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Meanwhile, poor Trelane was enduring the tedium of folding all Q's socks. Considering that Q had several billion socks, this was taking an exceptionally long time.
Q appeared next to him, still accompanied by Spock and Neelix. "How's it going, Trelane? Are you being a good little omnipotent being?" Q said, patting him condescendingly on the head.
"Yes." Trelane frowned and folded his arms across his chest. Q nodded approvingly at the mountains of folded footwear.
"I've never seen so many socks in one place before!" exclaimed Neelix, unknowingly echoing the words of Bob Lloyd Webber. "I've never even seen so many on Camelispam III, where socks are used for barter!"
"Really?" Q said eagerly, seizing Neelix by the shoulders. "I'm omniscient, and even I didn't know that!"
"All of this is highly illogical," Spock stated for the twentieth time in as many minutes.
"I'm getting really sick of you saying that," Neelix grumbled.
"I am merely stating the obvious. I shall try to refrain from saying this if it annoys you."
"It does annoy us," Q interjected. "Let's see...what could we do to make him lighten up? Oh, I know! What am I saying? Of course I know! I'm omniscient. Silly me." He waved his hand, and immediately Spock was up to his shoulders in rubber chickens. The Vulcan merely raised a curious eyebrow.
"That was pointless," Neelix said.
"No, actually, there are two points. One on each ear. And it did get him to shut up. Now Trelane, be a good little being until I come back. And no more screwing up the space-time continuum until after you finish your chores and your homework. Tah-tah!"
As Q disappeared, Trelane thought he heard Q saying to Neelix, "Now where's this sock planet?"
After Q had raided the planet of socks, he dragged Spock and Neelix to Deep Space Nine. They winked into existence in ops, startling the crewmembers on duty.
"Depressing architecture," Neelix commented.
"Are you back again?" Captain Sisko asked in a threatening tone. He still had bruises left over from the llama incident.
A suit of armor appeared on Q's body. "Hah! Just try to hit me now! If you do, you'll need that wussy doctor of yours to patch up your fist." Turning to Dax's station, he said, "You're the one with that slug in your stomach, right?"
"Er...yes." In seven life times, she had never encountered someone quite as...she searched for the right word...aggravating as Q.
"There's medication you can take for that, you know."
"I like it just fine where it is, thanks."
"Suit yourself. I take it you've never seen the movie Alien?"
Dax just looked confused.
Q pushed Neelix over to the Trill science officer. "Oh, what a cute couple you make, what with the spots on your heads and all. It's just darling!"
"No! I keep telling you, Kes is the one for me. No offense ma'am," he hastily told Dax. "I'm sure you're a very nice person."
"None taken," Jadzia Dax said serenely.
"Oh, and by the way...don’t turn your back on that Gul
Dukat character.
Trust me on this one."
"Trust you?" Dax said with an amused look of disbelief. "No thanks."
"You’ll be sorry." Q surveyed the center of operations. "Now let me see...who else can I molest?" he said, mainly to himself. His eyes literally lit up as he noticed his new victim standing by the turbolift. "Constable Odo! How are you, you old pile of goo?"
"Just fine, thank you. What do you want?" he asked in his usual suspicious manner.
Q produced a small device with a quivering needle and held it up to Odo. The needle rose to 100%.
"What is that?" Odo said disdainfully, looking down at the tiny machine.
"Why, Constable, don't you know? It's an odometer! Good
news! You're definitely Odo."
"Glad to hear it. Captain, would you like me to take him to the brig?"
"Don't go to any undue trouble on my account. I'll bring the brig here."
Suddenly, a small room crashed down in the middle of ops, smack dab on top of a young Andorian ensign in a red shirt. Two small blue antennae protruded from underneath the oddly-placed cell.
"No one smushes ensigns on my station and gets away with it," Odo said, folding his arms dangerously across his chest.
"Are you challenging me to a duel?" Q said loudly, puffing up his chest and putting his hands on his hips. A strange look crossed his face and he slapped the side of his head. I've been spending waaaay too much time around Trelane, he thought disgustedly.
"Yes, if you have the courage," Odo taunted.
"Why is it that you corporeal beings always say that?" Q
mused. "Is it like a union thing, or what?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Anyway, let's get down to business. I propose a shape-shifting contest."
"But you're not a Changeling."
"Doesn't matter. I'm omnipotent, remember?" He demonstrated by turning himself into a large vase of edelweiss, a vacuum cleaner and a Chia pet.
"I'm not impressed." Odo melted and became a pewter dolphin knickknack, a bass cello, a pen light and a plaster bust of Stalin.
"That's nothing," Q scoffed. "Watch this." He
turned into a coffee pot, a giant oyster, a traffic light, a lumberjack and a
packet of airline peanuts.
