by Lea Davidson
Captain Jean-Luc Picard prowled tensely around the bridge, his Poly-cling uniform conforming pleasingly to his elegant physique. On the main viewing screen, the still-burning wreckage of Deep Space Station Nine tumbled aimlessly through space. Lieutenant Data searched for the last message from the hapless station. his bio-cyber hands darting over the console. Picard watched him owlishly, repulsed by the android's effeminate features.
The terrorist fiends responsible for this heinous crime against Federation authority were probably still lurking in the sector. A fragmented transmission from DS9 indicated that the stations' feeble defence array had fired at the attacking vessel after it placed the limpet mines which blew DS9 into bite-sized pieces. The Gunner seemed sure he had made a significant hit. With any luck, the Aggressor was disabled. Picard was determined to take strong punitive action against the cowardly scum responsible for this reprehensible outrage. This was personal. His accountant had been on that station.
On board the Liberator, Blake and his crew celebrated their latest anti-establishment excess with pints of lager. (Except for Avon, who preferred Pimms.)
"What was it we blew up?" asked the Big Dumb One.
"How the hell should I know?" snapped Blake, concentrating on Karly's rather tricky top button.
Avon glanced up from his Face magazine. "He doesn't know, he doesn't care. It was representative of the evil imperialist Federation oppressors and destroying it gave him a sense of worth. It was probably a Federation child care centre."
"Oh", said the Big Dumb One, "Anyone for another Lager?"
The starship Enterprise heeled gracefully to starboard, following the invisible ion trail detected by its tracking scanners. Captain Picard cranked his phaser up to Incinerate Slowly in grim anticipation.
"What do you mean you can't remember where you parked it?" said Rimmer incredulously.
"We were in such a hurry to see what the explosion was that I just forgot to pay attention to where we left it. All these smegging planets look the same... Try that one over there. The green one." Lister left a greasy fingerprint on the scanner screen as he indicated.
"Sirs, Mr Lister may be right. There is a ship orbiting that planet," said Kryten, piloting Starbug toward it.
"See? You're so uptight, Rimmer. It's impossible to lose an entire trillion tonne mining ship." Lister was smug and stuffed a triumphant handful of prawn chips into his mouth.
"Sirs, on closer inspection the ship orbiting this particular planet does not appear to be Red Dwarf."
"Smeghead," said Rimmer, addressing Lister's dreads.
The orbiting ship was in fact, the Liberator, drunkenly circling while the automech repaired the damage inflicted by DS9's laser cannons. Blake and his comrades didn't even notice Starbug dock. The confused consternation caused by the arrival of three gatecrashers on the flight deck was easily overcome by a round of lagers and a game of darts. And there were now enough people for a really good game of Twister.
"Doctor!! That twerp is hogging the bathroom again!" shrieked Tegan in her obnoxious Australian twang.
The Doctor sighed and gathered the last shreds of his patience together. "So use the ensuite, Tegan. Do I have to think of everything myself?"
Tegan clattered off on her six inch heels, rump encased in a vulgar vinyl miniskirt.
"Bloody kids," muttered the Doctor. He fiddled distractedly with the Tardis's spark plugs. The cantankerous machine was playing up again. How much easier life had been when the most daunting prospect on any given day was a despotic Dalek or a sadistic Cyberman. Now he had to contend with Adric's incessant postulations and Tegan's behaving like a strumpet. Disgusting. A major reshuffle was called for.
The reshuffle the Doctor longed for arrived in the form of a powerful tractor beam from the USS Enterprise. Locked-on to the source of the ion particle pollution, the giant starship had no trouble in dragging the Tardis into the Security Bay. A squad of armed MPs and the ships' Environmental Inspection Officer (armed with a Prohibited Emissions Defect Notice) formed the reception committee. They weren't even a little bit surprised when the docking bay shunt doors opened to reveal a battered blue police box. Just the week before they had arrested a midget with a pencil for a nose, flying an unregistered, uninsured plywood rocket of dubious spaceworthiness.
