Title: The Killer Dame
Fandom: Star Trek Voyager. Pairing: Janeway/Seven/Torres. Rating: R.
Summary: Parody of the episode “The Killing Game”, with references to the BBC comedy series “Allo, Allo”, created by David Croft and Jeremy Lloyd.
Warning: This story contains scenes involving amour between women. Occasional coarse language, violence, and numerous double entendres.
Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek: Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount and Viacom. Dialogue and characters from “Allo, Allo” are the property of the BBC.
Feedback to: firstname.lastname@example.org. Archiving and downloading are welcome as long as you credit the author. Thanks to Meagan for her beta work.
THE KILLER DAME (Part One of Two)
Captain Janeway was standing in a small mid-twentieth century room, dressed in a white tuxedo. “Begin Captain’s personal log,” she said.
“You might wonder what I am doing in a holodeck representation of World War II France with yet another different hairstyle, calling myself ‘Katrine’ and dressed up like a cup of flat white. Well nineteen days ago the Hirogen, a race of beings who hunt sentient life-forms as part of their culture, somehow managed to take over Voyager without killing off so many of the crew that we couldn’t continue the series. The survivors are running through endless holodeck programs in which the Hirogen hunt them down over and over again. They have been implanted with neural interfaces to make them believe that they are the holonovel characters. Fortunately Ensign Kim and the Doctor managed to deactivate my interface. I must now try and retake Voyager with half my crew locked up and the other half thinking they’re participants in a bad war movie. My only hope is that before I succeed in retaking the ship, the Hirogen will somehow manage to kill off Neelix.”
A knock on the door interrupted her. “End log”. Janeway straightened her tux. She had to continue the deception that she was ‘Katrine’ until the Doctor and Harry could disable the neural interface controls for the rest of the crew. The Hirogen could not be allowed to realise that anything was wrong.
“Mademoiselle, am I disturbing you?” said the voice from outside the room.
“Who is it?” asked Janeway, though she had instantly recognised Seven of Nine’s cool tones. She needed to discover what names the others were using.
“It is I,” said Seven. “Mademoiselle Sioxante Neuf.”
Well that name sounds very…French. “Enter.”
The door opened and in came Seven of Nine. Janeway’s mouth dropped open in sheer astonishment at the sight of the Borg. The captain had become used to the form-fitting nature of the former drone’s biosuit, but she was completely unprepared for the naked expanse of flesh displayed by Seven’s French waitress outfit. The huge breasts of the young blonde strained against the confines of a tight white bodice. Seven’s long smooth legs, bare of stockings due to the wartime shortage of nylon, vanished enticingly under a short black skirt. Her hair had been released from its tight bun and tumbled in wavy golden tresses around her shoulders. The Borg’s usual expression of cold arrogance was replaced by blue-grey eyes that lustfully promised dark, sinful pleasures of the flesh to whomever could afford 500 francs or a bar of black market chocolate. Her pout gave Janeway the peculiar urge to bend the impertinent ex-drone across her knees and spank her vigorously until Seven was forced to agree that compassion was relevant!
Seven of Nine stood waiting for Janeway’s command in her usual hands-behind-back posture. The strain this created on her bodice snapped off two buttons and sent them flying across the room.
“Sioxante,” said Janeway, trying unsuccessfully not to stare at the abyss of cleavage that had suddenly been revealed. “What is the er, situation?”
“I have just spoken to Monsieur Toubucs,” said Seven/Sioxante, enjoying the way Mademoiselle Katrine’s eyes strayed to her chest every time she took a breath. “He says that a new German officer has arrived, General Von Klinkerhirogen. He has fought under Rommel in Africa and Schmidt in Poland. A formidable military strategist - notorious for his cruelty.” Seven said the last part with wide eyes, visions of being thrashed by the general’s riding crop flashing through her cortical processor.
‘Mmm,’ thought Janeway. ‘He must be the Hirogen Alpha. And Toubucs, would that be Tuvok? That would be handy. I wish Seven would stop taking those deep breaths. I can’t concentrate!’
