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Star Trek: The Crouton Generation
Season 4, Pack #25
==================================
Date: Thu, 6 Feb 92 11:46:03 -0500
From: bryant@husc.harvard.edu
Subject: Heisenberg Episode, Part 1 ***LONG***
From: wald2@husc
Note: This episode has been sent out in two parts, due to practical
considerations. It is not a two-part episode, so it is best that you
read this half-episode and the half-episode sent right after it in
rapid succession. Also, since this episode is sort of a sequel to
"The Doh is Violent," you may want to reread that episode, but it
shouldn't be necessary. Anyway, Enjoy. --Kevin
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[Scene: An Elysium-compatible field. In the background, fawns tread
delicately through the lush green grass. In the foreground, Polgara
is playing upon a beribboned pastoral pipe. She is surrounded by
a multitude of gentle woodland creatures--does, rabbits, squirrels
--who have been attracted by her air of complete goodness and
unselfishness. She spontaneously lapses into pastoral verse:]
Polgara: Thrice happy she who hides from pomp and power
In sylvan shade or solitary bower;
Where verdant visions greet her weary eyes--
Her Communicator (Iluvanna):
Shore-leave's off; prepare to Croutonize.
[Which she does, reappearing in the Croutonizer Room.]
Polgara: How *dare* you interrupt--
Iluvanna: Sorry--we're rounding everyone up. [A small slug-like creature
falls out of one of the folds in her robe, and Iluvanna bends down
to examine it. When Polgara follows his lead, several more of the
creatures shake out of her clothing.] Looks like you've attracted
quite a following there. [Iluvanna picks up one for a closer look.]
Polgara: I don't understand--why didn't the biofilter pick them up?
Iluvanna: The biofilter's just for small, internal things. It'll
do wonders if you've got dysentery or Rigelian blood-crud,
but it won't help you a bit if you've just got fleas. For
that, we need something a bit more subtle. [Pulls out a
phaser.]
Polgara: Wait a minute--what the--
Iluvanna: Trust me--I'm a trained Croutonizer Technician. [Adjusts
phaser setting] Hmm . . . Is it supposed to be one-point-
seven, or seven-point-one? Oh well . . . [Fires, point-blank
and wide-beam, at Polgara. The cone-shaped beam continues
for several seconds, during which time Polgara, while entirely
unharmed by the phaser energy enveloping her, is growing
increasingly annoyed.]
Polgara: Are you *quite* finished?
Iluvanna [checking his watch]: Almost . . . eighteen, nineteen, twenty.
[Releases trigger.] That should about do it. [Four or five of
the little slugs fly out from between Polgara's shoulder blades,
quite obviously under their own power.] Hmm . . . well, let's
try again. [Adjusts phaser, resumes firing. After a few seconds,
the phaser starts to splutter and flicker.] What the--
[The phaser ceases to function entirely. Iluvanna squeezes the trigger
a few more times, but it is no use. He opens the frontal phaser
casing, revealing several dozen slug bodies. Some are charred, some
are squashed, but the dozen that fly out are most definitely alive.]
The Wrath of Jones
Written and Produced by: Kevin Wald
Directed by: The Fickle Finger (tm) of Fate
Mucus by: Gastropods, Ltd.
Guest Starring:
Gerard Depardieu as Jones
Susie Plakton as Rosalind
Charles Notar as Ardrys
With a Special Appearance By:
Richard Stans as Lt. Mondegreen
[On the Bridge.]
Kabeta: Captain's Log, Stardate 10____._. The shore-leave time granted
to the crew in the wake of the Doh incident (several months late,
actually, due no doubt to Starfleet bureaucracy) has, unfortunately,
drawn to a close. We are currently in the process of collecting
our scattered crewmembers, who, owing to a diversity of tastes
unparalleled in the Federation, have elected to take their time
off on . . . [Looks at list.] Twenty different worlds?
Kleber [Entering, toweling off his head]: It's not *that* surprising,
Captain. I mean, while I find the sea-world of Merquon calm
and relaxing, it would be positively dangerous for those
crewmembers who cannot breathe under water.
Kabeta: Still, *twenty* planets does seem a tad . . . excessive.
On the first ship I was on, a shore-leave meant everyone went down
to the same planet.
Furd the Nurd: Ah! Luxury! At least ye *had* shore-leaves. On my old ship,
when the crew wanted a vacation, we all went into the rec deck and
played *bingo* for two days.
Thokk: Luxury! At least ye *had* bingo. On my planet, the only entertainment
we had was to hit each other with *rocks*. And we *liked* it.
Particularly when the person getting hit was really obnoxious.
Kleber [Looking over Kabeta's shoulder at the planet list]: Besides, it's
not really twenty planets. Look--[brushes a slug off the list and
points to what had lain under it]--this one's a starbase, not a planet.
Kabeta [reads]: Starbase 6502. [Ponders:] What kind of creature would take
shoreleave on a starbase?
[Scene: The Arcadia Theatre, conveniently located at the end of the shopping
arcade on Starbase 6502. Scattered throughout the audience are Redshirts,
in yellow shirts, of course. We focus in on two such, conversing.]
Mondegreen: . . . so while it may not offer the green fields or sandy
beaches of a planet-side leave, a starbase also offers you less
chance of being turned into a cube and then crushed.
Unimportant Crewmemeber: Your colleagues seem to have followed the same
reasoning--half of Security seems to be here. [Pointing:] There's
Smith, Brown, Chang . . . Ah, those great names, never to be
forgotten.
