1
                                                          CAPTIVE

  The room was huge with bookshelves lining one wall right up to its high, vaulted ceiling. It, and doubtless the other rooms in the place looked as odd. The walls leaned at strange angles and the door-frames were irregularly shaped, giving the impression of early, German expressionist cinema or the Universal horrors of the thirties. As if in behest to this assumed heritage, wind and rain battered the place, thrumming against the walls and howling down the chimney-flue.
  The focal point of the place though, was not the irregular walls, Art deco furniture or literature. It was the semi-naked redhead lying recumbent on the floor. 
  Her hair flowed across her face like a copper river and she lay slumped to her side with one long leg brought-up across the other. Somewhere in her thirties she looked in excellent shape, tall and athletic in black bra and briefs and she groaned slightly as consciousness began to return to her.
  The woman blinked the room into fuzzy focus and attempted to rise till a stabbing pain in her temples prevented her.
  Her bare arm ventured to her head and she sneezed at the chill of the room frowning at her limb devoid of sleeve.
     “What the..?”-She managed as she rose to a sitting position and looked down at herself in her underwear with first puzzlement, then fear.
  Beverly swung her head around sluggishly like a semi-charmed snake and took-in her surroundings-the books, the leather-topped desk, the whole damn mausoleum! There was an acrid taste in her mouth- she'd been drugged! Drugged and stripped-but why?
  Was someone coming back for her? Should she hide? No, the place seemed deserted. Rising to her feet, she rubbed some warmth into her arms and legs. She experimentally 

breathed-out a plume of vapour in the chill room and vouched to herself;
     “I'd better get some clothes on or I'm going to freeze in here!”
  To her consternation, suddenly another noise rose above the keening wail of the wind and she recognised it immediately as the engine-note of a Federation shuttle-her ride!
  She tore out of the room and through the next to a corridor that led to an antique-looking staircase. Her feet slammed into he thin carpetting as she sprinted to the bannister.
 She pelted-down three stairs at a time, swinging around the newel posts at every landing.
  The Bavarian-style courtyard was awash with light as Beverly flew out into the elements to see her shuttle lifting-off into the sky of Globen 4 without her. It hovered, then swayed toward her in the onslaught and the Doctor received a second shock, greater than the force of the wind and freezing rain hitting her when she saw who was taking her ship.

     “Captain, Doctor Crusher's shuttle is approaching the shuttle-bay.”
     “On visual, Mister Laforge.”
  The Chief Engineer obliged and they watched as it set-down in the hold.
     “Were there any problems, Doctor?”
  The image changed to a view of the interior of the craft;
     “None at all Captain.” The tall redhead answered.

  Beverly retreated back into the institution soaking and very, very cold. Who had that been at the controls? She wore her uniform and had her face! She would gain instant access to The Enterprise but why, for what reason?
  A few scraps of paper culled from old technical manuals and some pieces of wood were sacrificed to the pyre and began to burn merrily in the fireplace but the heat had yet to reach her so she knelt in front of it snuggling deeper into the folds of the garment she'd found, her lip curling;
     “Honestly, me in a straitjacket-it’s ridiculous! It’s not even warm!”-She spat.
  The sleeves hung limply at her sides as she tugged the rough canvas around herself. Despite the call for help and the report they'd had on the place, the Schrekk institute on Globen 4 was as deserted as they came. An obvious lure (considering the double that had stolen her clothes and headed-back to her ship!) the place had no staff, no caretaker-"-and no clothes!" Beverly Crusher grumbled, pulling the straps around her. With a sigh, she shrugged her arms into the sleeves, wondering if there were any tools or instruments around here that she could remove the leather end-caps off them with.
  All she'd been able to find was a pair of boots that had been slung to the back of someone's wardrobe, they were the sort of thing that would be hidden or disposed of. The place had obviously been long-abandoned, there weren't even any sheets on the beds she'd found;
     "I could have at least made a toga out of those!" She grumbled as she moved closer to the fire, beginning to feel the warmth and removed the straitjacket, letting the flame flow over her skin. She rose and turned-back to the fire, feeling its warmth across her legs and rear-"Mmm!” -She groaned and then looked down with distaste at the canvas restraints cast on the floor. She scooped them up and warmed them in front of the flames. It was all very well standing in front of the fire but she'd have to explore more of the establishment and she'd lose any heat she'd attained if she was to do it in her underwear! A stale, chemical smell rose from the canvas and she wrinkled her nose;
     "At least they’ve been cleaned though!" She gasped, holding the jacket at arm's length.
  Doctor Crusher warmed every inch of the garment whilst gazing into the flames. How long would she be here?
  Something began to change and she looked around to see what it was, were her eyes becoming accustomed to the dark? No, it was definitely getting lighter in here! Dr Crusher looked closely at the walls and ceiling but there were no obvious lights, the walls appeared to be exuding some sort of ambient light. She dropped the restraints and looked around herself. Had she done something to activate the building's lighting?     
    “Ambient technology?"-She queried of herself. Was that it? Something Wesley had once said. Something about certain establishments or bases that detected the warmth of new occupants and altered their life-support functions to cope... "This place has been activated by my own heat and the heat of the fire I’ve started in order to support me!"
  A frown crept across her face though, she wasn't sure she wanted to be 'taken care of' by an asylum...

