Path: inforamp.net!winternet.com!dimensional.com!imci2!imci3!imci4!newsfeed.internetmci.com!news.Token.Net!news.Token.Net!not-for-mail From: trek@Token.Net (Star Trek Archive) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: Eliza Q'Little (1/1; Yar, Q) Date: 18 Mar 1996 00:23:06 -0500 Organization: Token.Net, Inc. Lines: 740 Message-ID: <4iirvq$4rf@Zeus.Token.Net> NNTP-Posting-Host: zeus.token.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Status: N This story is being posted for Kader75443@aol.com; all comments should go there. (Sorry it took so long, Kader, but my newsfeed just changed over, and I spent most of the week without access to anything but Clarinet feeds..) The story is available at ftp.gdw.com /pub/startrek/story/tng. Note that in the near future the archive will move to startrek.token.net. ELIZA Q'LITTLE Paramount is the same as God. They own everything including the rights to Star Trek and its characters. No commercial use is intended. Lieutenant Natasha Irina Yar fluffed her bangs with one hand while staring bleakly at her face in the small mirror. Her eyes were too close together, she decided, and were an eerie, icy blue. Rasputin was supposed to have eyes like that, she recalled. They mesmerized and intimidated others. The shock of blonde hair in the front would need to be retouched soon, her one concession to vanity. Perhaps she should go entirely blonde, get rid of all the mousy brown. Blondes caught attention, even in the twenty fourth century. 0800 hours was only minutes away. Pulling her thoughts away from nonsense, she fastened the single rank pip to her collar exactly as per regulations. It would be two pips soon, she hoped. A cocksure, no nonsense stride ate up the distance to her office. She would devote the day to dreary paperwork, scheduling and evaluations. The archeology and science sections were busy with the current planetary survey, the ship stationed in a parking orbit. The whoosh of the office doors barely entered her consciousness so intent was she on her plans. She sat down at her desk and thumbed through a few preliminary tasks before she even noticed him. "Mr. Barclay!" her head whipped up, unpleasantly startled. Reginald "Broccoli" Barclay sat with his customary nervousness in the opposing chair, his hands clenched tight in his lap, his mouth open like a gasping fish but uttering no sound. "Is there something I can do for you Mr. Barclay?" Tasha's gaze withdrew from him after only a brief glance to return to her project. The long silence that ensued brought her back from her reverie. Barclay sat just as before only now with his head bowed. "I.....I....was . . . jjjust wondering lieutenant?" Tasha's patience was wearing thin. "Wondering what Mr.?" "I um, I was just wondering if you had plans to attend the embassy ball on Sextus Prime next week." Tasha frowned, confused. "An embassy ball? Is it some sort of official Starfleet function? I haven't heard of it." Barclay's eyebrows traveled upward in an expression of innocent surprise. "Official?........nno. I It's just customary for um . . . visiting officers to. Um . . . attend." He har- rumphed to a close. "Oh, I see. It's one of those things where everyone wears uncomfortable clothes and stands around talking about nothing." She waved her hand in dismissal. "I never learned how to do any of that social stuff. Why are you asking me about this?" The eyebrows climbed further and the voice took on a higher note. "Me? ....." "Wait a minute I know what you want." Solving the puzzle lent satisfaction to her voice. Barclay began to visibly sweat. "You do?" She leaned forward on the chair. "Of course. It's Chavez isn't it? He's been dogging me for months. Thinks he's God's gift to women. He enlisted you to see if I had a date for this ball because he was too chicken to ask himself." "Chavez? ..... Oh Chavez! Yes, well . . . " Barclay rose to bolt for the door, babbling. "I'll just . . . I'll just tell him . . . you're . . . b-b-busy." He slipped through the doors at the same moment Troi had chosen to enter. She turned her huge fudge candy eyes on Tasha. "What was that about? He was terrified." Tasha's eyes rolled characteristically. "Barclay's always terrified. I swear I don't know how he ever got through the academy. What brings you here?" Troi seated herself with a conspiratorial air. "I want to know what you'll be wearing to the embassy ball next week." Tasha threw down the pad in exasperation. "You too?! That's what Barclay was here for!" "He wanted to know what you were wearing?" Her friend's voice held puzzled amusement. Tasha gave her an "oh please" look. "No. He wanted to know if I was going." Troi grinned deliciously. "Really? I didn't think old Reg had it in him." Tasha didn't answer, just paused with a question mark. Deanna began again, with exaggerated patience. "Mr. Barclay was asking you to the dance