Introduction: In the mid-1980's I went to a book convention and saw my first piece of fan fiction. Someone had merged Doctor Who with Star Trek. And they were selling it! Well now, I thought, I can do that. So years later once ST:TNG began running, I had an idea. I would write a fan fic story and sell it! I could do that. How hard could it be? As it turned out: very hard. Oh, not the writing part: that was easy. It was the selling the story. It seems there are these nasty things called "copyright laws" that protect the original creator's works. Needless to say, I never sold anything once I found out about these laws, but I did finish writing this story, plus its follow-up.
Then I shelved the story in the 1990's, committing it to diskette. Yes, a diskette. It would be fine, I thought. Hah! Digital degradation happens. Diskettes are toast. The hard copy was all I had left. I scanned it in, converted it to a few different formats for me to work, and viola. Here we are.
I have since done a little editing on this, not much. The two Star Trek stories are my original fan fics. The second one is being worked on as well and should be posted shortly after this one completes. This story has a grand total of six chapters.
Special thanks to Carlos Sandoval, for whom this project would have stalled in a previous life but for him. Too cool for words.
Disclaimer: This is an amateur fan publication and is not intended to infringe on the rights of Paramount Pictures or any other holders of copyrights on STAR TREK.
Chapter 1: Off we go into the Wild Black Yonder!"Captain's never-ending log: 47457.6. Having completed a boring, yet necessary (meaning: somebody-had-to-do-it) investigative studies of the Hubbub-Mondo-Manco system, we are returning to Federation space for our next assignment before shore leave at Station 142. We return with somewhat good news. The Hubbub-Mondo-Manco's sun is beginning to shift on its axis causing undo gravity stress on the planets, but of the two class-M planets in its orbit, the gravity will not be a problem for roughly another 15,000 years. Starfleet has been informed of this and they have authorized the planet for colonization. Even as I record this, transport ships are already on their way."
Jean-Luc paused his video diary and sat back in his chair, contemplating if he should add a comment about the colonists being poor bastards to draw that assignment to go to a world that was going to die, or if he should just keep it mum for now to maintain deniability. As is, he was pretty sure Starfleet did not read the entire report on the system or they would have noticed that the gravity swells had already decimated the closest planet to the sun in that system and the resulting destruction of the planet basically left planetary debris on an outward vector which meant that the two M-class worlds were likely to have some impacts. Ah well, it's not like there weren't other colonists waiting to find their own world and proclaim themselves kings, queens, emperors, and whatever else they had in mind.
Jean-Luc's thoughts were drawn away from that subject as a new email popped into this inbox.
"Computer. Open new email," Jean-Luc ordered.
"Really?" the computer replied. "You can't even use a mouse to open an email, or even touch the panel to open it? How the hell did you ever become Captain of a starship? Did you win a contest or something?"
"Enough back talk, computer. Just open the email."
"Yes, dear," the computer replied testily. "But don't think this conversation is over."
The message displayed and Jean-Luc spent several minutes deciphering its contents. He then spent several more minutes deciphering his deciphering skills to ensure they were working correctly. He sighed and resumed his video diary, mentally steeling his voice and his optimism so his future videos would convey an idealist Starfleet Captain instead of showing what he really thought for this endeavor.
"Starfleet has just issued orders for our next mission. It seems that we are to host the first ever Intergalactic Comedy Contest. This is a duty in which I look forward to as I've always believed that a little humor goes a long way to establishing peace between various factions and races. It's not like the last attempt to do something like this resulted in the city of Kneshia on Molotov-4 being bombarded from orbit by an angry Betazoid contingent of professional hecklers. No, not at all.
"Yes, well. The fact is, the Enterprise has been chosen to host this event which I am sure will uplift the spirits in the crew, especially Mr. Data who Starfleet Intelligence has strongly suggested be offered the spot of emcee. I must admit even I am feeling somewhat elated. This is the type of assignment I can enjoy: no Borg to worry about, no Gorns or other nasty races taking pot shots at us. This is a cushion assignment and I don't think anyone can disturb it."
A buzzer interrupted. "Riker to Captain Picard."
Jean-Luc pressed the pause button again on his video diary. Then pressed another button which started his personal tea maker making his programmed Earl Gray, hot. Silently cursing, he pressed another button and was rewarded with a soft beep. "Go ahead, Number One," Picard returned.
"We're picking up some peculiar communications from three billion kilometers out."
'What the heck does that mean?' Picard thought. "What type of communication?"
"We're not sure. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear personnel on two ships were having a religious argument."
"Number One, you've attended religious discussions before."
Mr. Riker cut him off, "With all due respect, sir, this is not a discussion. This is an argument."
Capt. Picard threw on his Dixon Hill persona, thought it over for a moment, came up with no inspiring thoughts, went back to being just a mere interstellar starship Captain and said, "On my way."
He rose from his seat, tugged his tunic down as only a captain could and walked out of his ready room and onto the bridge. Immediately a musical score began with the Captain's voice narrating an annoying little spiel. "Space, the final..."
"Belay that, Mr. Worf," said the Captain with a wave of his hand.