                                                                   2
                                                     THE ESCAPEE

  Picard wasn't worried, but he was concerned and paced the floor of his ready-room attempting to mull things over in his mind.
  Though he normally was completely professional and reserved, whenever he felt concern for the well-being of any member of his crew it told on him.
  The Counsellor, there appeared to be something bothering the Counsellor. As well as being a valuable member of his team, he counted the Betazoid as a friend and wished she'd tell him what the problem was.
  Although the Captain knew of her previous relationship with Riker, this hadn't affected her professionalism in the slightest in the few years now they'd served with him so it wasn't that. There was definitely something wrong though. She'd been jittery of late and her judgment seemed to have temporarily (he hoped) deserted her. Would Will know anything? If anyone did, it would be him. A shame he wasn’t here, having taken extended shore-leave to deal with the death of his uncle...
  Picard really didn't want to have to refer her, or even order her to see Doctor Crusher. It was strange that he 'compartmentalised' his thoughts. When thinking of her in a working-environment situation she was Doctor Crusher, though at all other times she was Beverly. Sometimes he thought himself the least French Frenchman ever! There was something else, however. Since her return from the installation at Globen 4 there had been something distant about Doctor Crusher, she seemed less Beverly than ever...　

     “Wait a minute!” Beverly Crusher exclaimed as she leaped to her feet, “Is there a radio-room here?”
  Of course there should be but would they have left any of the original equipment and would it still be on-line? Her brow creased-well, the lighting seemed to be working didn't it? The place couldn't have been left completely derelict! Even if she couldn't contact the Enterprise then she might get someone who could!
  The Doctor tugged-on the boots and looked long and hard at the straitjacket just as another squall battered the windows;
     “Okay, looks like I'll have to...” She murmured as she picked-up the now-warm restraints and slipped into them. She tried them with the opening at the front but had to turn it around as the shaped garment felt odd back-to-front. This however, left her with a cold back though, so she pulled-down one of the curtain-cords to belt it at the waist;
     “If I could even reach those buckles, I wouldn't!” She remarked ruefully as she made her way around the sofa and out, into the corridor.
  Twenty minutes later and Beverly Crusher was glowing. She'd trekked through every corridor, ascended the stairs to the roof and now sat dejected on a chaise-long. She stared at her feet, breathing heavily. There had to be radios somewhere, but where?
     “Come on, come on Crusher! Think logically,” she looked-down at herself, “... maybe this straitjacket's rubbing-off on me!” 
  She pummelled her temples with her covered fists, only stopping when she caught her skull with one of the errant buckles-“OOW!” 
  Leaping to her feet she decided to stop feeling sorry for herself and think things through. The place wasn't entirely stripped. There was furniture, books and apparently power, eventually...  
     “WAIT A MINUTE! There's power! How could I be so stupid? There must be elevators here somewhere! All that running...”
  Now that there seemed to be some power, attested to by the ever brighter surroundings she thought furiously. Even if whoever they were had removed all the visible communications equipment they may have overlooked something-“The cells? What about the cells?”
  The cells for the dangerous patients would be located underneath the structure, deep in the bedrock.

     “There has to be an emergency call switch or beacon hidden down there!”
  The Doctor swung around, looking for any suspiciously lift-like doors on the floor she was on, cursing herself for not thinking of them before. She found them between a couple of bookcases, polished wood or simulated wood to blend-in with the rest of the decor. In the tradition of elevators everywhere, a push-panel to the right of the doors indicated up or down and she nudged the DOWN offering. The doors slowly slid apart, obviously not yet on full power and she barely had time to consider the safety implications of this before being confronted by the contents of the car.
  At first glance it appeared that a boiler had been dumped in the corner of the elevator and she frowned then noticed the visor and rudimentary clamp 'hands' that sat in large slots either side of its middle-“Some kind of primitive robot?”
  Robot was definitely the term, certainly not android as was their esteemed Commander Data. The thing certainly did look like a boiler or a couple of oil drums stacked on top of each other! It stood at the same height as her but slumped to one side on the wall of the car on a pair of wedge-shaped feet.
  Tentatively, Beverly approached the thing and tapped on it;
     “Hello, hello?” She felt ridiculous, “Is anyone in there?”
  She squinted and asked-“State designation and duties!” -Nothing. She wasn't sure if she should be sorry or glad about that one... She turned her back on it with some trepidation and looked at the controls of the car;
     “Okay, here goes...”
  The lift doors slid slowly shut at her command and Beverly felt the floor drop away under her feet as it descended.
  Behind her, the robot did nothing.

     “You know, maybe you could go over there and talk to her. It couldn't hurt”
  Lieutenant Reginald Barclay looked at Guinan with horror. He'd only come down to Ten-Forward in order to relax a little but now the bartender appeared to be laying a challenge at his door.
  He looked across at Deanna. It was true she was a shadow of her former self and now appeared to be eating the entire contents of the bar's sweets-menu in order to compensate for whatever it was she was going through!
  Dark shadows under her eyes showed against the pallor of her skin and her hair had lost its usual lustre.
     “Oh I don't know...” quavered Reg. It was true that he and Deanna had a fondness for each other, indeed he'd once tried to convince himself that it was something far stronger she might return to him but nothing had happened. They were still friends though...
  He looked at Guinan and swallowed his drink. His eyes bulged and he sucked-in a mouthful of air, staring at the bartender;
     “Whiskey.” She answered at his silent question. “I thought you might need a little help with you soda...”
      “I,” he gasped, “…I- thank you.”