Mondegreen: *My* colleagues? . . . Ah, so that shirt you wear is
Engineering-yellow, not Security-yellow?
Unimportant Crewmember: Indeed--my motive in coming here is not
self-preservation; I'm just here for the show.
Mondegreen: You enjoy historical drama? I'm quite a history buff
myself, actually . . .
Unimportant Crewmember [making a dismissive gesture]: The play itself
I can take or leave--I'm here to see the great Thestor on
stage.
Mondegreen: The great Thestor? I don't believe I've heard of him.
Unimportant Crewmember: Then you are in for a rare treat tonight.
Such a dynamic range! Such gesturing! Such a drop-kick! Such . . .
[The lights go down, cutting off Unimportant Crewmember's exposition.
An airy four-note melody plays. The stage-lights go up revealing Thestor,
a ponderous figure in the costume of a Starfleet Captain of over a
hundred years past. Thestor, after bowing to the energetic applause
of the audience, begins the role of Kirk.]
Thestor [Gesturing wildly]:
Space!
[Dramatic pause]
The Final Frontier.
A Voice [From the midst of the theater]:
Wretch! Have I not forbade you to play here?
Thestor [Frightened]: Jones! Now, now, now--
Voice: A perfect triolet! But your performance lacks something.
Go rehearse it some more--elsewhere!
Thestor [Trying to continue, in a voice of no great assurance]:
Space . . .
Voice: Is the best possible environment for such a talent as yours.
Your voice would finally be done justice by the acoustics
of a perfect vacuum, and the theatrical world would be given
an immeasurable gift when your last breath finally escaped
from your voluminous lungs. [Jones--for it is indeed he--
emerges from the crowd.] Of course, the same effect might be
achieved by puncturing the balloon. [His hand is at his make-shift
scabbard.].
Thestor [Desperately attempting dignity]: Sir, when you insult me,
you insult the Muse!
Jones: Which one? Dysterpe--the muse of overdone music? Or Transurania,
the muse of mistaken astronomy? Pollyhymnia, muse of parroting?
[He finally notices that Thestor has escaped.] What is this?
I have been cheated! I pay good money to see a theatrical
performance--and the stage is empty. How shabby--how unalterably
shabby! [His nose, having (like most body parts) no sense of
irony, has grown quite, quite long. In fact, its apparent size
is still greater, for it is borne boldly outwards, as Jones
has assumed a not-quite-perfect imitation of the Standard
Heroic Kirk Pose (Non-Equestrian).]
Mondegreen [standing up]: Ahem . . . Your pose is wrong.
Jones [leaping down to face Mondegreen, frumious]: *What* did you say?
Mondegreen: I said, your pose is wrong.
Jones [calming somewhat]: Oh, my *pose* . . .
Mondegreen: Yes . . . it's nothing really major--I just have a thing for
historical accuracy. Anyway, you've certainly got the heroic
speechifying down pat; your prose is strong, and--
Jones [uncalm again]: Sir, you mock me!
Mondegreen [confused by Jones' anger]: Not at all--your consonants are
crisp and aspirated, and your vowels are clean and resonant.
Particularly your long o's--
Jones: Enough! What is your name, sir?
Mondegreen: Lieutenant Richard Mondegreen, of the U.S.S. Heisenberg.
Jones [Drawing his sword]: Then, Lieutenant Mondegreen, you shall
die exquisitely, at . . . Wait a minute, nothing *rhymes* with
Mondegreen.
Unimportant Crewmember: How about "Rhonda Green"?
Jones: Shut up! How can I compose a Limerique Extempore when--
[His question is cut off by the sound and sparkle of every
Heisenberg officer in the theater being simultaneously beamed up.
When Jones realizes what is happening, he becomes even more
enraged.] Federation Bastards! [He raises his sword.] So help
me, by the stars in the heavens and by the dirt of my native
land, I shall hunt thee down. I--
[Rosalind enters, pushing a refreshment cart loaded with all manner
of edibles.]
Rosalind [to Jones]: Calm down, brother--you're theeing again. [She holds
up a petit-four.] Have something to eat--it'll settle your
bile.
Jones: I do not *wish* to calm down. I--[She is looking at him quite
sternly. Grumbling:] Very well . . . [He walks over to the
cart, and takes a small glass of water, a single grape, and,
from the pasta salad, one macarono. After consuming these, he
is indeed somewhat calmer.] So, what's new, sis?
Rosalind: I'm to be married!
Jones: What? That bastard Ardrys has finally worn you down?
Rosalind [laughing]: Heavens, no . . . And it's not nice to talk about
the base commander that way.
Jones: Base he may be, but my commander--never. So, who's the lucky fellow,
then? I don't suppose you've finally latched on to someone
respectable--say, a privateer or mixicologist . . .
Rosalind [cautiously]: Well, he's a starfleet officer, stationed on the
U.S.S. Heisenberg.
Jones [bitter]: How nice. A swaggering, tin-plated--
Rosalind: . . . And he's a Baronet . . .
Jones: Correction--carpet-plated. What a combination: Starfleet *and* the
Society for Chivalric Atavism . . .
Rosalind: No, no, not an SCA-Baronet, a Baronet-Baronet. You know, the
real kind.
Jones: The melodrama-and-family-curse kind?
Rosalind: Right.
Jones: How charming. Tell me, when can I meet this Baron of yours?
Rosalind: Baron*et*. The twenty-seventh Baronet Ruddigarb. [Looks
around.] Actually, I was supposed to meet him here . . .
