Author: Anthony Butler, Andy Baxter
Copyright: 2009

CAPTAIN BAXTER: Thank you for tuning in to this collection of bonus footage. You’re about to see some never before seen…Hold on a sec. Hey, Anthony… do I have to read this garbage? Can’t I just talk normally?

ANTHONY BUTLER: No. Because I’m a writer. You’re my character. You read what I write.

BAXTER: But what if some of the things you write are, you know, stupid?

BUTLER: That’s exactly why we have this collection of “Never-before- read footage.”

BAXTER: Is it footage if it’s writing? Wouldn’t it be ‘wordage’?

BUTLER: Why do you have to be such a smart ass? You do realize I get you laid more than any other captain in Star Traks.

BAXTER: Have you seen the competition?

BUTLER: Fair point. You do have a…quality.

BAXTER: What are you trying to say? Are you hitting on me? I’m feeling weird…

BUTLER: Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why does everything have to be an awkward moment with you?

BAXTER: You started it.

BUTLER: ARGGHHHHHHHH! *Throws keyboard* Just get on with this, already!

BAXTER: Fine. But bring me danish. I was promised danish.

BUTLER: All right, all right.

BAXTER: ANY-way. As I was saying, we’re proud to present some of this stuff Anthony wrote that never made it into the stories. Why didn’t it make it? Largely because it’s crap, and needed to find its way to the nearest trash bin, and pronto. But occasionally, there was a nugget of good stuff in there that had to be jettisoned because it just didn’t fit with a story, or a particular character arc.

BUTLER: *from the kitchen* Or it was just crap!

BAXTER: I already mentioned the crap part. So, that being said, I present to you…DELETED SCENES!



Captain Baxter straightened his dress uniform and stood up, holding his glass of champagne high. “Hello everyone, and welcome to the newly renamed ‘Planet Starfleet.’ Mirk wanted me to remind all of you to try his famous ‘Chocolate Scotty.’ I hear it’s quite good. Anyway, I’m hear to welcome you all aboard the newly finished Starship Explorer. We’re here to witness the historic launch of what is no doubt destined to be a major blurb in the Federation history books. First of all, I’d just like to thank Admiral McGrath for giving me command of this fine ship. I’d also like to thank my lovely girlfriend, Counselor Kelly Peterman, whom I’m sure all of you already know.

“Let me just begin by saying that it’s a pleasure to see so many familiar faces out there in the crowd. Ah, J’hana, great to see you. And Mister Ford. Hands off the ladies tonight, tiger.” Baxter quickly rifled through the padd he had with him, going through the notes to his speech. “I had a speech prepared for tonight, but, you know what, I think I’m going to forget about the speech, and instead, just tell a few jokes…”


BUTLER: Here are your danish. Choke on them.

BAXTER: Thanks, you too.

BUTLER: Any Red Dwarf fans out there? *counts raised hands* Yeah, me too. To the extent that I really wanted to do a Red Dwarf/Star Traks crossover. Now crossovers are tricky. They’re easy to screw up, because if you don’t have a really good idea for why the two sets of characters should cross over, you can end up with something that’s, well…


BUTLER: Thank you. So the story never got finished. But I did write the beginning, and it goes a little something like this…



“There is a vessel coming through the anomaly, Captain,” J’hana said calmly.

The ship looked to be about the size of the Aerostar, but much less streamlined or graceful looking. It put Baxter in mind of a giant red crayon that had been scribbled down to a nub. It was pocked by craters from asteroid impacts and looked to be decaying from excessive age.

“Who are they?” Conway asked, intrigued.

Larkin studied her scans. “It closely resembles an old twenty-second century earth mining vessel. It is most likely a derelict of a time long ago, a period long since past, a relic of an earlier, more simple-“

“They are hailing us.” J’hana interjected.

“Intriguing.” Larkin said, “It appears I was in error. There are life signs on the vessel…and markings! The markings indicate that the ship is called the Red Dwarf.”

“Open hailing frequencies.” Baxter sighed, this was going to be tricky. He hated temporal mechanics.

“Open.” J’hana replied.

“Mining vessel ‘Red Dwarf’, this is the Federation Starship Aerostar. It appears you were caught in a temporal causality. May we render some assistance?”

There was a loud crackle, then suddenly, what seemed liked the disembodied head of a blonde haired woman appeared on the viewscreen.

“Hello, what’s this? I thought we were being pulled into a star by the gravitational eddies. Seems I was wrong. Can’t expect me to do everything right, now, can you?”


BAXTER: *digging in the box of danish* Where are the cheese ones? I like the cheese ones!

