Riker's Story: Mirror Cracked!
By Steve2
Disclaimer: I do not own the Star Trek series or Married with Children series. This is simply a story for fun. No profits are being made. Enjoy the humor.
Chapter 3: I'm Starting To Run Out Of Ideas For Chapter HeadingsShortly, Commander Data took a shuttle out to a point several kilometers below and slightly to the left of the Enterprise, just east of sunset on Risa.
"Data to Enterprise. Prepare to record data."
"Go ahead," was the monotone response.
"1000101011101010101000101010010101010100010101010101010101010010100010101010101010101010001010111010101010001010100101010101000101010101010101010100101000101010101010101010101010101010101010101000000101010101 Uh-oh!"
"What's going on, Mr. Data?!" asked a suddenly-alert Captain, which Captain Picard was when his mind wasn't entertaining thoughts of blowing orbital parking meters to itty bitty pieces.
"It appears the rift is lurching towards me. Power supply is dwindling. Life support is gone. I guess we solved one mystery. A dimensional rift will suck up any passing energy it can get to. Uh…"
"Mr. Data?"
On the viewer Data's shuttle was one moment there, the next moment vaporous, and the moment after that it was gone against a blue backdrop in a black region of space. The blue rift, about the size of giant hole in an equally giant pair of pants, drifted back the way it came and stopped where Data had first began studying it.
"Commander Bundy. Any suggestions on this?" Captain Picard asked from his comfy command chair.
"How the hell should I know?" he responded while taking a few moments away from the science officer he was hitting on at a science station.
"Why, no," she replied to Al in a soft voice. "I didn't know that wearing these boots would be harmful to my feet. My, you certainly have a plethora of foot information. And you might want to have Dr. Crusher take a look at those teeth, sir."
"Mr. Worf, prepare another shuttle. This time no crew. I want to see if..."
Breeep-breeep! Breeep-breeep!
Mr. Worf picked up a red phone unit on his console and said, "Hello? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No. we don't want any subscriptions to your magazine today. Uh-huh. No. Say, that is a good price." He noticed his captain's gaze and quickly said. "No thanks. Not today. No speekee English!" He then hung up the receiver.
"As I was saying, Mr. Worf. Prepare a shuttle..."
Breeep-breeep! Breeep-breeep!
"Sir, incoming call from Mirandabell-17."
"On screen."
Blip. "Is anyone out there?" asked a male of indeterminate height, weight, and temperament, but with really bad hair and bags under his eyes like he had been making this call personally instead of recording a copy of it and broadcasting it again and again. "This is Mirandabell-17 calling for help. Our sensors have indicated a Borg cube ship is headed our way and let me tell you, I don't wanna get assimilated. I don't know what it means, only being an administrator and all, but it doesn't sound like much fun. Is anyone out there? Mitch. I told you no one is listening. We're all gonna die!"
"Quit whining, you baby," said a cold voice from off viewer. "You broke the tape feed machine so we can't simply make a message of this and repeat it, so get back to work."
Sigh. "Is anyone out there?"
"This is the starship Enterprise. We've received your distress call. How many of you are there?"
"Aaaaahhhh! Mitch! It's the Borg! They've captured the Enterprise and are trying to lure us into a false sense of security! We're going to die!"
Whack!
"Mitch" entered the viewer screen and whacked the original speaker unconscious with a good stiff karate chop to the neck just like what the movies portrayed it out as. The chopped man went down, his head hitting the table, bouncing off and heading to the floor, and taking the rest of his unconscious body with him.
While the first man had been little more than dark circles under brown eyes attached to a nervous nervous-system, "Mitch" was a leader. You could tell that right away as he had the word "LEADER" stenciled in black across his white t-shirt. He was dressed in what a non-Starfleet engineer would be dressed in. He wore blue coveralls, a tool belt wrapped around his waist, and electrical engineer boots: i.e., cool looking black steel-toed shit-kickers. A person could just make out "LEADER" on his shirt before the coverall covered it up. His tanned human face was covered with a black beard and what could be seen of his mug was not a face you would like to meet in a dark alley after drinking up a storm at a bar and bitching about the poor excuses for engineers you had working for your company, not if you wanted to stay healthy until retirement age. His hands were dirty, seemingly from working on a dirty engine of some sort. He looked mean. In fact, he was mean. Two dark eyes pierced the electronic subspace space-waves and powered their way onto the Enterprise.
