Title: The Course Of Human Events

Author: Jungle Kitty

Series: pre-TOS (between ENT and TOS)

Posted: 10/6/01

Codes: Canon, semi-canon, and original characters, humor

Rating: G

Archive: ASC and WWOMB yes, all others please ask.

Summary: In the pilot episode of "Enterprise: The Next Generation," (set approximately thirty-five years before TOS's "Where No Man Has Gone Before" and eighty years after ENT's
"Broken Bow,") a new generation of humans takes the helm. If there are any spoilers in this story, they're so minor that I can't even find them.

Thanks to Wildcat for beta'ing, to Danger Mom for naming the Suliban, to JWinter for reminding me of an ancient dirty joke, to Jonk for hir speculation on 22nd Century pets, and to Lori for coming up with the idea that inspired this silly attempt at spackle. What's that you say? What did *I* contribute? Well, let's just put it this way. I did more than William Shatner does on his Star Trek fiction. <g>

The Star Trek characters and universe are the property of Paramount and Viacom. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe upon that. The copyright applies only to the author's original characters and creative content.

THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS
(c) Jungle Kitty 2001

Skon settled against the rigid back of the sofa, pleased that it had arrived on the morning shuttle from Vulcan as promised. Made from an amalgam of iron, steel, and well-aged peeps, and constructed at perfect right angles, it completed the stark, unwelcoming look that he knew would garner approving nods from his superiors when next they inspected his home. They would find
no soft cushions, no sweet beverages, no harmonious music--in short, the home of Skon had been honed by him alone so that no indication of contamination by the human nation was shown.

"My wife!" he called. "Attend me."

T'ee came out of the food preparation area, and they shared a perfunctory touch of fingertips as she sat down next to him.

"Tell me of your activities today," he said.

"I was called to the home of Snip, son of Skip. He wished me to guide his daughter, T'hell."

"What guidance was required?"

"She wished to have cosmetic surgery."

"Indeed? What was her reasoning?"

"She says that all the other girls are having their bosoms enhanced, their skulls squared, and their eyebrows turned down."

"Has that come back into fashion again?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But I was able to dissuade her."

"I am pleased. There are few women who can carry the burden of such beauty, and I fear T'hell is not among them."

"Indeed, husband, I do not believe any woman should be burdened with such 'beauty.'"

"Hush, my wife. It is time."

He flicked a nearby switch and a large rectangular object on the other side of the room began glowing. Although it measured two meters in both width and height, the box was somehow unobtrusive when inactive. However when activated, as it was now, the tri-visual entertainment emitter--or t'vee as it was more commonly known--was impossible to ignore. T'ee sighed as a familiar image began forming on its front panel. For a moment, the elegant IDIC symbol stood alone, but it was quickly obscured by the motto of the Vulcan Society for Keeping the Galaxy the Way We Like It.

WE'RE HERE.
WE SNEER.
GET USED TO IT.

The words faded and were replaced by the image of a black-on-black stage setting with just enough light to give an ashen appearance to the beings who populated it--except for the one who
stood at the center. She of course had been lit as carefully as possible, each ray of soft light doing everything within its power to erase the many decades of wear and tear.

It was not enough.

The sharp angles of her death's-head face were not smoothed, the straw-like texture of her short-cropped hair was not softened, and the sneering curl of her upper lip was made all the more repugnant by its outrageous size.

"Skon, must we view this program?" T'ee asked. "It is so predictable."

"Please, my wife. We are most fortunate to have this feed from the Vulcan Paramount Network. And besides, there is nothing else on."

"The season opener of 'Galaxy Quest' is on Earth-1. I am most anxious to learn if Commander Taggert survived the battle with the Fooldyas."

"He survived."

"How do you know?"

"As cultural attache to the Office of the Vulcan High Overseer, I am required to know these things."

"But how?"

"I read the gossip on the internet."

"You rely on gossip?"

"Our studies have shown that, when it comes to entertainment, the 'spoilers' on the internet are more reliable than press releases. Now hush. T'Pol speaks."

Pursing her lips in disapproval, T'ee edged away from Skon and patted the sofa. Her pet el'gaeb, T'Hound, jumped up beside her and settled his warm, furry kerfuffle on her knee.

Onscreen, T'Pol glared into the camera and snapped, "Welcome to 'The Most Illogical Link!'"

T'Hound turned a mournful gaze up to T'ee, his brown mairzydotes communicating as eloquently as the thought he transmitted telepathically.

\\I \\ could eat the program listing and barf a better diversion than this.\\

'I know,' T'ee mouthed and scratched him behind his cooeys.

As the camera swept around to show the participants, T'Pol continued her opening speech.