BUTLER: You would. Anyhow, in this next clip, we see the B- Plot that never was. In the story “Healthy Competition,” Lt. Commander Richards, Lt. Commander Tilleran, Peterman, and Larkin all go to a conference. Originally, I intended to show what happened at the conference. But it felt like too much work, so I scrapped it.

BAXTER: *with mouth full of danish* Typical!



Chief Engineer’s Log,

Stardate 52174.7. Lt. Tilleran, Lt. Larkin, and I are spending the week at the Daystrom Institute’s annual Technology Conference. At first I was kind of reluctant to go, but when I found out they were offering a prize for the most interesting exhibit, and I think Larkin’s brain has a very good chance of winning.

“Aren’t you getting tired of sitting there, Lieutenant?” Lt. Tilleran asked, regarding Larkin as she sat in the chair, surrounded by interested scientists.

“I am content to sit in this position,” Larkin replied. “However, I would enjoy looking at some of the other exhibits.”

“Too bad the judges won’t let you take your brain out of the confines of the display booth,” Tilleran said.

“Indeed. Enjoying the conference without my brain would seem to pose a significant problem.”

“Well, I’d love to stay, but there’s an exhibit on waste reclamation I just have to see.”

“I understand,” Larkin said, turning her gaze to a scientist that had begun scanning her neural network with a tricorder.

“What’s your storage capacity?” the scientist asked.

“Approximately forty-two hundred gigaquads. The space changes in relation to the amount I store and the way I arrange it within the neural net. Because of that, I able to increase my storage capacity as needed.”

“Fascinating,” a Vulcan said, peering at Larkin’s eyes and testing her reflexes with a finger. “And what about your computational speed?”

“Fourteen point two gigabytes per millisecond,” Larkin replied. “I am capbable of performing up to two hundred individual tasks or calculations at one time.”

“Extraordinary,” one scientist said with a gasp.

“And you say a student at Starfleet Academy built this brain?” another scientist asked.

“Affirmative. The body was constructed by his roomate.”

One scientist lifted up Larkin’s uniform tunic and studied Larkin carefully. “Hmmm. It appears your body has been patched together several times. Have you been damaged?”

“On more than one occasion,” Larkin said. “My line of work is quite hazardous.”

“Indeed,” the Vulcan said. “You are a quite interesting specimen, Lt. Larkin. We at the Daystrom Institute have been trying to get a close look at Lt. Commander Data for some time, but he has not been able to oblige.”

“I have spoken with Lt. Commander Data on several occasions,” Larkin said. “He is very protective of his privacy.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it,” one scientist said.

“You are correct. If sharing my inner workings with a group of scientists can increase the body of knowledge in the Galaxy, I am willing to help.”

“Excellent,” the scientist said. “And what of Mr. Data’s emotion chip? Have you investigated into getting one of your own?”

“Negative,” Larkin replied. “I have no need of emotions. However I have discussed the matter with Mr. Data on more than one occasion.”

“What about ego?” a scientist asked.

“Ego? I had not considered-“

“Let’s talk after the awards presentation. I have some findings I think will interest you.”

“Indeed,” Larkin replied. “How shall I contact you?”

“I’ll find you.”

Lt. Commander Richards found Tilleran at the Multiphasic shield exhibit. His arms were weighed down with padds from severaly of the ore interesting exhibits. “Well, Tilleran?”

“Well what?” the Betazoid asked, looking at the load the engineer carried with amusement.

“Did you find out if they like Larkin or not?”

“The judges?”

“Yeah! Can’t you read their minds?”

Tilleran raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Commander, I’m mortified that you think I’d use my abilities like that!”

“So what do they think?”

“She’s got a very good chance with three out of the four. The Vulcan was very impressed, but the Benzite seems to be leading towards the high-powered transporter.”

“You obviously weren’t mortified enough not to use those abilities, huh?”

“I just happened to overhear their thoughts,” Tilleran said defensively. “Anyway, they’ll be announcing the winner in a few minutes.”

Richards quickly tapped his comm badge. “Richards to Roanoake. Lock on to all the padds I’m holding and beam them abord.”

With a flurry of blue glitter, the padds were gone.

“Bring on the judges!” he said excitedly.

“And the winner of the Daystrom Ingenuity Prize for 2375 is…” the Vulcan judge announced from the stage.

Richards and Tilleran crossed their fingers. “Come on, Larkin!” Richards said excitedly.

“…Lt. Commander Christopher Richards, for his work on the android brain of Lt. Kristen Larkin.”

Both Richards and Tilleran jumped up and down as they heard the good news.

Richards quickly scrambled up to the stage to accept the award.