Counselor Troi liked the man for some odd reason. Several female ensigns on the bridge lost whatever infatuation they had for the tunic tugging captain ... you know, whatsisname. Picard? Sure, that's it.
"Enterprise. This is Chief Engineer Mitch Lopez. Our sensors have picked up Borg transmissions from a neighboring colony. Can you do an emergency pick up of our colony before the Borg show up and do a snatch and grab?"
"How many people are on your colony, Mr. Lopez?" Captain Picard asked in his professional way.
"If all had gone according to plan, we would have had approximately 420 people now, however, as our dear administrator ensured his golf clubs made the shipment here instead of ensuring half of our colonists had their passports and shots in order, we only have 205 people here currently. Including administrator Buster here," he said indicating the unconscious man to his right. "We've already mobilized most of our transports and can get 40 to safety, but that still leaves most of our population to assimilation. Got any bright ideas, former Borg-boy?"
"Aside from putting mechanical doohickeys on our face and body and acting like Borg to fool the Borg when they show up, not a single idea other than to rescue you, if you would like," Picard prompted, slightly miffed that people still remembered him as a Borg instead of a dashing tunic-pulling Starship Captain.
"If you please," Lopez replied.
"How far are we to Mirandabell-17?" Picard asked of an Ensign sitting at Ops.
"At Starfleet speed limits, approximately 10 hours, your lordship," he replied smarmily.
Picard grimaced. Ten hours! Way too long. Fortunately, there was a work-around. "Mr. Lopez. We're on our way. Expect our arrival within 34 hours."
Mitch Lopez nodded, and the screen went dead
"You, er…" Picard began to the ensign sitting at Ops.
"Ensign Parker, your wonderfulness."
"Right. Ensign. Lay in a course to Mirandabell-17, maximum warp." Picard sat in his chair.
Commander Bundy sat in the commander's chair next to him and asked, "What are you planning, captain?"
"Hmmm? Oh, I fully intend to get there on time and rescue those poor colonists. That means we have to put the shuttle idea to look for Mr. Data and formulate how to retrieve Commander Riker on the backburner. Which I really hate to do as we still have an hour left on our parking meter..." he drifted off.
"Captain?" Ensign Parker asked, getting up from his station. "I'll need you to initial these two lines here and sign on the bottom line, please," he said holding forth a legal document.
"Sorry, Ensign Pratfall," replied Picard. "But Rule 1532, Subsection 32, Paragraph 4 states that when a captain and a commander are both on the bridge at the same time, the captain can designate the commander the sign the speed-release form. Commander Bundy, as second officer, it is your duty to sign this document which will allow us to achieve Warp 9.8 without young Ensign Pickles here to get in any hot water if we're caught speeding." Al looked blank.
"I haven't heard of..." Counselor Troi started from her seated position next to Captain Picard. She stopped to massage her right leg where Captain Picard had kicked her. Hard.
"Well I don't normally like signing forms and all, but I'll do it this once. What harm can it do?" Al grumbled as he signed "Captin Picard" to the form, misspelling Captain.
The form was neatly put away in a canister to eject to a space cop if one tried pulling over the Enterprise and off the ship flew.
Captain Picard knew his current No. 1 would need information on the Borg in case they encountered them. He turned to his second in command and found him silently mesmerized, captivated by some hooters on an ensign working at a station near where he was sitting.
Picard sighed and retired to his office, tugging his tunic one final time on the bridge before going through the whoosh doors.
"Captain's personal log," Picard began while feeding his fishies in an effort to get his mind off his current problems. It worked as the bubble on the wall jammed coming down on its mechanical arm and several inches of water splashed out and soaked his chest. One little fishie even surged out and made his escape only to learn fishies cannot swim on carpet. Someday, Picard knew, he would have to get the lousy design of fish tanks re-engineered.
Maybe something rectangular or square or something.
"Personal log. I am not pleased with my new interim first officer who for all intents and purposes is starting to behave just like my old first officer, however with less restraint on hitting on the ladies while on duty. Commander Data is now missing having presumably gone through an interdimensional spatial anomaly. Unlike Commander Riker, he was not replaced by anyone or anything. He may be more on his own than Commander Riker. We are unable to pursue either of these matters at this time as the Borg are getting involved with this story. It has not been a good day."