“Brigitte should be returning from her reconnaissance soon,” continued Seven, sucking in yet another bodice-busting gulp of air. “We have acquired 1,247 francs and 81 Reich marks in monetary compensation from the till. I have also received another 500 francs for my own services. My lover told me that the German High Command is refusing to move troops from the Pas de Calais area. They believe the attack at Normandy is just a diversion. He also informed me that I was the best screw he’d had in his entire life.”
“SEVEN!” gasped Janeway, shocked to the core of her Starfleet morality.
Seven raised a metallic eyebrow in a haughty fashion. “More like a ten, Katrine,” she said arrogantly. “He, on the other hand, rated poorly. In the midst of our eighth attempt at copulation he turned blue in the face and died. His cardiac muscle was inefficient.”
“Oh my mocha beans!” said Janeway, rolling her eyes. “What on Earth did you do with the body?”
“Toubucs carved him up and sold the meat to a German soup kitchen as black market goulash. The bones have been flogged off to those strange new Nazi’s. Apparently they use them to decorate their walls or something.”
Janeway took a deep breath of her own. “Se__, I mean Sioxante. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I no longer want you sleeping with Germans, you understand?” The captain stepped close to the Borg, her eyes shining with maternal affection. “The thought of you in bed with those horrible Nazi pigs is more than I can bear.”
Sioxante’s lips trembled as she studied the woman who had rescued her from a German army brothel. “And do you...no longer wish my services, Katrine?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I do,” said Janeway, thinking the young woman was talking about being fired.
“Then I will comply,” said the Borg, lifting up the front of Janeway’s dress.
“Sioxante!! What are you…OH COFFEA LIBERICA!” gasped Janeway as Seven began to efficiently lick a part of her body that hadn’t seen a hot tongue in four years. The captain moaned in ecstasy. ‘I really shouldn’t be taking advantage of Seven this way,’ Janeway thought, pushing the Borg’s blonde head further between her legs. ‘She isn’t herself. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. I must tell her to stop. In a minute or so. Well maybe longer that that...’
The door opened and B’Elanna Torres entered, wearing a black beret and trenchcoat and carrying a bag of groceries. She stared in shock at the tableau before her. “Katrine, what are you doing with that serving girl?!”
Janeway shoved Seven away so fast she left warp trails. “You stupid woman! Can’t you see she is helping me adjust my suspenders?”
“Well, I’ve just finished my own ‘reconnaissance’,” said B’Elanna sarcastically. “And I was also able to pick up a new radio oscillator from our courier.” She emptied her groceries onto the table.
“Coffee!” gasped Janeway, diving on a jar as if it was a priceless rubidium geode. “Brigitte, there’s something I’ve got to ask you that might seem unusual__”
“I WAS BORN WITH THEM, OK!” shouted B’Elanna. “I DON'T KNOW WHY I'VE GOT THESE STUPID RIDGES ON MY FOREHEAD!”
“It’s all right for you,” complained Seven. “I’ve still got all these bits of metal stuck in me from that exploding German shell. I look like some kind of outer-space woman from one of those ‘Astounding Stories’. Do you realise the problems they cause when I’m making love? While they’re poking me, I’m always poking them!”
Brigitte snorted in contempt. Sioxante Neuf never failed to annoy her. Those years in a brothel seemed to have affected her head. She was obsessed with the remorseless pursuit of the Perfect Orgasm.
“No, what I was going to ask is,” said Janeway, eager to get back to the subject. “Are there any strange-looking Nazi’s about?”
“Just those members of the elite 47th Hero Generation Battalion,” said B’Elanna. “They’re a weird bunch. They keep saying I’ve got nice bones.”
“Yes those HeroGen are peculiar individuals,” said Seven, smiling innocently at the half-Klingon. “Especially their...foreheads.”
Janeway grabbed B’Elanna before she could pound the Borg’s ocular implant deeper into her skull.
“Stop bickering you two,” said the captain, her command voice cutting across the room. “Now listen very carefully. I will say this only once. A British secret agent will soon be arriving at the café. He’ll identify himself to you Brigitte, by giving the password.”
“Which is?” asked B’Elanna as she glared at Seven, her mind filled with the strange image of thousands of big hairy men with peculiar foreheads, waving curved swords and shouting, “Borg petaQ!”
