View of Old Williamsburg

What looks like a blurred photo is actually a painting scanned through the framing glass. For one thing, it looks practically impossible to remove; that gives it an inadvertently dreamy quality. The original was another magazine photo, to which I added details like the barn in the distance. What drew me to this scene was the effect of all the shadows on snow made gold by late afternoon sun. Fallen leaves and sticks complete the project.

The Zero Option (conclusion)

Moast attached a plate-size comm link to the towering alien structure, the only one on the former gas giant. Decoding its records was worth the risk of another probe attack. Still, he'd taken certain precautions for a quick getaway after the earlier fight.

Distant light from the Pistol star glinted on Harker's visor. "What do we have so far, Kyra? I'm getting a little antsy."


First Officer Preston's voice was tinny in their helms. "The inhabitants couldn't stop the solar wind from stripping off the atmosphere. They used the Builder gateway to access a chain of stepping stones to the Large Magellanic Cloud." This was a cluster of dwarf galaxies 179,000 light years from Earth.

"Why not elsewhere in our their own galaxy?" Harker inquired. "We've got no shortage of gas giants."

"I think," Moast decided, "they had actual contact with the Builders. Later generations wanted to find the Builder home world, and the Magellanic Clouds are the first step on the journey."

"How do you explain these attack drones?" Harker demanded.

"Probably just guardians of the old homestead, in case they ever wanted to come back and lay a wreath."

Suddenly, a stream of incandescent balls came down to hit the far horizon. White flares erupted into a shower of burning chunks hurled out into space. Orchidia's chain guns were targeting hatches identified as egress points for the probes.

"Better get back  now, Commander. Multiple contacts beneath the surface. Counting eleven in process of launch."

The last probe they'd tangled with had blasted a section of reactive armor. Eleven of them would be like inch worms on an elm tree, leaving nothing behind. Both men sprinted to the fork-tailed shuttle.

"Prepare for hyper jump," Moast ordered. "We won't waste time docking. Jump as soon as we're inside the ship's eventuality field. And power up the pulse gun."

Harker pulled off his helm once inside the shuttle. "You're using a sledge hammer on gnats? We don't have time for that."

"Diversionary tactic." Moast punched the craft to top speed. He came up beneath the broad wings, noted with approval how Kyra had the belly docking hatch closed.

As planned, they jumped behind the enemy force, to the pulse gun's maximum range. From the ship's nose lanced a twined blue beam that distorted nearby space and rocked the shuttle. The planetary impact area bloomed red, yellow, then white in a hellish storm of molten debris.

"The core is unexpectedly dense, Commander. Multiples converging. We're rotating to keep the exposed wing section from them." 

"Maintain fire," Moast said.

Two disintegrator beams hit the ship, going right through the energy screens, but the protective armor jettisoned. The chain reaction burned itself out harmlessly. But if an exposed area was hit. . . .

Sections of the planet split, spilling light. Orchidia's chain guns and plasma rifles criss-crossed the battle zone, scoring a single kill of the nimble probes.

"Jump now!" Moast shouted.  This one brought them close to the Builder portal and home. Far behind, a momentary wink signaled the planet core's explosion.

Harker rounder on him. "Dammit, Moast--there goes our last chance at hooking one of those probes!"

Since Moast had received a private message from the AI--something she'd found on Harker's pad--he didn't sweat the man's bluster. "Well, they shouldn't have scratched up my ship." He grinned. Harker grew suspicious enough not to continue the fight.

Back on the bridge again, Moast watched the yawning hatch as the Builder portal prepared to take them inside for the return to Pluto Station. "Harker, I recommend not trying to have the AI replaced."

"And why is that?"

"A little birdie tells me you retired from command of the battleship Suru prematurely. You were promised command of its new sister ship Orchidia. But then the Orchidia was scaled down to midsize. Your ego would never allow commanding a smaller ship. Its just sour grapes."

Harker bristled. "How could you possibly know. . . ."

The AI materialized next to Kyra, a blank faced pixie with red eyes and blue skin.

"Well played," Harker conceded. It even had a touch of grudging admiration.

The Zero Option (2)

Filters came on line as soon as Orchidia sailed out of the Builder portal in the Sagittarius dwarf galaxy. The Pistol Nebula reflected brilliant light from its resident hypergiant, the Pistol star.

"Tactical," Commander Moast ordered.

