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by Lee Goldberg

  Under ordinary circumstances, the vet promised, McGarrett was no threat to society.

  "That was very nice of you," Charlie said, "but he'll be more comfortable with the vet. There's barely room for me in here."

  "I know," she said, "that's why I got him a place of his own."

  Charlie looked confused, so Alison held out her hand to him. "Come with me."

  She led him back outside into the warm, still, Los Angeles night. They walked around the soundstage towards the back-lot, the acres and acres of fake storefronts and building facades where exteriors of countless movies and TV shows were shot.

  "Where are we going?" he asked.

  "Not far."

  That was a shame, because Charlie liked the feel of her hand in his and wanted it to last.

  They walked down Madison Avenue, casting long shadows on the dark, plaster facades. It was so realistic, for a moment Charlie fantasized that they were the last, living couple on earth after some horrible plague.

  The street ended and became a frontier town in the old west. Now, Charlie and Alison were time travelers, hurled through some quantum singularity or tachyon disbursement field and emerging in the past.

  She led him between the Sheriff's office and the frontier store to a lush, green patch, roughly a quarter acre, surrounded by a tall cyclone fence. A waterfall cascaded into a tiny river that ran past a tall oak tree, a bright red fire hydrant, and a Tudor doghouse with a redwood deck, sliding glass doors and an air conditioner. Charlie looked closer, and could see McGarrett inside the dog house, sleeping peacefully on a sheepskin rug.

  "This used to Boo Boo's home," she said, referring to the late, beloved celebrity dog. "Pinnacle has kept it up as a sight-seeing attraction on the studio tour. I figured, why let it go to waste?"

  "The dog is living better than me," Charlie said. "Think he'll trade?"

  She laughed, and he realized how much he had missed the sound of it these last few days. They walked back to his motor home in silence, hand-in-hand. But it was a comfortable silence, each enjoying the simple, intimate pleasure of being together.

  When they reached his Winnebego, he turned to her to invite her for a drink, and saw the tears running down her cheeks.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  She didn't know if she was crying because she was relieved that Charlie was safe, or because she'd almost lost him. Either way, it surprised and unsettled her.

  "Don't just stand there, Charlie," Alison sniffled and wiped away her tears. "Kiss me, you idiot."

  * * * * * *

  They tumbled into the motor home, locked in an embrace, hands all over each other.

  Alison fell back into the driver's seat. Charlie supported himself on the arm-rests and mashed his lips against hers. She opened her mouth, taking him in hungrily, while her hands found the waistband of his sweats and yanked them down.

  Charlie tore open her blouse, the buttons popping off in all directions, and buried his face in her breasts, pulling and sucking on each nipple until she gasped.

  Her hand found his erection and squeezed it, feeling him throb with each of his moans. Charlie dropped to his knees, and she lifted herself up, allowing him to pull off her jeans and her panties.

  He propped her legs on his shoulders and devoured her.

  She ran her hands through his hair as he licked her, his tongue searching for her clit, trapping it between his lips.

  Alison moaned, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. She arched her back, bringing herself up to meet his hands, his lips, his tongue. As her breathing quickened, he strummed her clit with his tongue and slid two fingers inside her as fast, and as deep, as he could, bringing her to the edge of orgasm.

  Then he stopped and stood up. She launched herself at him, knocking him back against the table, which would have tipped over if it wasn't nailed to the floor.

  She put her arms around his neck and lifted herself up, wrapped her legs around his waist and took him inside her, riding him slowly at first, then faster as her hunger and his need took over.

  His fingers dug into her buttocks and forced himself into her even deeper, beyond her point of endurance into a shuddering, quaking orgasm.

  She bucked against him, tossing her head from side-to-side, grimacing as the pleasure rocked her. It was more than Charlie could stand. He came in a sharp, powerful jolt, thrusting as deep as he could, his legs shaking.

  When it was over, they remained entangled in each other, their bodies slick with sweat.

  "Is that the best you can do?" she asked, a mischievous smile on her face.

  "That was just foreplay," he said. "Hold on tight."

