Hi!  I've just joined this newsgroup and have enjoyed much of the
fanfiction posted so far.  Depending on how much amateur Trek
fiction you bother to sniff out, some of you might have seen my work
before:  I believe that STAR TREK:  THE THIRD GENERATION (ST:3GEN),
a collaborative novel in seven "episodes" written by myself and the
users of my (now defunct) BBS was posted here in 1993 sometime.

Anyway, I haven't done a whole lot since 3GEN came to an end, but
recently I saw GENERATIONS and I got inspired.  On the FidoNet TNG
echo people were asking, "Just how did an incompetent dweeb like
Harriman get made Captain of the _Enterprise_-B?"  Well, it was a
fair question, and I thought it deserved a fair answer.  But I also
thought Harriman deserved a little more credit than he was getting.
And thus my first and only Trek short story, THE PHOTOGENIC CAPTAIN,
was born.

If somebody else has posted the story here already, I apologize.
But to my knowledge, it's only been seen on FidoNet and on America
Online so far.  So, here goes...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+      Rebecca J. Anderson        ++  He is no fool who gives what  +
+    London, Ontario, CANADA      ++  he cannot keep to gain what   +
+  rebecca.anderson@homebase.com  ++  he cannot lose.     - Elliot  +
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: Photogenic Captain    1/5
From: rebecca.anderson@homebase.com (Rebecca Anderson)
Path: tivoli.tivoli.com!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!cs.utexas.edu!utnut!torn!uunet.ca!uunet.ca!hombas!rebecca.anderson
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <b1.1533.3355.0N55C865@homebase.com>
Date: Mon, 27 Feb 95 11:23:00 +0000
Organization: Home Base BBS - St. Thomas, Ontario - (519)633-7253
Lines: 146
Xref: tivoli.tivoli.com alt.startrek.creative:6654

----------------------------------------------------------------------
   Disclaimer:  The characters in this story are fictional, and no
                resemblance to any real person living or dead is
                intended, blah blah blah etc.

Author's Note:  Any and all questions, criticisms, comments, etc.
                are welcome, whether posted here or sent privately
                to rebecca.anderson@homebase.com.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

                           "The Photogenic Captain"
                              by R. J. Anderson

     The young man stared at the face in his cabin mirror with
inexpressible loathing.  He knew for a fact that the self-hatred in
those round blue eyes was inexpressible, because he had spent the last
hour trying to put it into words.  Trying, and failing. Was there
anything he'd ever done that _hadn't_ been a failure?
     He glared at his pale, strained face a moment longer, then turned
impatiently away.  He would just have to record his personal log
later.  Right now he simply couldn't think straight:  every nerve in
his body hummed with tension, and the worst headache he'd ever known
was knocking at his brain.
     Well, he wouldn't fight it.  He deserved pain--every kind of
pain.  Because James Tiberius Kirk, the hero, the legend, was dead.
     And it was _his_ fault.
     "It's no' yuir fault, laddie," Captain Scott had protested,
gazing out into space as though he could see, by the light of those
stars, his friend's body tumbling into the infinite.  His blunt face
had fallen into grim lines, and his eyes glittered with unshed tears.
"Ye did yuir best.  As ye said, the ship was no' ready 'till Tuesday."
     John Harriman found that cold comfort.  It had been plain enough
that Commander Chekov, at least, knew better, for he had offered no
such encouraging words.  Instead, after a moment of staring in stunned
silence at the yawning hole in the _Enterprise_'s hull, he had made an
abrupt turn and left. Harriman had not seen him since, and he was
coward enough to be glad of it.
     The media had been the worst.  In fact, in his wilder moments, he
blamed the whole thing on the media.  How was any captain supposed to
keep a clear head in a crisis with a horde of scribbling journalists
and a holo-camera practically up his nose?  As if having Kirk on the
ship hadn't been intimidating enough--
     No.  That was nonsense.  He was making excuses again, and there
was no excuse for a failure so monumental, so appalling, as his.  The
media would have him for breakfast.  Every moment of his shame, every
stammering idiocy, every lame attempt to justify his own incompetence
as a captain, had been faithfully recorded. And when at last he'd
dragged himself back up to the bridge to break the news of Captain
Kirk's death, there could be no doubt in the minds of those reporters,
or their millions of attentive viewers, who was to blame.
     What did it mean now that he'd been Starfleet's brightest young
star?  What did it mean that they'd called him photogenic,
charismatic, an ideal media foil to launch the maiden voyage of the
_Enterprise_-B?  What good were those things, if that was _all_ he
really was?  Because the sudden crisis that inspired Kirk's last great
act of heroism had reduced John Harriman to quivering neurotic jelly.
There could be no doubt in anyone's mind, least of all Harriman's own,
who was the better captain-- indeed the better man.
     Well, it was all over now.  The _Enterprise_ had made her way
safely home to spacedock, and already the hull swarmed with repair
units.  The dazed and injured El Aurians from the ship they'd rescued
were being cared for by the best medical personnel, and the media,
still squawking like a flock of indignant geese, had been shooed back
to Earth.  All he had to worry about now was the inevitable
court-martial.