"Our contestants tonight come to us from all over the Vulcan-approved galaxy. They are T'Pau of Vulcan, Klak of Q'onos, Ouchy the Cardassian, a nameless dancer from Rigel, Sillibub the Suliban, and Brandon of Earth. You all know the rules--"

The young human pushed his glasses up on his nose and raised his hand. "Uh, no, I don't--"

"*I* know the rules," sneered T'Pau.

"And so do I," said T'Pol. "So let's play...The Most Illogical Link!" She turned to the first contestant. "Klak, what--"

"BANK!" roared the Klingon.

Unflustered, T'Pol continued. "What is the explanation for the sudden change in the appearance of Klingon foreheads?"

"It is IRRELEVANT!"

"Correct! T'Pau, what is the proper way to greet an inferior race?"

"Thee should mock them by deliberately misusing personal pronouns in one of their native dialects."

"Correct! Ouchy, what warning did the human race ignore, forcing the Vulcans to occupy their planet and suppress their dangerous experiments?"

"Don't make me come over there!"

"Correct! Nameless dancer--"

"Wait a minute!" Brandon cried. "I've studied that. There was no warning--"

"Ignorance of Vulcan law is no excuse," T'Pol replied. "Nameless dancer, how much for a blowjob?"

"Twenty dollars, same as downtown," she said with a happy snap of her tongue.

"Correct! Sillibub the Suliban, true or false: Your race has the ability to shape-shift."

"True *and* false!"

"Correct! Brandon, in what order did the following historical events occur: Khan Noonien Singh rises to power, the Romulan Neutral Zone is established, the planet Deneva is colonized, the shoot-out at the OK Corral."

Brandon, who had been picking nervously at the hem of his 'QuestCon' t-shirt, gave a quick, relieved laugh.

"OK, yeah, I know that." He drew a deep breath and rattled off his answer. "The shoot-out at the OK Corral, Khan rises to power, Deneva is colonized, and the Romulan Neutral Zone is established."

"Incorrect. None of those events ever happened."

"No, wait, I'm sure--"

"Time's up! In this round, you managed to bank absolutely zero, thanks to the human's failure to answer his question correctly." T'Pol slowly turned a sinister gaze on each of the contestants.
"So. Whose lirpa has a dull edge? Whose plomik soup has turned rancid? Whose lematya has lemange? Hmmmmmm? ... I shall tell you! Brandon--the human--is the most illogical link!"

"Hey, wait--wait a minute!" Brandon cried. "They didn't even vote!"

"It is illogical to vote when the answer is so readily apparent."

"But--"

Ignoring him, T'Pol turned to T'Pau. "T'Pau, why Brandon?"

"He is human."

"Indeed. Ouchy, why should Brandon be the first to take the Walk of S'hame?"

The grinning Cardassian turned to Brandon and snarled, "You know you want it."

"I shall not dispute you," T'Pol said. "Nameless dancer, why do you think Brandon is the most illogical link?"

"Twenty dollars, same as downtown."

"Human, you have heard the other contestants. You *are* the most illogical link! Livelongandprosper!"

"What a gyp," Brandon muttered as he stepped down from his podium and walked toward the harshly lit exit. As he passed T'Pau, the Vulcan intoned snidely, "I grieve with thee."

"Yeah, right."

On the sofa, T'Hound growled, baring his sharp borogoves.

//Kiss my snickasnee, T'Pau// he sent toward the screen.

"My wife, calm your el'gaeb," Skon ordered as the camera closed in on T'Pol's face.

"Stay tuned for round 2 of ... The Most Illogical Link!"

Skon muted the sound as an informative announcement from the Vulcan Paramount Network came on the screen.

"You see, Skon?" T'ee said. "What did I tell you? They always eliminate the human in the first round."

"That is because humans are not ready to engage in entertainment such as this. However, it is a kindness on T'Pol's part to indulge them in their futile attempts."

"Skon, I think you've been spending too much time in the decontamination chamber. The gel has gone to your brain."

"I do not know to what you are referring."

"Oh, you know, all right."

"Hush, my wife. We will discuss this later."

He turned the sound back up as the camera zoomed in on T'Pol's breasts--huge, hard, and pointed--and then up to her face.

"Welcome back to ... The Most Illogical Link! In the previous round--"

Suddenly, T'Pol and her gloomy set blinked out, and the solemn face of a middle-aged Vulcan male appeared onscreen.

