From raku@nospam.geocities.com Tue Nov 11 19:09:44 1997 Path: news2.ispnews.com!news1.ispnews.com!moxy.rust.net!oxy.rust.net!uunet!in3.uu.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!141.211.144.13!newsxfer3.itd.umich.edu!newbabylon.rs.itd.umich.edu!not-for-mail From: raku Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: The Qute Rule 1/1 [G] TNG Q,P,R,C,T,W,D,LA Date: Tue, 11 Nov 1997 22:09:44 -0500 Organization: an extremely good question Lines: 475 Message-ID: <34691DF8.2656@nospam.geocities.com> Reply-To: raku@nospam.geocities.com NNTP-Posting-Host: pm117-15.dialip.mich.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; name="Qute.txt" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01 (Win95; I) Content-Disposition: inline; filename="Qute.txt" Xref: news2.ispnews.com alt.startrek.creative:8910 The Qute Rule--A Thanksgiving Story By raku TNG 1/1 [G] Q,P,R,C,D,W,T,La Summary: Q invites the crew of the Enterprise-D for Thanksgiving dinner, without having researched the holiday thoroughly. Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything but the plot and the holiday. I wouldn't dream of making a buck off of this, even though the story does celebrate America, The Land of Opportunity. Warning: If you're not from the USA, or if you haven't lived through some Thanksgivings and met some of the holiday's stranger conventions, you might find this boring. You might find it boring anyway, but I hope not. Special thanks to Kathleen, for cheerfully coping with an erratic story. OK to archive in the main ASC archive, keeping header intact. Comments/critiques: raku2u@aol.com ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Qute Rule: A Thanksgiving Story copyright raku of the many email addresses, 1997 "About a Q I sing a song, sing rickety tickety tin . . ." -- Tom Lehrer * * * "Kalispera sou, o kyrios mou," sang Q as he waltzed onto the bridge. Picard and Riker sprang to their feet in alarm, then relaxed a little when they identified the intrusive voice. "Hello, Q," said Captain Picard with a deep sigh. He cast a sideways look at Riker, who looked equally unenthusiastic. "Where did you come in? How can we help you out?" "Captain, captain, *such* harsh words from you, and after our *unfortunately* long separation. Such *barbs,* such double-entendres. That's French, you know. I've been studying up in your absence, to improve myself." "Why are you here, Q? What do you want?" asked Captain Picard. "O Captain, my captain, are you not *impressed* with my *stylish* linguistic facility? In the last two of your earth months, I have learned 2,000 languages, and I've been *madly* excited to talk with you in each of them. We'll have *so* much to talk about, when we can say it 2,000 ways. Well, when *I* can say it 2,000 ways. *You're* still rather dull." Picard reached down and touched a button on the arm of his chair. "Security, intruder alert on the bridge. Bring a . . ." "Oh, all right, all right. I'll fess up. You humans are so *amazingly* linear. Everything has to have a rhyme and reason. . . . It occurred to me that your ancient Earth holiday of Thanksgiving is roughly tomorrow, and I wanted to celebrate with you and your *wonderfully* heartwarming crew. See? Nothing *harmful,* just a little dinner invitation. Where's the danger in that?" Not taking his eyes off the intruder, the captain replied, "Coming from you, I'm sure there's risk in there somewhere. If it's all the same to you, my crew and I are flattered, but we are really rather busy. Perhaps another time." He gestured toward the turbolift, but in vain. Q prattled on: "Dear Captain, come come now. A little wine, a little shared bread--wait, I know *just* the problem. You're shy because you all dress *so badly.* That *must* be it. Whyever didn't you say so? With just a *snap* of my fingers, I can provide the latest in Fleet black-tie clothing." Worf and Troi looked at each other with a mixture of admiration and disgust: Worf's mesh bandolier had been abruptly replaced with a snappy red silk cummerbund, the better to set off his elegantly cut tuxedo and snowy shirt. Deanna appeared to have been poured into a black velvet number, attached--barely--to one shoulder and with little further means of support. She teetered on the unfamiliar spike heels. Q smiled happily. "Now, isn't that *much* better? With those two as models, I can outfit your whole crew in no time at all. Aren't you the lucky one, having Q on board?" "Q, please. We're not here to fulfill your sartorial fantasies. Return my crew to their proper uniforms and allow us to proceed in peace." "Oh, Jean-Luc, I know how *jealous* you get. Look--for you and the *stalwart* Commander Riker, tuxedoes of a slightly hauter-couture (there's more French--how chic I've become!). *Now* do you feel better? Never let it be said your crew has a better tailor than you do. You now have the perfect clothing for *any* holiday event." "Q!" The turbolift doors shot open and several security officers entered the bridge. Riker waved them to one side, and they took up positions just behind their visitor. Unfazed, Q continued, "You know, you're hardly any *fun* at *all.