Not long ago, when I was on quite a roll in those WWdN tourneys, I was SO confident in my play (at least as compared to Wil's) that I made him a wager. If he outlasted me, I said (or typed), I'd write a piece of "Star Trek" fan fiction.
I won.
But, because it's a slow news day, here's the story nonetheless.
LONG LIVE WESLEY CRUSHER!
He always heard hum. Even in the vacuum of space, there was always a hum. Wesley Crusher was smart enough to know there was no sound in space, but so goddamn bored with his life in it, that every moment sounded like a mechanical yawn.
For 18 hours, sitting on the bridge last night, Wesley took the helm. It's almost unthinkable for Starfleet, for the ENTERPRISE, to allow someone so young to take such an awesome job, but Wesley was unimpressed. It 18 hours, with his spine cracking in chairs that hadn't been improved with 4 centuries of science, Wesley turned the ship 18 degrees to port.
Once.
Space is fucking dull, and Wesley needed a buzz.
GATHERING DATA
Perhaps it's fitting, thought Wesley, that while surrounded by nothing, I've befriended a robot. Back home, back on Earth, there are millions of people with real human relations, kids my age have dates and watch holographic movies and skip school. Out here, I play chess with an android.
Data was in his quarters, which were unremarkable but strange. He had a bed but didn't sleep, a sonic shower that he couldn't use (partially because Data was the only person on the ENTERPRISE who could actually HEAR the shower which is disconcerting, even for an android) and a entire closet of fashionable casual clothes wich Data always spoiled by wearing his Starfleet uniform underneath. Everyting about his tin can home spoke to his desire for humanity and his distance from it.
"You know," said Wesley after showing himself in, "I think I've found a way to make your feelings, human feelings, show." Wes was digging into the pockets of his regulation unitard, fumbling for something that was stuck inside.
"Really?" asked Data with one magic marker eyebrow arched in excitement.
"For people," Wes continued, still distracted by something too large for his left front pocket, "the best way to feel is to stop thinking at all." Only Data could have understood the last few words, mumbled THEN SHOUTED, as Wesley finally wrestled his prize free from a tricky corner. "Humans have been escaping their thoughts for centuries."
Wes then handed an old, and badly worn, paper copy of a 21st century book to his now baffled android friend. "Bonus Code Iggy: A Midget in Amsterdam" was on loan to the ship as part of a cultural mission to Alpha Centauri.
"This guy Iggy, he was, like, 3 feet tall, but he once smoked enough hash to stun Atilla's horde!" Wes was noticably excited, he kept grasping the top of his greasy hair and then rubbing the Astro-Gel into his filthy Ensign jumper. Wes spent months grunging up this particuar outfit, and then hiding it from his mother, because having a dirty StarFleet uniform was a special sign of independence. It was also exceptionally difficult in an age where laundry technology surpassed that of good taste and, for that matter, office furniture.
"And this 'hash' will make me FEEL human?" Data wondered.
"I think it will," Wesley guessed.
TEN-FORWARD
It's commonly know that StarFleet has the strictest and most rigid drug testing policies in the known universe. When a four-legged amphibian Cephaloid from engineering tried doubling his pain medication after a freak accident invloving a hooker, Romulan wine, and a Michael Flatley hologram, Captain Picard had him exiled to a foreign moon. But, somehow, Wesley was certain there was no longer any screen for an ancient herb that was now so uncommon that even he, the ambitious slacker, wasn't exactly sure what "hash" looked like.
It was still early enough in the afternoon that the ship's elegant bar was almost bare. Only the grusome dreadlocked barkeep stood guard, blocking Wesley from his prize. "Data," he said, "we need a diversion. Talk to her, keep that damn woman busy. I need 5 minutes at the replicator."
And Wesley was gone, a quick time dash for the food machiene that turned human waste into bacon and eggs. Wesley's friends on Earth always called it the "Defecator," which, in a sense, it was.
"So Guinan," Data said as he sidled up to the bar, "I noticed you don't bathe like the other crew, why is that?"