Tasha." The security chief digested this for a full minute before bursting into laughter. "Reg Broccoli wants to date me!?" She put her head on the desk for support. Troi's expression assumed the cast of disapproval her mother would recognize. "Tasha! That's cruel and you know it! First you terrify the poor man and then you laugh at him." Tasha collected herself, a bit chastened. "What do you mean terrify him? The man can't string three words together in a sentence. Data's cat would terrify him." Troi assumed her counseling demeanor. "You know Tasha, all men aren't like the ones you encountered on Turkana IV. You fix people with those eyes of yours in order to intimidate them. You used it as a survival strategy, but I think the time has come to take off your armor and learn some gentler things. Reginald Barclay is an intelligent, sensitive man who happens to be attracted to you. That doesn't merit your contempt." Tasha gulped and had the grace to flush with guilt. "Deanna, I've packed thirty years worth of learning into the past fifteen I couldn't even spell cat when Starfleet rescued me. I haven't had time to waste tossing my hair and batting my eyelashes. I'm sorry if Reg Barclay is intimidated by me, but being intimidating is my job. This is who I am." Deanna rose. "I take it this means you won't be attending." Tasha gazed at the desk with her chin in her hand. "I can't dance and I feel silly in a dress." Troi headed for the door. "I guess that's that then," and left, leaving a trail of disapproval. Tasha folded her arms protectively, her work forgotten. She had never felt comfortable in purely social situations. What could she talk about, her parents? , Brothers and sisters? , Hometown? None of that made polite dinner conversation. In truth, Troi's aristocratic beauty and social poise intimidated her too. Not very nice to be envious of a friend, but it was true. Worf and Data were the only two people she felt really at ease with. They didn't expect her to do silly girlish things and flatter them all the time. She nodded her head firmly. She certainly wasn't going to apologize for what she was or for her strength. If Reg Barclay or anyone else couldn't handle it too bad! Feeling much better after this pep talk she got back to work. Ships' day began to fade into ships' twilight when she finally looked up from the stack of data padds. She was ravenously hungry and cramped. A quick meal and a dojo workout would help ease her into the evening. Maybe the others would be back for the traditional poker game. She grabbed bites of a sandwich as she cleaned up her mess, flicking the crumbs into the waste container. She strode out the doors dusting off her hands and smoothing her uniform. Holodeck eight was always reserved for her at this time. Senior officer status had its privileges. Shrugging into her jacket she called up her program menu and chose something simple. "Computer, load program, Yar one." "Working . . . " it chirped back pleasantly. Tasha turned, still fastening the sash, concentrating on her task, looking up to find the familiar . . . GREEN ENGLISH MEADOW!? "Computer. Confirm program!" Nothing, no answer. Birds chirped, the gentle breeze blew, wildflowers bloomed in profusion to perfume the air. A man strolled toward her wielding a handsome walking stick, fully decked out in what she thought was eighteenth century garb. As his nonchalant amble brought him closer recognition began to dawn. Tasha's mouth gaped and her eyes narrowed. She made an instinctive move for a weapon that was not there. He was . . . "Q!!!" She ground the word out between clenched teeth to hide her panic. The omnipotent alien eyed her with supercilious ease, shifting his stance to lean on that handsome cane. "Tasha! My pet. How lovely you look today, simply ravishing." He removed his ridiculous hat and bowed elaborately. "What do you want this time?" Her teeth had not unclenched. He looked hurt. "Why, only to fulfill your most secret desire. I, Tasha, am here to turn you into a lady." "I'm a Starfleet officer I don't need or want to be a lady." Q made a rude noise. "Piffle, of course you do. The leadership of the Q continuum has decided that I must mend my ways. I must do . . . penance for my rude and unfeeling treatment of you at our first encounter. In my own defense I must say that it was remarkably stupid of you to charge a soldier with an automatic weapon unarmed. You wouldn't have stood a chance. Nevertheless I adore a challenge and you my dear are a challenge indeed. I will turn this worthless guttersnipe into a lady and pass her off as a duchess at an embassy ball." Tasha stared at him blankly. "George Bernard Shaw, my dear, really you must take more time out for literature." Tasha stood her ground with her arms crossed in front of her. "I will not cooperate Q. Turn off this holodeck program and leave now." Q turned his attention