"We regret the interruption of regular programming, but it is necessary to communicate to our viewing audience the developing events in System 42 Double Delta. I am Saam, son of Don'ald,
representative of the Vulcan News Network. Seventeen-point-three minutes ago, four lifepods were ejected from the starship S'uperior. The pods landed on one of the twin moons of Bazoomia,
the seventh of the nine planets in the system. It appears that the beings ejected from the ship were the Vulcan observers, none of whom were harmed. However, the human captain of the S'uperior
has contacted S'laver, Vulcan High Overseer of Earth, and acknowledged responsibility for the act. According to our sources--Wait, there is more current information available. We take you live to the High Overseer's sacred sandpit where he is speaking to the human via subspace transmission."

The image of Saam was reduced to a small square in the lower left corner of the t'vee as the remainder of the screen split into two side-by-side scenes. On the left, the High Overseer was glowering at a communication console as he brushed sand from his clothing. A small running caption read "S'laver...Vulcan High Overseer...Interrupted during meditation."

On the right, the bridge of a starship was displayed. Despite the Vulcan-proscribed semi-darkness, two human males could be seen. One was seated in the command chair and the other stood at his side. The running caption read, "Transmission from the starship S'uperior... Unidentified humans...Interrupters of meditation...Illogical."

Taken aback by the unexpected scene, Skon and T'ee each raised an eyebrow--his right and hers left--and T'Hound's sensitive taradiddles stood on end.

"You cannot reject our supervision, Captain," S'laver said.

"It's already done, S'laver," the human replied.

"You are to proceed to the nearest Vulcan outpost and surrender the S'uperior immediately."

"The what? Oh, I forgot to tell you. We rechristened the ship. She's now the Fizzbin."

"I am not familiar with that term."

"My first officer came up with it. He says it's the perfect name for a ship that's making its own rules."

The man at the captain's side smiled briefly.

In the lower corner of the screen, Saam tapped the plug in his left ear and whispered tersely, "The human in command of the ship has been identified as Captain Robert April. At his side is Commander George Kirk. Both are originally from Earth."

At that moment, the uniformly gray illumination of the bridge shattered into a pattern of dark and light that played teasingly across Commander Kirk's face. T'ee found herself wishing to be locked in a decontamination chamber with him. Sensing his mistress's thoughts, T'Hound responded by expressing the emotions forbidden to her. He slobbered.

"Howzat, Captain?" shouted an offscreen voice. "Better?"

"Keep working at it," the captain replied. "I want enough light so I can finally see what I'm doing."

"Aye, sir. ... How's this?"

The lights came up fully and the captain swiveled his chair to view the scene around him. Under the new lighting, T'ee noticed for the first time the two crewmen at the back painting the doors
bright red.

"Shocking," Skon murmured.

"Good job, Jeffries," Captain April said. "Now get to work building those access tubes."

The captain faced front once more, now smiling broadly. With a visible effort, S'laver adopted an air of calm.

"Captain, your actions are illogical. Surely you are aware that our scientific knowledge and abilities are far beyond your own."

"I'm afraid your facts are out of date, S'laver, just like your knowledge and abilities. In fact, by our standards, they're pretty laughable."

"Explain."

"Your first delegation--the Vulcans who landed on Earth right after Zephram Cochrane's first flight--they were a pretty decent bunch. But the second group--well, not long after they showed up, we Humans realized what the game was and decided to beat them at it. You see, you're not the only ones who have withheld crucial information. We now have technology that's light-years ahead of yours."

"Impossible!" Skon shouted at the screen.

"Husband, please." T'ee laid a gentle hand on his arm as T'Hound expressed his mistress's irritation with a particularly odorous gas emission. "Let us hear this."

"Warp 7, my friend," April said, leaning back in his chair.

"Impossible! You are not ready--"

"Well, ready or not, watch this."

The image of the starship bridge winked out. T'Hound ran to the screen and pressed his foreshronks against it, whimpering sadly.

"Kroykah!" Skon ordered.

The el'gaeb responded by dropping to the floor and scooting around on his snickasnee.

"T'Hound, do not be rude," T'ee chided gently.

A loud whoosh came from the t'vee, and the bridge scene reappeared as suddenly as it had vanished. T'Hound ran in a circle, happily wagging his fubar. T'ee blushed a naughty shade of green at the sight of her pet enacting her pleasure.

"Where do your instruments say this transmission is coming from, S'laver?" asked Captain April.

"It cannot be!"

April turned to Kirk.

"Andor is beautiful this time of year, don't you think so, Commander?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"But--but--but--how did you develop that technology so quickly?" S'laver demanded.

"We were motivated," April said with a hard smile. Then he shrugged and added, "And we had a little help."

"From whom?"

"Our benefactors prefer to remain anonymous."

Kirk coughed discreetly. "Actually, Captain, in their most recent communication, they said we could reveal the name of their unit."