"No sign of the probe's destroyer," said First Officer Preston. "Scanning coordinates of Icarus star from its last transmission. They lead to a dead planetary body, probably a gas giant stripped of atmosphere by intense solar wind."


"Analysis." Moast swiveled toward the helm, manned by navigator Chet and helmsman Berl.

Chet's bearded face glowed blue over his readout. "The star is Wolf-Rayet class. Velocity: 130 kilometers per second. Brightness is ten million times solar. Surface temp: 21,400 Kelvin." That was about four times the sun's heat. "One hundred five times solar mass. Stellar ejection rate: ten billion times solar."

That brought a curse of appreciation from Trenn Harker, the Consortium rep bent on turning a profit. "This isn't a place for a vacation or starting a colony." His look soured when he addressed the AI. "What do you think about that, Computer?"

"Propagation of microquasar jets creates recollimation shock. Nebula gasses convert kinetic energy to heat."

"So it's a little too warm," Harker surmised. "Nav puts us only a hundred light years from galactic center. We could be the first to go there, maybe verify that rumored supermassive black hole."

"This requires seventy-six hyper jumps. Fuel drain is not acceptable."

Harker started to object, but Berl responded to the sudden alarm tone. "We've got an inbound from that dead body, coming in at high warp."

The intruder was impossibly fast. When close enough, it fired a plasma beam that struck the ship's port wing. An explosive-reactive panel ejected, rapidly eaten up by the charge, which would have consumed the entire ship. Suddenly the ship made a short hyper jump. In its previous spot, a white shock wave blossomed. The intruder managed to avoid it, but immense tidal forces bent its course so sharply that it flew apart.

Harker swore again. "That was a black hole bomb. . . .left behind when we jumped."

"A perfect example," Moast said. "The AI reacts a lot faster than we do. Orchidia, damage report."

"Five point eight percent of the port wing is now unshielded. I am directing servobots to install replacement panels. The impact damaged ejector coolant pump six. Repairs are in progress."

Harker strode toward the main viewer. "We can make good use of that wreckage. It might be Builder technology."

"Negative. Its magnatronic core is still intact. It could be detonated once aboard ship." 

"Agreed," Moast said, heading off Harker's retort as to just who was in command. "Set course for the dead planet."

It was Kyra Preston's turn for concern. "We could be attacked again--en masse."

"Doubtful." Moast had a captive audience. "Why didn't the attacker destroy the portal if it doesn't want anyone out here? If it isn't Builder, it certainly respects their property. I think the sting of what happened has them pondering and guessing."

"If that's true," Harker insisted, "then we'd better make a good impression. What would the Builders make of you? Are you just along for the ride?" He left the bridge, as planet-fall wouldn't be for several hours.

Kyra leaned an arm on Moast's chair. "He seems dead set on recommending replacement of the AI. You know--considering the zero option--I'm not sure I'm willing to sacrifice my career."

"It's not a good outcome," Moast said. "We'd have to destroy a gateway behind us to prevent pursuit. Then we'd need replacement weapons from the black market. And overhaul would be impossible."

"Yes. And I have to wonder what Orchidia will do, given her drive to survive."

In Harker's quarters, a whimsical waif silently appeared. The avatar drew near the sleeping man, stopping next to his duffel bag. A ghostly hand reached through the fabric. When it located the personal data pad, it went to work.

The Zero Option

Four men attended a briefing at Pluto Station. Like most chambers in the shell of this moon-sized sphere, it looked out on a vast interior. Ships of all types floated at their moorings, awaiting their turn at the cavernous sender bay, which linked to other portals in the galaxy. Most had yet to be explored. The Builders had moved on eons ago, figuring that by the time a species reached the distant gateways, they were mature enough to use them.

They had never met humans.

Commander Donny Moast lounged with one leg over the chair side. He got away with that because he was mercenary, not military. The Consortium had recruited him out of the Apocalypse Wars on Earth because of his reputation for unorthodox (translate insane) solutions. Not being the button-down type, he disdained uniforms for his traditional black leathers.

A giant screen displayed known portals. Color codes ranged from black--a dead or useless system--to green, one which proved profitable.

And profit was everything. The Consortium's chief field rep was here to assure that. Trenn Harker, a crusty, retired former dreadnought captain, scowled out the window.

Admiral Jacobs turned his rotund form in that direction, straightening his red uniform tunic. "She's quite an elegant design, eh, Harker?"