The Doctor felt quite offended at being hauled aboard the Enterprise like a fish on a line. The Indignity of having a defect notice slapped on his beloved Tardis hurt like hell, and to make his humiliation complete, Tegan emerged to greet the MP escort wearing her most repugnant outfit — patent leather hot pants, fishnets and a transparent tulle boob tube. At her appearance, the hardened security officers cocked their weapons and set their steely jaws. The Doctor blushed deep crimson and pretended not to know her. Adric, at least, kept his precocious mouth shut, too busy ogling Tegan's acres of cellulite to embarrass the Doctor with any smartarse comments.
Captain Picard awaited the arrival of his guests (as they were euphemistically termed) in the Observation Lounge. Security had informed him that the suspect party consisted of two male humanoids and a female of undefined origin. He kept the phaser within easy reach, out of sight on the chair beside him. terrorists could be very unpredictable. Though lord knows he wouldn't relish the chance to exterminate the lot of them. Even the suspected ones.
But the benign appearance of the terrorist leader who called himself Doctor surprised Picard. He had half expected to meet the notorious saboteur-renegade Blake, renowned for his imposing flares and devil-may-care kaftans. In contrast, this terrorist seemed quite reasonable - conservatively attired in coordinating colours, clean-shaven and articulate. His two companions seemed more of a threat and Picard had a squad of the heftiest officers beat them senseless and suspend then upside down from the pot plant stand. Just to be safe.
The interrogation proceeded in predictable fashion:
Picard: Did you blow up DS9?
Doctor: No. What is DS9?
Picard: I'll ask the questions. Did you blow up DS9?
Doctor: No. Can I go now?
Picard: I'll ask the questions. Did you blow up DS9?
Doctor: No. How could I if I don't know what it is?
Picard: I'll ask the questions...
Meanwhile, the party on the Liberator had moved up a gear. The Red Dwarf crew, deprived of human contact for millennia, had not yet realised that they were in the company of sartorially deficient, deeply daggy people. They were having fun. Even Rimmer. The beer (and Pimms) flowed, the conversation became smuttier and people even began to laugh at Rimmer's jokes. Such was the nature of their innocent merriment.
After a few hours of unproductive questioning, Picard was getting desperate and the Doctor was desperately bored. Tegan and Adric had regained consciousness and were bickering from their upside down positions on the pot plant stand.
The sudden entrance of Beverley Crusher broke Picard's interrogation rhythm. The Doctor was quick to notice the endearingly nonplussed way in which the Captain greeted his medical officer. Starship captains had an established history of bonking their chief MOs. The Doctor grimaced with disgust and embarrassment as he recalled the night the Bones McCoy kindly let him use his cabin on the original Enterprise. If they hadn't been unexpectedly attacked by Klingon pirates... well, old JTK's voracious appetite for blondes was infamous throughout the galaxy.
Dr Crusher had come to inspect the "guests" and ensure that their basic human rights were not being violated. Tegan's status as human was uncertain until a quite DNA test revealed that she was indeed Terran. Her antipodean origin and penchant for constrictive clothing accounted for most of the observed physiological aberrations.
Another reason for Dr Crusher's visit was to inform the Captain that a party had been detected off the port bow. Attendance was estimated at approximately ten, with a kilojoule count in the mid 20s. A modest moderate, but none-the-less illegal, festive gathering.
At this news, the Doctor's mind began to form a cunning plan all by itself. He tried to suppress it, but resistance was useless and it forced it's way out anyway.
"Captain Picard," he said, softly and with an air of defeat. "I'm ready to talk now."
Blake had Lister cornered. A pint in one hand and Karly in the other, he enthusiastically expounded his latest theories on galactic guerilla tactics and told his favourite Federation atrocity stories. Lister began to recognise the symptoms of fanaticism in his host. The chocolate brown, extra-wide lapels smacked of a radical and unnervingly narrow view of the Universe. He tried a cautious sidle towards the exit, trying to catch the eyes of his crewmates. Blake followed him unerringly, spouting ever more vehement tirades of rhetoric.