“He’ll probably say something like, ‘B’Elanna, is that you?’”
“And how is this secret agent supposed to recognise me? No don’t say it, these bloody ridges!” B’Elanna stomped out the door, muttering to herself. Seven followed, giving Janeway a parting sultry glance that immediately made the captain’s heart rate jump to full impulse.
Clasping the jar of coffee to her chest, Janeway went in search of a kettle.
* * * * * *
Janeway found both a kettle and Tuvok downstairs. He was sitting at a table listening to the broadcast of Personal Messages on the BBC.
“The long sobs of the heartbroken slash writers,” said the announcer, the voice crackling through the static of attempted Nazi jamming. “The long sobs of the heartbroken slash writers.”
Tuvok raised an eyebrow. “The American Fourth Infantry will arrive tomorrow at dawn,” he translated.
“Good,” said Janeway. She grabbed the biggest mug she could find and dumped half a dozen spoonfuls of coffee into it. “Mind you, in military time that probably means they’ll arrive next year.”
“Brannon Braga is the Prince of Darkness. Brannon Braga is the Prince of Darkness.”
“They require us to disable the enemy communications.”
Janeway poured hot water on the ground beans, savouring the sight and smell of the finest liquid substance ever devised. She’d beat the Borg with it. The Hirogen had no chance. The captain took a hefty swig.
“C/7 awaits you. C/7 awaits you.”
“SHIT!” cried Janeway, spitting out a mouthful of liquid. “What kind of coffee is this?!”
Tuvok raised his other brow in surprise. “Ersatz, naturally. Made of crushed acorns. Our courier calls it, ‘The Elixir of Endurance’.” He switched off the radio. “It has a bitter taste, but as Neuf said when she slept with that German staff officer, taste is irrelevant.”
“Can’t we get some real coffee on the black market?” asked Janeway, a look of desperate panic on her face. She’d anticipated all kinds of obstacles, but nothing as bad as THIS!
“It is not logical to waste money on luxuries when we need funds for the Resistance. I doubt we will see a cup of real coffee until after the war.”
“The Horror!” gasped Janeway. “The Horror!” Her face went pale as blood drained from her features. How could she retake Voyager without coffee?
B’Elanna stuck her head round the doorframe. “Our spy has arrived but there’s a...slight problem. We’ve got him in the larder.”
Still in a state of shock, Janeway stumbled down the stairs to the larder with the others. She found Harry Kim there, lying unconscious among the meat and cheeses, his head resting comfortably between two large melons. The young ensign was dressed in a French policeman’s uniform.
“Your British secret agent isn’t much of a man,” complained the owner of the melons, Seven of Nine. “I invited him upstairs for a quickie and he FAINTED!”
“For the British to send a Chinaman to infiltrate Europe is not logical,” said Tuvok.
“He’s from the colonies,” said Janeway. “Err...French Indo-China.” She leant down and shook him gently. “Harry?”
Harry Kim groaned and muttered something about ‘deep cleavage’.
B’Elanna rolled her eyes and kicked Harry hard in the ribs screaming, “WAKE UP!”
“UUGH!” grunted Harry, sitting up straight. He looked around at everyone.
“Good moaning,” said the young ensign in an atrocious imitation of a French accent. “Captain?” he whispered hesitantly to Janeway.
“It’s alright Ensign,” muttered Janeway. She said to the others, “This is our contact from London. His name is Kim, Harry Kim. He has brought instructions for us from...er...Charles De Gaulle!”
“Er...yes...um...before I loft Ungland,” said Harry, continuing with his awful accent. “Charles De Gaulle gave me a special massage.”
“I didn’t know the leader of the Free French was that kind of man!” exclaimed Seven.
“The massage is this. The Dicktor plans to set orf a fartonic bum which will destroy the nooral interfarce cuntrools. You must fart with the Nitzi’s on the holodick to distroct them. The farting will draw the Hirogen onto the dick where they will farce our socret wippin. When they see the pooer of our mighty wippin they will be forced to sue for piss.”
“What?!” asked a stupefied Janeway.
“Is this some kind of mysterious British code?” inquired Tuvok.