At the look of knowing innocence on Kirk's face, a shiver of unexpected pleasure swept through T'ee's body, and T'Hound rolled over and kicked all four shronks in the air.

"Very well, Commander," April said.

"Thank you, Captain. High Overseer, it was a little-known organization within Starfleet called Section 31."

"There are only thirty sections," S'laver replied coldly.

"Actually, there are thirty-six, but you only know about thirty of them. The additional six handle other things that...well, just other things. Section 31 is composed of thousands of dedicated men and women who refused to let the spirit of exploration be snuffed out. While the rest of us were pretending to go along with your agenda--occasionally voicing just enough resentment to keep you from getting suspicious--Section 31 was conducting secret research, the fruits of which you see before you now."

His eyebrows drawn together in an angry V, S'laver glared at his console over tautly steepled fingers.

"Captain April, this means war."

"No, it doesn't," Kirk snapped before April could respond. Reddening with embarrassment, he turned to his captain. "Sorry, sir."

"Go right ahead, Commander."

"Thank you, sir. S'laver, we aren't about to attack Vulcan or take action against the Vulcans on Earth. You're welcome to hang around as long as you like, but I imagine you'll want to go home.
Now that we've pulled back the curtain, you'll probably be happier if you hop into your balloon and skedaddle back to Kansas."

"You are not making sense."

"Do you mean to tell me that you guys have been on Earth for umpty-up years and you don't understand a simple little cultural reference that a five-year-old child would pick up on?"

"Easy, George," April said, resting a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "S'laver, we aren't your inferiors and we aren't your enemy. Maybe at some point in the future, Humans and Vulcans can be
allies. So why don't you think about that for a few years, and then..." April smiled. "Contact us when you're ready."

"Wait! Captain, your first officer said there are five other sections. What purposes do they serve?"

"Sorry, S'laver, I'm afraid you're not ready for that knowledge."

The Vulcan turned several shades of lime green.

"Oh, by the way," April continued, "we're sending you a text transmission. It's a draft of a policy statement. We call it the Prime Directive. I hope you enjoy it. After all, you Vulcans inspired it."

The right side of the screen went blank and, after a stunned moment, S'laver turned to someone offscreen and demanded, "Get them back! Find out where they are and--"

With a loud zzzzt!, the t'vee went blank. T'Hound began running in circles, barking loudly.

Fascinating, thought T'ee. I have never before noticed how much his bark sounds like 'kirk! kirk!'

T'Hound stopped running and tilted his qwerty as he gazed warmly at his mistress.

\\Unfortunately \\, my vocal apparatus has not evolved to the point where I can articulate words such as 'April!', much less 'Go, Starfleet' and 'Hooray for the humans.'\\

"T'ee!" Skon was on his feet, pacing rapidly. "T'ee, ignore the animal and--"

At that moment, the voice of Saam came on, and all three turned back to the t'vee.

"VNN regrets that we have lost our transmissions from the starship Fizzbin and the sacred sandpit of the High Overseer. We now return you to our regular programming. I am Saam, son of
Don'ald. Live long--"

The screen came alive again, showing a strangely chipper T'Pol alone onstage with T'Pau.

"--concludes this week's contest, and once again, a Vulcan has proven to be the most logical link. Stay tuned to the Vulcan Paramount Network for another Berman/Braga/Kafka production--'Tal Shaya, She Wrote.' Livelongandprosper."

The two women raised their hands in Vulcan salutes and waved.

With a heavy sigh, Skon turned off the t'vee and turned to T'ee.

"My wife," he said, "commence packing."

***

In the hallway just inside the front door of Skon's residence, two young people stood. When they heard T'ee and Skon move into another part of the house, they turned to each other, their eyes
wide with astonishment.

"Did you hear that?"

"I did indeed."

"What does it mean?"

"It means that Father and Mother are going back to Vulcan."

"And you?"

"I do not know. Amanda, I do not believe this would be an auspicious moment to announce our betrothal."

"Sarek, there will never be a better moment. I believe something wonderful is happening, for both Humans and Vulcans. I want us to be a part of that."

Sarek gazed into her eyes, warmed by the optimism and determination he saw there.

"You are wise, beloved."

He held up two fingers and she responded in kind, pressing her fingertips to his.

"And don't you forget it."

***

"Section 31?" Captain April raised an amused eyebrow at his first officer's latest improvisation.

Grinning, Commander Kirk held his hands wide as he explained. "I couldn't help it, Bob. I just love how upset the Vulcans get when you throw new numbers at them."

"Yes, I've noticed. Now about that other number--'thousands' of men and women?"