Jones: I wouldn't hold my breath. In a dramatic display of the courage
and sticktoitiveness for which Starfleet officers are known
throughout the galaxy, the entire yellow-clad subset of our
audience decided, shortly before you arrived, that they would
rather be elsewhere, and consequently beamed back to their
ship--the Heisenberg, I suppose, it's the only ship in port.
I would guess that your Baronet was among them. [He notices
her face has fallen.] Come, come--did you really expect
steadfastness from a Starfleeter on shore leave? You may
have been his fiancee, but I doubt he was yours. Starfleet
personel are notorious for this sort of thing; heck, they
say the captain of the Heisenberg--Kabeta of the sapphire
eyes--has a suitor in every empire in the Galaxy. And when
you add in the Titled Nobility factor--
Rosalind: He wouldn't just leave me. There must be some explanation.
If I could just talk to him . . .
Jones [struck by inspiration]: Hmm . . . It so happens that I have some,
um, unfinished business on the Heisenberg . . . A debt I owe
to a certain security officer. What say, while I'm there, I
retrieve your Baronet? If his love is as true as you believe
it is, I'm sure he'll be eager to return to you.
Rosalind: Would you really do that? [Jones nods. Rosalind removes one
of her earrings, an almost perfect silver sphere. She hands it
to Jones.] He gave them to me the night we pledged our love.
Take it to him, so he'll know I sent you.
Jones [examining the bauble with a merchant's eye]: Heavens! This must
have cost him all of two-and-a-half credits. True love, indeed!
Rosalind [angering]: Just go!
Jones: Indeed! To the Heisenberg--[He draws his sword]--to retrieve your
love, and to slay my Lieutentant! Tally-ho! [He dashes off,
his sword held high.]
Rosalind [calling after him]: Wait a minute--slay who?
Jones [Out the door and way down the corridor by now]: Tell you later--
don't worry, I'll have time to do both . . . [His voice
trails off in the distance.]
* * * * * * *
[Scene: Ship's Counselor's office. Jiapa is seated at her desk, in front
of which is seated Lt. Mondegreen.]
Jiapa [consulting a form in front of her]: So, Bart . . .
Mondegreen: That's not my name.
Jiapa: I'm sorry . . . So, Bartholemew, what seems to be--
Mondegreen: No, no. My *name* is Richard Mondegreen. My *title* is
Baronet Ruddigarb. [He takes the sheet of pseudopaper,
and points to an entry.] See, that Bart. is under "Titles,
Non-SCA." [He examines the page.] You know, this is
a really lousy printing job.
Jiapa: The phaser printer is down--something about it being jammed
up with slugs . . .
Mondegreen: I didn't realize it was coin-operated.
Jiapa: No, *slugs*--little slimy . . . [Regaining control of the
conversation] So, Richard, what seems to be the problem?
Mondegreen: I am Doomed to Die.
Jiapa: Ah. Members of the Security staff often feel that way.
[She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out Starfleet
Stardard Counseling Pamphlet 786.4b: "So Your Shirt is
Yellow: Dealing with Security Insecurity."] Why don't
you read--
Mondegreen: No, no. As a Security Officer, I am merely doomed.
I can handle that. I laugh at doom, though not very
loudly. As the twenty-seventh Baronet Ruddigarb, however,
I am Doomed.
Jiapa: Back taxes?
Mondegreen: No, a Family Curse. There's a song, traditional
in my family, which explains it better than I could.
[He sings the Curse Song:]
In days gone by, when pet-
ty nobles bred like rabbits,
A certain Baronet
Had quite appalling habits:
A lady's hand he'd take,
They'd cuddle by the lake,
He'd lead her on,
And then begone;
In short, he was a rake.
That was the truly horr'b-
Le first Bart. Ruddigarb.
His practised art:
To break a heart.
The first Bart. Ruddigarb.
One lass (to whom, of course,
He'd promised speedy marriage)
Turned out to be a sorc-
Eress of prideful carriage.
When over she was thrown,
And she found out he'd flown,
She cast some charms
Upon his Arms,
And this she did intone:
"Each Baronet of Rud-
Digarb, from now, e'er after
Shall curse his noble blood
And his ancestor's laughter;
Each, when to wed he'll try,
Shall hear my mocking cry:
He'll never see
The canopy--
Instead, he'll simply die.
Thus Curs-ed are my woo-
Er and his sons, and so on
The Curse came sadly true
--One maiden came to grow on
The Bart., and plans were made;
The wedding feast was laid.
The wedding bells
Soon turned to knells--
His heart met someone's blade.
E'er since, the curse's barb
Has speared each Ruddigarb;
Each one who'd wed
Becomes a dead
Ex-Bart. of Ruddigarb.
Jiapa: I see. [She leans back in her chair, and taps her fingers
together.] Tell me, what made you decide to seek couseling now?
You've surely known about this for some time.
Mondegreen: I'd never given it much thought before, but now the
Curse has started to come true. While on shore leave at
Starbase 6502, I fell in love with the most lovely, charming
Berjraqyan maiden . . . Rosalind. We were engaged to be
married, but a few scant minutes before we were to meet to
go to our wedding, I found myself Croutonizing onto Transporter
Pad 17.
Jiapa: We'll speak to the Captain at once--surely we can delay our schedule
by half a day or so, to make time for a wedding.
Mondegreen: But don't you see? This is Fate we're dealing with. The
unexpected beam-up was just the start; no matter what we do,
the Curse will not allow me to be married before I die.
Jiapa: Nonsense, Lieutenant. You're safe on your own ship; the chances
of anything--or anyone--killing you are remote in the extreme.
