Avengers Forever - aka Die Hardest
Chapter Five: The Security Gambit
Covent Garden, West End, London
It had been a magical evening for those patrons who attended Covent Garden's production of Nijinsky's The Faun ballet, with Mikhail Baryshnikov in fine form. The tuxedo-clad men and evening-gowned women filed out of the Garden in an orderly manner, chatting amongst themselves about the beautiful scenery and the exquisite dancing and the tragedy of Vaslav Nijinsky who had created magic for many years and then gone mad.
The woman once and forever known as Purdey, tall and slender, with silvery blond hair and the effortless movements of a former ballerina, walked along on the arm of her husband, Mike Gambit. It was his left arm. He had lost his right arm twenty years ago, not in the service of his country, which would have at least made it palatable, but to a drunken driver on the M1 motorway. That the drunken driver had killed himself in the same crash was scant consolation.
Gambit had been forced to retire from Department S, even though the prosthetic arm he wore was a marvel of technical virtuosity, and had set up a business, with his new wife Purdey as equal partner, as a security consultant for businesses and private individuals throughout the world.
As they walked through the cool night air toward Charing Cross Hotel, where they were staying the night, Purdey seemed in a dream, and Gambit knew she was reliving the last two hours, picturing Baryshnikov and his company of dancers leaping about the stage, and how it would have appeared if the lead dancer had actually been the incomparable Nijinsky.
''Oh,'' said Gambit.
''What?''
''I had a call, while we were in the theater. Let me get out my phone. I had it on vibrator.''
Purdey released his good arm and he reached into his pocket for his cellphone. He pressed a few numbers and then held the phone to his ear. He listened for a few moments, his face growing extremely grim, then he snapped the phone closed. He stopped and faced Purdey, taking her hands in his.
''That was Marius, in Germany. The Alternities People have got their knickers in a twist and they absolutely insist that we fly over there for a series of meetings...that are going to last until next Monday.''
Purdey looked at him, stricken. ''But Steed's birthday is on Sunday!''
''I know. But I don't need to tell you how important Alternities are - not just to us as a business but to the civilized world as a business, and if they've got good reason to be worried...''
Purdey nodded. She bit her lip. ''It's not like no one else will be there. Cathy Gale. Tara King. Emma Peel. They'll all be there. And we'll be there the day after, and we'll be able to spend the whole week with him.''
Gambit nodded. ''That's right.''
Purdey nodded, and they started walking again. ''But to miss his eightieth birthday party,'' she murmured. ''When a man gets to be eighty, every day is precious. Every day might be...der Tag.''
''Nonsense.'' Gambit said robustly. ''Steed's in great shape, except for that arthritis of his. He'll live until he's 90. And if he doesn't...'' he glanced sideways at his wife and she glanced at him. ''Emma Peel will be there.'' he repeated.
Purdey allowed her lips to quirk into a grin. ''That's right. If they...um...and he...um...well, at least he'd die happy.''
''Nonsense,'' Gambit said again. ''One kiss from the lips of Emma Peel and Steed would wake back up quicker than Sleeping Beauty.''
Purdey hugged his good arm. ''Still,'' she said sadly, ''I wish this hadn't happened. But he'll understand. I'll call him tomorrow and let him know.''
Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center, Tibet-By-The-Sea
Mr. Honeywell covered the mouth of the receiver and glared at his short, black-clad associate. ''It is very distracting, Mr. Strange, to try to talk on the phone whilst in the background there is the constant sound of popping popcorn, not to mention that aroma. It's positively making my mouth water and I'm trying to concentrate here.''
''Sorry,'' said Mr. Strange.
Honeywell forebore to answer that he didn't sound sorry, and took his hand away from the receiver. ''What was that again, Adrian?''
Honeywell nodded several times, and made a few notes on a pad by his elbow. ''Right, I've got that.''
He hung up the phone and brought the pad over to his chair by the large screen tv. Mr. Strange had taken the popcorn bags out of the microwave and emptied them into two large bowls. Honeywell helped himself to a handful as Mr. Strange shoved Gambit, (starring Michael Caine and Shirley MacLaine) into the VCR, and turned it on. He put the mute on and turned attentively toward Honeywell.
''It's all working out so very well,'' Honeywell told him. ''The Sleep Gas has been delivered. My contact tells me the crew of the Triton have all been given weekend liberty. On Sunday there will be nothing but a skeleton crew aboard the ship - not to mention the naval base itself.''
''Oh, yes,'' Strange said appreciatively, licking butter from his fingers. ''That will make things easier.''
''Quite. And, the brass that are going to give Forrestal and our group the tour of the Triton have actually ordered that wheelchair ramps and other devices be placed in strategic areas, to assist in our little lambs getting around easier!''
''You're joking!'' Strange exclaimed.
Honeywell grinned. ''Admiral Forrestal, retired,'' he said. ''It's amazing what doors open when you can drop the right names.''
Strange returned the grin. ''And what doors can slam shut,'' he smirked.
The two men nodded at each other, then turned their attention to the television screen. Mr. Strange reached out a hand for the salt cellar.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 4
Avengers Forever - aka Die Hardest
Chapter Four: The best laid plans
Present Day - Fort Knox, Kentucky, USA
Cathy Gale stood in the darkness, her entire body rigid with terror. ''This is ridiculous,'' she told herself. ''Get control of yourself. You've faced psychotic villains without a qualm, you've played roles before, roles that if you weren't convincing would result in you being shot in punishment. Here, all you'll get are rotten tomatoes.''
Cathy took a deep breath. She'd played roles before but only in front of one or two psychotic killers, never in front of 500 people with a spotlight on her and their ears hanging on her every word.
''We need someone with a British accent,'' her sister's daughter's husband had told her, ''A posh accent. You'd be perfect, Cathy. You don't have to be a trained actress. We're putting on the show for charity, after all. You'll be splendid. '' If he were in front of her now she'd strangle him. Was that her cue? Cathy felt a cold ball of ice slip from her throat down her chest to her belly. No, no, not yet.
Cathy took another deep breath, and put her long cigarette holder in her mouth. Blast these laws in America that wouldn't allow her to smoke in the wings, let alone on stage. How silly she'd look on stage with an unlit cigarette in a cigarette holder clenched between her teeth.
Richard - her sister's daughter's husband, came up to her at that point. Cathy's hands itched but she kept them at her sides.
''How're the butterflies?'' he whispered.
''They've churned into sour cream by now,'' Cathy hissed at him.
''Oh, not to worry,'' he hissed back. ''Once you get on stage just concentrate on your fellow actors. You've done it all before in rehearsals, haven't you.''
Cathy's fingers went for him, but Richard intercepted them and kissed her knuckles. ''You're a trooper, Cathy. Oh, there's your cue! On you go.''
''And she got a standing ovation at the end,'' her great grand-niece continued to bubble, once the actress and her entourage had returned to their home. ''Her Mrs. Tweed was the hit of the show, and they're going to do it for three more nights!''
