Standalone Stories

“It’s a flawless plan! What can possibly go wrong?”

Lieutenant Pete Barfoot waved his arms expansively in enthusiasm, incidentally knocking over his coffee cup which spilled all over the floor of the construction lab. It was the end of their shift on the current Constitution-class starship being constructed in the Utopia Planetia shipyards on Mars, and after a long day assembling and tolerance testing antimatter waveform guides Barfoot was not about to let an idea go to waste just because the initial plan was somewhat sketchy.

His companion, Lieutenant-Commander Sponn, quirked one pointy eyebrow at him as they switched off their stations and left the large, open room, neither of them noticing the padd- and equipment-laden crewman who slipped on Barfoot’s spilled beverage and slid headlong into one of the consoles, which teetered tantalisingly on edge before toppling forwards onto the unfortunate man.

“It is,” Sponn told him as they walked through the corridors of the shipyard towards the mess hall, “a considerably flawed plan. We have neither the time nor the money, nor, I feel I must point out, do either of us have four arms.”

Snorting dismissively, Barfoot took the lead as they entered the cavernous room, which was mostly empty at that time of night. He grabbed a tray and stepped up to the counter, ordering quite possibly the most unhealthy meal Sponn had ever seen in his life. For his part, the Vulcan ordered a salad and a bowl of plomeek soup. They headed over to a table and sat down. As he did so, Sponn caught the eye of a young female officer who was seated a few tables away with some friends. He held her gaze for several seconds, then raised his eyebrow at her. She blushed and giggled at him, drawing together with her friends to chatter in animated whispers.

Deliberately ignoring the exchange, and not for the first time wondering exactly what it was about the Vulcan that everyone on the station seemed to find so alluring, Barfoot waved a forkful of food dripping with fat at his companion.

“You’re so smart,” he said, “you think of something for us to do.”

Sponn levelled a cool gaze at him, but Barfoot knew him too well to miss the almost imperceptible glint in the Vulcan’s eye.

“As a matter of fact,” Sponn told him in a tone that was bordering on smug, “I already have.”

“Spill it Sponners, don’t keep me in suspenders!”

Sponn blinked at the mental image that particular phrase evoked, then leaned forward. Opposite him, Barfoot did likewise until their heads were close enough to hear each other breathe. “You have, no doubt, heard about the formal reception being held at the Martian Ambassador’s summer residence in the Southern Mountains next month?”

“Of course,” Barfoot replied. “Thing’s some sort of commemoration event, isn’t it? So many centuries since the first manned Martian landing?”

“Indeed. The event is set to be the Martian social event of the decade, three days worth of music, dancing, performances and, more importantly, all the food and drink the guests care to partake of, paid for by the Martian government. Many of the guests will be the sons and daughters of eminent politicians from around the Federation.” Barfoot’s eyes were shining, wide with the possibilities. Abruptly, his face dropped.

“Exactly how are two junior Starfleet officers like us going to get in? It’ll be full of top brass and… important people!”

Sponn finished up his soup and sat back. Around them, more people began filtering in. “Therein lies the trick,” he said solemnly. “I have arranged for us to be assigned to the crew Starfleet is contributing to the preparation efforts, ensuring the old equipment in the summer residence in capable of coping with so many guests. This will give us an opportunity to scout the area. However, the crew is due to have its work finished three weeks before the event which may complicate matters,” he admitted, carefully folding his hands in his lap.

Barfoot, however, was tapping his fingers on the table and staring off into the middle distance, forkful of food suspended halfway to his mouth, a sure sign that either a masterpiece of engineering was about to be produced or they were about to become involved in something that would cause injury and embarrassment, possibly even to themselves.

Aware that his friend could be in such a state for some time, Sponn turned his attention back to the young lady who had caught his eye before, nodding in her direction. She blushed and waved back, and Sponn stood to make his way over, feeling confident that he had time for one more fling before their latest escapade began in full force. In fact, he reflected as he walked over, catching more eyes both male and female as he did so, perhaps even more than one.

 

Two days later saw them working on one of the power supplies for the central rooms of the residence, which was conveniently housed in the enormous main central pillar, which towered in the centre of the grandly decorated room, ostensibly supporting the plexiglass domed ceiling but in actuality mostly for decoration. Sponn was on his back at the base of the structure, one of the faux-marble lined panels lying on the floor beside him, his head inside a pair of ODN couplings. Barfoot was around the pillar, fiddling with the energy feeds.