     Harriman took a deep breath, passed a hand over his sleek dark
hair.  Automatically he tugged at his collar to straighten it,
smoothed down the wrinkles in his red Starfleet uniform.  The respite,
such as it was, was over.  Now he had to face his crew.
     They'd forgive him, he knew.  They'd sympathize with his
distress, rally around him in this time of need.  But it wasn't their
compassion he wanted.  He wanted their respect.  And that, he was
quite sure, he'd already lost forever--assuming he'd ever had it to
begin with.
     "Don't talk rubbish," snapped a voice in his mind.  "You did the
best you could.  Better men than you have gone to pieces in a crisis.
Even James T. Kirk made his share of mistakes, I'll warrant, and
you'll make a good many more before all's done, so live with it."
     That was Gillian, all right.  Exactly what she would have said,
if she'd been here.  A sudden, ferocious longing swept through him,
leaving him light-headed and drained.  If only she _were_ here!  Then
he could tell her exactly what to do with her tart remarks.  There was
no one like Gill for curing him of melancholy--probably because she
did it by making him furious at her instead.
     Harriman glanced at his chronometer.  If he waited a couple of
hours to call her, the time differential would ensure his message came
through at about 2 a.m. London time.  He'd be sure to catch her in the
middle of REM sleep, and she'd give him the tongue-lashing of his
life.  The thought cheered him obscurely.  Even if everyone in
Starfleet decided to be noble and compassionate to the poor befuddled
captain, at least one person would treat him with the contempt he
deserved.
     He drew in another deep breath, released it in a sigh.  Then with
the crisp, authoritative movements of some other, far more confident
man, he left his cabin and strode toward the transporter room.
                                *     *     *
     "Court-martial?" asked Admiral Tomoyo Ishiguro, blinking her
surprise at the stone-faced young man standing before her.  "Who says
you're up for a court-martial?"
     John Harriman stared resolutely at the framed scroll hanging
above her head.  There, among the delicate Japanese script, his eye
caught a little pen-and-ink sketch of a tabby cat, eyes closed and
paws tucked in, the epitome of feline contentment. Harriman wanted to
grab it and ask what right it had to be happy, but he settled for
glaring at it instead.
     "Do you like it?" Ishiguro asked, misinterpreting his interest.
She swivelled in her chair to regard the scroll with evident pride.
"It's from the Edo period.  Eighteenth century. The artist was one of
my ancestors."  She turned back, dark brows arching in peaceable
inquiry.  "Now.  What's troubling you, Captain?  I've not called for a
court-martial, nor has anyone else.  Nor will they, I strongly
suspect.  There's no basis for any such accusation against you."
     "I--" began Harriman, but she waved him silent and went on:
     "With an inexperienced crew, a bridge full of reporters, and a
ship unprepared for any more than the briefest pleasure cruise, you
managed to rescue forty-seven people who, without your intervention,
would surely have died."
     "_Captain Kirk_ rescued them," insisted Harriman with something
like desperation.  "I had nothing to do with it."
     "It was your ship, and you were wise enough to take advice from
an experienced officer.  I see no evidence that you did anything
contrary to Starfleet regulations.  Heavy casualties notwithstanding,
the mission was a success.  Unless you want to tell me that energy
ribbon was some eighth-grade Science Fair project of yours gone mad,
or that you had access to equipment that could have saved both ships
intact, I find no cause to blame you for _any_ of those three hundred
and seventy deaths."  She leaned her elbows on the desk, steepled her
fingers and regarded him with solemn, almond-shaped eyes.  "Feel
better now?"
     "But Kirk--"
     "Kirk of all people would know the risk he was taking when he
went down there, and he certainly would never reprimand you for
staying where you belonged--on the bridge."  Ishiguro pushed her chair
back with a little sigh.  "His death is surely a loss to Starfleet,
but he'd retired anyway.  I'd have liked to see him teaching at the
Academy, but--"  She spread her hands in a gesture of resignation.
"Think of it this way.  He died a hero.  Don't you think he'd have
preferred that to withering away in a rest home?"
     Harriman was silent.
     "Learn from Kirk's example, John," said the Admiral gently.
"Treasure his memory.  But don't let him haunt you for the rest of
your life.  You're too fine a captain to go off your head with guilt,
which is precisely what's going to happen if you let this thing eat at
you any more.  And that really _will_ be your fault."
     "Am I?" demanded Harriman, tearing his eyes from the scroll with
>>> Continued to next message
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: Photogenic Captain    2/5
From: rebecca.anderson@homebase.com (Rebecca Anderson)
Path: tivoli.tivoli.com!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!cs.utexas.edu!utnut!torn!uunet.ca!uunet.ca!hombas!rebecca.anderson
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <b1.1534.3355.0N55C866@homebase.com>
Date: Mon, 27 Feb 95 11:23:00 +0000
Organization: Home Base BBS - St. Thomas, Ontario - (519)633-7253
Lines: 147
Xref: tivoli.tivoli.com alt.startrek.creative:6655

>>> Continued from previous message
an effort to meet Ishiguro's dark, compassionate gaze.  "Am I that
fine of a captain?  Or am I just--" his mouth twisted-- "photogenic?"