''Something's Afoot for three more nights? How splendid,'' said her twin sister, Patrice (known as 'Pussy' during her wilder days) Galore.
''I was in shock when I agreed to it,'' Cathy told her, accepting the very large whisky and soda that Patrice had prepared for her.
''But, Cathy! You were leaving for London three days from now.''
Cathy nodded. ''Like I said, I was in shock. Well, I'll just put off my trip for one day. I'll call up the friend I was going to visit, and tell him I'll be a day late. He'll understand.''
''Why call? Why not just email him?''
Cathy laughed. ''My friend is a Renaissance man, but his area of mechanical expertise end with the motor car engine. He tried to fix a toaster for a friend once - the bread charred and the toaster itself ended up in orbit. We're going to try to pull him into the 21st century on this visit.''
''We?''
''Well, it is his eightieth birthday party. A lot of his old colleagues are gathering to wish him well. People he's worked with over the years. Ste... I mean, Gascoine, for that is his name, is well-loved by all who knew him. He's getting a notebook computer and we're not going to rest until he knows how to use that email feature and promises to do so.''
''You're going to be a day late for his eightieth birthday party?''
Cathy grimaced. ''It's just a day, Patrice. A day that he's going to spend peacefully at home, and the most excitement he'll get will be if he manages to beat Mike Gambit at a miniature wargame. It'll be fine.''
Patrice Galore nodded, and stopped herself from saying, ''If you say so.'' It wasn't as if Cathy weren't going to call the chap on his birthday, although if he was as old-fashioned as she let on, it was a surprise he'd have a phone. Perhaps he used one of the old-fashioned kind.
Cathy made her way up the stairs to her room, stripped off her clothes and stepped under the pins and needles of an ice cold shower. She was only a couple of years younger than Steed, and she didn't have any intention of dying yet awhile. Steed would be just the same. And by arriving a day late she'd have more time to spend with him alone, anyway. Cathy nodded. Yes, the fact that she'd be a day late wouldn't matter at all.
Present Day - Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center
Mr. Honeywell and Mr. Strange stood around a large table, upon which resided a very large scale model of the Tibet-By-The-Sea Naval Station. Mr. Quarl sat in his chair, watching Return of the Pink Panther on the television set. It must be said that most of his attention was given to the vast array of guns he had spread over the settee, which he was cleaning meticulously one by one.
Chapter Four: The best laid plans
Present Day - Fort Knox, Kentucky, USA
Cathy Gale stood in the darkness, her entire body rigid with terror. ''This is ridiculous,'' she told herself. ''Get control of yourself. You've faced psychotic villains without a qualm, you've played roles before, roles that if you weren't convincing would result in you being shot in punishment. Here, all you'll get are rotten tomatoes.''
Cathy took a deep breath. She'd played roles before but only in front of one or two psychotic killers, never in front of 500 people with a spotlight on her and their ears hanging on her every word.
''We need someone with a British accent,'' her sister's daughter's husband had told her, ''A posh accent. You'd be perfect, Cathy. You don't have to be a trained actress. We're putting on the show for charity, after all. You'll be splendid. '' If he were in front of her now she'd strangle him. Was that her cue? Cathy felt a cold ball of ice slip from her throat down her chest to her belly. No, no, not yet.
Cathy took another deep breath, and put her long cigarette holder in her mouth. Blast these laws in America that wouldn't allow her to smoke in the wings, let alone on stage. How silly she'd look on stage with an unlit cigarette in a cigarette holder clenched between her teeth.
Richard - her sister's daughter's husband, came up to her at that point. Cathy's hands itched but she kept them at her sides.
''How're the butterflies?'' he whispered.
''They've churned into sour cream by now,'' Cathy hissed at him.
''Oh, not to worry,'' he hissed back. ''Once you get on stage just concentrate on your fellow actors. You've done it all before in rehearsals, haven't you.''
Cathy's fingers went for him, but Richard intercepted them and kissed her knuckles. ''You're a trooper, Cathy. Oh, there's your cue! On you go.''
''And she got a standing ovation at the end,'' her great grand-niece continued to bubble, once the actress and her entourage had returned to their home. ''Her Mrs. Tweed was the hit of the show, and they're going to do it for three more nights!''
''Something's Afoot for three more nights? How splendid,'' said her twin sister, Patrice (known as 'Pussy' during her wilder days) Galore.
''I was in shock when I agreed to it,'' Cathy told her, accepting the very large whisky and soda that Patrice had prepared for her.
''But, Cathy! You were leaving for London three days from now.''
Cathy nodded. ''Like I said, I was in shock. Well, I'll just put off my trip for one day. I'll call up the friend I was going to visit, and tell him I'll be a day late. He'll understand.''
''Why call? Why not just email him?''
Cathy laughed. ''My friend is a Renaissance man, but his area of mechanical expertise end with the motor car engine. He tried to fix a toaster for a friend once - the bread charred and the toaster itself ended up in orbit. We're going to try to pull him into the 21st century on this visit.''
''We?''
''Well, it is his eightieth birthday party. A lot of his old colleagues are gathering to wish him well. People he's worked with over the years. Ste... I mean, Gascoine, for that is his name, is well-loved by all who knew him. He's getting a notebook computer and we're not going to rest until he knows how to use that email feature and promises to do so.''
''You're going to be a day late for his eightieth birthday party?''
Cathy grimaced. ''It's just a day, Patrice. A day that he's going to spend peacefully at home, and the most excitement he'll get will be if he manages to beat Mike Gambit at a miniature wargame. It'll be fine.''
Patrice Galore nodded, and stopped herself from saying, ''If you say so.'' It wasn't as if Cathy weren't going to call the chap on his birthday, although if he was as old-fashioned as she let on, it was a surprise he'd have a phone. Perhaps he used one of the old-fashioned kind.
Cathy made her way up the stairs to her room, stripped off her clothes and stepped under the pins and needles of an ice cold shower. She was only a couple of years younger than Steed, and she didn't have any intention of dying yet awhile. Steed would be just the same. And by arriving a day late she'd have more time to spend with him alone, anyway. Cathy nodded. Yes, the fact that she'd be a day late wouldn't matter at all.
Present Day - Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center
Mr. Honeywell and Mr. Strange stood around a large table, upon which resided a very large scale model of the Tibet-By-The-Sea Naval Station. Mr. Quarl sat in his chair, watching Return of the Pink Panther on the television set. It must be said that most of his attention was given to the vast array of guns he had spread over the settee, which he was cleaning meticulously one by one.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, chapter 3
Avengers Forever - aka Die Hardest
Chapter Three: Countdown to danger
The man who called himself John Gascoine relaxed in the billiard room of the Mulberry Senior Citizens Luxury Retirement Center. He had poured himself a brandy and sat in an overstuffed leather chair by two of the vast French windows, warming the brandy with the palm of his hand and listening with gentle enjoyment to the murmur of voices from the players and the sound of billiard and snooker balls being hit with cues and bouncing off each other and the sides of the tables. The pleasantness was increased by the occasional sound of thunder and flashes of lighting coming from the windows, and raindrops pattering against the glass. A typical day in England, John Gascoine (Beresford Steed) thought to himself happily. He sipped his brandy.
