Thursday, 2 February 1995 (7:07am)

This story includes chatacters that belong wholly to Paramount, as does
the Star Trek franchise.  I am the lemonade stand to their Ocean Spray
Corporation.  I do not intend to make a dime from this hobby, but if
you do circulate either the story or this .zip file, please make sure that
this introduction remains intact.  

Any comments, queries, and *constructive* criticism are welcome.  Please
send your thoughts to me at

sandra@asgt.com

Thanks to all my friends, real and net, for being there to bounce
questions off of and generally pester.

Sandra GuzdekIndulgences
Copyright 1994 by Sandra Guzdek
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: this story takes place somewhere between "All Good Things . . ."
and _Star Trek: Generations_.  Written May-November, 1994.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 1 of 6


     If you build it, they will come. 
                    -- anonymous

                                 *
     Come with me
     and make believe
     We can travel to eternity.
                    -- Thompson Twins

                                 *
                          
     Shuffling his feet as he walked up the stone path, he squinted
into the sun reflecting in the large picture window.  Funny, she was
always at the window when she knew he was on his way over.  He
shrugged it aside, hitting a rock out of his way with the lovely
mahogany cane that she had given him on his seventieth birthday. 
Everyone has a break in their routine sometimes.
     He knew how much she hated visitors to come to the front door,
himself no exception, so he slowly made his way around to the back. 
"Ania, are you home?"  he called once along the way, and then again as
he rapped on the large oak door.  "It's me."  He looked back over his
shoulder and saw the glint of the sun on the honey gold field.  For a
moment he thought he saw her long dark hair trailing behind her as
she ran through the grass . . . but that was a long time ago, much
longer than he would care to admit.  He smiled with the memory.  
     As he turned back to the door, he realized his light touch had
sent the door slowly open, which could only have meant that it had
been slightly ajar to begin with.  'Probably pulling the laundry in off
the line.'  Ania was never one to quit, not even after an accident that
would have stopped anyone else from living life to the fullest.  He
stepped in as the sweet smell of warm, dry cloth filled his nose.  He
had guessed right.  "Ania?  It's me."
     Odd that she hadn't even called out to him.  "Ania?"
     The first needles of fear prickled at the bottom of his neck when
he saw the basket of laundry skewed on the floor . . . as if dropped. 
And it was all too near the cellar door.
     "Oh my God.  Ania."  He threw his cane to the side and made his
way to the stairs as quickly as he could.  He slowly descended the
stairs, and as they hooked to the left, he got a clear view of what was
at the bottom.  Judging from the way Ania's head was positioned, from
the way her eyes stared up without purpose to, the grey-streaked
ebony hair matted with blood, it was much too late.  She could not have
possibly have survived the fall.  He pinched the tears out of his eyes
with roughly calloused fingers, leaning back to the cold stone wall.
     The light he'd thought could never be put out, had been.

                                 *

     'Maclennan.  Average.'
     'Tudil.  Average.'
     'ebra'C.  Above average.'
     He sat back and sighed.  The corners of his eyes ached with
fatigue and he pressed gentle fingertips to them in the hopes that they
would stop reminding him how much work he had left to do.  And the
day was still so very young: it was, after all, only eight hundred hours. 
He had broken himself out of a very relaxing dream cycle two hours
previous just to get up and get it done.  He took the last sip of his
Earl Grey and hoped it would help.
     'Smith-Clindon,'  he began again.  'Below average.'
     The next name he encountered surprised him.  He hadn't had to
evaluate this officer's performance in a long time.  How could he
possibly sum up a stellar career in one categorical word?
     'Crusher,'  he thought after a moment.  'Outstanding.'
     Surprisingly, the door chime rang.  He was not expecting a
visitor; most of the crew were already on the surface enjoying a much-
deserved shore leave down on the surface of Melica, a resort world that
everyone aboard had heard much about but the _Enterprise_ had never
had the chance to visit before this time.  However, many knew that he
was on board finishing work that was due, or rather, overdue, thanks
to the last all-too-touchy mission they'd had to deal with.  The work
was tedious and time-consuming and unhappily had to pass across his
desk before he could allow himself the luxury of leisure time.
     "Come,"  he called, and the doors to his quarters opened.  He
looked up at the sound of his name that followed, and was taken aback
to see Beverly nearing him, a domed plate in her hands.  Breakfast.
     "By all means, join me."  He moved aside a small pile of data chips
to make room for the plate she'd brought.  As she took a seat, he
continued,  "Care to forge my name on several hundred performance
evaluations?"
     Her sneer was beautifully unattractive; she put the plate down in
front of him.  "I want you to stop what you're doing.  I have something
for you.  Computer, lights at ten percent intensity."
     Curious, Picard did as she asked.  She took the dome off of the
plate.  As she did, a small candle came alive with flame, illuminating the
baked confection it had been stuck into.
     Her voice was near silent as she said,  "Heard it through the
grapevine that it was your birthday."  Her smirk was crooked with
mischief.
     Funny to forget a date like this.  He looked to her sheepishly;
she knew he had forgotten.
     "Blow out the candle and make a wish,"  she continued, as she
bent over it herself, the candlelight glinting in her eyes.
     "I *wish* that . . ."  he began.
     "Shhhh,"  she gasped, drawing a single finger to her own lips.
     He remembered quickly that to speak a wish was to curse it not
to come true.  He looked to her, back to the cake, to her again with a
grin, and then blew out the single candle.  As he did, the lights came
up again.
     She clapped together her hands, then reached to pull out the
candle.  "Now, I know you can't tell me what that wish was . . . but I
do hope it comes true."
     He slowly turned to his terminal, and feigned disgust.  "Damn. 
The work's still there,"  he said half-seriously.  A slap on his arm
brought his eyes back to her.
     She smiled to him.  "Happy birthday."
     He pointed to her, looking terribly solemn.  "Part of my wish just
came true."
     "Huh?"
     His finger came very near to her mouth.  "That.  The smile."
     "Oh."
     There was a silent moment between them, as he appreciated the
gesture, and she, thankful for such a dear friend, kept the smile on
with little effort.  She found that they had somehow clasped each
other's hand across the desk, as she spoke.  "I can't believe it, not one
single reminder, not the faintest murmur of a 'happy birthday' from
anyone?"
     "I totally, absolutely forgot.  Luckily, so did everyone else. 
Except for you."  He then amended,  "But for that, I'm glad."
     He then took the pastry and bit into it.  _Pain au chocolat_. 
Mmmm.
     "So,"  she asked him, when she was convinced he had fully
swallowed the first bite,  "any plans for the day?"
     Picard sat back and scratched his chin, exaggerating deep
thought.  "Hmmm.  Hadn't thought of it. -- Ahh, but there's this . . .
work."  He looked more and more dejected as he came closer to finishing
the sentence.
     She leaned forward to better see the terminal screen.  "When's it
due?"
     "Last month."
     She pulled her mouth into a taut line, and sat back in a slump. 
"Oh."
     As if prompted by her reaction, he turned off the screen
decisively with the tap of a button.  "What's one *more* day?  I think
I'll go and swim a few laps."  He stood and tugged on his shirt in true
form.  "Or go riding.  Or--"
     Another smile found her face, but this one had a much different
shape.  The shape of covered-up disappointment.  "Sounds great, you
deserve it.  You need to relax more, especially today."  She watched as
he paced, planning the day out in his mind, when he stopped on a dime
and turned to her.
     He smiled slowly.  "You had something in mind all along, didn't
you?"
     Had she been that obvious?  She felt as if she were imposing all
of a sudden, as ridiculous as she knew it was.  It was extremely
uncomfortable.  "Well, no.  I mean, not really.  I thought we *might* do
something, but . . . it's your birthday and you can spend it however
and with whoever you want.  Including a lack of whoever."
     "Nonsense.  Who wants to spend a birthday alone?  I can do that
anytime."
     She smiled rather demurely.  "You really don't have to do this
just for me.  Take your swim or your ride."
     He gave her a sternly intense look.  "Beverly.  I would like
nothing more than to spend my birthday with you."   He snapped back
into joviality with,  "How about lunch in Ten Forward later?  We could
make it a big to-do, dress up in our Sunday best . . ."
     Picard knew that he was willingly walking right into whatever she
had planned, but didn't much care; he trusted her implicitly.  He began
to doubt if he should, though, when she said, almost mysteriously, 
"Actually, I'd like you to come with me, down to the planet.  But I have
something I want you to see first."
     "Should I be afraid?"  he queried jokingly.
     "The only thing that you should be afraid of is that I have too
much free time and not enough friends.  Come on, are you game?"
     He looked to the stack of untouched chips with a twinge of
guilt . . . but that didn't last more than a second.  "Why not.  I've had
a full life."  His cock-eyed grin was charming.  
     "Computer,"  she began,  "Load _Indulgences_, episode number
fifty-three."  He wondered for a moment what sort of code she was
speaking in.  She directed his gaze to the monitor he'd just turned off,
to see what appeared to be opening credits come up.  He knit his brow
as she reached to the monitor to turn it so they could both see easily.
     "Is this some sort of new entertainment I'm not aware of?"
     "On the contrary,"  she said, her eyes glued to the screen,  "it's
a television show from the twentieth century.  I found it in the ship's
library about a month ago, and I find it completely enchanting."  The
show's name came up in a big, elaborate font, followed in smaller,
easier-to-read type by the names 'Evan Grant' and 'Fiona Witherspoon'
along with what must have been photos of them.  Finally, the additional
credit 'Created by Dian Suchito' appeared just below what was probably
supposed to be a photo of the rural area the main characters resided
in.  The screen went to black for a moment; before he could ask,
Beverly explained,  "This is where a commercial advertisement would
have gone,"  to which Picard nodded in appreciation.  When the picture
returned, a lovely, faintly haunting violin melody introduced Picard to
the world of Peter and Rose Collins, she by her drafting board, working
diligently on the watercolour painting of a bundle of radishes, the faint
reddish-purple sunset visible through the window in front of her.  As
the camera curled around, it revealed him relaxing with a hardback book
on what he called his 'thinking sofa' not more than two meters from her. 
All the while the names of the various "guest stars", writers, the
director and the producers came on for a few seconds each at the
bottom of the screen.  The camera finally closed in and settled on what
he was reading:  "THE TRIAL OF ROBERT T."  
     "Peter,"  said the woman, who was conventionally pretty and in
her mid- to late forties, shoulder-length honey-chocolate hair and
luminous blue eyes.  As she delicately traced the frilly outline of a leaf
with a round, fine brush, she asked,  "Are you still reading that book
when you know you have the rough draft of first courses due next
week?"
     The man was slow to respond, running long, blunt fingers through
his closely cropped greying-brown hair, gaze fixed intently on the book. 
"Darling, I can't concentrate on that chap- . . ."  His voice trailed off
without finishing the word, as he became engrossed in the book once
again.
     Rose sighed, as she stood, rinsed off her brush in the water cup
on the table beside her, and walked over to sit on the arm of the sofa,
blotting the brush dry with a rag, reading over his shoulder the text
he was so fixated on.  "Oh, love,"  she said sweetly, the camera circling
them as she lovingly brushed his hair back in place.  "It's a wonder
you ever get anything done on that book of yours."  Rose planted a
kiss on his head.
     She stood again, the camera following her back to her seat.  At
once he popped up, still focused on the page.  "It just doesn't seem
right that they pinned the whole thing on that boy.  *Everything*
about the evidence against him seems wrong."  He offered the book to
her, page opened to the introduction.  "Read it and tell me you don't
feel the same."
     Rose took the book and started to skim through it, knitting her
brow.  "He was just a skinny fourteen year old boy.  There's no way he
could have--"
     Suddenly Beverly's voice interrupted, telling it to halt.  "Are you
interested?"  she asked in a low voice, looking to him.
     It took him a few seconds to turn to her and reply, as he
adjusted back to the reality of his quarters.  "Tell me more about
this . . . television show."
     "Well,"  she began, turning to him, trying to convince him to
share her zeal.  "It was a highly rated show from 1990 to 1994.  The
basic premise is that they work together writing cookbooks -- he's the
author, she's the illustrator -- and dabble in solving mysteries."  Picard
could almost feel her excitement, watching her very animated hands
move through the air as she spoke, her hair bouncing on her shoulders. 
"Total fiction.  It's your 'average television fare' according to the
reviews of the time, but I've sampled several dozen drama series of the
same time as this one, and there's just something about this one that
puts it head and shoulders above the others."
     "Hm."  His curled fingers rested just below his bottom lip.
     "Peter's favourite detective is Dixon Hill,"  she said.  Why did it
sound like a threat?
     In any case, the threat worked.  "Let's watch the rest then, shall
we?"
     The captain sat enraptured for forty-five more minutes until the
final ending credits rolled.  As they did, he sat back.  "That was
terrific.  I would not have guessed that resolution, yet, it makes so
much sense."
     "And they are *all* that way.  All absolutely captivating."
     "Hmmm."  He stood and made for the replicator.  As he returned
with a second pair of steaming teas to wash down the scones she had
brought to the table partway through the show, he inquired,  "So why
did it end?"
     "From what I can tell, the actor that portrayed Peter was killed
during the production of an episode, and the show just . . . halted." 
She paused to dollop a generous portion of clotted cream onto the
remaining half of the scone.  "And now for the rest of it."  She bit into
it.
     "What do you mean?"  He had to wait a moment for a reply.
     "Well, I told you I wanted you to come with me earlier.  Here's
why.  I was doing a little digging into the entertainment library and
found a posthumous television special on the actor, Evan Grant, who'd
apparently been quite the celebrity.  I was thrilled to discover that
there was about ten minutes total of raw footage from the last
unfinished episode.  I had no idea that it had even been made public.  I
then initiated a search for the script to get the full story.  Guess what? 
It's been lost."  She paused for dramatic effect, and to sip her tea.
     Picard seemed to hang on her every word.  Beverly wondered if
she shouldn't have been a diplomat or a negotiator.  "What I then did
was tell the computer to scan the entire library of episodes, their
scripts in both preliminary and final form, the biographies of the main
writers and directors, and to also take into account the political and
social climate of the world at the time, and then go ahead and base a
holodeck program on the final episode, using the data it finds to
extrapolate the ending of the incomplete episode."  She waited for a
response and got only silence.
     Finally he spoke.  "Beverly, this is phenomenal.  Tell me more
about it.  How did the computer do in creating a situation with those
parameters, how--"
     Her heavy, almost over-exaggerated sigh interrupted him.  "I
would have, except the program was so *incredibly* huge and complex
that the _Enterprise_'s holodeck couldn't deal with it.  I tried it once
and accidentally crashed the arboretum's cooling controls.  So,"  she
said finally, sighing again,  "I haven't run it yet."
     Picard's face fell the slight amount it had brightened.  "You can't
run it."
     She pulled out her ace and played it, grinning inwardly.  "Ah,
but when I was down in Juk'Saja on Melica, I found *this*."  She
handed him an isolinear chip to load.  He didn't even bother with a
curious look, just took it from her and popped it into his monitor.
     On the screen, a whiny, high-pitched voice proclaimed "the most
incredible thing to happen all century -- The Hol'cazar!": the structure
that had appeared on the screen, a giant, cube shaped building, was
purporting to be "the largest-capacity holodeck facility in all of the
known galaxy!", with the ability to handle any and all holodeck
fantasies.  
     "While I wouldn't exactly call this a *fantasy*,"  she began with a
smirk,  "I thought it would be great to finally run the program without
crashing something else."  She paused as he unloaded the chip.  Here it
was, the big question she had been building up to.  She found herself
unexplainably nervous, and swallowed the proverbial lump in her throat. 
"What do you say?"  she asked tentatively,  "Want to come down with
me and be Peter?"
     He smiled enigmatically.  Was it a yes or a no?
     "Tempting,"  he began.  "However, our collective record of role-
playing in the holodeck hasn't been very . . . inspiring,"  he added,
remembering the near-fatal shooting of Whalen, the creation of Doctor
Moriarty, and Worf's tale of the Ancient West taken over by a horde of
Datas.
     Beverly jumped to reassure him at once.  "We have the guarantee
of an absolute shutdown with a code that we pick when we enter, that
we can command the holodeck with if anything goes wrong.  They tell
me it has never been needed though, and I even spoke with a few of
the people planetside who have tried it out with pre-loaded programs
and they told me there's *nothing* like it."  She found she had gripped
the forearm of his uniform in her fervor, and with some amount of
embarrassment, released it.
     "Are you sure you're not working for them?"  Picard laughed. 
"You don't need to pitch to me any further; I'll go."
     Her eyes lit up.  "Really?"
     He nodded, though in truth the idea of masquerading as Beverly's
husband did make him somewhat apprehensive.  "But I will need to be
back by the end of the day."  He looked to the work once again, and
sighed.  "I'll need to get this taken care of."
     "But first of all, you need to finish your breakfast."
                                  
