Star Traks: The Vexed Generation, was created by Anthony Butler.
It's based on Star Traks, which was created by Alan Decker.  It's all 
based on Star Trek, which is owned by Paramound, and their Dark 
Masters, Viacom.  Foul language and fatty recipes have been replaced 
with ***.  Now if only the Backstreet Boys could be replaced as easily.

Copyright 1999.  All rights, such as they are, are reserved.

And now, the Star Traks: The Vexed Generation themesong:

EX-PLOR-ER, soon will be making another run! 
EX-PLOR-ER, promises something for everyone! 
Set a course for adventure,  
Your mind on a new romance.  
Space won't hurt anymore  
It's an open smile on a planet's shore.  
Yes SPAAAACE! It's SPAAAAACE!   
EX-PLOR-ER soon will be making another run! 
EX-PLOR-ER promises something for everyone!
Set a course for adventure,  
Your mind on a new romance.  
Space won't hurt anymore  
It's an open smile on a planet's shore.  
It's SPAAAACE! It's SPAAAACE!  It's SPAAAACE!  



STAR TRAKS: THE VEXED GENERATION   
   
"The Morning After"                             
                                
BY ANTHONY BUTLER





Captain's Log,
     Stardate 54000.4.  Some things in life creep up on you nice
and slow, fully expected, and perfectly sensibly.  On the other
hand, some things hit you like a freight train and smash you
(metaphorically, I mean) into a thousand little pieces.  And then
Starfleet comes along and tramples on those pieces.  Not that I'm
bitter.

     Captain Andrew Baxter sighed and tossed his Emmitt Smith 
figurine into the rapidly filling crate on his couch.  "That's where he
was.  Must have fallen down from the endtable when we went 
through that subspace filament a few months ago."
     The crate on the couch had become the receptacle of about
every tiny object in his readyroom that could even remotely be 
considered his, by any loose interpretation of Starfleet inventory
code.
     Four larger crates were already ready and waiting down in
Cargo Bay Four.  His quarters were cleaned out, as was the
Captain's Mess (though he was told the jukebox had to stay).  He'd
had yeomen remove some of his other sensitive items from lockers
and closets throughout the ship.  So he liked to live spread out.
     Even the compartments under and beside the command chair had
been shorn of Baxter's property.  He'd had to use a powerful
solvent to get the bumpersticker from the Sitarius Six shuttle
race off.
     Now he was left with one last despicable chore as Captain of
the Explorer, though that title was stripped officially the day before,
when Admiral McGrath dropped by his house and announced to him 
and the other crew at Janice Browning's baby shower that the Explorer
project was canceled and he and the senior staff were to be
transferred to other posts.  
     The party had become quite a drag soon thereafter.  Baxter
retired to his house to smash some things in his living room and
Counselor Peterman made a valiant diplomatic effort to keep
everyone happy, but the mood was lost.  Everyone went their
separate ways--many to Starfleet to inquire about what the hell
was going on.  But everyone came up with the same ringing answer:
No one knew exactly.  It seemed that Starfleet was taking an
abhorrent new direction in the way they did things and it made
Baxter's stomach turn.
     Sure he wasn't the type of guy that did things by the book. 
Sure he caused a few mild civil wars and pushed one planet to the
brink of environmental collapse, but the spirit of Starfleet was
there.  Now that spirit Baxter loved so much about his career had
vanished with his captaincy of the Explorer.
     Richards and Browning had remained at his house a while after
everyone else left, but soon they took the hint that Baxter wished
to be left alone.  Peterman even kept her distance.  She stayed
downstairs talking to someone on the comm while he trudged
upstairs to the bedroom and jumped under the covers.
     Before he knew it, the next morning had come and Peterman 
was up making coffee and playing with the dogs.  Starfleet was on 
the comm requesting he get all his personal belongings off the
Explorer so she could be refitted and prepared for her new mission,
whatever that was.
     The ship was unusually alive with activity.  It wasn't just
the senior staff that was being reassigned.  Many others, it
seemed, were being "weeded out."  Notable among them were the 
less hospitable crewmen.  No doubt Hartley had been one of the first
reassigned--but then Baxter had no idea where Hartley was, or Mirk
for that matter, and that concerned him.
     McGrath had mentioned something about the ship becoming a
cruise ship, or something to that effect.  Baxter dismissed that
notion out of hand.  Starfleet discarded the practice of keeping
families on Starfleet ships when the Dominion War came about,
and never bothered to adopt it again.
     So why would they go right back and put unwanted guests back
on starships just because the Dominion threat had passed?
     It didn't make sense.  Then again, Starfleet stopped making
sense the minute they took the Explorer away from Baxter.  Sure,
he saw how they could be ticked, but it took a lot of work to 
recomission a crew.  You didn't just take a ship away at the drop 
of a hat.  Right?
     Baxter dropped his framed picture of the crew, all posing in
Mirk's, down into the crate and slammed it shut.  He dropped down
onto the couch and sighing long and hard, staring at the crate.  
     A workbee sailed by his viewport and he grimaced.  They were 
already starting to make changes to his ship.  Baxter was not happy.         
     BEEEEP-EEEP.
     Probably Starfleet to remind Baxter to remove his subspace
radio presets from the ship's computer.
     "What."
     The door slid open to reveal Counselor Peterman.  "Hi,
Andy."
     "Kelly.  Where have you been?  Cleaning your office out?"
     "Uh, no."  Peterman moved over to the couch, on the other
side of the crate from Baxter.  "Did you get everything?"
     "Yep."  Baxter patted the crate, which sat next to him on the
couch.  "This is the last of it."
     "You're taking this rather well."
     "I smashed two lamps and a coffee table then hid under my
covers for twelve hours," Baxter reminded her.  "You call that
well?"
     "Considering."
     "Considering what?"
     Peterman's smile wavered.  "Some of your actions in the
past."
     "Kelly, now is not the time..."
     "I know, I know."  Peterman took a deep breath.  "Andy, I
need to know you'll be okay with this.  I know it's a tough hand
to be dealt.  I just don't want you coming apart on me."
     "You act like you're leaving or something."
     "I am."
     Thud, went the other shoe.  Baxter's eyes went wide.  "Where
are they assigning you?"
     Peterman patted the couch.  "Right here."
     "So you know where the Explorer's going next?"
     "The Galaxy Explorer is heading out to the Rim as soon as
its refit is complete," Peterman said.
     "GALAXY Explorer?"
     "That's her new name.  She's a cruise ship, Andy.  And
you're looking at the new Cruise Director."
     Baxter suddenly noticed the pips on Peterman's
collar.  "COMMANDER?  They promoted you?"
     "It's sort of like a first officer position, under the new
system."
     "I'm loving the new system already."
     Peterman sighed.  "A lot of changes are taking place on 
this ship, Andy.  And in Starfleet."
     "I'm starting to see that."  Baxter pushed the crate down to
the floor and scooted next to Peterman, wrapping his arm around
her and pulling her close.  "Well, congratulations, honey.  I'm 
happy for you."
     "Really?"
     Baxter gritted his teeth.  "Absolutely."