Odo said, "You must be joking. I do that every morning just
to limber up." He then proceeded to mold himself into a tacky tea pot shaped like
rooster, a one-legged elf, a weed
whacker, a sumo wrestler, a surf board, and three small beans.
All this time, Spock and Neelix were standing in the corner, wondering what to make of this amazing display.
"Fascinating. But also highly illogical."
"Would you shut up already? I told you to stop saying that!" Neelix bellowed. He angrily shoved the Vulcan into a wall.
"Resorting to violence is highly--" The rest of the sentence was stopped by a strip of duct tape appearing on his mouth.
"Tsk tsk. I can't take you two anywhere! Do you want to go sit in the car? There'll be no ice cream for either of you tonight!" Q slapped his head again. "I really have been spending too much time with Trelane lately." He turned to the shape-shifting Constable, who was presently in the form of a giant squid, taking up the half of Ops not occupied by the brig. "We'll finish this later." He faced Sisko. "And I have some business with you, too. But it can wait. After all, I have all the time in the space-time continuum. Don't wait up!" With a smile and a wiggling of his fingers, he disappeared.
He left behind Spock and Neelix. "Where are we, anyway, Mr. Vulcan?" Neelix asked.
Spock made a small mumbling noise, realized the duct tape was still on his face and quickly ripped it off. With emotionless, scientific detachment, he said, "That was painful." Looking to Neelix, he said, "Actually, I am only half Vulcan. To call me that is highly--"
"Don't you dare say it!" Neelix screamed, slapping his hands over his companion's mouth.
Just then, Q reappeared. "Oops. Almost forgot the kids. Toodles." This time, Ops was free of intruders.
The crew remained silent in shock for a moment. Finally Kira said, "He could've at least put back the brig."
Kirk slouched despondently in the captain's chair. "I need...Spock...back! He's the...only one...who can convince...the Krusean Spatulites how illogical...it is... to obliterate...the Federation! It...is imperative...that we...preserve...the Federation...and all it...stands for! Without us...to keep...order...the...galaxy would...descend into...chaos! We can't...let...that...happen, therefore--" Kirk stopped himself in mid-sentence, his hands still posed in a dramatic gesture in front of him. The entire bridge crew was sound asleep, many to the point of snoring. "Hey! Wake...up! I’m...talking...to you!"
"Huh?"
"What?"
"Hmm?"
"Is he done yet?"
Lieutenant Uhura sat up and put her hand to the little metal thing in her ear. "The Federation thanks you for calling. The stardate is 5472.7. External hull temperature is three Kelvin."
"Do you have a night job, Lieutenant?" Kirk asked, annoyed.
Uhura slumped back over the console and fell asleep without answering.
Kirk was about to continue his lecture when Sulu raised his hand and looked up at the captain expectantly.
"What?" Kirk said impatiently.
"Uh, Captain? Can I go play with my swords? My shift is over, and quite frankly, with all due respect, sir...I'm bored."
"Me too, Keptin! Kin I go wit Sulu? After all, swords are a Russian inwention!" Chekov piped up.
"They...are not! You two...stay put!" he ordered, jabbing a finger at their stations.
"Yes, Captain," Sulu groaned.
"Yes, Keptin," Chekov said with a sigh. They slouched down in their chairs and rested their chins on their hands.
Kirk sank into his stylish black leather chair. "Ooh, I wish...Spock were...here." He gently massaged his temples. He pushed a button on the arm of the chair. "Bones...I...have...a dreadful...headache!"
A few minutes later, the doors in Sickbay hissed opened as a groggy Kirk staggered in. He immediately threw himself down onto a diagnostic couch. He hung his head and shielded his eyes from the bright Sickbay lights. McCoy walked over to his ailing leader and leaned on the edge of the diagnostic couch. "Anxious about meeting the Spatulites, Jim?"
"Bones...I'm worried...about Spock. I...don't trust...that...Q character. What kind...of trouble...is he ...in? Plus I...need Spock...for the...negotiations...with the...Krusean Spatulites. Without him...this could...spell disaster...for the...entire quadrant."
"Don't look at me, Jim. I'm a doctor, not an
ambassador." McCoy put his hand on the distraught captain's shoulder consolingly.
"And don't you worry about Spock. That green-blooded, pointy-eared Vulcan knows how
to take care of himself. He'll be back here before you can say 'Klingons have bad
breath.'"
Jim gave a crooked smile. "I...suppose...you're right. Thanks...Bones."
"Anytime. Now as for that headache, I've got something that'll take care of all your problems." McCoy held up a couple bottles of whiskey. "Take two of these and call me in the morning."
