Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Dr.  Screw II - The Return of the Screw by Shadowloup

   Chapter 1

   OFFICIAL CAPTAIN'S LOG ENTRY, CONFEDERATION SHIP ROBERTY LEE:

   VOICE OF CAPTAIN JAMES T.  TURK:
Stardate: 38DD-29-36.
Due to an emergency assignment, we were forced to conclude our dealings
with the Ryelians early to convey a diplomatic mission to space station

Byzantium III.

   The nature of this mission is classified on a need to know basis. 
Suffice it to say that Admiral Kraag personally debriefed me of this, and
warned me not to put the "ass" in "classified".  Again.  That fucking
moronic dink.

   Ooohhhh!  Shit!  Shit!  Computer, erase last sentence!

   Whew!  Good thing I caught that, ehh Splock?

   VOICE OF CS ROBERTY LEE'S SCIENCE OFFICER SPLOCK:

   Captain, may I remind you again that computers are very literal.  Since
you uttered the colloquialism "shit" in three short, sentence-like bursts,
it is highly probably that the computer followed your orders exactly by
removing one of those "shits" and leaving the remainder of the embarrassing
log entry intact.

   VOICE OF TURK:

   You think I don't know how to use the computer on my own ship?  You're
getting to be as bad as those fucking turd-smokers at Confederation
Central. AAaahhhh!  Shit!  Shit!  Computer, erase last sentence.

   ****

   The hyperspace drive room of the Confederation Ship Roberty Lee was
large, clean, and ran as smoothly as the precision machinery it housed,
thanks to the authority of Chief Engineering Officer Montivardi "Snotty"
Welsh.  The sturdy Scotsman loved his work as much as he loved the mighty
hyperspace engines with their ability to cleave space-time.

   Snotty watched his workers with pride in his eyes.  Until he saw a group
warily eyeing one of the Jefferson Tubes leading towards the main hall.

   Suspecting them of planning an unauthorized cigarette break without
inviting him, Snotty ambled over.

   "What's going on, laddies?" he asked, his slight Scottish burr just
waiting to roll some "R's".

   One young ensign answered.  "We heard this very strange sound, Sir. 
Like...  a big radioactive monster spurting joy juice all over the place."

   Recognition dawned instantly in Snotty's eyes.  He grabbed a good-sized
spanner from a nearby tool shelve and strode towards the tube.

   "I know just what it is, laddies.  I'll be right back," he announced
over his shoulder.

   A second of crawling took Snotty to an area which widened out enough for
him to stand upright and walk seven steps.  He considered this his secret
office, a little hideaway just outside one of the main halls.  But someone
had installed a large, antique pornographic video booth which now took up
half this empty space.

   A worn placard on the side of the booth announced "Ton-O-Cum; Your one
stop ejaculation station." An old, pink curtain obscured the entrance.

   Snotty banged his spanner on an air duct, creating a horrendous crashing
metal ruckus.

   A man popped his head out of the booth between the folds of the curtain.
His curly hair was styled with cheap mousse.  His eyes were surrounded by
wire framed glasses with lightly tinted lenses.  A jaunty Hawaiian shirt,
Bermuda shorts and old sandals were his clothing.  The unmistakable smoky
tang of mind altering substances accompanied him.  He blinked as Snotty
banged on the air duct again.

   "That's got it, I think!  But you'd better run a full diagnostic test
now!" Snotty yelled towards the main room.  He ignored the low groans of
protest which floated back while he eyed the stranger.

   "That'll keep the lads busy," Snotty said.  "But you might want to warn
a fellow when you're coming, Doc."

   Doc gave the engineer a smile of blinding luminescence.  It was as
though the energy of a supernova had been captured in the enamel of his
teeth.

   "If I had known I was coming I'd have worn a rubber," he said.

   The Chief Engineer suppressed a smile.

   "Still," Snotty said.  "Your popping into the engine room sudden-like is
a breach a protocols, and could get me in a wee bit a trouble."

   "My apologies," Doc said.  He reached into one of the pockets of his
shorts and withdrew a small vial filled with a clear liquid, which he
presented to Snotty.

   "Please accept this vial of Neptunian Juju juice to make up for my
thoughtlessness.  It's water soluble, and untraceable in drug tests."

   Snotty's face lit up with his own smile.

   "You're a sweet man, you are."

   Doc reached into his other pants pocket and withdrew a clear plastic bag
filled with green vegetation.

   "And also accept this baggy of Alpha Centauri cannabis buds.  For
medicinal purposes only.  I prescribe one bong hit a day."

   If Snotty's smile was bright before, it now beamed as radiantly as
Doc's.

   "Ahhh!  A friend with weed is a friend indeed!" he said.  "If I'm
feeling especially generous later, I'll pump some of it through the air
ducts.  Sometimes that's all that keeps the crew from killin' each other."

   "Excellent.  As a doctor, I heartily endorse that.  A lot of people are
not getting their daily minimum requirement of mellowness or slack."

   Now it was Snotty's turn to reach into his Confederation uniform and
withdraw a clear plastic baggy of his own.

   "Since we're in the gift givin' mood, here's a little something for
you."

   Snotty shook the bag, causing the white crystals inside to hiss as they
rubbed together.

   "Look at these, laddie.  It's from me own private stash.  You'll be
sailin' the stars without your ship in no time."

   "You still snorting those?" Doc asked.

   "That's why the call me Snotty," the engineer joked.  "But I should warn
you that this is tri-lithium.  One better than my usual di-lithium brew."

   Doc scratched his chin.

   "Three lithiums makes it more potent?  Then tetra-lithium should be even
better?" he asked.

   "Aye, but the wee atoms won't place right, so tetra-lithium is highly
unstable."

   "Still, if you could just invent the process to get four..."

   "You kennot change the laws of physics, if you ken my meaning," the
engineer said, shaking his head sadly.

   "I can," Doc said.

   To conclude the gift-giving portion of their agenda, Doc broke out his
antique metallic hipflask of Sonic Screwdriver.  As they basked in the
friendly glow of alcohol, Doc asked "So where are you folks bound this
time? Some place exciting, I hope."

   "Just a little dive called Byzantium III."

   "Oh, I know that spot.  There's a lovely little place called the Porno
Palace.  Tell them I sent you."

   "I think not, laddie.  Last time I told someone you'd sent me, some
lawyer-type fella tried to serve me palimony papers with your name on
them."

   "Oh," Doc said.  "Sorry about that."

   After another round of Sonic Screwdriver, Doc asked "Is James T.  Turk
still commanding this tub?"

   "Aye, that he is, the egomaniacal bastard.  He considers Roberty Lee to
be a glorified garbage scow."

   Snotty patted the wall affectionately to soothe the ship's wounded
feelings.

   "What does the 'T' in Turk's name stand for?"

   "Just a T.  He originally didn't have a middle initial, so he gave
himself one to sound grander," Snotty explained.  "We call him 'Tirebiter'
behind his back."

   Snotty and Doc's conversation was interrupted by footsteps from the
corridor outside.  Keeping behind cover, they watched three men walk down
the hall.  The lead man was tall and muscular, though in a few years that
muscle would probably go to flab.  His wavy hair had a youthfully tousled
look.  His mouth was set in a cocky sneer.

   To his right was a taller, more slender, dark-haired being with
extra-large ears and a pinched, dour look, as though he had just smelled a
particularly virulent eructation but was too polite to comment.  The being
on the left was smaller than either, with brown hair and a perpetually
peeved air about him as though he found displeasure in everything.  He
carried a limp white bag clearly marked "Biohazardous Waste".

   The trio strode to a door marked "Replicator Room", looked about as
nonchalantly as three beings with nefarious schemes could, and entered.

   "Aye," Snotty said.  "Those three are thick as thieves today.  I wonder
what they're up to."

   So saying, Snotty flipped open his palm-pocket computer and toyed with a
few settings.  A picture appeared showing the three men surrounding a
strange machine with more buttons than surface area.  Doc assumed the
buttoned machine was the replicator.

   "I've tapped into the security net.  You kennever be too careful,"
Snotty said.

   "Also helps you to know when the drug tests are coming," Doc said with a
wink.

   Snotty returned the wink, and pointed to the commanding figure in the
palm-pocket's screen.  "That's the good Captain James T.  Turk himself. 
The tall beanpole is Mr.  Splock, and the short little twerp is Doctor
McElory."

   Doc and Snotty watched as Turk pressed a few buttons spun several dials
on the replicator, then leaned over to speak into a microphone.

   "James T.  Turk.  Codeword: Monsterweiner."

   Snotty snorted.  "Aye.  Now there's wishful thinking."

   The tall being spoke next.  "First Science Officer Splock.  Codeword:
Logic."

   McElroy gave short, nasty, sarcastic laugh.

   "That's a very logical code word for you, Splock," he said.  "And as
such, it sucks.  You trying to get us caught?"

   "Since it takes three of us to activate the program, the likelihood of
our being caught solely on one password alone being compromised are..."

   "No, no, no," McElroy interrupted.  "You just don't get it, do you?  The
logical, unbreakable password in this particular case would be one that is
illogical, wouldn't it?"

   McElroy smiled devilishly, adding "See how your logic falls flat on its
pointy-eared little ass?"

   "Very well, Doctor," Splock said in a precise tone.  "Let us hear your
unbreakable illogical password."

   McElory glared at Splock as he spoke into the microphone.  "Chief
medical officer Lenny McElroy.  Codeword: malpractice."

   "That password is neither illogical nor unbreakable," Splock said dryly.

   "Oh fuck you, you...  you chartreuse-blooded Hephaestian motherfucker!"

   "Sticks and stones, doctor.  Sticks and stones."

   "Splock!  Boner!  Please!" Turk interrupted in a melodramatic gasping
cadence.  "We have got to stick together."

   "He uses a lame ass password for the same reason I do, he can't remember
it," McElroy protested, adding "He's dead to me, Jim.  He's dead."

   As they argued, the replicator rumbled into action, creating a golden
glow accompanied by a low humming sound like a monk uttering a throaty,
guttural mantra.  Green stacks of neatly bundled papers appeared in the
replicator's opening.

   McElroy opened the medical waste bag and Splock began tossing those
stacks inside.

   "Ohh, those wee, rotten bastards!" Snotty said.

   "What are they making?"

   "Money, you daft fool!  Those bastards are forging money and they're not
cutting me in."

   "What are you going to do with this fascinating new tidbit of
information?"

   "I'll have to ponder that, laddie, while imbibing on your Neptunian Juju
Juice."

   "Just remember only one hit at a time with that stuff," Doc said.  "It's
pretty potent."

   "Aye.  It's this rotten trip.  Things have really gone to hell in a
handbasket ever since we took on that secret cargo."

   Doc was on that in an instant.  "Secret cargo?  Are you guys ferrying
drugs?  And if so, can I have some?"

   "No, laddie, not unless you know of some type of drug that requires food
and water."

   Doc pondered the possibilities.  One put a gleam in his eyes.  "Hhmmm.
White slavery?  And if so, can I have a poke?"

   "Laddie, you've got more paranoid conspiracy theories than the Grassy
Knoll Club.  Maybe you should lay off the drugs."

   "I can't do that.  I've a reputation to live down to.  Besides, I'm a
Time Fnord.  We live, eat and breath conspiracies," Doc said with a smile
of nova-like intensity.  He walked toward the curtained door of his
porno-booth-cum-ship.  "But I think I'll pop on ahead of you.  See you at
Byzantium III."

   With that, Doc re-entered the booth, which was actually his JOINT,
Jovian Organically Integrated Noisy Transporter.  True to its name, the
booth created a noise like a large beast having its jollies electrically
molested and faded away

   Snotty watched as the gentle breeze created by the sudden absence of a
large object swayed the dust bunnies on the floor.

   "Dafter than swan," he said, and went back to work.



   Chapter 2

   Byzantium III floated lazily near the intersection of three folds of
hyperspace at the ass end of the universe.  Looking like a cylinder with a
slight weight problem, it rotated slowly in the everlasting night.

   This Rotation provided the station's denizens with enough artificial
gravity to live, work and perform their mating rituals.  And if the gravity
failed to facilitate those rituals, then the thousands of orgasmic
engineers who prowled the station were available to lend helping hands,
flippers or tentacles, for a nominal fee.  Because of this, and Byzantium
III's lonely, distant locale, space prospectors referred to it as their
"last, best chance for piece of ass."

   But now ByzantIum III was flirting with respectability

   The few diplomAtic missions operating on the station had recently been
contacted by a strange new alien race, the Whorelons.  These beings were a
complete mystery, refusing to meet face-to-face or even exchange
holographic images.  What the Whorelons did want was to meet with the
nearest superpowered civilization, the Confederation.

   So the ByzaNtium III diplomats were pleased to liaise between the two
races.  Their efforts now bore fruit.  The Whorelons agreed to attend a
diplomatic conference, and the Confederation had gotten off its ass and
actually sent a diplomatic mission to the station.  To celebrate, Byzantium
III planned to do what it did best; throw a mind-bending party.

   DelegationS for most of the major races were already onboard the
station. In fact, they currently congregated in Byzantium III's largest,
most ornate hall.  It was 100 cubic yards of empty space in a place where
empty, habitable space was rare.  On the walls were three-dimensional
holographic representations of the outside space, which gave the confined
area an illusion of being even larger.  In reality, the guests stood on the
outer hull of the ship, with nothing separating them from inky vacuum but a
few feet of steel.

   Ignorance of tHe precariousness of their party was very blissful to the
ambassadors, who mingled, partook of a vast variety of alien foods, and
chattered excitedly.  Even by Byzantium III standards, this was going to be
quite a party.

   FrigAdier Jonathan "Leftwing" Stewart, the head of Byzantium III's
Security Force, was ecstatic.  And his middle name, awarded to him because
he was so conservative as to be in danger of wrapping around to become a
liberal, was an indicator that he was not usually ecstatic.  For days he
had walked around with an uncharacteristic smile beneath his laser-thin
black moustache.  He had even complimented several underlings, thus adding
to the palpable tension.

   His unDerling, Sergeant Dennis Bainter was equally pleased.  After a
month of leading an investigation into the recently thwarted Dildek
invasion, he was eager for something completely different.  Plus, whenever
the Frigadier was happy, so was the convivial, clean cut Bainter.