Two men wandered by, deep in discussion of cricket scores. They were discussing Wisden (the cricketer's almanac) and complaining about a volume from 1964 missing from the Library. Scandalous!
A wild-white-hair-maned Professor Stephenson, born and bred in England who for some reason affected a German accent (and tried his best to look like Albert Einstein), entered the Billiard Room and came across to Steed's chair. ''My dear fellow,'' he said cheerfully, ''I'm sorry I'm late. But I see you have been using the time to advantage.''
''Certainly, Professor,'' Gascoine told him with a smile. ''Would you like a brandy before we start our 18 holes?'' A particularly loud roll of thunder and a bright flash of lightning accompanied his words.
''No, no, I must keep a clear head if I am to have any chance of beating you. Are we ready?''
Gascoine finished his brandy and rose, slowly, to his feet. ''Let's go. Through here, shall we?''
Gascoine opened one of the French windows, and he and Professor Stephenson stepped through, and into the sunshine of a bright English morning. Gascoine closed the window behind him and the sound and light effects began anew. Gascoine and Stephenson left the pleasures of a rainy English morning behind them and entered the bright sunshine, with the expectation of a day of 36 holes of golf in front of them.
The Great Golf greeter, clad in plus fours and a bulky sweater, greeted them at the starting gate of the Great Golf Game Center, and helped them to select the golf clubs they would need. They were playing the Greatest Golf Holes in the World, so they'd need clubs for snow, for ice, even for underwater. The vast panorama of the Miniature Golf Course, with its fairways and putting greens and exotic scenery, spread out before them. It was this Great Golf Game Center, more than any other amenity the Mulberry Luxury Retirment Home offered, that drew residents to it like flies to honey.
Professor Stephenson gestured for Gascoine to start first. Gascoine smiled and gestured that Stephenson really must be the first to tee off. Stephenson nodded his head in acquiescence and placed his ball on the tee. He took his stance as he assessed the various obstacles that stood between him and the cup.
''Have you heard about next Sunday's outing, Mr. Gascoine?'' Stephenson as he addressed the ball.
''To the Naval Base? Yes, I've heard.''
Stephenson brought his club up to the ball slowly, then took it back. He brought it up slowly again, then took it back.
''I can't remember. Is it an old sea dog that you are?''
Gascoine smiled. ''I was in the Navy briefly during the War,'' he commented (for men of Gascoine and Stephenson's generation, there was only one War).
''So you are going to attend?''
''I'm not sure. That day's my birthday, you see, and I'm rather expecting to have visitors.''
''Oh, is it so? Splendid. But surely you can bring them along?''
Gascoine nodded. Any visitors he'd have, male or female, would probably be quite delighted to get a tour of the nation's latest naval base, with all its mod cons and futuristic equipment.
''I'll issue them an invite, of course. Professor, I think that ball's about to grow moss.''
Stephenson looked down at the ball he had still not hit, smiled, and the next time he brought his golf club to meet it, golf club head met ball with a satisfying smack. ''Four!'' roared the Professor.
Chapter Three: Countdown to danger
The man who called himself John Gascoine relaxed in the billiard room of the Mulberry Senior Citizens Luxury Retirement Center. He had poured himself a brandy and sat in an overstuffed leather chair by two of the vast French windows, warming the brandy with the palm of his hand and listening with gentle enjoyment to the murmur of voices from the players and the sound of billiard and snooker balls being hit with cues and bouncing off each other and the sides of the tables. The pleasantness was increased by the occasional sound of thunder and flashes of lighting coming from the windows, and raindrops pattering against the glass. A typical day in England, John Gascoine (Beresford Steed) thought to himself happily. He sipped his brandy.
Two men wandered by, deep in discussion of cricket scores. They were discussing Wisden (the cricketer's almanac) and complaining about a volume from 1964 missing from the Library. Scandalous!
A wild-white-hair-maned Professor Stephenson, born and bred in England who for some reason affected a German accent (and tried his best to look like Albert Einstein), entered the Billiard Room and came across to Steed's chair. ''My dear fellow,'' he said cheerfully, ''I'm sorry I'm late. But I see you have been using the time to advantage.''
''Certainly, Professor,'' Gascoine told him with a smile. ''Would you like a brandy before we start our 18 holes?'' A particularly loud roll of thunder and a bright flash of lightning accompanied his words.
''No, no, I must keep a clear head if I am to have any chance of beating you. Are we ready?''
Gascoine finished his brandy and rose, slowly, to his feet. ''Let's go. Through here, shall we?''
Gascoine opened one of the French windows, and he and Professor Stephenson stepped through, and into the sunshine of a bright English morning. Gascoine closed the window behind him and the sound and light effects began anew. Gascoine and Stephenson left the pleasures of a rainy English morning behind them and entered the bright sunshine, with the expectation of a day of 36 holes of golf in front of them.
The Great Golf greeter, clad in plus fours and a bulky sweater, greeted them at the starting gate of the Great Golf Game Center, and helped them to select the golf clubs they would need. They were playing the Greatest Golf Holes in the World, so they'd need clubs for snow, for ice, even for underwater. The vast panorama of the Miniature Golf Course, with its fairways and putting greens and exotic scenery, spread out before them. It was this Great Golf Game Center, more than any other amenity the Mulberry Luxury Retirment Home offered, that drew residents to it like flies to honey.
Professor Stephenson gestured for Gascoine to start first. Gascoine smiled and gestured that Stephenson really must be the first to tee off. Stephenson nodded his head in acquiescence and placed his ball on the tee. He took his stance as he assessed the various obstacles that stood between him and the cup.
''Have you heard about next Sunday's outing, Mr. Gascoine?'' Stephenson as he addressed the ball.
''To the Naval Base? Yes, I've heard.''
Stephenson brought his club up to the ball slowly, then took it back. He brought it up slowly again, then took it back.
''I can't remember. Is it an old sea dog that you are?''
Gascoine smiled. ''I was in the Navy briefly during the War,'' he commented (for men of Gascoine and Stephenson's generation, there was only one War).
''So you are going to attend?''
''I'm not sure. That day's my birthday, you see, and I'm rather expecting to have visitors.''
''Oh, is it so? Splendid. But surely you can bring them along?''
Gascoine nodded. Any visitors he'd have, male or female, would probably be quite delighted to get a tour of the nation's latest naval base, with all its mod cons and futuristic equipment.
''I'll issue them an invite, of course. Professor, I think that ball's about to grow moss.''
