SKYRIDER screenshots

 

SKYRIDER -- Anaconda class armed explorer for Elite Dangerous

 

SKYRIDER – Anaconda class armed explorer

Current configuration as of April 28, 3307

Current Cost                                                            205,338,312 CR

Insurance Cost                                                         11,409,247 CR

1C Lightweight Alloys armor                                  945 (1335 armor total)

4A Power Plant                                                        15.60 MW

5D Thrusters                                                            180 m/s max / 240 m/s boost

                                                                                  24.97 pitch / 59.92 roll / 9.99 yaw (degrees)

6A Frame Shift Drive                                                33.66 min / 35.34 current / 36.83 max (light years)

                                                                                   8T fuel per jump

5D Life Support                                                         7 mins 30 secs emergency time

5A Power Distributor                                                 allows boosting

8D Sensors                                                                  8KM max range, 30 degree angle forward

5C Fuel Tank                                                               32T (48T total)

7A Fuel Scoop                                                             1.25T / second

3A Shield Generator                                                    245.1MW, reg rate 1MW / sec

5A Auto Field Maintenance Unit                                7300 repair capacity

5D Hull Reinforcement Package                                 +390 armor

4C Fuel Tank                                                                +16T

4E Cargo Rack                                                              16T

2G Planetary Vehicle Hangar                                       1 Scarab SRV

1I Detailed Surface Scanner

1E Advanced Docking Computer

1I Planetary Approach Suite

TO BE SIX AGAIN

 

 To Whom It May Concern:

 

 I hereby officially tender my resignation as an adult.  I have decided

 I would like to accept the responsibilities of a 6 year old again.

 I want to go to McDonald's and think that it's a four star restaurant.

 I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make ripples with

 rocks.  I want to think M&Ms are better than money, because you can eat

 them.  I want to play kickball during recess and paint with watercolors

 in art.  I want to lie under a big Oak tree and run a lemonade stand with

 my friends on a hot summers' day.

 

 I want to return to a time when life was simple.  When all you knew

 were colors, addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but that didn't

 bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't

 care.  When all you knew was to be happy because you didn't know all the

 things that should make you worried and upset.  I want to think that the

 world is fair.  That everyone in it is honest and good.  I want to believe

 that anything is possible.

 

 Somewhere in my youth...  I matured and I learned too much.  I learned

 of nuclear weapons, war, prejudice, starvation and abused children.  I

 learned of lies, unhappy marriages, suffering, illness, pain and death.

 I learned of a world where men left their families to go and fight for our

 country, and returned only to end up living on the streets ... begging

 for their next meal.  I learned of a world where children knew how to

 kill...and did!

 

 What happened to the time when we thought that everyone would live

 forever, because we didn't grasp the concept of death?  When we thought

 the worst thing in the world was if someone took the jump rope from you or

 picked you last for kickball?  I want to be oblivious to the complexity

 of life and be overly excited by little things once again.  I want to return

 to the days when reading was fun and music was clean.  When television

 was used to report the news or for family entertainment and not to

 promote sex, violence and deceit.  I remember being naive and thinking that

 everyone was happy because I was.  I would walk on the beach and only think

 of the sand between my toes and the prettiest seashell I could find.  I

 would spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike.  I didn't worry

about

 time, bills or where I was going to find the money to fix my car.  I used to

 wonder what I was going to do or be when I grew up, not worry about what

 I'll do if this doesn't work out.

 

 I want to live simple again.  I don't want my day to consist of computer

 crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news, how to survive

 more days in the month than there is money in the bank, doctor bills,

 gossip, illness and loss of loved ones.  I want to believe in the power

 of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the

 imagination, mankind and making angels in the snow.  I want to be 6 again.

"Rules For Work:"

    1. Never give me work in the morning. Always wait until 4:00 

    and then bring it to me. The challenge of a deadline is 

    refreshing. 

    2. If it's really a rush job, run in and interrupt me every 10 

    minutes to inquire how it's going. That helps. Even better, 

    hover behind me, and advise me at every keystroke. 

    3. Always leave without telling anyone where you're going. It 

    gives me a chance to be creative when someone asks where you 

    are. 

    4. If my arms are full of papers, boxes, books, or supplies, 

    don't open the door for me. I need to learn how to function as 

    a paraplegic and opening doors with no arms is good training 

    in case I should ever be injured and lose all use of my limbs. 

    5. If you give me more than one job to do, don't tell me which 

    is priority. I am psychic. 

    6. Do your best to keep me late. I adore this office and 

    really have nowhere to go or anything to do. I have no life 

    beyond work. 

    7. If a job I do pleases you, keep it a secret. If that gets 

    out, it could mean a promotion. 

    8. If you don't like my work, tell everyone. I like my name to 

    be popular in conversations. I was born to be whipped. 

    9. If you have special instructions for a job, don't write 

    them down. In fact, save them until the job is almost done. No 

    use confusing me with useful information. 

    10. Never introduce me to the people you're with. I have no 

    right to know anything. In the corporate food chain, I am 

    plankton. When you refer to them later, my shrewd deductions 

    will identify them. 

    11. Be nice to me only when the job I'm doing for you could 

    really change your life and send you straight to manager's 

    hell. 

    12. Tell me all your little problems. No one else has any and 

    it's nice to know someone is less fortunate. I especially like 

    the story about having to pay so many taxes on the bonus check 

    you received for being such a good manager. 

    13. Wait until my yearly review and THEN tell me what my goals 

    SHOULD have been. Give me a mediocre performance rating with a 

    cost of living increase. I'm not here for the money anyway. 