     "Status on the sensor-reflective forcefield?" Captain Lucille
Baxter asked, settling into the Trafalgar's command chair and
sipping from her cup of green leaf tea.
     "Functioning normally still, Captain," Lt. Commander DiSalvo
announced proudly, standing at military ease behind the tactical
console behind Lucille's chair and just to her right.  "Admiral Reno
will be glad to know the Escort's camoflage system can function on
such a large scale."
     "The fact that Starfleet's own sensors didn't pick us up
while we were hiding behind Earth's moon yesterday was a 
good sign," Lucille agreed.
     She looked up from her tea as she heard the doors to the
forward turbolift slide open. 
     Out walked Lt. Megan Hartley, hair pulled back into an
uncreative ponytail and eyes red-rimmed.
     "How's your hangover?" Lucille asked, without much 
compassion.
     Hartley settled into the chair beside Lucille as if sitting 
down caused every muscle to cramp.  "Bad."
     "You've been asleep almost thirteen hours.  I was about to
have DiSalvo come get you personally."
     DiSalvo chuckled.  "I would have enjoyed that."
     "No, you wouldn't have," Hartley frowned back at DiSalvo.  
     "Where is Mirk, Lieutenant?" Lucille said, abruptly ending the
smalltalk.
     "Belowdecks."
     "Mr. DiSalvo..."
     "On my way."  And the burly tac officer was in the aft
turbolift, stating, "residence deck."
     Hartley glared at Lucille.  "How about you tell me what the
hell's going on, now that my head's a bit clearer."
     "First of all, your tone better change quick.  This is not
the Explorer.  I won't stand to be disparaged or spoken to with
anything but the utmost respect at any time, do you understand
me?"
     The hangover had taken the fight out of Hartley.  "Whatever."
     Lucille inclined her head toward the viewscreen.  "We're on our
way to the Versaad system to meet up with the Lynx and the
Pellagro, and about two dozen Escort-class attack ships."
     Hartley rubbed the gook in her eyes.  "I'm sorry.  Did you
say ESCORT-class?"
     "Yes.  Starfleet's taken Admiral McGrath's design and
incorporated it into a new type of attack ship.  Smaller than the
Defiant-class, larger than Peregrine fighters, armed to the teeth,
more maneuverable than the Defiants and equipped with the same 
sensor-reflective technology we're using on the Trafalgar."
     Hartley had to admit, Starfleet did nothing half-way.  "I
know that the Starshine Kids have a gutted Flarn warship and 
one extremely powerful alien vessel, but isn't this a bit much?  
We're talking about a small fleet!"
     "On the contrary, it's barely enough," Lucille muttered. 
Hartley could tell she wasn't as confident about the mission as she
let on.
     "What do you mean?"
     "Starfleet hasn't been entirely...honest...about the lack of
activity on the part of the Starshine Kids."
     Hartley shot fully up in her chair.  She was totally awake
now.  "What do you mean?"
     Lucille inclined her head toward the viewscreen and tapped 
a control on her armrest.  "Look at this."
     Hartley watched as the screen filled with a map of the Alpha
and Beta quadrants.  Suddenly, to her horror, a scatter of red
blotches appeared on the outskirts of the quadrants.  She was
fairly certain what those red blotches were.
     "Redlands..." Hartley said quietly.
     "'Redlands,' as you dubbed them, otherwise known as a
localized plasma disturbance, vaguely similar to the Badlands
and Meadowlands disturbances," said Lucille.  "Five in
all, that we know of, containing God knows what.  All we can 
be sure of is that at least thirteen planets on the Federation
periphery have been visited by representatives of the Starshine
Kids in the last four months, all near one of these 'Redlands.' 
Four thousand beings, to our knowledge, have converted over to
their cause."
     "Four...THOUSAND!"
     "And they appear to be working their way inward."
     "Towards Earth."
     "Which is why Starfleet tasked us to nip this in the bud."
     Hartley shook her head.  "Wait a minute, Captain, wait one
minute.  Why haven't they notified Captain Baxter?  Why isn't the
Explorer in this task force?  Nobody knows more about the
Starshine Kids than our crew."
     "Which is precisely why you and Mr. Mirk are here."  Lucille
was quiet for a few moments.  "Starfleet is unhappy with Captain
Baxter."  It shocked Hartley that this woman didn't refer to her
son in the familiar.  "Overall, they're unhappy with the Explorer. 
That's why she's been recommissioned."
     "Recommissioned?  As what?"
     "That's classified."  Lucille grimaced.  "Listen, Lieutenant,
we have a task ahead.  I was required to find Mr. Mirk and an
Explorer crewmember with a knowledge of tactical and engineering. 
Thankfully, the two of you were handily in the same place.  Doing
what, I don't want to know."
     "We weren't doing anything!" Hartley said incredulously.  So
what if her and Mirk MIGHT have been on the brink of a kiss...
or something, when Lucille's thug DiSalvo busted in on them and
beamed them up to the Trafalgar.
     "Anyway, that's none of my business."  Lucille shook her head. 
"Whatever the case, Starfleet is...sort of...deputizing Mr. Mirk
to help us, and ordering you to do the same.  You've both been
placed under my command until this mission is completed."
     "I still can't believe the Explorer wasn't brought in on
this."
     "Believe it.  If I were you I'd forget all about the
Explorer.  Now I want a full report on all you know about 
the Starshine Kids on my desk by 1300 this afternoon."
     Hartley rose.  "Fine.  I'll play ball.  But let's get this
clear: Mirk is a close friend of mine, and he's no Starfleet
officer.  If you bully him, captain or no, I swear--"
     "Save your threats, Lieutenant.  I'm trusting you to keep
the Maloxian in check.  You're friends?  Good.  Make him
understand that the safety of all of us--of the entire Federation
--relies on this mission being completed successfully.  I can't
think of a better incentive to, as you put it, 'play ball.'"
     

     <Guess what, Mirk?>
     Mirk blinked in the darkness.  "What?"
     <We're coming for you.>
     "Directors?"
     <Guess again.>
     Mirk shuddered.  "Critics."
     <And he wins the prize!>  Confetti poured around the
Maloxian and lights rose high.  He was suddenly behind some
sort of podium.  Next to him stood Sesil, twisted leader of the
Starshine Kids, and Irma, his official bona fide nemesis, as
assigned by the anti-gods, the Critics.  Speaking of which, a
giant pair of lips stood ready in front of a huge lighted sign of
some sort with lights that twinkled around it.  <Let's go to round
two!>
     "I want the all-expenses paid trip to Risa," said Sesil
joyfully, cackling right in Mirk's face.
     Irma grinned over at him.  "I'd settle for the bread
machine.  Think I can shove a small Maloxian into one of
those?"
     <And the first question...> stated the lips.
     Mirk looked down at his podium.  Was he supposed to hit a
buzzer or something?  That's the way he'd seen it done on The New
Win or Else on the United Kronos Network.
     But there was no buzzer.
     The lips gestured to a question on the blue wall of monitors 
opposite Mirk, Sesil, and Irma.  <What interstellar government is 
about to be overtaken by a friendly, good-natured cult?>
     Mirk looked madly around for a buzzer.  "I don't have a
buzzer!"
     <WRONG!  Do the remaining two contestants know the 
answer to this one?>
     "The United Federation of Planets!" Sesil called out.
     DING-DING-DING!
     <That's right!  Let's see what you've won.>
     Mirk turned to see Lt. Hartley, dressed in a tight red
sequined dress, revolve around behind a fake wall, gesturing at a
large, orange-ish globe.
     <Supreme dominion over the planet Vulcan!  Good for you,
Sesil!>
     "But don't I get a crack at Earth?" Irma asked, pouting.
     <All in good time,> grinned the lips.   
     "Let me out of here!" Mirk cried.
     <Oh, you'll get out of here,> the Critic said toothily.
<Megan, why don't you show Mirk what he gets for being 
runner-up?>
     Lt. Hartley wheeled a large screen in front of Mirk and
gestured at it suggestively, sliding pleasingly alongside the
screen, smiling.
     Mirk flinched as the screen showed him a battered bridge,
the Trafalgar's, and him, leaning over the inert form of Lt.
Hartley, trying to shake her awake.  Then, moments later, he
watched the Trafalgar blow up in a cascade of light.
     He covered his eyes.  "No!  Directors, help me!!!!!!"
     <Your Directors are gone, Maloxian.  Thanks for playing!"
     And Mirk dropped through a hole in the floor and fell
dizzily for miles and miles.
     

     "Help me!!!!!!!!!!!"
     Mirk felt a rough hand slap his face and his eyes shot open.
     "If we had a counselor, or the time, I'd suggest mental
help," Lt. Commander DiSalvo said in his gruff Brooklyn accent,
looming over Mirk's bed.  "But since neither is the case, you'll
have to settle for old Sam DiSalvo.  You got five minutes to get
ready.  Take any longer, and I'll sling you over my shoulder and
drag you up to the bridge.  Got it?"
     "This ship won't last the day," Mirk muttered, and headed
into the bathroom to get out some phlegm and get a quick, hot
shower.  He'd need it.


     Peterman accompanied Baxter down to the cargo bay.  As he
hefted his massive crate, shifting its weight from arm to arm as
the pair walked into the bay, he became increasingly annoyed at
the changes being made to his ship.
     Sure, the Explorer had always been designed to impress, but
it at least looked like a starship.  Now Yeoman Briggs was busy
running through the corridors with Starfleet technicians at his
feet giving orders like "more splashes of color here," and
"cushier pillows here," and in one case even, "a nice cascading
waterfall right here, where that power conduit used to be!"
     Where the power conduit used to be.  Baxter noticed other
technicians, engineers, walking away with a surprising amount of
the Explorer's technology.  His brief glances told him she was
being stripped down.
     Of course, what kind of cruise ship was armed to the teeth?
     But the sight of Lt. J'hana wrapped around a quantum torpedo 
as two technicians dragged it into the cargo bay made Baxter's
stomach twist into knots.
     "You cannot take this.  It is MY quantum torpedo!"
     "It's Starfleet's torpedo, ma'am," said one of the
technicians.  "We have to take it back."
     "You cannot!" J'hana cried.  "You've already taken away 
my phasers and tri-cobalt devices.  The quantums are all that's
left!"
     "Our orders were quite clear, madam.  All the quantums."
     "In mere moments, I will erupt into a tornado of kicks and
pinches the likes of which neither of you have ever seen!" ranted 
the Andorian.  "You will beg for death before I am finished!"
     "We've heard all that before, Lieutenant."
     Baxter put his crate down and approached the group.  "Come
on, J'hana, let it go."
     "But, sir..."
     The captain kneeled down to look J'hana in the eye. 
"Lieutenant, we can't fight this right now.  Just be mature about
this and let the nice men have their quantum."
     "But, sir, it is mine."
     "I know that and you know that, but they don't.  Let's not
make a scene, okay?"
     J'hana harrumphed and let go, slumping to the deck in a
heap.
     "Sir?" asked one of the technicians.  They were standing
there looming over her with the quantum as if ready to drop it
on her.
     Baxter glanced up.  "Get out of here.  Both of you."
     "Yes, sir."
     He looked down at J'hana, offered her his hand.  "Come on,
J'hana.  Let's go."
     "You are aware, sir," J'hana said, still lying inert on the
cargo deck, "that we are due at Starfleet Command tomorrow for
reassignment."
     "I know.  I got the same message."
     "It is not the fact that they are reassigning me that is so
upsetting.  It is knowing the Explorer will be defenseless. 
Ablative armor or not, without offensive capabilities, the
Explorer could be destroyed by a Breen transport."
     "I know.  We'll find a way to get her back, weapons and
all."
     Peterman cleared her throat from behind Baxter.  "Andy,
it's time to beam down."
     Baxter took J'hana by the hand and helped her up.  "Is 
your stuff already down on Earth?"
     "Yes," J'hana grunted.  It was obvious she had no intention
of remaining on Earth.  The blue sky was disconcerting to her, 
she had told him once.
     "Well, let's get to the transporter room, then."
     Peterman looked around the cargo bay as crates of all sorts
were moved to the transporter pad and beamed down.  Lives 
spread to the wind.  She shook that nostalgic thought off
immediately as Dr. Browning's pizza oven was maneuvered onto 
the pad with an antigrav and energizing began.
     "More confinement beam!" one technician urged.  "It's too
much mass--the machinery is too complicated!"
     Baxter watched the exchange with a grin and turned for the
door.  "Come on, you two."
     