A CRACKED MIRROR REALITY AWAY
Stardate: 4926.32— I think. Personal log. This ship is nothing short of amazing. I'm amazed at how long it's been in service. It looks like it's seen better than 20 years of hard service, but I've been told it's only two years out of space dock. I'm amazed it still functions. I'm not amazed nor surprised that it came with no automatic log function options. I think the Bundy's or Darcy's would have had to pay extra for that. Therefore, I've been relegated to the ancient art of writing out a log. Please excuse the stains you may see as the only paper I could find were wrappings on foodstuffs. At least, I think they were foodstuffs. I hope they were as they're the only thing I've been able to consume as the replicator seems to be broken in my quarters and I've been reluctant to leave.
I've been on this cursed ship for more than 36 hours and have had to fend off over 70 passes from Captain Marcy Darcy (hahaha—I just love that name) and Lt. Peggy Bundy. Sleep has been difficult to come by as they keep breaking into the room. I've had to improvise a booby trap and currently my grungy undies are suspended over the door. If someone comes in, the undies fall on their face hopefully causing them to pass out like it nearly did me when I got out of them.
I don't understand why the Dodge replicators are on the fritz for me and not the others. They go and request something, get it, and when I go to the same replicator moments later it fritzes and starts to spark. Currently I am eating the same provisions that this mysterious Al ate; a food I find myself strangely drawn to. A food largely inedible and unappealing, and this coming from a man who has eaten Klingon grub. Plus, it gives me gas. Although, this comes in handy as a personal defense system. So far, whenever I sit down to eat some of Al's slop, either Captain Marcy Darcy (hahaha) or Lt. Peggy make advances on me which cause me to lose whatever appetite I had and I do not finish the meal. I think I may have to kill them.
In the brief time I've been here, I've had ample opportunity to review the crew I'm stuck with until I get back home. The only good thing that I can say about this group is that they seem to have accepted me as one of the crew, and Captain Marcy Darcy (hahaha) allowed me to retain my rank of Commander, which ironically was the same rank of Al. P-U! When I beamed aboard this ship we must have crossed paths and he ended up in part of my uniform and I in part of his. The underside of his uniform. When… if I ever get back to the Enterprise I'll need a 3-day shower with plenty of disinfectant. Still, I have been able to locate a somewhat clean, near-Starfleet uniform and am wearing it until I get back to my ship or until I die. While not a one-piece, I at least am wearing black pants (denim), black boots (I hope), and a red shirt (polo) which I have drawn my Commander insignia on with a magic marker. As for the people I'm working with:
Captain Marcy Darcy (hahaha). Human. Approximately 39-years old. As captain's go—she's lousy. She's arrogant, belligerent, belittling, catty, dumbfounded, egocentric, flawed, gabby, gossipy, harassed, introverted, jealous, kibitzer-minded, loony, mean, micromanaging, neurotic, obsessive, prissy, quarrelsome, rude, snobbish, spurious, tarnished, tacky, unwholesome, vindictive, whacked, xenophobic, yappy, and zealous in her pursuit of personal happiness above all other considerations. Plus, she has bad breath. While I can understand and even admire most of these traits, I just cannot respect a captain who is not the sharpest knife in the drawer; doesn't have all the oars in the water or has bad breath. And being xenophobic doesn't help either. This trait probably explains why the crew doesn't go out of its way to meet new races or go to new planets.
Lt. Peggy Bundy. Human. Approximate age undetermined. Big red lips. Likes to kiss me. Leaves lipstick prints. Don't much care for it. Additional information: the laws of physics must be different in this universe as with Lt. Peggy's fine piloting techniques and shortcuts to the local space-malls have so far resulted in several hits of sizable asteroids and we haven't yet blown up. The hull hasn't even been breached even though we don't have any shields on this bucket of bolts. Upon investigation of the ship's computer, I have discovered that a tough Detroit steel body can withstand just about anything and if they 'd made more cars like that in the late 20th Century, there would've been fewer accidents on the roads. Well, maybe not fewer, but probably less accidents where passengers and drivers died. Of course, that doesn't consider the number of people that would have died if vehicles plowed into them... but I'm getting off track. Apparently, the ship has not had to suffer much damage in the past due to the fact that Lt. Peggy never went to the bridge and other members piloted the ship. Usually Ensign Bud.