“When I wiggle my foot, increase the flow by a factor of one tenth,” Sponn called out.

“Right-o!” Barfoot replied cheerfully.

The relay had been acting up, losing power at the most inopportune times. Given the Ambassador wanted to retract the plexiglass dome and have a forcefield in place to keep the atmosphere in at the height of the festivities, having the reactor supply the power for said forcefield failing intermittently had been deemed a bad thing. Sponn’s right foot started to jiggle, so Barfoot touched his tools to the power regulator. There was a flash, a scream and a moment of darkness before the reserve generator kicked in. Sponn slid out, one side of his face black and his hair standing on end, the collar of his uniform smoking gently.

“I believe I said a factor of one tenth,” the Vulcan said evenly as he sat up. Barfoot checked his readings.

“Ooh, I did a factor of ten, didn’t I?” he replied. “Silly me.”

Needing to find a new induction matrix, and if possible for Sponn to clean himself up and literally stop smouldering, they went for a wander. The residence was being closely guarded and everyone who worked on the events were being made to sign agreements not to talk about anything they had seen or heard. Guards had been posted at every door and, during a friendly conversation with one of them, it turned out some of them had also been assigned guard duty the days of the reception. Evidently the Ambassador was allowing no chances for the ‘wrong type of person’ to get in. Eventually they located a spare inductor in a supply room, which had a convenient washroom attached for Sponn to clean himself up. They returned to work, stymied.

 

By the end of the week, they had run out of possibilities and were starting to get desperate. At least, Barfoot was. Sponn was just becoming more and more stoic, which was his version of the same thing. They were back in the same supply room rummaging around for some spare bulbs when Sponn suddenly straightened, looking around.

“Peter, I believe I have it.”

“The bulbs?” Barfoot asked, standing up and taking a moment to crack his vertebrae. “Good.”

“No, the answer to our dilemma. Tell me, what do you see over there?” He pointed, and Barfoot followed his finger.

“Erm… a filing cabinet?”

“Exactly. A filing cabinet that is covered in dust, while everything else in this room appears well used and clean.”

Barfoot considered this, then shrugged. “You’ve lost me.”

“That filing cabinet is our way into the party,” Sponn told him. “Obviously no-one uses it, most likely no-one even gives it a second glance when they come in here. Therefore we shall hide in it until the reception begins, then emerge and mingle with the crowd.”

Barfoot gave him a look. “I think you’ve gone round the bend, mate. For starters, exactly how do we get into here to get into the cabinet? After today we won’t be allowed back on site!”

“Simplicity in itself,” Sponn replied. “We hide in there today. We sign ourselves out, but then use the bathroom after doing so. If we time it correctly we can do this so that the guard changes while we are in the toilet, and thus the new guards will not be aware of out presence. There is a small ventilation duct in the second toilet cubicle through which we can make good our escape, before doubling back to this location and hiding in the filing cabinet.”

Barfoot stared at him, speechless. “The party’s three weeks away! We’d be hiding in a filing cabinet for three weeks! That’s… that’s…” he hesitated, then a slow, fierce grin spread over his face. “That’s bloody brilliant!”

Sponn almost-smiled. “Therein lies the trick, the mark of a true thrill-seeker – the ability to think not only outside the box, but outside of the hypercube.”

Laughing, Barfoot reached onto a shelf and grabbed the light bulb they had been looking for. “Come on Sponners,” he said cheerfully, “we’ve got loads to do before the end of the day!”

 

That evening, they were back in the same supply room, facing the filing cabinet. Against all odds, Sponn’s plan had succeeded without a single hitch, although the cramped ventilation duct had given Barfoot some trouble due to the enormous lunch he had eaten. Sponn had come to his aid with a hefty shove, which had lead to much muttering and rubbing of sore shoulder on Barfoot’s part.

Their commanding officer, Commander Hattersley, had with much grumbling allowed them both to take three weeks leave, since they had not actually been allowed to take leave for some time after the incident with the geranium. They had their party outfits – not their dress uniforms which would have been giveaways, but smart tuxedo-style garments that would hopefully allow them to blend in.