Orchidia was unique in its class, a midsize vessel armed with the latest weaponry, and fastest in the fleet. Twin, high-mount engine pylons rose aft of the droop wings. The long nose was needed to house the barrel of the feared pulse gun. Yet she was no more military than Moast himself, but rather a creation of Consortium speculators operating outside the admiralty's purview.

Harker's craggy face considered Moast. "I don't fault the ship's design, Admiral, except for its AI. It created an avatar that scares workmen out of their boots when this limp-haired, round-eyed waif appears."

"When that happens," Moast said, "you need to pay attention. It means you're doing something that makes her uncomfortable, like the time you tried to sneak a spy package into her programming. Maybe she's justified in being a little paranoid. But she saved our cans more than once by being hyper vigilant"

The admiral watched the last of the new explosive-reactive panels being fitted on the starboard nacelle. "Save it for another day. We're keen to evaluate that new defense system. Lieutenant--"

A junior officer homed in on a red portal, one placed off limits. It lay in the dwarf galaxy Sagittarius, one of several dwarfs subsumed by the Milky Way, comprising about one percent of galactic mass. "One of our probes was destroyed by a directed energy weapon of a type that starts a chain reaction of disruptive--"

"A disintegrator beam," Harker cut in. "Get on with it."

Unperturbed, the lieutenant  brought up a galactic map. "Icarus is a blue super giant comprising the most distant star visible from here. Official designation: MACS J1149. Coordinates were detected by the probe, linked to another area in Sagittarius. There may be another extra-galactic gateway in the system, a network that leapfrogs across galaxies. It may even be the Builders' point of origin."

"Think of it." Harker slapped a palm down. "When Icarus was born, only thirty percent of the universe had yet formed. Imagine what we can learn there!"

Admiral Jacobs brought up a comm screen from the table center. "Not so fast, Harker. Someone out there is very possessive of the system." He punched up Orchidia's bridge, where First Officer Preston minded the store. Her blonde, red-uniformed visage stared back. "Kyra, how long before you can make sail?"

"Estimating four hours, Admiral, when the armor system goes to trial runs."

Jacobs signed off, turning Moast a blank face.

The meaning wasn't lost on Moast. "And Harker, of course, is tagging along."

"Drat it, Moast!--" Harker rose. "That ship is property, not a home for your rogue AI! I'll be there to determine whether it needs to be replaced." He rubbed at his jaw. "Take a look at this." He called up some of the ship's blueprints. Proposed modifications showed retractable wings for getting into tight spaces. "Would you like to know who the architect is?"

Moast knew. "We all like to improve ourselves. I sense you feel I've too much confidence in the AI."

Harker paused at the door. "The commander can also be replaced." He stalked out.

The specter of the "zero option" arose. It was an uneasy topic among the crew, one in which they truly went rogue, becoming free--and hunted--agents.

Fanfic Redo---conclusion

Previous: Ardra plans to make Picard a believer in magic--or else.

Emerging from the wormhole with Ardra, Picard found himself in a busy medieval kitchen. His tricorder proved it was not a hologram, and his comm badge got no response from Enterprise. Still, it didn't prove they had left the planet. "Where is this place?"

Ardra wore a wistful look. "The Andromeda galaxy, a thousand years in your past. You wanted to know my origin; the first clue is in this room. Don't worry about these folks. They can neither hear nor see us."

Always up for a mystery, Picard searched the various faces, unnerved when a fat cook passed though him from behind. At length, he squatted beside a maid tending a firepit. There was no mistaking it.

"That's right," Ardra said. "She's me, a girl who dreams of being on a strike team as a spell caster, but lacks the required brain structure; a certain link by which thought becomes reality. A gout of flame, a flurry of frost balls. You get the idea."

Picard rose. "It would appear she succeeded anyway." Despite his disbelief in magic, he could hardly wait to learn how she did it.

"She found a discarded magic text," Ardra went on, "and studied it at risk of her life. She was already a skilled herbalist. Let's move forward in time to when her resolve reached a boiling point, and she did something really desperate."

They stood in a noisy and crowded tavern, underground by the looks of massive support pillars. A spiked iron fence separated them from an arena where teams outfitted with weapons. A massive iron gate opened to admit a returning team carrying an unconscious member. It set off frantic calls for the camp healer, who apparently wasn't here. Picard had spotted the young Ardra carrying a tray of drinks.

Ardra watched him approvingly. "Very good. Keep a close eye on her."