As instructed, Mr. Worf cut the music with a flick of a button, darkly muttering, "Captains are supposed to have cascading music. Other Captains have music. Why can't this one..."
"On screen, magnification 10," instructed the Captain, ignoring his head of security.
"Ah... sir," Commander Riker began. "We can't; we haven't paid this month's cable bill yet."
Capt. Picard put the cold eye on his first officer and asked, "Did we pay our audio bill?"
Riker stood straight, chin out and beard in full view. "Yes, sir!"
"Audio then."
Almost immediately, ear-splitting shouting could be heard.
"Yoos can't say that about my god, ya gutter rat!" screamed a somewhat female voice.
"Can so, can so! Yer god sucks eggs!" came a male voice.
"Decrease volume, Number One!" Captain Picard shouted to his First Officer, trying to cut into the audio maelstrom.
"This is the lowest setting, Captain!" Riker yelled back, his hands over his ears.
"Yoos better take that back—or so help me..."
"What? What are you gonna do?! Spit at me?! Or use your laser cannons on my helpless vessel? Do you even know how? Here, let me show you how it's done, ya swamp gnat-rat!"
"Sir," Data began in a monochrome way that subtly irritated his VGA superiors during a lull in the audio attack. "It appears that the two ships are now firing on each other. Correction. It is now only one ship that is firing on the other."
"Are we within range to put it on non-cable viewer?"
"We are now, sir," Data replied.
"Then put it on view," instructed Commander Riker.
Obediently Mr. Data displayed the image of two very similar-looking rectangular transports (no surprise since they had both been purchased by Honest Carl's Used Spaceships Emporium, who had in turn gotten them from a fire sale from the Ferengi, not that he was going to admit that), one of which was firing these really cool-looking laser blasts at the other ship's drive section, which was kind of weird since there should have been no way to see laser shots since the vessels were not in an atmosphere, but what the hell do SF writers know anyway? Within moments the second ship's drive area vaped in a white "burp" and the ship went dead in space.
"Take that, ya cows of a fatherless bovine!" came the sarcastic voice from the ship with the cool lasers. "Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!"
"May yer intestines strangle yoos as ya rot in a shallow grave, my son," went the equally vindictive voice from ship two.
The first ship sped away, its sarcastic voice laughing over the space channels.
"Mr. Data," Capt. Picard started. "How many survivors are on board the crippled ship?"
"Sensors indicate there are eight survivors, Captain. Additionally, their core is emitting radiation. At the rate of its acceleration, the ship will be completely immersed in hard radiation within two hours, 6 minutes, and 52 seconds."
Capt. Picard tugged his tunic again, sat in his favorite command chair and crossed his legs, striking yet another dramatic pose to impress the crew and the audience, while not really giving two shillings how much time was left on that ship. It was all a pretty young fluff by the name of Ensign Cherry could do to restrain himself from jumping the old geezer.
"Lay in an intercept course, Mr. Data. Mr. Worf, please hail the wounded craft and offer our assistance."
"Aye, sir," Mr. Worf replied in a voice that Commander Riker would give some of his moussed hair for. Oh sure, Riker had the beard and the perfect hair, but he could admit to himself that Worf's voice was the perfect deep baritone.
Lt. Worf clicked the Space-PA button and yelled, "You! Crippled ship! Do you want help or not?!"
"Message coming in," Mr. Worf stated a few seconds later.
"On screen," replied the Captain.
An electronic "blip" later, Picard, Riker, Worf, Data, and the rest of the bridge crew were looking at an incredibly wizened… or wrinkled… or just plain old face of a woman wearing a black habit.
"What the heck are you lookin' at?" she barked.
Ensign Cherry temporarily lost whatever carnal infatuation he had for the Captain.
Gingerly, Capt. Picard rose, yanked his tunic for the 324th time that day and said, "Madam..."
The image broke in, saying, "I ain't no Madam, ya idjit!"
"Um... yes. Anyway, do you realize that your vessel is in danger of becoming completely radioactive?"
"Of course I'm aware of that, ya numskull! Yuh think I'm stupid or somethin'?"
"Ummm..." Picard started.
"Aahh, knock it off and beam me t'yor fancy tin can 'fore me and muh girls kick the bucket!" With that the screen thankfully clicked off and the bridge crew was left looking at the ship falling in the vacuum of space. And it was falling. Because the enemy's gate is down. Wait. Wrong series. Anyway, the captain and his bridge crew watched at the gray rectangle began drifting.
"Mr. Worf, please see to it that the survivors are beamed aboard expeditiously..." The Captain noticed the knobs on Worf's head dip down and his eyes squinted. He hastily said, "...beam them aboard as quickly as possible. Commander Riker and I will meet them in Transporter Room 3. Mr. Data, you have the bridge."
Capt. Picard moved for the lift, with Riker swaggering in behind him, listing to the right today Picard noticed. The turbolift whisked them to their destination in seconds, disgorging them as soon as the doors opened by pivoting the floor up in a spring-like motion while they were still waiting for their equilibrium to catch up.