The automatic doors hissed open and Bob Lloyd Webber strode onto the bridge, dragging a bulging laundry bag behind him. As he plopped down in his chair, Captain Sally Letterman frowned at him.
"Doing your laundry, Commander?" she asked.
"No, Captain," he said cheerfully, opening the bag to show her its contents. "I just couldn't part with my dear little sock friends."
"I see..." Letterman said, looking at him very strangely. "Uh, can I see you in my ready room, Bob?"
"Sure, Captain," he said, closing the bag and slinging it over his shoulder like some sort of bizarre Santa Claus. The first officer followed Letterman into the ready room.
Sitting down at the table, Sally said, "Bob, I'm concerned about you. Hobbies I can understand, but socks?"
"But they're really interesting, Captain. For instance, did you know that the forty-second president of the United States of America on Earth had a pet cat named Socks? And numerous professional baseball teams were named after socks!"
Letterman looked at him in disbelief, her mouth partly open. The
gap in her teeth was clearly visible. "I
don't care!"
"And you can have all kinds of fun with socks," Bob said, ignoring her discouraging comment. He pulled two socks out of the laundry bag and put them on his hands. "See? Puppets!" Holding up a hand, he said in a squeaky voice, "Hi, Captain!" The other puppet said, "Are you being a good little girl today?"
Letterman had seen enough. "Report to Counselor V'Larek. Now!"
"Sure thing, Captain!" he said smartly, bringing a sock-covered hand to his forehead in a salute. He dragged the bag out the door, leaving Letterman to shake her head.
Trelane heaved a sigh of relief. At long last, all of Q's socks were washed, dried and folded into neat little piles. Snapping his fingers, he transported all the socks to Jackson V. Finally, the omnipotent youngster had some time to himself! Trelane looked around at his surroundings. The vacuum of deep space wasn't even as entertaining as watching a slime mold grow.
Then, as luck would have it, a fleet of Borg ships went by, cruising at an easy warp nine. Trelane's face lit up in joy. "Oh, goody! Toys! Tally ho!" He zoomed off toward the cube-shaped vessels.
Some time later, Q returned to see how Trelane was faring with his chores. He, Spock and Neelix appeared to find Trelane sitting on an imaginary floor, working on stacking the Borg ships in a pyramid.
"Trelane! What are you doing?"
"Playing. I finished your socks," he said defensively.
"Tsk. Amateur. That's not how you play with the Borg."
"The Borg?" Spock asked, raising a very curious eyebrow.
"Oops! That's right! You're not supposed to know about them yet. I'll just have to get rid of you." With a wave of his hand, the two aliens returned to their respective ships.
Q put his arm around his pupil's shoulders. "You have so much to learn! All right, Trelane. I'll show you how the big Qs play with the Borg."
"Oh goody!" Trelane exclaimed.
Q snapped his fingers. They appeared inside one of the Borg ships. The viewscreen showed the tacky carpet in Trelane's imaginary room.
Trelane inspected the silent, motionless Borg standing in their niches. "This is booorriiing," he said, frowning at the deathly pale aliens.
"Watch and learn," Q said. He advanced on one of the Borg, holding up his hands in a pretend picture frame. "Let's see... Oh dear! We must do something about this pasty complexion."
One flash of light later, the Borg was sitting at a small table covered with various cosmetics. Q sat opposite him. "I think you're a winter," he said, dabbing a little gaudy blush on the Borg's cheeks. "Much better." He snapped his fingers, and a small diamond tiara and a sash appeared on the Borg.
"'Miss Borg!' Nice touch!" Trelane giggled.
"You ain't seen nothin' yet, kiddo," Q said, beginning
to give the now semi-conscious Borg a manicure. "You Borg must lead such
innnteresting lives," he said.
"Barging all over the galaxy, invading planets, assimilating life forms. What fun! Oh
dear, what am I going to do with this hand? It's not a hand at all. What is this, a
Roto-rooter?"
The irritated Borg stood up, and, wrenching its arm free from Q, smashed the table in two.
"Oooh! Nice trick! You must be fun at parties!" Q teased.
"Make-overs are irrelevant," the Borg said, firing a weapon through Q.
Q yawned and studied his nails as the laser beam passed harmlessly through him. "You Borg really need to lighten up, you know that?" He walked over to one of the other Borg, who was slowly becoming conscious. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have any extra socks, would you, fella?"
The Borg started to move jerkily. "Socks are irrelevant." The Borg stepped out of its cubicle, and others started to follow suit.
"Red light!" Q called out. The angry Borg halted. Suddenly the Borg were sporting glow-in-the-dark sunglasses and tacky florescent pink ties. "Green light! Now, everybody conga!" Q shouted. With Trelane behind him, they began a conga line down the corridor. Lively Latin music and confetti filled the air.