     Ishiguro surprised him with an indelicate snort.  "You flatter
yourself.  Or someone other fool does.  If Starfleet wanted a pretty
figurehead to take the media for a ride, there are a hundred more
impressive candidates.  No, captain.  I'm afraid you've earned your
rank, and if you can't remember how, I suggest you review your own
service record."  She stood up, extended a hand to him dismissively.
"Good night, Captain Harriman.  Get some sleep."
     John gripped her hand without enthusiasm, then turned and left.
As the double glass doors of Ishiguro's office hissed shut behind him,
he gazed first one way, then the other down the red- carpeted
corridor, unsure of where to go next.  He'd find a grim lot in the
officers' mess, he knew, but they were probably expecting him to show
up.  On the other hand, his quarters weren't far away, and Ishiguro
_had_ told him to get some rest.
     He was too tired, too uncertain of his own judgment, to choose
for himself.  Instead he pulled a token out of his pocket, turned it
over in his hand.  It had been coined as a commemorative of the day's
launch:  the original _Enterprise_ ("_Not_ bloody A," intoned Captain
Scott's voice scornfully in his mind) marked one side, the
_Enterprise_-B the other.
     What would Kirk have done?  Gone to the officers' mess, Harriman
suspected, and rallied his crew.  Problem was, Harriman also suspected
that if he tried to follow Kirk's example, his crew would wind up
rallying _him_.  And that, right now, was more than he could take.  He
flipped the coin in the air, caught it, slapped it down on his
forearm.  With some trepidation he lifted his hand and gazed at the
glittering token beneath.  It was the _Enterprise_-B.  _His_
_Enterprise_.
     With a relief he did not trouble to conceal, Harriman turned
toward his quarters.
                                *     *     *
     Lights dimmed, uniform abandoned, a freshly poured brandy in
hand, John Harriman leaned back on the sofa and listened to the
computer's bland, dispassionate voice reciting his accomplishments.
"2284:  Graduated with honours from Starfleet Academy.  Promoted to
Ensign.  Assigned to the U.S.S. _Gallant_. 2286:  Received special
commendation from Captain Thadio Jalor for distinguished service
during the Eridani-V incident.  Promoted to Lieutenant."
     The Eridani-V incident.  He hadn't thought about that one in a
long time.  The _Gallant_ had been ferrying a couple of Vulcan
scientists, a Dr. Sevok and his mate T'Pryn, to the mining colony on
that planet.  The mission had seemed so routine that Harriman
remembered complaining about it.  When they arrived, however, they
found the place swarming with Orion pirates, and suddenly the
situation was a bit too exciting for even a young ensign's taste.
     Xelgild, the powdery by-product of the xelanium mining process,
was a rare and valuable narcotic, and the Orions were ready to kill
the miners in order to get it.  While Captain Jalor distracted the
Orions' leader with negotiations for the hostages' release, an away
team of five, Harriman included, secretly beamed down to the caverns
below the colony.
     Sneaking through the tunnels, they'd found the miners' holding
cell, surprised and overpowered the guards, and released all the
prisoners.  As they were leading the hostages away to the beam-out
site, however, a wild-eyed Orion, flying high on Xelgild and armed
with a formidable disruptor, leaped out into their path.
     In that tension-charged moment it was Harriman who stepped,
unarmed, into the pirate's line of fire and began talking him into a
surrender.  Meanwhile the other four members of the away team, taking
advantage of the distraction, redirected the hostages into a side
tunnel.  Just as the Orion tired of Harriman's soothing prattle and
was about to blow him into his component molecules, Lieutenant Dzinga,
who had won every marksmanship award Starfleet Academy could offer,
took out the pirate with a crack shot over Harriman's shoulder.
Harriman came away with a singed ear, but he also got a promotion, and
a reputation for bravery and quick thinking.
     Looking back on what he'd done, Harriman wasn't sure that either
courage or cleverness had been involved, so much as a mad desire to
impress a very pretty lieutenant who happened to be on the same away
team.  But as it turned out, Elise had been more impressed by Dzinga's
shooting.  Last he'd heard, they had two children and were expecting a
third.
     "2288:  Transferred to U.S.S. _Lincoln_.  Promoted to Lieutenant
Commander, upon review, by Captain Consuela Ramirez."
     Harriman rolled his eyes.  He remembered Ramirez, all right. That
promotion had come with a price tag--her expectations.  When she
realized his gratitude didn't extend as far as her hopes, she'd been
chilly, but fortunately not unfair.  And by the end of the year he'd
earned the promotion anyway.