“I have anozer pooerful socret wippin hodden in my troosers,” said Harry. Seven’s eyes widened as the handsome ensign reached into his pants to pull out his powerful weapon...only to frown in disappointment as a phaser was revealed.
“The Hirogen on the holodick are only uhmed with wippins from the noonteen-farties,” said Harry, handing the phaser to Janeway. “With thoos you can arsely out-shat them.”
“Well done, Harry!” said the captain. She really should give thought to that long overdue promotion for the young ensign. “Did you bring some coffee as well?”
“Ah, no. I hadn’t thought of that.”
On second thoughts, Ensign Kim clearly lacked the initiative necessary in a senior Starfleet officer.
“The Dicktor wishes to spook with you parsniply. He said you must access ze cuntrools of this dick.”
“That appears to be my area of proficiency,” said Seven, hungrily studying the parameters of Harry’s long baton. Its dimensions were perfect.
‘The holodeck controls?’ thought Janeway. ‘Where would they be on this program. Of course!’
“Where’s the radio transmitter?”
“Same place it always is,” said B’Elanna. “In the attic, under your mother-in-law’s bed.”
“Harry,” said Janeway. “I want you to return to err...England and give the Doctor whatever assistance he needs. The rest of you, upstairs.”
B’Elanna grabbed Harry on the way out. “You look pretty cute,” she growled lustfully. “How about we get in some quick amour before you leave? Could be our last time, you know.”
“Ah, new thonks, I g-got some before I loft Ungland,” stammered Harry. Apart from the fact that Tom was his best friend, Harry also knew that the injuries he’d receive from the half-Klingon during sex were nothing compared to what B'Elanna would inflict when she realised he'd taken advantage of her while her mind was impaired.
B’Elanna snorted and tossed the ensign aside in contempt. There was an almighty crash as Harry went flying into a cabinet, knocking over half a dozen china ornaments.
“Er, sorry,” said B’Elanna sheepishly. She turned to go up to the attic and bumped into Seven, ricocheting off the Borg’s formidable shock absorbers.
“What is it now?” asked B’Elanna testily, though she couldn’t help noticing how firm and bouncy Seven’s breasts had felt.
“There’s one of those bloody Gestapo men out the back!”
“Well, why didn’t you distract him then? He won’t see or hear anything with his head buried in your cleavage,” was B’Elanna’s snide response.
“It’s Lieutenant Gruber,” Seven answered, looking at Tuvok.
Tuvok raised his eyebrows in a long-suffering manner and walked out the back entrance.
“Good morning Mr Senegal!” said Leutnant Gruber gaily. He was poking through the crates they had stacked there, sniffing the truffles. Gruber was a short, cheerful man with whiskers on his face and spots on his hands (not to mention a strange forehead).
“How many times do I have to tell you sir,” said the Vulcan stiffly. “I was born in Senegal, but my name is Toubucs.”
“I would have come through the bar Mr Senegal, but you know I prefer the back route.”
“We are all aware of that, sir.”
“Did I ever tell you that I used to be a cook before the war?”
“Frequently sir,” said Tuvok, trying desperately to maintain control of some extremely violent emotions.
“However the Fatherland called and, while I don’t mind working in Security,” Gruber said, tapping the silver Sicherheitsdienst insignia on his collar. “I can’t help feeling that Germany has been deprived of an excellent chef.”
“A great tragedy, sir.”
“You really should come round to the barracks and sample my sausage,” Neelix/Gruber said, looking up at Tuvok with adoring eyes.
“I am...rather busy sir,” replied Tuvok, edging away.
“I hear you black people have quite good...sausages yourself,” said Neelix, following closely.
“I’m afraid sir, that my sausage was damaged in the same rice-picking accident that disfigured my ears.”
“Oh you poor man! Let me give you a big hug, Mr Senegal.”
“That will not be necessary sir,” said Tuvok, backing up until he hit the door. “I will fetch your brandy for you now.” The Vulcan dived into the café as fast as possible.
“Well, what does he want?” asked Janeway, quickly taking her hand out from under Seven’s skirt.
“Just the usual bribe,” said Tuvok, grabbing two bottles of calvados and a large wheel of Camembert cheese. “If I am not back in ten minutes, please send a rescue party.”