     "Extended abscence?" Dr. Janice Browning asked, watching
Richards toss the remnants of his quarters into a duffle.  The
paintings and sculptures had already been offloaded onto Kris
Larkin's Klingon freighter.
     "That's right," Richards said.  "Larkin too.  We're
going to take about a month to figure out where we want to go 
from here.  We both got First Officer offers shortly after
Starfleet put us on detached duty.  Larkin even got an offer to
direct the Robotics Division at the Daystrom Institute.  We've got
a lot to consider."
     "So that's it?  You're just accepting that this crew is breaking 
up?"
     Richards stopped packing and placed his hands on Browning's
shoulders.  He had to extend his arms to their full length facing
her due to the rather large lump of changling growing in her
tummy.  "Janice.  Their minds are made up.  The ride is over."
     "But..."
     "I just don't get it.  A year ago we both were ready to
leave the Explorer forever.  What's the difference?"
     "The difference is that we realized we liked it better here
as soon as we left!" Browning said, exasperated, pounding his 
faux-leather couch.  "Christopher, this is our home!"
     "Home is wherever you happen to be, Janice," Richards said. 
"It's not like we won't stay friends.  I'm sure we'll see each
other all the time."
     "Christopher...don't patronize me."
     "I'm not patronizing.  I'm just telling it like it is.  Are
you all ready to go?  We can walk to the transporter room
together."  Richards slung his carryall over his shoulder.
     Browning shrugged.  "All my stuff was beamed down to my
apartment in San Francisco."
     "You've got an apartment already?"
     Browning nodded.  "Yeah.  I'm heading up Xenonutrition at
Starfleet Medical."
     "Congratulations, Janice!  See how great things are already
happening?  This isn't a bad thing.  It's a whole new start!"
     "I wish I could believe that."  And Browning waddled after
Richards out of his quarters.


     Commander David Conway was flipping through the Federation 
News padd in the now quite familiar waiting room at Starfleet 
Command when the regular crowd shuffled in.
     First it was Tilleran and J'hana, carrying drinks from the
Sandwhich Star across the promenade.
     "Hello, Commander," Tilleran said, sipping her Sluggo Cola
and sitting beside Conway.  "Where's that Captain's pip?"
     Conway grimaced and kept reading the padd.  "They just
haven't given it to me yet."
     "Do I detect a note of uncertainty in your voice?"
     "No, you probably detect it in my mind," Conway snapped. 
"And I'd appreciate it if you stopped doing that.  I know I'm not
your commanding officer anymore, but you can at least have the
respect to leave a man's mind alone."
     "You love it."
     "I sure as hell don't."  Conway crossed his legs and kept
reading.  "So, either of you know where you're getting transferred
to?"
     "No idea," Tilleran said.
     "What about you, J'hana?" he asked disinterestedly.  When
she didn't answer, he glanced over to the fluffy chair where 
J'hana sat, sucking slowly on her V'haspant Coolatta.  "J'hana?"
     The Andorian stared at the painting on the opposite side of
the large, open waiting area.  Conway turned to see what was so
interesting about it.  Boats in a harbor.  Something by
Planxtedved, and not one of his/her better pieces.
     He turned to Tilleran.
     The Betazoid shrugged.  "She's...having problems adjusting
to the change.  She barely said a word at lunch."
     "Aww," Conway muttered.  "Get used to it, J'hana."
     Conway winced as the empty plastic coolatta cup slammed 
into the side of his head.
     "So you have a soft spot after all," he mumbled.
     "Well, look," a voice said.  "If it isn't Captain Conway."
     Conway looked up.  "Not yet, Baxter.  But it's only a matter
of time."
     "I don't recall seeing any big starships in orbit," Baxter mused,
taking a seat opposite Conway.  "But I think I saw some workbees. 
Maybe you'll get one of those."
     "They're keeping it in spacedock, Mr. Comedian."
     "Sure."  Baxter twiddled his thumbs.  "J'hana, how are you
holding up?"
     "Don't ask," Tilleran whispered.
     Peterman sat down on the arm of Baxter's chair and looked
around at the group.  "Well, guys, soon we'll all be going our
separate ways."
     "You sound happy," Tilleran noticed.
     Conway glanced up.  He narrowed his eyes.  "Why...son of
a..."  He was instantly out of his chair, inspecting Peterman's
new pip.
     "Like it?" asked Peterman impishly.
     "Starfleet is going to hell," he grumbled.  "They promoted
YOU."
     "You be a good sport, Commander," Baxter chided.  "Kelly
deserved that promotion."
     "Like hell she did."  Conway collapsed back into the couch. 
"What are you now?  Chief Cook and Bottlewasher?"
     "Cruise Director."
     Conway guffawed.  "Hah!  A Starfleet cruise ship?"
     Baxter shifted uneasily.  "Yes.  A Starfleet cruise ship
called the Explorer."
     "Galaxy Explorer," corrected Peterman.
     Baxter rolled his eyes.
     "They really did it," Conway said in disbelief.  "What a
waste of a good ship."  He cracked a smile.  "I'm sure you'll have
fun zipping around the cosmos telling people all about the rings
of Zontar Six, and the special caves of the Morbius World, and 
all the neat gift shops on Coridan!  Oh, it'll be such a gas!"
     Peterman glared at Conway.  "I'd normally have a comeback
for that, Commander, but I'm holding back."
     Conway blinked.  "Why?"
     Peterman folded her arms and grinned.  "No reason."
     "Conway," said an ensign with a creaking voice, looking
small by the double doors that led into the briefing room.
     "There we go," Conway said, putting down his padd and
staring Peterman down.  "We'll see about your holding back in a
minute.  Be ready to call me captain...Commander."
     "Yes sireee," Peterman said, saluting and grinning as Conway
disappeared behind the double doors.
     
     
     "Okay, what ship?" Conway said, rubbing his hands together. 
He didn't bother to sit down, even after the black-eyed Admiral
Oorse offered him a seat.
     This was the same council that debriefed the crew days
earlier.  Now they were reposting the crew.  What were they, some
sort of shadow government?  What a laugh, Conway mused.
     "I'll say this for you, Commander.  You don't beat around the
bush," Admiral Reno said blankly.  "At any rate, you WILL be 
getting a command."
     "Yes!" Conway said, clenching his fist.  "What ship?"
     "USS Republic," Admiral Jacobs said, sliding a padd down the
table.  Conway leaned down and picked it up.
     "Funny.  I thought the Republic-C was destroyed in the
Dominion War."
     "It was," Admiral Oorse said, rubbing his fu man chu beard.
     "Ah, then, I guess there's a Republic-D, huh?  Top of the
line, brand new?"
     "Not exactly."
     