The Enterprise was closing in. On the bridge, visual contact had been established with the party-carrying ship. Lieutenant Data was running identification scans and hailing frequencies were opened. Forward phaser banks were armed as a precaution — enough firepower to atomise even the cockroaches on the target ship.
The Doctor's confession brought tears of rage to Picard's soldierly eyes. Such ruthless, evil, treacherous deeds, performed by two so young! He stared at Tegan and Adric with renewed venom. The Doctor stared out the window, feeling a tiny spark of guilt flare up then dwindle away. Picard's hand moved towards the phaser beside him.
Lister was panicky. Blake and his comrades were clearly raving lefties and being seen anywhere near them was likely to be image threatening. If only the Cat had been here! He noticed the Twister board on the floor and cursed himself for being so stupid. Abandoning any pretence of politeness, he sidestepped Blake and made a bolt towards Rimmer.
"Rimmer! Come on, man! We've got to get the smeg out of here. We've blundered into a bunch of retro-dressing, militant socialists!"
"Oh Listy, Listy, Listy! Always making the jokes. Listen, Avon here has just told me a fabulous one about a cardinal and a —"
Lister cut him off. "This is serious! We've got to grab Kryten and get off this ship. NOW."
"Lister, if you are doing this just because I'm having a genuinely good time for the first time in three million years, I will be very annoyed." Rimmer had assumed his best Space Ace pose in an attempt to look authoritative. But Lister was already trying to coax Kryten away from his winning position at the darts board.
"Bridge to Captain Picard. We have an ID on the party-carrying vessel. Confirmed as light cruiser Liberator positively linked to convicted anti-Federation terrorist Blake."
Picard rogered the message and gazed steadily at the Doctor. Well, well, well. What a coincidence finding a known terrorist in the vicinity of a terrorist attack. Perhaps we will have to re-assess your version of events?"
The Doctor remained adamant. "I don't think so. Tegan and Adric are guilty as hell. You would be wise to shoot them as soon as possible."
"That may be so, but we can't let you go to a party with a crowd of notorious terrorists, can we?"
"True. How about we drop the bit about me going to the party in exchange for the information? I don't mind. Really. To know that justice has been done is enough for me." The Doctor's face was aglow with sincerity.
"What a noble fellow you are," remarked Picard, admiration in his azure eyes.
Lister, Rimmer and Kryten dashed for the docking airlock. The Big Dumb One made a diving tackle at Rimmer's departing legs and passed straight through them.
"Oh, let them go!" shouted Blake. "Fascist pigs. They were lowering the tone of the evening anyway."
The festivities became subdued in the wake of the Red Dwarf crews' departure. Subdued enough to hear the authoritarian transmissions from the Enterprise that were coming through the signals channel.
"Shut up you lot!" bellowed Blake. "Shut up! There's a message coming in."
The Enterprise had begun to lose patience with the Liberator and the communications officer was no longer bothering to shroud the "heave to" order in pseudo-friendly tones. Blake was enraged.
"Imperialist swine! Filthy fascist thugs! Let me talk to them. Where's the damn microphone?"
"It's plugged into the karaoke machine," said Karly helpfully.
"Perhaps they'd like to hear your rendition of Rebel Yell?" suggested Avon caustically.
Blake jammed the microphone back into the transmitter socket. "One more smarmy word out of you, Avon, and I'll clobber you so hard you'll think you've gone supernova. I'm beginning to doubt your commitment to our cause. Don't convince me."
Avon, quite used to Blake's fits of fervour, ignored him.
"Enterprise! Enterprise! Listen up, you technopathic twats. We'll never surrender. We're heavily armed, highly trained and sick of being oppressed!" Blake's blood pressure was nearing escape velocity. "And we've done nothing wrong," he added as an afterthought.
"This is the Starship Enterprise. We have you identified as terrorist suspect Blake. Our sensors have detected an unauthorised party in progress and we request that you disarm your weapons systems and prepare to be boarded."
Blake turned to his crew, his bravado evaporated. "They know about the party. We're in real trouble. What shall I say?"