* * * * * *
The attic was the domain of Katrine’s mother-in-law, a senile old bat with a mysterious tattoo on her forehead. She kept having flashbacks to when she was an actor, whining that she never got to do anything in her parts or never got any good lines.
“Katrine!” screeched Chakotay, thumping the floor with his cane. Voyager’s first officer was dressed in an old woman’s nightie and bonnet. “What were you just doing with that serving girl?!”
“You stupid woman!” said Janeway. “Can’t you see that I need to squeeze Sioxante’s buttocks in order to strengthen my hands!”
“Strengthen your hands? For what?”
Janeway and Seven answered by grabbing hold of Chakotay’s bed and lifting it straight up on its end.
“AARGH!” cried Chakotay as he slid into an undignified heap between the bed and the wall.
“You know, this reminds me of something,” said Seven, frowning at the now vertical bed.
B’Elanna lifted up the fake floorboards to get the radio out. She was surprised when Janeway pushed her aside and lifted off the front of the radio to expose the holodeck controls.
“What the hell is THAT?” asked B’Elanna, staring at all the weird flashing lights and shiny panels.
“A new secret British invention,” said Janeway, trying to modify one of the holoemitters to produce a decent cup of coffee. Unfortunately, all she got was the Doctor on a tiny viewscreen.
B’Elanna and Seven jumped in shock. “Who are you?”
“I’m ahhh…” A holographic cigar suddenly appeared in the Doctor’s hand. “I am Winston Churchill!”
‘Good thinking Doctor,’ thought Janeway. She changed her mind as Brigitte and Sioxante glared at the man who had ordered the destruction of the French fleet at Mers-el-Kebir.
“What did you want to speak to me about, Mr Churchill?” asked Janeway. “What’s all this about a secret weapon?”
Doc puffed on his cigar and pronounced in stentorian tones: “You...my gallant French allies...who struggle against the evil Hiro__sorry...Nazi hordes...must now engage in the final battle. If we succeed...Voyager will journey onto the broad, sunlit uplands of the Alpha Quadrant. But if we fail...this series will plunge into a new Dark Age of the awful seventh season. So let us brace ourselves by increasing power to the structural integrity fields. And even if the Star Trek franchise should last for another thirty years, they will still say...this was our finest two hour-long episode!”
“Get on with it,” muttered Janeway.
"You...must create a diversion on the holodeck...to draw all the Hirogen there. Meanwhile I...will proceed to the hydroponics bay...and irradiate the plants with anti-matter residue. We...will create a weapon so powerful...that Hitler and his evil minions...will flee in mortal fear...like the cowardly dogs they are!"
“Sounds good to me!” said Janeway. “But whatever you do, don’t irradiate my coffee plants!” With a self-satisfied mien she shoved the radio back under the floorboards and tipped the bed forward again. It hit with an enormous crash, the impact throwing Chakotay off the mattress and onto the floor. There was a hollow thud as the wooden floorboards were struck by the first officer’s equally wooden face.
“THAT was for challenging my authority over the Borg treaty,” said Janeway wickedly.
There was a knock on the door and Tuvok entered.
“We have a problem,” said the Vulcan. “I was trying to prevent Gruber from taking me in the back alley when one of his men came and reported that they’d just picked up a British spy cunningly disguised as a Chinese policeman.” The three women gasped in shock at this terrible news.
“What will we do?” cried Seven. “You know what the Gestapo are like. Resistance is futile. The British agent will tell them everything!”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” muttered B’Elanna. “Even if he does talk, they won’t understand a word he’s saying.”
“We must adapt these distinct circumstances to service us,” continued Seven. “The Germans will undoubtedly come to round up the other members of our Collective. We must ambush them and create the distraction Mr Churchill needs.”
“Excellent idea, Sioxante,” said Janeway, leaping into action. “Brigitte, I want you to contact all the members of the Resistance and have them meet us here as soon as possible, fully armed. Toubucs, see if you can get in touch with the American forces on the radio; I want an update on their expected time of arrival. And Sioxante, while we’re waiting, you’d better come with me into the bedroom. My...er...suspenders need adjusting again.”