     Peterman examined her nailpolish and counted the approximate
time it would take Conway to read the padd on his new assignment.
     "F****************!" came the cry from within the briefing 
room and Conway stormed out.
     Admiral Reno appeared in the doorway as he stormed away. 
"Report for duty at 0800 tomorrow, Commander."  She looked 
over to Baxter.  "Captain, you're next."
     "Commander still?" Baxter asked, shoving out of his seat.
     Peterman nodded as Conway stormed toward the transporter
bay.  "You're looking at the commander of the USS Republic."
     "A new one?" asked Tilleran, watching him walk by.
     "Nope.  The original one.  Constitution-class."
     Baxter couldn't help but bust out laughing.  "Oh, that's
rich.  That almost makes all of this worthwhile.  What's he going
to do?  Give nostalgic tours of the system?"
     Peterman giggled.  "As a matter of fact, yes.  He'll take interested
alien groups for a quick spin around the system and show them points
of interest along the route.  It'll be a gas, I'm sure."
     "I almost feel sorry for him," Tilleran said with a grin.
     "I don't," Baxter said, and headed for the briefing room.
     "Wonder what the Captain will get," J'hana said, finally
speaking.  "And I wonder if he will need a tactical officer."
     Peterman shook her head.  "Where he's going, I doubt it."
     "How do you know so much, Counselor?" Tilleran asked
incredulously.
     "I was in close contact with the Admirals in there for
several hours yesterday," Peterman said.  "They wanted to fill me
in on everything so I could guage the reaction of different
officers, since I used to be their Counselor."
     "Did you guage this?" Tilleran asked, indicating J'hana.
     "Admittedly, no," Peterman sighed.  "I hope I can help her a
bit in the few days we have before shoving off."
     "I don't know," Tilleran said.  "I'm no counselor, but it
seems like they pulled out her heart when they pulled out those
phaser arrays.  All the fight's just gone out of her."
     "She'll bounce back."  Peterman sighed.  "Andy, on the
other hand..."  She winced when she heard him inside the briefing
room.
     "F*********************!"


     Hartley grimaced at the terminal screen in her guest cabin as
she struggled to compose a report on exactly what had happened
since the discovery of the Starshine Kids.  She included the
recruitment of Lt. Ford into the cult, the sabotage of the
Explorer, the kidnapping of the recently-married Baxter and 
Peterman, and the whole still-mysterious incident where they 
SOMEHOW got into the Delta Quadrant and recruited the 
Flarn's Alpha Quadrant Prisoners AND Dwanok and James Stevens.
Then there was the emergence of the first Redlands and the showdown 
between Mirk and Irma.  How Irma fit in, well, Hartley was still fuzzy 
on that.
     The door to her quarters beeped and she absentmindedly gave
her visitor the okay to enter.
     Mirk stumbled in looking exausted.  "Megan?"
     "Oh.  Mirk."  She concentrated on the screen.  "How did your
conversation with Mrs. Baxter go?"
     Mirk collapsed heavily into the chair by Hartley's desk. 
"Intense.  That's a driven woman."
     "She's not exactly like her son."
     "She thinks she can knock out the Starshine Kids with a few
starships and a handful of fighters.  I tried to talk her out of
it, but she just wouldn't listen."
     "You don't think that she'll be able to?"
     "I know she won't."  Mirk leaned forward.  "I've seen it."
     Hartley finally looked up from the terminal.  "Wait a minute. 
You saw what?"
     "This ship.  Being blown up."  He neglected to tell Hartley
he also was pretty sure he saw her die.  No need to worry her 
yet.
     "I thought you didn't have any powers anymore."
     "This seemed like a warning from the Critics.  Gloating is
more like it.  They know I can't do anything without the
Directors."
     "That's really not fair.  Does Mrs. Baxter realize that
we're trying to destroy gods?"
     "I tried to explain that to her.  She seemed to have the
same fears, but underneath it I got this feeling that she felt it
was her job to get rid of them, one way or the other."
     "Cleaning up after her son," Hartley mused.  "Great, so this
isn't just an interstellar war, it's a mother/son squabble."
     "Apparently.  Who knows why we have to be dragged into it."
     Hartley laughed darkly.  "Because you're the Critics favorite
chewtoy.  But that doesn't explain me."
     Mirk stroked his chin.  "I suppose they think you can get me
to cooperate.  That I'd be more apt to listen to you than to
them."
     "Of course you would.  I'm your friend.  That's not exactly
astrophysics."
     "Right, of course," Mirk said.  "But I think they think
there's more."
     "Hah!  What are they, romantic experts?"
     "Hah."
     Mirk and Hartley fidgeted for a little while in silence.
     "Hey," said Mirk.  "You want to go to the crew lounge 
and get a drink?  The bartender's a jerk but he makes a great
synthale smoothie."
     "Nah, I have this report to finish."
     "Come on, Megan," Mirk taunted.  "The ship's going to 
be blown apart in a few hours and we'll both probably 
die."
     Hartley thought about it.  "Okay, you twisted my arm."
     

     After trashing his living room once again, Captain Baxter
grabbed the crate from his readyroom and transported back to
Starfleet Command.
     Peterman had an appointment with the new captain of the
Explorer so he had to move into his new office by himself.  She'd
be very annoyed that he trashed the living room again, since she'd
spent the morning replicating new lamps and a new coffee table. 
Oh well.
     Baxter shuffled down the corridor looking at doors, counting
until he reached 1105.   
     He read the inscription on the door and a cold shiver went
down his spine.  "I can't believe I'm doing this."
     Taking a deep breath, Captain Baxter stepped through.  
     The room was sparsely decorated and rather small.  Room 
for a couple chairs, a desk with terminal and stacks of padds, and 
a replicator. 
     He sat his crate down on the desk and sighed.  "I thought I
was supposed to get a secretary."
     He then noticed a door on the opposite end of the room.  It
said "OFFICE."
     Hefting the crate, Baxter moved to walk through the door,
but it opened before he got there and a frantic-looking man with
bulging eyes and a mat of tight-knotted red hair emerged.
     "Ahhh!"
     Baxter stumbled back.  "What?"
     "You scared the heck out of me.  I was in there trying to
get the scorchmarks out of the carpet."
     "Scorchmarks?" Baxter asked quietly.
     "Yep, the last guy who had this job put a phaser on overload
and stuck it down his pants."
     "Really."
     He rushed over to her desk, shuffling through padds.  "New
guy should be here any minute, as a matter of fact.  What can I
help you with?"
     "I'm the new guy."
     He dropped the padds.  "Oh my gosh."
     Baxter sighed.  "Don't try to cushion the blow.  I have a
good idea what I'm in for.  I'll be in my...uhhhg...office."
     "Okay."  The man rushed to Baxter's side.  "My name's Eric
and I'll be your Administrative Assistant.  Anything you want,
just ask."
     "Fine."
     "Can I get you some coffee?"
     Baxter trudged into his new office.  "No, but a freshly-
charged phaser would be great."
     Eric rushed to the door.  "Was that a joke?"
     "You figure it out."
     Baxter glanced around the sparse office.  He could still
smell ash.  On the upside, there was a great narrow window 
next to his desk that overlooked a shuttle landing pad.
     "Well, there's a lot of work to do," Eric said, charging in
with an armful of padds.  "More than we've had in a long time,
as a matter of fact,"  
     Baxter watched the padds thunk on his desk one by one.  
"Super."
     "Oh, and Captain Baxter?"
     "Yes."
     "I just want you to know that it's extraordinary to be
working with you.  I watched the article Federation Galactic 
did on your ship."
     "Yes, the Explorer was some ship."
     "'Was'?  Was it destroyed?"
     Baxter sighed again.  "Might as well have been."  He stared
down at the work on his desk.  Looked like a whole lot of math. 
But then what was he to expect?
     Eric returned to the front office and set back to work.
     Moments later, without warning, Eric's face popped up on
Baxter's desktop terminal.  "Sir, there's someone on the comm 
for you."
     Already.  Baxter rubbed a hand over his face.  "Pipe it
in."  The Vulcan on the terminal was just who he expected to 
see.  "This is the Inventory Comptroller," Baxter said tiredly.
     An unsettling smile spread across Captain Velara's face. 
"Let me be the first to welcome you back into the fold, Captain."


     Commander Peterman put her hands on her hips and looked
around Dave Conway's former office.  She'd used half a can of
disinfectant spray but the smell was still there.  An intense
mixture of coffee, cheese, and sweat.
     BLEEP-BWARRRRRK!
     That didn't sound right.  Peterman looked over at the door. 
"I'll be right--"
     Too late.  The doors creaked open.  Blue fingers emerged and
ripped them all the way open, revealing an enraged Lt. J'hana.
     "I am an Inventory Control Officer!" she screamed.  "And
they got Tilleran, too!"
     Peterman rushed to hug the Andorian.  "Let it all out,
J'hana.  Just cry, cry, cry."
     "I do not wish to cry.  I wish to snap a neck.  And I don't
quite care which neck I snap."
     Peterman backed up.  "Okay, work with that."
     "I want an explanation."
     "From me?"
     "From SOMEONE!" J'hana screamed, grabbing Peterman's
framed picture of Yanni and smashing it to pieces against the
bulkhead.  "And I will continue to kill until I get one!"
     "Just settle down, Lieutenant!" Peterman said sharply.  "I
understand you're upset, but there's no need to transfer your
feelings of hostility onto me...or Yanni."
     J'hana whirled. "Why NOT?"
     "Just because!"
     "Ladies."
     Peterman and J'hana turned.
     J'hana was still breathing hard from her anger.  She blinked
and shook her head, as if to clear it.  Looked back at Peterman. 
"Commander, that isn't--?"
     "Hello, Captain," Peterman said, ignoring J'hana.
     "Problem with the doors?" asked the captain, surveying the
damage.
     "No.  Just redecorating.  I'm getting...uh...French doors."
     "I see.  We're meeting in fifteen minutes in the readyroom?"
     "Sounds good."
     Peterman watched the captain continue down the corridor. 
She could feel J'hana looking at her.  "Lieutenant, I'm going to
refer you to a specialist down on Earth, okay?"  She moved to 
the box on her desk and grabbed a tiny post-it padd, tapping in 
the appropriate contact information.
     "Commander, that wasn't--?"
     "Yes, it was the new captain," Peterman said, handing J'hana
the padd.  "Here you go.  Good luck in your new job, Lieutenant."
     J'hana studied the padd and handed it back to Peterman.  "Judging
by who your new captain is, I'd say you're the one that needs the
luck.  Thanks for cheering me up."  And J'hana disappeared into
the corridor, laughing uproariously.