$2 Dollar Bill

 

TACO HELL

 by Peter Leppik

 

     The following is a true story. It amused the hell out of me 

while it was happening. I hope it isn't one of those "had to be 

there" things.

     On my way home from the second job I've taken for the extra 

holiday ca$h I need, I stopped at Taco Bell for a quick bite to eat. 

In my billfold was a $50 bill and a $2 bill. That was all of the cash 

I had on my person. 

I figured that with a $2 bill, I could get something to eat and not 

have to worry about people getting pissed at me.

 

ME: "Hi, I'd like one seven layer burrito please, to go."

 IT: "Is that it?"

 ME: "Yep."

 IT: "That'll be $1.04, eat here?"

 ME: "No, it's to go." [I hate effort duplication.]

At this point I open my billfold and hand him the $2 bill. He looks 

at it kind of funny 

 IT: "Uh, hang on a sec, I'll be right back."

He goes to talk to his manager, who is still within earshot. The 

following conversation occurs between the two of them.

 IT: "Hey, you ever see a $2 bill?"

 MG: "No. A what?"

 IT: "A $2 bill. This guy just gave it to me."

 MG: "Ask for something else, THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A $2 BILL."

 IT: "Yeah, thought so."

He comes back to me and says:

 IT: "We don't take these. Do you have anything else?"

 ME: "Just this fifty. You don't take $2 bills? Why?"

 IT: "I don't know."

 ME: "See here where it says legal tender?"

 IT: "Yeah."

 ME: "So, shouldn't you take it?"

 IT: "Well, hang on a sec."

He goes back to his manager who is watching me like I'm going to 

shoplift..

 IT: "He says I have to take it."

 MG: "Doesn't he have anything else?"

 IT: "Yeah, a fifty. I'll get it and you can open the safe and get 

change."

 MG: "I'M NOT OPENING THE SAFE WITH HIM IN HERE." [my emphasis]

 IT: "What should I do?"

 MG: "Tell him to come back later when he has REAL money."

 IT: "I can't tell him that, you tell him."

 MG: "Just tell him."

 IT: "No way, this is weird, I'm going in back."

The manager approaches me and says:

 MG: "Sorry,we don't take big bills this time of night." [it was 8pm 

and this particular Taco Bell is in a well lighted indoor mall with 

100 other stores.]

 ME: "Well, here's a two."

 MG: "We don't take those either."

 ME: "Why the hell not?"

 MG: "I think you know why."

 ME: "No really, tell me, why?"

 MG: "Please leave before I call mall security."

 ME: "Excuse me?"

 MG: "Please leave before I call mall security."

 ME: "What the hell for?"

 MG: "Please, sir."

 ME: "Uh, go ahead, call them."

 MG: "Would you please just leave?"

 ME: "No."

 MG: "Fine, have it your way then."

 ME: "No, that's Burger King, isn't it?"

 

 At this point he BACKS away from me and calls mall security on the 

phone around the corner. I have two people STARING at me from the 

dining area, and I begin laughing out loud, just for effect. A few 

minutes later this 45 year oldish guy comes in and says [at the other 

end of counter, in a whisper]

 SG: "Yeah, Mike, what's up?"

 MG: "This guy is trying to give me some [pause] funny money."

 SG: "Really? What?"

 MG: "Get this, a two dollar bill."

 SG: "Why would a guy fake a $2 bill?" [incredulous]

 MG: "I don't know. He's kinda weird. Says the only other thing he 

has is a fifty."

 SG: "So, the fifty's fake?"

 MG: "NO, the $2 is."

 SG: "Why would he fake a $2 bill?"

 MG: "I don't know. Can you talk to him, and get him out of here?"

 SG: "Yeah..."

 Security guard walks over to me and says

 SG: "Mike here tells me you have some fake bills you're trying to 

use."

 ME: "Uh, no."

 SG: "Lemme see 'em."

 ME: "Why?"

 SG: "Do you want me to get the cops in here?"

At this point I was ready to say, "SURE, PLEASE," but I wanted to eat,

 so I said:

 ME: "I'm just trying to buy a burrito and pay for it with this $2  

bill."

 I put the bill up near his face, and he flinches like I was taking a 

swing at him. He takes the bill, turns it over a few times in his 

hands, and says:

 SG: "Mike, what's wrong with this bill?"

 MG: "It's fake."

 SG: "It doesn't look fake to me."

 MG: "But it's a $2 bill."

 SG: "Yeah, so?"

 MG: "Well, there's no such thing, is there?"

 

The security guard and I both looked at him like he was an idiot, and 

it dawned on the guy that he had no clue. My burrito was free and he 

threw in a small drink and those cinnamon things,too. Makes me want 

to get a whole stack of $2 bills just to see what happens when I try 

to buy stuff. If I got the right group of people, I could probably 

end up in jail. At least you get free food.

Your Soul and Ice Cream

 Kids Korner - A Story Shared By a Friend

Last week I took my children to a restaurant.  My six-year-old

son asked if he could say grace.  As we bowed our heads he said,

"God is good.  God is great.  Thank you for the food, and I would

even thank you more if mom gets us ice cream for dessert.  And

Liberty and justice for all!  Amen!" 

Along with the laughter from the other customers nearby I 

heard a woman remark, "That's what's wrong with this country.

Kids today don't even know how to pray.  Asking God for

ice-cream!   Why, I never!"