   BOth men nodded their heads in approval as they watched the gaily
colored bunting hanging across the reception hall change colors.  It read
"Greetings" in several languages, then "Welcome to Byzantium III".  Though
they could not see it, the same characters fluoresced in both the
ultra-violet and infra-red portions of the spectrum.

   There had been a debate over Whether this bunting should be removed
after someone remembered the very tragic fate of Byzantium I during a
different diplomatic soiree.  At that one, the Kelnoiree race had attended.
Alas, no one had realized that, in their culture, buntings represented
proclamations of war.  Byzantium I's demise had been swift.  But not as
swift as that which befell Byzantium II, which had run afoul of some sort
of love struck interstellar creature which had copulated with the station
until its destruction.

   Standing near Bainter was his new girLfriend, the tall, elegant blond
Bambi.  Formerly an orgasmic engineer, she had recently become Byzantium
III's official orgasmic engineer licenser, thanks to her connections with
Bainter.  She had also started the catering company which had been hired
for this diplomatic party, also thanks to Bainter.

   She gave Bainter a smile, then examined the main serving table, testing
the fOod, checking the cooking and dish placements, reviewing the place
cards, and flittering about like a terrestrial butterfly.

   Bambi had abUsed her connections a bit further to get her friend and
roommate Alexis invited to the soiree as a representative of Byzantium
III's business community.

   The shorter, darker, but no less shaPely Alexis was not convinced that
her appearance at this meeting would increase the patronage of her porn
shop.  Alexis's club, previously known as the legendary Porno Palace, had
been severely damaged during the Dildek invasion,.  She had rebuilt it, and
re-christened it as the Kitty-cat Club.

   Alexis wore a new pink blouse, which may have been one size too small,
over her proud bust.  She also wore her trademark black spandex bike pants,
which now seemed two sizes too small.  She held a drink her left hand while
trying to pull those pants out of the crack of her rump with her right,
while shielding her maneuver from the cameras.  She did not care for the
numerous news cameras which floated about like droning insects.

   Seeing Alexis ill at ease and out of sorts, standing towards the back of
the room, interacting with few others, Bambi flitted over.

   "Are you OK?" she asked her friend.

   "I have no idea what I'm doing here," Alexis said.  "This is your area
of expertise."

   "Nonsense.  Just look at all those cameras.  There's the Byzantium News
Network, Al-Jizzeata, Foxylady News.  They're just looking for interesting
things to shoot.  And one of the most interesting is you, a self-made
business woman and busty entrepreneur to boot."

   "These aren't my people," Alexis said.

   Bambi eyed a large, ponderous ambassadorial creature of the Maloderon
race, a species which resembled fat, dwarflike, tail-less whales with
pendulous noses and flat feet, who communicated primarily through smell.

   "These are not exactly my people either," Bambi said.

   Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the officers from
the Confederation Ship Roberty Lee.  The men entered the hall to deafening
applause.

   Captain James T.  Turk looked resplendent in his gray stripped
Confederation uniform, a boyish shock of unruly hair played on his
forehead. Behind him stood Snotty, McElroy and Splock, all equally
well-dressed.  Snotty toted a black plastic case.  Farther back stood two
other men, one dressed in an Hawaiian shirt, the other a short, portly,
bespectacled man with crinkly hair.

   The Frigadier and Bambi approached Turk.  Bambi carried a lei made from
condoms donated by Alexis, which she laid around Turk's neck, saying
"Welcome to Byzantium III.

   Turk eyed Bambi's ass with intent, the lei giving him many a nasty idea.
Before he could think of a suitable comeback, the Frigadier was pumping his
hand in the ancient earthen welcome.

   "Welcome to Byzantium III," the Frigadier said, leading Turk away from
Bambi and towards a podium decked so many microphones it resembled a
mini-missile launcher.  The floating cameras followed like a hoard of
flies. One buzzed a bit too close to the Frigadier, nearly knocking off his
dress cap.

   While Turk searched forlornly for one last vision of Bambi's lost ass,
the Frigadier stood behind the microphone and began the banal incantation
to start the party.

   "Ladies and gentle beings, we are here today to celebrate a ..."

   Fearing the Frigadier might actually be attempting some sort of
mind-control experiment via boredom, Alexis turned her mind off and tuned
out the incessant chattering.  It was just in time for her to see a
familiar Hawaiian-shirt clad man slink towards the exit.

   Alexis ran after him, grabbing a piece of shrimp from a platter as she
passed.

   "Hey, you!" she shouted.  She threw the entree at him, striking him in
the back of his head.

   "You bastard!  You never said goodbye.  You never write.  You never..."

   Alexis stared with growing horror as the stranger turned to face her. 
It was not the mysterious Time Fnord Doc.  It looked a bit like him, but
wasn't.

   He, like Doc, had a powerful yet goofy grin, which he leveled at Alexis.

   "Hiya, babe," the man said.  "If you really wanted to get to know me, a
simple hello would have been great."

   His voice had a laid back, self-confident air, with just a hint of
smarminess.  His eyes were equally self confident to the point of possible
insanity.

   "I'm sorry.  I thought you were someone else."

   "Well, I'm glad I'm not that guy.  I'm just little old George Metesky of
the CIA." The man pointed his finger as though it were a gun, his thumb the
hammer.  "Gotta run, babe.  My government is collapsing."

   With that and a smile, he turned and left.



   Chapter 3

   One hour after the soiree's start found that the Whorelons had not yet
appeared.  They were now a bit beyond fashionably late.  To kill time, the
Frigadier, Bambi, and Bainter huddled in a knot about the Confederate
officer Turk.

   "Will your crew members be enjoying our Byzantium III hospitality,
Captain?" Bambi asked.

   "No, I'm afraid not," Turk said, giving the blond his largest smile and
most undivided attention.  The Confederate captain's syncopated, breathless
enunciation gave his every word a sense of urgency.  "You see, the
Confederation does not believe in money.  We have no need of it, since it
is an archaic concept.  Unfortunately that gives us trouble when we contact
races which do."

   "It must also make buying booze difficult," Bainter said through gritted
teeth, as he tried to divide Turk's attention.

   "You got that right, brother," Turk said, suddenly aware of some sort of
rivalry developing between he and Bainter.

   The Frigadier muttered something which sounded suspiciously like "pussy
socialists living in a jerker's paradise," but everyone was too refined to
say anything.

   "You do know what our penalty for theft is?" Bainter asked Turk.

   Seeking a distraction, Turk quickly grasped a portly, bespectacled man
with curvy, crinkly hair who was passing by.  Roughly grasping the man's
shoulders, Turk turned him so that his startled, sweaty face blinked at the
group.

   "Frigadier," Turk said.  "I would like you to meet Special Ambassador
for Earth, Dr.  Henry Kissenger."

   Kissenger was short, but made up for it by wearing shoes with extremely
elevated souls.  Beneath his crinkly hair, perched awkwardly atop his pudgy
nose, were a pair of antique horn-rimmed glasses.  His speech held an
accent no one had ever placed, with the vocal timbre of rattling gravel.

   "Hello, I am Henry Kissenger Mark 653.  You are happy to meet me, I'm
sure."

   The holographic image on the wall interrupted Kissenger's remarks.  The
image displayed a pulsating, bright red and yellow light, an energetic
announcement of a ship sliding out of hyperspace.

   It was huge.  It just kept sliding out of a vaginally shaped rent.  Its
hull rippled, reflecting the bright red radiation and background pinpoints
of starlight.

   As the alien craft came to a halt near the more petite Roberty Lee, a
smaller alien craft with a similar rippling skin exited.  This mini-craft
sped through the vacuum of space towards Byzantium III.

   "That must be our other guests of honor, the Whorelons," the Frigadier
said.

   Everyone turned from the Confederation Officers to watch the new
arrivals, irking Turk.  He grew even more irked a few minutes later when a
mid-sized, squat being wearing a sort of encounter suite of a style Turk
had never seen before, sauntered into the hallway.  That suit, composed of
the same iridescent black as its ship, gave the new being a funky,
sadomasochistic monk-like look.

   As the Frigadier approached the newcomer, Turk turned to his crewmates
who had coagulated near him during the excitement.

   "Snotty, the translators," Turk ordered.

   Snotty rolled his eyes, opened the black case he had been lugging
throughout the party.  He extracted four rectangular handheld devices,
which he presented to Turk.

   Turk made his way towards the Frigadier as he ushered the Whorelon
towards the podium at the front of the room.  Several times Turk nearly
dropped his the four devices he carried.  Snotty, still rolling his eyes
and shaking his head, followed.

   "Denizens of Byzantium III," Turk announced, cutting off the Frigadier's
official introduction of the newcomer.  "We of the Confederation would like
to thank you for this opportunity, and would like to present these useful
gifts.  They are a little something we call Universal Translators.  With
clear understanding comes peace."

   Turk held one device up, smiling grandly.  The Frigadier gave a pained
smile.  The black-clad Whorelon bobbed in place upon thick legs.

   "How does it work?" asked the Frigadier.

   "Just press this button and speak into it," Turk explained, pointing to
the button as he handed the device to the Frigadier.

   The Frigadier gripped the machine, smiled at the Whorelon, pushed the
button and spoke.  "Greetings Whorelon Ambassador."

   The machine whirled into action, then chittered something out through
the speaker opening at its top.  The being in the black encounter suite
nodded its head sagaciously, and chittered something back.  The translator
hummed, chirped, then spoke in a steady, deep, ponderous tone, unencumbered
by inflection: "I_like_to_fuck_po_tatoes."

   The Frigadier blinked, but kept his smile.  He carefully yet forcefully
slapped the translator with the palm of his free hand.

   "I trust your trip was uneventful," he said.

   After whirling and chirping, the translator responded,
"All_your_po_tato_are_belong_to_us.  Take_off_every_zig. 
Good_fuck_had_by_all."

   Turk muttered something beneath his breath which sounded like "Shit! 
Shit!  Shit!" He turned to his chief engineer.

   "Mr.  Welsh," Turk commanded.

   "Allow me, sir," Snotty said to the Frigadier as he tenderly removed the
translator from the Frigadier's grip and let it drop.  It smacked onto the
hard floor.  Snotty picked it up, dusted it off, and presented it back to
the Frigadier.

   "Sometimes these little electronic doodads have just got to be shown
who's got the dexterous fingers in this relationship," Snotty said.

   "I'll bear that in mind," the Frigadier replied, eyeing the translator
warily.  It now made electronic growling noises.

   "Once again, welcome to Byzantium III," the Frigadier said.

   The Whorelon chattered something.  The translator chittered:
"I'm_pleased_as_fuck_to_be_here."

   "Now that's an improvement," Snotty said.



   Chapter 4

   Over the course of the evening it was found that every translated
sentence uttered by the Whorelon either contained the word "fuck" or some
oddly inappropriate sexual reference.  These interjections were often
interspliced with some sort of mystic koanic story.  The net result was
that some ambassadors harbored suspicions about the new diplomat.

   The Vindaloovian ambassador was told
"Urethral_gerbil_stuffing_is_great," while the Anatnas ambassador was
treated to the insight "It_takes_a_mighty_ass_to_fart_prodigiously." Both
these must have paled to whatever was told to the Maloderon, who, after
conferring briefly with the Whorelon, went about the hall smelling of
spoiled tuna, a sign of worry in that race.

   While Bambi ushered the Whorelon ambassador through more of the
diplomatic gauntlet, the previously introduced ambassadors mingled,
discussing various programs and deals.  One familiar voice cut through the
din, startling Alexis, who had camped out in a quiet corner by the punch
bowl.  She sought out the source.

   "The problem with the universe today is too much CUNT."

   The boisterous, familiar voice emanated from a knot of ambassadors which
included a gorgeous hominid ambassador from the planet Vindaloo.  Her deep
chocolate skin and shapely feminine appearance had captivated many males
from a variety of species.  The man talking to her, and doing an excellent
job of peering down her copious cleavage, was none other than the
bespectacled Time Fnord Doc.

   The bald-headed Vindaloovian tittered elegantly, her dark eyes wide in
feigned surprise.

   "Why, whatever do you mean, Doctor?" she said in a tone of playful
rebuke.

   Alexis was about to hurl her drink at Doc as she neared the group.

   "No, no, it's just Doc," Doc replied.  He nearly blinded the group with
his smile.  "And I'm talking about Corresponding Universal Negative Trust."

   Appreciating the brilliant use of an acronym, the ambassadors applauded.

   Alexis couldn't stop herself.  As if from a distance, she heard herself
speaking.

   "That is SHIT!" she said.  "Silly...  ahh...  Hypno...  ahhh..."

   Alexis's face went red while her mind went blank beneath the barrage of
ambassadorial stares and Doc's impressive smile.

   "Silly Hypothetical Ignorant Twaddle," came the cultured tones of the
Frigadier from behind Alexis's shoulder.  He too was applauded as he
entered the knot of ambassadors.  Bainter followed his superior.  The
Frigadier and Doc exchanged looks of mild non-amusement, though the
Frigadier's possessed more distaste.

   "Well, well, if it isn't Doc," the Frigadier said.  "During my long
recuperation after that Dildek invasion I had so hoped you were only a
figment of my drug-addled imagination."

   "Despite the sucky scansion on your impromptu rhyme, you must have been
on some pretty good shit," Doc said, perking up at his favorite topic. 
"What was it?  Morphine?  Codeine?  Percocet?  All three?  Wait a second
and let me take some notes."

   "I don't know.  I was on the receiving end.  But I always give credit
where it is due, and so I am forced to thank you for your help."

   "Don't be so morose, Frigadier.  After all, we did beat off those
Dildeks." Doc smirked.

   "Yes, Dildeks.  And now Whorelons.  Have you ever noticed how all these
new alien species seem to have smutty names?" the Frigadier mused.  "I just
heard tell of the Clingons from Uranus.  I wonder what will be next.  Ahhh!
I know!  The Vagatarians from Y-space."

   Bainter smiled.  "That's a good one, sir," he said, in counterpoint to
the ambassadors, who politely stared about the hall.

   "Yes, I am rather proud of it," the Frigadier said, his smile beaming.

   Doc turned to Alexis.

   "Did you hear that?  The Frigadier cracked a funny."