Lt. Jefferson Darcy. Human. Maybe. Approximately 38-years in age. He's all teeth and plastic features. If it wasn't for my naturally good looks and manly presence, I might have considered him a handsome threat. But as is, I wish I were homelier looking so the other chicks on board would leave me alone. He acts as ship's doctor when he feels like it. He has knowledge and a damn portable microphone. He may be a possible ally when it comes time to jump ship.
Lt. Kelly Bundy, science officer. Human. Approximately 22-years in age. She's indecisive, has a flawed sense of duty, couldn't figure out the chemical composition of water given the correct symbols—in order—and continually gets lost on the ship. This coming after living here for two years and the ship only having 6 levels. But she certainly can fill out her uniform. The only way I can figure she got the position of science officer was that Bud was too busy keeping the ship from falling to pieces and everyone else was too lazy to care who did it. After all, it wasn't as if the science officer was needed very much as they did not leave the confines of explored space. With her researching the events that trapped me in this universe I have resigned himself to living out my life here in the event I am not rescued by the Enterprise.
Ensign Bud. Human. Approximately 20-years old. While he may be an Ensign, he clearly runs the ship. From where exactly, I'm not certain. He has many qualities like Geordi, that is, if Geordi wore a backwards facing baseball cap, white tennis shoes, and baggy clothes. Oh, and called himself Grand Master something. I can't seem to remember. Well, I'm sure it was something like Plastard or Custard I'll have to ask Lt. Kelly. She seems to remember all his nicknames. If anyone can help me get back to the Enterprise he can.
I've come up with a likely scenario of what happened me. A century ago a similar situation happened to then-Captain Kirk on the original Starship Enterprise. He and three others beamed up during a solar storm and accidentally crossed the dimensional barrier to another world. This has apparently happened to me but instead of landing in a universe of a barbaric Federation, I have landed in a universe populated with self-interested loons!
-o0o-
Commander Riker fastidiously folded his notes and put them under a pair of dirty socks, confident they would never be disturbed by anyone but him. He rose, dressed, cracked the door open, peered around the corner and then went in search of Engineering. If he was going to get home, he knew he had to start now or forever eat Al's food.
Riker had to talk with Ensign Bud, who was about the only person on board who seemed to have some intelligence. He knew he needed some help in figuring out what happened to him, how he got in this dimension and more importantly how he could get back, but he didn't trust this crew any further than he could throw them. On his way there he noticed several control panels with loose wires showing. He made a note to discuss them with Bud and have them fixed. Riker managed to make his way to Engineering, finding his way by sound.
"No, mutton head! The Dylithium crystals are not earrings! Now give them back!"
"Buuudddd," whined a young blonde voice. "They really go with my hair, don't you think? Just let me borrow them for a few hours, okay?"
"Tell you what," he replied. "If you can give me the square root of 16 number of reasons why you should be allowed to wear those crystals, I'll consider it. Until then, give me the crystals and go bother someone else. I'm busy."
"Awwwww," Riker heard the female voice pout.
Once he was sure Lt. Kelly had left, Riker entered Engineering. Unlike the Enterprise with its clean tables and nifty diagrams on consoles everywhere, this Engineering bay consisted of notebooks littered across tables, hastily scribbled notes written on the consoles and walls, yellow sticky notes taped over dials saying what to push and when, and what appeared to be a warp engine one half the size of the Enterprise's with the cool blue special effects.
As Riker entered he saw Ensign Bud zipping from gizmo to instrument to machines that went ping. He saw several prototypes of instruments still under development on his own ship and several gizmos he didn't even recognize which was saying something as he kept up to date on his Popular Science subscription. The machines that went ping were pretty much standard on all starships. Ensign Bud wore some really cool red and green glasses as he looked in one scope and then rushed to view in another. Sighing at some results. Bud took off his glasses and slumped in his chair.
"Ah-ah-ahem. Ensign Bud, can I have a few words?" asked a polite Commander Riker.
"Sure," he replied sullenly, not looking behind him. "Pull up a chair."
Riker did so and asked, "I realize this may not be any of my business, but just what do all of you do with this ship?"
"Well," his sullen attitude unfazed. "I keep the ship going down here. This is known as Engineering. From down here the engines work."