  The lift traveled-down for ages, the power still low. Eventually it came to a stop and the doors swished-open somewhat quicker than before and Beverly hurried-out, gleefully as she spotted a glassed-in command post with communications console-“GREAT, at last!”
  She practically skipped across, swinging the overlong sleeves comically. The controls looked fairly standard and Beverly pored-over them to familiarize herself with their operation. 
  She nudged a switch with the buckle-clad 'mitten' of the jacket and was relieved to see green power-indicator lights begin to pulse steadily on the old machinery. 
  Just as she leaned-forward to flick the call-switch, her arm snagged on something behind her, she tugged at it but it seemed to be being pulled backward. A huge shadow towered over hers on the floor-“Oh no!”
  Her arms were snatched-away from the equipment and tugged across her midriff.
     “YOU SHOULD NOT BE OUT OF YOUR CELL. I WILL ESCORT YOU TO IT.”
  Beverly Crusher was horrified and struggled against the restraints;
     “NO! No wait, you don't understand, I'm not a patient here!”
  Her arms were now snugly around herself and fastened behind her as the curtain-pull fell to the floor, loosed from the tightly held straitjacket.
  Buckles and fastenings snapped shut behind her as she squirmed and gasped;
     “I'm a Doctor! Let me go you ridiculous machine!” She yelled as she broke from its grasp and backed-away against the brushed-steel of the underground cavern's wall, “Get this thing off me!”
  The Doctor squirmed within the confines of the canvas straits, hiking them up till they cleared her briefs, stumbling around on the kinky high boots.
  The robot lumbered toward her and gripped her shoulders, spinning her to face the wall. With one clamp it tugged the jacket back down into place and fumbled behind her.
     “Get off, GET OFF! What are you doing?” She hissed through a partly-closed mouth that was pressed against the wall.
  The machine gripped an errant strap from the rear of the restraints and forced it through her legs, spinning her toward it again to snatch it up so hard she was nearly lifted from the floor-she saw its intent;
     “NO! No don't!”-but the strap was pulled-home through the heavy buckle on her abdomen and snapped into place! The one faint hope she had of getting out of the thing was gone and the robot stepped back, its arms at its sides.
  The tall redhead looked down at herself and bit-back a bitter sob. Here she was, a highly-esteemed Starfleet Doctor, standing here in six-inch stiletto-heeled boots, black stockings and a leather trimmed straitjacket that she couldn't possibly get out of now...
  She lifted her vitriolic gaze to her jailer, to see it tilt to one side as if admiring its handiwork-it had to be a malfunction, surely? She groaned-“Oh you stupid, stupid machine.”
  The behemoth clumped toward her, spun her and lifted her off the ground by the fastenings at the back of the restraints and moved-off;
     “STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT NAMES WILL NEVER HURT ME.”-It recanted as it swung her back and fore like a child bored with its dolly and made its way deeper into the catacombs, to take her to her new home...

                                                                  3
                                                        DEJA VIEWS

 Deanna Troi made her way back to her quarters, shivering and ashamed at the way she'd screeched at Reg, it wasn't his fault and now, everyone who'd been in Ten Forward probably thought she was going mad too! Was she?
  The Betazoid crept along furtively and then swung around to check her friend or anyone else hadn't followed her. She gasped and backed against the wall of the corridor.
  Tasha Yar stood there, glaring at her, accusingly;
    “YOU! YOU KILLED ME!”
  Deanna Troi fainted.