* * * * * * * *
[Meanwhile, in Commander Ardrys' office on Starbase 6502:]
Rosalind: . . . and then he ran off, shouting about killing some
Lieutenant.
Ardrys: Well, if your brother says he's going to kill someone, it's
reasonably certain to happen. You didn't happen to note which way
he was going, did you?
Rosalind: Straight down Corridor 86; my guess is he made a beeline for
Public Croutonizer 7J, and beamed straight over to the Heisenberg
from there.
Ardrys: I'll alert them right away. [Puzzles.] You know, I can't
help wondering why you're telling me about this--I mean,
the last time your brother killed someone in a duel, you were
right there as his second. Have you suddenly joined the
Federation? [There is a smirk in his eyes.]
Rosalind: Hardly--I just don't his petty vendettas interfering with
. . . a certain project I sent him out on.
Ardrys: Project? [He is looking at he inquisitionally.]
Rosalind [uneasily]: Well . . . [She decides to get the whole thing out
in the open, and consequently does so in one breath.] He's-supposed
-to-find-Richard-Mondegreen-Baronet-Ruddigarb-and-bring-him-back-to
-the-Base-so-that-Richard-and-I-can-get-married. [She looks into his
face for a reaction.]
Ardrys [taking the news quite restrainedly]: Well. Congratulations.
On the wedding, I mean.
Rosalind [surprised that he is taking it so well]: Thank you . . .
Um . . . I don't suppose--I mean I know Starfleet communications
are for Starfleet business, but--could you get a message to
Richard for me, to come back? I mean, in case my brother doesn't
get through.
Ardrys: Oh. Um, certainly. Yes. Well, congratulations. Again. And . . .
I'll get right on this. Right. Well . . . um, goodbye.
[A few members of Base Security escort her out.]
* * * * * * *
[Meanwhile, in the Officers Mess on the Heisenberg, at one extremely
long table, Furd the Nurd and Aoki are having an argument.]
Furd: Is not.
Aoki: Is too.
Furd: Starfleet is *not* a military organization. [He clears his
throat.] We are merely a combined service, with an accent on
research, that happens to arm its ships with weapons sufficient
to destroy entire planets.
[Ensign Metag and Lt. Cmdr. yaz-pistachio, embroiled in their own
conversation, sit down at the same table.]
Metag: It's all right here in the M3-DZQ26-P78-4 form.
Aoki [to Furd]: See--gratuitous bureaucracy is the first symptom of
the military mindset.
yaz [overhearing]: This is not gratuitous bureaucracy; Starfleet Command
has simply gotten sick and tired of starship crews altering the
configuration of their ships in bizarre, experimental ways. Apparently,
they're still in a tizzy over there about the Silmaril incident.
Anyway, they're insisting that every major new alteration be
accompanied by some sort of documentation, and the signatures
of at least three people in Sciences/Engineering. It's supposed
to guarantee that any such alterations are safe and sensible.
Furd: Or that any starship has at least three insane crewmembers.
yaz: Well, they'd have to all be insane in the same way; I doubt that even
this ship could produce three people like that. Anyway, even
bureaucracy can have its uses. For example, it has come to
my attention that Ensign Metag here has made major alterations
to the construction of the ship. In previous times, all I could
have done would have been to ask him for an explanation; an
explanation which would probably have been incoherent, and
would certainly have included sufficient irrelevant history
that I would have had to shoot him. Now, with his M3-DQZ26-P78-4
in hand [He takes the page from Metag], I can see who authorized
the changes. [He looks at the three initialings at the bottom.]
Okay, I assume one of these M's is you, and the other is maya.
Metag: Actually, they're both me--if you look at the date, you'll
see that when the form was signed, maya had left already.
yaz [still looking at the page]: And the third signature is YAZ--
I sure didn't sign this!
Metag: Oh, I'm sorry--that's a typo. It was supposed to read YAY;
it's an expression of enthusiasm on my home planet.
yaz: Let me get this straight. You initialled this by putting
down the equivalent of "Metag! Metag! Hurrah!"?
Metag: Well, yes . . . I mean, when you've only got a one word
name, you have to add something when you initial a form
--a one-letter signature just gets lost in the shuffle.
yaz: So you have lain twenty kilometres of tubing--
Metag: Warp-transference coils, actually.
yaz: Sorry, *corrogated* tubing throughout the ship, cluttering
every hallway, filling every Jeffreys tube almost to the
point of impassability, all without any authorization
whatsoever? Good Heavens, man, why?
Metag: Well, it all started some two hundred years ago . . .
Furd [to Aoki]: See, now if this were a *military* organization, we
actually *could* shoot him.
Metag: It was during Captain Hikaru Sulu's first mission--before he
became famous for his intercession in the Karibuvian Civil
War . . .
Aoki [to Furd]: On the other hand, we *are* equipped with phasers, so
unlike in most civilian situations, we have at least the
*theoretical* ability to shoot him.
yaz: It probably wouldn't work--phasers have been going on the fritz
all over the ship. Those slugs seem to have been getting into
everything.
Aoki: Not everything, surely. The computers have been working just fine.
yaz: Well, let's see. We've had at least five reports of phaser failure
due to slug contamination. Then there's the phaser printer, the
phaser coffee maker . . . You know, I'm detecting a pattern here.
[Polgara joins the table; a stream of airborne slugs trails her,
like her own private army.] Polgara, that aura of yours--it
operates on roughly the same frequency as a phaser beam, right?
[He aims his phaser--wide angle and low power--at her. As he
adjusts the frequency control, beautiful interference patterns
appear and shimmer in the air.]