The maid stood on a table to lively objections from its occupants, and leapt over the fence. She avoided clutching hands on her way to the stricken team. A petite blonde exchanged hurried words with the maid, and prevented others from interfering.

"What's happening?" Picard couldn't take his eyes away.

"That fighter was stung by an insectoid down in the labyrinth, and is having an anaphylactic reaction that has closed his airway. The maid recognizes this, and has some herbs intended for making tea--except there's no time. She decides on a desperate measure."

"Indeed." Picard watched her clamp the pouch over the man's nose and mouth. He jerked to a sitting position, coughing and gagging, to a delirious celebration. The forgotten maid was escorted out by camp security.

Ardra shifted them to the tavern side, where the forlorn maid was getting glad-handed and some amused pats on the head. The kitchen mistress would have her hide for this, if Picard knew his medieval history.

"Maid."

The blonde peered through the iron bars from the arena side. "You deserve better. I'll send for you in the morning." The young Ardra went open-mouthed with euphoria. She wouldn't even feel the blows from her boss's strap.

"The blonde is the sorceress Iris," Ardra said. "She taught me forbidden magic in gratitude, but scoffed at the notion I'd ever be able to use it."

"Yet you did."

Ardra  nodded, shifting them once again through time and space. Two girls--the young Ardra, along with Iris, huddled on the floor in predawn gloom. They wore night gowns, sitting between beds, intently discussing highly technical details of spell casting.

"This is Iris' room," Picard surmised. "The maid was found to have the required brain structure after all, and has been accepted by the academy."

"Very astute, Picard! Actually, her brain structure is unorthodox. Was it there all along, or did she grow it by iron force of will? I still don't know."

"I'm prepared to believe the latter," Picard said.

A faint blue glow appeared about the former maids' fingertips, setting off a frenetic bout of celebratory hugging.

"And there you have it," Ardra said. "My first animus, the spell precursor phenomenon."

Picard gazed down at the happy tableau. "I begin to understand. You pursued your newfound abilities with the same zeal by which you brought matters to this moment. There came a point where this galaxy was no longer big enough. I still can't believe in fairytale magic. This is some kind of very advanced telekinesis. Does that satisfy your condition?"

"Call it whatever you like." Ardra shrugged. "As long as you know it's genuine. We'll return to Ventax now. I'll need you to be out of town by sundown."

"Yes." Picard made a wry grin. "Quite so."

Fanfic Redo

Ever been unhappy with how an episode ended? The solution: rewrite it more to your liking! Herewith an alternate take on the STNG episode "Devil's Due". Marta DuBois, the Panamanian actress who played Ardra, was a super neato gal. I imagine a better outcome for the character.











In the Ventaxian senate

Captain Picard's confident face helped assure President Jared that Ardra's hours were numbered. The senate waited fearfully for her appearance at a hearing she had agreed to. If she could prove being a "goddess", the Federation had no choice but to honor her claim to the planet.

"Have faith, Mr President." Picard practically beamed. "This woman is a fraud. She's using a stealth ship to power her parlor tricks. I'll have my chief engineer explain how we'll unmask her." He touched his comm badge. "Picard to LaForge. Is all in readiness?"

"All set, Captain. We'll direct a tachyon pulse at the tectonic plate, so you can create an earthquake on command. Then we'll envelope you in a hologram so you can alter your appearance like she does. When it's her turn, we'll disrupt her ship's transmission--she'll be impotent!"

Jared relished watching that happen. "Excellent. Now we wait for her to take the bait. I can't wait to put her in irons."

Minutes later, Ardra made her usual flashy arrival in an energy cyclone. She looked out imperiously from Jared's seat, now serving as her impromptu throne. "What's this about Picard duplicating my feats?"

"Quite simple," he said. "I'll summon a quake just as you do." Picard raised a hand and caused the ground to tremble, drawing surprised murmurs from the assembly. "Next, I'll alter my appearance." He briefly became a clone of Jared. "What you've just seen, folks, is routine technology from my ship. I'd like to challenge Ardra to do anything--anything at all." He smirked.

"As you wish." Ardra swept a hand, shaking the place so hard that urns crashed to the floor. Some of the ladies screamed. "How to alter my form. . . let's try this." She became a duplicate Picard for a few moments, causing gasps of dismay.

Jared turned a betrayed look on Picard, matching his own expression. "How do you explain that, Picard?"

"It's very simple," Ardra supplied. "My stealth ship was just an illusion to see how far these people would go. What say you now, Captain?"