"Forget the plebe lessons, smarty-pants. I know what you do. I also know you keep this ship going. What I want to know is what does everyone else do? What am I supposed to do? What do you do with all the time on your hands?"
"Well, mostly we try to stay ahead of the Fee Police." Noticing Riker's blank look, Bud continued. "It seems when Dad signed the papers to get the ship he neglected to read the fine print which listed him as the principal owner responsible for paying all the fees associated with building a prototype ship in a Union space dock. Well, the Union didn't forget about us and when we left orbit they placed a bounty on our heads so it's been one big happy jaunt after another. Of course, if we're ever caught by those ruthless paper pushers, they'll impound our ship, strip it of all valuables which I admit there really isn't much more than the ship itself, and then sell all of us to a research team looking to do an important case study into the cause of family alienation amongst its members. Like I couldn't tell them as is. So when we can't outrun or outmaneuver the Fee Police, we arm the weapons and blow them out of the vacuum."
Riker winced at the word 'vacuum'.
"Listen. I don't know how much you know about how we got this ship but let me tell you it has been a nightmare. You think space exploration is great, don't you? Well let me tell you that it just plain stinks. Because I'm stuck with a neurotic Captain and a spineless Commanding officer, no offense, who lost the bet to see who looked better in a captain's uniform, I don't get to see any new worlds. And because everyone else cares about hair styles and themselves I'm stuck down here so I don't even get to look out a window.
"And since I'm stuck doing all the work down here, I've had to jury rig alternate controls for piloting the ship so Mom doesn't get us all killed," Bud said, showing Riker his centuries-old Atari system he had cleverly soldered into a control panel, destroying the fine black plastic shine it once had.
"And not only, that," he continued, getting up to put his totally cool red and green glasses back on and take a gander in a viewer of some sort, "now that you're here and Al's not, I've got to deal with it coming here."
"What's coming?" asks Riker
The alarms shrieked. "EEEEIIIII! EEEEIII!"
"What the Hell is that?" asked Commander Riker, shaken at having heard a sound that reminded him of fingernails going down a chalkboard which an old girlfriend did to him when he told her that they shouldn't date exclusively at the age of 12.
Bud looked up, concern showing on his face which broke the sullen mask. "That's mom doing her impersonation of the alarm system. Something must be wrong on the bridge since she can only make that sound up there and she hasn't been there since after the first week we had the ship."
"Isn't she the pilot of the vessel?"
"Well, kinda. She thinks she is, but really I control the ship from down here through this ancient Atari system some ancestor willed me. But enough of that, I think you'd better get to the bridge."
Commander Riker, being no fool, rushed to the door and took an immediate left.
A few seconds later he rushed past the open doorway going the opposite direction.
A few seconds later he rushed back to the open doorway and asked, "How do I get to the bridge?!"
"Follow the signs on the walls," replied Bud without looking up as he was occupied getting his Atari system on-line and ready to play.
The signs were easy enough to find but not being able to read scribble, Commander Riker hoped he went in the correct direction until he found one of the three remaining working lifts.
"Report!" he barked as he burst from the lift. However, being on the wrong level, he quickly burst back the way he came and hit the button for one more level up.
"Report!" he barked as he burst from the lift, again, this time on the bridge.
Lt. Jefferson looked up from a covert mirror he had stashed on his console and said, "We were minding our own business, Commander, when we were suddenly hailed by the Greenvein. The ship is out approximately 400 kilometers and ready to rumble."
"Who are they? Ferengii? Gorn?"
"Nope. Worse. Vulcans."
"Vulcans?" he asked incredulously. "What's so bad about Vulcans?"
Peggy replied, "These Vulcans have an attitude and want to race."
"Where's Captain Darcy?" he asked, thinking to pass the buck.
"She said something about taking a cold shower and not answering her hails for a good half hour," Lt. Peggy answered, looking at a scanner in a vain effort to look busy and know what she was doing, which she didn't.
"Ooookayy," Riker exhaled. He sat in the captain's chair and said, "Hail them."
A flick of a button later the main screen, similar in size and shape to the Enterprise's Riker was glad to note, flickered to life and displayed the image of two Vulcans sitting in their custom fitted Vega Classic 345654.11 Afterblaster. Both were male and had black hair and the standard pointed ears. Unlike what Will was used to, though, this pair wore mirrored sunglasses, had one ear pierced through the tip, had shoulder-length long black hair in the classic mullet style and wore black leather jackets over polyester racing/leisure suits in lavender colors.