                                 *

CHIEF ENGINEER'S LOG:  We've been in geosynchronous orbit over the
southern continent on Melica for three days now.  We have been
experiencing random glitches all over the ship which have somehow
eluded the maintenance diagnostics I have been asked to coordinate. 
There have been no critical problems so far, but the captain has asked
me to get it resolved before he gets back from his planetside excursion.

     Geordi sat back and sighed.  Wasn't it just his luck, that
everyone else should get shore leave, while he had to bust his butt in
engineering?  Ah well.  At least he was able to round up a little help in
the form of Ensign Arnold Patterson, fresh out of the Academy and one
of the most promising engineering-track ensigns to come along in many
a moon.  Arnie sat working fervently over the main console, overseeing
the diagnostic of the long-range sensor array, then ran to the diagram
of the whole ship on the wall to coordinate the diagnostic of the warp
engine, then ran over to the main diagnostic panel to keep track of the
other sensor arrays being analyzed, all in the matter of a few moments. 
All of it made even Geordi dizzy.
     "Arnie, Arnie, calm down.  These diagnostics can do themselves,
and the other is a minor problem, which we *will* solve.  There's no
need to stir up so much dust."
     Arnie stopped moving, for which Geordi was thankful.  "I don't
want to let down the captain,"  he said, his voice wrought with distress.
     Geordi attempted to hide his ever-widening grin.  "If the captain
was that worried about it, he wouldn't have made plans to go down to
the surface.  He just doesn't want to wait for it to develop into
something bigger."  He went closer to where the young man stood
looking into his hands.  "Something like this is usually detectable by
even the most basic tests.  Let's just take a moment to think about the
nature of the problem, and try to come up with the most efficient
solution, all right?"
     He nodded, looking especially like a small child who's broken his
mother's favourite plate.  Geordi began his work again, focusing intently
on the panel beneath his fingers.
     "And I'm not scolding you,"  Geordi added a moment later in
response, to which Arnie smirked, but his superior did not see.  

                                 *

     The captain felt like a fool, standing there in the corridor with
his arms crossed, dressed in a muted green, short-sleeved silk shirt
and a pair of denim pants, with shoes called "topsiders" on his feet that
Beverly had recommended he should replicate.  He pressed the button
again, but not before collecting a few more strange looks from passing
crew, who, upon noticing he had seen them, turned away and tried to
hide the fact that they had just given their most superior officer a
questioning glance.  'Dammit, Beverly.  What is taking you so bloody--'
     Just then the door opened.  Jean-Luc saw why, and forgave her
instantly.  She was wearing a long, flared, floral sundress, her hair
drawn back into a plait with escaping tendrils framing her face, and on
her feet, brown leather sandals.  It was a most ordinary outfit, one of
several Rose had worn in the episode of _Indulgences_ that they had
watched together.  But somehow, on Beverly . . . he thought back to the
time he had first met her, and smiled affectionately.
     "You approve, then?"  she said to him offhandedly, slipping a
light shawl around her shoulders.
     "I do.  You look lovely."
     She tried not to let the blush that filled her cheeks show, but in
her attempt, she made it that much more obvious.  "Well, then.  Let's
go."  She took a step and then stopped.  "Wait, I almost forgot
something."  She went back into her quarters and returned presently
with a small satchel, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and another object
he couldn't readily identify.  "Rose wears reading glasses,"  she
reminded him, then added, indicating the bag,  "and generally doesn't
wear a dress all episode long."  She then handed him a small, slim grey
device that she folded open to reveal buttons and switches. "And Peter
carries what's called a 'cellular phone',"  she continued,  "which is in
reality a very cleverly disguised tricorder."
     "Do we *need* a tricorder?"  asked Picard.
     "Well, if we don't, then all that's been inconvenienced is your
back pocket."  She handed it to him, and he inwardly winced.  As if the
pocket wasn't already cramped.
     As they began walking together, she commented quietly to him, 
"That costume really does suit you, Jean-Luc."  He had to wonder if she
was pulling his leg, if it was indeed possible for anyone to look halfway
decent in clothes like these, especially these 'blue jeans'; they were far
too constricting to be comfortable, let alone attractive.
     "Hmm,"  he replied noncommittally, as they made their way to
Transporter Room One.
     She snickered.  He had never been one to take a compliment very
well.
     They entered the transporter room and garnered a querulous look
from the operator there.  Sick and tired of being stared at, the captain
returned the look in full, making the poor young lieutenant junior grade
turn his eyes to the controls with shame.  "Your coordinates, Sir,"  he
asked meekly.
     Beverly spoke, hoping to relax him.  "To the city of Juk'Saja,
northeastern quadrant.  The Hol'cazar."
     They were obviously not the first ones to leave for the place that
day, for Lt. J-G Marshall had no further questions to pinpoint their
destination, nor any hesitation in entering the coordinates.  Before they
knew it, they were standing in the open air, right before the building.
     The city itself was just being lit with the first rays of the day,
highlighting all of the lush greenery and distant lakes with a
shimmering gold.  Looking distinctly out of place with its steely walls
and cubical construction (reminding Picard uneasily of a Borg ship), the
Hol'cazar was even larger in scale than it appeared to be on the small
screen in the captain's quarters.  They had to crane their necks up
just to see the top of the place.  "I've downloaded the program to them
already; we just have to check in."
     The last part of her sentence made Picard feel like she was taking
him to some illicit hotel for the day.  That must have been evident on
his face, for she said to him,  "This *is* a very classy place.  I walked
through it before and looked through their catalog of choices.  Believe
me, there are plenty of other . . . regular programs being run.  We
won't be the only ones."
     "I know that, really,"  he said plainly, looking to her, and she
looked away to the front door as they walked on.  It struck Picard that
the thought had occurred to her as well, and he grinned.
     They entered the building and looked in awe for a moment at the
elaborate mirrored structures and velvet waiting area, which seemed to
be empty.  He wondered why there weren't more customers there, and
then remembered that this day was the Melican Festival of Freedom.
     "Doctor Beverly Crusher."  A smiling humanoid approached them
with his hands outstretched; his only easily apparent difference from
earth humanoids was the translucent, fleshy web of skin connecting his
chin to where his collarbones met.  He spoke again.  "I am Jeno, your
host here.  This must be the venerable Captain Picard."  He stopped to
bow in regard, a Melican show of high respect.  Nevertheless, it made
Picard feel a bit embarrassed.  "I welcome you both.  Holodeck 15-A has
been prepared with your program, Doctor, anytime you are ready."
     They looked to each other with reassurance.  "We're ready,"  said
Beverly.  "However, we would appreciate an interruption at eighteen
hundred hours.  The captain needs to get back to the ship by then."
     "It will be done.  If you will please follow me."
     Under his breath, Picard muttered to her,  "'Abandon hope, all ye
who enter here.'"
     To which she jabbed him in the ribs.
     They were led to a lift that rose to the fifteenth level of the
building, which, according to the button panel in the lift, was the top
floor; their holodeck was one of eight on the level.  Picard guessed the
ceiling to be at least five meters high in the hallway, explaining the
height of the building; he wondered what the dimensions of the room
inside were like.  Jeno spoke again.  "Now, if anything seems to go
wrong, you'll need a code to shut everything down.  That code is of
your choosing.  Tell me what you would prefer, and I will program it in
for you."  
     Picard took a look at the command panel for the room and saw
there were buttons that even *he* had never seen before.  He felt too
overwhelmed to think.  "Beverly, you choose."
     She took but a moment to reply.  "NCC-2893."
     Jean-Luc looked to her, surprised.  The _Stargazer_'s registry?
     "That is what your override shutdown command code will be
then,"  finished Jeno, punching a few more buttons on the console. 
"You may enter whenever you are ready."  Jeno did not wait for the
pair to enter the room before he left.  He obviously had other business
to attend to.
     "Beverly,"  he began.
     "I know, I know.  'Why did you have to pick that number?'  Well,
the _Enterprise_'s registry seemed so obvious, and that was the only
other one that came to mind in such short notice.  Plus, I figured it
was something we both knew well enough."  
     That they did.
     "Well, come on, let's go inside; we have a mystery to solve,"  she
prodded, grinning broadly.

                                 *
End Part 1
Copyright 1994 By Sandra Guzdek
Standard disclaimers about Paramount apply.
Don't even *think* of taking this story as your own.  
It would not be good for your karma.Indulgences
Copyright 1994 by Sandra Guzdek
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Part 2 of 6

     "So I suppose you've heard the gossip,"  Riker said, turning to
Deanna; he had the bridge for just a few moments more, before she was
to go on duty.  It was not uncommon for the two of them to sit and
chat before one was to leave and the other was to take over.  They'd
had some of their best conversations in this circumstance; somehow
seeing the unknown out there before them, waiting to be explored, put
everything into a proper perspective.
     She did not allow any emotion one way or the other to show on
her face.  "I have,"  she replied.  Finally her opinion became obvious
with,  " . . . and I think it's despicable."
     Riker was nonplussed.  "What do you mean?  There's been
something between them for years . . . whether they ever admitted it
before now or not."
     "Oh, I know that all too well,"  she replied, thinking of the many
conversations over the years she'd had with both the doctor and the
captain regarding each other.  Then Deanna leaned in close.  "But if
Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher want to go down to the surface for
*whatever* purpose, it's no business of ours."
     Now he understood her meaning.  But at Lieutenant Ragel's
frightened cry from the rear of the bridge, he didn't have much more
time to reflect on it.