     While Captain Ramirez was attending a diplomatic conference on
Arcon III, a navigation systems malfunction had sent the _Lincoln_
blundering into Klingon space.  The First Officer was off-duty at the
time, leaving Harriman in charge.  He'd been forced into delicate
negotiations with the suspicious and somewhat trigger-happy captain of
a Bird of Prey, but managed to escape with only minor damage to the
ship and no casualties. Later, the helmsman had told him privately
that he didn't think the First Officer could have done as well.
     "2291:  Promoted to First Officer of U.S.S. _Lincoln_ upon death
of Commander Jessica Newton."
     Poor Jess.  The helmsman had been right about her lack of
diplomatic skills.  On an exploratory mission to the planet Hakkun,
the Commander, Harriman, and two others had been captured by a
barbarian chief.  Not only did the curious natives take their
communicators and most of their uniforms, but soon an
electro-magnetically charged storm front rolled in, scrambling the
_Lincoln_'s transporter fix on the away team.  Three long days passed,
while Commander Newton, ever impatient, argued hotly for their
release.  Eventually the natives tired of her tongue.  Before Harriman
could even protest, let alone move, a spear came whistling through the
air and pinned the First Officer to the ground, killing her instantly.
     Harriman was left to keep himself and his companions alive. With
a tale of hungry demons held at bay by magic and the threat of dire
consequences, he managed to recover the stolen communicators; a few
rounds of well-played dice with the chieftain won them back their
uniforms as well.  When a gap in the clouds appeared, he was able to
contact the _Lincoln_, and the ship beamed them out that night while
the natives were asleep.
     As de facto leader of the away team, Harriman was praised for
scrupulous observance of the Prime Directive, ensuring that nothing
from the _Lincoln_ remained behind to disturb the natural development
of the Hakkunians.  Harriman prudently decided not to mention that his
stakes in the dice game had included (with her consent, of course) the
doe-eyed Ensign Sheela.
     "2294:  Full review at Starfleet Headquarters.  Promoted to
Captain of U.S.S. _Enterprise_-B."
     Those bland words, "full review," made it sound easy.  In fact it
had been one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of John Harriman's
life.  It was like going through the Kobayashi Maru all over again.
Harriman hadn't even known why he was being grilled so thoroughly:
for a while he'd almost convinced himself he'd done something wrong.
But when it was over, they'd given him the _Enterprise_.
     They wanted a young captain, they said, to carry on in the
tradition of Kirk.  But they also wanted a cooler head than Kirk, more
of a diplomat, and Harriman's proven skill as a negotiator had decided
them.  Or so they said.  But Captain Ramirez had her own opinions on
the subject.
     "Admiral Jolson said you were _photogenic_," she said, making no
effort to conceal the curl of her lip as she pronounced the last word.
"He wants to make a media figure out of you.  Dashing young Captain
John Harriman, boldly going where no man has gone before.  By the time
they figured out what a prize they had in Kirk, he was too old to be
glamorous.  They won't make the same mistake twice.  What a great
recruiting tactic for Starfleet!"
     Sour grapes?  Perhaps.  Ramirez had been in competition for the
new _Enterprise_ herself.  But Consuela was no liar, and if she said
Admiral Jolson made those statements, then he assuredly had done so.
And ever since, Harriman had wrestled with doubt about his new
command.
     Given those doubts, today's fiasco had been inevitable.  He'd
held on to his confidence as long as all went well, but the moment the
distress call came through from the El Aurians, the illusion of cool
self-command shattered.  Because there were some crises you couldn't
talk your way out of, and this, to his chagrin, had been one of them.
>>> Continued to next message
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: Photogenic Captain    3/5
From: rebecca.anderson@homebase.com (Rebecca Anderson)
Path: tivoli.tivoli.com!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!cs.utexas.edu!utnut!torn!uunet.ca!uunet.ca!hombas!rebecca.anderson
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <b1.1535.3355.0N55C867@homebase.com>
Date: Mon, 27 Feb 95 11:23:00 +0000
Organization: Home Base BBS - St. Thomas, Ontario - (519)633-7253
Lines: 147
Xref: tivoli.tivoli.com alt.startrek.creative:6656

>>> Continued from previous message
How did one negotiate with a mindless energy wave?  It was like trying
to argue with--
     Gillian.
     He set his brandy down with alacrity, straightened up in his
chair.  "Computer, send a subspace message to Gillian Ransome,
Brentwood 402, Essex Suburb, London, England."
     "It is presently 2:48 a.m. London time," came the placid reply.
"Do you still wish to contact Gillian Ransome?"
     "Yes," said John with relish.
     There was a lengthy pause.  Then a light, faintly mocking voice
echoed through the room:  "So.  You've found me.  Well, I can't talk
to you right now, so you'll have to call some other time.  Leave a
message if that makes you any happier.  Goodbye."
     Harriman's face fell.  Gill never turned on the answering service
when she was in the house.  So where was she?
     "Computer," he said, "cancel request."
     Click.
