The Net War

by Steve Rehrauer   1 June 1989

"Captain's Log, Stardate 3456.7. The Enterprise is en route to the Gamma-Hydra-Snack-Cake system. Two planets of that system are inhabited by two different intelligent races, the Twinkeezi and the Ho-hosa, who have been locked in a pattern of warfare for over six hundred million years. As we understand the problem, it is a religious issue that centers around the question: 'Did the Supreme Creator have a porous, yielding golden exterior, or was it rather a slick, chitinous dark exoskeleton?' There was apparently a breakthrough in relations some fifty million years ago, when both sides were able to agree upon the interior composition of their God: a fluffy nondescript white organ composed of complex sugar chains.

"In any event, StarFleet has ordered us to assist in finding a swift and equitable end to this struggle, even though our ancestors were mere mud worms when the ..."

Deanna Troi suddenly rose from her seat with a look of great consternation. "Captain?" she moaned, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other clutched at her stomach.

"Good lord, Councilor," said Picard. "You sampled the bean-dip last night too, eh? I understand completely. My sympathies! You have my permission to leave the bridge, with all necessary haste."

"No, not that, you pompous pseudo-French ass!" Troi waved him off impatiently. "I'm suddenly feeling great anger! As though some – dare I say it? – intelligence were very upset with us ..."

Perfectly on cue, Lieutenant Worf's security console peeped for attention, eliciting a predictably Pavlovian response from the Klingon.

"Captain Picard! Intruders on the Enterprise! Request permission to deploy antimatter warheads on all decks! Better to DIE with HONOR than to ..."

"At ease, Lieutenant!" roared Riker. "If there's any frothing at the mouth to be done, I will do it!"

Picard rose from his command chair and held up both hands, palms down. "Let's calm down, people. We may be in a crisis situation here, and it demands a rational response. All bridge personnel are to report to my quarters for refreshments and a lengthy philosophical discussion."

But, just as everyone rose from their stations, the turbo lift doors swished open, and:

"HOLD IT JUST A GULDARN MINUTE!" Everyone on the bridge turned to see a pair of unlikely intruders: one gangly dark-haired male youth with a severe case of acne, and an overweight bottle-blonde girl of considerably less stature.

Picard frowned ominously. "Acting-Ensign Crusher! Who are these people? Friends of yours?"

"You let Wesley alone; oooh, he's so KIYUUUUUUTE!" shrieked the female with a voice that could crack a chalkboard at fifty paces. Worf staggered back; never had he heard a mating roar of such sordid power! Her companion elbowed her with a look of annoyance.

"No, Captain, none of you know us. But WE know YOU. You see, we're net.trek.heads; we spend our every waking hour reading rec.arts.startrek and posting long diatribes on the nature of Gene Roddenberry's sex-life, pseudo-science justifications for photon weapons, nit-picks on misnamed star-systems, etcetera, etcetera" he said, as though that were sufficient. (He actually pronounced "et-cetera", by the way.)

Picard shook his head in annoyance. "Mr. Data, what the hell are they saying?"

Data cocked his head, perhaps waiting for an intensive database search, or perhaps simply wishing to view reality at a 10 degree angle for awhile.

"Ah!" he said at length. "They refer to an obscure cult-like organization of old Earth several centuries ago, which used a primitive computer network to communicate between its members. Apparently, at that time the Enterprise and all of us now aboard her were fictional characters in a melodramatic production of an entertainment medium known as 'television', a technological ancestor of our modern-day Truvision systems, but which instead employed a transmission spectrum of ..."

By this time, a nearby red shirted ensign was rolling on the floor wracked by epileptic fits, while Worf, Picard and Riker held phasers set on "Kill, But Leave The Body Intact" leveled at Data. Taking the hint, the android officer closed his mouth with a snap and sat down.

"Yes," said Picard, facing the intruders again. "Well, it's a well- known fact that all of us are fictional characters." A second red-shirt, realizing belatedly that this must be true since he didn't even have a name, vanished in a greasy puff of nonsequiturism. "Still, we are here nonetheless. So, if you're making some vain attempt to unbalance our local reality by ..."