                                 *

     'It isn't supposed to be this hard,'  thought Geordi.  He'd had it
all planned out.  All morning in engineering, solve the problem by
lunch, then down to the planet for some fun, games, and to catch a
pyrotechnic display in the southwestern province of Wecogosc that
supposedly rivalled the traditional Fourth of July celebration at
Starfleet Academy.  But at this rate he'd be lucky to leave engineering
before his sixtieth birthday.  Arnie didn't seem much luckier, either.
     Geordi sighed as he looked over the younger man's shoulder.  "So
it's not the nacelles either, according to the Level Two scan."  There
goes that theory.
     "No, Sir.  Everything is as it should be."
     He was at the end of his rope.  His ideas for what possibly could
be causing the trouble had run dry.  Arnie saw this on his superior's
face and tried to console him with,  "Maybe there really was nothing
wrong.  Maybe whatever happened just fixed itself."
     It was a dumb thing for such a bright person to say, and
Patterson knew it, but felt the need to say something.  Geordi sighed. 
"Nothing ever 'just fixes itself'.  It may go away awhile, but usually
comes back even worse than be--"
     Suddenly the disembodied voice of Deanna Troi filled the air. 
"Bridge to engineering."
     'As I was saying,'  thought Geordi, before saying,  "La Forge
here.  Go ahead."
     "I need a team up here at once.  There's been a malfunction of
Science Station Two."
     Geordi wondered why something like this would require the
engineering department to come running.  "Is that all?"
     "Well, the lieutenant on duty said that her panel was behaving
oddly, and now it's . . . different."
     "What do you mean by that?"
     "I think it's best if you just come up and see for yourself."
     "On my way.  La Forge out."  Geordi grabbed his tool kit.  "Let's
head up to the bridge.  It seems this is the only thing we've got to go
on."
     When he and Ensign Patterson got to the bridge, Geordi found the
errant panel, and saw what the commotion was about.  The panel on
Science Station Two seemed to belong more on a ship of a hundred
years ago than on the _Enterprise_.  He wasted no time in pulling out
his diagnostic tools and tricorder, all readings dumbfounding him. 
     "Sir, what is it?"  the young lieutenant asked.  Riker and Troi
stood behind Geordi at a safe distance, observing.
     "According to what I'm reading, the panel has no seams,
breakages, or any other signs that it is a retro-fitted replacement. 
That is, the tricorder seems to think that this odd console has every
right to be here."
     Before they could do anything further, the station was back to
normal.
     Geordi looked to young Patterson, who in turn looked to
Lieutenant Ragel, who then exchanged looks with Will and Deanna.  "Did
we all just all hallucinate?"
     "No.  I got readings.  I--"  He checked the tricorder logs and
found that the readings he had just taken said that the console had
been the same for the duration.  The playback of the recorded visual
showed him the normal console, not the inferior one he knew he had
seen just moments ago.
     Geordi sighed, wiping his brow.  "It would seem, Patterson, that
we have our work cut out for us."
                                  
                                 *

     Never had there been such an all-encompassing sense of realism
in any holodeck program, there couldn't have been.  Once the doors
shut behind Beverly and Jean-Luc, they instantly forgot that it was all
an illusion.  They stood, motionless at first, directly in front of the
staircase to the second floor, inside the home they both recognized from
the television show.  They slowly walked forward and to the left,
towards the front door, until they saw before them an area definitely
designed for relaxation: an overstuffed sofa, chair and low coffee table
situated cozily before a fireplace as well as a popular trend of the late
twentieth century, the entertainment center: television, video cassette
recorder, stereo receiver, compact disc player, to name but a few
components.  Overhead of all of this was the ceiling, clear to the roof
itself, both eastern and western slopes striped with skylights, which let
golden sunlight straight through to the floor. 
     Wordlessly they began to explore the ground floor, and Beverly
found all was as she remembered from the show.  Through the hallway
perpendicular to the front wall, they discovered the cozy half bathroom
decorated in peaches and creams, the laundry room in stark
Scandinavian style, and the elegant forest green and mahogany dining
room.  Finally, they found the home's crowning glory, a vision in off-
white and pine, the kitchen, most assuredly designed for the gourmets
that Peter and Rose were.  There were two convection ovens and one
microwave, a counter top range, twin sinks, an island preparation area
with pots and pans hanging from a rack above, all the appliances money
could buy, and a cozy little kitchen table that was seen (and used) more
often than the beautiful but rather formal dining room.
     Having come full circle through the ground floor, they were in the
familiar study, which housed Rose's drawing table, Peter's computer, the
thinking sofa, and shelves devoted to cookbooks and 'true crime' books. 
As Picard started to flip through one of them on the arm of the
thinking sofa, Beverly explored the drawing table, running a careful
finger along the edge of the vegetable still-life.  A glint through the
curtain caught her eye, and she stepped nearer to have a better look. 
     As Picard fell headfirst into an Ellery Queen digest, he heard
Beverly's voice call out breathlessly,  "Jean-Luc, you must see this." 
As he drew nearer to the front window, she drew back the curtains.  He
gasped at what he saw: the house was built on a gentle hill, and the
driveway came up from behind a row of shrubbery.  Beyond that he
could see with a relatively unobstructed view that the home was
surrounded by acres of verdant land.  Further away, broad fields of
majestic gold swayed in the wind; even further still, the hazy outline of
low mountains were visible.  He could just make out who he supposed
were the nearest neighbours, the roof poking through the tops of the
trees.  Birds floated by on the back of a gentle breeze; he could see
the bending elbow of a brook just to the side of the house.  
     He went all the way back to the dining room and pulled open the
vertical blinds, to see a view of what lie behind the house through a
gorgeous bay window; more greenery, more fields, more absolute,
unspoiled beauty.  It made him, for a moment, want to forget the whole
business of the mystery, and just take his mind for a rest out in the
fields.  However, he could never disappoint Beverly that much.
     "It's truly wondrous,"  he muttered.
     She turned to look at him, one corner of her mouth turned up
with a distinct sense of pride.  "It is, isn't it." 
     Picard met her gaze and her smile; they were both silent for a
moment before he turned from the window, shoving his hands into the
front pockets of his jeans with some effort.  "So tell me what's in store
for us."
     "First of all, let me explain where we are.  We're living in the
United States, specifically, in New York state, near the Hudson River
valley.  If you couldn't tell, the show is contemporary with the time in
which it was filmed."  Bev thought a moment; that was probably all he'd
need to know for now.  "We have lunch guests coming at twelve-hun--
noon,"  she said, correcting herself.  "You remember this couple from
the episode we watched, the Mathesons, Amy and Mark.  They are our
friends from the nearest town, Porter Corners.  It's Saturday and
they're coming for their weekly lunch date."  Picard nodded.  "Anyhow,
they are going to be giving us some information that gets us started on
solving a crime . . . or at least trying to solve it."
     Picard was still mulling over the "our" in her sentence as he
asked,  "What will they be telling us?"
     She grinned.  "Oh, I don't think I should say.  It'll ruin all the
fun."
     "Sometimes you can be very frustrating,"  he harrumphed.
     There was a definite twinkle in her eye as she spoke.  "Come on. 
It's eleven-thirty according to the wall clock, and we have to get
cracking on lunch."
     Picard actually looked nervous.  "'We'?  Oh, Beverly, I'm not much
of a cook."
     "And you, a cookbook author,"  she said with a sigh.  "Computer,
lunch."  The computer made a working noise, and Beverly headed for
the refrigerator, opened it, and took out a plate of sandwiches and a
bowl of fruit salad from an otherwise empty shelf.  She then went to
the microwave on the counter and retrieved a bowl from inside of it,
taking off the lid demonstratively to send an aromatic burst of steam
into the air.  "Ta-da,"  she said with a flourish.  "Now just bring it to
the table for me."
     He grumbled,  "I have to do all the hard work."
     Noon came and went, and no Mathesons; finally, at 12:10, the chime
on the door rang.  Lounging on the thinking sofa, having resumed the
Ellery Queen story in the interim, Picard, in his intense concentration,
almost said,  "Come."  Beverly, standing and inspecting the contents of
the bookshelf, could read that in his expression when she turned
towards the door, and she laughed.
     "Don't get up,"  she said,  "I'll answer it."  As she went past him
for the door, he did, in fact, join her to greet their guests in what
promised to be the exciting first stage of their adventure.
     Amy and Mark were, of course, the exact duplicates of the one the
captain and the doctor had seen on the program in their brief
appearance; she was athletically built, brunette, blue eyes, and pale-
skinned; he, with a darker complexion, was tall, strong, and had clear
green eyes.
     "Peter!"  cried Amy, wrapping her arms around the captain.  "You
didn't tell me that he was back from London, Rose!  Oh, it's so good to
see you!"
     Jean-Luc looked to Beverly with surprise.  "Yes, Rose, you should
have said something,"  Picard said through gritted teeth.  Thankfully,
Amy relinquished her hold before too long and they made for the
kitchen.
     "I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  Come on in!  Lunch is ready.  Tell me how
Jack is doing."  It was obvious that Picard was confused, so Beverly
said,  "He's only just come back, so for him it's after dinner.  Please
understand."
     Mark smiled broadly and shook Picard's hand vigorously.  "Hey,
we *all* get a little jet lag promoting our books around the world."  It
was evident he was being sarcastic; it was even more evident that his
joviality was forced.  Picard decided not to ask why, figured it would
all come out in due time.
     "Jack is doing just fine,"  Amy answered.  She, too, seemed edgy,
obvious in the way she twisted her gold wedding band.
     They dove into lunch and into conversation, taking seats around
the small pine table, forgetting the tension at the door.  Picard caught
on fast:  Amy was an art teacher at the local high school, and Mark was
a police officer.  Jack was their teenage son, whom Picard remembered
getting into a scrape in the closing scene of the episode he had seen. 
Picard remained silent for the most part, listening, observing, eating his
soup and sandwich, until a familiar name came up in conversation.
     "The author of the Dixon Hill books?  What about him?"  Picard
asked of the man beside him.
     "Well, late this morning I got a call to a possible homicide scene." 
Mark paused, running his hands over the short, springy curls on his
head.  The nervousness was back in full force.  "I hate to be the one
to tell you this . . . but Ania Brynn is dead."
     Picard was hesitant to say anything, not knowing how much was
public knowledge as of yet; he of course knew how the woman, the most
important research assistant for the whole series of Dixon Hill books,
and a competent author in her own right, was found at the bottom of
her cellar stairs with a broken neck.  Picard had read about it many a
time, such a tragic accident; it apparently hadn't even been determined
yet that it *was* an accident.  He reacted with surprise, and waited for
Mark to continue on his own.
     "Her ex-husband found her."  Mark sighed heavily, looking over
to his wife for support.  She patted him reassuringly on the arm.  "I
probably shouldn't have even said anything because it hasn't even been
released to the media yet . . . but I didn't want you to find out *that*
way."
     Picard looked to his other side, to Beverly, who looked
appropriately distressed.  Of course, Beverly was familiar with the
episode thus far, but not with the background information on the real-
life death of the Brynn woman.  Following Amy's lead, she touched her
hand to Picard's shoulder in a show of solace.
     Picard thought,  'She should have been an actor.'  Coincidentally,
her thoughts about him were much the same.
     He looked back to Mark, then dipped his eyes down, sighing. 
"Poor Ms. Brynn."
     Mark looked somber, yet surprised.  "'Ms. Brynn'?"  he asked, his
words tinged with both emotions.  "I thought she was always Annie to
you."
     Apparently, Picard thought he had not caught on fast enough. 
Beverly cringed.  Something she sort of forgot to mention to him.  
     Jean-Luc could not help but command,  "Computer, freeze
program."  The surroundings ceased to move and he turned to Beverly. 
"The fact that we were acquainted seems to be a major point of
importance.  You could have explained this much to me."
     The redhead looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. 
"I'm very sorry."
     Picard sighed roughly, ran a hand across his scalp, then gently
pat the hand that she had left on his shoulder.  "I didn't mean to
sound angry, Beverly.  I'm not.  But I really could have used this bit
of background."
     She nodded.  "I know, but I was just so . . . excited about finally
being here that I completely forgot."  She smiled yet another apology
before speaking again, sitting back against her chair.  "On the show,
Peter's love of Dixon Hill was fueled by the fact that one of the author's
chief researchers lived a few miles down the road from them, and she
was somewhat of a gourmet herself.  On the show, she played herself
semi-regularly.  Her real-life death was used as the plot of this
episode."
     "Apparently the people behind this show believed there to be foul
play or else this episode wouldn't have been done,"  Picard postulated,
rubbing his chin, reminding himself again that in reality her death had
ultimately been ruled an accident.
     "Not necessarily,"  Bev said.  "Remember, their crime-solving
efforts were not always successful."
     He sat back as well, crossing his legs at the knees, trying not to
let the frozen images of Amy and Mark disconcert him too much.  "I
would welcome being wrong in this instance.  But, just as an example,
isn't it extremely odd that the star of the show also died not too long
after this episode began filming?" 
     "I hadn't even considered that."  She looked grave.  "They never
did establish the circumstances of how Evan Grant died.  Found alone in
the middle of nowhere, no clues suggesting anything suspect had
occurred . . . Goodness, if they were related, and they've both gone
four centuries unsolved, someone got away with murder."
     He had no reply to that, because he agreed all too much. 
Nevertheless, Picard tried to comfort her with a smile before speaking. 
She took in a breath, feeling better, but still looking mournful as the
part required.  "Computer, resume to before my comment about 'Ms.
Brynn'."
     Picard continued,  "Poor Annie."
     Mark nodded, as he finished his cup of fruit salad.  "I didn't
even know her that well.  I can only imagine what you must be feeling." 
There was a moment of silence, a little uneasy and quite tangibly so,
before Picard spoke up. 
     "I appreciate your telling me, Mark.  You're right; hearing it on
the television--"  He turned to Beverly for approval of the term, and
she nodded covertly.  "--would have been even more devastating." 
Mark smiled, a great burden taken from his shoulders.
     After the rest of the meal, the Mathesons graciously excused
themselves, making for the front door.  "Well, since you're back from
London, Peter, and I've got a free night, I'll come by later and we can
work on Grandma's caramel cheesecake recipe like we've been meaning to
for three months,"  said Amy.  "I'd say 'let's do it now' but we have to
contend with the Teenage Monster."  Her smile told that she was only
joking, and the pair of them chuckled.
     'And we have to contend with a murder, possibly two,'  thought
Picard, before speaking aloud,  "Of course.  Anytime after dinner."
     Beverly rested up against the door jamb as their friends
descended the stairs and began down the path.  Amy's love of her son
was plainly obvious, but Jack was, well, a magnet for trouble.  She had
been fortunate enough with her own son, she guessed, to never have to
call him that.  She was then surprised to feel a hand on her shoulder,
the fingers squeezing softly in a loving gesture.  Jean-Luc had
materialized behind her.
     "Thanks for coming over,"  she called out.  "We always enjoy
your company, we don't get it enough."
     Amy turned from the path to see the couple standing there as
Mark continued on to the car; her smile to the two of them was purely
radiant.  "Give us a little baby Collins and you won't get rid of us," 
she called back to them, teasingly.
     Beverly declined to look at Jean-Luc, fearing the look of reproach
that would certainly be on his face; the hand withdrawing from her
shoulder told her enough.  Beverly waved.  "See you later."
     After closing the door, Beverly turned to her 'husband'.  He stood
there with arms folded across his chest, his gaze contemplative and
focused.  She had no time to think about what he was looking so somber
about; her mind was racing through a million other things.  She had
almost lost track of where they were in the program and it took a
moment to recall what they had to do next to get them on the right
track.  Upon remembering she knew it was plainly obvious, but she
thought she'd ask him if he knew anyway.
     Picard spoke, his voice a little gruff and very serious.  "If you're
going to suggest fulfilling Amy's *wish* . . ."  She looked back to him
with wonderment, but he followed it with a grin, a sure sign he was in
good spirits, and only teasing her.  A hearty laughter took her utterly
by surprise, heading back to the kitchen table.
     "No.  We have to go to the Brynn house and try to find some
clues,"  Beverly began by cleaning up the plates from around the table
and stacking them.  Suddenly she stopped, and said,  "Why am I
bothering?  It's a program!  Computer, remove lunch dishes."  The pile
of them disappeared from their place on the table.
     He had followed her into the next room, and had rested his palms
down on the edge of the table, curling his fingers over the edge. 
"That's all well and good,"  he began,  "but how are we going to *get*
to the Brynn house?"
     She beamed with pride.  "No problem.  Any second now, the
program should change, and we should be at the crime scene."   She
waited, and nothing happened.  They looked to one another.  "Computer,
institute the next part of the program."  
     The computer made a twinkling noise and asked,  "Please restate
request."  
     "Computer,"  she queried again.  "Please place us at the Brynn
house."  Nothing further happened.  "Computer?  Computer!"  
     Beverly looked annoyed as she turned to her friend.  She could
have sworn that the program had cut from the kitchen to the back door
of Ania's home.  She must have been thinking of another back door in
some other episode, she ultimately decided.  "I'm really sorry about this. 
It's not too far up the road.  We can find our way there.  I've seen the
house, the route, enough times."
     "How will we get there?  There aren't any transporters in
twentieth century America."
     "The automobile?"  she offered.
     "I don't know.  Those require a certain amount of skill, and from
what I understand there are quite a complicated set of rules and
regulations for navigating the road."
     Beverly thought a moment more, then looked to him through her
lashes.  "The horses."  
     Picard's eyes lit up.  "Let's go,"  he said with a fiendish grin.
                                  