* I don't know why I bother. Well, *fine.* I can see you're not going to welcome a stranger to your table--good thing for you your wretched Pilgrim ancestors got better treatment from those silly Indians than I'm getting from *you.* If they'd had your attitude toward uninvited guests, they'd have made tiny European throwrugs out of your ancestors and kept the whole continent for themselves." A blinding flash of light illuminated the bridge, and Q's babbling suddenly ceased. Worf and Troi found they'd been returned to their normal, if less flashy, clothes, and all present sighed with relief. Riker and Picard had also resumed their uniforms, but each had acquired a tall black hat with a buckle on the front. Will Riker started to sit down. "If these hats are the worst we get from this visit of Q's, we'll be lucky." Jean-Luc pulled off his hat and dropped it on the floor by his chair. "Indeed. At the same time, he raises an interesting question about celebrations. Perhaps we should make a greater effort to celebrate some of the antique holidays. They're part of our collective cultural past, after all. Commander, at shift's end would you and Mr. Worf draw up a list of cultural festivities we might reasonably celebrate, and could you look into the possibility of offering some of the foods appropriate to the holidays in the replicator packs." Behind his captain, Worf rolled his eyes slightly at the sentimentality his humanoid shipmates sometimes showed. He had heard of this "Thanksgiving." The only thing he could see to recommend it was that it celebrated survival of the strongest. Regrettably, there was no combat involved, nor ritual tests of strength. Hardly a holiday at all. And worse, he had heard that a common featured dish was a squished vegetable paste, orange in color, and decorated with some sort of strange soft food called "marshmallow." A poor substitute for blood pie. Now *there* was a dish, he thought with satisfaction. Perhaps Commander Riker would allow *that* in the replicator packs . . . * * * Jean-Luc woke up with an incredible backache. He said, "Computer, lights half-on," and was surprised that the darkness remained unchanged. Then he noticed that there appeared to be a fireplace, burning merrily, on the far side of his quarters. Struggling to rise, he found his bed appeared to have been transformed into some kind of rope net, with a lumpy, crackly mattress on top. And the room was amazingly cold. "Computer," he said again more urgently. "Salve, nauta," said Q brightly from a chair across the room. "That's Latin. Three down, 1,997 languages to go! You know, I've *always* wanted to greet you that way. You *are* after all a sailor of sorts, and I simply can't be held responsible for the connotations. ‘Hey, sailor' is a *marvelously* suitable greeting for you. . . ." "Q, leave my quarters immediately. No, wait, restore them first. Get rid of the fireplace and that wretched bed." "Dearie me, we *certainly* did get up on the wrong side this morning, didn't we? Now now, Jean-Luc, I simply thought you should have the full experience. I went to a lot of work to get the furnishings right. The *least* you could do is admire my clever handiwork." Stiffly, the captain replied, "If it's all the same to you, Q, I do not wish to have my quarters heated by the combustion of trees. Nor do I wish to sleep in a hammock. Nor do I wish to find *you* in here when I wake up." With disturbing cheerfulness, the visitor announced, "I'm afraid it's *much* too late to be worrying about those kinds of tedious details. To say *nothing* of your being ungrateful. No, I simply won't mention it. You'll thank me later. Gratias agis mei, not that you'd know the Latin for it. What a flimsy curriculum Star Fleet offers." Through clenched teeth, the captain said, "Q, if you do not have any purpose here, please *leave* *us* *alone.