“Thank you, Dr. Shabak. I’d like to thank my roomate Christopher Henricks for building Larkin’s body. And my first- year robotics teacher Professor Peterman for teaching me the difference between an algorithm and a diode. And I’d also like to thank Lt. Larkin herself, for being the best damned android she can be!” Richards held up the award triumphantly as the scientists gathered around the stage clapped.

Several minutes later, Richards and Tilleran had moved off through the conference center to find Larkin and congratulate her.

“Well, that’s strange,” Richards said, upon finding the booth where Larkin had been displayed was empty.

“Tilleran to Larkin,” Tilleran said, slapping her comm badge.

“Larkin here,” came Larkin’s voice.

“Where are you, Kristen?” Richards asked. “You just won the Ingenuity Award!”

“I am aware of that, Commander. I watched the ceremony on Dr. Waters’ monitor. Congratulations.”

“Congratulations yourself, Larkin. I’m having a little victory party at the M-5 Bar tonight…drinks on me. You’ll be there, right?”

“Unfortunately I will not be able to attend. I am taking part in an important experiment. I will be present for the presentation on Dominion technology tomorrow afternoon, however. I shall talk to you then. Larkin out.”

“Um, okay,” Richards said. “That was certainly strange.”

“That’s Larkin for you,” Tilleran said with a shrug. “Now let’s get to the M-5 before they run out of drinks.”


Lt. Commander Richards stumbled into the conference center groggily. “I don’t believe you, Tilleran.”

Tilleran smiled at Richards as the two found their seats. “It’s true. Most Betazoids just don’t get hungover.”

“It’s not fair. Telepathy and resistance to hangovers. Where’s the downside?”

“We can’t ever play poker together.”

“True,” Richards said. “So where’s Larkin?”

“I don’t know. She said she’d be here, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. And Larkin’s the most trustworthy person I know.”

Just then, there was a tap on Richards’s shoulder.

“Hello, Commander,” Larkin said as the engineer turned.

“Larkin. There you are. I was-“

Suddenly the android leaned forward and kissed Richards on the cheek. “Thank you for my life, Father!”

“What the hell?” Richards asked, looking to Tilleran then back to Larkin. “Are you okay?”

“I am better than okay, father. I have finally seen the light.”

“What light?” Tilleran asked.

“I have been given the chance to see what I mean to the Federation. What I mean to the universe.”

“Uh-huh,” Richards said. “And how did you do that?”

“Dr. Waters gave me an ego!” Larkin said, clapping her hands together in amusement.

“Did he mess around in your brain?” Richards asked.

“You could say that!” Larkin said with a smile, leaning forward and flipping the top of her head open. Within, a large green chip thrummed with energy. “This chip allows me to see more than I could have ever imagined.”

“We’ll see about that,” Richards said, reaching forward to grab the chip. As soon as his fingers came in contact with it, a crackle of energy surged into him, causing him to jump back.

“Sorry about that. The chip packs quite a wallop,” Larkin said gleefully.


BUTLER: Sometimes, after long nights eating donuts, my friend Matt and I would theorize on very idiotic Star Traks plots. In addition to being the impetus for the character of Commander Richards, Matt has always been a free thinker. Sometimes too free. At any rate, it was one of these sugar-induced moments and a time- honored and much-loved PBS show, that resulted in this aborted attempt at story-telling.

BAXTER: Aren’t all your stories aborted attempt at story-telling?

BUTLER: Obviously I didn’t buy enough danish. You’re still talking.



Lieutenant Commander Richards sat very comfortably, enjoying the last juicy drops of his Romulan Cheeseburger, when the red alert blasted throughout the ship. Sensing a great adventure coming on, he jumped from his chair at Mirk’s and dashed to the turbolift.

Meanwhile, on the bridge, Conway was curled up in the command chair, fast asleep, snoring loudly, a steaming cup of coffee percolating beside him on the chair’s arm.

The shrill noise of the Red Alert jolted him awake, causing him to knock the cup off the chair’s arm, and into his waiting crotch.

“ARRGGGGGGHHHH!” He cried, falling to his knees and writhing on the floor in pain.

Lt. Commander Richards dashed out onto the bridge, surveying the situation. Ensign Madera was sitting at the helm, polishing her nails and reading a steamy romance novel, and Commander Conway was rolling on the floor, screaming in angst.

“No use crying over spilt coffee, Commander.” Richards quipped, stepping up to the operations panel to see what had caused the computer to activate the automatic red alert.

On the ops panel, in bright yellow, a button marked “Press here to return to Windows” blinked annoyingly.

“Windows, huh? Sounds simple enough.” Richards said, pressing the button.

Suddenly the “Stars” screen saver on the viewscreen clicked off, to reveal a lone, blinking icon, in the shape of a small envelope, sticking out of a cartoon mailbox.