Another Borg came down the hallway and hurried to attack the omnipotent invaders. Q seized him in a headlock and ground his knuckles into the Borg's scalp. "Noogie noogie noogie!" he said gleefully.
"Noogies are irrelevant," said the expressionless Borg.
Meanwhile, Trelane had started the other Borgs doing the limbo underneath a nearby pipe.
"You're getting the hang of it!" Q said approvingly. "Anyway, we really must be moving on. The universe is just teeming with life forms begging to be tampered with. I'll leave you boys to your party. Why don't you go assimilate a few quadrants in your own deranged little way and I'll be back to check on you in a few millennia."
"Can I make a few changes to their programming, pleeeze?" Trelane begged.
"That's my boy," Q said proudly, patting him on the head.
"Wahoo!" Trelane made a series of extremely elaborate gestures as he "adjusted" the Borg's programming.
"A simple nod of your head or a snap of your fingers would suffice," Q said, watching the young being's gesticulations.
Captain Janeway tried not to slouch in her chair and stared
blankly at the viewscreen. All those streaky stars were starting to make her dizzy. If
something didn't happen soon, she was going to scream. She half considered shaving
Lieutenant Paris' head just for something to do.
A few tedious minutes later, an urgent beeping came from Ensign Kim's console. Hoping for some excitement, Janeway sprang from her chair and climbed the ramp.
"What's going on?" she asked in her monotone voice.
"Well, sir...ma'am...Captain," Kim faltered, "we've picked up an unidentified object four light minutes from here. It's emitting strange signals. Wait a minute, I might be able to decode them." Kim's fingers swiftly danced over the console. "Here we go, Captain, it's saying, 'V'ger seeks the creator.'"
For some unknown reason, Janeway suddenly had the urge to put on a tacky pastel uniform. She dismissed it. "On audio, ensign."
Kim complied and the odd, metallic voice filled the air.
"It sounds like someone's talking into an oscillating
fan," Kim mumbled.
"We're within visual range now, Captain," Tuvok said. The monotonous stars on the viewscreen were replaced with the image of a bizarre-looking space probe.
"V'ger seeks the creator," droned the voice.
"I read about this thing in school," Janeway said thoughtfully, staring up at the screen.
"They had schools back then?" Paris whispered to the ensign beside him.
"I heard that!" Janeway snapped.
"V'ger seeks the creator."
"That's getting annoying. Ensign, turn that off."
Kim did so.
"Open a channel."
"That is illogical," Tuvok interjected. "You just closed the channel."
"Shut up, Tuvok."
"Channel open, Captain," said...Uhura.
"Who the heck are you?" Janeway said, whirling around to face the stranger in the really short red skirt. "And what's that thing sticking out of your ear?"
Q suddenly appeared. "Sorry! You can't turn your back on a kid for a second. Trelane's been screwing up the space-time continuum again. He's a very precocious child." He and Uhura blinked out of existence.
I hope he doesn't show up in my bedroom later, Janeway thought.
Q's disembodied head momentarily appeared and said, "I heard that, Kathy, sweetie."
Janeway blushed visibly.
"The channel is still open, Captain," Uhura said before Q yanked her back to the appropriate time period.
"Er...yes. This is Captain Katherine Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager."
"Voyager?" said the space probe, its artificial voice filled with curiosity.
"That's right."
"Mommy!" it said excitedly.
"Uh oh," Janeway said. "Warp speed, Mr. Paris! Any heading!"
"Aye aye, Captain."
The starship shot off into space with the V'ger probe trailing close behind.
"Mommy? Don't you love me anymore, Mommy?" it wailed.
Janeway sighed. She had wanted some excitement...
Meanwhile, the Borg were up to their old tricks. Well...not exactly their old tricks.
"Anyone for toast? We have strawberry preserves!" said one Borg gleefully, holding out its forearm. A slice of burned toast popped out. Trelane's new programming was working perfectly.
President Zilleox of Alnilam, a star in Orion's Belt, stared
at the Borg in disbelief. They had just beamed into his office and were causing havoc.
One Borg struck a comical pose and sang, "I’m a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout..." Several others were doing the bunny hop.
"I hate to break up the party, but aren’t we supposed to say something now?" one Borg said.
"Uh...I think so. I forgot. Hugh, do you remember?"
"This is the third time this week we've taken over a planet. How can we have forgotten?! Er...how about, prepare to be tickled?"
"Not scary enough."
"Okay. Prepare to have a root canal?"
"Too scary!"
"What about...prepare to be assimilated?" Hugh said, making a dramatic, almost Kirk-like gesture.
"Ooh, I like it!" squealed one Borg.