Some of the afternoon had been spent retro-fitting the filing cabinet. The previous contents had been removed and stored behind one of the other shelving units. The drawers had been taken out and dismantled, with the fronts then welded back into place in one large piece. The top had been cut off to form a lid of sorts, and Barfoot had installed a small matter reclamation unit at the base of the cabinet which would attach to the modified zero-gee suits they would be wearing, eliminating the need to… eliminate. Food had been taken care of in the form of supplement pills, hardly appetising but more than sufficient to tide them over. All that was left was for them to get in.

They squeezed in and managed, unbelievably, to get themselves semi-comfortable, half lying on each other and half standing. Sponn lowered the lid down and they were plunged into utter darkness. There was silence for a few minutes, until Sponn spoke.

“Peter, was that you?”

Barfoot shifted a little. “Er, yeah. Sorry. Must have been those beans I had at lunch.”

“I see.”

 

Three hours later ten different people had been into the supply room, and none of them had even thought about giving so much as glance towards the old filing cabinet, which had in fact been the final resting place of one of the previous Ambassador’s attempts to write an interesting autobiography. Barfoot was bored rigid, and was currently passing the time by devoting his efforts to excavating the contents of one nostril with uncommon focus and concentration. Finishing that, and surreptitiously wiping his finger on Sponn’s trouser leg, which was currently beside his head, he sighed.

“How about we play a game?”

“I’ve already explained, Peter,” Sponn said patiently. “We must be silent lest any noise we make prevents us from hearing someone enter the room, and inadvertently giving ourselves away.”

“Right.”

A few minutes later, Sponn spoke again, startling Barfoot. “I have decided to place myself into a deep trance using a Vulcan healing technique,” he announced. “I believe this to be the best way to achieve silence, preserve oxygen and to pass the time. My heart rate and breathing will slow, but I will be able to rouse myself at need.”

“How wonderful for you,” Barfoot said dryly, “but what about me?”

“You should have thought about that before agreeing to this hare-brained scheme,” Sponn told him, before going silent. Barfoot listened for several more minutes as his companion’s breathing slowed to near-non-existence. How on earth was he going to keep from going crazy with three weeks of nothing but his own brain and a sleeping Vulcan for company?

 

Three weeks later…

Sponn’s eyes cracked open, but did not make any noticeable difference to the view, which was as dark as before.

“Peter?”

His voice sounded cracked from disuse, but he could feel strength returning to his limbs.

“Ohh, look George, our friend’s woken up!”

Barfoot’s voice broke through the darkness. Sponn frowned in consternation.

“Peter? Who is George?”

“George is a pink hippo,” Barfoot replied. “He’s my friend. Him and the yellow… zip… thing…” he trailed off, sounding confused. “Sponn? What am I talking about?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.” Listening closely, Sponn could not hear anyone outside so he lifted the lid a crack. Barfoot cried out as the light hit his eyes, and Sponn squinted painfully. Seeing no-one about he pushed the lid all the way off and climbed out, losing his balance on unsteady legs and falling over. Barfoot peered over the edge of the cabinet, dishevelled and nervous. Sponn got up and helped him out and, when they found he was unable to stand up straight, put a knee in his back, grabbed his shoulders and pulled hard. Barfoot yelped and passed out as his back cracked in six separate places, along with his shoulders, hips, knees, toes and fingers.

By the time he woke up, Sponn had made use of the small attached washroom and changed into his tuxedo, and hurriedly guided a still confused Barfoot to do the same. Hearing the sonic shower start the Vulcan moved silently over to the door and opened it a crack, nodding in Vulcan delight as the distinctive sounds of a party drifted back down the corridor. He waited there for several minutes, watching and listening, until he heard Barfoot move up behind him.

“Ready?” he asked without looking, and Barfoot, sounding better but still mildly uncertain, mumbled an agreement. “Then let us go!”

They strode out of the supply cabinet trying not to look out of place, and had made it all the way down the corridor to the main reception without meeting anyone. They paused at the doors for a moment before slipping inside. They looked around at the lavishly decorated room, with hundreds of people milling around the edges, talking over the music, while various couples and groups filled the space in the middle with what in some cases could only charitably be called dancing. A few people glanced in their direction and started muttering behind their hands, but neither of them noticed.

Sponn’s gaze was instantly drawn to a group of beautiful young people over in one corner and he had already taken a step forward before remembering to check on Barfoot, who was staring around in wonder. Doing a double take, Sponn ushered Barfoot back out of the room.