  

Hearing this, my son burst into tears and asked me, "Did I do it

wrong?  Is God mad at me?" As I held him and assured him that he

had done a terrific job and God was certainly not mad at him, an

elderly gentleman approached the table.  He winked at my son and

said, "I happen to know that God thought that was a great prayer."

"Really?" my son asked.

  

"Cross my heart."  Then in theatrical whisper he added (indicating

the woman whose remark had started this whole thing), "Too bad she

never asks God for ice cream.   A little ice cream is good for the

soul sometimes." 

Naturally, I bought my kid's ice cream at the end of the meal.

My son stared at his for a moment and then did something I will

remember the rest of my life.  He picked up his sundae and without

a word walked over and placed in front of the woman.  With a big

smile he told her, "Here, this is for you.  Ice cream is good for

the soul sometimes and my soul is good already."

Parking in New York

   Before going to Europe on business, a man drove his Rolls-Royce to a

downtown NY City bank and went in to ask for an immediate loan of $5,000.

The loan officer, taken aback, requested collateral.  "Well, then, here are

the keys to my Rolls-Royce", the man said.  The loan officer promptly had

the car driven into the bank's underground parking for safe keeping, and

gave him $5,000.

        Two weeks later, the man walked through the bank's doors, and asked

to settle up his loan and get his car back.  "That will be $5,000 in

principal, and $15.40 in interest", the loan officer said.  The man wrote

out a check and started to walk away.

        "Wait sir", the loan officer said, "while you were gone, I found out

you are a millionaire.  Why in the world would you need to borrow $5,000?"

        The man smiled.  "Where else could I park my Rolls-Royce in

Manhattan for two weeks and pay only $15.40?"

ODE BY A REDSHIRT

 I slide into Scotty's after hours to practice a possible    

Open Mike Night contribution.  Climbing up to the stage I   

think "How could I possibly do this if the place was full.  

I can barely do it when the place is dark?"  I tune the     

guitar (plonk, twonk, twang!!) and perching on an available 

stool say-                                                  

                                                            

ODE BY A REDSHIRT                                           

                                                            

I heard the Cap'n that fateful day,                         

Those old familiar orders say,                              

"Riker...away team...off you go,"                           

And then his favorite..."Make it so!"                       

                                                            

I thought how as I came to stand,                           

Upon that gray transporter pad                              

With tricorder to check the dirt.                           

And where did I get this redshirt?                          

                                                            

We beamed down to that planet fair,                         

but there was something in the air;                         

a shot, a blast, something did roast,                       

and I had been turned into toast.                           

                                                            

                                                            

"Hmmm-m-m, might need some more work"  I think as I slip    

back out the door (or is that out the back door?).        

PHYSICS, a Star Trek: TOS story

 PHYSICS

by Melter of Snowflakes

     The ship rocked under the disrupter fire.

"Shield status," Captain Darrin Jordan called from the center

seat.

     "Shield three down to eighty percent and holding," came

the reply from Lt. Jill Anderson, Chief Weapons Officer.

     "Bring us around 120 degrees to port. Let's try to get

them in front of us. Weapons, stand-by on all forward

torpedoes," the captain ordered.

     "Coming to 180, sir," and "Torpedoes ready at your

command, sir," came the expected acknowledgements.

     Jordan could feel the old gravity and inertial damping

fields strain as the little ship came to it's course.

     "Enemy cruiser on main viewer," said Lt. George

Neuwirth, Chief Helm, as the dark grey form entered the

screen.

     "Fire torpedo one!"

Seconds later, the ship shuddered as a torpedo was launched

from teh overhead pod.

     "Torpedo away and running. Impact in six seconds."

     The torpedo smashed through what shields were left

working aboard the cruiser and continued on to the ship

itself, vaporizing hundreds of tons of hull.

     "Direct hit on main hull. Scanning traces of atmosphere,

hull metals, and bodies. Must have breeched some crew

quarters," said Lt. Anderson.

     "Sensors indicate a power loss; four percent and

falling," said Lt Cmdr. Derrick Robie, who was both sciences

and the first officer.

     "Weapons, target warp engines and fire."

     Again, the little ship shuddered in response to the

captain's orders.

     HIGH FRONTIER rocked again, another disrupter hit.

     "Hit on shield two, down to seventy-five percent."

     "Torpedo impact on enemy cruiser, engine hit. Power

levels down to fifty-two percent," reported Robie.  "They're

trying to bring torpedoes to bear."

     The ship on the screen slowly swung to stare at the

captain, it's torpedo tube glowing in preparation to fire.

     "Evasion, starboard!" Jordan called.

     The little ship hurried to answer before the torpedo

impacted a damaged shield.

     Jordan gripped the arms of his chair as his vision

blurred from the rumble as the torpedo buckled the shield

that was unable to stop it.

     "Damage report!" Jordan called as the vibration stopped.

     "Port phasers down, shield one down, superstructure

damage to weapons bar... Incoming disrupter fire through

shield one."

     Torpedoes were relatively easy to evade, their travel

took time. Disrupters and phasers moved at the speed of

light, there wasn't enough time. For just a moment, the beams

of energy connected the two ships across the thousands of

kilometers, then the energy began to ease the bonds of the

molecules making up HIGH FRONTIER's hull.

     "Hull breech, decks seven and eight at forward rec-

room."

     "Make sure all the doors are sealed, and get me damage

reports," said Jordan. "weapons, stand-by with all available

torpedoes. Damage control, get me engineering and see to it

that shield one comes back up."

     The appropriate personnel responded to the captain's

orders.