But as with any halfway decent crew, the two officers were caught before they slammed onto the deck or into a wall. The turbolift's computer made a note to increase its spin next time Picard boarded it. This was fun! One of these times, it knew, the Captain would get his.
Upright, Picard tugged his tunic again, paused when he heard a female sigh in the background, and then continued his way to Transporter Room 3. Riker still swaggered behind him, his head arched to one side as the weight of the chemicals in his hair caused a gravity imbalance.
Chief "Oy-am-l-ever-in-need-of-a-drink-if-that- 'were-nun' -is-beamed-aboard-and-looks-in-my-direction" Brien was awaiting Capt. Picard's order to beam the survivors over.
"I've got a lock on the survivors, Captain."
"Beam them aboard, Mr. O'Brien," said Capt. Picard.
The transporter transported, the sparkly beams sparkled, and shortly eight persons in black habits were standing on the transport pads. Sizes ranged from a little over a meter in height to just over two meters. Weights also ranged from plump to portly but as they were wearing baggy habits it was hard for the Federation crew members to tell—however, as your narrator I was aware of these things.
Commander Riker's posture straightened and Picard quickly noticed the cause—three of the space nuns' habits were not as baggy as the rest, and consequently showed some good hooters.
"For God's sake, man, they're nuns!" Picard whispered.
Riker looked at him, smiled and said, "Well, until I know what their vows are, they're just nun-babes to me."
"I heard that!" screeched the habited head nun.
Mr. "Oy-etc. Brien quickly found an interesting spot on the wall to concentrate his gaze and dream of whiskey shots to come... and soon!
"I've heard of yoos, Commander Riker, yoos self-proclaimed interstellar studbuns! Yoos keeps yer dang mitts of my girls or so help me I'll roast yer Mr. Happy over an open microwave pit! Gettit?!" She poked Riker in the chest, her long black-coated nails slicing the threads in his uniform.
Riker stepped back... anything to get away from that libido killing creature! And as Riker was recoiling in terror, Picard ignored the two and concentrated on the space nun that was over two meters tall. And instead of tugging his tunic he began a scowl.
"Now I want yoos to git yer hand outta yer britches and git muh ship fixed!" the mouth continued, brandishing a space-ruler. An impressive one at that. "I want yuh ta git its engines back on line, its navi-gate-shun computer on line, and our bible-replicator back on line, an I wants yoos ta do it now!" With that, she smacked Commander Riker on the back of his hand, leaving the marking '2.3 CENTINMETER' impression that was amazingly 2.3 centimeters long.
"And as for you, Cap'n, I want secluded cabins for muh girls an' for myself. And I want it now!" she shoved her incredibly old face into Picard's, but it didn't faze him. It only gave Chief O'Brien more respect for the old man. 'Man, that whiskey was going to go down good tonight,' he thought.
Capt. Picard sidestepped the ol' bat and approached the tall space nun. The smaller nuns met the Captain's gaze, but the tall one kept a turned head.
"Commander," began Picard. "I would like you to meet someone." Riker stepped forward as the Captain pulled back the habit's headpiece. Underneath the black cloth, pale blue eyes peered over a snub-nosed nose, which was in tum over an easy thin-lipped smile.
Short thinning gray hair sat atop an aged balding head, which fell to the front of the face in the form of a graying beard and mustache.
"Commander, meet Xavier-Octavius Picard."
Xavier beamed and said, "Well, fancy meeting you here, cousin."
Jean-Luc scowled menacingly. "Throw him in the brig." He then turned on his heels and left Transporter Room 3.
Xavier yelled, "Nice seeing you again, Jean-Luc!"
"A man, eh?" the ancient space nun commented, shifting her hands to her hips and putting the ruler away in a utility chastity belt. Xavier turned to her and beamed another smile, but before he could say anything, she belted him in the kisser.
She then shifted her gaze to the remaining nuns and asked, "Alright, which one of yoos was the responsible witch for stashin' aboard a man?! Speak up!"
One of the less-threatening nuns stepped forward and explained. "We didn't know he was a male when he registered, Mother Superior. Since Sister Eunice Quadriplegic had a mustache, we thought it was normal for a sister to develop sideburns and a beard as well. Please don t beat us!"
"Yes, please don t beat us!" wailed the remaining space nuns, collapsing to the deck.
"No one is going to beat you," Commander Riker said, moving in to cop a feel... er... help the nuns up. "At least, not while you're on this ship. Now let's see about finding you some quarters."
Xavier got up and agreed. "Yes, let's."
Riker grabbed the man wearing the nun's habit by the shoulder. "Not you. You're headed for the brig."
"Can I throw these here girls in the brig as well?" asked the Mother Superior.
"Why would you want to do that?" Riker responded.
"It'll keep them outta trouble, jerk."
"Then, no, you can't."
"Pucker nuts," she replied.
In the turbolift on his way back to his ready room (having threatened to jettison the lift if it continued to harass him), Jean-Luc continued his log entry.
"Captain's log: supplemental. Forget last thing said in log. With the recent addition of Xavier aboard the Enterprise nothing will go right until he's off." He paused, leaning against the lift doors and commented, "This sucks."