“You’ve got mail,” a friendly male voice asserted.

“Play message.” Richards commented, walking over to the command chair, being careful to step over Conway’s undulating body.

A bright, starry background appeared on the screen, complete with large, bright, pretty planets.

Suddenly a balding man in a gray jacket fell, seemingly from out of nowhere, onto one of the planet’s rings.

“Welcome, Stargazers!” He said pleasantly. “The heavens have put on quite a show for us tonight. Let’s take a look.”

Richards glared at the screen in confusion. “Computer, what am I looking at?”

“A message from a broadcasting center on the third planet in this system.”

“Helm, lay in a course for that planet. And recall the senior staff.” Richards said, looking to Ensign Madera.

“What about Commander Conway?” Madera asked.

“Get him another cup of coffee.” Richards laughed, as Conway continued to writhe.

Several minutes later, Captain Baxter, Counselor Peterman, Lt. Tilleran, Ensign Ford, Lt. Larkin, and Lt. J’hana emptied onto the bridge.

“I’m telling you, I smelled something.” J’hana said, taking up her station. “It was one of you.”

“Impossible.” Baxter said, sitting down in the command chair. “The disposal conduits must have broken down. No human can produce a scent that bad.”

“On the contrary, Captain,” Larkin said. “In 2035, a factory worker named Frank-“

“Stop.” Baxter said, turning to the engineering panel. “So what, Commander Richards?”

“The Red Alert was triggered by some kind of invasive ion probing beam.” Richards said, looking at his panel.

“Invasive?” Baxter asked, turning to Tilleran.

Tilleran briefly studied her panel. “I can’t be sure, Captain, but I think it’s rewriting our files.”

“Rewriting?” Peterman asked. “In what way?”

“From what I can gather,” Larkin said. “The files in our computer system are being replaced with files from another operating system.”

“What kind of operating system?” Baxter asked.

“Uncertain at this time,” Larkin said. “However, the files do seem to be quite old.”

“Can we purge the files?” Baxter asked.

“I’m working on it right now.” Tilleran reported.

“We are nearing Farcus Three.” Larkin reported.

“Standard orbit.” Baxter said. “What does it look like, Larkin?”

“The planet is a barren wasteland, Captain. The atmosphere is made up of nitrogen and argon, the surface is composed of nonporous rock, and the weather patterns indicate a persistant system of interlocking ion storm patterns.”

“Okay, so it’s not a vacation spot. Have you located the transmitting center?” “Not exactly, Captain. More accurately, it has located us.” Larkin replied, looking up at the screen.

Suddenly the man in the gray jacket that Richards had seen before appeared again.


BAXTER: What was the point of that?

BUTLER: There was no point. That’s why it was never completed.

BAXTER: So why are you posting it now?

BUTLER: *shifting uncomfortably* Because there was an open week. We had to do something! Get off my back!

BAXTER: Touchy.

BUTLER: So on to Year Two’s “Friendly Wagers.” This story was originally going to be about a starship obstacle course, more of a literal competition between Baxter and Ficker than the story that was ultimately done.

BAXTER: Why didn’t you do the starship race thing?

BUTLER: Besides the fact it was already an Original Star Trek series book?

BAXTER: What’s Star Trek?

BUTLER: Um, nevermind. Anyway, it just was difficult and cumbersome, and didn’t allow me to do the character stuff I wanted to do…or something. Oh, and speaking of Alvin Ficker…

*Red Alert Klaxons Wail.*

BAXTER: How can there be a Red Alert? We’re in a frigging recording booth!

BUTLER: It’s not a Red Alert. It’s a Shameless Year Eight Promo Warning.

BAXTER: Oh. Um, why?

BUTLER: I don’t know. But here goes…

*Husky voiceover that sounds remarkably like the voice of Optimus Prime from the old Transformers Show*

VOICE: In a world, where incompetence rules…

BAXTER: *walking into his quarters* Honey, I’m home! *Slams into wall accidentally.* Ouch!

VOICE: Where one crew defies all odds, to reach success time and time again…

BAXTER: *sitting in the command chair staring at the viewscreen* Evasive action! Fire! Fire!

VOICE: An evil like no other will rise.

FICKER: *standing in a cargo bay full of Starfleet officers and otherworlders* Welcome to the USS Idlewild! Home to all rejects, galaxy-wide….

VOICE: And test the very fabric of the galaxy’s least competent crew, finally asking the question…who is the bigger reject?

RICHARDS: *pacing the readyroom* Andy, you’re crazy. This will never work.

BAXTER: *clenching his fist as booming, ominous classical music begins* It’ll have to.