Kleber [happening by, and sitting down]: That is so cool.
yaz: It's just as I thought. These slugs are attracted to phaser
and phaser-like energy.
Polgara: So these things have been following me around because
of my aura? [yaz nods.] Pyndra-klaa! [Her aura is gone, and
so are the interference patterns. yaz shuts off his
already-faltering phaser.]
Kleber: I didn't realize you could turn it on and off like that.
Polgara: Of course. I'm a *sorceress*.
yaz: Now, we already know a phaser beam doesn't kill the critters;
my guess is, they feed on phaser energy, and use it to
reproduce. [He has gotten the back of his phaser open.
About a hundred slugs spill out, about half of which are
alive.] Yep. No way that many got in to the phaser--I would
have seen. Most of these slugs must have been born in there.
Kleber: So every time someone fires a phaser aboard ship--
Aoki: --or uses the phaser printer--
yaz: --or operates the phaser splenograph, we get more slugs.
Kleber: So we can stop their reproduction just by banning phaser
use aboard ship. But that doesn't tell us how to get rid of
the ones we have. [Thokk enters, bearing a tray stacked high
with sauteed slugs, and is seated. Kleber muses:] A nice idea,
but probably difficult to implement in practice.
Furd: How can you eat that?
Thokk: Chopsticks. [From his pocket he produces an ancient-looking
pair, and also a salt-shaker. He sprinkles some salt on his
entree. It vanishes.] AAAAAAAUUUGHHHH!
yaz: Now, that's an idea--we just sprinkle the decks with salt to
a depth of . . . oh, no.
Polgara: What's wrong?
yaz: Sprinkling the decks won't do it. Ensign Metag, over here,
has recently put in what amounts to twenty kilometres of
pipe, all over the ship--a perfect hiding spot for our
little friends.
[Everyone turns to glare at Metag, who has been speaking all this time,
completely obliviously to everything going on around him.]
Metag: . . . Volume III, except for the footnotes. But I digress.
The point is, Ship A managed to disable the artificial
gravity system of Ship B, with only two photon torpedoes.
Naturally, when I read this, I was in shock--AG systems
are usually indestructible. The only way I could see to
avoid that possibility was to make our system distributive;
use transference coils instead of relying upon plain-field
gravity spread . . . Why are you all staring at me?
yaz: Have you heard a word we've been saying? [Metag clearly has not.]
It seems that because of certain transference coils that shall
remain nameless, we are unable to implement as solution to the
slug situation.
Metag: I, um, see . . . [The glares have become more intense, and Metag
is increasingly uncomfortable.] That's an . . . interesting
problem . . . [Metag is slowly getting up.] Let me . . . er
. . . sleep on it. [He makes a mad dash for the door, nearly
trampling Jiapa and Mondegreen on their way in.]
Jiapa [sitting down at the table, and motioning for Mondegreen to
do likewise]: Lieutenant, I'd like you to meet Polgara.
[Mondegreen bows slightly.] Polgara is a *sorceress*.
Mondegreen: Really? I thought sorceresses always had auras around
them.
Polgara [a bit annoyed]: And just how do you come to know so much
about sorceresses?
Mondegreen: Oh, I come by it honestly--my family has a Sorceress's Curse on it.
Polgara [concern replacing annoyance]: Really? [She gingerly
touches the tip of his nose with her fingertips.]
It's true--a genuine Type Seventeen Line-of-Descent Curse.
I haven't seen a case like this in ages. Would you mind
if I collected some of your fingernail clippings?
[She is already peering into his eyes with a magnifying
glass.]
Jiapa: Actually, we were wondering if perhaps you could do something
about it. You know, like a cure or something.
Polgara: Hmm . . . Do you have any details on the origin and content
of the curse? [Mondegreen produces several copies of the sheet
music to the Curse Song, which are duly passed around to all
present. Polgara, on receiving her copy, scans it quickly
and shakes her head.] Sorry. You see, when a sorceress lays
a curse like this, she means it to stick--and since she's
an expert on magic, she can build in defences against any kind
of magical cure. Generally, the least likely person to be
able to help is another sorceress.
Kleber: Might we try a legal attack, then?
Mondegreen: I beg your pardon?
Kleber: According to this [he holds up the music], every Baronet of
Ruddigarb dies before marriage, right?
Mondegreen: Indeed--I come from a long line of bachelors.
Kleber: Then no Baronet of Ruddigarb leaves behind legitimate offspring.
Mondegreen: True--I also come from a long line of ba--
Kleber: Then I don't see how there could have been any Baronets after
the first--a noble title cannot pass to illegitimate descendants.
Mondegreen: Interesting. [To Polgara:] What do you think?
Polgara [again shaking her head]: Unfortunately, the curse as stated
clearly assumes that the title passes from father to son,
regardless of legitimacy. As indeed it has historically--
you bear your father's title, for example, even though
you are, legally speaking, not entitled to it, and, for
that matter, neither was he.
Mondegreen: So because the curse assumed that by-blows could inherit,
it automatically became true?
Polgara: Precisely. Now, if the curse had been created by William
Schwenk Gilbert, or some such legalistic mind, you would
probably be able to remove it just by pointing out the
legal error. It wouldn't work on a Sorceress's curse, though,
unless that sorceress were also a lawyer.
Mondegreen: Let me get this straight: A magical cure won't work
because the layer of the curse was an expert in magic, and
a legal cure won't work because she *wasn't* an expert in
law?
Polgara: Basically.
Mondegreen: So what *can* I try?
Polgara: Well . . . you might try General Cussedness--I've heard
good things about it.