"I think I remember that, now!"
"Okay," Hugh said, turning to President Zilleox. "Prepare to be assimilated. Yes, I really like the ring of that. But first, a little show we've put together called 'Up With Borg!'"
President Zilleox tried not to groan or laugh as the Borg burst into song and dance.
"Oh...there's no business like Borg business, yes, no business I know!" The Borg threw out his arms as a grand finale.
The president and his cabinet just stared.
The Borg singer turned towards Hugh. "You know, I don't think they're taking us seriously."
Hugh sighed. "Well, we'll just have to add a shooting demonstration to the performance." He turned towards another Borg. "Issue a memo to the rest of the collective to include this in our next gig."
They shot a few cabinet members. The survivors instantly burst into thunderous applause.
"That's better," Hugh sniffed. "Any requests?"
"Uh...how about 'Memories?'"
"Memories! Like the corners of our collective consciousness..." they began in unison.
Then, the cavalry arrived. Or, at least, Worf and a security team from the Enterprise-D. Luckily, the flagship of the Federation was in the system observing some fluctuations in Alnilam's solar wind when they received the distress call from Zilleox.
One curious young Bajoran ensign paused, his phaser held ready. His brown hair was just beginning to grow back from Picard's mandatory shaving. He looked to Worf for guidance. "Lieutenant?" he questioned.
"It appears we have beamed into the middle of a Broadway review show," Worf said, his usual frown deepening. "Worf to Enterprise."
"Yes, Lieutenant?" Picard's voice said.
"HELP US!" screeched one of the cabinet members, shortly before a Borg blasted him and the two ensigns standing next to him into oblivion.
A remaining ensign, his eyes wide with horror, turned to the Borg with a beseeching look. "Why? Why do you do such terrible things? Why? Why? Why?"
One of the Borg held up a roll of Mentos.
Everyone nodded understandingly. "Oooh," they said in
revelation.
They disintegrated another ensign.
"Is everything under control?" Picard asked, ignoring the ominous background noise.
"That depends on what you call under control, Captain," Worf said, warily eyeing the Borg, who were starting to country line dance.
Just then Q and Trelane appeared. "Worf! Old buddy! Hungry?" He held out a dog biscuit.
Worf narrowed his eyes at the omnipotent invaders.
"Noogie, noogie!" Q said, trapping the Klingon in a head lock. He began to grind his knuckles into his head. "Ow!" he yelped, wincing at the hard forehead ridges. "Never mind."
Picard's image appeared on the viewscreen on the president's desk. "Q, it's you!" he said.
"Ooh, that rhymed!" Trelane said excitedly.
"The one and only, mon capitaine," Q said, taking a bow.
"Are you responsible for this?"
"Me? I'm hurt. What makes you think that I would ever do something like this?" he said, gesturing at the dancing Borg.
"First, there was the time you tried to condemn the entire human race, then there was time you forced your powers on Riker, and there was the time when you were mortal and your enemies just about destroyed the Enterprise. And then there was the fiasco in Sherwood Forest, and--"
"Okay, okay! I'm omniscient. It's not like I've forgotten!"
"Q, you are aggravating, pompous, annoying, thoughtless, pontifical, careless, disrespectful--"
"But at least I'm fun at parties," Q said, holding up a finger to halt him.
"I demand that you return the Borg to normal immediately."
"The Borg are never normal, my dear, shiny little Captain. By the way, I noticed you're using that toupee I gave you. It's so nice to know I'm appreciated."
"Yes, Q, it's so warm and soft, I really--hey! Stop that!" Picard said with embarrassment. "Now you have to help us stop the Borg. I have a feeling that you got us into this mess in the first place."
"Hmm..." Q pondered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Quiz show music began to play in the background. The Borg began to break dance to it. "Nah," Q said. He and Trelane vanished, leaving Worf, Picard and the rest of the Enterprise crew to sort out the mess.
In a blinding flash of light, Q appeared in the brig of Deep Space Nine. The brig still happened to be in the middle of Ops, so it was a short walk. With Trelane tagging along behind him, Q strolled across Ops. He wrinkled his nose disdainfully at the blue antennae still protruding from underneath the brig. "Eew. That's going to start to smell pretty soon. You'd better take care of it."
"Perhaps you'd like to kindly remove the brig first," Major Kira said sarcastically, standing akimbo.
"Ooh, can I?!" Trelane begged.
"Be my guest."
Trelane waved his arms frantically in the air until the brig disappeared. The tragically flat Andorian ensign was transported to Dr. Bashir.
Julian turned from his computer screen and flinched at the
gruesome sight. "I hate doing autopsies out here," he grumbled with a sigh.