Stephenson looked down at the ball he had still not hit, smiled, and the next time he brought his golf club to meet it, golf club head met ball with a satisfying smack. ''Four!'' roared the Professor.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, part 2
Avengers Forever aka Die Hardest
Chapter 2: Enter Emma Peel
Emma Knight (Emma Peel that was) finished stuffing her auburn hair (which owed something to Art at this stage in her life) under her bright blue bathing cap, that matched her bright blue swimming costume. She glanced at herself in the floor to ceiling mirror - very briefly, for Emma had never been a vain woman or one obsessed with her looks. She hadn't lost the tan she'd acquired after spending a fortnight's vacation in the Florida Keys, and while she was 65 years old her skin was as firm and toned as a much younger woman. She didn't work hard at keeping fit, but she worked hard at having fun and the one took care of the other.
Emma stepped under the shower for a few moments, then left the locker room and went out onto the pool deck. It was her pool, or at least as Knight Industries she had contributed the funds to get it built in the west London suburb near her home. The pool was Olympic-size, with three diving boards of varying heights on the far end. Tthere were only a few people in the pool. Emma dove in without preamble, and swam a couple of laps to warm up a bit. Then she side-stroked to the ladder, climbed out, and then made her way up the 60m diving board ladder. She walked out to the tip of the board and looked down at the silvery blue water far below. She took a deep breath, stayed very still, as she reran in her mind the procedures for a front pike dive. Then she flexed her legs and soared into the air.
An hour later, Emma walked out of the Knight Diving Center with a long stride and a cheerful smile. Her swimsuit had been stuffed into a large brocade carpet bag which she swung against her thigh with insouciance. Emma moved with purpose - she had a lot to do. She strode briskly down the street toward the first of two stops she had to make before returning home.
Her first stop was at the Quantum Computer store, where she picked up a Quantum notebook computer - their deluxe, big screen model. In length and breadth it was four inches bigger than a typical notebook, but extremely light and thin. Emma browsed through the software aisles and chose some software and games which she felt would appeal to a very old friend.
The clerk at the counter totted up her purchases and smiled at her broadly. ''Looks like you're going to be set for everything,'' he commented. Emma smiled at him and handed over her credit card.
Next she went into Teddy's Theatrical Costumiers. ''Hi,'' she told the clerk cheerily. ''I need a nurse's costume, please.''
The clerk ran an eye over Emma's measurements, in a quite respectful manner. ''Size 6?'' he suggested, and made as if to turn.
''Um, no,'' Emma said with a smile. ''I'd like a size 20. And padding to go with it.''
''Oh, yes?'' said the clerk.
''Yes, plus a gray wig, and some cheek pads. And the appropriate make-up necessities.''
The clerk smiled. ''The Mrs. Doubtfire look, eh?'' he commented.
Emma grinned. ''It's a friend's birthday in a couple of days. I'm going to give him a gift he'll never forget.''
As Emma walked back to her car, which she had left at the carport at the Dive Center, a reminiscent smile played around her lips. Her old friend had delighted in impersonations, and outrageous characters, while sticking her in dull and boring spots like hotel clerk, store clerk, teacher and nurse. Well, this time she was going to give him a nurse that he would never forget.
Emma stowed her parcels in the boot, and accelerated towards home.
Chapter 2: Enter Emma Peel
Emma Knight (Emma Peel that was) finished stuffing her auburn hair (which owed something to Art at this stage in her life) under her bright blue bathing cap, that matched her bright blue swimming costume. She glanced at herself in the floor to ceiling mirror - very briefly, for Emma had never been a vain woman or one obsessed with her looks. She hadn't lost the tan she'd acquired after spending a fortnight's vacation in the Florida Keys, and while she was 65 years old her skin was as firm and toned as a much younger woman. She didn't work hard at keeping fit, but she worked hard at having fun and the one took care of the other.
Emma stepped under the shower for a few moments, then left the locker room and went out onto the pool deck. It was her pool, or at least as Knight Industries she had contributed the funds to get it built in the west London suburb near her home. The pool was Olympic-size, with three diving boards of varying heights on the far end. Tthere were only a few people in the pool. Emma dove in without preamble, and swam a couple of laps to warm up a bit. Then she side-stroked to the ladder, climbed out, and then made her way up the 60m diving board ladder. She walked out to the tip of the board and looked down at the silvery blue water far below. She took a deep breath, stayed very still, as she reran in her mind the procedures for a front pike dive. Then she flexed her legs and soared into the air.
An hour later, Emma walked out of the Knight Diving Center with a long stride and a cheerful smile. Her swimsuit had been stuffed into a large brocade carpet bag which she swung against her thigh with insouciance. Emma moved with purpose - she had a lot to do. She strode briskly down the street toward the first of two stops she had to make before returning home.
Her first stop was at the Quantum Computer store, where she picked up a Quantum notebook computer - their deluxe, big screen model. In length and breadth it was four inches bigger than a typical notebook, but extremely light and thin. Emma browsed through the software aisles and chose some software and games which she felt would appeal to a very old friend.
The clerk at the counter totted up her purchases and smiled at her broadly. ''Looks like you're going to be set for everything,'' he commented. Emma smiled at him and handed over her credit card.
Next she went into Teddy's Theatrical Costumiers. ''Hi,'' she told the clerk cheerily. ''I need a nurse's costume, please.''
The clerk ran an eye over Emma's measurements, in a quite respectful manner. ''Size 6?'' he suggested, and made as if to turn.
''Um, no,'' Emma said with a smile. ''I'd like a size 20. And padding to go with it.''
''Oh, yes?'' said the clerk.
''Yes, plus a gray wig, and some cheek pads. And the appropriate make-up necessities.''
The clerk smiled. ''The Mrs. Doubtfire look, eh?'' he commented.
Emma grinned. ''It's a friend's birthday in a couple of days. I'm going to give him a gift he'll never forget.''
As Emma walked back to her car, which she had left at the carport at the Dive Center, a reminiscent smile played around her lips. Her old friend had delighted in impersonations, and outrageous characters, while sticking her in dull and boring spots like hotel clerk, store clerk, teacher and nurse. Well, this time she was going to give him a nurse that he would never forget.
Emma stowed her parcels in the boot, and accelerated towards home.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Last Avengers Story
14 days of an Avengers story, before Sexy Underwater Stories continues. I'm an Avengers fan and wrote this several years ago.
AVENGERS FOREVER - aka DIE HARDEST
PRESENT DAY
I. TIBET-BY-THE-SEA
It was Sunday, and the village of Tibet-By-The-Sea (along with its sister villages Upper Tibet, Lower Tibet and Tibet Magna) had braced itself for the weekly invasion from the Mulberry Senior Citizens Retirement Center.
The man who called himself John Gascoine walked, very slowly - feeling his way with a very sturdy umbrella - down the main street of Tibet-By-The-Sea. He cut quite a figure, with the bowler hat perched on his snow white head, a light gray jacket over a black turtleneck sweater that slimmed an only slightly overweight 80-year-old figure, and light gray shoes that matched his light gray trousers. The deeply set eyes that looked out from under heavy lids twinkled with an enjoyment of life.