     He sat for a while in the dim silence, meditatively sipping his
brandy, thinking about her.  He could imagine no more irritating
person on the face of the earth (and several other populated planets),
and yet, to call and find her not at home had left him bruised with
disappointment.  She was, after all, his oldest friend.  Or enemy.
Even in the beginning, he hadn't been sure...
                                *     *     *
     "Think you're special, eh?"  Beneath the shadowy brim of his
school cap, the bully's round face was fixed in a sneer.
Instinctively John retreated, only to bump into another,
disconcertingly large boy behind him.  He whirled, scanning the new
face for some sign of sympathy, but found none.  Both boys advanced at
once, trapping him between them.
     "You don't belong 'ere," hissed the bully, flicking John's cheek
with a stubby finger.  "You'll never belong 'ere.  Best you go back
where you came from, before you get 'urt."
     "I would if I could," said John defiantly.
     "'I would if I could,'" mimicked the other boy in a nasal whine
that did Harriman's accent no justice.  He grabbed a handful of John's
blazer, jerked him around and gave him a  shove that sent him
sprawling on the cobbles.  "I'll bet you would, you snotty little
Yank."
     John scrambled to his feet, ignoring the sting of skinned knees.
In a wavering treble he shouted, "I'm not a Yank!" and flung himself,
head down and elbows pumping, at his tormentor.
     It was a stupid move, of course:  he was outnumbered, and they
were twice his size.  With a laugh that was half growl, the bully
drove his fist up under John's ribs.  He dropped, gasping for breath,
half-blinded by tears.  Then through the roaring in his ears he heard
the clear, cold voice of a girl:
     "I suspect my father might be interested, Freddy, in how you
choose to spend your free time.  I also suspect he might decide you
have rather too much of it, if this is what you're getting up to."
     "It's Ransome's brat!" whispered the boy John had bumped into.
"Now we're for it!"
     Mr. Ransome was the Headmaster of the school, and until now, John
hadn't known he had a daughter.  He lifted his head with another
gulping breath and saw, dressed in school uniform, a girl about his
own age.  Her hair, the colour of ripe apricots, was pulled back in a
severe braid; her pale oval of a face wore a disdainful expression
that seemed to belong more rightfully to someone much older.  She
glanced down at John, betraying no particular interest, then back at
the bully.
     "You know I've never told on you yet, Freddy Chalmers," she said.
"I'd like to keep it that way, wouldn't you?"
     "Stupid Yanks should be taught a lesson," grumbled Freddy.
     "Perhaps they should.  But if I remember correctly, the new boy
was to be coming from Vancouver.  If you're determined to beat on him,
at least brush up on your geography first."  The girl dropped to a
crouch beside John, looked into his watery blue eyes with her own
green-brown ones.  With a faint, enigmatic smile she added, "I'll tell
you what, Freddy:  if I decide he wants beating up, I'll do it
myself."
     The bully let out a barking laugh.  "Pummelled by a girl!  Serve
the little weed right.  Come on, Peake."  He motioned to the other
boy, and the two of them slouched off whistling.
     "One day they'll be corporate lawyers," said the girl, watching
them cross the yard.  "You mark my words."
                                *     *     *
     She'd been right, too.
     Harriman twisted the now-empty glass between his fingers,
watching his own distorted reflection sliding across its surface.
More than twenty years had gone by since that first awful day at the
Brentwood School.  He'd soon learned to hold his own with Chalmers and
others like him, but the Headmaster's daughter never lost her
maddening fascination.  By the time his father's work exchange came to
an end, John and Gillian had formed a bizarre but indomitable
partnership.  The bond between them survived the Harriman family's
return to Vancouver; it persisted unabated through John's high school
years; it saw him through all the peaks and valleys of Starfleet
Academy.  And now, when he needed her most, Gillian wasn't there.
     She had her own life, of course; he'd no right to hold her back
even if he could.  But he still felt cheated, abandoned by her
absence.  He wanted to shout at her, and not being able to do it left
him sour.
     Harriman slammed the glass down on the table, half-wishing it
would break.  It didn't, of course.  He heaved himself to his feet,
rubbing the bridge of his nose where that plaguey headache still
lingered.  "Computer," he said wearily.  "Dim lights.  Give me a
wake-up call for 7:30."
     "Acknowledged," the computer told him, in its most pleasant,
soothing, go-to-bed-there's-a-good-little-captain tones.   Harriman
suppressed the urge to smash it, and plodded off toward the bedroom.
     The door chimed.
     He froze mid-step, scarcely believing his ears.  A visitor, at
this time of the night?  He decided to wait, in case it had been a
mistake.
     Seconds crawled by.  Then the chime rang out again, and a muffled
voice said, "Harriman, if you don't open this door, I'm going to lose
my temper."
     Gillian?
     There was no way.  This was crazy.  Stubbornly he called, "Who is
it?"
     "Open the door, you idiot.  Who do you think it is?  Your sainted
aunt?"
     Relief weakened his knees; it took him a moment to muster his
composure.  At last he said, "Come in."
