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2. All Engineers Go To Heaven. Or Something Like That.

"I don't believe it. I've died and gone to Engineering," I mutter to myself.

A passing crewman dressed in a black uniform with a yellow torso gives me a bemused look as he passes. "I feel that way all the time," he confides before disappearing through a nearby door.

How do I know this is engineering? There's no other place this could be, although it's a far cry from any engineering department I've ever seen. Strangely, I feel pretty calm about this whole thing. I mean, I'm still trying to get over the shock of dying—if that's what that was—and being transported…well, transported wherever here is.

I briefly wonder if Malcolm will wake up on a firing range when he dies, but that thought is interrupted by a very loud thrumming noise coming from…I gasp.

The engines that span three stories from floor to ceiling before me are…amazing. I've never seen anything like it, except for a prototype drawing of a Warp 8 engine that one of my crazier professors at the academy liked to show students. That drawing, which I thought as realistic as a photograph of a unicorn, doesn't hold a candle to this. How fast do these babies go?

"Ensign, do you have those propulsion calculations?"

Huh? Who you callin' ensign bub?

A dark skinned man is standing before me. His eyes are covered with some kind of device so it's hard to know where he's looking…or if he is at all…but he must be speaking to me. There's no one else.

"Those calculations, ensign. Today."

For the first time I realize I'm holding something—it looks like a PADD, only smaller and sleeker. I'm also wearing a uniform similar to everyone else's—black and yellow.

"Uhhhh…" Uncertainly, I hold the PADD out to him and he takes it.

"You all right, Tucker?" he asks.

At this point I'm beyond trying to figure out how he knows my name. If this is some elaborate practical joke, there's not much I can do now except play along. But…I don't think it is a joke.

"I'm fine," I tell him. "Thanks…sir." He's got three pips on his collar and even here I know that means higher rank than ensign.

"You've been down here for almost two shifts. Why don't you take a break?" the man suggests. "I don't need anybody making mistakes because they're tired."

Seeing as I don't know how any of this stuff really works, taking a break is probably a good idea. He has no idea how many mistakes I could make here. I nod agreeably.

"Fine," he tells me, engrossed in the PADD I gave him. I know that look—the complete absorption, the disregard for everything else when the pressure is on, the fanatical attention he's paying to those calculations…this guy is the Chief Engineer. "See you back here next shift."

"Yes sir," I tell him, but he's already turned away from me and is heading toward those magnificent engines. I'd like to get a look at them but right now everything in me is saying get out of here before someone asks me to do something engineer-like, so I scoot.

As I'm leaving it occurs to me that maybe this isn't heaven and I'm not dead at all. After all, what kind of heaven busts you down to ensign?

"Ah, met Mr. LaForge, I see."

Trip nearly jumped out of his skin as he rounded a corner and ran into the Starfleet admiral he'd last seen in the in the vast white space of his death. Or whatever that was. This time the man wasn't dressed as an admiral, he was wearing a uniform similar to the one Trip was wearing. This one, the engineer noticed, was red and had a row of four pips lined neatly along its collar.

"Captain now, huh?" Trip asked. "I know how you feel, I got demoted too," he fingered his collar sarcastically. "You want to tell me what the hell is going on yet?"

The man considered it, then started walking down the corridor. Trip scrambled to keep up. "No, not yet, I think. But I am glad to see you're getting along well. I thought you would be comfortable in engineering to start off."

"I'm dreaming. I must be. That's the only reasonable explanation." Trip wasn't listening. Q reached out and pinched his arm—hard. "Ooow! What'd you do that for!"

"There—you aren't dreaming. And you're not dead. At least not yet." Trip rubbed his arm and glowered at Q. "Oh all right. I'll tell you why you're here. Now pay attention, and follow—" a tall bearded man in a red uniform barreled around a corner and brushed past them. Q pointed decisively, "—that man."

"Who, him?" Trip asked, nodding after the retreating figure. When no one responded he realized that he was once again alone. "Dammit!" he swore and ran after the bearded man, just catching him as he slipped through a nearby door into what appeared to be a lift.

I'm getting pretty tired of that disappearing act already, but I follow the big guy down the hallway and into some kind of lift. I'm wondering if I should talk to him and the door is about to close when someone calls out, "hold that lift!"

A pretty brunette in a blue uniform—boy, they're a colorful bunch!—steps into the lift with us. The larger man nods to her and straightens up. I used to do the same thing when T'Pol was around, I remember. She simply smiles at him.

"Deck 8," she tells the lift.

"Deck 11," he informs it. Neither one of them seems to notice me and the car starts to move.

"So," he asks, grinning mischievously, "did the captain choose a winner for Captain Picard Day?"

She laughs. "Eventually. Will, you should have seen it. The children were so thrilled when he announced their names."

"I'll bet he loved every minute of it," the tall man—Will—says sarcastically. "So who was the lucky winner?"

"Paul Menegay."

"I don't remember that one…" he scratches his beard. Personally I don't know how he can stand the beard—I've never liked them. Too itchy.

"It was the sculpture of his head."

Will shakes his head. "Don't remember it."

"You must not have seen it then. You would remember it—orange, lumpy?"

"Oh no—not that one!" Will laughs. "I wish I had seen it, Deanna. I'll definitely have to make sure to ask him about it."