*cut to Explorer and Idlewild dogfighting, firing weapons.*

FICKER: *shaking his fist* I’ll get you, Baxter, just as sure as the glasses on my head!

HARTLEY: *in Engineering as panels explode* Hold on to your butts, people!

VOICE: Bold new adventures begin…

PETERMAN: *sitting in the chair beside Baxter on the bridge, squeezing his hand.* Ahh, look out! We’re going to crash into something!

VOICE: New relationships are formed…

J’HANA: *making out with Richards* mpphh….

VOICE: Old relationships are tested…

BAXTER: *standing up from his desk in his readyroom* Are you with me, or not?

VOICE: Battles are waged….

TILLERAN: *gripping her console* Didn’t see this one coming!

VOICE: And on the eve of the USS Explorer’s final voyage….

SEFELT: *manning the helm console, steering the ship through an asteroid belt.* YAHOOOOOOOOO!

VOICE: One will rise. And one will fall….

BROWNING: *ducks a cream pie* YIKES!

VOICE: *as the Explorer wooshes by and flies toward the sun.* Join us for Star Traks: The Vexed Generation…YEAR EIGHT!

BAXTER: *shifts uncomfortably.* What the hell was that?

BUTLER: It’s just the teaser trailer. We had to re-use some stock footage because not all the principal photography is done.

BAXTER: Oh, that would explain the cream pie thing.

BUTLER: I swear, Andy, do you even go to the meetings?

BAXTER: There are meetings?

BUTLER: ANYWAY…here’s that thing from “Friendly Wagers” I was telling you about…



“I think I can find my own way to the airlock,” Baxter said defensively, pulling his arm away from the security officer.

“Sorry, sir,” the young girl said nervously. “I have orders from Admiral Gering to escort you to the airlock.”

“Fine, fine,” Baxter sighed, following the ensign down the corridor to the airlock.

“Andy!” Counselor Peterman cried, running to join Baxter, with Browning close behind.

Baxter grabbed Peterman and embraced her. “Kelly, what’s up?”

“I just ran into Captain Ficker. And he hit on me!”

“That damned…” Baxter growled.

“Sir…” the ensign said warningly, holding her hand over her sidearm. “I do have orders to discharge my weapon.

“I’m not punching anyone,” Baxter said exasperatedly. “Yet.”

“Counselor!” Captain Ficker called out, running down the corridor. “We never set a time for our date!”

“Uh oh,” the security officer said, taking up a position between Baxter and Ficker.

“I’m not going to hit him,” Baxter said, turning to the security officer.

“What are you doing here?” Ficker asked angrily.

“I’m going back to my ship,” Baxter growled, gently taking Peterman’s arm.

“With her?” Ficker asked. He turned to Peterman. “You could do a lot better.”

“I’ve had about enough out of you, Mister,” Baxter said, sneering down at Ficker.

“You know, my ship is a lot better than his,” Ficker said, smiling over at Peterman.

“But his is bigger,” Peterman said.

Ficker seemed a little taken aback. “Well…size doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll see you later, Booty. Come on, Kelly.”

“Nice meeting you, Captain,” Browning said, following Peterman and Baxter into the airlock.

“What’s the matter, Captain Baxter? Are you afraid that I won that Third Place medallion fair and square? Afraid that I’m the better Captain?”

Baxter turned. “What makes you say that?”

“You seem all to eager to retreat to that outdated Galaxy class vessel of yours.”

“That’s because I have friends and a home on that ship. What do you have on your ship to rival that?”

Ficker puckered his lips seductively at Peterman. “Passion.”

“That’s it,” Baxter said, pushing past Peterman and Browning and heading towards Ficker, fist at the ready.

“Stay where you are, sir,” the ensign said fearfully, holding her phaser on Baxter. “I don’t want to have to use this!”

Ficker backed away, holding his hands up. “Now now, Captain. I’ve already had my glasses broken once today. How about we settle this like adults instead?”

“How do you figure we do that?” Baxter asked.

“A friendly wager?” Ficker suggested.

Baxter thought a moment. “What kind of wager?”

“I don’t like the sounds of this,” Browning said worriedly.

“Your vessel against mine…may the best ship, crew, and captain win.”

Baxter rubbed his chin. “I like the sounds of that.”

“We can have our operations officers create an obstacle course that will show us which ship is really the best,” Ficker said. “Starfleet won’t even have to know about it. It’ll just be between us.”

“And what are the stakes?” Baxter asked, raising an eyebrow.

“If you win, the Third Place medallion is yours. If I win…you authorize a transfer of Counselor Peterman to my ship.”

“Out of the question,” Baxter said. “My girlfriend is not a bargaining chip.”