to her from negligently inhaling a bit of snuff. "Why do you think this is a holodeck program? Do you think I'm incompetent? Do you think I am not perfectly capable of transporting you to eighteenth century earth? I assure you I am nothing of the sort. This is real, all of it. Even now Jane Austen is scribbling stories in the family parlor. In just a few years Ada Lovelace author of the first computer language will be born. You will not be permitted to leave here my dear until you have fulfilled your mission. " Tasha began to look uncertain "Why are you picking on me Q?" Q paused, reflectively. " Because you're so deliciously mean, so . . . combative, so . . . shoot first and ask questions later. God help the Romulans whe- . . . if they ever got hold of you. . You will require instruction. I know just the person." With a regal flourish of his arms the meadow disappeared, to be replaced by an elegant drawing room. Tasha gazed about her with genuine curiosity, the grand cherrywood furniture that looked as if it would break if you sat on it, damask draperies, oil paintings. Captain Picard would be quite at home here.' Q had draped himself dramatically on a chaise. "Really, my dear you humans did know how to live once." He indulged in a negligent examination of his nails. "Pity you gave it all up to be technocrats." Tasha remained standing her arms still crossed. "What are you going to do to me? Freeze me again?" A petulant childish pout marred his face. "Really! Is that all you can think of? This could be such fun and your spoiling it all! Here I have gone to some trouble to give you expert instruction in the arts of femininity and all you can do is glare at me. I have a mind to take you away from here and put you in an eighteenth century orphanage!" He turned from her then in a huff to stare out the floor to ceiling windows or he would have seen her pale at the word orphanage. "What about the ship? Won't I be missed on the Enterprise?" Q turned with exaggerated patience to give her a sympathetic look. "I am capable of manipulating time as well as space, my dear. Your stuffy comrades aboard your stuffy ship will never know you have been away." Tasha looked away in resignation. "What do I have to do?" Q glimmered in anticipation. "You must pass the ladyhood test." "The . . . ladyhood test." Her sarcasm melted the words. "I see, I giggle, say things I don't mean, wear stupid clothes and pretend to be weak. Is that it?" Q rubbed the bridge of his nose as if in pain. "Oh, my dear you do need instruction. I have arranged for . . . Ah! Here she is!" At those words Tasha looked about in the direction of Q's delighted gaze. A woman of mature years stood in the doorway regally surveying them, whose ramrod posture and air of command would have done an admiral proud. Her silver gray hair piled high in elaborate architecture, owed nothing to powder. She did not speak, fidget or shout. Gliding across the room after sparing a sharp glance at her charge she was all smiles as she extended her hand to the gentleman. Q bowed over it with elaborate grace barely touching his lips to her knuckles. Tasha fumed. "Sir, It has been too long. You have a visitor with you I see?" Q gestured toward the oddly dressed young woman. "Madame, may I present Miss Natasha Irina Yartushenko, a uh . . . relative of the current Czar." The woman's eyes lit up in recognition "relative" being a polite term for an illegitimate child. "Miss Yartushenko may I present Madame Veronique de Orleans. An unfortunate victim of the late troubles in her homeland." Tasha nodded as politely as she could as the woman gave her the equivalent of a shakedown inspection. Q took his leave. Madame inspected her hair, the pores in her skin, her teeth her figure, even her ears. "You have been malnourished as child I see. You have practically no figure at all. Your eyes are too small and close set, your chin too sharp as well as your gaze. Have you been ill lately? What happened to your hair?" Tasha spluttered. "I like it this way." The elegant eyebrows rose. "Indeed? You should be very grateful to have a father who cares for you enough to send you to me. There must be something we can do with you. Where did you get this ridiculous costume? It makes you look like an underdressed Cossack." She pulled once on a rope and a servant instantly appeared. "Marie, this is Miss Yartushenko. Please take her upstairs and find her something decent to wear. Afterwards I will send my hairdresser to her." Tasha hesitated. Madam's voice rose with authority. "Go! Go! I cannot do anything with you in your present state." The voice of true authority got through and Tasha meekly followed the maid. What followed rivaled any survival test taken at the academy. She was pulled, plucked, painted, curled, and frizzed. Tasha survived it by chanting a litany to herself. I hate Q. . . .. I hate Q. . . . I hate