                                 *

     An hour spent on the faulty panel did no good.  There were no
residuals, no evidence that anything strange had ever occurred.  Geordi
was at his wit's end, literally, and only a few hours until the captain's
return.  He'd had to recall his best and brightest from the surface, and
now they all sat brainstorming in engineering.  "Any suggestions at all,
no matter how absurd, will be entertained."
     They looked to one another briefly.  Finally, Ensign Patterson
spoke up.  "Maybe something external to the ship is causing these
strange malfunctions."
     Geordi shook his head.  "I've been monitoring every system, and
there is nothing out of the ordinary out there.  This is just an average
M-class planet."
     A voice came from behind them.  "Paraphrasing a great logical
mind, when you remove the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how
improbable, must be the truth."
     The chief engineer turned to see his good friend and smiled. 
"Are you saying that there's something out there we just haven't found
yet?"
     "Precisely."  
     Patterson looked to the android with a certain amount of surprise. 
He'd had yet to see Lieutenant Commander Data before this, let alone
work with him, and had heard many things about him, all of which must
have been true.  His co-workers, apparent in their deferential looks,
already had experience with the commander's vast knowledge and
flawless logic.
     "I've learned to trust Data's instincts,"  said Geordi to his crew. 
"Let's get to work.  There must be something we're missing."
     'Plus,'  he thought,  'a fresh mind can never hurt in solving a
baffler like this one.'
     Data approached the panel, glancing over what they had done
most recently.  "I will need to know what has already been attempted so
I do not duplicate your efforts."
     "Of course."  Geordi briefly went over the list, and before long
Data realized that every avenue had not only been explored, but every
house in the neighbourhood had been canvassed three times.
     "I see the source of your frustration, Geordi.  It would seem that
the latest problem only further complicates things."  Data stopped to
clear the screens on the console.  "We should probably start from the
beginning.  When did the ship first begin to exhibit erratic patterns in
its performance?"
     "I would have to say approximately when we arrived at the
planet."
     "That suggests that the problem is local to the system, and not
necessarily to the ship in and of itself."  Data stopped to enter a
command into the console under his fingertips.  "Next I propose we
theorize on what happened to Science Station Two.  Summarize the
events, if you would."
     Geordi thought about Data's query, looking to each member of his
crew.  Sometimes Data's analytical mind both frustrated and amazed him,
not to mention made him look like an ass at times.  "We were called up
to the bridge by Counselor Troi because of a malfunction.  The station
was a diagnostic station all right, but looked like it belonged more on
the original _Enterprise_ than this one,"  he concluded, remembering
what he had seen of the holodeck recreation of the very first ship to
bear the name.  "Within minutes of its appearance it was gone, and all
readings we took seem to suggest that the transformation never
occurred."
     Luminescent yellow fingers flitted across the panel they all stood
before in central engineering.  "Logs show that the air circulation
and filtration system was operating normally at the time,"  began Data, 
"so I will assume that what you encountered was not an induced mass
delusion.  Therefore, perhaps it truly was a panel from an older
starship."
     The rest of the engineering crew had been glancing between their
two senior officers like a crowd at a tennis match.  Patterson broke the
monotony.  "How can that be possible?"
     Data took a moment to process.  "The last thorough survey taken
of the area was approximately fifty years ago, when the Federation
decided to give its seal of approval to Melica as an official resort. 
Perhaps there have been major changes in this system since that time
that we are unaware of, especially those things that would affect the
barriers of space and time."
     "What you're saying,"  finished Geordi,  "is that the panel was
from another generation in *time*?"
     "That is what I said."  Data, of course, was perplexed at the
confusion.
     "But why wouldn't we have found something like that, Sir?" 
Patterson asked.
     "That is what we must determine."

                                 *

End Part 2
Copyright 1994 By Sandra Guzdek
Standard disclaimers about Paramount apply.
Don't even *think* of taking this story as your own.  
It would not be good for your karma.Indulgences
Copyright 1994 by Sandra Guzdek
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 3 of 6

     As a splinter of lightning raced through the sky, the pale brown
palomino beneath the captain whinnied nervously.  He could see the
remnants of crime scene tape on a gate to his right and reasoned that
he had found the house.  He saw no sign of the police, nor anyone else
for that matter.  Apparently, the determination that her death was
accidental had been made between Mark's departure and their arrival. 
"Quiet, girl,"  he said soothingly, as he dismounted, wiping his brow. 
The sky had clouded over in the midst of their jaunt; that and the hot,
sticky air foretold an impending storm.  It was against Picard's better
judgement to continue riding in weather that was so unnerving to these
animals, but by the time the distant thunder had first been heard, they
were more than halfway there according to Beverly.  Now the
accompanying rumble of thunder sounded, making the horse even more
uneasy.  Wondering how Beverly was handling her own mount, he deftly
unhooked the cheek pieces on either side of the horse's mouth and then
slipped the bit out of the bridle, leaving a sort of halter that he was
able to use to tie her to the iron fence.  As the sound of hooves grew
louder, he glanced back to the road to see Beverly approaching on her
gentle cinnamon Arabian.  It must have been incredible foresight on
Beverly's part for her to have brought the clothes she had: a hunter
green sweater, deep blue denim pants and leather shoes.  Then again, it
*was* her program.
     "You found it,"  she said to him.
     She came up to where he was, gently closing her fingers around
the reins to halt the horse; at the same moment, another bolt of light
split the sky.  The tethered horse merely took a few agitated steps, but
Beverly's horse actually began to rear up on her hind legs, back to all
fours, and then on the back legs only again, also taking a few
steadying steps with her hind legs in preparation of a flight response. 
The thunder to follow did nothing to help the situation, much louder
than it previously had been.  
     Picard's first reaction was to yell out for the computer to halt;
Beverly did not hear this call amidst the crash of another round of
thunder and her own preoccupation with remaining on the horse's back. 
Apparently, the computer did not hear it, either, and the horse
continued her panic.  He then thought quickly and stayed to the horse's
side, reaching one hand forward for the reins, the other for the horse's
shoulder, and calling out to her gently.  Beverly, for her part, tried to
offer the same reassurances to the terrified animal, stroking her neck
and speaking like a parent to a newborn, trying very hard not to let
the animal know how afraid she was for her own safety, and for his. 
"Come on, it's all right,"  he continued coaxing.
     Before too long the poor creature came down and stayed down,
and Picard was able to calm the both of them with continued success. 
He managed to get the bit out of the Arabian's mouth and hitched her
beside his own horse, then looked to Beverly as a cue for her to
dismount.  Finally able to express how fearful and nauseated she felt,
Beverly came down off of the horse, stumbling to the side of the road
and away from the horse, taking great, heaving breaths.  "I thought I
was a better rider than that.  What happened?"  she asked of herself
more than of him, her arms crossing her abdomen.  Picard was patting
the offender on the white diamond on her nose when Beverly turned
back to look at her companion.  "And you should not have done what
you did.  You could have gotten hurt."
     "First of all, you can't blame yourself.  People have been trying
to keep horses from doing that for hundreds of years, and it hasn't
worked yet.  It's not going to start with you."  He paused, turning from
the horse to look at her, and smiled warmly.  "Secondly, I was never in
danger, only you were, and you reacted perfectly, so even that danger
was minimized.  And lastly, even if you hadn't reacted like a pro,
nothing really would have happened to you, with the safety features in
this place."  He did not voice his own concern about the computer's lack
of response yet again, not needing for Beverly to be even more
distressed.
     She laughed lightly, her nerves beginning to settle.  "I *do* keep
forgetting this is a program."
     To settle his concern and hers, he called out,  "Computer, pause
program."  And, to his extreme delight and relief, the program did halt,
the first raindrops of the storm hanging in mid-air like so many
diamonds, the lightning paused in the middle of cutting the afternoon
sky as if it were nighttime, it was that much brighter.  "See?"  he
asked.  "Resume program."
     Beverly smiled unsurely, as the water struck her skin, cool and
refreshing.  She'd had a fleet, nagging sensation that something was
amiss.  She could have sworn that there was no storm in the footage
she had seen.  Granted, riding the horses was not called for in the
original program, but could it be that veering off from the predestined
story -- not using the automobile as was surely done in the series --
affected the way the computer interpreted the programming she had
given it?  Could it have been that this program was completely
dependent on how they, Beverly Crusher and Jean-Luc Picard, handled
each situation, what they did each step of the way, while still sticking
to the basic instructions?  Beverly smoothed the wet hair out of her
eyes and sighed to herself.  Then again, she had only seen a little of
what was to happen next from the inside of the house, and not the
surroundings, or for that matter, the state of the weather.  She decided
to keep her misgivings to herself.  After all, Jean-Luc was having a
remarkable time.
     "Come, off to the house, before we're soaked through to the skin," 
she finished at last.
     Beverly walked up to the door and reached for the knob.  "No
one's here,"  she said to him, a statement of fact.  Unbelievably (or
believably, depending on the point of view), the door was not locked.
     "Disregarding the fact that you made the program that way, why
do I still feel a little like we're about to walk in on someone?"
     She opened the door.  "Don't worry so much."  Past her feet
scurried a small animal.  It took a moment for it to register that it was
a calico cat, which dashed up a clothesline pole.  'Practice what you
preach,'  she thought, her heart thumping in her chest.
     There was still enough light outside coming through the windows
to illuminate the hallway, but the storm promised to steal that away from
them before too long.  "Let's take a look around.  We haven't much
time."
     All in all the house was much more modest in scale and design
than the house they called their own.  The hallway continued forward
directly to the front door, with one door to the left for access to the
kitchen, dining room, and the living room.  To the right lie first a door
to the back porch, then a door behind which was the cellar stairs, then
a bathroom and a closet, which resided beneath the staircase leading to
the second floor.  Picard mulled over the layout of the house.  The door
to each room faced a blank wall, and the hallway was not that wide. 
And the cellar stairs made a distinct left hook in its descent. 
Something just didn't add up.
     "For your general information,"  she said, combing stray, wet hair
out of her eyes,  "it's about here that the computer begins building the
story on its own.  I'm going to be as surprised as you are as to what
happens next."  Mentally, she added,  'I don't know if I find any
comfort in that.'  Folding her arms across her chest, she came up next
to him as he peered down the cellar stairs.  "You seem to know a little
something about this case.  Can you fill me in a little on details?  Maybe
I can then anticipate."
     Picard seemed not to hear her query; instead, he asked,  "Why
would she have been bringing the laundry back to the cellar?"
     "What?"
     Picard waved his hands in apology.  "According to the police
account, she was carrying a basket of laundry down the cellar stairs
when she fell, resulting in a broken neck.  But . . . it's summer. 
There's a clothesline out back, and the weather this morning was
beautiful, if I can so judge from our conversations at lunch.  She
would've had no need to bring her laundry back downstairs to the
laundry room to dry it."  He walked away from the cellar door for the
living room at the end of the hallway, looking around, noticing on the
way an elegantly framed and matted cover of 1934's _Amazing Detective
Stories_, the issue featuring "The Big Goodbye".  He reluctantly moved
on. 
     Beverly decided to play devil's advocate as the two of them
headed into the front room, the living room.  "Maybe she was walking
down the hall with her basket, intent on taking it upstairs, and slipped
and fell sideways.  She was somewhat old, wasn't she?  Maybe she lost
her footing, and the laundry was too much for her to keep her
balance . . ."
     He came to stand beside her.  "That seems unlikely.  The way she
landed suggested that she fell face forward, even considering the turn
in the staircase.  That's also a terribly awkward way to fall, sideways,
even if she was in her eighties."  
     "Hadn't she been injured badly in an accident?  I seem to
remember reading that much."
     He picked up a book that sat on top of the television set, his
eyes absently scanning the text.  "True.  She was in a devastating
automobile accident in her forties, which shattered her pelvis . . . and
killed her son."  
     At her silence, he looked back to her.  Obviously, that was
something she had not known about, from the way her face had gone
pasty white, the way her hand hovered over her mouth.  Picard had
always thought of the accident in more of a clinical manner, hadn't
thought to realize how it might have affected her.  He walked over and
loosely draped an arm about her shoulders for a quick hug.  "Hey, it's
okay.  She was in terrific shape and spirit the remainder of her life,
considering."
     Beverly sighed, stepping away, crouching to look more closely at
the sheet music that had been left on the piano, hastening to cover up
her reaction to this ancient fact.  "She was already partway down the
stairs when she slipped, then."
     "That's the story I have always heard, always read about."  He
paused, obviously troubled; Beverly hoped it wasn't because of her. 
"However, considering the laundry basket was found at the top of the
staircase . . . if she just slipped and fell down taking the laundry to be
dried, wouldn't the basket have been at the bottom of the stairs along
with her?"
     Of course, this all made perfect, logical sense.  "Why wouldn't the
police have reasoned this all out?"  She noticed a sepia-toned portrait
of a young woman with dark hair and dark eyes, embracing a young
boy.  Bev brushed her fingertips on the silver frame, as it sat on the
table beside the television.  Must have been Ania in her younger days,
she thought wistfully.  And the son she lost.
     "It was most likely easier to make a ruling of accidental death for
the very reasons you yourself gave.  I think the police were sloppy."  
     She grinned despite the situation.  "Don't let Mark hear you say
that."  She paused, almost suggesting that they go over the place with
a fine-toothed comb, or at the very least the tricorder, but realized it
wouldn't do much good here in the holodeck, as these were merely
holographic images of what actually existed.  She stepped away to
examine some other photos on the table in the corner between the piano
and the sofa, undoubtedly of the woman and her family.
     At the same time, Picard fought the fury that was uncoiling inside
of him.  Ania Brynn had been as much of an idol to Picard as she
seemed to have been to Peter; he had always admired her keen intuitive
sense, which she never succeeded in burying completely into the Dixon
Hill stories she had helped research in her early twenties, and later, it
was showcased in her own clever but not very financially successful
series of murder mystery stories.  Someone had deliberately snuffed
that brilliant mind from existence.  He had initially found himself hoping
his instincts were way off, that it had been, ultimately, only an
accident.  He saw now that was not at all possible.  In his mind, all
things pointed inexorably to foul play. 
     He was brought from his thoughts by Beverly's gentle voice. 
"What do you think happened then?"
     Beverly leaned back to sit on the arm of the sofa and waited for
Jean-Luc's reply when she realized that it instead was the chair in her
own living room, so to speak.  In a split second she recognized it for
what it was imitating: a scene cut in a typical _Indulgences_ episode. 
That didn't prepare her for the result.  Extreme disorientation couldn't
begin to explain what she felt; her mind spun like a top gone wild, and
she fell backside first over the arm and sideways into the chair. 
Seeing the woozy expression on Picard's face, he was not faring any
better. 
     "Beverly,"  Jean-Luc managed, bracing himself on the edge of the
entertainment center,  "did you by chance forget to debug this one?"  
     "Very funny,"  she grumbled.  She was now completely dry, her
hair free on her shoulders, dressed in pajamas, slippers and a warm
terry cloth robe, which completely surprised her.  Outside the window,
it was now quite definitely nighttime.  "At least we don't have to ride
the horses back,"  she continued in an attempt at a joke.  Picard
helped her out of her dilemma and after finding her legs again, she
walked to the living room couch, knelt on it, and drew the curtains
away from the window with her hand.  "The rain is really coming down," 
she observed, a sheet of pure water falling down before her on the
other side of the glass.
     Picard smiled despite himself.  He hadn't enjoyed a good storm in
years . . . then was quick to remember that there was no weather net
in the twentieth century to prevent dangerous lightning bolts from
striking the ground.  'Of course,'  he thought,  'this isn't *really* the
twentieth century.'
     Beverly noticed a pair of lights climbing the driveway, and
remembered Amy's promise to come over.  