  She buried her face in his neck and he carried her to the bedroom, where they both soon discovered there were some advantages to having a bed that was nailed to the floor.

  * * * * * *

  Charlie Willis wasn't the only one whose new home had four wheels.

  Thrack of Oberon moved himself into the Hummer, now dubbed Shuttle Craft Three, which was parked in the driveway next to the starship Endeavor.

  He was laying on the backseat, eating cheese doodles and surfing the net, his laptop plugged into the car's built-in modem. Thrack was flaming a couple fuckhead writers from the new Beyond the Beyond because they thought the Endeavor security guards wore red uniforms, when everybody knows they're blue.

  He just finished threatening their unborn children, and was about to elaborate on his plans to defile their wives with his super warp plasma pleasure warhead, when Melvah opened the door and slid in beside him.

  The first thing he noticed was the gash on her nostril.

  "A girl with sharp fingernails like yours shouldn't pick her nose," he said, holding up his index finger. "I designated this finger as my nose finger, so I keep the nail real short and smooth."

  She grabbed the finger in her fist and wrenched it back until he yelped. "Artie blew himself up and Charlie Willis got away. That means it's up to us to kill him ourselves. You're not going to sit around picking your nose while Charlie Willis is still alive."

  "You're the same rank as me," he whimpered, "you can't give me orders."

  She wrenched his finger back until he yelped again. "Charlie Willis was the guy who chased you after you snatched Clive Odett. What if you led him to us? What do you think the Captain is going to do if he finds out?"

  Melvah let go of his finger and he yanked his hand away from her. He thought again about the Captain and his hatchet.

  "Fine, you find him, I'll kill him," Thrack said, then stuck his sore finger in his nose just to show her he still had his self-respect.

  Chapter Twenty One

  The great starship Endeavor glided through the glittering cosmos, an arrow in search of a target it would never find.

  Captain Pierce sat in his command console, leaning forward, his sharp, hawk-like eyes riveted to the front view screen. Where others saw an endless pattern of stars, he saw the future, he saw discovery, he saw humanity.

  Yeoman Cathy McNally, cheerful and eager to please, thrust a CompuClipboard in front of him. "The dutylogs, sir. They need your signature."

  He marked the CompuClipboard with a space pen. "Thank you, Yeoman."

  The Captain turned his attention back to the screen, so he didn't see the yearning in her eyes, the love-sick poutiness of her lips. She was in love with him, like so many women under his command. The Yeoman returned to her station, already impatient for another task that would allow her to speak to him again, if only for a moment.

  Mr. Snork scratched his nose and approached the command chair. "We've seen a lot of God's miracles on our voyages through space together, but I think she tops the list."

  Dr. Kelvin's computer breasts heaved in deep computation. "Scientifically speaking, there's nothing miraculous about the Yeoman. Her chemical composition is actually 94% water—"

  "Enough, doctor," Mr. Snork snapped. "There are some things science just can't explain."

  Suddenly, the ship was rocked by a
tremendous turbulence and, on screen, a strange, undulating cloud appeared out of the blackness.

  "And this may be one of them now," The Captain turned to Dr. Kelvin. "Analysis?"

  "It's some sort of quantum singularity," she said. "I'm detecting huge fluctuations in guadro-gamma emissions. If it continues to grow, it could tear space itself apart."

  "Then we better stunt its growth," The Captain said. "Arm all weapons."

  The turbolift doors hissed open and an officer with six, beady, yellow eyes and two, big, horsey ears strode onto the bridge. "I don't think so, Captain."

  "Everybody down!" the Captain yelled, pushing Dr. Kelvin to the floor and whipping a gun out from its hiding place under the seat, aiming the weapon right at the alien's head.

  "Freeze you son of a bitch," the Captain said, "You so much as twitch, and I'll send you straight to hell."

  Alison dropped her script, pushed past the startled director and camera crew, and rushed onto the set. Spring Dano, Terry Bloss, and a handful of extras were laying flat on the ground, while Fred Grayson, aka security chief Zorgog, cowered in Charlie's gunsight, his flipper-hands raised. The first rehearsal of the show, and already there was trouble.