Q. The maids and hairdressers pronounced themselves satisfied and departed. She worked up the courage to look at herself in the full length mirror. The shock of blonde hair in front had been painstakingly curled about her face, the rest of her shorn head covered by a bandeau. The dress wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been so flimsy, A corset had been declared necessary even for her thin figure to situate her bosom to the properly uplifted levels. If she ran or did anything strenuous in this getup it would all fall apart. Uncharacteristic tears began to form. She looked ridiculous! She was still gazing at herself in nauseated fascination when Madame entered. Several silent minutes passed as she was evaluated. Madame walked around her one finger thoughtfully to her lips. "Not bad, not bad at all," she opined. "The dress doesn't really suit you but there's only me to see you. We can take care of that when my couturier arrives. In the meantime, now that you are presentable, your lessons can begin." Tasha was still mesmerized by her reflection. "Well, girl, what have you to say?" The glazed look disappeared, and she answered. "I'm examining my conscience to find out what I ever did to deserve this." ----------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------- It took what seemed to her two weeks just to walk into a room to Madame's satisfaction. "Don't stride in like a hungry blacksmith! Hold your head up, pretend there is an invisible cord attached to it. " Learning to eat required memorizing what looked like a neatly laid out table of surgical instruments. Wine should be sipped, not gulped. Don't stare at gentlemen so, it is the height of come and getitness. Don't make rude noises when someone says something foolish. Don't shout, don't run, rush, or hurry. A lady always behaves with dignity, self control, and an appreciation for the feelings of others. A lady also didn't take anything from anybody. Much to Tasha's surprise the phrase "I beg your pardon" could mean anything from "please excuse me I didn't hear you" to "watch it buddy, those are fightin' words." Tasha figured the faster she learned the faster she could get out of here . . . After what seemed like forever she was deemed "presentable." It was announced that they would attend a week long house party given by one of the local gentry a Lord something or other. Tasha lay on the feather bed staring at the crocheted canopy. "Q" It didn't take long. Her omnipotent nemesis appeared wearing a pink satin frock coat and smiling. "Q, I've learned enough from Madame that she has deemed me presentable. I know why eighteen button gloves are called eighteen button gloves. I can sit for hours without fidgeting or crossing my knees. I know Bordeaux from Chardonnay. I've even gotten used to these blasted corsets! I want to go home!" The alien brushed away an imaginary speck of dust from his coat, and yawned. "You've learned the basics that's all. The real test is yet to come. You will succeed if you want to return to your sterile, boring existence as sheriff of the Enterprise. Now if you will excuse me, you interrupted my assignation with the Empress Josephine." He was gone ----- him! She ground her teeth in frustration Madame and her pupil arrived as scheduled Monday morning. The weather had turned cold and Tasha's traveling( they even had special clothes for it) costume was trimmed in sable, real sable. The cunning hat was completely sable. She felt like Anna Kerennina. It had the added advantage of being warm. The maids unpacked her, served her luncheon and actually expected her to take a nap in the afternoon. Tasha watched them go and formulated escape plans. There was no one in the corridor and she could easily slip out on her own. Remembering her myriad instructions, she dashed back into the room for her hat, some ridiculous restriction about not appearing out of doors bare headed. She kept to a sedate ladylike pace as she traversed the immaculately groomed lawns but lengthened her stride as she disappeared from sight. The long skirts and tight sleeves hampered her movements. Gloves! She had forgotten the stupid gloves! She tucked her hands into her sleeves and resumed her walk, the crisp air working color into her cheeks. Twenty minutes into the walk, her neck hairs prickled in instinctive reaction. The corner of her eye caught a dirty disreputable figure eyeing her with speculation. He stared, she glared back and turned to resume her journey. An oddly accented voice called out. "Hey dolly! How's you like to get a leg over?" The lascivious chuckle that followed left no doubt as to the meaning. Tasha considered her options. She was alone on a thickly wooded path with no real weapons. She called back lustily. "Eat your heart out mate, you'll never know!" The fool obviously thought this an invitation to wild passionate abandon. Surprised