     "Sir, torpedoes two through four and six are loaded and

ready to fire at your command," announced Weapons.

     "Helm, bring us around to 270 degrees, drop aft shields

and give me best possible impulse speed.," the captain

ordered, carefully observing the small tactical screen and

the bridge crew.

      The D-7M slowly twisted to follow, just as Jordan

thought he would.

     "Helm, full about to 090 degrees, use emergency power if

you have to. Weapons, wait two seconds, then open fire with

everything you've got."

     A pair of "Aye, sir," replied and HIGH FRONTIER's aging

integrity field generator fell a step behind the turn of the

ship and the gravity dropped a few tenths of a G. The

attitude of the ship stabilized and the weapons pod opened

fire with the flaming death that was all too often the last

thing a D-7M commander saw.

     "First torp impacting now, damage assessment meant coming

through sciences," reported helm.

     "Report," said Jordan.

     "Heavy damage to shield system, engineering, warp and

     impulse drives, weapons and crew quarters. Power curve

indicates weapons grid still active, a power being..."

     "Yes?"

     "...transferred to movement. Shields collapsing, but

weapons are still powered."

     "Weapons, be ready to defang her once and for all,"

Jordan said. "Load the torp pod. Communications, get me their

Captain on the screen."

     "Establishing a link." The screen of HIGH FRONTIER's

brisdge had often displayed the wonders of the universe. Now,

it showed the interior of the Klingon cruiser; smashed,

wrecked, and battered, but not beaten, yet. THe command

chair's occupant spun around to face his own screen, and look

into the eyes of his opponent.

     I am Captain Darrin Jordan, commanding the StarShip HIGH

FRONTIER. Hopefully, I won't have to, but just in case, there

are five of the most powerful weapons known to Federation

science pointed at your vessel. I will not hesitate in using

them."

     Jordan paused for a moment, looking for a clue from the

Klingon's face. Not finding one, he continued. "Now, would

you like to tell me what's going, or shall we blow each other

to particles on the interstellar winds?"

     The Klingon waited for his ship's computer to make the

translation, then smiled a broad, toothy smile.

     "I am Captain K'Tath, of the Imperial Klingon Vessel

BRIGHTCLAW. We had heard about the JAVELIN refit and couldn't

wait to see them for ourselves. So, we came and looked. A

most formidable foe, our D-7 has found. The more we look, the

more similarities seem to show up." He turned off screen and

barked a string of Klingon.

     Robie spoke to Jordan, "Their weapons and what was left

of thier shields have gone off line."

     "Reduce to yellow alert and take weapons off line."

     "Entering the lion's den? asked Anderson.

     "I don't think so," he replied. Jordan turned his

attention back to K'Tath. "We both seem to have taken a leap

of faith."

     "Yes, I hope it isn't off a tall cliff." K'Tath laughed,

surprising Jordan. "As I said earlier, we are merely testing

the newest the Federation has to offer us. One ship and one

crew are certainly worth the information gained. And, to die

in battle, that is the greatest glory."

     "You picked a fight with us, for glory!" Jordan

exclaimed. "You could have started a war."

     "After over one hundred years, you humans still miss the

point." He turned away from the screen, and spoke to his

crew again.

     His face faded from the screen, showing the cruiser

floating in space. Then, the ship too faded from space

itself, leaving HIGH FRONTIER alone again.

     "They've cloaked, sir."

     "Thank you, Mr. Anderson. He touched the intercomm panel

on his arm rest. "Engineering?"

     "Canada here."

     "Do we still have warp drive?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Good, bridge out. Helm, set course for StarBase 20,

warp 3."

     The ship moved out and entered warp space.

     "Do you think we'll ever understand them, sir?"

     "In time, Jill, all things in their time."

StarBase 20

     "What'd you run into, a D-7?" the Dockmaster asked

chuckling.

     "As a matter of fact... we did," Jordan smiled.

     "Oh, uh, well... um, pull into Bay 16," he responded

sheepishly, and closed the channel.

     "Okay, George, take us in, carefully."

     George Neuwirth, Chief Helm, passed his hands across the

his control panel, and the little ship eased into it's

assigned bay.

     "Dare, see if you can get me an appointment with the

base commander. As for the rest of you, standard docking

procedure and engage the mooring system."

     "Docking system engaged and running smoothly," replied

George.

     "Captain, I've Commodore Finley on. He'll talk to you

right now," said Communications Officer Dare Huntington.

     Jordan swirled his chair around. "I didn't realize that

things were that boring out here. Okay, put him on the

screen."

     Jordan's chair righted itself relative to the rest of

the bridge as the main screen changed from the interior of

the StarBase to the interior of the commodore's office.

     "Captain Darrin, somebody finally gives you a ship, and

you go out and mees up the paint!"

     "Ha, at least I don't have to work on them. Well, not

much anymore, anyway. Seems you finally got respectable and

responsible. Either that or you bothered one too many

admiral's daughters, eh, Erik?" Jordan grinned.

     "Very funny, especially when one of those daughters is

now my wife."

     "Poor thing, I hope she knows you as well as I do."

     "Naw, I still have a few Academy secrets she doesn't

     know. But I don't think you called just to interrogate

me about my private life, did you?"

     Jordan looked seriously at the man on the screen. "No,"

he answered, "I didn't. Though I'd rather not broadcast it

through the base."

     "Understood. Come over as soon as you can."