Mondegreen: General Cussedness?
Polgara: A condition characterized by bitterness, temper, and the
refusal to quit even when what you're doing doesn't make
sense. It's supposed to be very powerful, magically speaking,
or so I've heard--I've never experienced it myself.
Mondegreen: Hmm . . . General Cussedness . . . [He attempts a
grimace, and fails miserably.] Lemme go practice this a
bit. [Just as he leaves, Kabeta enters, and takes his
seat.]
Kabeta: Bad news, people. I've just been speaking with Commander
Ardrys of Starbase 6502. Apparently, a merchant named
Jones, probably armed with a sword, has beamed aboard
the Heisenberg, and intends to kill one of our
Lieutenants--it's not clear whom. He's also looking for
one Lieutenant Richard Mondegreen, Baronet Ruddigarb, with
intent to carry him off. Do any of you know a Mondegreen?
Thokk: He just left. Thokk go get . . . sorry, *I'll* go get him.
[Dashes out the door.]
Jiapa: Which brings up another point--Lieutenant Mondegreen is
engaged to be married to someone on Starbase 6502. Would
it be possible to stay in port long enough for him to
do so?
Kabeta: (*Sigh*). Staying in port is easy--but he can't leave the
ship. Commander Ardrys got wind of our vermin problem, and
put the Heisenberg under quarantine. All ship-to-base
transports have been rendered impossible, under Quarantine
Directive Four.
Furd: Impossible, or just illegal?
Aoki: Impossible-- Quarantine Directive Four means our computer
won't let anyone transport to the base unless it receives
the unlock code from their computer.
Kleber: Can they do that?
Kabeta: It's a bit extreme, but they're well within their rights
--quarantines are a serious business.
Thokk [re-entering]: Mondegreen's gone. Don't worry, though, I'll
track him down. If he takes a single step, I will be listening
for it. If he heaves a single breath, I will be smelling
for it. If he--
Aoki: Pandora, hon, where's Lieutenant Mondegreen?
Pandora: In his room, tiger, #245.
Kabeta: All right, then: Thokk, round up a couple dozen security people,
armed with phasers--
yaz: Um . . . that might not be such a good idea. [To Furd:] Would
you hand me your phaser, please? [Furd does. yaz sets the phaser
for stun, and fires. Not only does the beam flicker out almost
immediately, but it attracts a cloud of slugs from all over the
mess hall.] At the lowest setting, a phaser beam lasts a couple
of seconds, but on stun it is both almost useless, and [he is
attempting to wipe slugs off his hand] a positive disadvantage
to its user. I can't imagine the effect a "kill" setting would
cause.
Kabeta: Right. We'll have to make an announcement about that. No phasers
until we get the slug problem cleared up.
Furd: Won't that be tipping our hand a bit? I mean, if Jones is
already aboard ship, won't he hear the announcement too?
Kabeta: The safety of the crew comes first. The advantage of having
Jones think we can use phasers is vastly outweighed by the
disadvantage of having our own people think so . . .
[To Thokk:] How well do you think the Security staff can function
without phasers?
Thokk: Well . . . I can probably put together a squadron of swordsmen
--I mean, all the fencing that gets done on this ship must have
*some* purpose.
Kleber [shaking his head]: No good. I've met--well, shot, actually--
this Jones. At the time, he was on the point of defeating
Commander Scribonia in single combat. [Everyone at the table
whistles appreciatively.] If he's not a Wizard, he's darn
close. Snark might be able to beat him, if he weren't still
vacationing on Vinica, but I doubt any other crewmember--
or group of crewmembers--could beat Jones in a swordfight.
Furd: What we need is a plan . . . [He pulls out a napkin, and starts
sketching] . . . and you'll go over here, and then the pizza . . .
[more sketching] . . . and that's when *you* [he turns to
Kabeta] use your secret ability to turn into a wolf . . . at will.
Kleber: Shh! Not everyone at this table knows that Kabeta has the
secret ability to turn into a wolf . . . at will.
Aoki, yaz, Polgara, Jiapa, and Thokk: Well, *I* do.
Kabeta [annoyed, standing up to address the rest of the Officers' Mess]:
Is there anyone in this room who *doesn't* know my secret?
Entire Room: You mean your secret ability to turn into a wolf . . .
at will? [Kabeta sighs.]
Furd [who has been continuing all this time]: . . . and thus by using
the standard Qintoc Flanking Maneuver . . .
Aoki: Is that the one where you blow up all of your own fortifications?
Furd [ignoring him]: . . . and that should do it. [He turns to Kabeta.]
Well, what do you think?
Kabeta: It sounds like a plan.
Aoki: It sounds like a military campaign.
Furd [to Aoki]: Not at all. [Everyone is leaving, presumably to carry
out the plan.] An adherence to elementary tactical principles
is in no way necessarily indicative of militarism. [Everybody
at the table, except for Furd and Aoki, has left.] Face it--
Starfleet is *not* a military organization.
Aoki: Is too.
Furd: Is not.
* * * * * * * *
[Scene: An empty Heisenberg corridor.]
Intercomm: Attention All Personel: The use of phasers or phaser-driven
devices has been determined to be dangerous, for reasons that
are much, much to complicated to explain. Consequently, until
further notice, the use of any such device is forbidden. Utterly.
I repeat: The use of phasers or . . .
[On hearing this, Jones climbs out of an air vent near the ceiling, and
lands on his feet on the floor. He walks down the corridor with a
confident air. As he rounds a corner, he encounters Kleber, seated
at a table, upon which are two goblets, a bottle of grape juice, and
a tray of Starfleet Issue Square SynthePizza, kept piping hot by a
Starfleet Issue Square SynthePizza Warmer.]