     
     The conversation with Velara confirmed what Baxter had
feared.  His role as Inventory Comptroller was to act as...liason
(he choked on that word)... between Starfleet Command and
Inventory Control.  Inventory Control consisted of an Inventory
Specialist on each ship and a Chief Inventory Officer in every
sector.  Captain Velara was Inventory Commandant, his counterpart
in the field.  She captained the Inventory Mothership, the
Greenspan-A.  The Ambassador-class Greenspan, Baxter 
remembered unfondly, was destroyed by the Borg, only to be 
replaced by an inferior Constellation-class.  Something Velara found 
particularly puzzling, since getting a new ship generally meant getting 
a NEW ship.  Why would Starfleet dig up these sagging old vessels to 
replace destroyed ships rather than build new ones?  More questions.
     After finishing with Velara, Baxter got to his paperwork. 
No reason to put off the inevitable.  He'd managed to work through
several padds, mainly equipment transfer requests and departmental
reports, when his terminal beeped again and Eric appeared again.
     "Sorry to bother you, sir, but there's someone who claims to
know you that wants to see you.  Says he's Chris Richards."
     "Well.  Let him in!"
     "Oh, so he is a friend?"
     "Yes, as if it's any of your business.  Don't you watch
UKN?"
     "Of course."
     "He wrote Days of Honor for a while."
     "Oh...my...God!"
     "Yeah."
     Eric turned to face someone off-screen.  "I had no idea, Mr.
Richards.  I just want to say--"
     "Let him in, Eric."
     "Oh.  Right.  Right away."
     Moments later, Chris Richards strolled into Baxter's office.
"Snazzy place.  But your secretary sucks."
     "Administrative Assistant!" called Eric from the viewscreen.
     "Goodbye, Eric," Baxter muttered and flicked the screen off. 
He turned to Richards.  "Yep, this is where it all happens. 
Have a seat."
     Richards sat across from Baxter and took in the ambience. 
"You know, if you hang a few paintings, this place could 
definitely be a wonderful...work area."
     "You're not making this any better."
     "I'm sorry," Richards said.  He shifted in the chair. 
"Listen, I know what you're going through."
     "Really?"  Baxter leaned forward.  "If I recall, you left
the Explorer of your own free will.  You weren't...evicted."
     "That's true, but I did leave.  I'm still convinced there's
life after the Explorer.  You just need to move on and realize
that for yourself."
     "Yeah, easy for you to say.  You're not the Inventory
Comptroller."
     "I'm sure you'll do a fantastic job.  It's a field you know
well, after all."
     "Are you trying to annoy me?"
     Richards cleared his throat and shifted in the other
direction.  "No.  I'm just trying to lighten the mood a bit."
     "You're doing a miserable job of it."
     "Andy, if you hate this line of work so much, get out of
it."
     "Quit Starfleet?  Yeah, right."
     "Starfleet is not the be all and end all of human existence. 
Maybe you'll be happier doing something else.  Be a writer
or something."
     "A writer, yeah.  That's a laugh."
     "Hey, I did it.  How hard can it be?"
     "What would I write?  My memoirs?"  Baxter shook his 
head.  "'These are the voayges of the starship Explorer...'"  
He chuckled.  "Yeah, right."
     "I'd read them."  Richards chuckled softly, then glanced at
the chronometer on the wall behind Baxter.  "Well, I'd better 
get up to the Daisy II.  We're getting ready to head to the 
Antares system."
     "Fine," Baxter muttered.  "Leave me in my misery."
     "You just remember what I told you," Richards said,
standing.
     Baxter watched Richards leave.  "Be careful out there,
buddy."
     "You too.  And don't let them put a tag on you."
     "Very funny."
     "I wasn't joking."
     

     Lt. Commander Larkin strolled onto the bridge of the Daisy
II and studied it with satisfaction.  "It is good to be back."
     Bort grunted from the helm.  "Aboard the new Daisy?"
     "No, among my second family."
     "You mean me and Kris?" Bort laughed huskily.
     "Correct.  I find this arrangement quite satisfactory.  Time
away from Starfleet will allow Lt. Commander Richards and I the
distance we need to decide what to do with our careers."
     Bort turned in his chair.  "So it doesn't bother you that
your...er, father is...er, banging...your, uh, sister?"
     Larkin sat down at the station behind the command chair, a
crude analog to ops, and studied their course plan.  "Human
interpersonal relationships are quite complicated.  When one
places an android in the mix, they are known to get even more
complicated."
     "Ah, so it doesn't bother you."
     "I am an android.  I am incapable of being bothered."
     "If you say so."  Bort swung back toward the viewscreen.
     Richards and Kris stumbled onto the bridge moments later
in each others arms and giggling.  "Ready to go, Bort?" asked Kris
merrily.
     "I guess so," Bort grunted.
     Richards grabbed a seat next to Larkin.  "All ready,
Kristen?"
     "As ready as I shall ever be.  Have you said all of your
'goodbyes.'"
     "I suppose."
     "Mr. Bort," Kris said, flopping into the command chair. 
"Prepare to--"
     "Wait," Richards said suddenly.  "There's someone I have
to talk to before we leave."
     Kris nodded.  "You're welcome to use the Captain's Killing
Room."
     "Thanks."


     "Xenonutrition, this is Janice."  She looked busy on the
viewscreen in the "Captain's Killing Room."  Looked a lot like
a readyroom, but with less frills and more carving tools on the
wall.  Browning finally looked like she recognized Richards
on the viewscreen.  "Oh.  Christopher.  What?"
     "I'm leaving for Antares.  Just wanted to say goodbye."
     "Oh.  Okay, goodbye."
     "Did you get your pizza oven installed all right down
there?"
     "Yeah.  They had to get a bigger power coupling, but 
she's working fine now.  Pumping out fresh pizza for all the
patients."
     "You get patients in Xenonutrition?"
     "Aliens with indigestion.  It's a side-practice."
     "Ah.  Interesting.  Burping Bolians and Retching Rigellians,
huh?"
     "Yeah, right.  So, what's with the small-talk, Christopher?"
     "I just didn't want us to leave things this way."
     Browning studied a monitor off-screen.  "What way would
that be?"
     "You're mad at me."
     "I'm not mad."
     "Don't try to kid me.  You're mad I'm not broken up about
leaving everyone, especially you."
     "You're pretty good, Counselor Richards."  
     "It's a hobby."
     "You're also full of hummus.  I'm fine."
     "You sure?"
     "I'm positive I won't spend my time here on Earth pining
away for you, Christopher.  Now go enjoy your vacation.  I'll be
fine."    
     "Thanks, Janice."  
     Richards clicked off the viewer and went back to the
bridge before Browning could add, "Not that you care."


     "On your way to our new ship?" Lt. Zachary Ford said
eagerly, picking up step next to Commander Conway.  He was
bulling his way toward one of Starbase One's many travel pods
so he could get on with his new assignment.
     "'Our new ship'?  Oh, they gave me YOU as a helm officer, 
did they?" Conway said with a wry chuckle.
     "Yeah, I guess they still remember the 'Ford Maneuver,'"
Ford said proudly.
     "You mean the maneuver where you hit a bunch of random
controls and hoped for the best?"
     "The point is, I made an impact.  Won't be long before I'm
your First Officer, right?"
     "Let's not waste any time," Conway said, stopping in the
corridor.  "Mr. Ford, you are hearby promoted to Executive 
Officer of the USS Republic." 
     "Really!" Ford beamed.  "You mean it?"
     "Yeah.  Your first duty is to steer my travel pod."
     "Gladly."
     Coming up on the first available pod, Ford and Conway
entered the appropriate access code and stepped in through
the airlock.  Ford immediately sat behind the controls.  "This
will be great."
     "Sure will," Conway grimaced, grabbing a coffee out of the
pod's tiny replicator.  "Disengage us and get clearance."
     "Right," Ford said eagerly.
     Conway glared over his steaming coffee as the pod 
maneuvered toward a Sovereign-class starship in dock.
     "That must be her, right?  Right?" Ford said excitedly.
     "Just a little to the right," Conway muttered.  "Down point
five six."
     "But we're almost at the back of the spacedock.  What are 
we getting?  A tiny little Defiant-class?"
     When Ford saw the Republic waiting serenely behind the
Sovereign-class starship, he was so shocked he barely avoided
crashing into it.
     "Th-that's a Constitution-class!" Ford stammered.
     "Home sweet home, Mr. First Officer," Conway mumbled.