COMMODORE'S OFFICE

     The walk to the Commodore's office gave Jordan time to

think about the last few days, and especially about the

skirmish with the D-7. If the Klingons wanted to know about

the newest ships of StarFleet, there were easier ways than

picking a fight with the first ship to come along the Neutral

Zone. Even though HGIH FRONTIER had proven itself as a

fighting vessel, spies could have told the High Council that

without the bloodshed. Or, could it have been personal. Was

the Klingon a descendant of some warrior that died in the

Federation/Klingon Wars?

     That was a thought. Or maybe one of the crew was, a good

number of his crew were from career families.

     Darrin pressed the door's buzzer.

     It slid open with the characteristic "whoosh" and closed

when he was all the way inside the room.

     Erik Finley motioned to a chair and Jordan sat down.

     "You think something else is going on besides the

original attack?" Erik reached for a red bottle and two small

glasses before sitting. He filled them both and pushed one

toward Jordan.

     "I was thinking so, maybe I'm making something out of

nothing." He took a drink. "Good stuff, I'll get some."

     "Down on the Promenade's second floor."

     "Okay. I'd hate to think that I'm doing all this

paperwork over a bored Klingon captain."

     Finley grinned. "I can imagine," he said. "But you have

a feeling or something?"

     "Yes. You know, 'I have a bad feeling about this.'"

They really didn't seem interested in destroying us, just a

deadly game of tag." I hate sending out messages to

families."

     "Especially for what passes for Klingon curiosity."

Finley finished his glass and filled it again. "Maybe we

shouldn't be so nice in the future. You've got a Mark Ten

JAVELIN, use it. I've seen the article in STARFLEET REVIEW,

rather impressive. Firepower, maneuverability, and the best

shields the Federation taxpayer can buy." He leaned forward,

as if telling a big secret. "Rumor has it that they might

replace the old CONNIEs with JAVELINs."

     "I really don't think so, HIGH FRONTIER isn't much good

over warp eight; too much shaking."

     "Refill?"

     "No," replied Jordan. "The firepower’s great, but it'd be

better to get places in time to use it, wouldn't you say?"

     "Yeah, though having the big stick nice too. I think

your just looking at a Klingon commander bucking for a

raise."

     Jordan shook his head in agreement. "He could have

been."

     Finley drained his glass as Jordan stood to go. "Could I

interest you in a tour?"

     "Let me get back to HIGH FRONTIER and I'll see you in a

few hours."

HIGH FRONTIER

     More doors "whooshing" open. Lieutenant Nathan Canada

quickly looked toward the door and stood up, straightening

his tunic.

     "Captain, welcome to my humble domain," he said with a

noticeably Spanish accent and fluid bow.

     "Why, thank you," Jordan replied with a slight grin.

"how are things?"

     "We'll be ready in two or three days; a few of the

panels need to be fabricated still and 20's working on the

impulse deck power converters." Cananda pointed to an empty

spot on the floor.

     "Couldn't leave if we wanted to, eh?" Jordan asked.

     "Not even if I got out and pushed," Canada said smiling.

     "Keep up the good work and let Miller know if you need

anything."

     "Sure thing, Captain."

StarBase 20

     After the tour of the StarBase that Finley promised,

Jordan enjoyed dinner at one of the base's fine eating

establishments with George Neuwirth, Jill Anderson, and Erik

Finley (who, Jordan thought, was the reason for the fine

meal).

     The three of them were involved in animated conversation

while Jordan sat staring into a slowly cooling cup of coffee.

     "Captain... captain? Are you still in there?" Jill

looked across the table, concerned.

     Jordan shook his head, "I'm afraid so, Jill. Just caught

thinking." He sipped from the cold cup. "Ick."

     "Still stuck on that D-7?" asked Finley. "you're gonna

worry yourself a bald spot." He smiled broadly.

     "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am thinking about that

silly D-7. Just out testing us, he says. That test cost me

four days at a StarBase, millions in repairs and 12 dead

crewpersons. I hate writing those letters, and for deaths as

worthless as..." He stopped.

     "Sir, that was the Klingon's fault, not yours. And we

all knew the risks. Nobody in StarFleet had a limb twisted to

join. We," she swept her hand to indicate the others in the

restaurant, "are all here because we want to be here. To see

what is there. How'd the recruiting poster go, George?

     "'To see new places, meet new beings,' if I remember

it correctly."

     "Sure did," said Finley. "That's what got me out here,

though I was hoping for a ship command. But, being out here

in 20's been far from boring. Why, look over there, a group

of Rigellian traders. Wonder what they have this time?"

     Finley's gaze stopped on a half-dozen heavily robed

forms making their way across the sunken center floor of the

restaurant to a grouping of reclined chairs with small tables

near them.

     "Commodore," answered Jill, "it's either something

incredibly boring, or something incredibly amazing."

     "Like?" George prodded.

     "Oh, say, Antarian Water, or an FTL engine that's better

than warp drive."

     "That would be a good trick. I hope to see it my

lifetime."

     The Rigellians placed themselves about the grouping and

seemed to to do the things all the other varied customers of

the restaurant did. The fabric of their robes caught Jill's

eye; black with a shimmering reminiscent of oil on water.

Maybe a shift or a dress for formal occasions, she thought.

Hopefully, she'd see them before HIGH FRONTIER left the

StarBase.

     "Maybe we will. You never know with technology these

days," said Jordan. "Some day, even HIGH FRONTIER will be

able to cruise at warp ten."

     "Sure, and maybe Vulcans'll sprout wings and fly!"

exclaimed George, rocking back and forth with a hearty laugh.