Kleber: I'm afraid I can't let you pass.
Jones: I see. Now, I know you can't use your phaser.
Kleber: Right.
Jones: Do you have a sword?
Kleber: No.
Jones: A bladed weapon of any sort?
Kleber: No.
Jones: Perhaps a blunt instrument, or some sort of electrical device?
Kleber: No.
Jones: Do you, in fact, have any weapon at all?
Kleber: No.
Jones: Ah. Let me see if I have this straight. I wish to go by, and you
cannot allow that. You have no weapon, and I have a very big sword.
[He draws it.] . . . Forgive me, but I only see one way this
situation can possibly be resolved.
Kleber: But surely you would never strike down an unarmed opponent.
Jones: True. And for me to get by you--
Kleber: You would indeed have to strike me down. So it appears we are
at an impasse.
Jones: Hmm . . . Then there is but one way to resolve it--a duel of
wits. I trust you are armed in that respect?
Kleber: Let me put it this way. Have you ever heard of Plato and
Aristotle?
Jones: [Thinks.] No.
Kleber: See?
Jones: Very well. Pour the grape juice. [Kleber fills the goblets, while
Jones removes a vial from his pocket.] Open this and inhale,
but be careful not to touch. [He passes the vial over to
Kleber, who holds it to his nose.]
Kleber: I smell nothing.
Jones: That's because you're not inhaling.
Kleber: Would *you* inhale an unknown substance handed to you
by a lunatic who's trying to kill one of your fellow
crewmembers and kidnap another one?
Jones: True enough. [He takes the vial back.] What you are refusing
to smell is xylocaine liquid. It is odoriferous, tastes terrible,
and is one of the more potent oral anesthetics known to man.
[Jones takes the goblets and turns away, busies himself for a
moment, then turns again with a goblet in each hand, and very
carefully puts one goblet in front of each of them.] Your
guess--where is the xylocaine?
Kleber: Guess? I *think*. I *ponder*. I *deduce*. Then, and only then,
do I guess.
Jones: The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and
we drink the juice and the anesthetic does its work and we
find out who is right, and who talks funny for the rest of the
day.
Kleber: And I suppose whoever wins this contest gets his own way on
the issue of you passing me by?
Jones: Yes. And that pizza you've got there.
Kleber: And . . . the pizza. You're not in the Non Sequitor Society,
are you?
Jones: I was, but Monday follows Sunday, you know? Come, come, make
your choice.
Kleber: It's all so simple. All I have to do is deduce, from what I
know of you, the way your mind works. Are you the kind of
man who would put xylocaine into his own glass, or into the
glass of his enemy?
Jones: You're stalling.
Kleber: Stalling? I've barely even *begun* stalling. Now, a great fool
would put the xylocaine into his own goblet, because a great fool
would count on his ability to juggle and pratfall and
otherwise distract his opponent long enough to switch the
glasses. [He looks into Jones's eyes]. I can tell from
the look in your eyes that you're not in the SCA (though
your sister is) and are thus not in the Fool's Guild, so
I can clearly not choose the juice in front of me.
Jones: Keep going.
Kleber: I intend to. Now, xylocaine comes from Earth, and Earth is
entirely peopled by Terrans, and thus, being Terrafied of
losing this contest, you would put the xylocaine as far
as possible from yourself. so I can clearly not choose
the juice in front of me. But then, you must have suspected
I knew the origins of xylocaine, particularly since the vial
has a "Made on Earth" label on it, so I can clearly not choose
the juice in front of you.
Jones: Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.
Kleber: Now, several months ago, when you were about to skewer
Commander Scribonia, I casually shot you, so your thirst
for revenge would probably lead you to instinctively put the
xylocaine into my goblet, so I can clearly not choose the juice
in front of me. However, judging from the intense look of
rage that your eyes have suddenly acquired, and the fact
that you are now attempting to throttle me, I suspect
that you did not realize until (*gurgle*) now that it
was (*gasp*) I who shot you, and thus that bit of
information (*gllll*) cannot have entered into your
decision at all. (*gasp*) Please unhand me--this
(*gurgle*) is a battle of wits, remember? [Jones grudgingly
complies.]
Jones: (*grumble*) Are you quite finished?
Kleber: Only to the extent that I now know where the xylocaine is.
Jones: Only a genius could ha--[He sees, behind Kleber's back,
a leftover hippopotamus skipping gaily down a side corridor.]
What in the world could that be? [While he is distracted,
Kleber switches the goblets.] I could have sworn I saw
something. [Kleber begins to laugh.] I don't understand
what's so funny.
Kleber: Tell you in a minute. But first, let's drink--you from
your goblet, and me from mine.
[They do so.]
Jones: You guessed wrong.
Kleber: You only *think* I guessed wrong. That's what's so funny.
I switched goblets when your back was turned. You fell
victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous
is "Never get involved in a naval war on Vulcan," but only
slightly less well known is this: [he picks up a perfectly
square slice of pizza] "Never go in against a Speaker
for the Dead when Sicilian pizza is on the line." [He
takes a huge, triumphant bite out of the *extremely*
hot pizza--with the standard side effect.] AAAAAUUUUGHH.
[The goblets are empty, so he downs the rest of the
bottle in one gulp.]
Jones [sardonically]: Are you all right?
Kleber: No, I'm naugh augh wigh! [The top of his mouth is a bit
burnt.]