''Life at Mulberry isn't bad,'' John Gascoine told the victim that he had chosen for that day - a barber who plied his trade on Mackiedockie Street. ''The ladies are quite taken with me. Of course they would be, what with the exciting life I've led, and all.''
''Is that so, sir?'' said the barber, opening a drawer and bringing out a cut-throat razor. He turned back to Gascoine and suddenly the hand which held the razor was caught in a vise-like grip. ''Ouch!'' exclaimed the barber.
''Oh, I'm terribly sorry,'' Gascoine said with a sweet smile. He released the barber's hand. ''It's just that you shouldn't go waving dangerous weapons like that about near the hands of a trained killer.''
''A trained killer?'' the barber said, with just the right expression of interested fear in his voice. He'd been in Tibet-By-The-Sea for ten years and had dealt with many a visitor from Mulberry Senior Retirement Center. He set his lips into an interested and inquiring smile, and listened with half an ear as Gascoine told him of his adventures as a super secret agent, many, many years ago.
II. THE TRITON PROJECT
In an inner office of the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Center, two men relaxed with tea and biscuits while they sat in comfortable chairs and watched the big screen television in front of them. Scenes from Topkapi played out on the screen. ''That Peter Ustinov, he's a right treat,'' said Mr. Honeywell, the head of the retirement center. Indeed, he looked a bit like a young Peter Ustinov, with a great deal of weight which he carried well, curly black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. Mr. Quarl sipped his tea. ''Oh, no, it's that Melina Mercouri who makes this film,'' he said, ''I love that voice of hers.'' Mr. Quarl was a big man, with big muscles. Fans of old movies might think of him as the ex-boxer turned actor, Mike Mazurski.
They stopped short as there came a knock on the door. Mr. Honeywell pushed the mute button on the remote, and then another button. In a corner of the screen, the exterior office was shown, and the face of Mr. Strange appeared. He was clearly alone in the outer office.
''Come in, Mr. Strange,'' Honeywell called.
Strange entered. He was a short man, but well built, with a tendency to wear black clothing at all times, enlivened only by brightly-colored waistcoats. On this occasion he carried a briefcase.
''Report, Mr. Strange,'' said Honeywell.
''It's all arranged, sir. The Naval Base is going to open its doors to a visit from the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Home next Sunday. It was my mentioning that we've got Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, here now that did it.''
''Excellent, excellent. I told you, Mr. Quarl, that this Retirement Center is simply a vast spider's web, and our prey has finally arrived. Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, indeed.''
nodded. ''How many of the old folks do we have to bring next Sunday?''
''I said twenty-five.'' Strange said.
''Twenty-five? Are you mad?''
Strange shrugged. ''We'll be slow moving to begin with, but once we get into the Base, what's it matter? And twenty-five old age hostages - if we need to play that card - why, it'll be a dawdle.''
Quarl looked grimly at Honeywell, but Honeywell did not seem to find the figure of twenty-five senior citizens excessive.
''At least you're going to run background checks on everyone we bring, aren't you?'' he asked.
''Background checks?'' scoffed Honeywell. ''Now it's my turn to ask you if you are mad.''
''But some of them might be ex-military.''
''I'm sure most of them will be. In fact, if he's to be believed, we even have a super secret spy living with us. What of it? They're all over seventy years old! They pose no danger, even if they did find out what was going on.''
Quarl folded his arms across his broad chest.
''Come, come, Mr. Quarl,'' Honeywell said soothingly. ''Our residents play card games, and go for long walks, and sit on chairs and watch the world go by, and you could snap anyone of them in two with your fingers. Now come, Strange. You're just in time to see the last half of Topkapi. Sit yourself down.''
Strange poured himself a cup of tea. ''Seven days,'' he murmured. ''Seven days to Project Triton. It's been a long time coming.''
''And we are well prepared,'' Honeywell said. He raised his teacup. Mr. Quarl and Mr. Strange followed suit. They touched cups with a musical ring. Then the three men settled down and devoted all their attention to the television screen.
AVENGERS FOREVER - aka DIE HARDEST
PRESENT DAY
I. TIBET-BY-THE-SEA
It was Sunday, and the village of Tibet-By-The-Sea (along with its sister villages Upper Tibet, Lower Tibet and Tibet Magna) had braced itself for the weekly invasion from the Mulberry Senior Citizens Retirement Center.
The man who called himself John Gascoine walked, very slowly - feeling his way with a very sturdy umbrella - down the main street of Tibet-By-The-Sea. He cut quite a figure, with the bowler hat perched on his snow white head, a light gray jacket over a black turtleneck sweater that slimmed an only slightly overweight 80-year-old figure, and light gray shoes that matched his light gray trousers. The deeply set eyes that looked out from under heavy lids twinkled with an enjoyment of life.
''Life at Mulberry isn't bad,'' John Gascoine told the victim that he had chosen for that day - a barber who plied his trade on Mackiedockie Street. ''The ladies are quite taken with me. Of course they would be, what with the exciting life I've led, and all.''
''Is that so, sir?'' said the barber, opening a drawer and bringing out a cut-throat razor. He turned back to Gascoine and suddenly the hand which held the razor was caught in a vise-like grip. ''Ouch!'' exclaimed the barber.
''Oh, I'm terribly sorry,'' Gascoine said with a sweet smile. He released the barber's hand. ''It's just that you shouldn't go waving dangerous weapons like that about near the hands of a trained killer.''
''A trained killer?'' the barber said, with just the right expression of interested fear in his voice. He'd been in Tibet-By-The-Sea for ten years and had dealt with many a visitor from Mulberry Senior Retirement Center. He set his lips into an interested and inquiring smile, and listened with half an ear as Gascoine told him of his adventures as a super secret agent, many, many years ago.
II. THE TRITON PROJECT
In an inner office of the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Center, two men relaxed with tea and biscuits while they sat in comfortable chairs and watched the big screen television in front of them. Scenes from Topkapi played out on the screen. ''That Peter Ustinov, he's a right treat,'' said Mr. Honeywell, the head of the retirement center. Indeed, he looked a bit like a young Peter Ustinov, with a great deal of weight which he carried well, curly black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. Mr. Quarl sipped his tea. ''Oh, no, it's that Melina Mercouri who makes this film,'' he said, ''I love that voice of hers.'' Mr. Quarl was a big man, with big muscles. Fans of old movies might think of him as the ex-boxer turned actor, Mike Mazurski.
They stopped short as there came a knock on the door. Mr. Honeywell pushed the mute button on the remote, and then another button. In a corner of the screen, the exterior office was shown, and the face of Mr. Strange appeared. He was clearly alone in the outer office.
''Come in, Mr. Strange,'' Honeywell called.
Strange entered. He was a short man, but well built, with a tendency to wear black clothing at all times, enlivened only by brightly-colored waistcoats. On this occasion he carried a briefcase.
''Report, Mr. Strange,'' said Honeywell.
''It's all arranged, sir. The Naval Base is going to open its doors to a visit from the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Home next Sunday. It was my mentioning that we've got Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, here now that did it.''