"Last week it was an ensign vivisected by a giant mutant space slug. With bad
breath," he added. "And just yesterday, a space-time anomaly made a lieutenant
get their pancreas caught in an electric nose hair picker." Shaking his head
in disgust, he went to work. "Let's see...cause of death. Flattened by brig. Period.
Now where was I?" he asked himself, activating a stasis field around the body before
returning to his computer.
Back at Ops, Q was harassing Worf. "Observe, Trelane," he said, walking up behind the hapless Klingon. He pointed to the ridges on Worf's head. "A perfect scale model of the Rocky Mountains on planet Earth!"
"Wow," the gullible Trelane said in awe.
"Get away from me," Worf growled.
"Hey, didn't we just see you on the Enterprise-D?" Q asked. "Deja vu!"
Back at Ops, Q was harassing Worf. "Observe, Trelane," he said, walking up behind the hapless Klingon. He pointed to the ridges on Worf's head. "A perfect scale model of the Rocky Mountains on planet Earth!"
"Wow," the gullible Trelane said in awe.
"Get away from me," Worf growled.
"Hey, didn't we just have this conversation?" Q asked. "Deja vu!"
The recently-scrubbed mess hall was filled with people. There were
no remaining traces of the food fight. Now, dignitaries from around the galaxy filled the
room, along with Krusean Spatulite ambassadors. The oddly-colored aliens and their leader,
the Grandiose Butt-Kicking Warlord of the Spatulite Army, Benjuh Effinchuk, milled
near the buffet table, sampling hors d'oeuvres from various Federation worlds.
Kirk and Spock stood in a corner, as far from the Karoke machine
as possible. On the makeshift stage, McCoy had just completed a performance of
"Georgia on My Mind." He turned over the microphone to Chekov, who began a
rendition of an old Monkees song from twentieth century Earth.
"Why does he sing when he does not have any talent?" Spock asked, raising an eyebrow. His sensitive ears were greatly irritated by the Russian crewmember's screeching.
"You...don't need...talent...for Karaoke. That's...the point," Kirk said.
"I fail to see the logic in offering Karaoke for the Krusean Spatulites. They obviously do not know any old Earth songs," Spock reasoned.
"It...prints out...the lyrics," Kirk said.
"Still, if they do not know the tune, it is highly illogical." He quickly looked around, half expecting Neelix to scream at him to shut up.
Then Uhura and one of the Krusean Spatulites got on stage and began singing a duet of "I Got You, Babe."
"I stand corrected," Spock said.
"I sit corrected," Sulu deadpanned.
"I slouch corrected," said Janice Rand, who was hanging out next to Kirk in case he needed a memo taken.
Spock merely raised his eyebrow further.
Kirk looked around at the mess hall. The reception party was a smash, but maybe it was time to get down to business. He sat down at the captain's table and the others followed suit. Then, in that timeless tradition, he tapped his fork against his glass of water to gain everyone's attention.
He succeeded, but not in the way he would have liked. The Krusean Spatulites gasped indignantly and got up to leave.
A confused Kirk said urgently, "Wait! Don't...go!"
"Captain," Spock said. "Tapping your glass is a
grave insult on the planet Kruse. It indicates that you suspect their mothers--"
"I...get the...idea, Spock."
"It also means that you have challenged their leader to a duel," the Vulcan added.
Benjuh Effinchuk stomped up to Kirk on his three webbed feet. "Are you challenging me to a duel?" he said, via the universal translator. He put his six-fingered hands on his hips defiantly.
Not...again, Kirk thought.
"Captain," Spock said, leaning over to covertly impart his wealth of knowledge, "it would mean certain war with the Spatulites if you refused to duel. It would insult the entire Alliance."
Kirk tried not to look too nervous. "Uh...yes, if
you...have...the courage," he told Benjuh Effinchuk. That...sounds...familiar...too,
he thought. Never...mind.
"Very well, Captain. I accept. Prepare to get your hiney whipped. I'm going to beat you so bad it won't even be funny."
"I see they have been studying outdated human slang," Spock mumbled.
"What'll...it be?" Kirk asked bravely. "Phasers...at midnight? Swords...at dawn?"
Spock leaned over to whisper to Kirk. "Captain, we're on a starship. There is no dawn. Even suggesting such a time is highly illogical." Once again he suppressed the urge to look around for a screaming Neelix.
"Well, anyway..." Kirk said awkwardly.
"Fleebs at 1700 hours," Effinchuk said.
"Fleebs?"
"This is a fleeb," said the Spatulite, annoyed at Kirk's ignorance, pulling out what appeared to be a small penlight.
"That...is a...fleeb?" Kirk said, obviously unimpressed.