  The robot clumped into the secret room, pausing just inside the doorway. As befitted the baroque strangeness of the design of the place, the 'doorway' was actually a spinning bookcase, the books now on the inside of the room instead of out in the corridor.
  The huge space extended out far into the distance, taking-up most of the west wing. Everything was as it had been, why shouldn't it be? The silver, cylindrical mechanical man moved on, weaving around the ephemera in the room to the wasted figure sitting in the viewing chair in front of a buzzing screen.
  In its artificial brain it noted that the corpse of the establishment's owner was now so shriveled and shrunken to be almost mummified-how long had it been? Cobwebs were strewn about the room and his 'collection'.
  Stretching between the castle's twin towers, the room was full of memorabilia from Earth's motion-picture past and the robot walked-on amongst the flotsam and jetsam as the blue light from the screen flickered on its back. Here were two mannequins, one fat, one thin, wearing old fashioned clothes and rounded, brimmed black hats. The thin one cradled his in one hand and was frozen in the action of scratching his head with the other whilst the fat one with the moustache held his tie out as if proffering it for examination. The robot was familiar with the duo's recordings but there seemed little logic in them...
  Here was another mannequin in similar garb but for a bent cane and far scruffier appearance. Here, another but with a straw hat and round viewing implements-spectacles, they were called.
  The robot walked further-on into the treasure-trove, pausing at another robot, taller than he and more sophisticated-though really only a suit to be worn by a human to parody an automaton.
  Its lines were curved, with legs constructed of interlocking globes extending from a pot-bellied, button strewn midriff beneath a tall glass dome of a head. If it had been real it would have been company but it was just a facade, a shell.
  There seemed to have been a hiatus, a gap in the running of the place below. Where was everybody? How long had it been?
  The robot turned away from the facsimile (the action taking numerous, clanking settings of its overlarge feet) and pondered another question, that of why, with its sophisticated brain it had been constructed in such a ridiculous form. Of course it knew the reason why-nostalgia.  It had come across some of the many early twentieth century serials featuring a man in a suit that it had been built to copy the appearance of.
  Maitland, whose corpse lay behind it had collected the memorabilia furiously. He seemed to have put his entire finances from his medical qualifications into securing every nut, bolt and recording!
 Racks and racks of shelves attested to his fetish, comedies, westerns and what they had termed 'Science Fiction' but what were actually precognitive if simplified versions of their future visions. Sometimes the man that was now a withered corpse in the chair behind it would have enthused about the images on the screen-the robot merely observed. Why would it want to partake in inaccurate predictions of the present day? Illogical 'comedies' or 'romances' were incomprehensible to it. 
  It then paused, looking back at the player's green 'on' light that beckoned to it. Just the one patient (?) allowed it some 'downtime' and it clanked away from the science-fiction section to a dusty, and rarely visited (by Maitland) section, retrieving a slim, boxed disc with a lean, squint-eyed man on the cover brandishing an ancient, percussion-weapon. It then moved to another close rack, pulling-out DVDs of other, earlier lawmen. These men rode horses under a boiling sun and had six-guns swinging off their hips.
  There were many, their names: Wayne, Cooper, Scott, Payne, Ladd-but his favorites were the two softest-speaking ones, Stewart and the man who, in real life had been a decorated War hero-Audie Murphy. 
  It was something about the juxtaposition of the 'quiet man' who could wield the law of the land, bringing order to the chaos of the lawless towns. If the Robot could have dreamed, it would have dreamed of being in their position...

  Loose rocks and scree were blasted aside and the bedrock super- heated as the ship descended, the lozenge-shaped transport thumping-down on extending, hydraulically- assisted legs.
  The ship settled, hissing and sighing as it regained contact with terra firma after its long voyage. Its fuselage clicked and ticked as it cooled in the planet's atmosphere till its belly-ramp dropped and a large silhouette tramped down it surveying the landscape.
  His two lieutenants descended the sloping door to stand either side of their leader, also taking-in the blasted environment.
    “A raw world, people,”-they were the educated tones of a college lecturer or Professor, “...rugged, jagged. Unbowed,” he observed, “...and really rather dull, don't you think?”
  They grunted with little commitment and followed their leader to the edge of the escarpment as the balding, beetle-browed man pointed to the establishment below.
    “There dear ladies is the location of our prize!”
  Elstree lead the way…

                                                                  4
                                              A TOUCH OF HISTORY

                                            COMMANDER DATA’S LOG

  I am in a strange situation. Humans would call it a quandary. My friend Counselor Troi has been behaving strangely and although I have tried to make myself a student of human behaviour, I am quite perplexed by it.
  Apparently, according to other crew members she has 'Let Herself Go'-I see what they mean as her normally immaculate appearance has faltered. Also, she seems 'jittery' and has for some reason began wearing her original short uniform dress which she confided to several that she hated.
  I have been told that tact is not something I possess and yet, apparently even the Captain has had no luck as to what ails her. 
  Lieutenant Barclay was the most recent recipient of her anger, though not being human I have no idea what the cause was. 
  Data rose from his desk and, thinking it might help he scooped his pipe from its cradle, placing it in the corner of his mouth. Holmes-how would Holmes go about it?
  He stopped at his portal, staring into space. This was mainly an affectation and his computer brain knew this but he still did it.
  He weighed-up the facts, for some reason the pipe DID help even though unlit and he used it as a handle to move his head from side to side.
  The Counselor’s change had grown for two weeks now or at least she seemed to have been in a decline since then but why?

  Deanna Troi retreated to her quarters and opened her wardrobe. Her brow was deeply furrowed and she almost snarled at her reflection in the mirror. She’d always hated the mini-tunic she’d first had to wear and now, here she was back in it again!
  She blinked at the racks of identical tunics-there wasn’t a full-body outfit amongst them!
  What was happening to her? Was all this some sort of cruel practical joke being played on her? She’d avoided her duties and others because of the apparent loss of her empathic abilities. Then there had been the visions. Tasha Yar had been just one but it had to be something in her head as there was no way Tasha could blame her for her death!
  The first vision she’d had was of Beverly changing and her face running like tallow till she’d seen Troi watching. Her face and shape had snapped back like a rubber band and a confused spasm of emotions flooded into Deanna’s mind-suspicion, shock, hatred and then nothing, like a shield had come down.
  The power of the emotions had been such that the Betazoid had recoiled and almost fainted. Since then her power had got steadily weaker till it had now gone almost totally.
  After that first anomaly she had begun to see Tasha and even her own self glaring at her!
  