at how quickly he had made up the distance between them, she felt and then saw a grimy hand on her arm. More irritated than afraid she half turned and grasped the grimy claw by the wrist applying the proper pressure to sensitive nerves. Her pursuer gave a gasp of surprise and released her. She was just about to apply the 'coup de grace' to an even more sensitive area when a masculine voice called out. "I say! Release that lady at once you miserable cur!" A very well dressed and outraged young man wielded his walking stick with obvious threat. The filthy one rubbed his wrist as he eyed Tasha with disdain. "Lady, is it? Ain't never seen no lady worth the name out traipsing about alone in t' wood." "Do you want me to summon a magistrate?" His rather high tenor voice was at variance with his authoritative statement. "Nay, nay. Ye can have her. Hope she gives ye t' pox." He beat a hasty retreat. Tasha watched him go, analyzing the interlude. He thinks I'm a . . . ! She turned to her rescuer to affirm her conclusion to see him doff his hat and fix sensitive spaniel eyes on her. "Tristan Beltram at your service miss. I say, that was a nasty encounter. Whatever possessed you to wander about here alone Miss . . . ?" Tasha thought for a fraction. "Uh . . . Yar . . . tushenko" The gentleman replaced his hat and extended an arm. Tasha had to think for a moment to recall what to do with it. Oh yes! He has to do this to help me stand upright. The ridiculous thought made her smile, which in turn gave the gentleman the impression that his presence had caused her happiness. He walked entirely too slowly, but kept up a barrage of polite inquiries and gallant pleasantries to make up the distance back. Yes, she replied the weather has turned chilly. No, I don't find the country at all boring. No, I haven't seen London yet etc. etc. That evening after dinner he made a point of singling her out for cards, drinking in her delicate profile and exotic foreignness. Tasha had never played Whist before, as it was nothing like poker. She noticed that no one seemed to be interested in winning the game only in flirting and making coy eye contact. Tasha instinctively concentrated on her tactical Whist situation and began winning regularly. This generated several sharp and unkind glances from the young ladies present. A sharp warning glance from Madame at a distance away warned her to start losing more often. None of this seemed to dim Tristan's adoration. A distinct masculine presence behind her caught the attention of Isobel, a particularly sharp eyed miss. "I declare Mr. Forshaw, our visitor Miss Yartushenko does have uncommon good luck at cards. I never saw a female with such robust qualities." She twinkled a smile at him revealed slightly crooked teeth. Tasha turned her attention from the cards to the gentleman in question. Wow! was the only word that came to mind. Tall, broad shouldered, Byronic good looks. Goodness! Was it getting warm in here? Mr. Forshaw gave a slight bow to the ladies present. "Perhaps Miss Yartushenko simply hasn't acquired your skill in hiding them mademoiselle." There! Take that you lanky cow! Thought Tasha. Miss Isobel's smile changed only slightly as she tried to hide her consternation. Tasha and Tristan took the next four tricks and won the next four games. The rest of the week dragged interminably. The game of croquet had gone quite well until Tasha thwacked Mr. Meeps ball across the lawn and into a hedge. She compounded her error by offering to retrieve it and hoisting up her skirts and running quite naturally. She couldn't miss the giggles and whispers among the other "ladies." With only two more days to go Madame's couturier arrived with the gowns for the ball. Tasha would be heartily glad when this was all over, she mused as she inspected her reflection. The dress was such a deep blue it was almost black. Thankfully simple, it had no ruffles, bows, ribbons or other friviloties attached. It was gorgeous. She was gorgeous, she acknowledged. The fan flicked open in her hand and she wielded it experimentally. She wondered what Mr. Forshaw would think . . . She changed back into a day dress (different clothes for different times of day, even) and wandered downstairs looking for the library. Totally alone she browsed and wandered, smelling the leather and the faint scent of cigars. Her browsing brought her to a darkened corner of the room and the small figure who slipped in did not see her. Sobbing and sniffling the creature threw herself onto a sofa, the sobs increasing in volume. What on earth! Tasha replaced the volume on the shelf and stepped out of the shadows. The sobbing sniffling creature aroused pity and irritation in her. Tasha moved closer trying to identify her. Tasha's presence registered with the girl and she started guiltily. Huge blue saucer eyes regarded her with irritation and anger. "Oh! Its