     The door slid aside, flooding the room with light from the
hallway.  A slim figure in green leggings and an oversized Oxford
University sweatshirt strode in, planted her hands on her hips, and
glared at Harriman.  Her hair was a loose, feathery cap, the colour of
ripe apricots.  Harriman wasn't quite sure that she was beautiful to
anyone else, but she had never seemed more beautiful to him.
     "What are you doing here?" he asked.
     "Admiral Ishiguro gave me clearance."  She paused, gazing around
the dimly lit room, expression fading from her face.  "She seemed
rather too pleased when I told her I wanted to see you.  So I
explained to her with my usual tact and discretion that I was not your
whore, and she said, 'Of course not.'  Why must Admirals be so smug?"
     It took Harriman a few seconds to digest this information before
he was able to reply.  "That's not exactly what I meant," he said.  "I
mean, why did you come here in the first place?"
     "To congratulate you, of course," said Gillian, folding herself
into an armchair and looking up at him archly.
     "Congratulate me?"
     "Of course.  I saw you on the news.  You've succeeded where an
innumerable host of Klingons, Romulans, and jilted lovers failed.
James T. Kirk is dead.  Are you proud of yourself?"
     Harriman felt the blood drain out of his face.  Had she produced
a crowbar and belted him in the head with it she could not have
shocked him more.
     "What... do you mean?" he asked, his voice husky with pain and
mounting rage.
     "Well, it was all there, wasn't it?  You couldn't handle your own
ship, so Kirk saved the day for you.  Except this time it cost him his
life.  What I want to know is, what are you going to do next time you
get into trouble, and Kirk's not there?"
     Harriman crossed the floor in two paces, seized her wrists, and
>>> Continued to next message
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: Photogenic Captain    4/5
From: rebecca.anderson@homebase.com (Rebecca Anderson)
Path: tivoli.tivoli.com!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!cs.utexas.edu!utnut!torn!uunet.ca!uunet.ca!hombas!rebecca.anderson
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <b1.1536.3355.0N55C868@homebase.com>
Date: Mon, 27 Feb 95 11:23:00 +0000
Organization: Home Base BBS - St. Thomas, Ontario - (519)633-7253
Lines: 147
Xref: tivoli.tivoli.com alt.startrek.creative:6657

>>> Continued from previous message
half-yanked her to her feet.  "I didn't kill him!"
     "He died because of you," said Gillian.  Her voice was quiet, but
there was no gentleness in it.  "What's the difference?"  She tried to
pull her hands away, but Harriman only tightened his grip.
     "I would have gone," he insisted.  "I was going to go.  He
wouldn't let me.  He made his own choice."
     Gillian's cold gaze met his, unblinking.  "There had to be
something you could do."
     "There was nothing I could do!"
     "Kirk would have thought of something."
     "I AM NOT KIRK!"  Harriman shouted.
     Gillian made no attempt to reply, but the hardness went out of
her eyes.  And all at once Harriman realized what he had said.  He
released her and sank back on his heels, stunned.
     "It's a pretty simple revelation, isn't it?" Gillian said after a
moment.  "Odd that it would take you this long to figure it out."
     "Gill," said Harriman, his voice muffled behind his hands, "I am
not going to be mediocre."
     "You had better not be!"
     The fierceness in her voice made him look up sharply, his eyes
searching hers.  Suddenly Gillian seemed interested in the design of
the coffee table, and crouched down to examine it.
      "You don't believe I killed him," said Harriman flatly.
     Her fingers traced a curlicue on the table's surface.  "Of course
not.  Don't be absurd."
     "You came here all the way from London to make me angry?"
     "How else were you going to think straight?"  She rose to her
feet, folded her arms, and regarded him levelly.  "You're not Kirk, as
you said.  You're John Harriman.  You're the Captain of the
_Enterprise_-B.  Not Kirk's _Enterprise_.  The ship might be called
the U.S.S. _Rheumatic Gerbil_ for all the difference it makes, because
it's _your_ ship.  Not his.  Especially not now that he's dead."
     "Gillian..."  He sat down heavily in the armchair she had just
vacated.  "I don't know that I've got what it takes."
     "Oh, for heaven's sake.  When am I going to cure you of this
self-pitying rubbish?"  Gillian stalked back toward him, braced her
hands on the arms of the chair and leaned over him, green eyes
glittering in the half-light.  "If you insist on insulting the
intelligence and good judgment of the Starfleet Admiralty, that's your
business.  But I won't have you insult me as well.  I know you better
than you know yourself.  And there has never been a doubt in my mind
that you are going to be one of the best captains Starfleet's ever
had."  She straightened up.  "Maybe you won't become a legend like
Kirk.  Most people don't.  But I'll bet my eye teeth that a hundred
years from now, when people talk about Captain John Harriman, they'll
do so with respect."
     Harriman looked up at her, a questioning line between his brows.
There was a brittle edge to her voice he'd never heard before, a
tension that owed nothing to the angry impatience she affected.