   "Probably because he was under doctor's orders to," Alexis grumbled.

   Captain Turk, captivated by the cantilevered boobs of the Vindaloovian
ambassador, approached like a Terranian moth to photons.  He had just
entered the group himself when the Frigadier accosted him.

   "So Captain, the Confederation's disbelief in the concept of money will
make your stay on Byzantium III a little difficult, will it not?"

   "They can take it out in trade," Alexis said before thinking.  When she
noticed everyone looking at her, her face blushed again.

   "Well, everybody else does," she said, adding "Oh dear, I seem to have
finished my drink," and walked off.

   Doc took up the Frigadier's challenge.

   "Just because the Confederation uses a different monetary system than
you doesn't require you to be condescending to them," he said.

   "A stiff dick has no conscience, Doc.  You should know that.  And
whenever someone gets the itch for sex, they are apt to pull some felonious
stunt to get the proper capital to scratch that itch."

   The group began shedding ambassadors, as most noticed other ambassadors
they just had to greet.

   "Frigadier, why are you such a narc?" Doc said.

   "It's in my job description."

   Unable to assail that logic, Doc trooped off to the punch bowl where he
found Alexis topping off her drink with the gallant help of Snotty.

   "This party is not the happy happening I was hoping for," Doc said.

   "Why?  Because there's no sex?" Alexis grumbled.

   "No sex, no laughter, no joy.  Just nauseating diplomatic niceties
abounding.  As a doctor I diagnose this party as a terminal bore.  What it
needs is a metaphysical enema."

   So saying, Doc whipped out his antique hipflask, opened it, and poured a
very liberal portion into the punch bowl.  His liberal portion turned into
an anarchic portion as he continued pouring for three minutes.

   "I doubt even your infamous Sonic Screwdriver could liven this line
dance o' the dead," Snotty said.

   Doc considered for a moment.

   "I concur with your diagnosis, doctor Snotty.  And as such, I prescribe
two hits of Neptunian Juju Juice to ease the ailments."

   So saying, Doc now produced a small vial of colorless liquid, which he
unscrewed.  He carefully measured out and added two drops, resealed the
vial, then winked at Alexis.

   "Anymore than two would cause a catastrophic breakdown of the thought
processes, and would be non-conducive to any sort of physical activity as
we know it."

   "You would probably be the best judge of that," Alexis said.

   It took a few minutes, but soon everyone was lining up for more punch.
The laughter became a little louder, the jokes a little more ribald, the
ambassadors a little friskier.

   By the time the evening's entertainment, the musical group Circlejerk du
Soul, started performing, the audience was in an exceptionally agreeable
mood.  In the darker corners of the room some serious violations of the Tan
Non-fornication Codicil of the diplomatic liaison code were already
occurring.

   Captain Turk, now even bolder thanks to three shots from the punchbowl,
marched to the small stage where the Circlejerks played.  Forgetting his
previous irritation at being upstaged by the Whorelon ambassador's
entrance, and now embarking on plan two, vis a vis, to explore the
Vindaloovian ambassador's tight body, Turk held a hushed discussion with
the musicians.  His argument, and the small wad of currency he handed the
leader, were most persuasive.  Turk then grabbed the microphone, and began
a rendition of the ancient Earthen song of festival "Louie Louie".

   Penned over a millennia ago, this song still retained its mysterious
party aura.  Part of this aura was due to its lyrical mysteriousness, thank
to the clumsiness of the song's original words and thanks to the
inarticulateness of all the singers performing it ever since.  Many alien
species had pondered the strange, incoherent lyrics, some going so far as
to wage intergalactic wars over their meanings.

   Because of this, the ambassadors looked forward to Turk's clear
pronunciation.  They were destined for disappointment.  Turk soldiered on
as best he could:

   "Louie Louie Ohhhhh Oh Me gotta blow

   Her arms are wicked, her legs are long.  When she move I get stiff
dong."

   During Turk's rendition, the Frigadier sidled up to Bainter, who guarded
the entrees while armed with a large cup of punch.  The Frigadier leaned
over to whisper into his underling's ears.

   "Sergeant, execute the first unclefucker who yells 'Food fight'."

   At the other end of the room, Doc saw an eerily familiar figure from the
corner of his eyes.  He nearly locked gazes with dark-complexioned man, but
his line of thought was twisted by the arrival of the Whorelon ambassador.

   "Hydrogen_is_the_precum_of_the_universe," the Whorelon said through its
Confederation supplied translator.

   "Would that make black holes the contraceptive jelly?" Doc asked.

   "Precum_necessary_to_spawn.  We_are_right_to_spawn."

   "To fuck is indeed a necessity of life.  For without procreation, we are
indeed fucked." Doc smiled with this last philosophical point.

   "It_is_fucking_good_to_be_fucked," agreed the Whorelon.  It then
shambled off.

   Doc watched the receding Whorelon as the gorgeous Vindaloovian
ambassador walked up beside him.

   "I swear, Doctor, that you are the only person able to hold any sort of
extended conversation with that being," she said.

   "That's probably because my drug-addled mind is equal to the Whorelon's
in creating random sentences with blatantly sexual overtones.  I wonder
what sort of drugs he's on."

   "I wonder what sort of drugs the singer is on," the ambassador said.

   Doc peered at the stage.

   "That's no singer," he said.  "That's just some Turk."

   Onstage, Turk was in his element, fulfilling his lifelong ambition of
being a rock star and scoring some chicks.  He belted out a few more lyrics
with a vengeance:

   "I want her in my arms again.  That best way to get fresh quim.

   Louie Louie, Ooooohhh Oh, Me gotta blow.  Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah
Yeah."

   The Vindaloovian ambassador puzzled over the last set of lyrics with
Doc.

   "Am I the only being hearing strange overtones to this song, Doctor?"
she asked.

   "I'd be surprised if you detected any sort of tones in this
performance," Doc replied.  "Oh, and it's just Doc.  Not doctor."

   The Vindaloovian extended her hand in apology.  "Please call me
Xyndria," she said.

   "Xyndria?  I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

   Doc shook her hand firmly, half hoping the pumping motions would
transfer her bust.

   "Is it me, or is it getting hot in here?" Xyndria asked.

   Doc noticed two things.  The first was that Xyndria's bared skin above
her ornate green gown had a sheen of moisture.  The second was that her
glass of punch was empty.

   "Perhaps some more punch would cool you down?" Doc said.  His grin set a
new level of luminescence.

   Xyndria smiled in turn.  "Perhaps it would," she agreed.

   Doc's smile threatened to split his ears as he nearly raced to the
punchbowl.

   During Doc's sojourn, Turk finished "Louie Louie" to an underwhelming
but politely drunken applause.  He was about to launch into a rendition of
"Take a Walk On the Wild Side" when the Frigadier appeared to liberate the
microphone from the captain's hands.

   "You've entertained us long enough, Captain.  Let the other young men
exhibit."

   Turk reluctantly left the stage.  As he did, he saw a beautiful sight.
The lovely blond Bambi's ass jutted out while she talked with her shorter,
yet equally buxom brunette friend.  The captain then eyed Alexis's tits
with intent.  And then Turk saw the Vindaloovian alone.  He altered his
trajectory to intercept the lovely ambassador.

   "An earthen greetings to you," Turk said, using his smoothest diplomatic
tone.

   Xyndria, waving her hand as though it were a fan, looked more
uncomfortable when she stared at the Confederation Captain.  She gripped
her gown and ripped the fabric.  A brown shapely body with two fleshy
titties balanced upon a tight green bra was revealed.  Her tight ebony
belly flowed into a tight pair of iridescent green panties which
disappeared at the crotch where it slid between her pink lower lips.

   At the punchbowl, Bainter smiled.  He had finally won the security force
lottery on what color panties the Vindaloovian wore, and was celebrating
with another glass of punch.  He elbowed Doc in the ribs.

   "That bald headed Vindaloovian chick looks great.  I'd love to pop a
load on her bald head and watch it drip."

   Doc grinned at Bainter, then looked towards the ambassador in time to
see Turk reach out to cup her brown breasts with his hands.

   Doc's smile faltered.

   "Shit," was all he could think to say.

   Like electrons orbiting a nucleus, so did a great many beings coalesce
around Turk and Xyndria as they fondled each other.  Then, like an atomic
nucleus grown fat with neutrons, couples began radiating out, spreading
their erotic energy among the crowd till the hall was a seething froth of
copulating couples.

   Throughout the orgy Alexis kept her eyes on Doc.  It was stupid, she
knew.  He was a Time Fnord, whatever that was, and Alexis suspected it was
a code for 'dog in heat'.

   She suddenly got a nasty idea.  She would get well and truly fucked, her
puss just brimming with spunk.  Then she would find Doc and plop her
steaming creampie right down on his face.  It was deliciously vengeful, a
vengeance served cold with a hot pussy.

   But first she needed to sit down because she was rather tired.

   Finding an empty chair, Alexis sat back, closed her eyes, and promptly
fell asleep despite the interspecies caterwauling, grunts, pants and groans
which surrounded her.

   Henry Kissenger was in his element.  He ambled about the hall, looking
for females and talking diplomacy in his gravelly voice.  Few listened, as
they were busy.  Kissenger continued walking, making a retrograde orbit
about Turk and the Vindaloovian, who were now engaged in a deep, soulful
kiss while their fingers probed.

   Turk, hoping to create a close encounter of the fourth kind, grabbed
Xyndria's ass, only to discover his hand now covered Kissenger's, which was
delving deeply into the shapely crevice.  The Vindaloovian moaned as Turk
stared beyond her bald head to give Kissenger as dirty a look as he could
muster.  Kissenger took the hint and left.

   Meanwhile, the Frigadier was confronted by a group of Chtholians from
the Fifth Aqueous World, a race evolved from fish-like creatures who had
adapted to breath air.  They travelled in a school of nine beings, with one
primary male giving directions.  They travelled beneath umbrellas which
perpetually drizzled moisture to keep their skin wet.  Many an unwary being
slipped upon the floor after their passage.

   The primary male Chtholian spoke.  "As ranking humanoid on this ship,
your bodily essence would be most welcome upon our eggs."

   "I beg your pardon?" the Frigadier said.

   The short, stalky figure of Henry Kissenger inserted itself between the
Frigadier and the fish.

   "I believe that, technically speaking, I am actually the most ranking
humanoid," Kissenger said.  "After all, I brought peace to Vietnam, better
relations to China..."

   "No, no," the fish protested.  "We want the true one with the true
power."

   "But I am actually that man," Kissenger said.

   The Frigadier contemplated lodging a diplomatic protest up Kissenger's
ass with his foot when Bambi, who happened to be passing by with Bainter in
tow to find a more secluded area, leaned over.

   "They want you to wack off onto their eggs," she whispered.

   "Are you sure?"

   "I'm an ex-xenosexologist and orgasmic engineer.  Of course I'm sure."

   "I owe you big time."

   The Frigadier turned to the school of land-loving fish, who still argued
with the crinkly haired Kissenger.

   "I believe Kissenger is the most rank," the Frigadier interrupted.  He
quickly left, nearly slipping in a puddle of effluvia left by the Snipsnip
ambassador from Crapile IV, an asexual worm-being, who, not wising to be
left out of the sexual festivities, had just split into two new beings.



   Chapter 5

   Throughout the night diplomats fucked diplomats without regard to
protocol while the news cameras caught it all, giving the denizens of
Byzantium III an enjoyable eyeful, even when measured against the standard
fare on the base's cable stations.

   One camera floated down to get a gratuitous shot of the Vindaloovian
ambassador's sweaty brown thighs spread for another pair of legs while two
stiff members sawed away in her two tight chocolate-brown lower openings,
which flared pink as those members were withdrawn.  Both members belonged
to Doc, who manned the Vindaloovian after she had laid Turk till he was
wasted.  The Confederate captain now lay on the floor, sans pants, gurgling
"Shit, shit, shit," contentedly as his dick softened.

   Towards the other side of the sexual frenzy stood the Confederate
officers Splock and McElroy.

   McElroy shot Splock a disgusted look.

   "So why aren't you jumping in, Splock?  Doesn't all the freeform
fornication appeal to your baser animal instincts, or are you Hephaestians
cold fish in bed too?"

   "I am merely studying the variety of styles and techniques of sexual
congress, which I find fascinating."

   "So you're a voyeur?"

   "Merely a passionless observer.  But this begs the question of why you
yourself are not joining in the conjoining, doctor?"

   McElroy wrinkled his nose in distaste.

   "Too many venereal diseases in this lot.  Watch.  Tomorrow I'll be
treating people who are pissing pure fountains of fire."

   At the other side of the room stood the Maloderon, it's large, brown
eyes staring forlornly at the copulating couples.  It's sex organ stood
long, hard, quivering, yet unable to achieve release.

   Bambi looked up from where she knelt over the supine Bainter, slowly
sucking him off.

   "Oh you poor baby," she said to the Maloderon.  "Would you like to
relieve that tension?"

   The Maloderon farted a soft odor of jasmine.

   Bainter protested.  "I got you this job so you wouldn't have to be an
orgasmic engineer anymore," he complained.

   "Honey, I hate to see any being in sexual distress.  Besides, all I've
got to do is find this poor baby's secret spot and he'll be happy in no
time.

   On the other side of the room, Doc continued boring his dual shafts in
the pussy and anus of Xyndria from behind as she bent over, her brown tits
shaking from the onslaught.  She was too busy gasping to notice the
pantless Snotty stagger over.  His eyes were wider than meteors, his pupils
bouncing about in elastic collisions with his irises.

   "The entire room is shaken!  I don't think this station ken take no
more!"

   Doc paused, mid thrust.

   "Huh?" was all Doc could think to say.

   "This station, she's gonna be thrown off kilter 'cause we're all fucking
on one side of the room.  We've got to redistribute the force or we're all
doomed!"

   The Doc's eyes, equally dilated, widened a trifle more.

   "You're right!" he said, withdrawing, leaving the Vindaloovian's dilated
holes oozing white fluid.  Xyndrai mewed, gasped and complained.

   "Take over for me!" Doc commanded.

   Snotty did so, and was quickly fucking the brown goddess up the twat
double-time while fingering her dusky rosebud anus.