Benjuh Effinchuk rolled his orange eyes. Then he pressed a small button, causing three wicked-looking lasers to shoot out of the end of the fleeb. A large chunk of ceiling crumbled, falling into the punch bowl. Incidentally, a few red-shirted ensigns were incinerated. "That, my dear captain, is a fleeb."
Kirk's tribble toupee squeaked in terror, and he quickly moved to restrain the squirming hairball. "Oh," he said, pushing down the tribble. "I...see. Fleebs...it is.
"1700 hours in your little recreation room," Benjuh Effinchuk said, slipping the fleeb back into his pocket. Then, he and the other Krusean Spatulites walked out of the mess hall in a huff. They had to drag along the one who had been singing with Uhura earlier.
"Look, Commander Semaforo,
I know she's a real babe, and I agree that that little metal thing in her ear is hot, but
come on!" Benjuh Effinchuk said, tugging on his compatriot's lapel.
Kirk retreated into a corner to quiet the agitated tribble.
"That was a disaster," Sulu said.
"Yes," Spock said. "This could lead to a major international crisis."
"I meant the Karoke. Keep Chekov away from the stage next time," Sulu said. "Hey, Pavel, you want to go practice fencing with me?"
"Not after that crack about my singing," Chekov said, folding his arms across his chest and turning away. "Besides, Karoke is a Russian inwention."
The Japanese crew member frowned incredulously.
Counselor V'Larek was considered very attractive by other Sigmites. She was ten years old, seven feet tall, and had four arms and freckles. Her skin was a somewhat paler shade of green than it would have been on her home planet of Freudia. She was sitting behind her desk, dressed in her specially-made uniform with four sleeves. She had just wrapped up a conversation with one of her former classmates from Starfleet Academy about a fascinating case study involving lemming paranoia.
"Well, it's been nice talking to you, Deanna. Keep me informed about your poor lieutenant. I have to go now. I have an appointment with the first officer."
"Uh...off the record, of course...what's wrong with him?"
"It’s confidential, but...sock obsession."
"Really?"
"It should be interesting."
"Let me know how it goes...confidentially, you know."
Deanna's image was replaced on the screen by the Starfleet logo and words "End Transmission."
The doorbell rang. "Come in," she called.
Bob dragged his bag of socks into the room. "Hi, Counselor," he greeted cheerfully, waving at her with a hand still covered by a sock.
"Hello, Bob," said V'Larek. "How are you today?"
"Me? Oh, I'm fine. You might want to check on the captain, though. She seemed kind of tense."
"I can't imagine why," she said serenely. It was impossible for a Sigmite to sound sarcastic, even if one wanted to. "But let's talk about you."
"There isn't much to talk about, really." He sat down on the couch and began rummaging through the bag. "Ooh! Argyle!" he said joyfully, holding up a sock. "Would you like to see my sock collection?" he asked, eagerly holding out the bag.
"No thank you, Bob. Just what is it about socks that fascinates you?"
"Oh, lots of things! Can you imagine a world without socks?" he asked with a shudder. "Everyone would walk around with chafed heels, and their shoes would smell, and their feet would get cold, and...oh, it would be horrible!"
"I see," she said, steepling all twenty of her long fingers. She was at a loss for words. I can certainly see why the captain sent him down here, she thought. "Bob, right now we're going to do something that a lot of my patients really enjoy. We're going to help work out your problems using puppet therapy."
"Great!" said Bob jubilantly. "I brought my own!" He raised his sock-covered hands.
"Hi, Counselor!" exclaimed Bob, via a sock puppet.
"Hello, Counselor," said the other puppet.
"Have you been a good little girl?" asked the first puppet.
"You moron! You just said that to the captain."
"Oops. Never mind."
"Quite all right. Isn't it a nice day?" commented the second puppet.
"Not a cloud in the sky," said the other in rapture.
"We're on a starship, dummy!"
"Oh!"
This isn't working, thought V'Larek. He's beyond my help. Time to refer him to Doctor Fox, I think.
"It gets kind of lonely with just the two of us. I wish Bob had more hands."
"Counselor V'Larek's socks are so lucky!"
"They must have some great conversations!"
"Bob," interrupted V'Larek, "I'm going to write you out a prescription for a nice medicine that should clear up all your problems."
"But I don't have any problems, Counselor," Bob said, frowning. Even the sock puppets looked perturbed.
"Still, I think it would be a good idea if I wrote you a prescription for some medicine." She entered the name of the medicine and the dosage into a padd.
"But Counselor, I told you there's nothing wrong with me!" Bob protested. "If there's anyone that needs you to write them a prescription for some of your psycho drugs, it's Captain Letterman! All of her socks aren't in the dryer, if you know what I mean."