"It's a diversion. The Vulcans will be so busy trying to figure out who those thousands of people are, they won't realize that you exaggerated the gap between our technology and theirs."

"That little bluff won't fool them for long."

"Long enough for news to get around the galaxy that the human race is off the porch and running with the big dogs. And by then, it will be too late to put us back on the leash."

"George, where do you get all these homey little metaphors?"

"Section 32. They're in charge of the preservation of homilies."

The cheery red doors behind them opened, and 'Section 31'--all two of them--stepped onto the bridge.

"Careful, sirs! Wet paint!" cautioned a crewman.

"Nonsense," said the older man. "I gave you paint that dries on contact."

"Making us grateful for yet another of your many talents," said April as he and Kirk stepped up to greet the newcomers.

The two men were as a mismatched pair as he'd ever seen. One moved with the vigor of youth while the other exhibited the grace of one whom the years have seasoned but not yet diminished.

"Congratulations, gentlemen," said the older man. "You're off."

"Yes, we are," Captain April said as they shook hands. "Thanks to the two of you. I wish there was some way we could show our gratitude."

"Actually, there is something..."

"Name it."

"Would the Omega system be too far out of your way?"

"Not at all. May I ask why you want to go there?"

"This half of Section 31 is retiring."

"Are you sure, Mr. Flint?" Kirk asked. "There's a lot more you could do there."

"I've done it all, my boy. Now it's up to you. And remember--you're sworn to secrecy about me."

"Don't worry, Mr. Flint," April said, "Your secret is safe with us." He turned to Flint's young, dark-haired companion. "Dr. Cochrane, what can I say? This is the second time you've launched
humanity into outer space."

"Well, this time, get it right. Don't accept any rides from strangers."

"Yes, sir. Is there any chance you'll reconsider your decision?"

"No, Captain. Just take me back to the Gamma Caneris sector, as we agreed. And Flint, I still haven't forgiven you for smoking me out of my hideout."

Flint gave a tired smile. "Cochrane, you should be thanking me for giving you the opportunity of several lifetimes. After all, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some are dragged
to it kicking and screaming. But very few get to go there more than once."

"You've just butchered a great speech," Cochrane said.

"I'm allowed to. I wrote it."

"I hate when he gets like this," Cochrane muttered to April.

"Again, Cochrane, I'm entitled," said Flint. "If it weren't for my centuries of scientific research, you would never--"

"You call dabbing paint on canvas and writing down a few little ditties scientific research?"

"May I remind you that *my* equations enabled us to break Warp 7?"

"Which would have killed everyone on board if *I* hadn't strengthened the engine shielding."

"I was getting to that!"

"Sure you were, you old has-been."

"Has-been?" Flint's eyes flashed with anger as he turned to April. "Captain, you'll have warp 8 before we get to Gamma Caneris."

"Well, of course he will!" Cochrane said. "I've already done most of the equations."

"Half the--? Warp 8? You can't mean it!" April exclaimed.

"I was saving it for a surprise. Come on, Flint." Cochrane put his arm around Flint's shoulder and led him to the lift. "I can probably find something for you to do that won't cause too much damage."

"Why, you--"

They stepped into the lift, and the doors closed behind them.

"That's what I like to see," April said as he went back to the command chair. "A little healthy competition. Especially if it results in a ship that can do warp 8."

"There's probably no 'if' about it, Captain," Kirk replied.

"True. And now, George, we've got a job to do."

"To boldly go?"

"Precisely." April settled back into his chair with a satisfied air. "And it's about time."

***

Meanwhile, back on Earth, Skon had just left for an emergency meeting at the Office of the High Overseer, accompanied by Sarek who seemed quite eager to speak to his father in private. T'ee
decided to take advantage of their absence and allow herself one final indulgence in the pleasures of Earth. After ordering a pepperoni pizza and six-pack of Pete's Wicked Ale (Nuclear Winter
special brew), she retrieved the cushions she'd been hiding since taking them an old sofa left at the curb for pickup. Settling in comfortably, she turned on the t'vee just in time for the opening
credits of "Survivor CLDXII: Rura Penthe."

"I wonder if they will vote the Tellarite off the planet," she whispered to T'Hound, but when he lifted his shronk to her meld points, she pushed him away, saying, "No, don't tell me."

Leaving T'ee to learn the Klingon's fate on her own, T'Hound dragged Skon's best meditation robe into the corner. After pushing it into shape with his shronks, he circled it three times, dropped down in the middle, and was soon in a deep sleep. He didn't even wake up an hour later when T'ee gave him a loving pat on the qwerty, although he did issue a muted yip that sounded
like 'kirk!'


[The End]