     "These people are trashing my area!" Professor Tav cried. 
"It's intolerable!"
     Baxter narrowed his eyes at the chubby Tellarite Science
Professor on his terminal, focussing the balance of his anger and
bitterness at him.  So this is how bureaucrats were made.  "Rules
are rules, Professor Tav.  We have to search the lab for items
that aren't listed on your inventory log."
     "But, Captain, surely Inventory Control does not have the
authoritative power to so callously destroy another Federation
citizen's property."
     "Check the Faculty Handbook, Professor," Baxter said
blandly.  "You'll see that we do.  Good day."  And he turned off
the screen.  "Some people."  He looked down at the scatter of
padds on his desk and tried to decide which one he'd tackle next.
     "Sir?"  Eric popped up on his screen.
     "What."
     "Your wife is on the comm."
     "Oh.  Put her through."
     "Andy!" Peterman said cheerily.  "How are things going at
Inventory Control?"
     "Swimmingly," Baxter muttered.  He narrowed his eyes at her
image on the screen.  "Kelly..."
     "It's the hat, isn't it?"  Peterman was wearing what looked
to Baxter like an ancient captain's hat.  White, black-brimmed,
with an anchor inscripted on the front.  "It's part of the new
uniform."
     "Oh, it is, is it?" Baxter asked.  "Well, it's darned cute."
     "You're being sarcastic."
     "No!"
     "Andy, I called you because we have a lot to discuss. 
We're leaving in a couple hours to take the Galaxy Explorer 
out on a shakedown cruise."
     "How quaint.  Did you meet your new captain?"
     "Uh, yes," Peterman said in a small voice.
     "So who is the shmuck?"
     "Can you just come up here?  We'll talk about it in person."
     "Fine, I'll be there in a bit."  Baxter turned off the
monitor and headed out into the front room to tell Eric he'd be
back in a while, and to please work on getting the smell of burnt
Inventory Comptroller out of the carpet.
     

     They were polishing the mirrors surrounding the transporter
pad when Baxter materialized.
     "Ensign Yang, good to see they kept you around," Baxter
said, nodding at the asian transporter officer.
     "And you have a super day, Captain," Yang said, saluting. 
Baxter got a better look at the uniform on Yang and once again
felt his stomach curdle.  It had a nostalgic feel.  The black was
there, as were the gray shoulders, but the new uniform sported a
fancy gold-buckled belt and buttoned only halfway.  Underneath was
a tunic similar to the one Baxter wore, but the turtleneck flaps
were turned down and Yang wore...shudder...a bow tie.  The look
was completed by the hideous hat he'd seen on Kelly earlier.
     "Looking sharp, Ensign," Baxter managed to croak before
stepping out into the corridor.  Kelly was there, in the same
idiotic uniform, hair pulled back into a permed french braid,
he guessed, for the occasion.
     "You like it?"  Peterman patted the clump of hair.
     "I...just...love it," Baxter said.  His world was coming
apart around him.  Streamers littered the corridor, he saw as
Peterman led him to her new office.  The functional muted railings
were replaced with latinum-plated gold.  And a waterfall waited
ominously at the end of the corridor.
     "One on every deck," Peterman said.  "The sound of water
makes people feel more at ease."
     "Great," Baxter grumbled.  "Ah, just great."  They came to
Peterman's door.  Well, the open area where her door used to be. 
"What, you took Conway's office?"
     "It has a better view," Peterman explained.  "At the front
of the ship instead of on the side, right by the bussard ramscoop,
like my old office."
     "Super."  Baxter studied the lack of doors.  "Where are 
the--"
     "Oh, I'm getting French doors."
     "Yeah, classy.  Look, Kelly, I've got to say, this is all--"
     "Andy, before you say anything, I want you to know that
whatever happens on this ship from now on I still love you with
all my heart.  Okay?"
     Baxter felt his heart murmur at that.  Why was Kelly
talking like their marraige was in jeapardy?
     "Now I want you to sit down."  Peterman led him over to her
sprawling L-shaped French Provencial couch.  "I'll get you some
orange pekoe and we can talk about this.  Trust me, it isn't half
as bad as you think it is."
     Baxter watched Peterman work at the replicator and come back
with two steaming cups.  "You're sure?"
     "Very much so.  The universe isn't crumbling down around
you."
     Baxter sipped.  "What makes you think I thought that?"
     "You have that look."
     The cup wavered in Baxter's hand.  "Don't be silly."
     "You know, Andy, sometimes we're pushed to the edge in
life.  The trick is to bounce back.  Not go all the way over."
     "Why are you talking like this?  Like I'm one of your
patients?"
     "I'm just worried."
     "About what?"
     Suddenly a voice chimed in behind Baxter.  "Kelly, how
about dinner tonight?  To celebrate the new..."  A pause.  "Ah,
Baxter!"
     Baxter turned at the sound of the voice.  His teacup
clattered to the deck.  Tea seeped into the carpet.
     Peterman scooched over to be next to him on the couch. 
"Now, Andy ...settle down..."
     Baxter felt the bones in his jaw rattle.  He clenched his
teeth to avoid screaming.  "Fi...Fi...Fi..."
     "Say it," the captain grinned, looming over Baxter.
     Snap.  "FICKER!!!!!!"
     
     
     Lt. Tilleran stopped in mid-sentence.  She and J'hana had
decided to do a slow orbit of the San Francisco bar scene during
their final night before officially beginning duty as Inventory
Officers.
     J'hana leaned forward on her barstool as Tilleran clutched
her temples.  "What?"
     "The Captain..." Tilleran said slowly.  "The...Captain!"
     "The Captain what?"
     Tilleran shook her head.  "Anguish...so much anguish.  And 
a word.  A name!"
     J'hana nodded.  "Ficker."
     "He's miles above the earth but I can feel it as if he were
right beside me.  I can hear him snapping, J'hana."
     "Ficker," J'hana repeated.
     "He's going to need help."
     J'hana nodded.  "Certainly.  After we get judiciously
shlarrged.  Now, what were we talking about?"


     Peterman trailed behind Baxter as he stormed back toward
the transporter room, ripping tinsel from the ceiling as he did so.
     "Andy, wait!"
     "Forget about it, Kelly."
     "You don't understand...this is my career we're talking
about!"
     "That's a lunatic back there, Kelly," Baxter said, not
turning back to look at her.  "He tried to kill us all."
     Peterman grabbed Baxter's arm in a vain attempt to slow
him down.  He turned back to face her.  "He got help, Andy."
     "So he did," Baxter said.  "So he did."  He laughed.  "He
got help."
     "That's right.  Modern therapy works wonders.  The doctors
at Tantalus have explained it all to me.  He's one hundred percent
better.  He regrets sabotaging our escape from that null space
last year.  He wants to talk to you--to apologize."
     "He can choke on his apology."  Baxter charged into the
transporter room.  "Back to Inventory Control, Ms. Yang."
     "Aye, sir."
     "Andy!" Peterman demanded as Baxter mounted the
transporter pad.  "You're not being reasonable!"
     "Starfleet took away my ship and gave it to that madman. 
That bastard that has hounded me since he sabotaged me at
Starfleet Academy and gloated all the way.  And you're more
than happy to go along for the ride."
     "Andy, we need to talk this over like sane individuals!"
     "That would be fine, if I were sane," Baxter said, smiling
finally.  "But I'm not.  That said, maybe they'll give me a new
ship, since fools are in high demand nowadays.  Energize, Ensign."
     "ANDREW!" Peterman cried fruitlessly as Baxter began to
dematerialize.  "YOU ARE BEING A BABY!"
     She looked back at Ensign Yang, whirls of hair drifting down
into her eyes.  So much for the braid.  "What are you looking at!"
     

TRAFALGAR
     
Captain's Log,
     Stardate 54004.8.  We've rendez-voused with the other
members of our task force and are underway.  Our course is for the
first Redlands--the one that appeared in front of the Explorer in
the Aegis system several months ago.  We're scheduled to arrive 
within the hour, and I can't say I'm not excited to go against this
grinning Vulcan Sesil.  He may have faced a Captain Baxter
before, but not this one.  It's time for Mom to kick some ass. 
Computer, delete that last comment.