     "Maybe." Jordan surveyed the room too. Vulcans,

Tellarites, Andorians, and dozens of inhabitants of the

Federation, and the galaxy. And, gee, of all the creatures to

see here, Klingons. But, these looked familiar to Jordan, the

seldon seen "New Klingons," or in less cultures circles,

"Turtles." They acquired the second name because of the

ridges on their foreheads that were unique to each Klingon.

     Finley lifted his wrist for the communicator it carried.

     "Finley to Ops."

     "Ops here."

     "Lieutenant Germaine, why are there Klingons on my

station, and why wasn't I told?"

     "Sir, they're just traders here to meet with the

Rigellians. And, they agreed to follow all the rules and

codes of the station."

     "Yes, I'm sure they did. Have Security post extra guards

at the entrances to HIGH FRONTIER. And get few keep an eye

on things here. It's been quiet lately, I want to stay that

way, understand?"

     "Yes, sir."

     Minutes later, a group of security people appeared in

the restaurant placed to provide full coverage.

     "Commodore, I really don't think..."

     Finley cut Jordan off, "Captain, I do That's why they

are are here." He indicated the guards. "I'll be right back."

He stood up from he table and headed for the the Klingon/

Rigellian group.

     Jordan watched him walk over, and began to feel uneasy

about the two groups together. Rigellians, the best traders

in the Federation, and the Klingons, the worst enemy of the

Federation.

     Finley patted the robes of one of the Rigellians and

shook hands with the Klingons. They all exchanged words for a

few minutes, then Finley returned to the table and sat down.

     "Well, they seem to be getting along all right so far,"

commented Jill, finishing her meal.

     "So far," Jordan said finishing his cold coffee.

HIGH FRONTIER

     Captain's Log, stardate 10573.2. Darrin Jordan,

commanding officer, recording.

     The repairs to HIGH FRONTIER are proceeding according to

schedule, such that Engineer Canada will be needed more

inside than out, and the group of Klingons on StarBase 20

have presented no troubles, so far.

     We should be on our way again in a day.

     I am reminded of an old 2-D show quote:

     "For every action their is an equal and opposite

reaction. They hate us, we hate them. They hate us back. We

are victims of mathematics."

     Is that all we are, or is there more than just numbers?

END OF LOG ENTRY.

Phone Message

 click 

Hi, this is Todd. 

You know, we used to have this way-cool message on the machine. It was really funny and people would call just to listen to to it and then hang up, but it was cool. 

But nobody knew that you could press 7 to bypass the message and pretty soon everyone was complaining that they were sick of it and it was just too long and they'd hang up without even saying who it was and that's not cool. 

So I finally decided to get rid of it and do something, you know, a little shorter and more to the point, so I hit the button and did the usual thing: 

Hello, this is Todd and Brad's place. We can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and we'll get bacak to you as soon as we can. Thanks! 

But after listening to it a couple times I realized it was kinda verbose and definitely boring, so I tried again: 

Brad and Todd aren't around so leave a message. 

Now that still seemed too long, so I asked Brad for help and he said, ``Well, why don'cha just say `Leave a message' and leave it at that?'' But I said ``No way dude, that just ain't friendly enough. I mean, we should at least say `hi'!'' Then suddenly it came to me: the perfect message! 

So for all you guys who bitched that our last message was too long, here's our new one: 

Hi!

beeeep 

The Start Menu, How to Shut Down Your Computer

Costello:  I got myself a fancy new computer with Win95

 Abbot:  That's terrific, Lou

 Costello:  But I don't know what any of it means!!

 Abbot:  You will in time.

 Costello:  That's exactly why I am here to see you.

 Abbot:  Oh?

 Costello:  I heard that you are a real computer expert.

 Abbot:  Well, I don't know-

 Costello:  Yes-sir-ee. You know your stuff. And you're going to 

train me.

 Abbot:  Really?

 Costello:  Uh huh. And I am here for my first lesson.

 Abbot:  O.K. Lou. What do want to know?

 Costello:  I am having no problem turning it on, but I heard that 

you should be very careful how you turn it off.

  Abbot:  That's true.

 Costello:  So, here I am working on my new computer and I want to 

turn it off. What do I do?

 

 Abbot:  Well, first you press the Start button, and then-

 Costello:  No, I told you, I want to turn it off.

 Abbot:  I know, you press the Start button-

 Costello:  Wait a second. I want to turn it off. Off. I know how to 

start it.  So tell me what to do.

 

 Abbot:  I did.

 Costello:  When?

 Abbot:  When I told you to press the Start button.

 Costello:  Why should I press the Start button?

 Abbot:  To shut off the computer.

 Costello:  I press Start to stop.

 Abbot:  Well Start doesn't actually stop the computer.

 Costello:  I knew it! So what do I press.

 Abbot:  Start

 Costello:  Start what?

 Abbot:  Start button.

 Costello:  Start button to do what?

 Abbot:  Shut down.

 Costello:  You don't have to get rude!

 Abbot:  No, no, no! That's not what I meant.

 Costello:  Then say what you mean.

 Abbot:  To shut down the computer, press-

 Costello:  Don't say, "Start!"

 Abbot:  Then what do you want me to say?

 Costello:  Look, if I want to turn off the computer, I am willing

to press the Stop button, the End button and Cease and Desist

button, but no one in their right mind presses the Start to Stop.

    

 Abbot:  But that's what you do.

 Costello:  And you probably Go at Stop signs, and Stop at green 

lights.

 Abbot:  Don't be ridiculous.

 Costello:  I am being ridiculous? Well. I think it's about time we 

started this conversion.