  "Charlie, what are you doing?" she asked.

  "Call security," Charlie said, looking very heroic in his polyester, Confederation uniform. "This is an assassin."

  "No, he's not," Alison said.

  "The guy with the flame-thrower was wearing the same bizarre disguise."

  "Charlie, that's Fred Grayson, he's one of the series regulars. He plays Security Chief Zorgog," Alison said. "That's the way his character looks."

  "Fred?" Charlie squinted at the man. He only met him once before, informally, at a table reading of the script in Eddie's office. "Is that you?"

  "Yes, it is," Fred said, his shaking flipper-hands still raised. He remembered what happened to the last poor guy Charlie Willis pointed a gun at on a set. "Please don't shoot me. I have a wife and kids."

  "I'm sorry," Charlie lowered the gun. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry, I didn't recognize you with all that make-up on."

  Fred backed off the set in a hurry. Charlie suddenly became aware of all the terrified actors looking up at him from the floor.

  "You can all get up now. My mistake. There's no danger. You can relax."

  The actors started to get up. Ashamed, Charlie jammed the gun in his pants and helped Spring Dano to her feet.

  "I'm so sorry, Ms. Dano," Charlie smiled politely. "I hope you'll forgive me."

  She kissed him on the cheek. "I'm glad you're watching out for us."

  Alison grabbed him by the arm and jerked him away from Spring.

  "Haven't you ever seen the show?" she asked him.

  "Not all the way through," Charlie admitted. "It was hard enough for me just to get through the script, especially after last night."

  Alison blushed, surprised at her embarrassment, because last night was not something she regretted - it was something she hoped to repeat as soon as possible, and as soon as she had some sleep. They spent the entire night making love, unable to sleep, their desire for one another seeming unsatiable.

  Charlie glanced back at Grayson, still in his Security Chief Zorgog outfit, yelling into his cell phone, pacing nervously. "He seems upset. Maybe I should apologize again."

  She pulled him in the opposite direction. "Don't worry about Fred, I'll take care of it. That's my job."

  "I know I made a fool of myself," Charlie said, "but the killer was in the same get-up as him. What are the odds of that?"

  "It's not that unusual."

  "You've seen people, out there in the real world, who look like him?"

  She nodded. "I can find at least fifty people dressed exactly the same way right now."

  "Where?" Charlie asked.

  * * * * * *

  Charlie Willis stood in the lobby of the Pinnacle City Marriott in his Confederation uniform, but it was Alison Sweeney, in jeans, a Donna Karan jacket and one of his shirts, who was out of place.

  The whole ride over in the golf cart from the studio, which adjoined the hotel, Charlie was concerned about going out in public dressed like a spaceman.

  "Don't worry," Alison said. "No one will notice."

  Charlie thought she was being sarcastic until he walked into the hotel. People in home-made and mail-order Confederation uniforms were everywhere, and they were easily the most conservatively dressed of the hundreds of Beyonders attending BeyondCon. There were aliens, monsters, and astronauts of all sorts, as well as plenty of Snorks, Kelvins, Glerps and, as promised, Zorgogs.

  "What is this?" Charlie asked.

  "It's BeyondCon," Alison said, "a celebration of Beyond the Beyond."

  Charlie moved cautiously through the crowd, passing a six-breasted nymph of Zontar on the arm of a Snorkian ambassador. For the first time, he found himself wondering if the Company was the only threat he should be worried about.

  "They're all crazy," he said.

  "Why do you say that?" she asked.

  "Look at how they're dressed."

  "They're dressed just like you."

  "I'm an actor playing a role."

  "Today, so are they," Alison said. "You're looking at stock-brokers and school teachers, dentists and insurance salesman. They're probably even a few cops here."

  Somehow, the idea of one of these people carrying a loaded weapon didn't give him much comfort. She saw the expression on his face and knew what he was thinking.