     Lucille was so busy slamming her fists into the punching bag
she barely heard DiSalvo walk in.
     "Captain," he finally said.
     "What?"  Lucille stopped punching and whirled. 
     "Just wanted to remind you we have a subspace conference
call between all the members of the task force in twenty minutes."
     "I'll be ready," Lucille said.
     "Sir, permission to speak freely."
     "Granted."
     "Why are you doing your PT less than an hour before going
into battle?"
     "Working off a little steam, Commander.  This Sesil guy
burns me."
     "May I ask why?  You seem to be taking this very personally."
     Because he hurt my little Bilbo, Lucille thought.  "Because
he's threatening the Federation's sovereignity, DiSalvo.  Isn't
that enough?"
     "Yes, sir, I guess so."
     "Is that all?"
     DiSalvo shifted from foot to foot.  "Sir..."
     "Spit it out."
     "I wish my mom was more like you."
     "Dismissed, DiSalvo."  Lucille went back to the punching 
bag.


     Dr. Browning carried a large dish of lasagna out into the
family room of her spacious San Francisco apartment and sat it
down on the coffee table.
     "Yes, this is the life," Browning said aloud.  She'd had a
productive day at work.  Helped a Gorn immunize himself against
Earth alcohol varieties, wrote a substantial report on Flarn
reactions to different Alpha Quadrant species, and had her office
painted blue.
     She'd heard little from the Explorer crew.  Peterman and the
"Galaxy" Explorer were getting ready to set off into space for a 
shakedown cruise to test the new customer service options that 
had been installed during her daylong refit, Richards and Larkin 
were off to Antares, Holly was starting medical school, 
Commander Conway was getting settled in aboard the Republic,
and Baxter wasn't answering his comm.
     So she'd decided to spend a quiet evening at home with her
large lasagna dish and viewscreen.
     "Computer," Browning said eagerly, spooning lasagna into her
mouth.  "Open subspace channel to Krinokom subspace frequency 
and access entertainment transmission, on this viewscreen."
     The screen flared to life.  It was a Days of Honor rerun.
     "Kasatria, this loneliness is killing me..." said Minister Vag on
the screen.  Browning had seen this one a million times.
     "Viewscreen off," Browning said flatly.  Maybe she'd just read
a book instead.


     "Last call," Clyde the bartender said brusquely, whisking away
Mirk and Hartley's half-filled glasses of chocolate milk.  Both had
their fill of drinking down on Earth in Louisiana.
     "See what I mean about him being a jerk?" Mirk asked,
putting his feet up on the table and staring between them at the
stars streaking by the viewport at the forefront of the Sattelite
of Suds, the Trafalgar's Crew Lounge.
     "Yeah," Hartley agreed.  "No charm at all.  Not at all like a
certain Maloxian I know."
     "Who could you possibly be talking about?" Mirk asked 
with a grin.
     They sat a while in silence.
     "Mirk..."
     "Sure I'll try dating," Mirk was ready to say.
     "Do you really think we won't make it?"
     "Absolutely."
     "Huh.  You think we should try to escape?"  It would be a
simple matter.  Hartley knew Starfleet technology like nobody's
business.
     "I think we should..."
     <Escape.  Escape while you still can.>
     The voice rang in Mirk's airs.  Soft, but somehow strangely
familiar.
     "Who is this?"
     "Who is who?" Hartley asked, confused.
     <Get out of there.>
     "Critics?"
     <No.  Not the Critics.>
     It was the Directors!  They were back.  And telling Mirk to
leave.
     "Megan..."  Mirk grabbed Hartley's hand and led her out of
the lounge.  "We have to go!"
     "Just because that jerk said it was closing time?"
     "No, because we'll die if we stay here."
     "You already said that."
     "But the Directors just confirmed it.  We need to leave."
     "Directors?  Wait a minute?  Do you mean you have your
powers back?"
     Mirk squeezed his eyes shut and thought...about Megan. 
Nothing.
     "Nope.  Just trust me.  We have to escape.  Can you do it?"
     "I suppose."  Hartley jogged ahead of Mirk, leading the way.  
"We need to get to an escape pod.  A shuttlecraft would be too
obvious."
     "But where will we go from there?"
     "Any place is better than this flying deathtrap right now,
right?"
     Mirk shrugged.  "Good point."


     Commander Conway stared across his cramped quarters at
the duffle on his bed.  He sat in his chair, sipping coffee, staring
at the duffle.  He'd been in his quarters for three hours and
hadn't begun to unpack, though he wasn't sure why.
     The Republic was a tour ship.  And it wasn't even an
interstellar one.  He was relegated to taking interested alien
VIP's around the Sol System, chatting about the points of
interest.
     She had no weapons, save low-powered phasers for clearing
debris from her flight path, she could only go warp two, and 
the replicators weren't programmed to make lattes.
     All that boiled down to some simple truths:  He'd never
battle, never explore, never investigate, and never REALLY 
command again.
     Beginning at 0800 tomorrow, Conley would take those 
VIP's on hour-long tours of the system all day and for the rest
of his miserable career.
     Conway glanced at the wall chronometer.  2200 hours.  
Still plenty of time.  He reached into his duffle, pulled out the
sizable Russia Still Bothers Me (expanded edition) and began
reading.  He could swear Tom Clancy was laughing from the 
grave as he turned page 1102.


     It didn't take long to find an out-of-the-way escape pod. 
It did take sufficiently longer for Hartley to break into the
Trafalgar computer and sabotage the ship's sensor array.  It
would take DiSalvo a while to right things, and by that time 
they'd be drifting far behind the ship, providing they weren't
incinirated in Trafalgar's warp bubble.  
     "What are you doing again?" Mirk asked, antsy.  He was
sitting in one of the two upright seats inside the life pod, right
next to Hartley, who was hunched over a computer console.
     "I'm creating a hole in the warp bubble for us to escape
through," Hartley said, tapping into the warp field control
subroutines.  "You don't want us vaporized, do you?"
     "No, I guess not."
     After a few more minutes, Hartley finished her work on
the warp field.  "There.  Just enough to squeeze through 
without knocking them out of warp."
     "Okay then," said Mirk.  "Let's go."
     "Right."  Hartley began the ejection sequence.
     And the escape pod airlock slid open before them.  And 
there stood Sam DiSalvo with a pair of security officers
flanking him.  He latched onto both of them and dragged them
out, oblivious of their flailing about.
     "Put us down!" shouted Hartley.
     "What was the big idea trying to escape?" demanded DiSalvo
as he shoved them into a turbolift.  "And do who knows what else
in there?" he added.
     "Can you blame us for not wanting to be blown up?" asked
Hartley.
     "We weren't doing anything!" Mirk protested.
     "You two make me sick."
     "I swear, we were only trying to escape.  There was nothing
sexual about it!" Hartley said indignantly.
     "Mr. DiSalvo," Mirk said, "I have it on good authority that
we won't survive this.  If you care about Captain Baxter or this
ship at all you'll make sure we turn around and head the other
way.  Fast."
     "Nothing doing," DiSalvo said, after a small pause.  "Maybe
if you two were helping us instead of trying to escape, our
survival chances would be a little better."
     "I hadn't thought of that," admitted Hartley.
     "Well how selfish," DiSalvo muttered.
     The doors opened onto the bridge and DiSalvo pushed Mirk and
Hartley out.  "Found them.  They were trying to escape.  And do
other things."
     "Why am I not surprised," Lucille said dryly.  "Have your
officers keep an eye on them."
     An eye, Mirk thought.  Cute.
     "You know, Lt. Hartley," said Lucille, "This is going to have a 
direct effect on your Starfleet career.  We're not in the business of 
promoting cowards."
     "You're breaking my heart," Hartley grumbled, staring up at
the security guard that was watching her--a younger guy, blonde. 
Looked a lot like Gellar.  That really burned her.
     Lucille strode over to the quarterdeck to address Hartley.  "I
read your report.  Besides a propensity for musical numbers, the
Starshine Kids seem to have no weakness."
     "That's what we've been trying to tell you," Mirk said. 
"You've got to turn back, before it's too late."
     "And then what?" asked Lucille.  "Who cleans up the mess
then?"
     "There are other ways," Mirk said.  "We can't hope to defeat
them by force!"
     "If you can come up with another way in the next--" Lucille
looked at DiSalvo.
     "Twenty minutes."
     "--twenty minutes, you are welcomed to give it a shot."


     Richards wrapped an arm around Kris and hugged her close
on the couch facing the rear viewport.  He watched the stars
streak away from the Daisy II.  "This will be great, Kris.  Just
you, me, Larkin..."
     "And Bort."
     "And Bort.  Exploring the cosmos.  No annoying duties or
stares from other crewmembers to worry about.  Just us."
     "I've been waiting a long time to get you off that ship,
Chris," Kris said, leaning her head on Richards's shoulder.
     "Really?"
     "Yeah.  I knew I could never really have you while you
served with Janice."
     "What makes you say that?"
     "Because there would always be that feeling of competition. 
Now you'll only see her at holidays or reunions or whatever.  We
can start building on our relationship."
     "You really felt threatened by Janice?"
     "Not threatened, per se.  But I know she doesn't like me."
     "That's preposterous," Richards lied.  "Janice likes you
fine."
     "Don't be so transparent, Chris," Kris said, giggling.  "I
don't mind that she doesn't like me.  You're all that matters."
     "Aww."  Richards closed his eyes and nuzzled Kris closer
against his chest.
     "You and the fifty kilotons of Yridian weaponry in my
cargo hold."
     "What?"
     "Oh, nothing."


