head down again, so as to get the
>reading from the console.
Mike: Nonstop head turning action!
> "It's positioned about ten light years from our
>current position, and about fifteen degrees off of our current trajectory."
Tom: So let's see, if we take the tangent to the...no, no, we need the
cosine
of the angle between the...aw poopie, I need some graph paper.
> "Change course to intercept,
Tom: So let's see, if we take the tangent to the...no, no, we need the
cosine
of the angle between the...aw poopie, I need some graph paper.
> captain to the bridge." Hurr turned back
>to the viewscreen, and waited for Thorn to make his appearance on the
>bridge. He didn't have to wait long, as the captain stepped out of the
>turbolift less than a minute later.
Crow: What, no Data precision on the report time? I'm disillusioned.
> "What do we have, Hurr?"
Crow: Herpes.
Mike: That's it, no ramchips.
> Hurr stood up from the captain's chair that he had been occupying,
Tom: And when he occupies a chair, he occupies a chair.
>and began to report. "Well, captain, looks like we finally have some
action.
Mike: Ensign Rameriz and Lieutenant Henderson. Shall I transfer the
security
feed to the viewscreen?
>We have some wreckage on the long-range sensors.
Tom: [Pauly Shore] We got some WRECK-age, HOWL!
Mike: [After a stunned pause] NEVER do that again.
> We are moving to
>intercept and investigate."
> "Good call, Hurr.
Crow: Hurr has made the call, and the Token Players team is going to get
two free throws.
> I can't wait to take a look at this. Finally-
>something to report back to Starfleet." Thorn sat down in his chair, and
his
>eyes lowered down to stare at the carpeting on the deck.
Mike: He can't stand being upstaged.
> "Sir? Is there something wrong?"
Tom: Yeah, I just read ahead in the plotline.
> Thorn raised his eyes to look at his Bolian first officer. "No, Hurr,
>I'll be fine-just fine."
> Hurr decided that he shouldn't press the point,
Tom: So what else would he not want to press, Mike...he wouldn't want to
press his...
Mike: Uh, press his luck.
Crow: WHOOO! Big money, no whammies, big money, no whammies!
Mike: *Sigh*
> and let the trip out
to
>the wreckage pass in silence.
Mike:
Crow:
Tom:
> "Captain, I have the wreckage within viewer range, do you want it on
>screen?"
Crow: Well, that was only slightly awkward.
> Thorn looked up, let out a deep breath,
Tom: [Loud exhale, then Hurr] I win!
> and confirmed that yes; he
>would like the image up on screen.
Mike: Aw, look at that cute literary style there.
> The captain and Hurr stood to look at
>the screen a bit closer.
Crow: [Matronly] You boys will ruin your eyes if you stand that close!
> "How far can we magnify this image?"
> The small speck of wreckage grew larger on the screen. It was a
>cylindrical metallic object, a matte brown in color, without any other
>distinction.
Tom: So a big space turd?
Mike: No, that would be the Mercator.
> No carbon burning was apparent, no ragged edges possibly
>caused by an explosion, nothing but a small, matte brown cylinder.
Crow: Hardly wreckage than, is it. More like jetsam.
> Thorn turned from the screen to look at Lieutenant Miller. "Scan it,
Mike: I always wondered what futuristic curses would evolve.
>can we see what's inside?"
> Miller fell silent for a few moments, while the sensors started taking
>the object apart to see what it was inside.
Tom: Ah ah ah, I didn't say "Simon Says."
> "Sir, the object is hollow.
It
>has a methane environment inside, and what appears to be one deceased life
>form." Miller slowly added this all together in his head. "It appears to
be a >life pod, sir."
Crow: Wrong again, the term would be "casket," or "death trap."
> Thorn quickly looked back at the screen, and asked, "can you identify
>the species of the creature inside?"
Mike: Is "creature" really P.C.
> "No, sir. It doesn't match any methane breathing species in our
>databanks."
Tom: Well, that might be what killed it.
> "No, I guess it shouldn't. That's what were out here for." Thorn
>watched the small cylinder on the screen, trying to decide exactly what to
do
>next.
Crow: Damn, now where's that manual?
> "Miller, tractor it,
Mike: Then rock it like a boogie-woogie choo-choo train.
> bring it into the shuttlebay. T'Pat, see if you
>can't discern the course of the pod, Smith, once she has that course, lay
it
>in, and be ready at warp 2."
> A blue beam became visible on the viewscreen,
Crow: Hurr, you should think of these things while we're in dock.
> stretching from the
>top of the screen towards the pod. The matte brown of the pod then buckled
>a bit under the force of the beam, ruptured, and the pod was no more,
Tom: Smooth one, Poindexter.
>becoming simply a scattering of metal and a cloud of methane atmosphere
>that was quickly crystallizing in the cold of space.
Crow: NOW it's wreckage.
> "Damn! What happened Miller?"
Mike: Dur, pod faww down go boom!
> The tactical office was frantically hitting out commands on his
>console.