  Maitland closed the doors behind him and sighed. The diminutive man had spent hours on a spinal re-alignment and needed rest but couldn’t resist a glance at his latest toy.
  In the corner, beneath a cover was what could have been a small table but he removed the sheet to reveal a pair of crudely-formed legs extending beneath the beginnings of a drum-like assembly.
  He smirked, knowing that though crude, this was how it was supposed to look. He removed his surgical coat to delve inside the assembly’s wiring. With a hum the legs twitched, the toe-flaps on the crude plate-like feet tapping and he stood back as the pair of legs began to stride forward. He reached inside and they stopped again;
    “Marvelous!” He gasped as the gyros powered-down and looked across to a poster behind glass featuring what he intended to be the end product of his endeavors, a tall, drum-like robot firing a laser gun.
  In the other corner of his quarters was the top half of his machine beneath another cover, its arms were extended and draped along the carpet.
  A case lined one wall, full of ancient films in varying formats from chips to crystals, discs, even tapes and an entertainment system sat in the other corner with the ability to play each type. He looked both gleeful and cowed at the same time. True, he anticipated watching one of the classic movies with joy but also thought about the massive collection he had stored that he couldn’t immediately access. He sighed. One day, one day he would live with his entire collection and wouldn’t that blimp Elstree envy him then!
  He swapped glances between the top and bottom halves of his future, working copy of the Republic pictures robot and once more considered the effect that just seeing it would have on the fat man;
    “A brain though, a brain-that’s what I need!”
  It was true. The bottom half was ambulatory and even the arms worked but he had to operate them. What he wanted was a fully-functioning ‘individual’, a robot that could think for itself. The problem was that an actual thinking robotic brain was hard to come by, Starfleet tended to appropriate such things for themselves. Still, one day, one day…

  Beverly had lost track of time. She couldn’t even tell how long it had been since she’d last seen her ridiculous jailer. True, food had been provided but she’d screamed herself hoarse at the thing as it had dragged her from the cell, fed and even bathed her before stuffing her back into the canvas restraints.

  Elstree gazed-down at the deserted Schrekk Institute. He almost licked his lips as he thought of the collection that occupied the building. Maitland had amassed a huge collection of film memorabilia, hundreds of years old which would now be his!
  He was flanked by the two women and four men who had come out of the ship to stand behind them but he curled his lip at the absence of the other two, where were they? 
  There was a scuffling from the ship and he winced as the bickering twosome approached. He turned to see the duo- one tall, one shorter scuttling down the ramp.
    “Geroff!” The taller of the two whined whilst the shorter, sandy-haired individual tugged him along by his sleeve.
  Elstree winced as the two approached, the taller one-Simpson grasping at his spectacles as they slipped off the bridge of his nose. They looked odd but then, some people were allergic to the regenerative treatments available like Hull was. He fumbled them back on and snarled at his supposed friend;
    “I said get off! Forty winks-that was all!”
  Though he tried to remonstrate with his taller friend under his breath, Clark was perfectly audible to their employer;
    “You can’t just go to sleep all over the place! We’re being paid good money to come here, Eric!”
    “Alright, alright!” He whined. “Get off will you-you’ve got me skin!”
  The grip was relaxed and so did Eric, seemingly noticing their employer for the first time- “Ah, Mister Elstree. We just got here…”
  The big man didn’t dignify this with a response. They had to be the two most incompetent smugglers he’d ever met! He’d learned of them through contacts he’d made in the criminal underworld but the only thing they had going for them apart from owning their own (if rather dilapidated) ship was that they had been employed by his nemesis to transport his collection to his present place of work and still had the co-ordinates locked in to their navicom’s hard drive.
  Maitland must have learned of the deaths of his fellow collectors and vanished, taking his incredible collection with him. Fifteen years Elstree had searched, fifteen long, fruitless years…
   Elstree was not to be thwarted however and found the two, convincing them to take him and his ‘associates’ to his ‘friend’.
  The two women and four other men were of a different class to the idiotic duo entirely. They were killers (a couple of them possibly deranged!) but it helped (certainly with the two inept would-be criminals) that the girls were both beautiful-though hardly matching The Goddesses of the Silver Screen…
    “This is definitely the place?” asked Balor. He was a bearded Klingon that was shunned by his own kind for his aqquisitive ways-most of them thought him a Ferenghi in a Klingon skin!
    “Oh yes,” Simpson clarified, “…this is the place. Right Ern?”
    “It certainly is, Mr. Elstree!” He nodded enthusiastically.
  The fat man smiled grimly-the treasures were there inside for him to take! This shouldn’t be too much trouble. They began to trudge-down the hillside towards the building…

                                                                5
                                            IF I ONLY HAD A BRAIN

  Maitland had stepped off the battered transport and looked around him with distaste. Kembal Space-Port had to be one of the seediest dumps he’d ever seen! He began to worry that he might have been brought here to be robbed and murdered but Simpson and Clark were extremely unlikely murderers both quite timid and despite their chosen profession, unworldly.
  Simpson had patted their ship ‘The Blue Pig’ with affection before being confronted by the port’s parking attendant;
    “Pay the man, Eric.” Smarmed Clarke as he guided the Doctor out of the environs toward the market and bar side of town.
  Eventually, Simpson caught up with them remonstrating with his partner;
    “You said you were paying this time!”
    “I never did!”
    “You know your problem? You’re tight you are, tight!”
  Maitland winced. He’d been hearing this conversation or conversations extremely similar all the way here!
    “I am not! I’m just careful with my money that’s all…”
    “You’re so tight you squeak! Try that one again and I’ll smash your face in!”
  Maitland forced himself between them;
    “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please, remember why we’re here!” He offered, trying to defuse the situation, “There will be money for you if what you say is true.”
  Eric straightened his glasses and aquiesced;
    “Of course, Doctor Maitland, sir-if you will just follow me…”