"Say you sorry and we promise not to do it again. They can't prove anything else," said Avon.
Blake looked unsure, but it seemed like a good plan.
"Enterprise. We're sorry about the party and we promise not to do it again. It's just that we're celebrating a very successful attack on one of your Deep Space Stations and, well, spirits are pretty high." Blake glanced at Avon for approval and was surprised to see him pull out a phaser and shoot himself in the head.
There was a lengthy silence before Enterprise opened fire and vaporised the Liberator with a quantity of photon torpedos that could only be described as overkill.
"Doctor, I do wish you would be honest with me. You seem such a reasonable fellow, and yet I find you evidence against Tegan and Adric is, to say the least, inaccurate. Blake and his riffraff confessed to the attack without even being asked." Picard was puzzled by the Doctor's convincing denouncement of his companions.
"Look, Captain. I've been stuck with those two for months, they are terrorists. Psychological terrorists. You've got to get me away from them. I can't take any more — Tegan shaving her legs with my razor, singing Click Go the Shears at the top of her volcanic voice... bloody Adric whining and pestering me with endless theories on the nature of E-space... it's just awful!" The Doctor was close to tears and Picard placed a sympathetic arm around his shoulders.
He looked to the pot plant stand, where Tegan and Adric kept up a constant stream of vitriolic vituperation, aimed exclusively at each other. They seemed oblivious to their inverted predicament.
"Hmm. You may have a point, Doctor. And I may have a solution," mused Picard.
The Doctor brightened immediately. "Really? You'll drop them down a garbage chute for me?"
Picard laughed. "No, no, no. I'm still a Starfleet officer. There are a few things I'm not empowered to do. What I had in mind is a little less drastic."
The Doctor was crestfallen.
"But not much less drastic," he added.
Lister, Rimmer and Kryten did not make it back to Starbug before the salvo of photon torpedoes reduced the Liberator to a cloud of cosmic pollution. Starbug was transformed into 4953 cubic litres of superheated gas, three kilos of assorted metal fragments, and the charred corpses of nearly a thousand cockroaches.
Fortunately, neither Lister, Rimmer or Kryten was aboard. They were sitting, bewildered, in a spa, with a startled blonde woman and a very annoyed man with two heads and three arms.
"Curse this infinite improbability drive," said Zaphod Beeblebrox.
Captain Picard adjusted the set of his nicely cut uniform. (He had them custom made by a little Troanese man on Zreytchekk 7 and was justly proud of the superior styling. He had a personal policy of not promoting commissioned officers that persisted in wearing off-the-rack uniforms. The fleet had standards, but sometimes they just weren't high enough.) He was in the security bay, farewelling the Doctor. A detail of ensigns were carefully manoeuvring two heavy slabs of gleaming black carbonite into the Tardis.
"Remember, Doctor. If you ever want to unfreeze them, just call me," Picard was at his most magnanimous. "If I should be unavailable, my uncle Vader has a carbon freezing unit. I know he'd be glad to help out."
"Thanks, Jean-Luc. They'll make a wonderful pair of coffee tables. Much more useful than they ever were at room temperature," said the Doctor graciously.
The two men shook hands. A deep bond had form between them and both wanted to say more, but neither did.
"I'd best be going," blurted the Doctor, afraid of being overwhelmed by emotion.
"Yes." Picard still clasped the Doctor's hand. "Yes, I suppose so."
The Doctor stood in the doorway of the Tardis. "Don't worry. I'll fix the ion emission problem straight away".
"Good... good. Well, so long Doctor," said Picard. "By the way, nice jacket."
But the doors were closed and a wheezing, groaning sound filled the air.
Safely in flight, the Doctor opened his clenched hand to see what Picard had pressed into it during their farewell. It was a scrap of paper, printed with tiny letters.
"Monster party detected at co-ords X352.6xY990.2xZ035.0. 0 kilojoule count. Vessel "Heart of Gold", reg. Z Beeblebrox. Guarantee no federation intervention. ROCK ON DOC, Jean-Luc."
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