     "So," Gillian concluded, "stop being such a baby."  The words
were in character, but they lacked spirit, as though provoking him had
somehow drained her.  She turned and walked away to examine a painting
on the wall.  Harriman, after a moment's thought, pushed himself up to
his feet and followed.
     "You could have made me just as angry via subspace," he said in
her ear.  She jumped, and he could have sworn he saw her colour rise.
But when she replied her voice was steady:
     "Probably, but what would you have shaken to vent your feelings?
The floor lamp?"  She lifted a hand, pushing back a loose strand of
hair, and for the first time he saw the raw mark on her wrist where he
had seized her.
     Remorse made him impulsive.  Before she could lower her arm again
he caught her fingers lightly in his own, turned her hand over, and
kissed the bruise.  He felt her shudder, but she did not pull her hand
away.  And in another moment he realized that she was crying.
     "I was watching the launching live on holo," she said in an
emotionless voice, brushing away her tears with two brusque movements
of her free hand.  "And when you were pulled into that energy ribbon,
we lost the signal.  And I thought you might be dead."
     "But when you found out I wasn't--"
     "By then you looked like you wanted to be."  Meditatively,
Harriman kissed her wrist again, and heard her breath catch, just a
little, before she went on:  "So I thought somebody had better
disabuse you of this idiot notion.  And I didn't know anybody else I
could count on to do it properly.  So I came."
     "I'm glad you came."  Gently he pulled her around to face him.
"I've been thinking about you all day."
     Realization dawned on her face, firmed into stern resolve.
"Harriman," she said, "don't do this to me."
     "Revenge," whispered Harriman, advancing as she stepped back.
"Sweet, sweet revenge..."
     She kicked him in the shin.  He staggered, and she slipped away.
But in a moment he was up again, and smiling.
     "If you're trying to reach the door," he said, "you're going in
the wrong direction."
     Gillian looked past him at the closed door, as though realizing
for the first time where it was.  The performance was almost
convincing.  "I can't help it," she said tartly, "if I'm not used to
hanging about in the dark like a bat.  Now if you'll excuse me--"
     She strode forward with impressive determination.  Harriman
graciously stepped aside and let her pass, watched her falter as she
realized he wasn't going to stand in her way.  The hesitation lasted
only a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to convince
Harriman that for the first time in over twenty years, he had the
advantage of Gillian Ransome.
     She moved quickly, but he was faster.  Just before she reached
the door, he caught her arm, spun her around, and pulled her against
him.  She stiffened, but this time did not resist.
     "How long have you been in love with me?" he asked her in a low
voice.
     "Harriman--"
     "Just answer the question.  How long?"
     "You flatter yourself," she snapped.
     "Or some other fool does," replied Harriman, remembering
Ishiguro's words.  "So, Gillian... how long have you been a fool?"  He
flashed her a grin, leaned closer.  "Answer me, or... _je touche_."
     Mutinously, Gillian clamped her mouth shut.  "Have it your way,"
said Harriman, and kissed her until she gasped for breath.
     "What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?"
     "Our two main weapons are fear and surprise," agreed Harriman,
who was feeling more than a little light-headed.  "Surprise and
fear--and nice red outfits.  Three.  Our three main weapons are--"
     "Harriman," said Gillian in exasperation, "shut up," and quite
mercilessly bit his lower lip.
     Harriman shut up.
     Bliss, however, was short-lived, for in another breathless moment
Gillian pulled away.  "You forget yourself, my sweet," she told him,
with a smile that was half reprimand, half apology.  "I meant what I
told Admiral Ishiguro, and I won't be made a liar."
     Harriman blinked and gave himself a mental shake, trying to clear
the red haze in his mind.  "You have no idea how fortunate you really
are," he said at last, "that I am not Kirk."
     "If you were," said Gillian with a quirk of one eyebrow, "I would
never have given you the time of day."  She leaned over and kissed the
tip of his nose.  "Count your blessings, John Harriman.  Good night."
     And just like that, she was gone.
                                *     *     *
     "Captain," said a voice from behind him, "The medical staff have
arrived.  They're waiting in Sickbay for your review."
     Harriman turned slowly from the viewport to see Commander Krewson
standing in the doorway.  "Come in," he said.
     Krewson advanced and stood at attention, his bearded face
impassive.  "At ease, Commander," Harriman told him.  "Are the tests I
ordered complete?"
     "Yes, sir," said his second-in-command, relaxing slightly.  "Both
the tractor beam and the photon torpedoes appear to be in perfect
working order."
     "I'm sure they are.  Nevertheless, I'd still like to review the
testing data before we leave spacedock.  Can you have Engineering send
me their full report?  Then you and I can go over it together."
     "Aye, Captain," agreed Krewson, with a hint of surprise, and
Harriman smiled.
     "One can't _always_ be prepared, Bill, but I'm certainly going to
try.  How does the medical staff look to you?"