you!" The girl's delicate linen handkerchief was soaked. Tasha offered her own. She tried to put a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder but she jerked away. "Please go away! Haven't you done enough already?" Tasha pulled back. Well, excuse me! She thought. "You're Anne, aren't you?" Tasha remembered her from the croquet game. The girl finished drying her eyes and collecting herself. "Anne Barstow." I guess she's not going to make this easy is she? Tasha crossed her arms and sat down. "What on earth have I done to make you cry like this?" "As if you didn't know!" Fresh sobs threatened to break out. "Tristan's broken our engagement! He's become so taken with you he doesn't want me anymore! I'll become an old maid!" Anne threw herself onto the sofa, weeping, once more. Tasha stared, dumbfounded. "Wait a minute! I never did anything to encourage him. Besides, I don't want him. I'm not interested in getting married. Anyway If he's that fickle maybe you're better off without him. You could go to college or travel or write books or something." The sobs ended abruptly and Anne turned to stare at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Now you're making fun of me!" The sobs started again. It took Tasha a few moments to comprehend. What kind of an idiot was she! Of course the girl couldn't go to college or travel or do anything of the sort. Marriage was the only career she could aspire to. Moved with pity for her, Tasha patted her shoulder. "It'll be okay Anne. It's probably just an infatuation, you know how men are." Anne shook her head with fierce despair. "Don't you understand? I've been publicly jilted! Everyone knows! I'm not handsome like you! Who would want me now?!" The tyranny of beauty, thought Tasha, shaking her head. These poor women spent their entire lives acquiring, maintaining, and holding on to it. I'll never feel sorry for myself again. She mused. I can go anywhere, do anything I want. I can have children with or without a husband if I want. I'll live long enough to have several careers in my lifetime. She'll be lucky to survive childbirth and live to be forty-five. Thinking of nothing more to say Tasha slipped out of the room, closing the door with pensive care. The household was a liberal one and waltzing was permitted. Tasha understood why clothing was so flimsy because it was hot in here! Between the hundred of candles, and all the twirling bodies the temperature had risen beyond comfort limits. No one would notice if she went outside for a bit. Madame was currently presiding over the corner where the matrons sat and Tristan had promised this dance to someone else for a change. She made no noise at all as she increased her pace to delve further into the gardens, out of sight. What to do? Tasha fanned herself with energy as the heat began to dissipate. Long minutes passed as she contemplated her dilemma. Is this the test Q meant? How would a lady handle it? Obviously not by stealing another girl's boyfriend. She was tapping the fan thoughtfully against her lips when Tristan found her. "Darling! Wherever have you been? " Earnest puppy dog eyes gazed in adoration. He seated himself, then took her hand and drew her beside him on a stone bench. "Tristan, why did you break your engagement?" "Why, my darling because I love you!" He grabbed both her hands and clutched them to him. "We'll run away to Gretna Green and be married. We'll be so happy!" "Tristan, I don't want to get married." Tasha gripped her patience firmly. Tristan gave a little laugh. "Nonsense! Every girl wants to marry." Tasha closed her eyes and enunciated every word. "Well I don't." They went back and forth like that for what seemed like forever. Every protest she made he counteracted as nonsense. His adoration of her was so complete he hadn't even mentioned money. Everyone here spent a great deal of time totting up everyone else's net worth. What am I going to do? , she thought, rubbing her mouth where he had planted a hasty and awkward kiss before leaving. The tactical situation was dire. If she discouraged him in a way he would understand she would flunk her test and be trapped here even longer. If she said nothing, she would have her Mrs. degree soon. Frankly, she was sick to death of being manipulated. A plan began to form. The early morning hours hung with a chill mist. Tasha nibbled on the remains of the outdoor breakfast as she stroked the little mare's nose. Ladies could be exempted from the fox hunt pleading exhaustion from the night's festivities but Tasha dragged herself from bed to be here. Thank God for holodeck programs. Riding sidesaddle was awkward and ridiculous to her. If God had intended for women to ride sidesaddle, he'd have only given us one leg. As the rather large party set out Tasha concentrated on keeping her costume together and not losing her hat. She maintained a sedate pace behind