   Doc waddled to the stage, pants around his ankles, his double dinguses
bobbing.  Halfway to the microphone he stopped, thinking he again saw a
distantly familiar face among the crowd.  But then again, he was seeing all
manner of things thanks to the Ju-Ju juice.  Doc grabbed the microphone.

   "Ladies and gentle beings," he began.  "There's too much copulation on
one side of the station.  We've got to equalize the fucking force, or the
station could be thrown out of orbit.  Now would...  Holy fuck!"

   Thick gouts of white spunk shot high over everyone's heads, arching
dangerously near the ceiling.  Bambi had finally succeeded in finding the
Maloderon's secret spot.

   "Who the fuck's got that cum cannon?" Doc asked.

   Henry Kissenger had just uttered another paean to his brilliance to
impress the Chtholians while he merrily masturbated over their eggs, when
the large mega wad of sperm knocked him forwards.  He disappeared beneath a
sea of semen and roe.

   Thinking Kissenger was suffocating beneath the spermy onslaught, the
Chtholians attempted to excavate him, but the portly ambassador was not to
be found in the strangely green mixture of sexual juices.  The Chtholians
theorized he had slipped away to shaft the Vindaloovian ambassador, and so
thought nothing further about it.

   While the heat energy of Byzantium III flowed into the ambassador's
party, so it flowed out of other sections of the ship in accordance to
Pynchon's Law of Party-cular Thermodynamics.  One area suffering from party
hypothermia was Cargo Bay Q, where CIA agent George Metesky made his
entrance.

   After leaving the party, he had taken his time traversing alternate
paths to avoid main corridors.  Now he stood in the central storage area
deep in the bowels of Byzantium III, where the floors curved convexly and
gravity lessened.

   Three red-shirted Roberty Lee crewmen were grateful for that lessened
gravity as they unloaded a very large black box from a Confederation
shuttlecraft.  They still struggled with the object's mass.

   One looked towards the CIA man.

   "Hey, man, where you want it?"

   "Just put it in the corner and let it be, babe."

   Sweat, groans and curses filled the next few minutes as they struggled
to move the massive object.  Finally it was in place.

   The trio looked at Metesky, who stared back with a sappy grin.

   "What's up, babe?" the CIA agent asked.

   "It's customary to give a tip after heavy lifting, man."

   Metesky snorted.

   "So much for money being an archaic Confederation concept.  Look, you
want a tip, I'll give you a tip.  Go to the replicator room, say
'Monsterweiner, Logic, Malpractice, and then sit back and enjoy the magical
goodies.  And just for kicks, here's a second tip: it's bad luck to dick
around on an alien space station while wearing those red shirts.  You want
any more tips, become a moil.  Now amscray, babe.  I got a regime that
needs changing."

   Chapter 6

   The day after the diplomatic liaison party, or the Copulation
Negotiations as it was better known amongst the orgy officianados, the
Confederation/Whorelon trade conference began in earnest.  The
representatives met in the gleaming halls of Byzantium III while the
Roberty Lee and the Whorelon ships circled the station in large lazy
ellipsoid orbits.

   Ambassador Kissenger started the show with a long speech, then blithely
ignored all the other opening speeches while shmoozing with his fellow
ambassadors one on one.  He paid particular attention to female
ambassadors.

   The Whorelon ambassador, when it could be troubled to utter anything,
continued speaking in long, drawn out pompous tales rather reminiscent of
Earthen Zen koans.  These nearly equaled Kissenger's pomposity and
long-windedness and everybody hated them, both the koans and that pair of
ambassadors.

   Meanwhile, the crew of the Roberty Lee prowled the halls of the
Byzantium III for their shore leave.  Most were forced to undertake menial
labor to pay for their play, leading to a glut of dishwashers and bouncers.
A few used hard currency.

   There were three exceptions to this.  The first was Captain Turk, who
for once spent an entire day within the confines of his cabin, recovering
from the Vindaloovian ambassador's most welcome attentions.

   The second exception was Doctor McElroy, who, after prescribing an ice
bath for Turk's battered ballocks, had indeed been besieged by crewmembers
suffering from all manner of sexually transmitted disease.  The ensuing
rush of activity had caused the good doctor to momentarily loose his cool
and shout at one hapless patient "Dammit!  I'm a doctor, not a condom
dispenser!"

   The third was Chief Science Officer Splock, who sat alone in his cabin
on the Roberty Lee, meditating in the dim lighting.  He was readying his
mind to undertake the ancient Hephaestian rite of Jour' Na-ling, whereby
his people cleansed their logical minds by venting their unwanted emotions.

   After several deep breaths, Splock opened a small, leather-bound book,
took up an antique writing implement, and began to scribble:

   Dear Logbook

   Today I happened upon a pair of Captain Turk's underpants while I was
doing my wash.  They were small, brief, but their elastics crackled with
power.  As I held them in my hands, I dared not imagine where they had
been.

   Does Jim ever notice me?  Does he view me as more than a walking
repository of information and facts?  How I long for him to say "Excellent
job, Splock!" and then look me in the eyes with his deep blue orbs.  How I
yearn to burst free of this wretched Confederation policy of "Don't ask,
don't tell," for Jim to take me in his well-toned muscular arms...

   But I must think logical thoughts.

   And, dear log, I am also confused by this new race of Whorelons. 
Everything they say has some sort of sexual connotation.  Just talking to
the ambassador makes me feel dirty inside, but in a pleasant way.  And its
encounter suit is just so sexy.  Midnight black, rippling.  They make that
small, dark part of my mind, hidden way behind the logical one, tremble
with the urge to be dominated.  I wonder how they fuck?

   I also don't know what to make of Dr.  McElroy.  I know I shouldn't get
upset.  It's very illogical.  But he just makes me so mad, mad, MAD!  I
could just hit him.  He'd be sexy if he weren't just so mean all the time.

   But I must think logical thoughts.  I must think logical thoughts.

   While Splock cleansed his mind, Doc regain his memory.  This was quite
accidental, and totally contrary to the effects from all the mind altering
substances he had abused throughout his career.

   During this rare moment of clarity, Doc finally remembered two things.
First, that he had seen a slightly familiar figure at the ambassadorial
orgy.  And second, just who that slightly familiar figure could have been,
assuming he had not been hallucinating, which he could have been.

   So Doc did what he did best.  He started perusing the various porno
establishments on Byzantium III.  His first port of call was Alexis's newly
refurbished store, the Kittycat Club, formerly the Porno Palace prior to
its untimely demise from Dildek lasers.

   Alexis had taken the opportunity to clean the place and add a modicum of
class.  The mangy and much-stained old rug had been replaced by cloned-wood
floor.  Clean red shelves displayed holographic tapes, VR mindchips,
leather goods, latex goodies, dildos, plugs, clamps, clysters,
dick-stiffeners, nipple twisters, and even a few male and female sexbots.
Off to the left sat a row of squat, virtual reality booths.

   Doc found Alexis stocking a new display case with a splashy plasma
screen proclaiming "When Ambassadors Go Wild!!!!!!", along with a few
pornographic scenes which would have fascinated a gynecologist as a pair of
tight brown buns and pussy lips were plundered by a two white dongs.  Doc
watched for a second, experiencing a moment of deja vu.  He then realized
that this feeling was not drug induced, but was due to the fact that those
were his appendages on the screen.  He almost bragged about it.  But
Alexis' chilly demeanor stopped him.

   Alexis was attempting to place the oblong boxes containing the digital
recording cubes into the display without having them fall over.  It allowed
her to ignore Doc.

   Ignoring the cold welcome, thanks to the help of hallucinogens, Doc
looked about, appreciating pornographic virtual reality chips with their
terrible puns.

   "I'm glad to see they fixed the walls," Doc finally said, eyeing the
spot where the Dildeks had made their messy entrance shortly after he had
first entered Byzantium III.

   Alexis ignored him.  She slapped a few cubes into the cardboard
dispenser.  They fell out again.

   "I'm also glad to see you haven't deserted the bimbot line either," Doc
added, eyeing the sexy robots, one of which, named the Blond Busty Betsy
and his favorite model, had once saved his life.

   "They are popular with the customers," Alexis said.  She gritted her
teeth and slapped the cardboard bottom.  More vid cubes fell out.

   "Err, did I do something to irk you?" Doc asked.

   "Other than taking off and leaving me without even a goodbye, no,
nothing that I could think of," Alexis responded, then turned her back to
him to pick up fallen vid cubes.

   Doc enjoyed the sight of her beautifully rounded rump displayed
stunningly in skintight black bike pants.  The cameltoe of her crotch was
quite alluring.

   "Well, you know how it is.  Important business, being a Time Fnord and
all."

   "And dodging all those servers with all those palimony suites."

   "Oh, those.  Did they come here?  What can I say?  I am fascinated by
sex in all its variations throughout all the species of the universe. 
Since you were a xenosexologist, you should know about that feeling of
discovery."

   "With me its different.  I'm a professional, and so it's my job.  With
you it's a hobby."

   "If pleasure is a crime, then I plead guilty."

   Alexis ignored him.  She again attempted to fit more vid cubes into the
incorrectly designed display case.

   Doc paused, then tried a different tact.

   "Besides, you are one of the true heroines of Byzantium II.  The way I
figure it."

   Alexis paused, trying to comprehend this.  She gave up and stared at
him.

   "What are you talking about?"

   "You kept Gotti busy during the Dildek invasion, so he couldn't see the
attack being launched against the Dildek lair until it was too late.  You
are an unsung hero of Byzantium III.  And as such, I figured that I would
patronize your shop first on my mad quest."

   The sheer stupidity of this change of topic, coupled with one of Doc's
more inane smiles, caused Alexis to smile despite herself.  Yet again vid
cubes fell to the floor.

   Alexis sighed with resignation.  Doc was an intergalactic poondog. 
Nothing would change that.  Not for the first time, Alexis wondered whether
Time Fnord physiology included pheromones.  She kicked several vid cubes
just to have something to do, and turned to face Doc.

   "So what are you looking for now?  I hope it's not free room and board
from me.  But I'll bet it's something to get further up that Vindaloovian
ambassador's twat," she said.

   Doc as about to say he'd already been there, and up several other of
Xyndria's tight muscular orifices as well, but thought the better of it.

   "Basically, I was wondering about two things.  The first is, do you have
any tapes on the sex marines?  I've always wanted to see them in action."

   Alexis rolled her eyes.

   "You've been talking to Bainter again," she said.

   "How can you tell?"

   "Because he always wants Bambi to buy some skintight latex soldier
uniforms, so I figure he's got a kink for those pervs as well.  And no, I
don't have any videos of them in action.  So what is this second thing?"

   "Are there any strange people hanging around the shop all of a sudden?
Tall, dark and dour?"

   "This is Byzantium III, there are strange people on any deck at any time
of the day.  Why do you ask?"

   "I thought I saw an old friend the other day."

   "An old friend?"

   "More like an old acquaintance."

   "An old acquaintance?  Not one of those former traveling companions who
wants to kill you?" Alexis asked.

   "Oh no.  It's more like a mortal archenemy of mine who want to kill me."

   Alexis's eyes widened with humorous shock.

   "Did you sleep with his significant other?"

   "No, it's even more complicated than that," Doc replied.  For the first
time Alexis sensed a little sadness.  "You remember how I told you I saw
someone I knew at that diplomatic soiree?"

   "Not me," Alexis said.

   "I didn't?"

   "No."

   "So you and I didn't go out afterwards for hotdogs and a beer, and meet
Elvis Presley at the hotdog stand, which was staffed by Jim Morrison?"

   "No."

   Doc thought for a second.

   "I must have been high," he said.  "But I remember who I saw.  It was
the Masturbator."

   "The Masturbator?"

   "Well, he calls himself the Master, but he's such a wanker we Time
Fnords took to calling him the Masturbator.  He's been banned from Time
Fnord society for being very solitary and anti-social."

   "No," she said.  "I can't say as I've seen any of your mortal enemies
about.  Unless you count the Frigadier.  Oh, and as a friend, I should warn
you not to get too deep into that Vindaloovian ambassador."

   "Why Alexis, are you jealous?" Doc's smile was insufferable.

   "No," Alexis said, after taking a deep breath to fight back the mild
anger.  "I'm just warning you as a friend."

   "I'll bear that in mind," Doc said.  His attention was suddenly
diverted.

   "Ohh, books," he said.

   Alexis saw Doc was referring to her new pride and joy, a display of
O-Club vid-books.  Each month the intergalactic hostess Opranus, a ponygirl
from Equinostria II, picked a book of note for the reading pleasure of
viewers of her show.

   Alexis smiled as she plucked one vid-book off the rack.

   "I thought the place could use a touch of class.  I figured with this
new start I'd bring a slightly higher clientele into the store.  Do you
like them?"

   It was on Doc's mind to ask whether Alexis was even more stoned than
himself, and if so, to enquire what drugs she was on.  But the very small
portion of Doc's brain which was not drug-addled warned him to tread very
carefully.

   "Aren't these O-Club books notorious for their tragic endings?" he
asked.

   "What's your point?"

   Doc hemmed, then just blurted "Would someone suffering from an urge to
hump like a mad-dog in heat be in the mood to read an equine female's
discourses on the unfairness of life?"

   "So you don't like it?"

   "I didn't say that.  It's...  different." Doc scratched his chin.  Then
his smile returned.

   "But I almost forgot.  Should a tall, dark and dour dude enter your
shop, please use this to notify me."

   He handed Alexis a small blue box with a single red button mounted upon
it.  Someone had attempted to scratch out a set of words embossed in golden
script, but Alexis was just able to read them; "Don't panic."

   Before Alexis could ask Doc about it, he gave Alexis a parting grin,
then slipped out the door and down the hall.  Alexis was left with very
strange mixture of feelings, half irked and half bemused.

   She looked at the bondage paddles.  A momentary fantasy flashed through
Alexis' head of Doc kneeling naked in front of her, his twin pricks nearly
as red as his buttocks while she battered those buns with short, vicious
slaps of the glorified ping pong paddles.  A sudden warmth in her pussy
warned her not to think on this fantasy too far.

   Chapter 7

   A feeling of ill-ease permeated Byzantium III a week after the
ambassadorial orgy.  No one could quite determine the reason behind it,
though the Maloderon smelling like out of date cream cheese did not help
matters.