*" "No purpose? Did I fail to make myself clear yesterday? Oh, perhaps that's because you know so *few* useful languages. Today is Thanksgiving Day, if you follow Old Earth's calendar. You'll find I've made just a few changes here and there, about the ship. No, no, don't say a thing, I know how much you appreciate my little efforts to brighten up this *dreary* home of yours. Just one thing--when you get dressed, you may find a little alteration or two in your stunningly drab closet. And when you're finally dressed, you and that *dashing* first officer of yours might want to stop in your delicious 10- Forward. I've prepared a little surprise for you--and no, you needn't thank me. Zaijian! There, a tiny linguistic token from Earth's inscrutable east-- how I love inscrutability. It's why I love you, Jean-Luc! " The room finally received sufficient illumination with the flash of Q's departure, and the captain was dismayed by his surroundings. Q had apparently redecorated this portion of the Enterprise in what he imagined to be colonial American furnishings, right down to the bare wooden floor underneath his freezing feet. He hopped across the room toward his closet, looking for something more substantial to wear while he sorted out this latest Q-ish mess. Pulling open the rough wooden door in disgust, he found that his closet appeared to contain nothing but a row of dark black jackets and knee-breeches, some white stockings, and a pair of shoes with enormous buckles on them. -No doubt to go with yesterday's hat,- he thought unhappily. Fumbling with cold-numbed fingers, he struggled into the unfamiliar clothes. As he approached the iron-bound beams that seemed to form his cabin door, he was relieved to see his normal door shimmer into view, and he passed into a hallway that looked unchanged. A passing crewmember raised an eyebrow at the captain's unusual clothes but otherwise made no comment. -Q seems to have singled just some of us out,- the captain thought to himself. -Hard to tell whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.- Jean-Luc arrived at Commander Riker's quarters just as he, too, was stumbling into the hall in Pilgrim garb. They exchanged a glance and headed for 10-Forward, to assess Q's "improvements." As the two walked into the room, however, they were surprised to see that quite a few crewmembers had been equipped with similar clothing, including most of the bridge staff. Off to one side stood an enormous fireplace, logs ablaze, with a wooden bucket of something being stirred by what Picard devoutly hoped was a hologram rather than a member of his crew. And worst of all, at the end of the room was Q himself, dressed like Miles Standish, brandishing a huge gun in one hand and what seemed to be a large dead rabbit in the other. "How wonderful!" said Q. "The life of the party has arrived. Captain, I'm *so* pleased you accepted my little invitation after all. Please, come, sit down at the table. Let me just shed this rabbit." He tossed the rabbit toward a corner, where it vanished with a Q-like flash. "I wasn't quite sure what you would prefer, so there's a little of everything. And here, I've been saving a place *just* for you--look, I've even put out place cards for those of your inestimable crew who have trouble remembering their names." "Q, stop this foolishness at once. You have no right to interfere with our lives, to treat us as dress-up dolls." Behind the captain, the first officer was again quietly contacting security forces. "Heavens, no, mein Kommandant (bet you didn't think I'd included German on the list, did you? You know, I was so intrigued by a little essay I read, ‘The Awful German Language'--by that Mark Twain fellow you so honor--that I *simply* had to include it.). Five down, 1,995 to go. My, this *is* fun." The captain made an effort to rise from the seat he'd absent-mindedly taken, when Q broke in on him. "Look, Jean-Luc, is it too much to ask that you humor a simple Q like myself? All I want is a little companionship. You have no idea how *boring* it is to lurk around the galaxy for a few *billion* years. You'd grudge an *honest* omnipotent being like myself this *tiny* bit of pleasure? " Beverly Crusher appeared at the captain's elbow and quietly murmured, "Maybe we should just humor him. Apparently all he wants this time is to eat with us." She gestured helplessly at the long black skirt and white apron coverup she was wearing, as if to say Where's a person to keep her medkit, dressed like this? Swiftly Jean-Luc reached his decision and his manner changed abruptly. "Why, Q, you're right. We *have* been ungrateful. We'd be only too pleased to celebrate the day with you." He gestured sharply at the others who were standing about in little knots of two and three. His crew moved forward to take seats at the laden table, the women