the front runners and the huntmaster. A convenient opportunity presented itself and Tasha guided the little mare into a copse of trees. No one had noticed. She yanked the hat off and peeled herself out of the stiff hot riding habit. Underneath she wore a man's breeches and a frock coat purloined from one of the guests by a maid she had bribed. She removed the veiling from the hat and in its plain form it was similar enough to a gentleman's to pass scrutiny. The saddle she could do nothing about, she would have to get by with only one stirrup. Being boyishly narrow hipped the costume fit reasonably well. "Well. . . Tallyho!" The little mare returned to the hunt with a new eager spring to her step. Maybe you like adventure too, huh sweetie, thought Tasha. The chilly air whipped blood into her cheeks and started her adrenaline rushing. The others weren't too far ahead and the beast seemed to sense her rider's eagerness to catch up. The first few jumps weren't difficult but she skirted a few others, not trusting only one stirrup and her relative inexperience. Euphemia Wallingford pulled her mount up short and nearly lost her seat when she recognized the Valkyrie streaking past her. Tasha urged her mount faster, and faster grinning with burgeoning enjoyment. Two well-dressed ladies slowed to stare, blocking the next obstacle. "Get out of the------------- way!" Tasha shouted. The gasps of astonished horror whipped by her as she streaked past. The large pack of dogs, the front runners, and the scarlet coat of the huntmaster were now in view. After thoroughly horrifying and offending nearly everyone in the party Tasha altered her trajectory. Slowing to a halt she spied the fox making a sharp break to the right to avoid his pur- suers. Tasha broke away from the party and moved to intercept at a forty-five-degree angle. Keeping her eye on its path, she moved her horse to an intercept course between it and the pursuing dogs. The party was still a few minutes away and Tasha concentrated on spoiling the scent. Trampling the ground with thorough triumph, she waited. Her first sight was of an absolutely apoplectic hunt master. He yanked to a halt with unnecessary force and fixed her with a basilisk stare. "Young woman! How dare you, how dare you!" Outrage battled with public decorum as the rest of the party began to trickle in. Tasha removed her hat with a flourish and pushed back her sweaty bangs with the same arm. The scarlet cloak eyed her masculine garb and arrogant manner with aversion. Poor Euphemia was being treated with smelling salts. Where was Tristan? Ah, yes there he was looking annoyed and faintly nauseated. He reminded her of Barclay the way his mouth worked fish-like with no sound coming out. The ladies averted their eyes. "What's the matter? Did I spoil the fun? All those men and dogs after one little fox?" challenged Tasha. "And you!" she indicated one of her more vicious rivals. "Haven't you ever seen a woman properly dressed before!" Tristan finally spoke. "Natasha! What is this outrage? What have you done? Do you have no respect for me at all? Our . .. . friendship is at an end!" Tasha caught Anne's gloating smirk from the corner of her eye. Oh well, she thought, another happy couple reunited. The familiar gaudy yellow grid line of the holodeck greeted her grateful eyes. She sank to the floor and was tempted to kiss it. Luscious baritone chuckles assaulted her ears and she turned knowing what she would find. Q was rolling on the floor laughing! Helpless and out of breath he laughed and laughed as if he hadn't experienced it in eons. "Oh, lieutenant," he gasped. "I underestimated you. Anyone who can make someone who has seen everything laugh is worthy of respect. As payment I offer you this adventure as a holodeck program for you to enjoy at your leisure." His voice lowered with conspiracy. "I'm sure you and Mr. Forshaw would like to get better . . . aquainted." Tasha was still catching her breath. "I take it this means I passed." Q was still catching his breath too. "Yes, my dear, with flying colors. To sacrifice your opportunity to escape my clutches for the good of another is the height of ladylike behavior. Remember that. Now I must bid you adieu." Tasha thought quickly. "Q . . . Can I keep the dress?" It was draped across her arms as she stood to watch him disappear slowly from the legs up leaving only a smile. The smile spoke. "Tasha, a word of advice from a friend." "Yes?" "Drug the little brat before you leave!" THE END; -- Alara Rogers, archivist The Star Trek fan fiction archive is at ftp.gdw.com /pub/startrek, or http://www.gdw.com. Check us out! All stories posted to alt.startrek.creative, alt.startrek.creative.erotica, and anywhere else on USENET that I see Star Trek stories, will be archived unless a disclaimer is posted on them requesting otherwise; new stuff can be found in /pub/startrek/tmp.