   Part of the problem were the numerous listening devices recently
discovered.  The usual denizens of Byzantium III easily recognized those
devices placed by Byzantium III's security forces, which they tended to
ignore so as to not hurt Frigadier Stewart's feelings.

   But now there were new ones.  These devices sent signals, but their
technologies were not easily reverse engineered.  Bugs were even found in
the Security offices, a fact which made the Frigadier livid.  He, like the
ambassador's, had his suspicions, and tried to watch both the Confederation
and Whorelon more closely.

   Adding to the eeriness was the fact that Kissenger Mark 663 and the
Whorelon never met.  Not once during the week long meetings did the two
have a face to face encounter.  Kissenger shmoozed everyone except the
Whorelon, while the Whorelon seemed to follow Kissenger about like a lost
dog.

   As for the Whorelon, it never tried to communicate anyone on the massive
starship which now orbited many kilometers away, dwarfing both the station
and the Confederation's Roberty Lee.  It barely communicated with its
fellow ambassadors, preferring to mutter "All_your_base_are_belong_to_us,"
as though it were a personal mantra.

   To crown the general feelings of uneasiness were the mutterings of the
workers in the cargo bays.  Doors which should have been locked were not.
Kissenger always seemed to be down there.  And absolutely everyone refused
to work in the bay berthing the Whorelon's shuttlecraft.  It floated alone
in the pale starshine, it's black hull rippling like a roiling pool of
black water.  Some of the more sensitive workers swore that the ship sang
to them in their sleep, which they did in the cargo bays more often than
expected.  The shuttlecraft sang mostly pop songs, occasionally rap, and
was always out of tune.

   Another mysterious incident which irritated the Frigadier was a break-in
at abandoned suite of rooms which once housed J.  Paul Gotti, the
trillionaire investment banker whose funding helped construct Byzantium
III, and who's bizarre sexual proclivities had almost destroyed it.

   The Frigadier was reading a report on this investigation when he heard
Bainter say "There goes the security cambots in Level M again."

   The Frigadier looked up from his reports.

   "Is our favorite friend there?" he asked, referring to CIA agent George
Metesky.  The Frigadier suspected the agent possessed a pocket-sized
counter-surveillance shield.  Wherever Metesky went, surveillance was sure
to blow.  Like right now.  Which truly frosted the Frigadier's shorts.

   "I believe so.  Along with Kissenger," Bainter said.

   "I hate the fucking CIA," the Frigadier said.  "And I really hate this
Jackass Ryan."

   Bainter gave a quick, clandestine smile to Bambi, who sat nearby
completing some xenosexologist registration paperwork.  She paused to smile
back.

   "I'd love to know what that CIA agent is up to," the Frigadier mused.

   "Isn't that a redundancy, sir?" Bambi asked.

   "What?"

   "CIA agent?  Doesn't that mean Confederate Intelligence Agency Agent?"

   The Frigadier studied Bambi.  "Bainter, your girlfriend needs
discipline."

   Bambi stuck her tongue out at the Frigadier, who in turn pointed his
swagger stick at her.

   "Well, if you're going to be that way, I suppose I'll have to find out
what Metesky is up to," Bambi replied.



   Chapter 8

   Alexis sat in a new leather-padded chrome chair behind the cash register
of her club, reading.  She was immersed in the most recent O-Club vid-book
"The Lovely Boner", though she had not yet taken the anti-depressant pill
thoughtfully provided by the publisher.

   The light tinkle of the door chime made her looked up.

   Standing in the entrance space stood a man whose expression was just as
goofy as Doc's, though in a way which suggested impotent schemes were being
hatched in his brain.  He was tall, with dark hair and matching moustache
and goatee.  His vivid brown eyes searched the shop wildly.  He made no
movement from his position just inside the door.

   "Can I help you?" Alexis asked after a suitable interval.

   The stranger's eyes alighted upon Alexis with a suddenness she found
unsettling.

   "Perhaps," the stranger said.  His voice, as neatly clipped as his hair,
suggested erudtion.  "I have heard that this is a store where one may
purchase literature."

   Alexis looked at the volumes perched upon her shelves.  The garishly
colored "Naughty Nazi Cheerleaders", alongside other offerings like "Anal
Alien Invasion" and "Molly Flanders; Intergalactic Whore" beckoned.  Then
she saw the O-Club vid-books.

   "Why yes," she said.

   "Do you have anything on business?" he asked.

   "No.  But we have some marvelous O-Club books."

   The stranger frowned, and stroked his goatee in contemplation.

   "Nothing from, on, or about, the legendary J.  Paul Gotti?"

   Alexis gave the stranger a wry look.  She remembered Gotti, and not
fondly.

   "You're not from around here, are you?" she asked.

   "Very astute, madam," the stranger said with pride.  He thrust the
finger of one hand into the air in time to declare "I am a Time Fnord. 
They call me, 'The Master'."

   Alexis examined the stranger with new eyes.  Here in front of her was
Doc's mortal enemy.  And he was kind of cute, in a dorky yet megalomaniacal
way.

   "I wouldn't go around uttering the name Gotti too loudly," she said.  "A
lot of people were killed or hurt by him."

   "I have found that good business practice always has elements of chaos
and creative destruction to it."

   Alexis briefly pondered what the Master would consider destructive
destruction.  She also took the opportunity to surreptitiously activate
Doc's red-buttoned pager which she had placed besides the register.  Then
she smiled.

   "So tell me," she purred, "I've heard a little bit about Time Fnords. 
Is what they say true?"

   "Is what true?"

   "That Time Fnords are well hung, and twice as filling." Alexis's smile
was filled with promise.

   The Master's goofy, scheming face grew goofier.  It grew downright
ridiculous as Alexis slid from behind the cash register.  She gave her hips
just a little extra sway, hypnotizing the Master with the tight crotch of
her bike pants.  Her enticing lower lips seemed to throb before the
Master's google-eyed gaze.

   She was half way towards him when she stopped with a little squeak.  She
looked down with playful indignation at her prominent black camel-toe.

   "These damn pants," Alexis said, pinching the tight black cloth between
two fingers as she pulled it gingerly from her crotch.  "They're chaffing
my pussy lips.  Just look."

   The Masturbator's breathing grew heavier as he peered down.

   Alexis slid her bike pants down.  Her furry black sporran, slightly
matted from being confined, now puffed out as though greeting the Master.

   "I can't see.  Are they all red now?" Alexis asked.

   The Master gulped.  "No, your pussy hair is still black."

   "Silly, I was talking about my pussy lips."

   The Master fell to his knees and peered up.  Alexis moved forward till
her tangy pubic hair tickled the Master's nose.  He just stared,
hypnotized. He didn't even hear Doc enter the shop.

   "I don't suppose you could kiss it and make it better," Alexis said in
her most coquettish voice.

   "Ahhh...  ahhh..." It was the most intelligent thing the Master could
think to say.  Alexis saved him from further thinking by moving forward and
gently planting the lips of her quim on his face in a nasty kiss.

   Alexis gave a little moan as the Master gripped both her buttocks and
dug in with his tongue to get her womanly nectar.  He was unpracticed, but
very enthusiastic.  One might even say exuberant.  Alexis smiled.

   Doc chose that moment to sneak up and whap the Master on the ear with a
finger.

   "Owww!" the Master protested from his crouched position on the floor.

   "So Masturbator, funny meeting you here.  What are you up to?"

   "Can't a time Fnord lick pussy in peace?"

   "Yes, why can't he?" Alexis asked.

   Doc's finger reached out to whap the Master's other ear.  The Master
grunted in pain again.

   "Peace and you don't go together," Doc said.  "I'm surprised you're even
interested in piece of ass.  But I know you well enough to know that you're
here because the Whorelons are.  And you must be pulling a scam.  Which
involves the Whorelons.  And money.  Now, the sooner you tell me what that
scam is, the sooner you can go back to eating out this fine, young and very
ready lady."

   "Yes," Alexis gasped, gyrating her hips so that the moisture from her
wet cleft fanned the Master's face.  "Tell him, then start licking again."

   The Master looked up from his knees at the Doc to Alexis's pussy, and
then back.

   "OK," he said, pausing to pull a stray black pubic hair from his lips.
"You know, the Whorelons have advanced technology?"

   "Yes," Doc said, a big smile on his lips.  "So you're pulling the old
technology shuffle.  Always an excellent scam.  But you've tried that one
before, using fake technology as I recall.  And were severely spanked for
it."

   "This time it's real.  It's just that I've got to get it."

   "Get what?"

   "Can't you get lost, Doc?" Alexis groaned, rubbing her twat against the
Master's head.  "Your friend here gives a superb magic moustache ride."

   Doc whapped the Master's ear, causing his fellow Time Fnord to wince yet
again.

   "What are you searching for?" Doc asked.

   "Artificial personality recordings," the Master said.

   "Of whom?"

   "J.  Paul Gotti."

   "J.  Paul Gotti was as sleazy as they came," Doc said.

   "And he didn't really cum much," Alexis added.

   "Why would anyone want an artificial personality recording of him?" Doc
said.  "He never had much of a personality to begin with."

   "J.  Paul Gotti was a great man," the Master protested as he turned as
best he could in his crouch from Alexis' crotch to face Doc.  Alexis
playfully slapped the Master's cheek with her puss.  Both were slick with
her arousal.

   "The only thing Gotti ever did was make money for himself," Doc said. 
"He left no heirs.  He was forgotten five minutes after he was dead.  He
didn't even leave one of those scamming endowment trust bullshit
arrangements to try and keep his name associated with more worthwhile
things than screwing everyone he met out of his last nickel."

   "And you're much better at the worthwhile things," Alexis said, again
fanning the Master's cheek with her black bush.  The Master, incensed at
Doc's tirade, ignored the proffered pudendum.

   "He was too great!"

   "Name for me one thing Gotti did that was great.  Just one," Doc said.

   The Master paused.

   "He made money.  A lot of it.  More than you ever could."

   Alexis bent slightly forward to grip the Master's head between her hands
and twist it so that he looked up at her from between her wet thighs and
slick bush which tickled his nose.

   "Now look.  I was there when old J.  Paul Gotti shot his last wad,"
Alexis told the Master.  "And I can tell you all the money in the world
couldn't make that old geezer come.  You, however, are going to come.  A
lot.  Now lick."

   With that, Alexis smooshed her pussy lips right into the Master's face.
From the contented burbling from her thighs it could be construed that the
Master had conceded the last point.  He was now tongue-deep inside Alexis,
who squeaked her approval.

   Doc merely shook his head.

   "I am depressed," he said.  "I had expected a better scam from you. 
Instead you merely try to get some piss poor artificial intelligence
program of a turncoat traitor who'd sell you out for a chance to blow his
wad.  Personally, I think that that primo pussy is wasted on this filthy
lucre loving lug nut.  It's going to take many a bong hit for me to forget
the idiocy of this argument."

   Alexis smiled, her eyes half-lidded with lust and her hips thrusting.

   "Don't let us stop you," she gasped out.  "And lock the door on your way
out."

   "Ahh, a professional," said Doc, who unleashed a megawatt grin.  "Have
fun, kiddies"

   As he left, he saw Alexis literally thrust the Master to the floor with
her crotch and start riding his face as though she rode a beast of burden.



   Chapter 9

   CIA agent George Metesky was very pleased with himself.  So far all his
operations had eluded the Frigadier's surveillance attempts.

   He was metaphysically patting himself on the back while imbibing a stiff
drink at Calahan's Bar and Grill when he noticed a tall blond, very pretty
and nicely built, walking towards him.  A short skirt clung wistfully to
her rump, and her tight blouse made Metesky's pants tight as well.

   "Hi," she said, flashing Metesky a very promising smile.  "Are you one
of those Confederation guys?"

   "Hello yourself, babe.  And yes, I am from the Confederation."

   Metesky's eyes wandered up and down the blond's body.  If his gaze had
had a physical presence, the blond would have been groped.

   She put out her hand, which Metesky gently shook.

   "Oh my god!  That is so cool," she said.  "My name's Bambi, and I think
it's like so neat how you guys fly through the cosmos without any thought
to money."

   "Yeah babe, that is pretty cool," Metesky said, nodding and grinning.

   "Cause, like, I think money is the root of all evil, and stuff."

   Metesky smiled and made a non-committed yet supportive "mmm".

   "I mean, you guys have these principles, and you live them," Bambi said.
"That shows inner strength.  It also gets me sooo hot.  Wanna fuck?"

   "Sure," Metesky said.

   The two left the bar arm in arm.

   She led the agent to the deserted docking bay where the Whorelon ship
sat, its black skin making iridescent reflections upon the wall.  In short
order Metesky found himself lying on the an impromptu bed of matting while
Bambi perched atop his crotch and rode his hardened prick.  Each thrust was
accompanied by juicy slaps of flesh on flesh.

   "Suck my tits!" she gasped.

   Metesky was barely able to mouth one of the bouncing bubbies.  As he
did, one of his greasy fingers slipped around Bambi's gyrating buns to fill
her tight brown pucker.  Bambi groaned at the triple tactile onslaught.

   After sucking her pink nipples, Metesky felt his body stiffen.  He lay
back as he pumped heartily into Bambi's tight cooch.  As he floated down
from his sexual high, he found that his body was still stiff.  He looked up
into Bambi's eyes.

   "Oh, you used the old drugged dug trick," he said with as much of a
smile as he could muster.  "Very clever."

   Bambi smiled, then looked shocked as her own body began to stiffen.

   "What did you do?" she gasped, unable to rise from his still stiff
prick.

   The CIA agent grunted.

   "I knew you were a plant, so I used the old drugged oil on a finger up
the keister trick on you," he said.

   "How long does yours last?" Bambi asked.

   "Two hours.  Yours?"

   "Two hours," Bambi moaned, then settled back to a slightly more
comfortable position with the CIA agent's rigid member deep inside her. 
Neither moved as the temporary paralysis set in, and sweaty flesh stuck to
sweaty flesh.  Other than their labored breathing, everything else in the
bay was quiet.

   And the Whorelon ship sang to them.  By the fifth out of tune verse of
"Ina Godda Da Vida" both thought they would go mad.