                                 *

     "Oh my God."
     Geordi looked over the results from Data's latest test and found
those were the only words he could form at first.  After what felt like
hours, he continued,  "You mean to say . . ."
     Data nodded.  "The captain should be informed immediately."
     "Computer, the time,"  Geordi queried.
     "It is eighteen hundred hours, fifty-point-three minutes."
     'Have I really gone all day without eating?'  he wondered.  "All
right, the captain should be back by now.  Let's take this to the
bridge."
      . . . resulting in probably the single most unnerving turbolift
ride he had taken in a long, long while.  How to explain this?  How to
explain not *noticing* this?  It would make him look awfully sloppy and
awfully lax in his research into the system.  He realized he was
fidgeting with the padd when Data looked at him oddly.  "Sorry,"  he
apologized, and handed the padd away to him.
     The doors parted and he felt ready to take the brunt of whatever
the captain had to offer when he noticed the person in the Big Chair
was considerably smaller and considerably curvier than the captain, and
had a shock of long, brunette hair.  "Counselor?"
     Troi turned from her seat, forgiving him the error in her address. 
"Geordi.  What can I do for you?"
     Geordi felt all of the blood rush out of his face, dreading the
answer to his next question.  "Where's Captain Picard?"
     "Hasn't returned yet from the planet.  He must be having a really
good time."  At once she hated what she herself was alluding to, and
hated that her opinion would probably spread around the ship like
wildfire.
     Geordi didn't know what to do next.  He knew that their
communicators would probably not be able to be detected given the
situation.  Troi noticed his fear and uneasiness and asked him about it. 
"Can we talk about this in the observation lounge?"  he asked, his voice
lower than necessary.
     "Of course."  She held out her hand, letting them lead the way, 
"Geordi, Data."
     As soon as the door shut behind them, Geordi launched into, 
"They have to get out of there as soon as possible."
     "Why?"  she asked innocuously.
     Data brought the padd to her and tried to explain as concisely as
Geordi had often asked him to.  "In the survey taken of the area fifty
years ago, there are one or two sentences regarding an area adjacent to
the planet that showed the earliest signs of becoming unstable, but that
the likelihood of this happening was very low if the planet did not in
its development produce high energy levels."
     Geordi cut in.  "It would appear that someone somewhere forgot
all about this warning when they built the Hol'cazar."
     "You're saying that this holodeck building has ripped open a
rift?"
     "Not just a rift,"  added Data.  "A *temporal* rift."
     Troi looked incredulous, scanning over the padd Data had handed
to her, and taking in as much as she could.  Sure enough, right there,
practically just on top of the place.  Her stomach sank.  Troi's first
concern was, of course, for the safety of the ship.  What was the status
of this rift?  Had it grown in size, or struck again?  Would it begin to
effect the people on board?  The thought of the bridge crew suddenly
turning into the children, or even worse, the babies that they once
were, was not a pleasant one.
     "How did we miss it?"
     Geordi looked a little chagrined.  "Our early efforts to find the
problem with the ship focused exclusively on the ship itself.  All of the
external sensors were off-line for diagnostics all afternoon; being where
we are, in a relatively quiet area of space, we had no reason to think
we might need any of them.  Once Data researched into the survey, and
theorized on a cause, we got them back on line, performed a Level 7
survey of the area, and found this anomaly."  Data, who had no sense
of pride, simply nodded knowing he had done his duty.
     "Temporal anomaly."  Troi continued, hands resting on her waist,
deep in thought,  "Is this why Science Station Two did what it did?"
     "Exactly.  Somehow, this phenomenon must have been randomly
affecting the ship, even changing its components, including the sensors. 
The computer's diagnostic abilities were affected in turn, therefore
making any results we arrived at unreliable, both on the ship and off. 
That's why we thought nothing was wrong."
     "What about the Level 7 survey?  Is that information reliable?"
     "I believe so.  We recalibrated the sensors and sent out a probe."
     There was an uneasy silence before the android spoke again,
essentially finishing his explanation.  "The energy levels of the building
caused and are contributing to the decay of the rift, but we aren't
entirely sure if it is yet a permanent phenomenon."
     "Does this mean it can be reversed?"
     "We won't know until the building shuts down."
     "Computer,"  commanded Troi,  "establish communications with the
Hol'cazar."
     The display monitor on the far wall came to life with an ever-
looping commercial for the holodeck facility, and then after a minute or
two, a pleasant male voice assuring the trio that their call was important
to the Hol'cazar, and that someone would be with them before too long. 
Troi rolled her eyes and sighed impatiently.  Put on hold.  Had they no
idea how urgent this is?
     Finally a young female Melican appeared on the screen, dark
burgundy hair in a fetching queue on her shoulder, an ornate gold
hoop piercing the flesh under her chin in decoration.  "Hello, my name
is Eihpos.  How may I help you?"  she asked, sickeningly sweet.
     "I am Commander Deanna Troi from the _U.S.S. Enterprise_, which
is currently in orbit around your planet.  It is extremely urgent I
speak to whoever's in charge."
     "I can help you with whatever you need."
     "I suspect not,"  returned Deanna, forcing a smile.  "It is of
planetwide concern."
     "Commander,"  she said,  "I *can* help you."
     Deanna paused with an impatient, weary sigh, collecting her
frazzled thoughts into one coherent sentence: "The energy emanating
from your building is causing a tear in the space-time continuum, and it
is urgent that you shut down all programs until we determine if it is at
all possible to repair the damage."
     Eihpos squinted her purple eyes, looking lost.  "Um, I had better
go and get Jeno."  The screen blinked back to the eternal
advertisement.
     Deanna smugly replied,  "Thank you."
     Before too long a Melican who identified himself as Jeno appeared
on the screen.  "Commander, Eihpos has apprised me of the situation. 
What can I do to help?"
     Troi thought,  'I seriously doubt Eihpos understood a word I
said,'  but asked aloud,  "What did she tell you?"  
     "That there's a problem with the time.  I assure you, the captain
requested that he be interrupted at eighteen hundred hours.  Here in
Juk'Saja, it is only approaching *thirteen* hundred hours.  I did not
think to consider the time on board your ship."  He bowed his head to
the counselor.
     "And I assure you, Jeno,"  she began, waiting for the Melican's
eyes to return to her,  "that our dilemma is far weightier than
forgetting to allow for Federation Standard time.  There is currently a
temporal rift in formation ten thousand kilometers away from Melica.  It
is centered just above your building, relatively speaking, and literally
being fed by the energy coming from it."
     Jeno blanched five shades lighter than his already pale skin, more
with embarrassment than a feeling of guilt.  "What are you -- what can
this -- oh, Oracles Above.  What do I need to do?"
     "Shut down all currently running programs."
     "*What?!?*  But this business is my life!"
     Geordi stepped in after silent permission from the commanding
officer.  "The crew of the _Enterprise_ will do all we can to bring the
energy emissions down before restarting.  This won't cripple your
business for long.  However, you must shut down the holodecks as soon
as possible to stop the damage already caused before it becomes
irreversible, and forces you to shut down permanently."
     "So we will be stuck without power at all?"
     "No, keep the power on to the necessities.  That's minimal.  But
get those holodecks off-line."
     He didn't seem to grasp the gravity of the situation, and just
slumped his shoulders forward, as if someone told him he'd only just
violated a minor health code.  "Looks like I have no choice,"  he sighed.