Peterman stepped forward and grabbed Baxter’s arm. “Do it, Andy.”


Peterman sneered at Ficker. “If that’s what it takes to show him you’re the better man, then let’s do it. I have full confidence in you.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Browning said incredulously.

“Fine,” Baxter said, reaching out and shaking Balish’s hand vigorously. “You’re on, Booty.”

“And if I win, you’ll never call me Booty again!” Ficker said, turning on a heel and heading down the corridor.

“I never said anything about that,” Baxter called after him.

The security officer shrugged and put her sidearm away. “If you ask me, I think you’re all nuts.”

Captain’s Log,

Stardate 52759.6. To Admiral Gering’s relief, we have left Starbase Two-eighty, on course for the Dtami sector, an area of space where Captain Ficker and I have agreed to start our competitions.

Captain Baxter stood at the front of the bridge with his arms crossed, regarding the onrushing stars eagerly. “What can you tell us about this area of space, Larkin?”

Larkin looked back at Baxter from her station. “Quite a bit sir. The Dtami sector is comprised of unstable subspace elements that make navigating it quite diffecult, as well as a null-space surrounded asteroid belt and several dangerous planets. In short, it is a hell-hole.”

“No life, though, right?”

“No…intelligent…life sir,” Larkin said.

“Good enough.”

“And may I say that I found the Trafalgar’s operations officer quite displeasing.”

“Really?” Baxter asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Lt. Eno was arrogant, inflexible, boorish, and rude,” Larkin said.

“He is a Benzite,” Baxter said. “They’re not known for their pleasant disposition.”

“Still, as a Starfleet officer, he should have learned adequate interpersonal skills.”

“Good lord, Larkin, you’ve worked with all sorts of arrogant and difficult officers between the Explorer and the Secondprize. You should know better than anyone that Starfleet isn’t that careful about weeding out difficult personality types.”

As if on cue, Commander Conway stepped onto the bridge and crossed to where Baxter was standing. “They also have a hard time weeding out impulsive, irresponsible, unprofessional…”

“Problem, Commander?” Baxter asked.

“Yeah, I have a problem,” Conway replied. “You’re taking the Explorer on a frivorless joyride when there’s important work to be done.”

“Oh, please,” Baxter said. “Are you saying you’d rather be cataloguing colonies than engaging in a battle for supremacy with a rival starship.”

“It’s not up to me. Our job is to do what Starfleet tells us. And I don’t recall them ever telling us to do this.”

“You didn’t hear how Captain Ficker talked about the Explorer,” Baxter said. “He made it sound like it was a garbage scow.”

“He did, did he? Well, that’s still no reason to…”


BUTLER: You know, coming up with characters is hard.

BAXTER: Yeah, I’m sure writing is a lot harder than commanding a starship.

BUTLER: The point is, it’s hard. And when I needed to come up with a backup helm/ops officer, I couldn’t decide what to do. A few different folks were auditioned, and I finally settled on Howie Sefelt.

BAXTER: Yeah, and that worked out SO well.

BUTLER: One of the other ideas was to expand the part of Beth Monroe, who eventually went on to be the adjutant to the Explorer Project Director. The idea was that she was so smart and witty that she became obnoxious.

BAXTER: So what was the downside?

BUTLER: She was obnoxious. See for yourself…



Fifteen minutes later, Ensign Beth Monroe from the Operations department stumbled onto the bridge. She had a hard time getting around because she was scrolling through a padd as she walked.

“Ensign Monroe!” Conway said, causing the operations officer to jump.

“What?” she asked, putting the padd down.

“I’m glad you could join us. Do you mind putting that padd down long enough to familiarize yourself with the Science/Operations/Auxilliary Engineering and Backup Food Service console?”

Monroe shrugged and placed the padd next to the console, sliding into the seat and giving the panel a quick perusal. “Standard multitask user-configurable layout. Given the lack of space on the ship, the lame Starfleet designers decided to consolidate what would normally be four stations into this one little console.”

“Remarkable,” Conway said. “Now, can you actually operate it?”

“I suppose so,” Monroe said, yawning.

“I’m sorry, is this task too boring for you?” Conway asked with a mix of anger and amusement.

“Not boring, per se, but definitely not intellectually stimulating. What I’d really like to do is finish the reading for my correspondence course.”

Conway decided to humor the ensign. “Well, we always approve of our crewmembers attempting to expand their minds. What are you reading?”

“Right now, I’m surveying the collected works of Descartes, Kiekergard, Surak, and Qavek.”

“My,” Conway said blandly. “Your talents are really wasted in this job.”