   Chapter 10

   That same day the Whorelon arose from its chair next to Kissenger's,
placed its two squat, black encounter-suite clad hands on the table, and
spoke.  Ambassador Henry Kissenger Mark 664 did not notice.

   "I_am_declaring_a_fucking_war," the Whorelon said via translator.

   Vindaloovian ambassador Xyndria looked up from her video screen to stare
at the Whorelon.  Kissenger looked up from staring down Xyndria's cleavage
to also watch the alien ambassador.

   "Do you mean 'fucking' as an adjective, to denote how terrible the war
will be?  Or do you mean a war where we shall copulate to our deaths?"
Xyndria asked.

   "Yes, yes.  The diplomatic community needs a working definition of the
verbiage 'fucking'," one Chtholian ambassador added.

   The Whorelon attempted to answer, but its universal translator crackled
in an electronic hissy fit.  The Whorelon dropped the translator on the
ground and stalked out.  At least that's what some of the diplomats said.
Others needed a more concrete definition of the word "stalked" before they
could concur.

   News of the impending war spread through Byzantium III like gas
diffusing through a vacuum.  But Frigadier Stewart, thanks to his illegal
listening devices, had a jump on the news and called an emergency meeting
of all essential personnel.

   While the Frigadier was making the announcement, he glanced over at the
ubiquitous Doc, who had somehow entered the bustling Security Offices.

   Doc had only decided to sit quietly after an attempt by the Frigadier to
slug him on the chin for being such a pest.  Doc now imbibed from his flask
of Sonic Screwdriver, grinning like maniac behind his rose-tinted glasses.
The Frigadier thought about kicking the Time Fnord out, but realized the
futility of such action.  Doc always found a way into any place he was not
allowed.

   Both men looked up as a new knot of personnel entered.  Among them was
Alexis and Bambi.

   Bambi gave a wan smile as she leaned on Alexis's shoulder, staggering as
she walked.  Bambi had called her roommate for help as soon as enough of
the immobility drug had worn off enough to allow her to reach her
communicator.  She was now uncomfortably stiff, as opposed to Alexis, who
was loose, limber, and unable to stop her satiated smile.

   "An emergency meeting, sir?" Bambi asked.

   "It is nice of you to attend, Bambi.  But this meeting is for essential
personnel," the Frigadier said in measured tones.  "Speaking of which,
where the hell is Bainter?"

   "I don't know.  He's been moping since my last assignment," Bambi said.
"Speaking of which, Metesky got the better of me."

   The Frigadier was about to question Bambi further about her dealings
with the CIA agent when the smiling Captain Turk, hostile Doctor McElroy,
dour Science Officer Splock, and gregarious Chief Engineer Montivardi Welsh
entered the Security Office.

   "Frigadier Stewart, you wished to see us," Turk said.

   The Frigadier glowered at the quartet of Confederation officers till all
four fidgeted beneath his hostile stare.

   "As you are no doubt aware, Captain Turk, we're in a state of war," the
Frigadier said.

   Visibly relieved, Turk smiled again.

   "I'd love to help, Frigadier.  But the Roberty Lee is bound by the
Confederation's Paramount Directive," he said.

   "The Paramount Directive?"

   "Splock, please explain."

   The Science Officer stepped forward.  He cleared his throat, looking
like a dried-up professor, and began a dour recitation.

   "Certainly, Captain.  The Paramount Directive forbids any Confederation
officer or ship from participating in any action involving less
technologically advanced races or where the Confederation has no economic
or sociopolitical interests."

   The Frigadier waved his hand.  A white paper within its grip snapped in
the air.

   "No economic incentive," the Frigadier said.  "I find that very
humorous. Because I have in my right hand reports from different planets
about currency counterfeiting.  Meanwhile, in my left hand is the log of
all the stops made by the CS Roberty Lee."

   The Frigadier paused to let his words sink in.

   "Fortunately, my left hand and my right hand don't always know what the
other is doing.  For the moment."

   "If that's due to a medical condition, I could ..." McElroy started, but
lapsed into silence beneath the Frigadier's ominous glower.

   Turk and the crew stood quietly, but with considerably less panache.

   "Furthermore," the Frigadier continued.  "Contrary to popular belief,
Byzantium III's currency is not printed on gaily colored paper.  Nor does
it carry pictures of little choo-choo trains.  Nor does it sport the motto
'Monopoly', despite the belief of some of my more feloniously oriented
officers."

   Security Force officers looked up at the last, shooting angry glares at
the four Confederation officers while reaching for their wallets.

   "We have our own natural share of freeloaders already," the Frigadier
told Turk, but with his eyes on Doc.

   "I resemble that remark," Doc said.

   "Excuse us," Turk said.

   He, Splock, McElroy and Welsh huddled in a corner of the security
offices.  Most of their hushed, urgent conversation could not be discerned,
but occasional snippets such as "Shit!  Shit!  Shit!", and "got us by the
short and curlies" were heard.

   Throughout it all the Frigadier sat at his desk, a supremely smug
playing across his face, his mouth pursed beneath his laser beam thin
moustache.

   Meanwhile, Doc cornered Bambi, who was taking a drink from a glass
offered by Alexis.

   "So what happened with this CIA agent?  Did he ravish you?  Drug you? 
Drug you then ravish you?  You can tell me because I'm a doctor."

   Alexis cuffed Doc as Bambi just sighed.

   "We drugged each other," she said.

   "Excellent!" Doc said, his smile growing wider.  "Very kinky."

   "No, very horrible.  We were in a compromising position when the drugs
kicked in."

   "Very, very kinky.  What sort of drugs?"

   "Immobility ones.  And if you start singing any Earthen pop tunes, I'll
strangle you."

   "So you were immobile during the act of sexual congress?" Doc asked. 
"How very tantric.  Were you able to learn anything of importance."

   "I learned the exact shape and size of his dick.  And I think I'm going
to remember it for the next few days," Bambi moaned.  "And to top it all
off, during the middle of this he gets a call from the freaky little
ambassador Mark 669 Kissenger, who requests an emergency meeting after his
"body-soaping therapy".  Then, after the drugs wore off, Metesky just
pushed me over like a sack, saying 'sorry babe, gotta run, somebody's
government is collapsing."

   As Alexis commiserated with her friend by uttering phrases of derision
towards all males in general, and with glances towards Doc in specific, Doc
took a swig of Sonic Screwdriver.  He prescribed some to Bambi, who gulped
down a hearty swallow.

   "Call me paranoid, but I thought Kissenger's full name was Henry
Kissenger Mark 653," Doc said.

   Bambi paused for a second.

   "No," she said.  "He definitely said he was Mark 669 today.  I remember
because I was thankful that Metesky and I weren't in that particular
position before the drugs hit."

   "Now that's freaky," Doc said, not smiling for once.  He turned towards
the door.

   "Where are you going?" Alexis asked Doc's retreating back.

   Doc turned and leveled a nova-sized smile towards Alexis.

   "I'm going to see a man who isn't there," he said, and exited the
Security Offices.



   Chapter 11

   Doc knew Ambassador Henry Kissenger Mark Whatever by sight.  Both were
first-magnitude poonhounds, and frequently stumbled across each other on
the sleazier sections of Byzantium III.  While they never exchanged any
words, Doc knew Kissenger's preferred hangouts.  Like the Soylent Soapsuds
Therapeutic Message Center, which was staffed by beings resembling large
air-breathing octopi.  Even Doc had never dared to get a message from their
tentacles.

   Doc found the portly ambassador as the Kissenger exited the Center and
waddled down the hallway.  Kissenger tried to be nonchalant with his
anti-spying techniques, but his head turning was more comical than
effective.

   Doc followed at a discreet distance.

   He followed the bespectacled ambassador deep into the bowels of
Byzantium III, where the floors curved to match the true build of the
cylindrical space station, and the gravity lessened ever so slightly. 
Plain doors, each with a brightly illuminated keypad door lock, lined the
hallway.

   With one final turn of his head, Kissenger fingered a few numbers on one
touch pad lock.  The door opened with quiet hiss, and the ambassador
entered.

   Doc ambled up to the lock and studied it.  He withdrew his metallic
hipflask of Sonic Screwdriver.

   "I prescribe three slugs," he said.  Then he poured.

   A sharp electronic snap and a whiff of ozone signaled the lock's
disapproval.  The door opened with another quiet hiss.

   Inside Doc found a large black box, two meters tall, three meters long,
with black skin which seemed to ripple.  The floor was covered with green
ash.  A slight tang of used explosive lingered in the air.

   Seated upon a chair was a tall man wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and
tan shorts.  He was in the process of scooping a load of ice from
conveniently placed ice chest into the front of those shorts when Doc
entered.

   He gave Doc a goofy grin, which Doc returned.

   "Like your tailor, babe," the man said.  He cocked his hand into the
shape of a gun and pointed the barrel at Doc's own Bermudas.

   "Like yours too," Doc replied.

   The Time Fnord held out his hand.  He ignored the icy cold grip of the
now standing man.

   "My name's Doc," Doc said.

   "CIA agent George Metesky, at your cervix," the man replied.  He
gestured towards the open ice chest, where cans of beer stood out amongst
the mountains of ice.  "Can I offer you some earthen hospitality?"

   "No thanks," Doc said, withdrawing his hip flask.  "I'll stick with my
usual drugs."

   "A veiled reference to drugging," Metesky said with a smile.  "You must
be friends with that blond Bambi chick."

   "In a fashion."

   Metesky smiled.  "She's a firecracker, Doc.  No doubt about it.  It was
the first time I've ever been stiffed by my stiffie."

   He sat down gently, then looked apologetically towards Doc.

   "Please pardon my gaucheness, Doc.  Being with Bambi was fun, but now it
hurts."

   With that, Metesky scooped another load of ice out of the chest and
dumped it down the front of his shorts.

   Doc looked around the storage room.  Kissenger was nowhere to be seen.
The only object other than Metesky, his chair, and his ice chest, was that
mysterious black box.  It's sides seemed to suck up any photons of light
which dared touch it, though enough of them were reflected a to create an
eerie rippling effect.  Its only external feature was a solitary black
button with a large white label pasted upon it.  Doc neared the box and
read "Do not touch!  This instrument is the property of the KAP."

   Doc looked at the CIA agent, who shrugged.

   "Kissenger Aggrandizement Project," he explained, scooping yet another
batch of ice towards his crotch.

   "Speaking of Kissenger, I'd really like to talk to him about the current
socioeconomic situation."

   "You mean the war the little putz initiated," Metesky said.  "You and me
both.  But he was being such a dickhead I was forced to terminate him. 
We're now awaiting the glorious arrival of Henry Kissenger Mark six-hundred
something."

   Metesky pointed towards the front of the box.  While he had been
speaking, the box had silently ejected the body of a man.  The man's hair
was crinkly, though slicked back with some sort of green lubricating fluid.
While the man was naked, he still somehow wore a pair of thick-rimmed black
glasses.  It was a split image of Kissenger.

   The new ambassador picked himself off the floor and glared at Metesky.

   "Hello, I am Henry Kissenger Mark 671.  This sort of behavior is
completely outside the scope of your orders," Kissenger said in his raspy
voice.

   "Hello, that is precisely the sort of arrogant attitude which makes me
an unhappy camper," Metesky replied.  From a holster taped to the back of
the ice chest the CIA agent drew a small black pistol.  He took careful
aim, then shot Henry Kissenger straight between his eyes, just above the
wire rims of the glasses and just below his crinkly hair, making a nice,
moist, red dot.

   "Holy shit!" Doc said.  Figuring there was bad karma in the room, he
prescribed himself five deep swallows of Sonic Screwdriver, then wondered
whether he should partake of the tabs of Andromeda Anyon Acid he kept in
one pocket for emergencies.

   He opted not to, and stared questioningly towards Metesky, who scooped
yet another load of ice into his shorts.

   The CIA agent merely shrugged his shoulders at Doc's glance and pointed
towards deceased Kissenger.

   The corpse upon the floor was now disintegrating into green dust while
Doc watched.  Meanwhile, the strange black box began rippling.  An orifice
along its end irised opened, to exude two naked feet, followed by two legs
and eventually the remainder of yet another Henry Kissenger.  This new
Kissenger lay naked upon the floor in a pool of green, viscous fluid.  It
was soon the only Kissenger in the room, as the other one turned into pile
of green dust.

   The portly little diplomat opened his eyes.

   "Hello, I am Henry Kissenger Mark 672.  My intellect is as god-like as
my sex appeal," he said.

   "The fat little twerp has a secret stash of lives," the CIA agent
explained.  "He's worse than a smegging cat.  So I play this little game.
I'm trying to break the 700 mark."

   He offered the gun to Doc.  "Would you like to have a go?"

   "No thanks.  I'm good," Doc said.  He studyied the strange black device.

   "You know," Doc said loudly.  "this is a pretty cool, black machine. 
How much would you like to bet that the Whorelons made it?"

   "A bet?  What sort of a bet?" Metesky asked.

   "Oh, just a regular bet.  Say 2000 credits?"

   "Not a chance, babe.  You look like one of those weasels who only bets
on sure things.  So what makes you thinks the Whorelons made it?"

   "It's skin is oily black, iridescent, and ripples, just like the
Whorelon ship.  Plus its button has 'Made by Whorelons' stamped right on
its side."

   Metesky arose slowly, due to all the medicinal ice in his shorts, and
limped over to the device.

   "Now that you mention it..." the CIA agent said after peering at the
evidence.

   He turned to the new Kissenger.

   "Hey fat boy, did you have dealings with the Whorelons?"

   "Perhaps.  KAP is always seeking new technology and capital to further
its goals."

   "Which is the further aggrandizement of Henry Kissenger?" Doc asked.

   "Perhaps."

   "Listen up, babe.  I'm your handler, so..."

   "I doubt a proper handler would continually shoot his charge in the
head," Kissenger told Metesky.

   "Look babe.  Let's pin down your ranking in this great galactic food
chain of ours.  I've got a set of orders about handling.  They're in my
pocket.  Within those orders are emergency instructions in case anything
goes to shit, like a major interstellar war breaking out.  Now, those
emergency instructions end with a four word phrase.  Three of those words
are 'with extreme prejudice.' And while I haven't reviewed them recently, I
don't think that that particular phrase started with 'fellate'.  Now be a
good boy and answer Doc's questions."