     Krewson spread his hands in a gesture Harriman would soon learn
>>> Continued to next message
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: Photogenic Captain    5/5
From: rebecca.anderson@homebase.com (Rebecca Anderson)
Path: tivoli.tivoli.com!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!cs.utexas.edu!utnut!torn!uunet.ca!uunet.ca!hombas!rebecca.anderson
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <b1.1537.3355.0N55C869@homebase.com>
Date: Mon, 27 Feb 95 11:23:00 +0000
Organization: Home Base BBS - St. Thomas, Ontario - (519)633-7253
Lines: 88
Xref: tivoli.tivoli.com alt.startrek.creative:6658

>>> Continued from previous message
to recognize as typical.  "Shall we say..." he began, then stopped,
obviously searching for the right word.
     "Green?" suggested Harriman.
     The first officer gave a short laugh.  "I wouldn't know if they
were.  I'm colour-blind.  But yes, they do seem a little nervous."
     "Well, after what happened last week, I can't exactly blame
them."  Harriman flashed the Commander a grin, and watched Krewson's
eyebrows shoot up in response.
     "I have to say, Captain," he said cautiously, "I wasn't expecting
you to be handling the situation so well.  We didn't see much of you
for a while, and there was a rumour--"
     "Nothing less than the truth, I'm sure," said Harriman.  "The
Starfleet rumour mill is the most reputable in the galaxy.  However,
life does go on, doesn't it?  Even without James T. Kirk to spice it
up."  He clapped Krewson on the shoulder.  "Come on, then.  We'll go
give these new medics a checkup."
                                *     *     *
     Three hours later the _Enterprise_-B slipped out of the steely
embrace of spacedock, and turned with the ponderous elegance of a
dowager queen to face the vast unknown.  Admiral Ishiguro had given
them their first orders:  they were to patrol the Delvari System, an
area still under dispute in the current Federation-Klingon
negotiations.  Starfleet Intelligence suspected the Klingons had begun
constructing a covert stronghold on Cholnidar, the sector's only
M-class planet, and wanted the _Enterprise_ to keep an eye on
it--tactfully and diplomatically, of course.
     "Captain on the bridge!" announced Ensign Farash, a little too
loudly.  Harriman gave him a brief dampening glance before moving to
the command chair and sitting down.
     "Navigator," he said, "What is our current heading?"
     "Course heading two-five-six, mark three-oh-nine, sir," came the
reply from Lt. Vibeke Magnussen.  A cool-eyed Norwegian beauty, she
had joined the crew at the last minute, after the unfortunate death of
their previous navigator.  Despite the late start, however, she showed
every sign of fitting in.  Harriman made a mental note to commend
Commander Krewson for choosing her.
     "Set course for the Delvari System," he said.
     "Aye, sir.  New heading six-nine-one mark two-five-three."
     "Engage," Harriman said, with a nod to Ensign Demora Sulu, who
smiled her compliance as her fingers flitted across the helm controls.
     "At our current speed of Warp Four we will reach the Delvari
System in approximately ten hours, Captain," she said, glancing back
at him for approval.  Harriman nodded.
     "I'll be in the Conference Room with Commander Krewson," he said,
rising from his seat.  "Lieutenant Commander DeJager, you have the
bridge."
     "Aye, sir," came the reply as a dark, serious-looking young man
hastened to obey.
     Harriman was halfway into the turbolift when he heard Lieutenant
Shapiro cry out:  "Captain!  I'm receiving a distress signal from
Outpost Twelve.  They say they're under attack!"
     Instantly Harriman was alert.  "Helm, what's the nearest ship to
the Outpost?"
     Ensign Sulu frowned at the readings a moment.  "There are two
other ships in the vicinity," she said.  "The _Salk_ and the
_Copernicus_."
     "A medical supply ship and a science vessel.  No good," Harriman
told her.  "So I suppose that leaves us?"
     "Not quite," admitted Demora.  "The _Invincible_ is docked at
Starbase Fifteen."
     "I'll contact them," said Shapiro hastily.
     Harriman walked down the ramp to the command chair, displaced
DeJager with a wave of his hand, and sat down, fingers drumming on the
arm console.  "Well?" he asked after a moment.
     "No good, sir," Shapiro said, grimacing.  "The _Invincible_ is
under repair."
     "Get back on that signal," Harriman told him.  "I want to know
_who's_ attacking that outpost."
     A pause.  "They don't know, sir.  Their sensor tower was knocked
out by the first blast.  They say it just seemed to come from
nowhere."
     Silence descended on the _Enterprise_'s bridge as all eyes turned
toward Harriman.  He could read the same question in every gaze, sense
their fear, their uncertainty.  He knew exactly how they felt, and
why, and he didn't blame them one bit.
     But things were different now.  There were no journalists to
record this moment for posterity; no James T. Kirk to invite odious
comparisons.  And Tuesday had come and gone.
     Harriman leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he
contemplated the stars streaking past the main viewer.  An unexpected
crisis, an unknown enemy.  Kirk would have loved it.  John Harriman,
such as he was, simply acknowledged it.
     And accepted it.
     "Tell them to hold on, Mr. Shapiro," he said.  "Tell them...
we'll be right there."

                                   THE END