"Nothing of the sort, Captain," spat back the male intruder. "We're here to help you. You see, we watch you every week. But, we notice that sometimes you don't seem to know the right things to say and do, or even to remember what has happened before you. Take your Captain's Log today, for example: today you say it's Stardate 3456, while last week it was 3599. And back during the 'Old Show', sometimes Captain Kirk would say it was Stardate 3610! I mean, gee, you aren't being very consistent! And it really makes us MAD!"

"Good lord!" said Picard, with a look of dawning realization. "Will, do you realize what this means?"

"See?" said the gangly male smugly to his female companion. "I TOLD you they'd listen!"

"They actually don't understand, do they sir?" said Riker with pity.

"Well, sir," chimed Data, "The concept that reality is a discontinuous function for a fictional universe IS sometimes distressing to those unacquainted with the phenomenon."

"Oh, Day-tah!" squealed the female intruder, "You're SOOOOOO smart!"

"Enough of this petty gender stereotyping!" thundered Picard at me. He was right, and I apologized before continuing to write more of this.

"Huh?" said the by-now slightly confused male intruder.

"Look, son," said Picard (who it must be noted was smiling paternally, but in no way was biologically related to the male intruder), "The fact of the matter is that since we're fictional, we can do anything we damn well please. We can stand the laws of physics on its ear if we like, though thankfully we take great pains to avoid doing so, barring a slip-up or unless it happens to be a nifty plot-device that the writers couldn't resist. Ours IS a reality grounded in entertainment values, after all.

"I mean, can you imagine how boring a totally 'realistic' voyage of some years duration would be in a tiny little vessel like this? Even battles would be tedious beyond our ability to bear; read Larry Niven's 'The Mote In Gods Eye' to see what I mean: two ships point a couple dozen lasers at each other and sit that way for hours until one of them blows up. Good god, what a horrid thought – two episodes for one lousy battle! And where's the chance to get a flashy navigational stunt named after you in a reality like that?"

"Besides, what are YOU complaining about?" asked Riker. "You have no idea of the stress of being in a reality where you only exist for one hour out of every 168! Except for reruns, of course!" He shuddered.

"Reruns! Reruns!" A low moan swept the bridge. A third red-shirt slumped at his station, struck down by a fatal brain aneurysm.

"Trapped in a one-hour segment that repeats forever!" said Troi with a great deal of anguish, Bambi-eyes and chest-heaving.

"Without even a chance to change your underwear," added Geordi, who though he had no business being on the bridge, was.

"And I'll NEVER be allowed to reach puberty!" wailed Wesley.

"SHUT UP, WESLEY!" came the unanimous response from all sides.

"So you see, don't you," continued Picard quite reasonably, "That what you think really matters very little to us, unless you happen to be related to the Heinz family or some other sponsorial deity. In fact, we happen to LIKE the idea of a non-linear unit of speed, so we change the meaning of 'warp level' at whim.

"We ARE, however," and now his smile broadened into a somewhat more disturbing and rather twisted expression, "Glad that you dropped in."

"What do you mean?" asked the male a bit nervously, looking about in vain for a 'q' or ^D key to press.

"Well, we have this small population problem among a certain segment of our crew. And we're always happy to see new recruits! Lieutenant Worf, please escort our guests down to the Bill Blass deck, and have them fitted for red uniforms."

"Buh, buh, but Worf!" squeaked the female intruder, "You can't do that to us! I mean, I'm your biggest fan!"

Worf leaned over them and bared yellow teeth. A stink of stale gahgg, targ-heart, Cheetos and other Klingon nutritional choices washed over the pair.

"Klingons don't NEED fans! Aarrraarrrggh!" he said, seizing them by their skinny necks. The male intruder foolishly struggled, and required a swift head-butt to the face. A dribble of blood spattered the deck as Worf efficiently whisked the intruders away into the turbo lift.

"Ah, I do so appreciate an efficient security officer!" said Picard approvingly as the lift doors swished shut. "Number One?"

"Yes sir. Ensign Crusher, resume course for the Gamma-Hydra-Snack-Cake system. Maximum utmost hyper-emergency warp speed."

"Sir? Warp 12.4, sir? Is that using Classic warp, New warp, or Lite warp?"

"Just do it, Ensign!"

"Aye, aye, sir! That'll bring us to our destination in about three beer commercials' time, sir."

"Excellent. Engage!"