The lead Vulcan sneered while smoking a cancer stick, his teeth yellow from a bad habit. William had a tough time seeing if the second Vulcan was sneering as his face was largely hidden by two fuzzy green dice dangling in front of the Vega Classic's viewer. The ship itself, Riker noticed before Jefferson blipped the image to the two Vulcans was roughly the same size and shape as a runabout except it had chrome exhaust pipes and flame stripes painted on its sides. Plus, it had big tail fins over four meters in height and length.
"Hey, human," said the lead Vulcan. "You wanna race? You understand, human, that the loser surrenders pink slip of vehicle should he or she not win." He blew smoke at the viewer.
At a loss for words as this had never come up at the Academy in his Possible-Scenarios-To-Encounter-As-A-Captain class, Riker replied, "Yes, I understand how the process works, Vulcan. But I do not think we will be racing today, thank you anyway."
"That is probably just as well, human, as you would lose anyway considering the garbage scow condition of your ship. Heh-heh-heh."
"Heh-heh-heh, good one, Blorn," replied the second Vulcan in an annoying weasel voice.
"Shut up, Blorrp. Well, human? Still do not want to race?"
Riker looked around and saw various pieces of trash laying on the deck. "You are observant, Vulcan. I'll pick up the refuse right away. Thank you for pointing that out for me. Have a nice day."
"Listen, human, perhaps I did not make myself clear. I think your ship did not have garbage on it. I said I believed your ship was garbage. By the way, sir, your ship looks very unsightly with its crooked letters and possible rust on the exterior. Heh-heh-heh."
"Heh-heh-heh, good one, Blorn."
"Shut up, Blorrp. Well, human?" he asked expectantly while tapping his green fuzzy dice. He stopped blowing smoke as it was clouding up the picture.
"I must say I believe you boys are entitled to your opinion, even though I believe it is flawed," Commander Riker said without rancor.
"Will!" Peggy said urgently, sliding up to him. "They're insulting us and our ship. We have to race. It's for the honor of all of us."
"She's right, Commander," said Lt. Jefferson. "If you let these Vulcans insult us and get away with it, more and more Vulcans will come looking for us with insults. We have to race."
"You should listen to the two female humans, male human in charge," said Blorn.
"Heh-heh-heh, good one, Blorn."
Riker held back Jefferson (who felt he was insulted) until Lt. Peggy gave him a chill pill hypo spray. At which point everything turned peachy keen. Wheeeee.
"Listen," said Commander Riker to Lt. Peggy, and to Lt. Jefferson even though he wasn't really listening to much anymore. "We have to keep a stiff upper lip and not let these ruffians upset any of us."
"Say, there, human. Our ship is so much better than yours that we can outrun and outmaneuver your pitiful ship any day of the week."
"Heh-heh-heh. Wait a minute. That was not a good one, Blorn."
"You see?" Riker said to the assembled crew. "Their insults have no bite. No sting. There's nothing to worry about."
"But...but..." Jefferson stammered, coming out of his doped stasis. "What about a race? This sure isn't what Al would do if he were here."
"As senior officer on deck, I'll have you know that this isn't what Starfleet taught me to do. There will always be someone who thinks they are faster or better than you. What you have to know is that deep within, you believe in yourself and have conviction that you know what is right and just. And you won't be swayed. We don't need to race them to prove we're better than them. We already know we are."
"Oh, William," Peggy sniffed, wiping away a tear, "that was wonderful."
"Say, there, commanding officer," Blorn started politely. "Your hair looks disheveled and mussed as if sat on by a Silorndian ratbug. Heh-heh-heh."
"Heh-heh-heh. That was good, Blorn," said Blorrp.
" All right!" exploded a ticked off Commander Riker. "That does it! Prepare to eat hot plasma, you pointy eared, no good, green blooded, smug, two-bit floor flushing punks! This ship could wipe the spaceways with you!"
"Talk is cheap, human. You gonna race for pink slips or are you a flightless avian who lays massive amounts of eggs which your Earth population consumes?"