                                 *

     "I hope I'm not interrupting anything,"  said Amy as she came in
the door, shaking her head and sending droplets of rain askew.  "Whew,
this storm's a real kicker!"  She pulled the metal clips opened on her
raincoat, and slipped out of the drenched thing, offering it to Jean-Luc
for the nearby closet housed under the staircase, and stepped out of
her boots.
     "Of course not."  Beverly's stomach rumbled just then, as if on
cue.
     Amy's hand went to her mouth.  "Oh, ohhhh.  You haven't eaten
dinner yet.  I'm sorry, I should have called to make sure first."
     Bev shook her head.  "No, we haven't, but you are welcome to
join us."
     "Just let me know when you're done cooking.  I'll let him free
then."
     Picard smiled, but thought,  'Why do I feel like I've just been
condemned?'
     Beverly headed for the kitchen.
     Picard headed for what he supposed was the computer terminal
(for it looked like a primitive console) and noticed that it was already
lit, with the words "TOUCH ANY KEY TO WAKE SCREEN".  Picard did as
beckoned to find the singularly mysterious phrase
"C:\BOOK\NEW\CHAP12>".  
     Picard cleared his voice.  "Computer, bring up the dessert
subdirectory."
     He heard Amy's laughter behind him.  "You won't even bow to
using the Windows you've got.  What makes you think you have a voice
interpreter?"
     Ohhh, major faux pas.  Computers of this era didn't regularly
respond to voice commands, he remembered, feeling foolish.
     "Darling,"  he heard a voice call from the other room.  "Would you
please come into the kitchen for a moment?"
     "Of course, dear,"  he called back, then turned to the other
woman and asked,  "Would you pull up the file for me?", glad to be rid
of the ancient machine for now.  "I'll be right back."
     Picard entered the kitchen to find Beverly looking rather
distraught.  "Jean-Luc, I can't get the computer to make even a
sandwich."
     "You know . . . I just inadvertently asked the computer a
question, and it didn't respond to me, either."  The sneaking suspicions
that the both of them had separately and sporadically had were now
coming back to haunt them in full force.  "I think something might be
very wrong, that this intermittent cooperation isn't just a fluke."
     Beverly nodded.  Knowing that their adventure was about to be
ended, she was sad that the two of them would not be able to see
through the resolution of the story.  "NCC-2893,"  the two of them
called out in unison . . .
      . . . and nothing happened.
     They looked to each other.  Another fluke?
     "Are you two all right in there?"  came the voice of Amy from the
study.
     "Just fine,"  Picard called, his mind working at warp speed.  Just
fine, considering they were trapped in a runaway holodeck program.
     "We'll be out in a minute."  Picard's right hand went first to tap
a communicator that wasn't there.  After looking a bit sheepish, he then
reached for his back pocket, and to the tricorder that had been planted
there that morning and forgotten about, even through riding the horses. 
He slipped the device out, and cranked it opened, punching the buttons. 
For Beverly's ears only he said,  "We seem to have lost our connection
to the _Enterprise_ as well."  She sighed, leaning back against the
counter top.
     She heard Amy's voice call out playfully,  "No fooling around in
there . . . !"
     Picard simply rolled his eyes, at which his cohort could not help
but snicker.  It was a welcome relief from the situation, and Picard
fought back a laugh, before continuing,  "Beverly, what did you load
into the tricorder's data storage?"
     She closed her eyes to think, her eyes moving as if she were
reading the backs of her eyelids, tapping her fingernails on the marble
counter.  "Besides the base programming, all we've got are the
necessities of _Indulgences_.  History, program synopses . . . nothing
pertaining to breaking out of a holodeck gone horribly wrong, that I
can think of."  Her eyes then opened and looked at him.  "Sorry."
     Jean-Luc looked defeated; as if to mock him, an eruption of
lightning illuminated the kitchen.  "Let's get back out to Amy before
her imagination gets the best of her,"  he said, his voice still low, as
the thunder came.  
     The two of them returned to the study to see Amy putting her
boots back on.  "Are you leaving?"  asked Beverly, furrowing her brow. 
In all honesty, she kind of wanted the woman's company; watching her
work on such an old computer would have been fascinating.
     "Yeah,"  she managed, between struggling with her raincoat
fasteners.  "From the sound of it, it's getting ugly out there, and I'd
better get back and batten down the hatches before we lose power or
something."  She pointed to the computer.  "And turn that thing off
before you lose your whole life's work."  He opened the door for her, a
gust of wind blowing rain into his face.
     "I'll be sure to,"  he said, hoping the off switch would be self-
evident.
     "Go carefully,"  called Beverly, just as the door closed on the
outdoors.  She turned to see the tail end of a melancholy look from
Jean-Luc, and realized she had subconsciously used a Kataanian parting
wish.  She smiled, communicating her silent apology to him.
     "Don't be sorry,"  he said.  "It's nice to hear that again."
     The lights in the house flickered off in time with the burst of
lightning that illuminated the outside windows.  Picard shivered, caught
off guard.  "We still have to eat, and have to get that machine powered
down, real or not."
     They stood looking at each other, until finally she said,  "I think
it would be best if I handled the food."

                                 *

     William Riker squinted into the sun that bounced off the sides of
the Hol'cazar.  He could handle the sun on Earth, he could handle the
sun on even Vulcan.  But this light . . . this light was brutally white,
and being surrounded by it from all angles was not helping.  It was
downright painful.
     "Let's go,"  he called to Geordi, who seemed unaffected by the
sudden change in brightness surrounding him.  Geordi had with him his
treasure chest of tools, ready to try to remedy the problem at hand.
     "For future reference,"  commented the commander as they
crossed the threshold,  "let's beam directly inside."
     They strode in with that certain air of authority that made all the
heads in the place turn.  Funny, these people were all in costume and
various dress.  And some of them he recognized from his own ship.  It
then dawned on him:  these were the people who had been using the
holodecks.
     "You must be the commander,"  said a voice behind him, sounding
a little more indignant than was usually healthy around Riker.  He
turned deliberately slowly to find he was towering over the Melican he
recognized as Jeno.
     Jeno, of course, physically shrunk at the sight of the commander's
expression.  "I am Commander Riker.  I see you've got the building shut
down as the _Enterprise_ requested."
     "Yes,"  he said, with a low, almost inaudible grumble,  "except for
the 'necessities'."  The last word was spat out with distaste.  "I want
your engineers to work on getting the energy problem resolved so these
people can get back to their leisure time.  Unhappy customers talk
about these things to their friends, who then tell *their* friends.  My
business--"
     Geordi spoke up before the man went on another diatribe.  "I
don't see the captain or the doctor in this vicinity.  Did you personally
evacuate the rooms?"
     Jeno looked a little outraged at being asked such a question. 
"Well, of course not.  When I shut down the power, all programs ceased
running and the holodeck doors opened with an automated announcement
to report here to the main lobby.  That was developed specifically to
avoid having to walk to each room to escort them down here
personally."
     "Then where are Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher?"
     Jeno had no snappy answer for that question, and turned away to
tend to his somewhat disgruntled customers.
     Riker touched his comm badge.  "Riker to engineering.  Patterson,
I need you down here on the surface."
     "Aye sir.  Beaming down at once."
     Within a moment or two a rapidly blinking Arnold Patterson came
into the building with a tool kit of his own, trying to focus well enough
to read the tiny screen on his tricorder.  Riker smirked despite himself.
     Patterson spoke without prompt.  "The rift has ceased to expand
since the power's been cut to the holodecks, and in fact has shrunk in
size by ten percent."
     Geordi sighed heavily.  "I think we've halted the problem.  Now
we just need to reverse it."
     Will cut in.  "And we have to find the captain."  He thought a
moment, then hit his communicator to contact the ship.
     "Troi here,"  came the distant voice.
     "Now that things are beginning to have the semblance of control,
I want someone to coordinate the return of all personnel to the ship for
a head count.  Make sure no one else is missing."
     "I'll begin at once.  Troi out,"  she said, before calling Data to
assume command of the ship.
     Jeno returned, surprisingly enough, and looked somewhat
dismayed.  "According to my reports,"  he began,  "the holodeck rented
by Doctor Crusher is still active."
     "How can that be?"  asked Geordi.  "The holodecks have no
power."
     "I . . . do not know."
     "Take me to that room,"  Riker insisted.  "La Forge, Patterson,
get to work on the solution."
     "Aye, Sir."
     The lifts were still working.  He and Jeno were up there in a
flash.  As Riker approached the doors to Holodeck 15-A, they opened
without question, and he entered.  He realized Jeno was shadowing him,
something he didn't need in there.  Riker motioned for Jeno to wait
outside, and thankfully, the Melican did without argument.
     His eyes were certainly getting a workout today.  Beyond the door
was blackness, which engulfed him the moment the holodeck doors closed
behind him.  Warily he stepped even further in, and as his eyes
adjusted, he realized that he was in a house.  He was on an upper
floor, judging by the distance to the ground in looking out the window
that had, moments before, been the holodeck entrance.  Not that the
ground was very visible; it appeared that there was quite a severe
storm raging beyond these walls.  He turned his attention back to the
room.  The lightning then flashed outside as he had hoped, briefly
illuminating the objects in the room.  At once he realized he was in a
bathroom.  He noticed a spacious bathtub to his right as he turned
forward again; beyond that sat a pair of sinks (one of which, he
noticed, had a small electric night light burning beside it), a well-
stocked shelf of linens, and a toilet, an old style ceramic bowl that he
hadn't seen since traveling to the Earth Preservational/Historical
Museum some years ago.  He wondered where exactly in time this placed
him.
     He was hesitant to stop the program until he knew exactly what
the situation was here.  He felt that they were in no real danger any
longer, regardless of this fluke, this renegade holodeck that seemed to
be powered of its own accord.  After all, the anomaly had been
neutralized.  Riker figured that the pair of them had no idea what had
happened.  Besides, the way things had been going that day, the way
his luck had been running, he would call for the computer to stop the
program and he would catch the captain and the doctor confirming the
gossip.  Not that he thought that the two of them were here for
anything other than a little rest and relaxation, but if he had
misjudged, it would make for an extremely uncomfortable situation.  
     Tentatively he called out for the captain as he made his way to
the door.  Stepping carefully, he walked through the threshold.  He
noticed much to his discomfort he was in a bedroom, a rather large one
at that, decorated, from what he could tell, rather spartanly in a light
colour, paired with a deeper shade of what seemed to be deep green. 
The bed did seem to be unoccupied.  Riker immediately chastised himself
for the thought.
     There was a light, faint as it was, coming through the door.  As
he exited the bedroom, he was quite impressed by what he saw before
him, faintly lit by the lamps beside him in the hallway: the house only
had three-quarters of a second floor in order to provide for skylights
for the first floor.  It was a remarkable design and in brightest
daylight was undoubtedly a sight to behold, but he had no time now to
ponder the local architecture.  He needed to find the way out of here,
possibly to the first floor.  He hoped that the next bout of lightning
would shed some light, quite literally.
     Just then, even the dimmest lights went out.

                                 *

End Part 3
Copyright 1994 By Sandra Guzdek
Standard disclaimers about Paramount apply.
Don't even *think* of taking this story as your own.  
It would not be good for your karma.Indulgences
Copyright 1994 by Sandra Guzdek
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 4 of 6

     The strangest thing was that the refrigerator had been full of
food this time, almost as if the computer was trying to make up for the
inability to answer commands properly.  Pushing an unruly lock of
auburn hair yet again behind her ear, then frustrated enough by the
unraveled queue to free her hair altogether, Beverly looked through the
choice of foods.  Plenty of fruit, vegetables, milk, juice, cold cuts.
     At that moment everything went dark.
     "Jean-Luc?"  she called, her eyes not yet adjusted, reaching for a
place in the refrigerator where she was certain she had seen a melon,
and to her unhappy surprise stuck her fingers into a bowl of gelatin
dessert.  She screwed up her face.
     "I'm fine."  
     Beverly withdrew her hand.  As her eyes focused, she found the
melon, some cheese, and a bowl of cherry tomatoes, as well as a couple
of rolls on the counter.  It would have to do, along with a couple of
glasses and a bottle of soda water.  "Must be a power outage.  Did you
get that machine turned off?"
     "Yes."
     "Good.  See if you can find a hand torch."
     Picard, in the meanwhile, carefully made his way across the room. 
Almost walking directly into the coffee table in the process, he went to
the fireplace and found not only matches, but a couple of emergency
candles on the mantle.  He lit one; it threw enough light for him to
make a quick search for a flashlight.  He didn't find one.  Thwarted in
that endeavour, he went back to get the fire in the hearth going,
squatting down, making sure the chimney was opened, and then striking
the flint of the match against the stone before the brazier.  Flames
leapt up almost as soon as the match came close to the wood.  Picard
put the candle out, feeling the need to ration it, not knowing how long
the outage would last.  By the same token he was grateful that the
supply of wood beside the fireplace was bountiful.  
     At the sound of motion at the other end of the room, he turned
and could just make out Beverly walking towards him with what
appeared to be a tray of food.  He called to her,  "Need some help?"
     "Nope, everything's covered.  It's not much, but it will do."
     Picard sat on the floor, slumping back against the sofa.  "I'm so
hungry that at this point, I'd welcome a fresh plate of _gagh_."  
     She placed the tray on the coffee table and handed him a fork. 
"If I had but known, I would have had you go out in the front yard
and start digging,"  she said, passing a plate to him.  Supplying a
knife as well, she said,  "But since I didn't, some vegetables, fruit,
cheese, bread and water will have to do."
     "You doctors never stop,"  he lamented.
     As he sliced into the melon, she couldn't help but sigh.  
     "What is it, Beverly?"
     "This program."  She seemed unable to meet his eyes.  "I feel so
terrible for getting you stuck here."
     He shrugged, serving the fruit to her.  "I'm sure we're missed by
now, and Geordi's on the case to get us free.  Besides, there are worse
things I could be doing . . . like those damnable evaluations."  At this
she smiled.  "And there are worse people I could be stuck with,"  he
finished, an indisputable grin on his face.
     She laughed outright at the thought of Jean-Luc stuck here with,
oh, Lwaxana Troi.  It brought her spirits up a bit, but she still felt bad
for not having beat the odds in holodeck role-playing.  "I think I'll
stick to medicine from now on."
     "Why do you say that?"  he queried, carving into the block of
cheddar.
     "At the risk of sounding boastful, I think I may have done too
good of a job.  The realism's so intense I can't help but wonder what
this deranged program will wander off into next."
     Just then, she heard a noise coming from upstairs.
     "Hopefully not a burglary,"  Jean-Luc offered.
     "Oh, that helps."  She stood from her seat on the floor and
squinted her eyes to focus on the second floor, which she could only
barely make out in the dim light.  Throwing caution to the wind, she
called out,  "Is there someone there?"
     There was no reply.  But she did hear the noise again.
     She saw the candle he'd left on the table and picked it up.  "I'm
going up there."
     "You're not going up there alone."
     She frowned.  "I can handle myself."
     Picard shrugged.  "Fine.  Go alone."
     Heart pumping in her chest, she bent to light the wick of the
candle in the fireplace.  What was she worried about?  She could most
certainly handle herself, or anyone else for that matter.  "I'll be right
back."
     She made her way to the staircase and took each step slowly. 
Coming to the top of the landing, she could make out a tall form,
reddish in colour, slightly moving, at the end of the corridor.  "Whoever
you are,"  she managed in a gravelly whisper,  "you'd better explain
yourself."

                                 *

     "Doctor Crusher?  Are you there?"
     In the darkness before him, Will Riker had thought he had heard
someone approaching, and called out.  There was no reply.  