somewhat hampered by the unaccustomed long skirts, the men looking for safe places to rest the rather cranky shotguns that had appeared in their hands, and fumbling with their enormous hats. Q waved a hand at Data, who took a seat next to Will at Q's right, while Picard and Troi took seats across from them. Guinan watched from a safe distance, an inscrutable smile crossing her face. Q shouted, "Oh, come on, you're the only other real grown-up here. Come help me with the children's table." Guinan shook her head gently, but raised a glass of glowing red liquid in his direction. "A vegetarian diet has its perks, Q. I'll pretend this is cranberry juice, and we'll call it a day," she said. Q waved her off in disgust, and began to hand around dishes with accompanying commentary. He began to pass out cups with little pieces of paper in them, until the captain enquired about the flotsam. "Oh, you humans are so clever," replied Q. "You make those *wonderful* little bags of tea--you can just tear them open and drop the tea in the water." "Ah, Q," interrupted Deanna, "we call those tea-bags. You put the whole bag in and let it steep, if you're not just using the replicator. When the tea is ready you pull the bag out. You don't open it." "Oh, very *well.* I don't see how I'm expected to know that." He snapped his fingers and began again, with fresh cups of water into which he dumped undamaged teabags. But before Deanna could speak, he had also dumped unopened paper envelopes of sugar into the first few cups. The counselor and the captain both began to laugh at the same time, while Q's face took on a serious pout. "No, no," they gasped. "The tea-bags you don't open. The sugar packets you do." "These strange conventions are *simply* not fair to visitors," he sulked. "Your food is unnecessarily complicated. It's amazing any of your ancestors *survived,* even with help, to celebrate this particular holiday." At the other end of the table Worf leaned over to Geordi and growled, "Why are there so many vegetable dishes? This is not warrior's food." Geordi said, "Come on, Worf, this is kind of fun if you get into the swing of things. Look, here are a couple of dishes that are almost Klingon. Here are green peas--well, they were green once--with what look like tiny onions in some kind of sauce, and greenbeans with some kind of crunchy stuff on top. Smells like onions. Fried onions, maybe? I bet if you close your eyes, you can pretend this stuff is gagh that's recently stopped moving. Just imagine that the crunchy parts are bones." Worf wrinkled his nose and passed both dishes to Beverly. She had successfully negotiated the sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping, which Worf had also passed to her with amazing speed. She had heard of the infamous dish from her great-grandparents, and had thought the recipe died out in the great Culinary Restructuring of the late 20th century, when Spam, nouvelle cuisine, and other such monstrosities had been forbidden by law. No such luck, apparently, when Q was cooking. There seemed to be a fruitcake on the sideboard, too: worse was yet to come. Will was eyeing his plate suspiciously: small red bullets were rolling around in circles. "Q, are these supposed to be cranberries? They appear to be whole. And I'm wondering if you added anything to them, you know, like sugar." "Ah, the Enterprise's resident gourmand speaks. *Yes,* Commander, those *are* cranberries, and a merry time I had whipping them up. Have you any idea how hard they are to corner in their *nasty* little bogs? You should be down on your knees, thanking me for providing those *rude* little fruits. How typical of Earth's products: annoying, nearly useless, and unpleasant in a group." While Q spoke he was attempting to fill Deanna's plate with big spoonfuls of something rather brown and lumpy, with some sort of crust. "Oh, I know what that is--it's mince pie," she said with what looked like well-feigned enthusiasm. "It was also served in the Christian community in their annual celebration of their founder's birth. It used to be made with pieces of meat, but the recipe changed when meat became an upperclass food." Worf's ears pricked up at the mention of meat, but he lost interest when she described it as a vegetarian alternative. Data said, "Excuse me, Q, but was it not conventional to serve ‘pie' in triangular-shaped pieces, rather than with a spoon?" "Spoon, shmoon," replied the entity. "You people are so *lacking* in imagination. This way you can squeeze the pieces in around the rest of the food on your plates." Data went on, "And if I am not mistaken, ‘pie' was