Riker muttered, "This was something Picard just wouldn't understand, but it's something a man's just has to do." Again, this time louder. "Peggy, fire up the engines! Jefferson, put the ship on red alert! Keep Kelly off the bridge!" Peggy squealed in delight, and moved to stand next to him, kissing his cheek and leaving a very red smear of lipstick on his beard.
Riker approached the viewer screen, hooked his thumbs under his belt, arched his chin several centimeters up so his nostrils were flaring directly into the Vulcan's face as that was an insulting gesture ever since Sir Andrew Mclnless IV approached the first Vulcan diplomat with a superior attitude and got toasted for it as he had a cold that the Vulcan didn't want to catch, and said, "Let's rock," in a quiet, almost menacing way.
The Vulcans reacted immediately, flipping switches while getting their ship race worthy.
"Hey, Blorn," said Blorrp. "Think those unsuspecting humans know that while our Vega Classic goes a standard Warp 6.4, we've sopped it up to go 6.5? Heh-heh-heh."
Blorn, as sarcastic an expression as Will had ever seen on a person said, "I don't know. Why don't we just ask them?" He then severed communications.
The screen flickered back to life 30 seconds later. Riker noticed blackness forming around Blorrp's left eye.
In fact, Will could see Blorrp better than before as one of the fuzzy dice was now stuffed in Blorrp's mouth. Riker took a cursory glance around to make sure his ship was ready to race. He then placed a call to Bud.
"Riker to Ensign Bud. What's the hang up? Warp engines on line yet? And if it wouldn't be a major inconvenience, how about shuffling the controls up here for a bit so we can get underway when we need to? Bud? Hello? Jefferson, is this thing turned on?" he asked, pointing at his nipple comm.
"How should I know? I don't even know what you're doing. Usually when we want to talk to someone else on the ship we just call them up," he said lifting a phone handset.
He was spared the embarrassment of having to ask how a phone handset worked as the ship suddenly came to life and the consoles all over the bridge lit up with activity.
However, Captain Marcy Darcy (hahaha) chose that time to arrive on the bridge, still towel drying her hair.
"Report!" she barked in a high-pitched voice.
Lt. Jefferson reluctantly gave her a quick rundown on the situation.
"Well, this race just won't be happening and that's final. As captain of the ship it's my right to say no to any sort of racing and there'll be no racing! And don't you try any funny stuff, Mr. Riker, just because you're good looking and could probably show me a really good time in my cabin later tonight when I have Jefferson out cleaning the engines or something." Wink-wink.
Will looked away from Marcy and grimaced.
He then looked at the Vega Classic and the two smug Vulcans and growled.
He looked at Marcy, then away and grimaced.
He then looked at the two Vulcans who were sneering and growled.
He looked at Marcy, then to the ceiling as if pleading for a miracle, closed his eyes and planted a big smooch on Captain Marcy Darcy (hahaha), leaving her speechless and inert as she slipped to the deck with a grin, little heart shapes conceptually dancing above her head which were quite messy as they were all spurting blood, but that was Marcy for you—always wanting to go to Med school but unable to due to her fainting at the first sight of blood.
Riker took over and sat in the captain's chair to direct options. "Are the Engines online?" They were.
"Prepare for maximum warp. By the way, Lt. Peggy, how fast does this ship go?"
"How should I know?"
"You're the pilot."
"Oh. Heh-heh-heh. That's right. I am. Um..." breep "Bud? How fast does the ship go?"
"Warp 6.5, mom."
"It goes Warp 6.5, Will, you big dreamboat. Would you like to steer the ship next to me?" Wink-wink.
Her lips puckered further.
Riker rolled his eyes.
"Varoom, varoom!" Incredibly, Riker and the rest heard the ship go varoom, varoom! He looked around and spotted Jefferson making varoom noises in his Mr. Microphone. He got up, walked over and took away the microphone.
Jefferson smiled awkwardly and as Riker went back to his chair, Jefferson pushed some buttons at random since his board didn't really work, or at least, Riker hoped it didn't. As Riker sat back in his command chair,
Jefferson hit the correct button and a second microphone dropped from an overhead console.
The ship was ready to rumble!
Green light!