"The voices," answered Guinan.
"I HEAR THEM TOO!" said Data, no certain he wasn't alone.
"I can hear that damn thing whispering, talking about my body," said the troubled and filthy barkeep.
"I always thought it was just a hum," admitted Data.
Meanwhile Wesley found himself alone at the replicator, his treasure a few mumbled antiquites away. "Replicatior," he demanded, "I need 8 ounces of premium hash!" And then he backed away, not knowing what to expect.
"I'm sorry," answered the machiene in it's infinitely snobbish know-it-all machiene voice, "Hash isn't on the menu Ensign Crusher."
Wesley was crushed, or Crushered as his poker buddies like to tease, he hadn't planned on negotiating with a smart assed machiene. That is, except for Data, but Data was jonesing and wanted to score as much as Wes.
"Machine," said Wesley with insincere patience, "I didn't aske about the menu. I've come her on a secret mission from Captain Picard, and it's imperitive for the survival of this mission. I NEED HASH!"
Wesley then stomped his foot in the way that centuries before was a sign of a petulant child. Wesley thought it gave him an element of machismo. He was wrong, of course, but luckily it didn't matter to a machine.
"One moment while I assemble your selection," answered the machine.
Wesley looked around nervously and, at the moment noticed the ships bearded first mate strutting toward him.
"Wesley!" he cried in genuine surprise.
"Hello Piss," greeted Wes.
For the ten millionth time, Wil Riker was glad for his most recent promotion. While he hated being known as "Piss," life was far worse when the Captain called him "Number 2".
"Shouldn't you be preparing for the academy?" wondered the surprisingly un-offended giant.
"Shouldn't you seriously FUCK OFF!" yelled Wes clearly disturbed by the stress of this almost bust.
Just then, with a computer's impeccable timing, the replicator guggled, belched, and then unveiled a brown cube of something neither spaceman had seen before, "Ensign Crusher," it said, "your hash is ready."
"Hash?" Wes and Will both said at once.
"Ummm, err, yeah, hash," said Wes, "it's for mom, she needs it for some treatment in sickbay."
"Carry on!" barked Will, obviously glad that he'd found a way out of a personal conversation and even more happy that he'd done so in the form of a starship command. "Get that hash below and then report back to me!"
"Wil do....", grumbled Wes, "piss off."
And Piss, pissed off.
QUARTER BAGGED
Back in the quarters he shared with his mother Wesley made Data sit next to him on the floor. Doctor Beverly Crusher was asleep in the next room and that DAMN HUM was just loud enough to muffle their business. He couldn't even hear his mother's famous snore.
Wes spread his secret stash on the carpet between them and found a StarFleet handy lite to spark it. "Are you ready to feel human?" he asked his robot friend.
"I have been, Wesley, for longer than you've been alive."
"Here goes nothing..." said Wes, who grabbed a fistful of the warm brown goo and placed it on a fork. He held a small flame to the tip of the fork and watched as a small stream of thin black smoke rose from the top.
Wes was so excited, he droped his hash on the floor.
"Nothing to worry about," he said to Data, who wasn't worried, "we've got plenty more."
This time Wesley grabbed an even bigger chunk, a quarter-ounce at least and jammed it on the fork. His eye were wide as the smoke rose again, and wider still...when his mother's door opened.
"Wesley!" said a voice coming from withing his mother's silk robe.
"Um...mom?...I can explain"
"Don't bother," said Captain Picard now stepping from the shadows, "I know what you're up to."
Wesley went limp, even limper than usual, which is an amazing feat for a boy voted most likely to de-evolve into jello by the boys at Sister Mabel's Interstellar Prep. This would be the end of his life for sure.
But then Picard, always a surpising man, grabbed the fork from Wesley's hand and crammed the brown mass into his mouth.
"My mother had a better recipie," he said, "but Corned Beef is always good."
With that, the captain headed back to his bed of sin, and Wesley looked at his robot friend.
"You were right," said Data, "I feel... embarrased."