                                 *

     The worst things about naps were that they had to end.
     With a yawn and an iron will, Alyssa Ogawa rolled over in bed and
pondered returning to duty in sick bay.  She had been the master at
pulling double duty only a scant month ago, but with the baby growing
larger each day inside of her, she found herself tiring after just a half
shift.  With Doctor Crusher away on the surface, she felt the obligation
to pick up the slack even if she didn't have to, even if the ship was
fairly empty of crew.
     When her eyes fixed on the room around her, she began to
wonder if she was still asleep, if this was a bad dream.  These certainly
were not her quarters, this velvet and gild, tapestries, curving
furniture, mirrors and gas lamps.  She reached for her communicator on
the bedside table and found only candelabra.  Looking down at herself,
she had on a frilly white cotton nightshirt.  Panicked, she felt for her
baby and sighed when a gentle kick assured her that the little one was
there.
     She stood and made for the door, which in fact did not open upon
her approach.  Alyssa had to actually turn the knob and pull it open
herself.  Stepping out into a corridor of the _Enterprise_, she frowned. 
This was someone's idea of a bad joke.  It had to be.
     Turning the corner, she nearly collided with Deanna Troi.  Seeing
the nurse's bewildered visage and odd clothing, she asked if Alyssa was
all right.
     She shook her head, not trusting her own senses yet.  "The
weirdest thing has just happened to me."

                                 *

     With the backdrop of the storm and a flash of lightning, Beverly
got closer to the unknown, reached out for it.  A loud squawk filled the
air followed by a strange fluttering, making her jump.  As her eyes
settled on what was before her, she realized what she was looking at.
     A bird cage.  A damned bird cage.
     She sighed in relief.  The cranberry coloured sheet that covered
it had fallen to the floor at her touch, and the feathered creature inside
flew around wildly, scared at all of the commotion.  She picked up the
sheet and draped it over the rounded top.  The bird beneath calmed
instantly.
     She heard Jean-Luc's voice call to her from the first floor, asking
her if she was okay.
     He was surprised to hear her laughing.  "I'm fine."

                                 *

     Will realized what was at the end of the corridor.  It was a tall,
free-standing bird cage, covered with a deep red piece of fabric.  He
let out a sigh.  "Enough of this.  Computer, end program."

                                 *

     "I can't believe I was scared half to death by a silly bird cage." 
Beverly popped another tomato into her mouth and relished at it
bursting with flavour as she bit into it.  
     "Canaries are often so terribly fierce,"  joked the captain, then
washed the last of his hard roll down with a swig of soda water.
     Beverly laughed, then let out a long breath, watching the flames
in the fireplace leap and dance.  The food, the fire . . . it was all so
cozy, so comforting.  She leaned back into the couch, closing her eyes
lazily.
     "Getting tired?"
     She nodded sleepily.  "It's been a long day,"  she said in a sigh.
     "Well,"  Picard said, clearing his throat.  "If you want to take the
bed, I'll be perfectly content with the sofa."  When she didn't reply, he
realized that she had nodded off to sleep.  He grinned, and leaned his
own head back against the sofa to think.

                                 *

     Much to Riker's surprise, the computer complied without so much
as a hesitation.  Riker now stood in the middle of a room with that
familiar yellow grid on black walls.  He noticed the grid was tighter
than he remembered seeing in other holodecks, but the room was no
bigger in dimensions than the _Enterprise_'s largest holodeck.  
     He also noticed that the captain and the doctor were not in the
holodeck with him. 
     William Riker was not pleased.
     Jeno looked at him as he bounded out of the holodeck doors, this
man coming towards him with a look of pure fury, and felt like a
trapped rat.  "I could hold you on charges of kidnapping,"  Riker said,
seething.
     The statement was made to intimidate the Melican, and it worked. 
"What do you mean?"
     "They aren't in there.  What have you done with them?"
     Jeno looked totally lost.  "I have done nothing with them!  The
last I saw of them was when I brought them to this room!"
     Riker fought for reason.  "What's the security like in this place? 
Could they have been beamed away without your knowledge?"
     "No!  At least I don't think so . . ."
     "They couldn't have been."  Riker turned around to see Geordi La
Forge standing there with Deanna Troi.  "The energy that was coming
from this place wouldn't have allowed it."
     Riker smoothed down his beard with his thumb and index finger. 
"The fact remains that Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher are not in
that room.  If they couldn't have been beamed out . . . were they
forcibly removed?"
     "To what end?  There are no factions on this planet!  No
underground movements, no terrorists that could use them as leverage," 
Jeno concluded.  "We are peaceful on Melica, and we are proud of that
fact."
     "What about off-world terrorists?  What about--"
     "Commander,"  cut in Geordi's voice.  "We've got another theory
to explain what has happened to the captain and the doctor."
     "I'm listening."
     "You won't like the sound of it,"  Deanna said.
     "I'm listening,"  he repeated gruffly.
     Deanna drew in a reassuring breath and spoke.  "I ran into Nurse
Ogawa, literally, in the corridor.  She looked confused and scared.  I
went back to her quarters with her to see what was wrong -- and her
whole room had been displaced with something out of the nineteenth
century."
     "The rift."
     "Yes,"  answered Deanna.  "And this occurrence has some serious
repercussions.  First of all, it seems objects bigger than a panel or a
junction of cable can be moved around in time.  In this case, an entire
room.  Secondly, it's remained that way for at least an hour -- a lot
more permanent than when we saw the panel on the bridge flicker."
     "I think it's because we've cut the power supply to the rift," 
offered Geordi.  "Things were moving in time thanks to the energy from
this building.  When the power supply to the rift was severed, those
things were stranded."
     "So . . . taking this through to its conclusion, you believe the rift
has sucked the two of them into another time, and we've inadvertently
stranded them there."
     "That's right."
     Riker began to pace.  "Suggestions?"
     "With the power cut, nothing more can happen.  It's like the thing
is on pause.  I don't think it will return them on its own."
     "We don't even know to what time they have been brought," 
reminded Deanna.
     Riker ran a hand through his hair.  "Can we bring the power
back up to the holodecks?"
     "Once Patterson has finished making the modifications--"  began
Geordi.
     "No, I mean now.  Once he's done making the modifications, that
rift will not work in the same way, if at all.  We need to let that thing
run just long enough to return the captain to us."
     "That may not work.  What if instead it sucks the entire ship
through to, say, the proto-Bronze Age?"
     Riker considered it.  No, it *might* not work, but leaving things
as they were would *definitely* not work.  "I think we'll have to take
that chance.  Patterson,"  he began, talking to the comm badge, 
"prepare to power up the holodecks."
     Down in the control room, Patterson was perplexed at this order,
but did as he was told.  "Aye, Sir.  Holodecks on line."
     "_Enterprise_, status of rift."
     Data's voice returned.  "Commander, sensors show that the rift is
increasing to the size it was before we cut off its power supply." 
There was a pause, undoubtedly as Data checked his readings. 
"Correction, Sir: after initially increasing in size, the rift is now
growing exponentially smaller."
     "Smaller?"
     It took Riker a half of a second to realize what this meant.
     "Patterson!  Cut power!"
     "Power cut,"  came the distant voice.
     "Data, status report!"  demanded the commander.
     "The rift is continuing to decrease in size."  Data's voice broke
off.  Riker dreaded the words to come next.  "Sir, the anomaly has
collapsed in on itself.  It is completely gone." 

                                 *

     Time was meaningless.
     That is to say, the passage of time was meaningless.  In deepest
space, in the uninhabited depths of dark and vacuum, being a slave to
a chronometer hardly seemed worth the effort.  Yet this day, if it could
be called that, was different.  Something about the burning of the stars,
the rhythm of the pulsars, the very flavour of space itself, seemed off,
even by just a little.
     There was certainly plenty of sentient life to be affected by the
shifting sands; these beings just weren't plainly obvious against the
backdrop of shimmering stars.  Some were more sensitive than others,
perceiving every new birth, death, and every petty in between
occurrence.  Some spent their existence meandering around their
particular forty acres; others were far more adventurous as far as that
went, and experienced more than any collection of planet-livers could
ever hope to.
     Such was this being.  Not having been in this existence for very
long, relatively speaking, this one seemed to have a need to make up
for lost time, to use another quantifier.  It was a content being,
unfettered and joyous.  It enjoyed playing games mortal beings couldn't
even conceive of.  It often reached out and Felt others like it, to
communicate in their peculiar way, and sometimes Felt those corporeal
just for the comfort that all was right in the cosmos; the mere planet-
livers never even noticed the touch.  
     This being, 'sHe' for the sake of argument, noticed that something
slight had changed in the substance of space, and became curious
enough to abandon sHis latest amusement.  sHe asked sHis galaxy-mates
what they Felt, and they only replied that nothing had changed. 
Strange, sHe knew that could not be right.  sHe knew that things had
not always been like this.  The whole signature of consciousness Felt as
if it had been forged, and it hadn't even been a good job of it.
     sHe was a young being in this existence, but recalled enough of
Life to remember the unique soul who had been close to sHim, who had
ushered sHim through sHis most difficult transitions.  sHe reached out
to Feel for that presence, for reassurance that sHis instincts were
somehow misguided.  sHe reached out across the wide expanse of all
existence, Feeling, hoping.
     That this entity would be experiencing pain, happiness, anger,
despair, or anything, would have been consolation enough.  But to find
absolutely nothing, to find that the single most assuring thing in the
universe to sHim was utterly gone . . .
     sHe had to find It.

                                 *

     Picard opened his eyes after what felt like minutes and found the
sun blazing into the room through the skylights above.  He blinked, sat
up straight, and looked over to Beverly.  She hadn't moved, was still
fast asleep.  He reached a hand over and prodded her gently.
     She roused, mumbling,  "Is it morning already?  I felt like I
haven't slept a wink."
     "It appears to be . . . though I don't feel much rested myself.  I
suspect the program has 'jumped ahead' again."
     She closed her eyes again.  "Wake me when you've clocked eight
hours on the tricorder."
     He chuckled.  "Why don't you stretch out on the sofa?"
     Her reply was drowned out by the shrill ringing of a bell.  The
pair of them looked to each other, then made for their feet.  "What is
that noise?"
     "Ummm, I think it's a . . . think it's a . . ."  Picard glanced
across the room and saw what he was looking for sitting besides his
computer.  ". . . telephone."  He dashed over to where the thing sat
and gingerly picked up the receiver, placing it to his ear.  
     Picard heard a muffled voice saying 'hello,'  then realized that he
had the receiver upside down.  He said tentatively,  "Hello?"
     "Oh, good, you're awake."  It took a moment for him to realize
that it was Amy.  "You survived the storm all right?"
     He suspected that the woman was joking, as he poked through the
blinds to look outside.  Funny, the mountains looked sharper, even a
little browner; probably his imagination working overtime, he decided. 
It wasn't like he knew the landscape intimately.  "We're both in one
piece."  Beverly, not privy to the conversation, wrinkled her brow in
question.
     "Great, great.  Listen, before Mother Nature decides to thwart our
efforts yet again, how about I come over and we can get that darned
recipe down once and for all?"
     "Well . . . Rose and I don't really have anything planned . . ."
     "*Ohhhh*."  Amy's voice was decidedly deeper.  "I'm sorry, I've
interrupted you two again.  We can do the recipe some other weekend."
     "What do you mean by that?"
     Picard could imagine the blush filling the woman's cheeks.  "You
know . . . that role-playing thing that you two have going."
     He understood her meaning and rolled his eyes.  Were all people
in the twentieth century this preoccupied with sex?  Picard decided to
play it coy.  "What role-playing thing?"
     "You know . . . that TV show that they based after you . . . I
confess, Michael told me what you told him, but I forced it out of him,
so it's my fault my husband broke your promise . . ."
     "Michael?  Where's Mark?"
     "Oh brother, you're really into it deep.  I'll talk to you sometime
soon.  Bye."
     As he replaced the receiver, Beverly asked,  "What was that all
about?"
     "Things have gotten strange.  Amy called her husband 'Michael.'" 
After a moment of trying to add things up in his mind, he added,  "And
she made an odd comment I can't quite figure out."
     "What?"
     "That she thought we were . . . acting out a role-playing fantasy,
a TV show based after the two of us."
     Then a thought so absurd came into his mind that he had to
disprove it at once.  He went into the kitchen and found the tricorder
that he had left there the night before, opened it, and requested
information on _Indulgences_.  Beverly, hair mussed from her awkward
position on the couch, was in the kitchen beside him before he could
think about calling her in.
     "What is it with you?"
     "This show.  Read this and tell me if this is what you remember."
     She scanned the text.  It read that the show had been based on a
couple residing in California called Colin and Emma Hamilton, who were
authors in much the same way Peter and Rose were.  That was not what
she remembered about the show at all.
     "So something has changed,"  stated Picard.
     She closed the tricorder and returned it to its place on the
counter.  "But what can it mean?"
     "Give me your reading glasses."
     "What?"  she inquired of this apparent non-sequitur.
     "The glasses you brought with you.  Give them to me."
     "I can't see why--"
     "Just do it."
     She furrowed her brow.  "Is that an order, Captain?"
     He had no time for petty bickering.  He dashed into the study
and made a quick visual search of her desk.  There they were, right by
the paintbrushes.  Grabbing them, he then shot from the study like a
bullet, down the hall, through the laundry room and out the back door. 
Bringing his arm back, he hurled the glasses away with as much
strength as he could muster.
     "*Hey!*"  came the voice behind him.
     He didn't know the actual dimensions of the holodeck they had
been in, and could only hope that he had pitched them far enough.  The
glasses just kept right on sailing, though, landing somewhere out of
sight in the golden field.
     "It should have hit the grid, but it didn't, Beverly, it didn't,"  he
managed at last, slumping down to sit on the stone porch.
     "That's impossible, Jean-Luc.  That would mean we are no longer
in a holodeck.  That would mean . . ."
     "We're here.  We're really here,"  he said despondently.
     "That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."  She sat
beside him.  "Like you said, Geordi is probably hard at work getting us
out of this program."
     Picard stood, paced a few steps, then shouted at the top of his
lungs: "Q!  Stop this charade right--!"
     "*Jean-Luc, sit down!*"  
     He looked down, saw her fierce eyes, and did as told.  "You're
overreacting.  This is only a program,"  she continued, in a calmer tone. 
"This is, for the most part, the way that I wrote it.  Maybe if we try to
get to the end of it, it will stop on its own."
     His expression was one of deep melancholy.  It seemed to her that
nothing was going to pick his spirits up.  She raised her arm and put
it around his shoulders.  "Let's get to work on solving this case, and
we'll be having coffee and croissants in your quarters before you know
it."
     Picard looked to her and could only admire her indomitable spirit. 
"You're right, you know."
     "I always am,"  she offered teasingly.  
     They then heard a distant ringing inside the house.  The
telephone again.  She popped up and went back into the house to
answer it.  He decided to remain on the porch and ponder the situation. 
Stuck in the holodeck.  Stuck in the 1990's.  Either way, it was a rotten
way to spend shore leave.
     Beverly came back out into the warmth of the early morning. 
"That was Mark -- er, Michael.  Wants to know if we would like to ride
down to the memorial service with them for Ania Brynn this afternoon."
     "What did you tell them?"
     "'Yes,' of course.  Let's get ready.  We have a crime to solve."
     As they ascended the stairs for the as-yet-unexplored second
floor, Beverly looked distraught.  Jean-Luc asked her why.  "What will
we wear?"
     "Whatever is in the closet, I imagine."
     Her voice dropped down with seriousness.  "If we're in a
holodeck, then the clothes will disappear from our bodies when the
program ends."
     He cracked a smile.  "I promise not to laugh."
     She entered the master bedroom and lost her breath.  The whole
room, extravagantly enormous as it was, was decorated in a creamy
white and the deepest, richest shade of vermilion she had ever seen,
and was filled with warm sunlight.  Eyeing the four poster bed, her
imagination taking her into its fluffy depths, she asked.  "Do I have
time for a nap, do you think?"
     He shook his head.  She frowned.  "Let's hit the closet, then."