''Excellent, excellent. I told you, Mr. Quarl, that this Retirement Center is simply a vast spider's web, and our prey has finally arrived. Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, indeed.''
nodded. ''How many of the old folks do we have to bring next Sunday?''
''I said twenty-five.'' Strange said.
''Twenty-five? Are you mad?''
Strange shrugged. ''We'll be slow moving to begin with, but once we get into the Base, what's it matter? And twenty-five old age hostages - if we need to play that card - why, it'll be a dawdle.''
Quarl looked grimly at Honeywell, but Honeywell did not seem to find the figure of twenty-five senior citizens excessive.
''At least you're going to run background checks on everyone we bring, aren't you?'' he asked.
''Background checks?'' scoffed Honeywell. ''Now it's my turn to ask you if you are mad.''
''But some of them might be ex-military.''
''I'm sure most of them will be. In fact, if he's to be believed, we even have a super secret spy living with us. What of it? They're all over seventy years old! They pose no danger, even if they did find out what was going on.''
Quarl folded his arms across his broad chest.
''Come, come, Mr. Quarl,'' Honeywell said soothingly. ''Our residents play card games, and go for long walks, and sit on chairs and watch the world go by, and you could snap anyone of them in two with your fingers. Now come, Strange. You're just in time to see the last half of Topkapi. Sit yourself down.''
Strange poured himself a cup of tea. ''Seven days,'' he murmured. ''Seven days to Project Triton. It's been a long time coming.''
''And we are well prepared,'' Honeywell said. He raised his teacup. Mr. Quarl and Mr. Strange followed suit. They touched cups with a musical ring. Then the three men settled down and devoted all their attention to the television screen.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Interlude - Whom Love Destroys - Garth/Kirk slash fiction
Due to family issues I still haven't been in the mood to do any writing, so I thought I'd share some of my fan fiction. I wrote this many years ago - its up at Fanfiction.net.
Whom Love Destroys
Another note: The entire episode isn't reproduced here. Just selected scenes with a new slant. Depending on the reaction, if any, I'll expand it into a full episode. Vox populi.
[No one at FanFiction.net wanted it expanded.... ; ( ]
Part I – Queen to Queen's Level Three
The U.S.S. Enterprise entered orbit around the prison planet Elba II.
"Captain's log, stardate 5718.3. The Enterprise is orbiting Elba II, a planet with a poisonous atmosphere where the Federation maintains an asylum for the few remaining incorrigible criminally insane in the galaxy. We are bringing a revolutionary new medicine to them. A medicine with which the Federation hopes to eliminate mental illness for all time. I am transporting down with Mr. Spock, and we are delivering the medicine to Dr. Donald Korry, the governor of the colony."
Captain James T. Kirk pressed a button to turn off the recorder. He then gazed at the green, noxious looking planet on the viewing screen. To think…to think…that Garth of Izar was trapped down there, incurably insane…
Mr. Spock was completing a few duties at his station. Uhuru had just finished transmitting their arrival message to the facility's governor, Dr. Korrie, and they'd received permission to beam down. Now, she'd be sending an announcement of their arrival to Star Fleet command, then continue monitoring subspace communication in the area.
Sulu and Checkov sat at their consoles, relaxing after bringing the ship into proper orbit. They were also gazing up at the projection. Kirk wondered what they were thinking about. For himself, he always got a cold grue whenever he had to perform one of these missions. Prison planets for the incurably insane…insanity…how horrible that must be… and to have happened to Garth of Izar…a man he'd admired for decades…a man whose life he'd patterned his own after…it was inconceivable.
He shivered a little.
His command chair beeped. Kirk glanced down at the pad, then hit a button. "What is it, Bones?"
"I've finished work on the vials. If you're ready to go, I'll bring them down to the transporter."
"Very good, Bones. Scotty's already there, waiting to beam us down."
"Mr. Sulu, you have the con," said Kirk, as he and Spock headed for the elevator. "Scotty will be up here as soon as we've beamed down."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Just as they were about to enter the transporter room, McCoy arrived, and the three men walked in together.
"Here you go, Jim," Bones drawled tiredly, handing him a small container which held two vials. "Took me the whole danged trip, but I got what I needed."
Kirk accepted the vials, and passed them over to Spock. He looked at the doctor critically. McCoy had spent most of the journey attempting to synthesize some more of the drug for his own purposes. The Federation had only given them two vials, and McCoy had wanted to do some experiments of his own.
"You look out on your feet, Bones," Kirk said.
The doctor nodded. "Think I'll grab a couple of hours sleep. If you two think you can get along down there without me."
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow and was about to say something, when Kirk forestalled him with a grin. "We'll try to struggle along, Doctor."
"I'd like to be present when they administer it to a subject."
A subject? Thought Kirk. Garth of Izar – the most famous starship captain the Federation had ever had? Well, but that was how Bones looked at things. Coldly, clearly and analytically, when it came to patients and medicine.
"We'll talk with Korry, see what his schedule is. I know he's anxious to put this experimental drug to work as quickly as possible, but there'll be plenty of work for you down there, I'm sure."
McCoy nodded.
Kirk turned to Scotty. "Okay, Scotty. Let's use a chess password this time."
It was McCoy's turn to raise an eyebrow. "A Chess password?"
"Standard procedure, Doctor," commented Spock. "Whenever a starship approaches a prison planet, or one in the throes of martial conflict, and crewmembers beam down to the surface, a password system is utilized, to prevent unauthorized personnel from gaining access to the ship by hiding behind the landing party."
McCoy pursed his lips. "Sounds like a good plan."
"The sign will be "Queen to Queen's Level Three," said Kirk. And the countersign, "Queen to King's Level One"
Scotty nodded. "Very good, sir."
"You should do that all the time, though." McCoy said musingly. "Who knows when some martial conflict might not break out on a previously peaceful planet, as we have good cause to know."
"Suggestion noted, Doctor," Kirk said with a grin.
Kirk and Spock stepped onto the transporter pads. McCoy waited to see them dematerialize, then he and Scotty walked out of the transporter room. Scotty continued on to the bridge, McCoy to his quarters, where he slipped into bed without bothering to shuck his uniform.
Part II – The Passion
Kirk lay on the not-uncomfortable bed in a fetal position. One part of him disliked appearing so vulnerable, but he was in so much pain that appearances could no longer be considered. That chair…that torture chair…had done its work well.
But this pain was no more than he'd deserved. He'd let Dr. Kory suffer through that chair for minutes…he could do no less.
He forced himself to breathe through gritted teeth. Don't fight the pain, go with it…let it flow….let it dissipate…
Jesus…
Suddenly, he felt gentle hands on his shoulders…a cool hand caressing his face. He forced his eyes open and saw the Orion girl, Marta, seated beside him, her dark eyes liquid with concern.
"You're in so much pain," she whispered.
There was a different note in her voice…it sounded low and concerned…and sane.
"Just a bit," he gritted.