I'm feeling very out of place now because it's obvious that they have some kind of relationship with each other. Not only do I feel creepy about observing these complete strangers, but they really don't seem to know I'm even here. What gives?

They're interrupted by a soft beeping noise followed by a voice whose accent falls somewhere between the British Isles and France.

"We're approaching the Crazy Horse, Number One." the voice says. "Please report to the bridge."

"On my way, Captain," Will answers, suddenly all business.

The turbolift stops and the door slides open. Will extends an arm to usher her out. "Counselor," he says, still smiling.

She steps out and turns back to him. "Don't make fun of Captain Picard Day too much, Will. He was muttering something about Commander Riker Day when he left the conference lounge."

Commander Riker—apparently the first officer—stops smiling but his eyes are twinkling. "I'll be gentle," he tells her. "What are you doing for dinner tonight?" he asks.

Aha! I knew it!

"I have…an appointment," she answers smoothly. Trouble in paradise?

"Maybe tomorrow night then," he says, confident. She nods.

I sense this conversation is drawing to a close and I'm going to be on my way to the bridge in a minute. There are sure to be questions if an unassigned ensign shows up unexpectedly on the bridge so I make the split-second decision to follow the Counselor rather than the Commander. I'm just not ready to bluff my way through a meeting with the captain of this vessel yet. I hop out of the lift and walk in the direction Deanna has gone. Behind me I hear the lift slide shut.

Deanna does too and looks back. I try to look like I know exactly where I'm going rather than like a crazed lost stalker, but she doesn't look at me. She stares at the lift for a moment and her smile is replaced by a brief expression of sadness.

"Counselor," a deep voice booms.

Whoa—a huge Klingon approaches us—or rather, Deanna. I, apparently, am wallpaper.

"I apologize for being late." Not what I expect a Klingon to say. In fact, I didn't think they had a word in their language for "I'm sorry." Or maybe that was "thank you." Sorry Hoshi, I never was any good with languages.

"That's okay Worf," says Deanna coyly. "We have plenty of time for dinner. I don't have to be on shift for four hours."

Well hello, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Trouble-in-Paradise. I see what the problem is. Watching them walk away together down the corridor, it seems odd that she's arm and arm with this monstrous, brooding Klingon and not Will from the lift. But then relationships have a way getting away from you when you aren't looking. I kinda feel bad for Will—I know what it's like to revisit the failed remains of a relationship day after day. It's hard not to do that when you serve on the same ship.

"Hungry?"

By now I'm getting used to this. "Not really," I tell Captain-Admiral-Whatever-His-Name-Is who's just materialized beside me.

"It's a shame. I hear the food in Ten-Forward is pretty good—if you like that sort of unrefined bodily nourishment."

"What's Ten-Forward?" I ask, fully expecting no answer. I think I get about one answer for every ten questions I ask out of this guy. But no, he's ready for me.

"I'm glad you asked!" he says brightly, and claps his hands twice, servant-come-to-me style.

Our surroundings blink—and we're somewhere new. This time we're in what must be the mess hall—except it looks more like a cross between a restaurant and a lounge. There are plants strewn about, lots of comfy seating, and the view of stars speeding past from the wall of clear paneling is spectacular. This place is like a floating Hilton.

"Gee, I'm so glad I blew myself up so I could come see the mess hall," I tell my not-quite-friend.

"Oh, don't be so sarcastic. Have fun! Mingle! You lower beings seem to love your socializing so."

I open my mouth to give this guy a piece of his mind when he waves a hand toward the entrance. "Enjoy the—" the doors open and Deanna and Worf walk through, "—show!"

"Wait!" I grab my companion's arm before he can skitter away into nothingness again. "Why can't anybody see us? The guy in engineering could, but nobody's said a word to me since then. What gives?"

"Feeling left out, are we? Don't worry, it's not you. Well, not just you anyway." He seems to think this is pretty funny and grins widely. I'm not laughing. "They can't see you unless you choose to interact with them." Am I buying this? No. He nods vigorously, though. "Go ahead, try it!" he points to a person carrying a tray wearing blue coveralls, obviously a waiter. This place has waiters?

I step forward and gingerly tap the man on the shoulder. Startled, he whips around and almost drops his drinks. "Can I help you?"

"Uh…yes, I'd like…"

"It's not rocket science," hisses my pal the "captain". "Just order something!" I sincerely hope the waiter can't see him, much less hear him.

"I'll have a coffee. Black, no sugar."

"Oooooh, you wild and crazy man. How can you tell the difference between being living or dead, you're so monotonous." My friend obviously disapproves of my choice, but the waiter just nods and heads off to fill my order.

"See? Now no one can see you again. It's just like real life." My companion disappears from one side of me and reappears on the other. "You have to make an effort to get noticed."

"Are you going to tell my why I'm here yet?"

"Well fine, if that's how you're going to be. I do you a favor, yes a favor, and this is how you are." He snaps his fingers and we're sitting at a table only a couple of feet away from Deanna and the Klingon. A cup of black coffee steams in front of me. I eye it, wondering if it's safe to drink—but hey, let's face it, if I'm not dead already, this isn't going to kill me. I take a sip.

"So?"

"So? So—what?" he asks innocently.

"You were saying? I'm here because…?"

"Oh that."

"Yeah, that."

He tilts his head and smiles a weird I-know-something-you-don't-know smile. "Commander, have you been happy with your life?"