Mike: He's really good at touch typing...see, cause he's the tactical
officer, tactile officer...
Crow: Mike, if you stretch jokes too far, they will snap back at you.
Tom: Why would it take an entire office to execute a few simple
commands on the console?
> "Sir, the ship was sound, there appeared to be a self destruct
>command of some kind."
Crow: Oh wait, here it is, tractor beam power too high, object go boom.
I even had it underlined.
> The Lieutenant looked up, and stared at the
>crystallized cloud on the viewscreen.
> "T'Pat, did you get a heading on the pod?"
Mike: Well, since the resulting pieces will have the combined velocity
and direction as the original piece, and with no friction in space
to slow them down...
Tom: There is no subtle way to say this, Mike, so just shut up, will you?
> The Vulcan had been watching her controls very carefully;
Crow: She suspected that it made faces at her when she turned away, and
was not about to let that happen.
> she now
>looked at the captain, her black hair swishing about her shoulders.
Mike: I don't really like this turn of events.
>"Fortunately the pod has-had an ionized drive system, so we have a nice
>easy trail to follow."
> "Ah, breadcrumbs then T'Pat?"
Tom: Is that an attempt to create something more insulting than "Very good,
here's a cookie"?
> The reference caused the Vulcan to
>have to stop and think for a moment, so the captain decided not to dwell on
>the point. "Ensign Smith, follow that trail, warp two."
Mike: Thrill as they speed to the rescue!
> John Smith looked down at his console, and tapped in the proper
>commands, "course laid in sir, warp awaiting your command."
Crow: Well, he sort of did give it.
> "Engage warp."
Tom: And register at Macy*s.
> Thorn turned around, and found
Mike: A human skull on the ground.
> his way back to his command chair,
>and watched the stars on the screen go from single points, each becoming a
>rainbow streak and flying off the edge of the screen.
Crow: But since they haven't hit warp yet, I suspect Hurr has been hitting
the pleasure crystals.
> "Well, Hurr," Thorn began, looking over at the Bolian officer seated
>next to him. "Looks like we finally have a mystery to look into."
Tom: Wow, a plot. Only took six chapters too.
>
> Cunningham was in pain. Intense pain. Pain like he had never felt
>before. Pain like no human had, or ever could feel.
Mike: The pain of acid reflux.
> The wave passed as darkness took over.
Crow: Hmm, the contractions at two minutes apart, he should start dilating
now.
> Even though unconscious, his mind was beginning to work out exactly
>what it was he had to do. The answer was obvious: he had to make himself
>no longer here.
>
Mike: And, with that profound revelation...
[Mike picks up Tom, and the trio leaves.]
[1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... ...]
[SOL Bridge. It is dark. From off screen, a single fiddle can be heard
playing. While this is going on, Tom float into picture (spotlighted).
He is wearing a prayer shawl, a hat, and a large beard.]
Tom: A fiddler on the nacelle. Sounds crazy, no? But here on our little
ship, the Mercator, you might say that we are all fiddlers on the
nacelle, scratching out a simple tune in the silence of space,
without breaking our necks. Why do we do it? I'll tell you. I
don't know. What keeps us up there? That I can tell you in one
word. TRADITION!
[The lights come up, and Mike and Crow enter, dressed similarly. Gypsy
is, at the moment, not with them.]
All: Tradition. Tradition!
Tradition.
Tradition. Tradition!
Tradition.
Tom: Who must walk around the ship at launch?
And meet the leading cast, and write the pointless log.
Who must know the way to be a figurehead.
So people think he really is in charge?
All: The captain. The captain!
Tradition.
Tradition. Tradition!
The captain.
Crow: Who must be the one to actually be in charge
To train the crew, and run the bridge.
Who must be the one to actually run the ship
So the captain's free to make long, wandering trips.
All: The XO. The XO!
Tradition.
Tradition. Tradition!
The XO!
Mike: At 30 I was always shown up
By that brat Wesley.
Now I have low self esteem
How I miss... A-Team.
All: Reg Barclay. Reg Barclay!
Tradition.
Tradition. Tradition!
Reg Barclay!
[Gypsy comes in, a bit out of breath, as though running late. She is
wearing a giant phantom mask that covers half of her vacuum cleaner.]
Gypsy: the phAAAAAAAAAAAAAAntom of the Mercator is there
Inside your [looks aorund]...ah...mind...?
[The music abruptly stops, and the guys all turn to look at Gypsy.]
Gypsy: I thought we were doing Phantom...
Tom: Didn't you get the memo?
Mike: [Sighs] We'll be right back [hits to commercial light]
[Commercial break starts with meatball, the Fiddler theme, and the
discussion continuing on the bridge.]
----
End Part One.
Answer to questions:
Opening sentences:
1) Moby Dick
2) 1984
3) Shrodinger's Cat
It was so small that they had to store their blank.
Richard Dawson: "Bippies."
Brett: "Hinders."
Discussion Questions:
Who invented the "isosceles" chair spring joke? If 'no,'
explain.
Continued in Part Two...