The girl laughed. A low, tinkling, understanding laugh. "Always the stoic captain," she whispered. "But in the privacy of your own room, you can let go…seek some comfort…"
She bent down, and brushed her lips over his hot face.
Cold, soothing lips… and her hands, cool…making the pain go away.
Kirk began to return her kiss…
Incredibly, the pain was dissipating…evaporating…as he lost himself in her kiss and her embrace.
He was able to move again, and seemingly of their own volition his hands moved to embrace her, feeling her cool flesh. He had never felt like this before, with any woman he'd ever been with… it was incredible… how could this poor insane girl make him feel so alive…he couldn't…he musn't….she was making the pain go away…he reached upward to slip off the straps of her dress…
Garth of Izar had not intended to kiss Kirk at all. He had assumed the shape of Marta and had intended to help Kirk escape, bring him to the command chamber, and have him give the countersign that would enable him to get off this hell-hole and out into the galaxy where he belonged.
But he had felt strangely touched, when he'd entered the room to find Kirk in a fetal position. He'd watched, unmoved, when he'd been inflicting the torture on this man, in that chair, but now here was the aftermath.
He'd moved across the floor as lightly and gracefully as a dancer, sat down next to Kirk, placed his hands very gently on those arms…and felt the musculature beneath the shirt. Kirk kept himself in shape. And he was burning up.
Garth's mind was a welter of colors, and sounds, and shape. All together it was a cacophony, a kaleidoscope, that no one but he could hear or see..he had to make it stop. He focused his mind, brought it to bear very gently on Kirk's, as he rubbed his hands softly over the man's shoulders and chest.
He felt Kirk's body relax as the pain went away, he felt Kirk's desire for this woman's body…he leaned down and kissed him on the lips…
And felt…pleasure…Kirk was embracing him, gently, comfortingly also, and kissing him, for a few seconds the colors, the sounds, the shapes, they seemed to fade away…
And for a second his concentration slipped…
Kirk's eyes widened as he realized he was kissing not Marta but rather Garth of Izar. For a few seconds he continued on, lost in the pleasure of it, but the sheer shock of seeing the psychotic Garth just a few inches away was too much.
Shock..anger…even fear…
The impulses lashed over Garth, and the tender emotions of a second ago were washed away as if they had never been.
He got up, grinned at Kirk…his monomaniacal, charismatic grin, and then he walked jauntily from the room.
Behind him…even as the pain returned, Kirk was thinking of the pleasure he'd gotten out of that embrace.
Part II – The Shapeshifter
Kirk and Spock sat in the recreation room, sharing a cup of coffee as the Enterprise headed for its next destination at Warp speed.
"You have sent your report to Star Fleet, captain?" asked Spock, musingly.
"Not yet. I'll be writing it up later this afternoon."
"And I expect Dr. Cory will be submitting his own report."
"I expect so. What are you getting at, Spock?"
"I am concerned for Captain Garth's safety, sir."
Kirk leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
"Captain Garth can assume the shape of any person he wishes, at any time. He could assume the shape of the President of the Federation, or of any ruling body."
"Yes, and that had been his plan, eh. But with that new drug…he's sane now…"
"What is sanity, Captain?"
"Well…"
"In any event…the question is not whether we think he is sane, or even whether the Federation does. The question is…will they fear his power?"
"His shape-shifting abilities, you mean? Well, frankly, I don't think there's a problem. There are retina scans, thumb prints, voice matches. Garth may be able to assume their form, but those minute little details…they'd trip him up…"
"Garth is not a shape-shifter."
Kirk stared at him. "Explain."
"A shape-shifter would be someone who can shift his shape into any design he wishes, granted. But Garth did more than that. His clothing changed as well. I think it is rather obvious that he does not shift his own shape. He controls other people's minds, so that they see what he wants them to see. Perhaps he does it unconsciously, perhaps it is an adjunct to the shape shifting, but the fact remains that he must be able to control people's minds."
"I see," murmured Kirk.
Spock nodded. "Now that he is no longer… raving mad…he may be able to consider his abilities in a sane light. If he realizes the extent of his powers…who knows what he might do? If he can refine that power…"
Kirk sipped his coffee. He was remembering, back in that cell, how Garth had made his pain go away. At the time he'd just thought…the power of a woman's touch…and then, just the power of Garth's touch….but now…
Garth…he thought. I want to be in your arms again…
Kirk finished his coffee. "Point noted, Mr. Spock. I'd better go write that report."
Whom Love Destroys
Another note: The entire episode isn't reproduced here. Just selected scenes with a new slant. Depending on the reaction, if any, I'll expand it into a full episode. Vox populi.
[No one at FanFiction.net wanted it expanded.... ; ( ]
Part I – Queen to Queen's Level Three
The U.S.S. Enterprise entered orbit around the prison planet Elba II.
"Captain's log, stardate 5718.3. The Enterprise is orbiting Elba II, a planet with a poisonous atmosphere where the Federation maintains an asylum for the few remaining incorrigible criminally insane in the galaxy. We are bringing a revolutionary new medicine to them. A medicine with which the Federation hopes to eliminate mental illness for all time. I am transporting down with Mr. Spock, and we are delivering the medicine to Dr. Donald Korry, the governor of the colony."
Captain James T. Kirk pressed a button to turn off the recorder. He then gazed at the green, noxious looking planet on the viewing screen. To think…to think…that Garth of Izar was trapped down there, incurably insane…
Mr. Spock was completing a few duties at his station. Uhuru had just finished transmitting their arrival message to the facility's governor, Dr. Korrie, and they'd received permission to beam down. Now, she'd be sending an announcement of their arrival to Star Fleet command, then continue monitoring subspace communication in the area.
Sulu and Checkov sat at their consoles, relaxing after bringing the ship into proper orbit. They were also gazing up at the projection. Kirk wondered what they were thinking about. For himself, he always got a cold grue whenever he had to perform one of these missions. Prison planets for the incurably insane…insanity…how horrible that must be… and to have happened to Garth of Izar…a man he'd admired for decades…a man whose life he'd patterned his own after…it was inconceivable.
He shivered a little.
His command chair beeped. Kirk glanced down at the pad, then hit a button. "What is it, Bones?"
"I've finished work on the vials. If you're ready to go, I'll bring them down to the transporter."
"Very good, Bones. Scotty's already there, waiting to beam us down."
"Mr. Sulu, you have the con," said Kirk, as he and Spock headed for the elevator. "Scotty will be up here as soon as we've beamed down."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Just as they were about to enter the transporter room, McCoy arrived, and the three men walked in together.
"Here you go, Jim," Bones drawled tiredly, handing him a small container which held two vials. "Took me the whole danged trip, but I got what I needed."
Kirk accepted the vials, and passed them over to Spock. He looked at the doctor critically. McCoy had spent most of the journey attempting to synthesize some more of the drug for his own purposes. The Federation had only given them two vials, and McCoy had wanted to do some experiments of his own.
"You look out on your feet, Bones," Kirk said.