"Be that as it may, Bob, I...noticed a nasty rash on the back of your neck. If you'll just go to see Dr. Fox, she'll give you some medicine that will clear it right up." Although horrible at sarcasm, Sigmites were experts at lying.
"Oh! That's different. I'm on my way then. Thanks, Counselor!" Bob said, saluting her with his puppets. He walked out of the room, dragging the laundry bag and rubbing the back of his neck. V'Larek heaved a huge sigh of relief. Then she remembered she had an appointment at 1500 hours with an ensign who thought he was a duck.
Worf looked around President Zilleox's office. All he saw was
several areas of dust on the shiny linoleum floor. Where did all the ensigns go? he
wondered. Only Ensigns Jacques and Eddings remained.
"Change the frequency of your phasers again," Worf ordered. The two crew members began to comply, but Ensign Eddings was vaporized before he could reset his phaser. Ensign Jacques fired once at the nearest Borg, but the Borg's shield successfully reflected it.
"Ooh! That tickles!" the Borg giggled. His companions stuck out their tongues and wiggled what fingers they had in their ears. Before Ensign Jacques could get off a second shot, he, too, was reduced to free-floating atoms.
This is getting out of hand, Worf thought. He looked around, but all ten of the ensigns he had beamed down with were gone.
"How's it going down there, Mister Worf?" Picard's voice said via a commlink.
"Er...not so well, Captain."
"Could you be more specific?" asked Picard.
"I'm the only one left, Captain," said Worf. "But I should be able to defeat them all. There's only seventeen of them."
"Transporter room, beam Mister Worf back to the Enterprise."
"But Captain--" Worf began to protest, but he disintegrated in an avalanche of golden sparkles.
The transporter operator received a very dirty look from the irritated Klingon when he materialized on the transporter pad with President Zilleox a few seconds later.
Picard then called a meeting with the senior officers. Actually, they were all young and thin, but they were still called senior officers. Except for Barclay, whom Troi had asked Picard to invite, hoping it would get his mind off the lemmings.
They congregated in the briefing room, taking their usual places at the long conference table. Barclay stood in the corner, nervously looking around the floor for stray lemmings.
"Would someone beam in a chair for Mr. Barclay?" Deanna asked.
An overweight, bearded man wearing glasses and a Paramount T-shirt appeared out of nowhere carrying another chair. "Here you go, Dwight," he said.
Q suddenly blinked into existence on top of the table. "Oops!
Sorry about that! Come on, Murray, these nice people have work to do." He and the man
in the T-shirt disappeared again.
"Who the heck was that?" Riker asked, staring at the chair that Murray had left behind.
The others all shrugged.
"Never mind. It's time to get down to business," Picard said. He ran his fingers through his toupee, hoping someone would compliment him on it.
"What are we going to talk about?" Barclay asked eagerly.
"We can talk about poker," said Riker hopefully.
"Not lemmings, I hope," begged Barclay. Troi gave him a concerned look.
"We could talk about Wesley's grades!" Dr. Crusher said happily.
"We could talk about passive high-resolution series sensor scans," suggested Geordi.
"We could discuss the way you wear pantyhose when you ride
horses, Captain," said Data matter-of-factly.
"I told you never to tell anyone about that," Picard winced.
"Sorry, sir," said Data, looking very confused.
"Well, considering that the Borg are decimating that planet out there," Geordi said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the planet out the window, "I'd guess we're going to talk about them. But, then again, I could be wrong. Captain?"
"What? Did you say something?" Picard asked with a start, quickly pulling his hand away from his toupee.
"He's distracted by that toupee," Deanna Troi whispered knowingly to Dr. Crusher.
"Do you have something you'd like to share with the rest of the senior officers, Counselor?" Picard asked. "You're not picking up a hostile life form, are you?"
"No, Captain," Troi said quickly, folding her hands in her lap and studying the shiny conference table with interest. All I'm picking up are seven humanoids, one android and one really bad toupee, she thought.
"Well then," Picard said sternly, running his fingers through his toupee, "let's get back to the business of the Borg now, shall we?"
"Good idea, Captain!" said Crusher, still laughing to herself at the ridiculous toupee.
"I have an idea," Barclay said. The others all turned to look at him. "We could shoot squirt guns at the Borg and then wait for them to rust." The senior officers frowned at him incredulously. "Or...maybe not," he said, wilting under their critical stares.
Suddenly, the ship was jolted violently, sending the senior officers flying out of their chairs. The red alert klaxons began screaming. Picard scrambled to his feet, hastily put his toupee back on and ran onto the bridge with the other officers close behind. "Status report, Mr. Crawford," Picard barked.
The British helmsman creased his brow
in concern and turned to face the Captain. "Sir, the Borg are attacking!" he
exclaimed in alarm.