customarily served at a meal's conclusion, not at the start. The first course should be some sort of meat." Q smiled accommodatingly and responded, "Very well, Commander. Let's start with the meat." He picked up a covered platter from the sideboard and set it down on the table in front of him. He whirred the electric carving knife at them aggressively and said, "I believe the correct toast is ‘Happy Thanksgiving, one and all'." The assembled staff murmured the words after him and watched as he pulled the lid off the tray. There, crouched as if to spring, was Spot, Data's cat. Fur and all. With a tiny apple in her mouth, and a delicate collar-- apparently cooked along with its owner--around her neck. Uproar and commotion--everyone talking at once: "How could he do that to a pet?" "Poor Data!" "Poor Spot!" "That's disgusting!" Q looked bewildered. "Whatever is the matter? Is it not the convention to raise an animal *all* the year long, *pet* it and *coddle* it, give it a *jolly* name, and then slaughter it *mercilessly* in the name of festive good cheer? It's the only suitable animal you people have--I had to look all over the ship to find this walking furball." People were pushing back their chairs left and right. They stared fixedly at their former pet, who was now posed for all eternity, forever ready for the kill. "And look," said Q in a more persuasive tone, "I made stuffing, too." "Oh my god," said two or three, as they hastened out of the room with hands on their stomachs or mouths. Data seemed transfixed by the sight of his pet. Captain Picard barked, "Look, Q, you've had your fun. Now I want you to restore this animal to Commander Data, and stop this silly dinner." "Oh, all right." Q pouted unhappily. He snapped his fingers, and Spot stood up on the platter and arched her back deliciously. Seeing herself standing in the middle of a sizable meal, Spot began to browse her way down the table, delicately tasting each dish and cheerfully rendering it unfit for others' consumption. Picard gestured at the cat with his head, and Data scooped it up under one arm. He headed rapidly toward the door in his colleagues' wake, thinking it was best to get some distance between Spot and Q. Q turned to the captain looking genuinely puzzled. "I don't understand what went wrong," he said mournfully. "Why didn't anyone want to taste the cat?" "Q, I realize this doesn't make any sense, but please try to understand. People who eat meat--and that's by no means everyone--tend to eat meat that wasn't, ah, cute in its previous life. Humans tend to eat large quadrupeds rather than small fur-bearing animals. Some have called it the Cute Rule--no cats or dogs, hamsters or gerbils, no guinea pigs, and so on. It isn't very sensible but it's generally true. Commander Data thinks of his cat as a companion, not a foodstuff." Q sulked. "Does this mean I can't cook that virtual rabbit for your Easter?" "That wouldn't be the best plan, even though we tend not to celebrate that holiday much on the Enterprise. Perhaps it would be better if you confined your celebratory enthusiasms to holidays that do not feature food. Commander Riker or Commander Worf could give you a list of such holidays. Bastille Day. Ochi Day. Things like that. Or to holidays where the food is a more minor consideration. Old Earth had a holiday called Halloween, where children dressed up in colorful costumes and visited others' homes asking for little tidbits." "Dressed up in *costumes*?" Q brightened considerably. "Yes indeed. I believe the ritual chant was ‘trick or treat'--if the children weren't given a small gift, they could play some sort of trick on those in the household." Q was now sitting up quite straight in his chair. "Wear *costumes*? Play *tricks*? Ah, the perfect holiday for Q. Captain Picard, as always I am in your debt. Sayonara! Shalom! 1,993 to go!" He again snapped his fingers and the remains of the dinner vanished suddenly together with the fireplace, leaving 10-Forward as it had been before. Guinan winked at Jean-Luc as he turned to look at her. He decided it was meant encouragingly. He collected what was left of his bridge staff, now in 23rd-century clothing, and headed off for the day's work. They had just assumed their posts on the bridge, getting the day's routine underway, when they heard a doorbell sound from the direction of the turbolift. The doors sprang apart, and there stood Q, wearing an Enterprise-A uniform and a James T. Kirk mask. He carried a bag in his hand. "Buonasera, Jean-Luc," he sang. "Trick or treat!" # end of story ---------------- write me at raku2u@aol.com