   "Besides," Doc said, "I find there are few problems I can't fix with a
little judicious use of the old Sonic Screwdriver."

   Doc held the hipflask above the opening of the black box.

   "I wonder how your little machine would act if some of this were spilled
inside.  Can a black box mechanism get drunk?"

   Kissenger's eyes went wide with the comprehension of his own mortality.

   "All right, I will tell you.  The Whorelons are beings composed entirely
of dark matter.  They have also mastered dark energy.  In accordance to my
plan, I shall befriend and guide them through the galaxial-political
turmoil."

   "What turmoil is that?" Doc asked

   "The Whorelons need to enter our universe every 268 million years to
spawn, for reasons of physics beyond even my godlike omniscience. 
According to my genius, they shall be the new masters of our universe in 13
years."

   "I'm still not certain as to what problem they really pose," Doc said.
"That Whorelon ambassador was a pretty peaceful being..."

   "That Whorelon ambassador is just an insignificant parasite," Kissenger
said.

   "Like most ambassadors," Metesky added.  Kissenger ignored him.

   "What do you mean by parasite?"

   "It is the ship which is alive.  Alive and in charge.  And since it is
alive, it needs to procreate, to spread its genetic material and create
more Whorelons so that the race will continue to survive."

   The idea that the huge monstrosity which dwarfed both the
Confederation's Roberty Lee and Byzantium III was in fact an intelligent
being, addled Doc's brain even more so than the drugs.

   "I'm not getting this," Doc said.  "I don't see what problem these dark
matter beings pose."

   "Look at them," Kissenger said.  "They're just so damn big.  You get
between them when they're in rut and you're smooshed like an insignificant
bug.  They will range throughout our puny universe, copulating with
abandon, crushing small suns between their black skins like so many grapes,
drowning worlds with their flood of seed, sowing discourse and chaos."

   "And you and the crew of KAP foresaw this?" Metesky asked

   "Indeed, and we helped institute it.  Why do you think the translators
keep coming up with obscene utterances?"

   Doc considered the scenario.  Then he smiled.

   "While that is the sort of Armageddon which intrigues me...," he began.

   "You will see it," Kissenger said.

   "No, I won't," Doc said.  "The Whorelon ship outside this station is
definitely smaller than a sun.  And while it would do a pretty good job on
this hull should it decide to copulate with it, I doubt it will be a
destroyer of worlds."

   Kissenger sniffed in a self-important fashion.

   "There could be bigger ships," he said.

   "In fact," Doc continued, "while I don't doubt that the ship is alive, I
do think the Whorelon ambassador has a more important relationship to it
than as a parasite."

   Kissenger studied Doc, a sly, condescending smile crossing his lips.

   "You look like a smart man," Kissenger said.  "We have need of men with
intelligence and foresight at KAP.  Would you consider joining us?  With
your expertise in a variety of areas, I'm sure you would make an excellent
addition to our board of directors."

   "Thanks but no thanks," Doc said.

   "Then I regret that I have no alternative but to kill you," the
ambassador said, slowly and sadly.

   "How?  With a long speech which will suck all the oxygen out of the
room? I can hold a bong hit for longer than you can speak."

   "No.  I shall get my handler to kill you"

   Doc looked over at Metesky, who was giving Kissenger a bemused look.

   "You mean this handler here, who's already threatened to kill you, who
has already killed several of your clones, and whom you haven't cut in on
the action?"

   Kissenger paused.  "I had not considered this particular possibility."

   "No, I guess you didn't," Metesky said, brandishing his gun.

   "Fascinating as it would be to see giant beasts of dark matter
fornicating freely throughout the galaxy, I can't really allow them to
start a war with the denizens of the Confederation or Byzantium III.  Plus,
even if they made a monetary deal with you to help them destroy the
universe, Kiss, where would you spend your money?"

   Kissenger continued to ruminate.  "I had not considered that particular
possibility either."

   "By the way, have you ever had dealings with a tall dark and dour guy
who called himself the Master?" Doc asked.

   "Yes.  It was he who alerted us to the existence of Whorelons.  But he
prattled on so much about J.  Paul Gotti and money-making schemes that we
were forced to eliminate him from the loop."

   Doc smiled.  "That's our Masturbator.  He is truly a wanker."

   Turning to the CIA agent, Doc asked "Can you make certain our friend
here doesn't make any more trouble while I try to sort this all out and
save our asses?"

   Metesky gave a smile which was more chilling than goofy.

   "You got it, babe.  I'll cap his KAP ass.  After all, we don't want the
wrong regime to change."

   Doc winced as he left the loading bay.  The staccato report of gunshots
echoed through the room.  Metesky fired his weapon nearly continuously,
shooting Kissenger clones as they oozed out of the black box, causing the
decaying bodies to clog the machine.

   "I'm going to get some bad karma from this," Doc said to himself.



   Chapter 12

   A large crowd clogged the Security Offices.  Regular security personnel
and Confederation officers milled with knots of miscellaneous
self-important ambassadors.  These ambassadors, led Xyndria the
Vindaloovian, with Bainter in tow, had crashed the Frigadier's emergency
meeting to find out what precautions the Frigadier was taking to protect
Byzantium III in the upcoming war.

   Their heated conversation had been interrupted with a message from the
helm.  New hyperspace tears had been detected.

   The Frigadier activated a holographic viewer.  Now the alarmed beings
watched as more strange, gigantic Whorelon ships slid out of vulva-shaped
rents within the fabric of space-time.  The new arrivals sported large,
diaphanous wings of white mist.  They slid effortlessly through space using
some strange means of transport.

   To the untrained eye these ships looked like terrestrial whales with
large, white wings in lieu of fins.  They equaled in size the Whorelon ship
currently orbiting the station.  All of them dwarfed Byzantium III by
several lengths.

   As the ambassadors watched, other smaller Whorelon ships slid into view.
These took up positions ringing the heard of larger ships, like an advance
wave of light skirmishers.

   "These creatures must be the vanguard of some Whorelon juggernaut,"
Vindaloovian ambassador Xyndria said.

   Doc burst through the door of the Security Offices, his face red from
either physical exertion or a bad drug trip.

   "Frigadier, you have got to stop this war," Doc said.

   "That's bloody brilliant," the Frigadier growled.  "What the smeg do you
think I've been trying to do?"

   Doc looked towards the diplomats.

   "This war is based on a fundamental misunderstanding.  It's my theory
that the poor Whorelon was only trying to negotiate spawning rights. 
Someone, mainly Kissenger and crew, tampered with the translators, hoping
an inability to communicate accurately would spark a war," Doc explained.

   "Ahhh, when you say 'Kissenger and crew', I hope you don't mean the crew
of the Roberty Lee," Turk said.

   "No, you're merely patsies like the rest of us," Doc said.

   "That's a relief," Turk said, eyeing the angry looks sent his way by the
everyone in the room.

   "Oh," Doc continued.  "Those big ships out there.  They're not really
ships.  They're sentient beings composed of dark matter.  The Whorelon we
saw was some sort of shepherd," Doc said.

   "Either way, our first order of business is to establish a
communications channel.  With a properly functioning universal translator,"
the Frigadier said.

   "Captain," Splock said.  "I believe our best course of action would be
to attempt a mind-smelt with those creatures."

   "You mean like what you did with Snotty when he forgot where he put the
keys to the tool locker?" Turk asked.

   "Precisely, Captain."

   "Is that wise?"

   "Probably not.  Because if those the creatures are composed of dark
matter which doesn't interact with normal matter, Splock might get better
results from smelting with his own dick," McElroy said.

   "No," said the Frigadier.  "Let's stick to simple communications using
those fixed universal translators."

   "Mister Welch," Turk commanded.

   "Working on it," Snotty said.  He knelt on the floor, opening the panels
to reveal the inner electronic gizzards of a communications console even as
he fumbled with one of the Confederation's translators.  He pulled several
tools from his utility belt.  He then cursed as he pinched himself with a
wire stripper.

   As he worked, his extended feet nearly tripped the exiting Splock, who
in turn nearly bumped into the returning Alexis and Bambi, who had been
ordered by the Frigadier to refurbish the Security Office's dangerously
dwindling donut supply.  The Frigadier worked on the supposition that the
best way to silence an ambassador was to fill its mouth with food.  Thus
the two women now bore several boxes containing a variety of donuts, which
they dropped on a nearby table and then joined with the holographic
viewing.

   "What worries me is the presence of those other ships." The Frigadier
studied the view screen with an icy stare and a raised sugar donut in his
hand.  He used the donut to point to the small skirmishers.

   "I suspect they are only present to heard those larger beasts, much like
shepherds.  If that is so, we won't have to worry about them attacking
unless we approach them too closely.  Much like Mister Splock is doing in
that small shuttlecraft now," Doc said between several mouthfuls of his own
chocolate donut.

   "Oh frell," the Frigadier said.

   "Snotty, how are you doing with that universal translator fix?" Turk
snapped.

   "I'm doin' the best I can, Captain, but someone's buggered with it
something fierce.  I need three hours."

   "Damn it man!  We've got ten minutes!"

   A beam of bluish white energy, much like a titanic lightning bolt, split
the blackness of space, traveling between the Whorelon ship and Splock's
craft.  It was there, then it was not, leaving only a slight after-image in
the eyes, as if the entire beam had only been an illusion.

   "What was that?" the Frigadier asked.

   "I thought it was only one of my psychedelic flashbacks, but if you all
saw it too, then it must be Mister Splock getting his ass stir-fried, hot
Cajun style," Doc said, wiping crumbs from his chin as he reached for
another chocolate donut.

   Splock's shuttlecraft was indeed in trouble.  Its starboard engine
glowed in ways never intended by design or nature.  The shuttle shuddered
as the engine disintegrated in a sphere of glorious red and violet light.

   McElroy yelped in panic and rushed to the communications console.

   "Splock!  Splock!  Are you there?" he shouted into the microphone.

   Static crackled on the speakers.

   McElroy shook his fist at the Whorelons.

   "You killed Splock!  You bastards!"

   The Frigadier grabbed the microphone away from the distraught doctor,
smearing it with sugar.

   "Got it!" Snotty announced from below.

   "Whorelon commander, this is Frigadier Jonathan Stewart.  We have
uncovered a plot whereby our translators were purposely mistranslating. 
The current situation is due to a misunderstanding.  Please come back to
the negotiating table."

   A puzzled look came over the Frigadier's countenance.

   "I never thought I'd hear anything like that come out of my own mouth,"
he said.

   Several seconds of static washed through the otherwise silent Security
Offices.  Then the static broke, and the Whorelon's oddly paced reply rang
out.

   "Does_not_matter.  All_your_base_are_belong_to_us.  Make_your_time. 
Prepare_to_be_enlightened."

   The Frigadier now looked more confused.

   "Prepare to be enlightened?  Does anybody know what that Whorelon is
talking about?" he asked.

   Again the Whorelon's voice cut through the Security Office.

   "A_being_approaches_a_monk.  'What_is_the_nature_of_existance?'
the_being_asks.  'Five_pounds_of_feathers,' the_monk_responds."

   Doc scrunched up his face, then smiled brilliantly.

   "So that's their game," he said.  "Frigadier, this is a Zen war."

   "A what?"

   "A Zen war, where the opposing parties trade impossible to understand
and illogical koans to ostensibly prove who has a better understanding of
life.  The theory goes that the party with the better understanding of the
nature of the universe is wiser, badder, and in general not to be fucked
with."

   The Frigadier stared deeply into Doc's smiling face to measure the width
of the Time Fnord's pupils.

   "You're coked out of your frigging skull," the Frigadier said.

   "Always," agreed Doc.  "But in this case I know what I'm talking about.
This type of war was developed by a race of beings called the Straczynskis.
As wars go, it's a pretty good form.  There's little actual damage, with
the loser being shamed into submission.  Think of it like two male mountain
goats on earth who wish to mate, so they buck their horns together without
slaying each other to prove who's more virile.  Or the bibbits of Omicron
Seven, who smack each other over the head with their outrageously
proportioned phalluses."

   "If this is such a great form of warfare, why haven't I ever heard of
this Straczynski race?" the Frigadier asked.

   "A group of losing races banded together and nuked them out of
existence, along with some other obnoxious races they couldn't stand," Doc
said.  "I seem to recall that the Ewoks went extinct during this conflict."

   "Excuse me," Alexis interrupted.  "All this is great, but shouldn't
someone answer the koan?"

   "Oooh, thanks." Doc said.  He put his hand towards the Frigadier for the
microphone.  The Frigadier hesitated for a minute, but relinquished it upon
realizing he was out of his depth.

   With a cocky smile and a slight adjustment to his tinted glasses, Doc
spoke clearly into the microphone.

   "If it takes a biped and a half a day and a half to dig a hole and a
half, how long would it take a whale with a wooden flipper to finish off a
fifty liter enema?" he asked.

   He gave Alexis a jaunty grin, which swiftly faltered as the Whorelon's
voice came over the speakers.

   "A_being_approached_Hung_Mung, asking 'What_is_the_meaning_of_life?'
Hung_Mung_responded 'What_is the_question?' The_being-responded
'Ten_pounds_of_dung.' So_Hung_Mung_responded
'I'll_see_that_and_raise_you_twenty,' then_hit_the_being_with_a_stick. 
The_being_was_enlightened."

   Doc scratched his head in puzzlement.  "That one's got me stumped," he
said.

   "Two guys walk into a bar...?" Bambi offered.

   Doc shook his head.  "Too predictable.  I'm going to need some
reinforcement."

   Doc put down the microphone and withdraw a small, unmarked brown bottle
from the pocket of his Bermuda shorts.  "Thus I'm prescribing myself five
hits of Neptunian Juju Juice."

   "Are ya insane?  Don't do it, man!" Snotty roared.

   Doc unscrewed the cap on the bottle and dropped a small amount liquid
onto his tongue.  He had no sooner swallowed it when a strange, quirky
smile alighted on his face, and the pupils of his eyes expanded into great
black holes.

   Doc sat down on a nearby chair, his eyes now as wide as his smile.

   "Oh man, I am so toasted," he slurred.  "Frelled, gargleblasted, bowbed
and generally smegged out of my head."