Jones: As I *recall*, [he is deliberately elocuting very precisely]
the contest was to see who would end up talking funny.
I believe I have won. [Quick as a wink, he has leapt over
the table, and is on his way.]
* * * * * * * *
[Scene: A private residence, on Starbase 6502. Various members of
the local chapter of the Society for Chivalric Atavism are there,
including Rosalind, who is sewing a strange-looking garment.
Various others are cooking, calligraphing, and so forth, and
a large contingent is singing and dancing:]
Dancers: I ache for the sight of your sword, dear,
And to call you milady/milord, dear,
Let's dress like Celts
And wear bunny pelts
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.
May our light be a flame, not a flash, love
May the Pox never make us act rash, love
Try not to laugh
When I calligraph
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.
At your command
In armor here I stand,
My sword is in my hand--Ouch!
Next time, I'll hold the hilt.
The fight is fierce
(To quote from Ambrose Bierce).
So long--I gotta pierce
That guy there, in the kilt.
I think that my cloak's out of period
(I got the design from Lem's _Cyberiad_),
But none can assail
My dominant mail
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.
I met a Knight
When I ate at your table;
Or, a stag rampant sable
Were the arms that he bore.
And we had quite a fight
Whether it was a wagon,
Or (as he claimed) a dragon,
That he drove to the War.
We'll cook leg of lamb, not knishes,
And try to stretch out the loaves and fishes;
And then we'll draw lots
For who'll clean the pots
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.
I'll sew a seam,
And make my armor gleam,
And anything you deem
Authentic, I shall try;
I'll brew some beer,
And then some sheep I'll shear,
Because it is, my dear,
A terrific day to day to dye. (Sorry.)
So sew me a gown made of satin;
Speak English, pretending that it's Latin,
Or use "thee" and "thou,"
And "Zounds"--with an "ou"--
As we dance the Anachronism Tango.
[Ardrys enters the room, followed by four members of Base Security.
He spots Rosalind, and goes over to her.]
Rosalind [not looking up from her sewing]: Tell your friends to
wipe their feet before coming in.
Ardrys: Rosalind, we're on a Starbase near the edge of the Galaxy.
We're two hundred parsecs from the nearest mud.
Rosalind: That's not my problem. *I'm* not the one coming in here
with my own private army. [Ardrys motions for the redshirts
to wait outside. Once they have left, Rosalind finally looks
up at him.] Is it really necessary to have your dogs following
you everywhere you go?
Ardrys: On a Federation Starbase--
Rosalind: Mainly populated by non-Federation traders.
Ardrys: --which is run by Starfleet--
Rosalind: Or rather, by a single Starfleet Commander, and the
redshirts under his command.
Ardrys: Look, it's not as if it's some kind of military dictatorship--
Rosalind: No?
Ardrys: Starfleet is a non-military organization.
Rosalind: So you keep telling me. (*sigh*) Look, you obviously came
here for a reason. If you've got news about my brother, spill
it. If you're here to press your suit one more time, let me
get back to my sewing.
Ardrys: Very well. Your brother has been spotted aboard the Heisenberg.
The details aren't quite clear, but apparently he has succeeded
in injuring--nonfatally--one Lieutenant Kleber. For some reason,
they weren't quite specific on just how this happened--I can
only assume it was a swordfight of some sort.
Rosalind: That idiot! If he's going to put off bringing Richard back
just so he can take his petty revenge, he ought to at least get
the job done right! Nonfatally injured, indeed!
[She is fuming, as we have never seen anyone fume, except
Jones.]
Ardrys [backing off, a look of terror in his eyes]: Yes . . . quite.
[He is halfway to the door]: Um . . . interesting outfit
you're sewing--Tudor, is it?
Rosalind [icily]: No.
Ardrys [almost at the door]: Well, um . . . good to see you again.
[He escapes.]
---------------------------------
Date: Wed, 1 Apr 92 11:39:28 -0500
From: bryant@husc.harvard.edu
Subject: ST:TCG4 "Sheep's Clothing" (LONG)
This is from Lucy Hadden, occasionally aka Scribonia the Illegible.
-----
>From hadden@husc Tue Mar 31 22:57:57 1992
Return-Receipt-To: hadden@husc (Lucy Hadden)
[A small, plain cabin. We see Metag in his pajamas, and monkeys
everywhere.]
McDonagh (ic): Sorry about this, folks, the holocorridor
seems to have suffered a leak again. Some trained volunteers and I are
working on it, and hope to have it cleared up as soon as possible. Once
again, we apologize for the inconvenience.
Metag: Good thing, too. With all these stupid holobaboons around, I can't
tell *which* way is up. [The door opens, and an armored figure appears,
carrying what looks like a large, nasty gun. Metag cringes as Andy opens
fire on the baboons.]
Baboons (seriatum)(disappearing): MNAAGH!![high-pitched]
Metag: Don't you know it's not polite to wave large weapons at strangers?
Crackdown Andy: Sorry. I'm Crackdown Andy, a new member of
the security team. I'm used to dealing with those things [waving gun].
[Metag cringes again.] Well, I have to go disperse more holobaboons. See
ya around. [waves gun yet again, this time goodbye]
Metag stares blankly at the closed door.
Sheep's Clothing
Written by Lucy Hadden
Directed by
With guest appearances by:
Leonid Fridman as Wat A. Mellin
Ximena Cearley as the wolf's voice
Concerned Man as himself
and Sam Nelson as Crackdown Andy
Theme Music from "Peter and the Wolf" by Sergei Prokofiev
Captain's Log, Stardate
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