  The robot stood next to the withered corpse that had been Maitland and watched Gary Cooper on the screen in front of it. The story was similar to others it had watched, a lone man against the odds…
  The action and the music washed over the mechanical man. At one point it turned slightly and looked-down at the corpse. It was such a waste. Maitland would never move again, would never think or act. 
  It turned back to the screen again to watch scenes that it had watched many times before when stored in here with the rest of the collection. That was another thing, what would happen to the collection? Would someone else turn-up here to watch it and watch over it.
  Loneliness wasn’t something that the automaton was prey to but still its sophisticated brain enabled it to ‘feel’ something or at least to register it.
  The film finished and the seemingly cumbersome but actually sophisticated machine removed it, placing it back in its sleeve. It held the disc up and turned to return it to its place on the shelf pausing only to reach out and touch Maitland on the shoulder before it did so.
  What had happened? Where was everybody? Now there was no staff, no patients (well, just the one) and the place had the odd, stripped look of-
    “A FIRE SALE?” another remembered phrase cropped up-‘Everything Must Go!’As seen on commercials in some rare films scavenged from transmissions on Earth and its colonies.

    “You realize you’re going mad, don’t you?”
  Troi had stumbled into the turbo-lift, her mind in disarray only to be confronted by her own self upon the other turning around from the corner once the car was in motion.
  The two women looked each other up and down. They were identical in every way, the same face, hair, eyes and even the horrible short tunic;
    “Who…who are you?”
    “Why, I’m Counselor Troi, who are you?”
  Troi held up her palm only for the other to hold up an identical one, touching hers at the same time. 
  Suddenly her double gripped her in an embrace and kissed her. She recoiled in horror and moved to the left, her mirror-image doing the same but then the one facing her unexpectedly threw back her head and cackled crazily;
    “Of course you’re going mad! No more Empathic ability-it’s driven you over the edge! Everyone says you’re insane-they’re going to lock you up Deanna Troi!”
    “No…”
    “Yes!”
  The other grabbed her about the throat and began to squeeze the life out of her and Troi gasped;
    “You will die alone and incarcerated!” Her other self screamed at her, growing taller and her eyes taking on a demonic glare as her hair rose-up, lightening streaked with white.

    “How do you like that, sunshine?”
  Maitland was overjoyed. He couldn’t risk grinning back at the other two as he cradled the treasure close to his chest. It was a Soong, a genuine Soong brain! Why, with this his creation would be amazing!
    “Drinks all round, I’d say!” He cackled and dragged-out a hip flask to which they both offered plastic cups;
    “Whay-hay!” Yelled Simpson.

  The robot stopped at the revolving bookcase. The bells had rung-someone at the door?
It hit the pressure-pad and stepped through the spinning piece of furniture as it relocated and began to clump down the staircase.

                                                                  6
                                                        DESPERADO 

  What was happening? There had been four deaths on his ship now and Beverly didn’t seem at all bothered!
    “I don’t like unexplained deaths Doctor!” He’d snapped then cursed himself inwardly for his agitation. It didn’t even seem to faze her;
    “I’m sorry Captain,” there it was again-that formality, “…but these deaths are unrelated. Smith had an Embolism, Gu-Rack suffered an allergic reaction to her food, Sturgeon had a heart attack and Hendricks fell from the Engineering gallery.”
  What was wrong with Beverly? She had become very formal. Had he done something to offend her?
    “I’m sorry Doctor, but mysteries are there to be solved! These deaths are completely out of proportion to any death rate on this ship-their must be some connection!”
  Thinking of nothing else he could say to this stiff version of his friend he turned-about and left sick bay for the bridge.

  Troi and her double fought hard, slamming each other into the sides of the turbo lift even though she could feel her strength failing her. By now her duplicate’s face had extended grotesquely, almost into some sort of proboscis as she took hit after hit from her victim.
  Then the lift halted and with the announcement of its reaching its destination, Troi grabbed her other self’s ears slamming her head into the wall as the doors opened.
  Her back was to the sliding panels but she was suddenly grabbed from behind and wrenched up, off her combatant. There was a flurry of action from behind her as she was spun to the new arrivals.
    “Counselor Troi! What are you doing?” gasped the crewman who held her.
  On the floor of the lift was a badly-beaten Beverly Crusher who gasped;
    “She just attacked me for no reason!”
    “It’s a lie, she’s lying! That’s not Beverly, it’s a…THING!”
 The Starfleet Doctor staggered to her feet as a Security Team turned-up to haul Troi away, protesting her innocence;
    “Are you alright Doctor?”-asked Crewman Whitby with concern.
    “Yes, yes I think so.” She replied, flustered.
  Whitby had always held a torch For Doctor Crusher and to see her like this, distressed multiplied his feelings. 
    “You, you’re very kind…” she simpered and began to limp away. Then, “I wonder, do you think you could escort me to my quarters? I’m a little afraid…”
  Whitby swallowed. Everyone on board knew of Doctor Crusher and the Captain but he couldn’t resist. Besides, those legs… he’d never seen her in a mini-tunic before. It was just like Counselor Troi’s…