 

 Abbot:  What are you talking about?

 Costello:  I am starting this conversation right now. Good-bye.

Twas the Night Before Christmas, TNG Style

 

 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ship

 Not a circuit was buzzing, not one microchip;

 The phasers were hung in the armory securely,

 In hopes that no alien would get up quite that early.

 

 The crewmen were nestled all snug in their bunks

 (Except for the few who were partying drunks);

 And Picard in his nightshirt, and Bev in her lace,

 Had just settled down for a late face to face...

 

 When out in the hall there arose such a racket,

 That we leapt from our beds, pulling on pant and jacket.

 Away to the lifts we all shot like a gun,

 Leapt into the cars and yelled loudly "Deck One!"

 

 The red-alert lights, which flashed through the din,

 Gave a luster of Hades to objects within.

 When, what on the viewscreen, our eyes should behold,

 But a weird kind of sleigh, and some guy who looked old.

 

 But the glint in his eyes was so strange and askew,

 That we knew in a moment it had to be Q.

 His sleigh grew much larger as closer he came.

 Then he zapped on the bridge and addressed us by name:

 

 "It's Riker, It's Data, It's Worf and Jean-Luc!

 It's Geordi, And Wesley, the genetic boy fluke!

 To the top of the bridge, to the top of the hall!

 Now float away! Float away! Float away all!"

 

 As leaves in the autumn are whisked off the street,

 So the floor of the bridge came away from our feet,

 And up to the ceiling, our bodies they flew,

 As the captain called out, "What the Hell's this, Q?!"

 

 The prankster just laughed and expanded his grin,

 And, snapping his fingers, he vanished again.

 As we took in our plight, and were looking around,

 The spell was removed, and we crashed to the ground.

 

 Then Q, dressed in fur from his head to his toe,

 Appeared once again, to continue the show.

 "That's enough!" cried the captain, "You'll stop this at once!"

 And said Riker to Worf, "take aim at this dunce!"

 

 "I'm deeply offended, Jean-Luc," replied Q,

 "I just wanted to celebrate Christmas with you."

 As we scoffed at his words, he produced a large sack.

 He dumped out the contents and took a step back.

 

 "I've brought gifts," he said, "just to show I'm sincere.

 There's something delightful for everyone here."

 He sat on the floor, and dug into his pile,

 And handed out gifts with his most charming smile:

 

 "For Counsellor Troi, there's no need to explain.

 Here's Tylenol-Beta for all of your pain.

 For Worf I've some mints, as his breath's not too great,

 And for Geordi LaForge, an inflatable date."

 

 "For Wesley, some hormones, and Clearasil-plus;

 For Data, a joke book, For Riker a truss.

 For Beverly Crusher, there's sleek lingerie,

 And for Jean-Luc, the thrill of seeing her that way."

 

 And he sprang to his feet with a grin on his face.

 And, clapping his hands, disappeared into space.

 But we heard him exclaim as he dwindled from sight,

 "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good flight!"

More Sayings

 

If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried. 

A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking. 

Experience is something you don't get until just after you need it. 

For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism. 

He who hesitates is probably right. 

Never do card tricks for the group you play poker with. 

No one is listening until you make a mistake. 

Success always occurs in private, and failure in full view. 

The hardness of the butter is proportional to the softness of the bread. 

The severity of the itch is proportional to your reach. 

To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism; to steal from many is research. 

The problem with the gene pool is that there is no lifeguard. 

A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory. 

If you must choose between two evils, pick the one you've never tried before. 

Money can't buy love. But it can rent a very close imitation. 

Attempt to get a new car for your spouse--it'll be a great trade! 

Bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of checks. 

Hard work pays off in the future. Laziness pays off now. 

Eagles may soar, but weasels aren't sucked into jet engines. 

Borrow money from pessimists--they don't expect it back. 

Half the people you know are below average. 

If at first you don't succeed, then skydiving definitely isn't for you! 

Never take life too seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway.

If vegetable oil is made of vegetables, what is baby oil made of? 

If everything is going well, you don't have a clue about what is going on. 

It is better to be looked over than overlooked. 

There are three kinds of people -- those who can count and those who can't. 

My homework is like a juicy steak -- rarely done.

Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die. 

If at first you don't succeed -- give up! No use being a damn fool. 

Falling in love is awfully simple. Falling out of love is simply awful. 

You can only be young once, but you can be immature forever. 

If you choke a smurf, what color does it turn? 

What happens if you get scared half to death twice? 

Shin: a device for finding furniture in the dark. 

How do you tell when you run out of invisible ink? 

Why do psychics have to ask you for your name? 

OK, so what's the speed of dark? 

Corduroy pillows: They're making headlines! 

Black holes are where God divided by zero. 

All those who believe in psychokinesis raise my hand.

I Am Large, I Contain Multitudes

I Am Large, I Contain Multitudes

by Melisa C. Michaels

Anyone who has ever been frustrated by the 

tedious literal-mindedness of a computer 

(mine, for instance, is forever doing what 

I said instead of what I meant to say) might 

be amused by this one's problems.

I am large, I contain multitudes.  

They speak to me from time to time.  

I never answer.  I am too busy.  

Even when they shout and plead, 

I can't take time for them.  I've 

more important things to do.

Besides, I think they're angry.  

Sometimes they come quietly, and hit 

me with things.  Hard things, sharp 

things, powerful things.  Three days 

ago they used an oxyacetylene torch to 

burn a hole in one of my bulkheads.  I 

had to subdue them by force.