“You can say that again. This is just a waypoint until I can earn a doctorate and get a position with the Philosophy department at Federation University.”

“FU?” Conway said, rubbing his chin. “Hmm. Prestigous position. I wish you the best of luck. Now how about kindly running a f***ing systems analysis while you wait for that sacred opportunity!”

Monroe quickly turned back to her panel. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re just jealous because you’re stuck with this job,” J’hana muttered from beside Conway.

“Don’t you start!” Conway griped, pushing out of the command chair. “I’m going to go check out the readyroom or ready nook or ready closet or whatever they have here. You guys get ready to get underway immediately.”

“Hurry back,” J’hana said, going to work at her panel.


BUTLER: This next one is pretty easy to set up.

BAXTER: Thank the Great Bird.

BUTLER: This scene was intended to be Baxter’s introduction to Chelsea’s family in the Year Three story “Days of Honor.” I just never found a good place to fit it in the story, so it got cut. But it has some nice awkward moments.

BAXTER: You can thank me for those.

BUTLER: Yeah, um, thanks.



Captain Baxter stared nervously at the chronometer as he ate.

At the head of a long table, Rufus Hungerford, Manager of the Barnum, Bailey, and Stranok travelling galactic circus, fixed a suspicous glare at him. Ever since the Vulcans bought into the Earth-born circus act, the whole thing had gone to hell in Baxter’s opinion. The comedy had just become way too complex.

Beside him, Chelsea looked on with approval. “Andy here is a Starship captain.”

In t-shirt and suspenders, the fat, balding man burped and guzzled down a mug of beer. Hungerford burped and surveyed Baxter.

“A Captain, eh? Don’t look like no Starfleet man to me.”

Baxter grimaced. Circus folk. “I’m, uh, in disguise.”

“Yes, he’s trying to rescue that Richards fellow I told you about.”

“Huh. How old are you, anyway, Baxter?”

Baxter grinned, seeing a way out. “Uh, I’ll be thirty-one in less than a month, sir.”

“Hmmph. You got good breeding stock?”

Damned Circus folk.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Listen, Mr. Hungerford, I really enjoyed these… crab cakes, but I have to tell you, I can’t marry your daughter.”

“And just why the hell not?”

“Because she’s too young for me. And I’m already married.”


“So, that’s not exactly kosher, is it?”

“Peterman to Baxter.”

Baxter cleared his throat. “Yes, dear?”

“The execution is about to begin.”

“Oh. Well, I’d better get over there.”

“It would be a darned good idea, Andy.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Where are you, exactly?”

“I’ll explain later.” Baxter scooted out of his chair. “Well, it was nice meeting you all. I’d better be going.”

Chelsea jumped out of her chair. “But you haven’t even seen my collection of Days of Honor adventure dolls.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“I’ve really got to go!” Baxter said, turning toward the door.


BUTLER: This next one, from Year Three’s “The Ford Maneuver,” had to be cut because I originally intended to have the award ceremony for Ford’s so-called brilliant maneuver to occur at a Starbase. Then I realized I needed Ford, in the climax of the story, to rescue the ship and crew while at the same time demonstrating that the Ford Maneuver was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

BAXTER: Do you do any planning before you write these things?

BUTLER: Amazingly little.



“I hate dress-up affairs,” Commander Conway whined, tugging at his collar as he stood behind the forward chairs in the runabout Algonquin’s cockpit, watching Lt. J’hana and Lt. Tilleran guide the ship.

“Then you went into the wrong business, Commander,” Captain Baxter said, clapping Conway on the shoulder. “Personally, I enjoy rubbing elbows with the Starfleet brass every once and awhile.”

“I’ll give you brass,” Conway grumbled.

“Now, now, Commander. I want you on your best behavior,” Baxter said, resting his hands behind J’hana’s chair. “Has Starfleet cleared us for a docking berth, yet?”

J’hana shook her head, steering the Algonquin around an Ambassador-class ship as she weaved through the starbase’s hangar. “No, but I am prepared to perform an amazing docking maneuver.”

“Just get us in the docking berth, J’hana,” Baxter muttered. “Now is not the time to demonstrate your prowess to Starfleet.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“It just isn’t. I know you’re a good officer and so do you. That should be enough.”

“I beg to differ.”

“I need some air,” Commander Conway said, ducking out of the cockpit and heading toward the rear section. There, all in dress uniforms, Lt. Ford, Lt. Hartley, Lt. Gellar , Lt. Larkin, Counselor Peterman, Dr. Browning, and Lt. Commander Richards chatted quietly as they watched the interior of the starbase pass by.

“You have to breathe deeply, Lieutenant,” Peterman was saying. “Look, watch me. Mmmm…aaaahh…mmm…aah…see how I’m breathing?”