He remained unmoved. "I still say you're a fraud, madam, and I intend to prove it."

"Really." Ardra touched her temple in exasperation. "Reconsider, because I'm losing my patience, little man." Picard shrank to half size, which left the crowd speechless. "I give you one solar day to think about it, before the same thing happens to your ship. Begone!" Picard vanished, sent up to an astonished bridge crew aboard Enterprise. "That man simply doesn't like me."

A crestfallen Jared approached. "I suppose we're left at your mercy. What shall--"

A trio from Enterprise beamed down:  a short Picard, along with Data and Counselor Troi.

"We seem to be at an impasse," Picard said. "The Federation will not sit by and watch you take over a planet."

Ardra sighed. "He really doesn't like me."

The diplomatic Troi replied, "He doesn't like what you represent: power without consequence."

"Posh!" Ardra rose and grew to double height. "He's wrong, you know. There are things that even I can't get away with." She stared down at an angry Picard. "Some guys  like big girls." He didn't find that amusing. "The problem is how you people simply can't believe in magic. Am I right?" She reverted to normal size.

"Science," Data said, "when sufficiently advanced, can appear like magic to those unfamiliar with high technology."

Ardra shook her head. "Mr Data, you have no imagination. Here's what we'll do: I'm prepared to make Picard a believer in magic. It will require a short trip off-planet. Are you game?"

"I could never resist a good mystery," Picard decided. "And if I'm not convinced?"

"Then you can stay three feet tall. We'll meet here tomorrow." She started to saunter out.

"Ardra--" Troi pointed down at Picard.

"Oh, very well. A temporary reprieve." She waved her arms, and Picard grew to normal height.

The New Currency

Hard times brings out the worst in us; in particular, that insecure subhuman species known as the hoarder. Herewith a look at some celestial justice of sorts. It doesn't solve the problem, of course, because these people have sold their souls to that most primitive of survival instincts: I've got mine, and everybody else can go fish.

Call it what you will--comeuppance or symptom of a greater ill, a society passively watching its freedom siphoned by eugenicist control freaks. Tonight's food for thought from The Twilight Zone, where bidets and guns are the top-selling items.








Sam held his breath while walking past a couple of enforcers lounging around a barrel fire. He drew some small confidence from Delgado's reputation for fairness--if forty dollars for a roll of TP could be called fair. But it didn't matter; the stuff was more precious than life itself. People willingly starved or went without medicine in order to afford it. Sam was no different in keeping his source a secret. It was every man for himself now.

He let out a breath of relief after safely reaching the grotto beneath overhanging fire escapes. A few of Delgado's camp followers eyed him with contempt. Why not? They had ready access to the paper gold, even if it meant existing as lowly hangers-on or concubines.

"Back so soon?" Delgado emerged from a rat hole in the condemned building's foundation. Like all petty warlords, he dressed in kingly style, or in Sam's opinion, like a pimp. The only thing missing was the feathered cowboy hat.

"One roll doesn't go far," Sam protested.

Delgado grinned. "I told you how to stretch it. Use four squares, then fold three times for a slender, eight-ply pad that's just right for the job."

"I do that, but it hardly lasts a week!" Sam pulled out the cash."It's a good thing the government hands out all these greenbacks so we can afford the black market." He eyed the others. "So. . . .where do you get your stock?"

"You guessed it," Delgado said. "My associates watch for people unloading armfuls of TP from their shopping trips. Then we make a little home invasion that night, and relive them of it. The cops look the other way as long as nobody gets hurt."

Sam's  mouth twisted. There weren't enough cops anyway who were still healthy. Same for street cleaners, which is why streets were littered with castoff masks and gloves. "You're just turning these hoarders into criminals. They're so insecure, they're capable of anything. They hang out at stores waiting to hijack the latest shipment of TP. They roll people getting out of their cars if they have any. And all the time, they have two years' worth squirreled away somewhere. They can never have enough!"

"Sure enough." Sam rubbed his jaw. "You hear that, friends? We can't be having this. Next time you make a midnight call, check for hidey holes."

With the transaction made, Sam tucked the precious roll into his coat, hoping to avoid getting rolled on his way back to his car. Well, if anybody had a mind to take it, they'd better have a gun, and be willing to use it. He'd die before giving it up. How ironic was it that the doomsday predictors got it all wrong. The new currency wasn't twenty-two caliber bullets, but TP. Then again, the human animal was one strange critter.