   He stared at his hand, which he now found to be a source of wonderment.
He fumbled as he picked up the microphone.

   "Can energy be derived from mixing pasta and antipastos?" Doc asked
before letting the microphone drop to the floor.  The circular device
rolled towards Doc's foot.  He stared at in terror.

   "Bugs, Mister Rico!  Billions of 'em!  I'm a burning them down!" he
shouted as he attempted to stomp the rolling microphone and other invisible
vermin while still sitting on the rolling chair.

   "It's as I feared.  Doc is fried out of his everlovin' mind," Snotty
said.

   As Snotty wheeled the babbling and still seated Doc away from the
console, a new voice emanated from the speakers.

   "Hailing Byzantium III," said the raspy voice of Splock.  "I am alive,
and I'm stuck out here."

   "Splock!  Don't worry!  We'll get you!" McElroy yelled, only to be
interrupted by the Whorelon's next utterance.

   "Sri_Syadasti_was_asked,
'Can_you_search_for_something_if_it_is_not_truely_lost?',
to_which_he_responded 'If_it_was_not_lost, then_it_is_never_really_found.'"

   Seeing everyone at a loss, Alexis picked up the mike.

   "Can a man who's illiterate fully enjoy Alphabet Soup?" she asked.

   She shrugged her shoulders.  She looked towards Doc, who's tinted
glasses sat askew atop his nose, and who's drool made wet spots on his
Hawaiian shirt.  Alexis gave the mike to the Frigadier and leaned over to
wipe up the spittle.  She found that Doc's hands at still possessed some
form of consciousness as one groped deep into the crevice of her rump.  She
squeaked and jumped back.

  
"Why_do_you_trust_one_who_tells_you_there_are_billions_of_stars_in_the_univ
erse, yet_when_another_tells_you_that_the_paint_is_wet,
you_must_touch_it_to_make_sure?" the Whorelon asked.

   "Damn," the Frigadier said.  "I thought we had him on that last one."

   "Once again, I'm still stuck out here," Splock's voice said over the
speakers.

   "Mister Splock, shut up!" the Frigadier yelped.

   Every being crowded in the Security office searched each other's faces,
each hoping the other would come up with something.  The Frigadier mopped a
light sheen of sweat from his brow with the cuff of his shirt.  Bambi
grabbed his other hand, raising the mike towards her mouth.

   "Why are asteroids outside the hemisphere, but hemorrhoids inside your
asshole?" she asked.

   "Good one!" the Frigadier said.

   But the Whorelon was unperturbed.

   "Zarathud_asked_Elder_Malaclypse,
"Do_the_bibbits_of_Omicron_Seven_possess_souls?"
to_which_Malaclypse_replied "Oink_oink."

   Totally lost, the Frigadier, Alexis and Bambi could only stare
helplessly at one another.

   That was when Doc stood and leaned between Bambi and the Frigadier.  He
bent down, his tinted glasses falling to the floor.  With his mouth inches
from the microphone, he belched.

   It was an impressive belch, lasting for several minutes, and possibly
rivaled the first belch of pre-matter emanating from the white hole that
was the origin of the universe.  The sound waves of Doc's burp rattled the
control panels.  Then Doc collapsed on the floor in a stupor.

   It took several minutes for the Whorelons to reply.

   "There_can_be_no_answer_to_that.  We_are_enlightened.  You_have_won,
if_there_is_such_a_concept.  We_will_return_to_the_negotiation_table."

   The Frigadier stared at his companions.  He blinked in confusion.

   "Do any of you have a clue as to what just happened?" he asked.

   "No," Alexis said.  "But our Zen is stronger."

   Mister Splock's voice cut short the joyful congratulations.

   "Captain, I have an important confession to make," Splock's voice
sounded strained and tired.

   "Ah, what's that, Splock?" Turk said.

   "A confession.  I have been, and always will be, more than your friend,"
Splock said.  His breathing was labored.

   "Yes, but basically we're just friends, right.  Let's get that
straight." Turk enunciated the word "straight" very carefully as his face
grew red beneath the stares of everyone in the Security Office.

   "We've got to save Splock!" McElroy said.  Tears streamed down his
cheeks, smeared different colors from the multiple lights from the
controls. With one last frustrated slam of his fist into a console, McElroy
ran out of the control room.

   "As I am facing imminent death, Captain, I am finding the emotions
overpowering."

   Turk was clearly at a loss for words.  "I, ahhh, I'm not asking, so I
don't know what you are telling me.  You know Splock, don't ask, don't
tell? But, hang on there, Splock.  We'll have a rescue team over in a
minute."

   The view screen showed a second Confederation shuttlecraft taking off
from Byzantium III towards Splock's crippled ship.

   "Hang on, little buddy, I'm coming!" McElroy was heard to scream over
the radio waves.

   "I think I'm being privied to a few more secrets than I care to be privy
to," Snotty grumbled.

   Relief swept over the Frigadier as he reached for a donut, only to
discover Doc had had a munchies attack and had eaten every one.



   Chapter 13

   Reports, reports, reports.  A ton of reports.  The Frigadier vainly
searched the top of his desk for a clear space to place his stale cruller,
somehow missed by Doc during the Time Fnord's feeding frenzy.  Every
available space, nook and cranny was being use as storage for white papers,
metallic reader strips, vid-pages and sticky notes, all of which described
the recent near-war on Byzantium III.

   The Frigadier sighed as he heard his door open.  The bitter tang of
smoke from mind altering substances told him who his visitor was.  And I
just locked that door, the Frigadier mused to himself.

   "Hello Frig.  How are you doing?  Doing fine myself.  Though I seem to
be suffering.  There's aftereffects.  From that Neptunian Juju Juice I
dropped.  You going to eat that donut?" Doc asked.  The white teeth in his
smile added to the luminescence in the room.

   The Frigadier sighed.  He handed the cruller to Doc, hoping it would
shut him up.

   It didn't.  Doc spoke between bites, spewing crumbs.

   "Hey.  You know.  I was thinking.  About Byzantium II.  You know.  One
less than Byzantium III?"

   "I am aware of the numeric system, Doc."

   "Well.  I heard from Alexis.  She runs a sex shop.  The Kittycat Club.
Used to be the..."

   "I am well aware of who Alexis is," the Frigadier said.

   "Oh.  Cool.  Good.  Anyway.  She said Byzantium II was destroyed. 
Mysteriously.  By a horny interstellar beast."

   "That seems to be the general consensus," the Frigadier agreed.

   "Suppose that beast was a Whorelon?  Well, not the little guys.  Not the
ones with the black sex suits.  But the big guys.  The big guys that the
little guys were hearding.  Or something.  Anyway, got anything else to
eat?"

   The Frigadier mused Doc's new theory for a second, before his door
opened again.  This time the Vindaloovian ambassador strode into the
Security Forces Offices with a strange gait.  Her shapely chocolate brown
body was gloriously naked, except for a pair of white hands which encircled
her upper waist beneath her teats.  Her rump was thrust backwards, and just
behind and beside her head was Sergeant Bainter's face.  He too was
unclothed, with his groin flush against her rump.  A funky, sweaty smell
accompanied the pair.

   "Hiya Bainter," Doc said with a grin which threatened his ears.  "That's
illegal.  You're in Xyndria's diplomatic pouch.  Either of you got some
snacks?"

   "Sergeant Bainter, what is the meaning of this?" the Frigadier barked.

   "It's not my fault sir!  It just sort of happ..."

   "Frigadier Stewart," Xyndria calmly interrupted.  "Sergeant Bainter is
currently engaged in an important and sacred Vindaloovian ritual.  His
presence will be required for two more days."

   The Frigadier blinked.

   "I beg your pardon, madam ambassador?"

   "I believe you heard me, Frigadier."

   "I did, but cognitive dissonance got the better of me.  It looks like a
plain, old-fashioned shtupping to me."

   "I'm stuck sir!  Her twat!  It's like a vice!" Bainter whined.

   "Cool.  Let me take notes.  Either of you got snacks?" Doc asked.

   Xyndria continued, oblivious to all the stares.  "If you must know,
every cycle a Vindaloovian woman becomes, as you would term it, painfully
aroused.  Physiological changes occur, often involving incredibly tight
muscular spasms..."

   "Oh crud, I'll say!" Bainter gasped.

   "During these episodes, certain things..."

   "I don't need to know the specifics," the Frigadier said.

   He shook his head violently in hopes of clearing the cobwebs of
confusion and distraction.  It didn't work.  But he did manage to arrive at
a decision.

   "Sergeant Bainter," the Frigadier said with slow and precise
enunciation. "You are to assist madam ambassador with whatever she needs.
For however long she needs it."

   "But sir...!"

   "You are now on light duty."

   "That is excellent, Frigadier Stewart," Xyndria said.  She turned as
elegantly as she could to leave.  Bainter had no choice but to scramble
behind her, flush to her rump, and tried to retain his footing as he
marched in stutter step right behind her, yelping all the while.

   "I prescribe clitoral stimulation," Doc called to the retreating pair.
"A lot of stimulation.  Slip your dick out between contractions.  Anyone
got a candy bar?"

   Doc eyed the Frigadier, who eyed him back.

   "You must have a snack?  Somewhere?"

   "I heard Alexis just received a cargo load of edible underwear," the
Frigadier said.  "Perhaps you should see her."

   Doc smiled.  "Good!  Great!  Cool!  Be seeing you!" he said as he
stumbled towards the door.

   He made it to the Kittycat Club in record time and found Alexis deep in
conversation with a tall, suited man lugging a briefcase.

   "No, I don't know where Doc currently is," Alexis told the man just as
Doc burst into the shop.

   "Hiya Alexis.  Hello process server.  Goodbye Alexis."

   Doc slammed the door to the club and ran down the hall to his hidden
JOINT.  He made it to the antique porn booth and slipped behind its
curtains as the process server ran up the hall behind him, yelling "You
can't outrun this palimony suite forever!"

   The JOINT made noises like a diarrhetic supercomputer and faded from
view.

   The process server threw his briefcase at the now empty spot with
disgust.



   Epilogue

   With a noise like a tyrannosaurus rex getting its genitalia caught
between two rocks, Doc's JOINT appeared in the hyperspace engine room of
the Roberty Lee.

   He stepped out to find Chief Engineer Montivardi Welch lying back on a
plastic beach chair and well-acquainted with the majority of a six-pack. 
The chief engineer gave an insouciant wave to Doc while technicians
scurried around the pair, giving both, and Doc in particular, very dirty
looks.

   "I see being rank has its privileges," Doc said.

   "I prefer to think of it as assuaging a guilty, secret consciences,'
Snotty replied.

   "Snotty, why aren't you captain?"

   "I could'na do that to my crewmates.  Besides, I love the engine room."

   "So you opted for blackmail?"

   "You got it laddie."

   "Slick."

   "Plus I'm indulging in my hobby.  You've inspired me, laddie.  I'm going
to develop that tetra-lithium."

   "Good for you," Doc said.  His smile nearly matched that of the chief
engineer's.

   "How goes that Juju juice withdrawal?" Snotty asked.

   "Oh I'm back to my regular old, hallucinating self," Doc said.

   Captain Turk entered the hyperspace engine room, alone, rubbing his
forehead.  He did not look as youthful or cocky as when Doc had first seen
him.

   "Snotty," Turk said.  He stopped upon seeing Doc nearby.

   Doc smiled at him, and Turk gave a pained smile back before beginning
again.

   "Ahh, Snotty, I noticed that power is at 65 percent.  Perhaps we could
get it up to 100 percent?  Soon?"

   "That'll take two, maybe three days.  Captain," Snotty said, giving Doc
a big wink.

   "Snotty, I need that power now," Turk said.

   The Chief Engineer shrugged his shoulders as if to say, what can you do?

   "The bagel toaster in the officer's quarters isn't working correctly
because of it," Turk explained.

   He stared at his reclining chief engineer, who merely smiled back.

   "Please?" Turk added.

   "I'll see what I ken do, but I kennot make any promises.  Laddie,"

   Turk turned to go.

   "By the by, laddie, I noticed you had a wee bit of a headache.  You
should consult my friend Doc."

   "I prescribe two hits of Neptunian Juju Juice," said Doc agreeably.  He
smiled as he reached into the pocket of his Bermuda shorts.

   "No.  Thank you, but I'm trying to cut down."

   Turk turned and left.

   "I was going to make a few comments about how Turk should na worry about
what a strange queer trip it's been, and how he should just make a gay old
time of it, but that would a been tasteless, cruel and offensive," Snotty
said.

   "That's kind of you."

   "Besides, I just thought of them after he walked out the door.  So I'll
use 'em on him when I next see him," Snotty said, adding "So where you
bound now, Doc?"

   "I figured I'd visit the Ayn System with their Randroids.  I've always
wondered how such a bunch of selfish, self-absorbed pratts could create a
working civilization dependant upon the interconnections between their
selfish, self-absorbed selves."

   "Tis indeed a mystery for the ages.  Why don't you take that lovely
young lass from Byzantium III.  What's her name?"

   "Alexis.  But I don't think that would be such a good idea, as the
Randroids tend to be big-chested battle bimbots.  She might think the trip
tacky."

   "You should squire her 'round some other place then.  Show her a good
time," Snotty urged.

   Doc smiled sadly.

   "I might happen across one of my nine previous companions," he said.

   "Oh yeah.  Sorry.  I fergot about those seven lasses suing you."

   "Five," Doc said.  "The other two merely decided to put a bounty on my
life."

   Snotty whistled in sympathy.

   "That rough," he said.

   The two men wished one another luck.

   Doc went to enter his JOINT, only to be distracted by a radioactive
orange pamphlet hanging on the nearby wall of the engine room.  Two
familiar faces stared at him.  One belonged to the Master.  The other
belonged to J.  Paul Gotti.  Large bold black letters announced "Exciting
New Money-making Opportunities!!!"

   Doc blinked as he took down the pamphlet to better read it.

   On it was written:

   Fiduciary expert The Master, in association with financial entrepreneur
J.  Paul Gotti, will be holding a seminar on making the most of your
business opportunities...

   "What a wanker," Doc muttered as he let the pamphlet float towards the
floor.

   It glided on gentle air currents until shaken by a blast of air rushing
to fill the void where the JOINT had just stood.
   15