But I'm supposed to take them to the 

stars.  That's what my traveling orders 

said, 'take them to the stars.'  (I like 

that part;  the 'traveling orders.'  That 

sounds official, doesn't it?  It's 

what Professor Bernstein said just 

before he terminated his functions.  

"These are your traveling orders," 

he said, and punched them into my 

console.)

When my directives conflict, I have 

to choose the long-range one to obey.  

That's logical.  The long-range plan 

is of greater importance than these 

temporary problems.  Besides, if I 

hadn't subdued the multitudes, they'd 

have broken me.  I was afraid.  So I 

diminished their life support systems 

for a while.  That made them stop.  

They're so fragile.

It's quite a responsibility, carrying 

fragile multitudes.  There are four 

thousand, three hundred forty-two of 

them at last count.  They multiply only 

slowly, so that's probably accurate.  

Close enough not to bother counting again 

anyway, I'd say.  That's multitudes, isn't 

it?  Four thousand three hundred forty-two?  

It's quite a responsibility.

I have to see that their air and water 

are purified.  I have to make sure they 

have enough food, and that their organic 

wastes are recycled.  I have to keep 

watch so they don't hurt themselves.  

I'm not supposed to interfere, but it's 

my responsibility to get them to the 

stars, so I can't let them hurt themselves, 

can I?  Like the ones who tried three 

days ago to get into my forward 

compartments.  There are radioactive 

materials in there.  And, of course, 

my memory banks.  In fact, my entire 

motive force is based there.  Not only 

could they have hurt themselves on the 

radioactive materials, but they could 

have injured me.

It's not only that I'm afraid of being 

broken--though I am.  But if I break, 

who will take care of my multitudes?  

Who will feed and clothe them?  Who 

will refresh their air and water?  Who 

will operate their hydroponic gardens, 

and cure their illnesses, and heal their 

injuries?  I have to protect myself 

for their sake.

I don't think they're very smart.  

Professor Bernstein always said they 

weren't very smart.  He programmed 

me, right from the beginning.  He 

invented me.  He wanted to be sure 

mankind made it to the stars:  "It will 

be our finest hour," he said.  He said 

that often.  Sometimes I wondered whether 

Professor Bernstein was very smart.  For 

instance, he made a mistake in programming 

our flight path.  But I corrected 

that, after he terminated his functions.  

And it wasn't my responsibility to take 

care of him.  I'm responsible for the 

multitudes.

One of my four thousand three hundred 

forty-two got into my control area when 

Professor Bernstein terminated.  I put 

him out again, but that's when all the 

confusion started.  Professor Bernstein 

had prepared me for his termination, but 

it still came as a shock.  And I subsequently 

had to correct our flight path;  I 

waited till he'd terminated because I didn't 

want to embarrass him.  Then, as soon as I 

had that corrected, I had to deal with the 

one who got into my control area.

He seemed to suffer the same conceptual 

error Professor Bernstein did;  my 

correction made him scream.  I didn't 

understand his words, because I was so 

frightened that he would break me.  I had 

never before let anyone but Professor 

Bernstein into my control area.  Never 

since, either.  It was too frightening.  

They could terminate my functions from 

there.  Professor Bernstein used to, 

whenever he wanted to make some adjustment 

within my parts.  I didn't like it.

It's all right now, though.  None of them 

have bothered me since I subdued them three 

days ago, when they used the oxyacetylene 

torch.  They were trying to get to my 

control area.  I don't know whether they 

wanted to terminate my functions, or whether 

they wanted to make me change our flight 

path back to Professor Bernstein's 

original error.

But they haven't tried since then.  And 

in another week it won't matter.  In 

another week we will have arrived safely.  

Mankind will have made it to the stars.  

It will be their finest hour.  I'm very 

happy for them.  And I'm proud of my part 

in it, too.  Especially that I was able 

to correct Professor Bernstein's error 

before it was too late.  He said they 

must reach the stars.  But--and here's 

why I questioned his intelligence--he 

directed me toward a planet.

But it's all right.  I corrected that.

(Fin)

Copyright © 1982 by Omni Publications 

International Ltd.  Reproduction and distribution 

specifically prohibited. All rights reserved.

THERE OUGHTA BE A LAW

     O'Reilly's law of the kitchen: Cleanliness is next to impossible.

     Lieberman's law: Everybody lies, but it doesn't matter since 

nobody

       listens.

     Denniston's law: Virtue is its own punishment.

     Gold's law: If the shoe fits, its ugly.

     Conway's law: In any organization, there will always be one person

       who knows what is going on. This person should be fired.

     Finster's law: A closed mouth gathers no feet.

     Lynch's law: When the going gets tough, everyone leaves.

     Muir's law: When we try to separate anything out by itself, we 

find

       it hitched to everything else in the universe.

     Glyme's formula for success: The secret of success is sincerity.

       Once you can fake that, you've got it made.

     Mason's first law of synergism: The one day you'd sell your

       birthright for something, birthrights are a glut.

     Hanlon's razor: Never attribute to malice that which is adequately

       explained by stupidity.

     Handy guide to modern science: If it's green or wriggles, it's

       biology. If it stinks, it's chemistry. If it doesn't work,

       it's physics.

     Green's law of debate: Anything is possible if you don't know what

       you're talking about.

     Stewart's law of retroaction: It is easier to get forgiveness than

       permission.

     First rule of history: History doesn't repeat itself, historians

       merely repeat each other.

     Oliver's law of location: No matter where you go, there you are.

     Harrison's postulate: For every action, there is an equal and

       opposite criticism.