     Lucille Baxter paced the bridge of the Trafalgar like a caged
animal while Mirk and Hartley whiled the time away playing Tic-Tac-
Toe on a padd.  "Time?"
     "Ten minutes," DiSalvo announced from tactical.
     Lucille nodded.  "Status on weapons?"
     "Locked and loaded."
     "Shields?"
     "Sensor-reflective and fully charged."
     Lucille nodded.  Paced some more.  "DiSalvo?"
     "Yes?"
     "That mom comment you made earlier.  Did you mean it, or 
are you just gunning for that open First Officer position?"
     DiSalvo pulled at his collar.  "A little of both, sir."
     "Good.  Just what I wanted to hear."
     Mirk looked across the padd at Hartley after placing the
third "X" in a diagonal row.  They were sitting on the bench
just to the side of the command chairs.  "You ready?" he
whispered.
     She glanced over at DiSalvo's panel.  "Yep."


     Andy Baxter stared around his wrecked living room and
tried not to think about his wrecked kitchen, den, and bathroom
as Pandora licked his fingers beside him on the couch.
     "I'll never see her again, Pandy.  I just know it."
     "Woof!"
     "Yes, I know I'm insane for talking to a dog."
     "Woof!"
     "Yes, you're right.  I should have never taken the Inventory
job.  I should have quit Starfleet."
     "Woof!"
     "Yes, of course, Kelly doesn't love me anymore."
     "Woof!"
     "Wrong for trashing the house?  Now that's just plain
silly."  Baxter sighed, clapped his legs, and stood up.  "Come on,
Pandy.  Time for poo-poo pee-pee."



     "All stop."  Lucille Baxter stared at the roiling redness on
the viewscreen and looked back at Mirk and Hartley.  "Look
familiar?"
     Mirk gulped, setting down the Tic-Tac-Toe padd.  That was
three straight games he'd won.  "Unfortunately."
     "Full scan," Lucille ordered.  "I trust you repaired whatever
mischief Lt. Hartley did to our systems?"
     "Certainly," DiSalvo said.  He looked down at his sensors. 
"Nothing we can detect inside the mass.  Our sensors can't
penetrate it."
     "It's not too late to turn back," Mirk said quietly.
     "Quiet!" Lucille ordered.  "Signal the Lynx and Pellagro to
spread out in a delta formation.  Have the fighters prepare for
strafing runs."
     "So we just sit and wait?" Hartley demanded.
     "Not long," Mirk said quietly.  He saw the shadows getting
sharper within the red cloud.


     "I feel so bad," Commander Peterman said, picking through
her jambalaya as rhythmic drum music played in the new "Calypso
Cafe."  Mirk's old fashioned wooden bar had been replaced by a
wicker-ish jamaican stand from which one could order jerk chicken
or a strong blender drink.  As Peterman understood it, demographic
data showed that tropical themes were popular among prominent
Federation citizens.  "He's never been so mad at me."
     "Don't beat yourself up, Kelly," Captain Alvin Ficker said,
reaching across the table to grasp her hands.  "He'll grow to get
used to this arrangement in time."
     "And if he doesn't?"
     Ficker shrugged.  "Then he never really loved you, right?"
     "That's very insightful, but I know Andy loves me."
     "Kelly, I'm just trying to play devil's advocate here,"
Ficker replied playfully.
     "You know, Alvin, I'd never have guessed that therapy
would have been this good for you.  There's no trace of the small,
petty, immature person who nearly got us blown up last year."
     "I've made great progress," Ficker said with a smile.  "More
daquiri?"
     "Please."
     "I get the feeling that this is the beginning of something
grand," Ficker said, refilling Peterman's glass.
     "I hope you're right."
     "Trust me on this one."



     The blasts came fast and furious as soon as the ships ripped
out of the Redlands.  Apparently the task force's sensor-reflective
shields were not a problem for them.
     Escape pods shot out of the Exelsior-class Lynx just as she 
exploded on the viewscreen, lighting up the darkened, smoky bridge
of the Trafalgar.
     "Your bun's undone," Lt. Hartley said wryly, clinging to the
tactical panel as the Sovereign-class vessel was battered.
     Lucille pushed hair out of her face and gripped the command
chair.  "Don't you think I know that?"  She turned her attention
to DiSalvo.  "Commander, do you have any idea what those ships
are?"
     "A combination of the technology used by the Starshine
vessel the Explorer faced previously and some unknown technology,"
DiSalvo said crisply, as he worked, cool and collected, at his
panel.
     "Let me have a look," Hartley said, glancing at the scans. 
"Oh, f***."
     Mirk was behind her in an instant.  "Flarn."
     Lucille wrung her hands.  "F***."
     

     Tilleran's eyes snapped open.  "Oh my gosh."
     "What?" hissed Barto, the muscular Gorn who was curled in
bed next to her in her Federation Plaza suite.  She'd met him that
night at a grungy alien dive in downtown San Francisco.
     "I just had the strangest sensation."
     "What?  Feelings of forboding?  Death?  The sense that your
friends and your entire way of life are about to be systematically
destroyed?"
     "No.  I just realized I left my favorite hair scrunchie on
the Explorer, and they left an hour ago."
     "Oh.  I'm sorry to hear that."
     "Would you both shut up!" J'hana snapped.  "I am trying to
sleep."
     Tilleran peered over Barto's immense form to see J'hana
beside him.  "Sorry, Lieutenant."
     "Call me J'hana.  And for the love of the Great Hive, let me
sleep."
     "You should be plenty exausted," Barto chortled.
     "Not in the least," the Andorian replied defiantly and
turned over, covering her head with her pillow.
     "And so should you," he said, turning to Tilleran.  But she
was already blissfully asleep, and J'hana was snoring loudly. 
Staring up at the hotel's mirrored ceiling, Barto decided he
had it pretty good.
     

     "They're tearing through our hull like it's not there!  No
shields, no ablative armor.  No nothing!" DiSalvo called out.
     "So much for your new technology," Hartley muttered to
Lucille as she braced herself against the aft bulkhead, looking
at the damage reports over DiSalvo's shoulder.
     Escort-class fighters swarmed like flies on the viewscreen,
blasted one by one by the attack cluster of four Starshine
warships.
     The Trafalgar convulsed around them.  Another blast from
a Starshine ship blew right through the saucer section and
tore out the other end.
     "We have to evacuate!" Mirk said, rushing down to the
command chair, where Lucille kept her posture ramrod straight,
directing her people like Patten.  "We're all going to die if we 
don't get out of here now!"
     "You are not in command here," Lucille said sharply.  "No
one's evacuating.  We'll see this thing through!"
     "This wasn't supposed to be a suicide mission!" Hartley
exclaimed.
     "Says who?" asked DiSalvo.
     Hartley grimaced.  These people were crazy.
     Another blast blew Trafalgar's port-side nacelle apart.
     The comm buzzed to life.  "Engineering to bridge.  We just
ejected the warp core!"
     Lucille glanced over her shoulder.  "Weapons status?"
     "Little to none," DiSalvo said dully.
     "Engines?"
     "Impulse."
     Lucille pulled the wisps of hair behind her head and clipped
them back.  "Prepare collision course."
     "What?" Hartley demanded, circling around to the front
of the bridge to face Lucille.  "Are you insane?"
     "DiSalvo, have your officer stun her," Lucille muttered.  "And
initiate collision course with the nearest Starshine ship on my
mark."
     The guy who looked like Gellar advanced on Hartley but she
was ready.  She rammed a fist into his gut and followed up by a
knee to the crotch.  His phaser clattered to the floor.  She
knelt, retrieved it, and whirled in time to blast DiSalvo.  He
had a suprised look as he collapsed to the deck like a sack of
potatoes.
     Hartley wasted no time.  "Hartley to all hands!  Evacuate! 
Man the escape pods!  Get the hell out of here while you still
can!  Oh, and in case you were wondering, this isn't a f***ing
drill!"
     Lucille shook her head.  "My son had a ship of fools."  She
looked to the helm.  "Ensign Grayville, mark!"
     "No you don't!" Hartley shouted, blasting an advancing
security officer, then blasting Grayville at helm.
     "Do your thing, Megan!" Mirk called out.
     She ran back to tactical and began punching buttons.
     Lucille, meanwhile, jumped at the helm to carry out the
collision course.
     Then a circle of blue light appeared in front of Mirk and
slowly advanced toward him.
     Mirk backed up.  "What the--"
     "Mirk!" cried Hartley.
     A hand reached out, delicately frail, and jerked Mirk into
the blue circle.  And the blue circle vanished.
     Before she even had time to wonder where Mirk had gone,
Hartley watched the four Starshine Warships approach on the
crackling viewscreen, launching twinkling blasts of red right at
her.
     And the last thing she saw was the bridge exploding around
her as the Trafalgar blew apart.
                           
                           
                   TO BE CONTINUED...