                                 *

     "I think I interrupted something.  Emma was so out of breath."
     "I told you not to call back, Michael.  They are up to something
up there in their hills,"  said the young woman, as she pushed a stray
lock of wispy blonde hair back towards the ponytail it had escaped
from.  
     "Oh, Arica."  Her husband rolled his eyes.  "You're not very nice. 
You're the one who is always begging them for a little one for ours to
play with . . . when we should be working on another one of our own." 
He slipped his arms about her waist and started nuzzling her ear.
     She sighed into the embrace, before saying abruptly,  "Not now,
darling.  We've got to go and pick up Fritz first."

                                 *

     So far, the search had been wholly unsuccessful.  No sign of that
unique soul anywhere in all of existence.  If sHe'd had a chin to
scratch, now would have been the time do it.  Perplexed, sHe Felt,
asking if anyone else had remembered Feeling this essence for which
sHe was lost without.
     Finally, a response!  Yes, oh yes, one had remembered such a
being, but it had been a long time since It had last been Felt.  'When,
*when?*'  sHe begged.  But none of those extra-corporeal beings could
elaborate on something as vague and unimportant to them as the
passage of time.  Some said not long ago; others said eons.
     sHe decided to begin the search anew.  sHe also decided to begin
at the center of Its existence.
     And with a sense of horror, sHe realized that it was all sHis fault.

                                 *

     The faint honking sound caught the attention of two pairs of ears. 
"I think they're here.  Are you ready?"  Picard called to the doctor.
     In the midst of pulling her hair back into a tortoise shell
barrette, she called out that she was.  She had found a lovely black
dress in the closet, high neck, sleeves to her wrist, and a wide, flowing
skirt.  Almost as if the dress had been made for her.  She shuddered
and pushed off the thought, calling out in addition,  "I'll be right
down."
     Jean-Luc had found a well-cut grey suit and plenty of dress
shirts in what was apparently Peter's part of the closet.  They fit him
like a glove.  The closet was filled with beautiful clothing on both sides,
silks and linens, cottons and woolens.  Scarves and belts, ties and hats. 
And the shoes, finely made shoes filled the closet, leather, canvas,
pumps, flats.  
     Beverly bounded down the stairs to meet her companion.  A small
smile told him that she was ready for another performance of a lifetime.
     The car that sat purring in the driveway was a silver-blue sedan. 
The two figures in the front seat were unfamiliar to them, not at all like
the Amy and Mark of the series.  'Smile and play along,'  he reassured
himself with.
     The man who must have been Michael spoke to them.  "Sorry it's
been so long, but Arica couldn't find her purse, and of course Fritz
wasn't ready."  The blonde woman, obviously Arica, smiled, as their
passengers took the rear seat.  "We'll have to cut back for him."
     Picard merely smiled.  "Of course."
     "Have a good morning?"  asked Michael from behind the driver's
seat.  For some reason, Arica punched him softly on the arm.
     Beverly spoke up.  "I could have used a bit more sleep."
     The two in the front seat erupted with laughter.  "I'm not going
to touch that one with a ten foot pole,"  Arica giggled.
     A silence fell, not uncomfortably so, for they were all too aware of
the reason they were collectively heading into town, and didn't try to
pretend otherwise.  Speeding down the winding road at an
uncomfortably fast 120 KPH, Beverly watched in fascination as the thick
trees and vegetation whirred by in a blur of greens and golds outside
of the cabin window, accompanied by the soothing classical music on the
radio, broken by the low monotone voice of the announcer.  The silence
had encompassed her and she was falling into drowsiness; her eyes were
starting to droop.  She felt the warmth of Jean-Luc's hand cover her
own.  She turned to him slowly with a curious look, turning her hand
over to clasp his.  He smiled.
     Picard leaned over to whisper in Beverly's ear.  It looked for all
the world to the couple in the front seat like a concerned husband
comforting his wife.  "Sorry to bother you, but if you can see how he
is operating this vehicle . . ."  he began, as she was in a better
position to see the driver.
     "Of course,"  she whispered back.  They needed to learn the
fundamentals of operating a motor vehicle; obviously, these two friends
were not going to cart them around for the duration of the holodeck
program.  And she needed something to occupy her thoughts or she
would surely fall asleep.  The stick in the middle needed to be in the
"D" position.  The foot pedal on the right seemed to cause the car to
accelerate when depressed . . .
     Picard wondered if they had been driving much longer and faster
than they realized, for they passed a sign that read,  "US 5 SOUTH: Los
Angeles."  Had they observed another lapse in the program?
     And then he remembered what the tricorder had read earlier. 
California.  They were most certainly in southern California now.  It all
added up, it all made sense now.  They were no longer the characters
in the show, he realized.  They were the people who the show was
based on.  This was real, after all.
     Beverly leaned over this time, to speak to him in a quiet voice. 
"Are you all right?  You just went three shades of white lighter."
     "Did you bring my phone?"  he asked aloud of his 'wife'.
     "Of course,"  she responded, and he noticed that she had a small
handbag by her side.  She tilted her head slightly in puzzlement.
     "I'll have to call my publisher when we get there.  *We have to
talk.*"  The emphasis on the last sentence told her that they needed a
conference alone together as soon as possible, for reasons as yet
unknown to her.
     They headed onto another broad 'freeway', the 405, and soon
afterwards, exited into a place proclaiming itself to be 'Beverly Hills'. 
After a few turns, they pulled up before a tall wrought iron fence,
where a small crowd of onlookers and even some photographers had
gathered, which seemed strange.  They barely stopped long enough for
the gate to open, and when it did, guards made sure that the group
didn't follow them inside.  How odd!  Waiting for them by the side of
the crescent driveway was a handsome man in his forties, grey hair
glinting in the sun, smiling and waving to them and to the assembly
outside the fence, despite the circumstance of their gathering.
     Beverly recognized him at once, and knew now the reason for the
needed meeting.

                                 *

End Part 4
Copyright 1994 By Sandra Guzdek
Standard disclaimers about Paramount apply.
Don't even *think* of taking this story as your own.  
It would not be good for your karma.Indulgences
Copyright 1994 by Sandra Guzdek
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 5 of 6

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 47995.6.  After extending our shore leave an
additional week, we are reluctantly moving on to our next scheduled
mission: to recapture a wayward Earth launch from the twentieth
century . . . and to pick up our new Chief Medical Officer.

     William Riker sat back, focusing on Livingston, the lion fish who
swam without a care in his spherical world.  What he wouldn't give to
trade places with him right now.  Riker had always wanted the
captaincy of the _Enterprise_, but not at this cost.  Running a thumb
and forefinger through his beard, he reflected on the past two days. 
Riker reporting the incident on Melica to Starfleet.  Geordi trying
everything in his power, and a couple of things beyond his power, to
retrieve the two missing crew.  Starfleet then sending word that Captain
Jean-Luc Picard and Chief Medical Officer Beverly Crusher were to be
considered lost, legally dead, and that Riker was given the order to
assume command.  Riker insisting on at least three more days to study
the area and try to retrieve the captain and doctor, and, reluctantly,
given precisely that.  And only that.  Everyone knew, though, that their
efforts were futile.  Staying in orbit around Melica only delayed the
inevitable, going on with life.
     Now they were ten minutes away from Callisto, one of Jupiter's
satellites, where an unmanned exploratory spacecraft called the
_Trailblazer_ had recently been found deep in one of the surface
canyons.  The _Enterprise_ had been chosen for the recovery because
of the ability of the recently upgraded phaser array to cut with
surgical precision.  He'd done a little research into the project: it had
been launched in early 1995, loaded with capsules from different
countries of different cultures, offering a snapshot of life on Earth from
the perspective of the twentieth century for any prospective extra-
terrestrial visitors to the Sol system.  
     The _Trailblazer_ was indeed much like the _Voyager_ projects,
only much more encompassing than the project from the 1970's, not to
mention more technologically advanced.  It, unfortunately, had been lost
sometime in 1999, leading to many rumours that aliens had found the
capsule and had taken off with it.  However, it appeared that the only
thing that did happen was that the navigational equipment had gone
haywire, sending it far off course and into one of Jupiter's many moons. 
He felt a small twang of sadness in realizing how much the captain had
been looking forward to seeing the data they would undoubtedly decode.
      The chime rang, startling him out of his reverie.  "Come in,"  he
called, and the door opened to Deanna Troi.  She stood there with a
smile, and he found himself smiling in return.  "Hello, Will.  How are you
doing?"
     He hesitated before telling her he was all right.  She must have
sensed that he was not telling the whole truth, but chose not to press
the issue.  Riker was thankful for that.  "Did you find him?"
     Her smile drooped slightly.  "I was finally able to get a
transmission through to Dorvan V . . . and he's not there any longer. 
That they know of, anyhow."
     Riker chuckled despite himself.  "I'm really not surprised.  I
should have known that it wouldn't be easy to find a Traveller."
     "Captain,"  came a voice out of thin air.  "Approaching Callisto."
     "On my way."  He stood, holding out an arm to let the counselor
go before him.

                                 *

     It was real.  It was real, dammit, and they had the chance to save
him.
     Beverly tried not to gape in amazement as the man Michael had
called 'Fritz' sat next to her in the back seat of the car.  "Hi,"  he said
simply, exuding immense charm, as he removed his sunglasses and
looked directly into Beverly's eyes.
     Her voice was uncharacteristically meek as she said,  "Hello,
Evan."
     "Emma . . . the only one who can call me that to my face and get
away with it."  She smiled, her heart pounding in her chest, as he took
her hand.  "Sad that such a circumstance is the reason for me to see
you again."
     Picard began to wonder if he was invisible.
     "Colin, always good to see you, too,"  he added, as if reading
Picard's thoughts.  "Your wife is looking beautiful as always."
     Picard then began to wonder if he should feel a protective
jealousy.
     Michael pulled out of the driveway and through the gate again. 
Evan sat back in the seat, relinquishing Beverly's hand, and turned to
pose for the paparazzi that aimed their cameras at the car.
     They arrived at the funeral with even more fanfare:
photographers, television cameras, reporters, all covering the sensational
case of the murder of the pulp fiction researcher, and all of the
celebrities that came out to pay their respects to her, whether genuine
or not.  The five of them pushed their way through the mob and
through the door to where the memorial service was to be held.
     As they crossed the threshold they were each handed a finely
designed pamphlet for the service.  The thought turned Picard's
stomach:  'A woman has died, and all they can think about is printing
out a booklet.'  It did help in that it had the day's date on it:  Sunday,
August 7th, 1994.  If his memory served him correctly, Ania had been
found dead six days previous, on Monday morning.
     And, if his memory served him correctly, Evan Grant had,
counting today, three more days of life.

                                 *

     The chronometer sounded with a startling chime.  As it rang,
Will's stomach dropped to the ground.  It was time.  He sat up from his
resting position, trying to think of some way to possibly avoid this.
     He couldn't.
     He got out of bed and stood in front of his mirror, combing his
hair into place, dressing quickly into his formal uniform, that fourth pip
seemingly mocking him from his collar.  Taking a reassuring breath, he
left his quarters.
     The doors opened to the most somber crowd he had ever seen in
Ten Forward.  As he entered, what there was of conversation came to a
halt, and all eyes locked onto him as he stepped up to a podium, a
backdrop of stars rushing towards him.
     "We're here today,"  he began quietly, clearing his throat,  "to
remember one of the finest captains in the history of Starfleet, a man
who wasn't satisfied by any limitation given to him.  We're also here to
remember a woman, extraordinary in her own right, who never stopped
looking for ways to heal us and help us.  They were both fine officers
who never let the boundaries of human knowledge stop them, never
afraid to sacrifice themselves for the safety of their subordinates; I
personally owe my life to each of them more times than I can remember,
as undoubtedly do all of you here.  But, more importantly, they were
both *people* who were not content with just being fine officers.  They
were caring, trusting friends.  Many of us in this room were privileged
enough to count them among our friends.  They will assuredly remain
alive in our hearts and in our thoughts: Captain Jean-Luc Picard, Chief
Medical Officer Beverly Crusher."  He paused to bow his head, and he
did something that no one in the room had ever seen him do.
     He began to weep.

                                 *

     The memorial service was touching, and Picard could not help but