    Doctor Paul Maitland had established himself as a well respected surgeon and this had helped his movie memorabilia fetish, or at least had provided the funds to collect more and more. He’d actually managed to get hold of Audrey Hepburn’s sunglasses from ‘Two for the Road’-What a find!
  Maitland had accelerated upwards in his career till one day he was offered the chance of The Schrekk Institute. He felt immediately drawn to the place because of the legendary Max and when seeing shots of its odd, dated architecture.
  The place was an odd mixture, with an advanced surgical wing, psychiatric facilities and even cells down in the rock underneath the building for the incarceration of dangerous patients.
  Maitland had landed, taken the tour and discovered the unused attic-space that could house his collection with plenty of space to spare-he was smitten!
  His staff was eager and experienced though he couldn’t just step-back and be a ‘figurehead’. As well as running the place he operated and psycho-analyzed. The man was a dynamo, so much so that he hardly had time to un-box his collection after Simpson and Clark had delivered it. Despite their less than honest profession, somehow he trusted the two.
  The first thing he un-packed was his Robot-the brain now housed in it’s (for want of a better word) head. The top half of the drum was connected to the bottom after the fibre-optics were linked and slowly it came to life.
  It was almost childlike at first receiving commands and obeying them to the letter. Once it had begun operating at a decent intellectual level he had the thing wall-off the part of the attic that was to be his collection’s home and install the classic, spinning bookcase.
  One place Maitland didn’t like visiting was the cells below. He hated the idea of patients who could not be treated and had attempted at first to find out their problems and see if they could be helped.
  They were practically all lost causes however. A few were casualties of this part of the galaxy’s many conflicts which he could help but others were purely psychopaths, a couple of whom were cannibals!
  After a particularly strenuous day trying to get inside the head of one of the more twisted of his charges he’d decided he needed a break but this time, not indulging in his hobby. He took one of the building’s rovers and decided to explore the rock outside the doors. This was when he’d discovered her…

  

   
                                                                   
                                                                     7
                                                            PRISONER

  Troi wept and screamed as they came at her with the straitjacket. Whilst her attention was on the two moving it toward her she took her eyes off the others who shot around behind her and began to cut her out of her uniform.
  She shrieked louder as she was wrestled to the floor and the phase-cutter made short work of her short dress. It slid through the fabric like a hot knife through butter and the tunic fell apart as she struggled with the two ensigns.
  Her fist connected with one of their eyes and she squirmed out of the remnants of the tunic they held, diving through the legs of  the one holding one half of the restraints and scrambling through the doors of her quarters-she ran.

  Elstree waited impatiently as the Klingon set-up the transmission damping equipment-he didn’t want any distress calls getting out! Simpson and Clark had returned to the ship to help assemble the tricycle tractor-unit that he would use to ferry all the treasure back to the ship on its flat trailer.
  Eventually, there was a roar from inside the belly of the ungainly ship and the powerful mover exited its bay driven by the slow-witted, curly haired giant as Hull strolled alongside it, his bald head gleaming. The sunlight flashed off his own glasses as he tramped along next to the inexpertly driven, balloon tyred machine.
  Despite his theatrical flourishes, Hull was a killer. His brother was too, though not too smart. The loader crunched into one of the many boulders around and the two argued, the older explaining;
    “If it’s too hard I don’t understand it!”
  Hull extended his arm to his sibling;
    “My big brother, Alan!”
  