“I believe your outfit is somewhat lacking in the trouser department,” he said calmly. Barfoot glanced down and was flooded with the horrendous realisation that his worst nightmare had come true and he had forgotten to put his trousers on before leaving the supply room.

“I’ll, er, be back in a mo,” he squeaked before hurrying off. Entering the supply room he headed for the filing cabinet, where his trousers would be. One look at it, though, and he started feeling dizzy, remembering the last three weeks. Off-balance now, he staggered over and leant on the edge, trying to stay upright. He failed and toppled over the rim of the cabinet, collapsing in a heap at the bottom before everything went dark.

 

Sponn turned his attention back to the room, where his re-entrance had mostly gone unnoticed. Making his way over to the corner where the group he had noticed earlier were congregating he grabbed a champagne flute, sauntered over and turned on the charm.

“Greetings.”

A few glances were thrown his way, one or two of which became full stares. He honestly had no idea why everyone else seemed to have so much trouble with the dating thing. It seemed to him that all he had to do was stand in one place for a period of time, and inevitably someone would approach him. It made things even easier when he approached other people. One man and one woman approached him, but the woman reached him first and the man beat a graceful retreat. She was stunning, flashes of long toned legs visible behind the shimmering blue dress, cut all the way up to her hip. Well-shaped up top without being overly voluptuous, delicate features and shoulder-length thick blonde hair. Sponn was instantly smitten.

“My dear lady,” he said, tilting his head in a typically Vulcan greeting, which she returned, then taking her hand and, in a very un-Vulcan gesture bringing it to his lips and kissing it lightly. As he had told Barfoot many times, there was no harm in mirroring the local customs.

“Hello,” she replied, blushing a little.

They spent a companionable few minutes chatting lightly, but before long Sponn was aware she had started dropping some very unsubtle hints. Not one to ignore that sort of thing, he turned to her and said pleasantly, “Would you like to go somewhere quieter? I know just the place.”

She agreed and they slipped out of the room, neither noticing the angry-looking older man with the heavy gold chain around his neck following them a couple of minutes later.

Back in the supply room, Sponn and the girl were currently enjoying themselves between two sets of shelves, with no sign of Barfoot. Having divested themselves of her dress and his shirt as soon as they entered the room, the Vulcan led her over to the open filing cabinet. She pulled back and looked at him.

“You aren’t exactly like the other Vulcans, are you?” she asked, her arms wrapped around his neck.

“I have merely found that engaging in the mating rituals of other cultures is often an efficacious method of learning about them,” he replied as he kissed her neck.

“So how many other human women have you ‘learnt from’?” He took hold of her waist and, with one easy movement lifted her up and into the filing cabinet. She caught her balance as he moved to hoist himself into the cabinet.

“I have found,” he said, “that there is always something more to learn.”

At that moment two things happened. Firstly Barfoot, who had been passed out on the floor of the filing cabinet, stood up, still trouserless. Secondly the door slammed open and the Martian Ambassador, followed by a team of security guards, burst in shouting, “Get your hands off my daughter!”

The new arrivals all screeched to a halt at the sight of said Ambassadorial offspring and two unknown men in a state of semi-undress, apparently about to climb into a solid metal container together. The Ambassador gibbered quietly for a few seconds, before passing out.

 

Four weeks later, and with two formal reprimands, four restraining orders and two court orders never to attend a social gathering on Martian soil of more than three people, Barfoot and Sponn were back at work. They had only been allowed to remain because work on the new Constitution-class vessel was almost complete, and it would be launching very soon, making it unprofitable to pay for new experts to be brought in. While they had broken into the reception buildings they had not actually caused any damage, and the Ambassador’s daughter, while somewhat surprised by the sudden appearance of Barfoot, had not been an unwilling participant. Both of these factors had mitigated their punishments to some extent, but it was still felt that their talents would be put to better use elsewhere.

As a result, Sponn was being transferred to a tour of duty on board the remote station Deep Space 5, and Barfoot discovered he was in fact being promoted to take on the rank of Deputy Engineer on board the soon-to-be launched ship he had been working on for the last year.

“What’s the ship called, sir?” he asked Commander Hattersley after he had been given his new orders.

“The USS Psycho,” Hattersley told him. “And I’m fully confident you’ll feel at home there in no time at all.”