  "These people are intelligent, well-educated, and firmly in the middle class. They are the reason the show is coming back," she said. "Most of them grew up watching Beyond the Beyond. This is just their way of feeling closer to the show. Not all of them are Beyonders, you'll find a broad cross-section of scifi fans here."

  "They've modeled their lives after a TV show," he said. "To me, that qualifies as mental illness."

  "I see," she said contemplatively. "What would you think about a guy who spent his childhood watching cop shows and then became a cop because that was the one person he saw in his life who was able to make things right?"

  Charlie decided, then and there, never to talk again while making love. It was too risky. From now on, it was strictly grunts and moans and Oh Gods.

  "There's a difference," Charlie wasn't sure exactly what it was, but intuitively knew there was one. He wasn't like these people at all, except for today, that is.

  He followed her into the Grand Ballroom, which was crammed full of dealers selling all kinds of science fiction merchandise. Suspended over the crowd of Confederation officers, Snorks, SeaQuest crewmembers, Cardassians, Ewoks and Narns, was a huge replica of the starship Endeavor.

  Across the ballroom, and unseen by Charlie, Thrack of Oberon was in his polyester Confederation dress uniform, moving slowly down the crowded aisle, poking into as many space gals as he could with his super warp plasma pleasure warhead.

  He was about to bump into the rear end of a shapely Logan's Run babe when Melvah grabbed him. "Look who's here," she hissed.

  Thrack scanned the crowd and found a familiar face. "Wow, Richard Hatch still has the same cool hair-style he had in Battlestar Galactica."

  "Not him," she pulled Thrack behind a Beyond the Beyond, black-light poster display and pointed to the far end of the ballroom. "It's Charlie Willis."

  Thrack couldn't believe it. The shit-bag scum-licker was even wearing a Captain's uniform. "I'll cut his head off and use it as a bowling ball."

  "I don't care what you do," she said, "as long as he doesn't survive. Now get out of here before he sees you."

  "Relax, I blend in, like a shadow in the night" Thrack said. "I could sneak up behind him and he'd never see it coming."

  "But he'd feel it," she grabbed the hard-on that was pressed against her ass. "Do him outside."

  "Do me first," he winked and nodded toward her hand.

  "Sure," Melvah said.

  She yanked his hard-on onto the table top and smashed her f
ist down on it. Thrack dropped to the floor, squealing in agony.

  "You're done," Melvah said, walking away, without even noticing that she'd managed to cure him.

  Charlie and Alison left the ballroom and entered the adjoining conference hall, where hundreds of Beyond the Beyond fans gathered in front of the stage.

  The original Mr. Snork, Kent Steed, sat on stage in his faded uniform against a back-drop painted to look like the Endeavor bridge. His ragged, rubber elephant nose dangled limply on his puffy face, and he clutched a copy of his book, Call Me Mister Snork on his lap. Sitting beside him was a fat man wearing an elephant nose and a nametag that read "Warren of Eddore" who moderated the discussion.

  "I believe I was wearing a red shirt when we landed on Altair 7." Steed said.

  "What about when you landed on Naren-3?" asked someone in the audience.

  Steed stared into the audience for a long moment. "I don't remember."

  "How can you not remember?" the same someone asked, astonished.

  Warren of Eddore, sensing a problem, sputtered to life. "He doesn't remember because, as you will recall, in the previous episode his brain was invaded by neural fleas. We must assume the effects lingered for several episodes."

  "Exactly," Kent Steed mumbled, scratching the three nicotine patches under his sleeve and yearning for a quick sip from his hip flask.

  There were nods and mumbles of agreement in the audience.

  "Does anyone else have a question for our honored guest?" the Warren of Eddore asked. Sixty hands, three flippers and at least two pincers shot up. "Yes, the arthropod in the back with the orange hair."

  "In The Lofficier Maneuver, the serial number of the starship Endeavor was changed to NCE-174A," the lobster man asked. "Should it have been, NCE-174F?"

  Kent Steed and the moderator shared an uneasy glance. Steed cleared his throat.

  "That's really a question for the Captain," Steed said, "and sadly, he's not here."