The Vulcans were off to an unprecedented start. Their Vega got a fast getaway, leaving the humans in the cosmic dust as they warped for Blendo in the Blendii system at Warp 6.5. Unfortunately, the space police were waiting for the Vulcans and tried pulling them over. When they wouldn't pull over, they shot them down, ridding the universe of yet another punk Vulcan. The two Vulcans survived, though, to land on an uncharted asteroid that contained a Romulan outpost, deserted, which the twosome made use of, fixing the place up, hanging drapes, calling the gang over to christen their new party pad only to have the Romulans reappear, storm the base, and when they found the youngsters, decided to join the party instead of heading back to Romulus and a boring cocktail party with stuffed shirts. Eventually, supplies running low, they did warp back to Romulus and set up party shops around town which annoyed many political figures until they found out they could tax the shops and use the proceeds to purchase hot tubs that actually worked. But all that was another story.
"Enough of that bilge, Jefferson!" shouted Commander Riker. "What happened to us? Did we win?"
What happened to Riker and crew was that they went backwards very quickly and bumped into a space cop. The viewer came up with the face of a really angry space cop. He also wore mirrored shades, a space cop helmet of gold and black, wore a space cop uniform of gold and black, and carried an attitude that he was superior to everything in the known universe and then some. "Awright, youse creeps! Who the hell wuz drivin' yor buket a bolts? Theyz is gettin' a ticket!"
Commander Riker put on a face of surprised innocence, as did the others, and said, "I was wondering that myself, officer. I came up to the bridge to see what the commotion was all about and found Captain Marcy Darcy (hahaha, excuse me) here drunk as a skunk driving the ship. She seems to be knocked unconscious, officer. She sure does."
The cop transported to the bridge. He was over two meters tall and all muscle.
"Oh yeah? Well, I'll be the judge of that, citizen! Hmm. She is unconscious. Well, show me her driver's license so I can write her a ticket."
Bud entered the bridge. "In case anyone cares, the engines are back on line after someone put the ship in reverse and hit something. You guys need anything else? If not, I'll just go back to waiting for my impending doom."
The cop wrote the ticket, all the while importing Marcy's info into a pocket computer that was connected by subspace to all the other cops in this sector. "Yor captain is facing' fines of over a million creds an' I'm thinkin' a impoundin' this ship until she pays if off," he said as if he had experience saying it thousands of times before.
Which he had.
But ah-hah! Marcy woke up.
She saw the cop.
She heard what was going on—that as captain, and as a drunken driver, she apparently backed her ship into an unmarked police ship and now must pay off the damages.
Marcy got very cross and looked at Riker, who looked away in innocence.
She walked up to Riker, stood on a chair, grabbed his chin forcefully and looked him in the eye. "Just what are you going to do about this, eh, missy?" she snarled.
"I've got a distress call coming in," Jefferson said, flipping some buttons and hoping he was hitting the right ones. "Signal is very faint. Boosting signal. Call coming in from approximately 597 quadrillion kilometers out."
"On screen." Riker said between squeezed lips.
"Can do."
A static-frezzing image showed up of several women in space bikini bathing suits putting out a fire on a bridge while another scantily clad woman talked to the viewer.
"This is the space-bus ...um ...Kiki, what bus is this? You don't know? Oh. Um, this is a space-bus in need of help. That didn't sound corney, did it? I hope not. I wouldn't want that to go against me when I'm in the competition round of the contest.
"Tee-hee. Speaking of contests, we're on our way to a beauty pageant on Tellerhouse-6 and we'd be ever so grateful for a pick up and transport. If anyone can hear this, puh-leeeeeese help. Our bus broke down when Bunny accidentally spilled some water on the driver. She's awfully sorry and says she won't have any more wet T-shirt contests on the bridge anymore. But now our ship isn't working and we sure could use a lift to the space bikini finals. Can anyone out there help us?"
The cop immediately called for his ship to transport him over. Just before dematerializing, he flipped Marcy's driving license back to her and said, "I'mlettin'yougothistimewithawarningbutdon'tdoitagain! Marv! Rev the engines an' plot an innercept course!"
The cop ship, in black, got about 200 feet from the Dodge 2610-X and then promptly broke down.
"That was good thinking on your part to play a fake message to get the cops to depart," Riker said to Jefferson.
"That wasn't a fake message," Jefferson replied
"It wasn't?" Bud asked.
The three men looked at each other. Bud rubbed his hands in eager anticipation, a mischievous grin on his beard-stubble face.