Ford was staring directly at Peterman’s breasts. “I see it perfectly, Counselor.”

Peterman thunked Ford on the chin, jerking it up so he was looking at her. “Watch it, Mr. Ford. I will become more famous than you in an instant if I murder you.”

“I’d be glad to help,” Hartley chimed in.

“You’re doing wonders to help my nerves,” Ford muttered, turning to face the windows.

“Well, maybe if you wouldn’t be such a neandrethal, women would treat you better,” Peterman said. “Ever think of that?”

“I don’t need to be nice anymore,” Ford said defiantly. “I’m famous.”

“Kill him, Counselor,” Hartley urged.

The runabout was beginning to feel really cramped to Conway. He briefly considered ducking out the escape hatch.

Conway weaved his way over to the replicator and ordered a coffee. He couldn’t help but overhear Lt. Commander Richards and Dr. Browning talking.

“So…how’s that new doctor working out?” Richards asked, trying desperately to seem uninterested.

“Dr. Delgano?” Browning asked. “Oh, he’s fine. Amazing hands.”


“I mean he has a very delicate touch…”


Browning folded her arms. “He’s a good doctor, Christopher. And, not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not romantically interested in him.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“You’re not Lt. Tilleran.”

“I don’t have to be,” Browning said. “It’s obvious that you’re having problems with the fact that we’re not seeing each other anymore. I guess I thought it was a mutual agreement.”

“Well, it wasn’t.”

Browning shrugged. “I’m sorry, Christopher. It’s just something you’re going to have to deal with.”


BUTLER: And last but not least…

BAXTER: Thankfully…

BUTLER: You should be damned thankful I didn’t use this one. In the early stages of planning Year Four, I wanted you and Kelly to get divorced at the end.

BAXTER: You bastard!

BUTLER: But you didn’t get divorced.

BAXTER: No, you just decided to run our relationship through the ringer in Year Seven.

BUTLER: Heheh. Yeah, that was fun.


BUTLER: So, the idea for the story arc was that Peterman and Baxter were going to get in such a huge fight over something that they’d get divorced and she’d transfer to the Aerostar-A. “All’s Well that Ends” would then have been about them getting back together.

BAXTER: Instead, it’s about 100 pages too long.

BUTLER: I’m THIS close to having you killed while valiantly trying to stop a thaleron explosion. *strokes chin* Or maybe a big stalagmite through the chest. Yeah, those are always nice…

BAXTER: *smoulders* Self-important windbag.

BUTLER: Anyways, I didn’t write the story, but I wrote the scene just to test it out. Obviously, the test failed.

BAXTER: Yeah, really.

BUTLER: By the way, I’d like to acknowledge the microchip implant was originally Alan Decker’s idea. I thank him for that, and a bunch of other things…



“Andy?” Browning asked, staring out her office window as Baxter marched purposefully into Sickbay, veering into one of the adjacent operating rooms.

Browning hurried out from behind her desk and scurried over to the door to the operating room. She stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a piercing scream.

Before Browning could step through to see what had happened, the doors swiftly parted and Baxter limped out, holding a shining metallic object with microtweasers. He hitched up his uniform pants and gripped his left buttock as he tossed the metallic object into a nearby sample dish.

“Won’t be needing this anymore,” he muttered, and limped out of Sickbay.

Browning raised an eyebrow, inspecting the object in the dish warily.

“What was that all about?” Holly asked, looking over Browning’s shoulder.

“It’s about love, Holly. And giving up on it.” Browning carefully handed Holly the dish. “How about you put this in the disposal for me? I need to talk to Andy.”

“Uh, okay, Doc.”

“And please, try not to touch it.”


BAXTER: Ouch. Thank you for not using that.

BUTLER: Yeah, I’m not such a bad guy, eh?

BAXTER: You have your moments.

BUTLER: Anyways, I appreciate your help. Let’s say we do this again in a month or so?

BAXTER: Not on your life. You can have Conway.

BUTLER: Gee, thanks. We will be back…or at least I will, in a few weeks, with more deleted scenes from Years Five through Seven, along with a sneak peak at the upcoming book “The Pirate and the Penguin,” featuring Captain Conway and the crew of the Aerostar-A, Cardassians, space pirates, and flightless fowl, due out in December.

BAXTER: Just in time for Christmas, for all those who love crap.

BUTLER: Thanks for joining us. Star Traks: The Vexed Generation - Year Eight will premiere in late January, unless I decide to scrap the whole thing and trap Captain Baxter in a wormhole.

BAXTER: You’d never…

BUTLER: Just try me, buddy.


Tags: unleashed