  Data was fascinated by the idea of solving the puzzle so much he had made his way to the Holodeck citing 221B Baker Street as his preference. 
  Despite the locale, Data was still in his Starfleet uniform, except for the pipe. He wandered amongst the paraphernalia-the violin, the Turkish slipper with tobacco in it and gazed at the bullet-pocked wall. Somehow this all helped him…
     “Computer-Doctor John Watson, if you would be so kind.”
  The computer asked which portrayal he wished but Data left it to the machine’s discretion and found himself side by side with Nigel Bruce-an admirable choice for his purposes;
    “What the deuce is it all about, Holmes?”
  Data fell into character;
    “To out it quite simply Watson, the Captain wishes me to investigate sundry deaths upon his ship.”
    “A sea-faring man eh? Salt of the earth!”
  Data managed one of his rare jokes;
    “Salt of the sea perhaps, eh Watson?”
  The Doctor guffawed appreciatively at his pseudo friend’s witticism. It was just what Data wanted. He jammed his pipe in his mouth and paced alongside the tubby hologram;
    “The question is Watson, what is the link?”
    “Link, Holmes?”
    “But of course Watson! More members of my client’s ship have died in the last two weeks than have in its last two years-why?”
  Watson fingered his pocket watch;
    “Goodness knows Holmes! One might almost contemplate an outside influence…”
 Data spun to his pixelled partner and fostered a grin;
    “Indeed Watson, an outside influence or entity that has eluded detection. Someone or something has arrived recently or just allowed its murderous tendencies to arise to the surface!”
  Watson conferred;
    “There is a belief that some of these creatures are affected by the moon…”
    “-Hence lunatics or ‘loonies’? Yes, but to which moon should we attribute the blame?”
  Data and Watson paced up and down the room.
    “Is there no link between the fallen, Holmes?”
    “-None but their frequency, old friend.”
  The mismatched pair paced more, back and fore. Data thought furiously whilst Watson accompanied him;
    “Holmes?”
    “Yes?”
    “Oh nothing…”
  Data halted, swinging his leg up, onto the chaise long and enquired of him irritably;
    “What is it man?”
  Watson looked-down at the floor with embarrassment and played with his watch-chain once more, pulling out his timepiece and replacing it;
    “I suppose you’ve checked?”
    “Checked?”
    “Well yes. I haven’t seen the bodies myself-I suppose you have? I mean, I can only trust me own eyes if you know what I mean-“
  Data blinked. Watson continued;
    “Is the medical man a decent sort, can he be trusted?”
  Alarm bells started ringing both metaphorically and actually as the Holo-suite flickered and Data turned to the door;
    “Watson, you’re a marvel!” He offered to the rapidly fading image as he made for the door control.

                                                                  8
                                                   THE DISCOVERY

  Cannur looked at the descriptions and the video-grabs in front of him. It was them, it was definitely them!
  Simpson and Clark had been on his books for a while-unfinished business. He remembered the time they’d eluded a perfectly set trap he’d laid, leaving him looking a fool! Kembel Spaceport, they’d been there! Who was the short, dark man with them though?

  The institution’s buggy chugged over the terrain with Maitland at its controls. He didn’t know why he bothered. The place was barren, very little life existed here. He’d even packed antique fishing equipment-a pole and bait but what would he catch here?
  He rolled the machine down to the side of a stream, mindful of his fuel and parked-up, unloading his equipment.

  Picard had a fitful sleep. Something gnawed at him. There was something on the tip of his tongue or the edge of his mind that he couldn’t get to. What was it? For some reason he seemed to recall a fish swimming toward him in his dreams, silently mouthing what could be unseen words at him under water. 
  He’d instructed Data to investigate on his behalf-perhaps the Android Commander could get to the bottom of what was happening? Then he heard the ships alarm blaring and, groaning climbed out of bed;
    “Computer, what is the alarm for?”
  COUNSELOR TROI HAS ESCAPED CUSTODY AFTER ATTACKING DOCTOR CRUSHER-the machine replied.
  The Captain was flabbergasted;
    “Deanna Troi attacked Beverly, when?”
  TEN MINUTES AND FORTY TWO SECONDS AGO.

  Troi ran. The alleyways of the ship were mostly deserted but those she met thankfully dodged out of the way of the crazed-looking woman in her underwear and boots sprinting down the corridors.
  Where could she hide, where could she run? She was running in a certain direction-it was all she could think of…

Maitland sat on a collapsible stool on the bank of the stream drifting in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he looked at the stream, at others he snoozed, thinking about the ancient films and sundry antiques he had collected. Scenes from movies flickered across his mind and he drank them in. John Wayne, Humphrey Bogart, Harrison Ford and the ladies-Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Audrey Hepburn, Karen Allen, Dietrich-the list went on.
  Something woke him, a noise. It had to be the wind. Surely there was nothing alive out here? His eyes flickered open and, blurrily he saw a figure on a rocky promontory in the distance. He blinked then rubbed his eyes;
    “Columbia?
  It did indeed look like the emblem of Columbia’s output, a tall, statuesque woman holding a torch. He blinked again and she was gone, “Perhaps I’m lucky it wasn’t MGM!” He chuckled to himself, though worried at the hallucination. Was it a symptom of something more serious? Still, it was gone now…
  He tugged at the rod but his line was slack-nothing. It was only to be expected of course on such a barren rock. Then a movement caught his eye and he stared;
    “Raquel Welch?”
  Maitland stared fervently at the image in the distance as she approached. The voluptuous woman in her fur bikini and full makeup prowled toward him like a cat. Then he blinked and with a heat-shimmer she changed to Audrey Hepburn in her My Fair Lady finery, then Nancy Allen in her Robocop Police uniform, then Marilyn in her Seven Year Itch dress. All the time she got closer, stepping over the rocks in her floating white dress then in her Bus Stop showgirl outfit but now Sigourney Weaver though still dressed as Marilyn. He swallowed, not able to take his eyes off the siren now. Barbarella now, but still with Sigourney’s face then back to Audrey but still in Barbarella’s outfit. Karen Allen then in Raquel’s Bikini but with Fonda’s Ray Gun!
  A horrific noise began to emanate from the woman (women?), howling as she crashed to the floor twitching, yards from him.
  Was this real, was it actually happening? Maitland rose from his seat and stealthily walked over to the apparition. Her face still swam between all the stars of old Hollywood but the body now seemed to change, becoming less curvaceous. Then the face was gone and he looked-on the creature as it truly was, desperate and starving.

                                                 TO BE CONTINUED