The doctor nodded. "Think I'll grab a couple of hours sleep. If you two think you can get along down there without me."
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow and was about to say something, when Kirk forestalled him with a grin. "We'll try to struggle along, Doctor."
"I'd like to be present when they administer it to a subject."
A subject? Thought Kirk. Garth of Izar – the most famous starship captain the Federation had ever had? Well, but that was how Bones looked at things. Coldly, clearly and analytically, when it came to patients and medicine.
"We'll talk with Korry, see what his schedule is. I know he's anxious to put this experimental drug to work as quickly as possible, but there'll be plenty of work for you down there, I'm sure."
McCoy nodded.
Kirk turned to Scotty. "Okay, Scotty. Let's use a chess password this time."
It was McCoy's turn to raise an eyebrow. "A Chess password?"
"Standard procedure, Doctor," commented Spock. "Whenever a starship approaches a prison planet, or one in the throes of martial conflict, and crewmembers beam down to the surface, a password system is utilized, to prevent unauthorized personnel from gaining access to the ship by hiding behind the landing party."
McCoy pursed his lips. "Sounds like a good plan."
"The sign will be "Queen to Queen's Level Three," said Kirk. And the countersign, "Queen to King's Level One"
Scotty nodded. "Very good, sir."
"You should do that all the time, though." McCoy said musingly. "Who knows when some martial conflict might not break out on a previously peaceful planet, as we have good cause to know."
"Suggestion noted, Doctor," Kirk said with a grin.
Kirk and Spock stepped onto the transporter pads. McCoy waited to see them dematerialize, then he and Scotty walked out of the transporter room. Scotty continued on to the bridge, McCoy to his quarters, where he slipped into bed without bothering to shuck his uniform.
Part II – The Passion
Kirk lay on the not-uncomfortable bed in a fetal position. One part of him disliked appearing so vulnerable, but he was in so much pain that appearances could no longer be considered. That chair…that torture chair…had done its work well.
But this pain was no more than he'd deserved. He'd let Dr. Kory suffer through that chair for minutes…he could do no less.
He forced himself to breathe through gritted teeth. Don't fight the pain, go with it…let it flow….let it dissipate…
Jesus…
Suddenly, he felt gentle hands on his shoulders…a cool hand caressing his face. He forced his eyes open and saw the Orion girl, Marta, seated beside him, her dark eyes liquid with concern.
"You're in so much pain," she whispered.
There was a different note in her voice…it sounded low and concerned…and sane.
"Just a bit," he gritted.
The girl laughed. A low, tinkling, understanding laugh. "Always the stoic captain," she whispered. "But in the privacy of your own room, you can let go…seek some comfort…"
She bent down, and brushed her lips over his hot face.
Cold, soothing lips… and her hands, cool…making the pain go away.
Kirk began to return her kiss…
Incredibly, the pain was dissipating…evaporating…as he lost himself in her kiss and her embrace.
He was able to move again, and seemingly of their own volition his hands moved to embrace her, feeling her cool flesh. He had never felt like this before, with any woman he'd ever been with… it was incredible… how could this poor insane girl make him feel so alive…he couldn't…he musn't….she was making the pain go away…he reached upward to slip off the straps of her dress…
Garth of Izar had not intended to kiss Kirk at all. He had assumed the shape of Marta and had intended to help Kirk escape, bring him to the command chamber, and have him give the countersign that would enable him to get off this hell-hole and out into the galaxy where he belonged.
But he had felt strangely touched, when he'd entered the room to find Kirk in a fetal position. He'd watched, unmoved, when he'd been inflicting the torture on this man, in that chair, but now here was the aftermath.
He'd moved across the floor as lightly and gracefully as a dancer, sat down next to Kirk, placed his hands very gently on those arms…and felt the musculature beneath the shirt. Kirk kept himself in shape. And he was burning up.
Garth's mind was a welter of colors, and sounds, and shape. All together it was a cacophony, a kaleidoscope, that no one but he could hear or see..he had to make it stop. He focused his mind, brought it to bear very gently on Kirk's, as he rubbed his hands softly over the man's shoulders and chest.
He felt Kirk's body relax as the pain went away, he felt Kirk's desire for this woman's body…he leaned down and kissed him on the lips…
And felt…pleasure…Kirk was embracing him, gently, comfortingly also, and kissing him, for a few seconds the colors, the sounds, the shapes, they seemed to fade away…
And for a second his concentration slipped…
Kirk's eyes widened as he realized he was kissing not Marta but rather Garth of Izar. For a few seconds he continued on, lost in the pleasure of it, but the sheer shock of seeing the psychotic Garth just a few inches away was too much.
Shock..anger…even fear…
The impulses lashed over Garth, and the tender emotions of a second ago were washed away as if they had never been.
He got up, grinned at Kirk…his monomaniacal, charismatic grin, and then he walked jauntily from the room.
Behind him…even as the pain returned, Kirk was thinking of the pleasure he'd gotten out of that embrace.
Part II – The Shapeshifter
Kirk and Spock sat in the recreation room, sharing a cup of coffee as the Enterprise headed for its next destination at Warp speed.
"You have sent your report to Star Fleet, captain?" asked Spock, musingly.
"Not yet. I'll be writing it up later this afternoon."
"And I expect Dr. Cory will be submitting his own report."
"I expect so. What are you getting at, Spock?"
"I am concerned for Captain Garth's safety, sir."
Kirk leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
"Captain Garth can assume the shape of any person he wishes, at any time. He could assume the shape of the President of the Federation, or of any ruling body."
"Yes, and that had been his plan, eh. But with that new drug…he's sane now…"
"What is sanity, Captain?"
"Well…"
"In any event…the question is not whether we think he is sane, or even whether the Federation does. The question is…will they fear his power?"
"His shape-shifting abilities, you mean? Well, frankly, I don't think there's a problem. There are retina scans, thumb prints, voice matches. Garth may be able to assume their form, but those minute little details…they'd trip him up…"
"Garth is not a shape-shifter."
Kirk stared at him. "Explain."
"A shape-shifter would be someone who can shift his shape into any design he wishes, granted. But Garth did more than that. His clothing changed as well. I think it is rather obvious that he does not shift his own shape. He controls other people's minds, so that they see what he wants them to see. Perhaps he does it unconsciously, perhaps it is an adjunct to the shape shifting, but the fact remains that he must be able to control people's minds."
"I see," murmured Kirk.
Spock nodded. "Now that he is no longer… raving mad…he may be able to consider his abilities in a sane light. If he realizes the extent of his powers…who knows what he might do? If he can refine that power…"
Kirk sipped his coffee. He was remembering, back in that cell, how Garth had made his pain go away. At the time he'd just thought…the power of a woman's touch…and then, just the power of Garth's touch….but now…
Garth…he thought. I want to be in your arms again…
Kirk finished his coffee. "Point noted, Mr. Spock. I'd better go write that report."
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Story resumes Monday
Sorry for the extra two delays with this story - family emergency! Pleae expect next chapter on Monday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)