Can Janeway survive without coffee long enough to retake Voyager? What horrible things will Neelix do to Ensign Kim with his sausage? What is the Doctor’s mysterious secret weapon? And will Seven and B’Elanna ever learn to stop squabbling and adjust each other’s suspenders? To find out, tune in next week for the final thrilling episode of…THE KILLER DAME!
THE KILLER DAME (Part Two)
Last week, our heroes faced numerous obstacles in their attempt to retake the ship from the Hirogen. Captain Janeway, deprived of coffee, is engaging in increasingly erratic behaviour. Commander Chakotay has been reduced to a whining old woman. B’Elanna and Seven are at each other’s throats. Ensign Kim was captured and is now at the mercy of Neelix’s cooking. And the Doctor thinks he has the answer to everything. In short, it’s business as usual on Star Trek: Voyager.
It was an opulent room, full of art treasures and scrumptious food looted from all over Europe. An enormous painting hung in pride of place behind the desk of Leutnant Gruber: ‘The Mouth-watering Dish with Huge Dumplings’ by Van Clomp.
“Ever since my days at the university I've admired this painting...and now it’s mine,” said Neelix as he strutted across the room in his Nazi uniform. “My fellow officers might prefer gold or land but for me the greatest prize of war is art.”
The short Talaxian stopped in front of Harry Kim, who was sitting in a lavish Louis XIV chair with his hands tied behind his back. “And good food, of course,” Neelix added, beaming at the young ensign in an affable manner.
Harry gave a hesitant smile in return.
“what are you grinning at?” shouted Neelix, smacking him across the face with an enormous knackwurst sausage. “i don’t know why I’ve got these stupid spots! i was born with them!” He slugged Harry a second time, knocking him completely out of the chair. “Who are your contacts? Where are your safe houses? What are your radio codes? What is the Resistance planning? How are they organised? What are your secret orders from Charles De Gaulle? What is the recipe for black pudding?”
“Which one of those do you want me to answer?” yelled Harry, crawling back onto the chair.
“I ASK THE QUESTIONS!” Neelix roared, picking up a bowl of sauerkraut with diced pork and breaking it over the ensign’s head. The Talaxian wrapped a spotted paw around Harry’s neck and proceeded to stuff a long French loaf smothered in thick lashings of butter and strawberry jam down his throat.
Harry’s jaws worked frantically as he tried to eat his way out of suffocation.
“Who is the leader of the Resistance in Sainte Claire, this mysterious ‘Killer Dame’? What is meant when they talk about her secret weapon, the Glare of Death?”
Harry spat out a hunk of bread and gasped, “Your leola root stew tastes like Vidiian piss!”
Neelix stormed over to the buffet, grabbed a plate of meatballs in tomato sauce with extra veges on the side and shoved the whole lot between Harry’s eyes. “I won’t have any slant-eyed untermensch making a fool out of me!” Neelix seized a bowl of black pepper, pulled back the ensign’s head and poured the whole lot into his nose, making him sneeze uncontrollably.
“What is the identity of the beautiful assassin who murders our soldiers by smothering them in her cleavage? What does she mean when she says, ‘resisting me is futile’?”
“That hairstyle makes you look like a Klingon targ!” replied Harry, earning himself a smack in the face with a triple-decker soft cheese sandwich (with onions), a dish of poulet au sang, and a litre of cognac from a particularly bad year. Neelix followed this up by force-feeding the young ensign a fistful of jalapenos, a large tin of curry powder and the entire contents of a bottle of Extra Hot Red Devil Sauce Number One.
“AAARRGGGHHHH!!!!!!!” screamed Harry out of his scalded throat.
“You think you’re tough?” Neelix growled as he proceeded to throttle his prisoner with a long strand of spaghetti. “I’ve had many so-called tough guys in here! They all talk in the end!”
Harry’s face turned purple and he began to make choking noises. Neelix tossed him to the floor in disgust. Rushing over to the table, Neelix grabbed hold of one end and tipped it forward. A whole smorgasbord of food slid off the edge and crashed down on top of the hapless ensign, drowning him in Scandinavian herrings, smoked eel, salmon, bread, eggs, cheese, pickled vegetables and aspics.
Neelix sat down in his chair, pulled up a bowl and began making a shepherd’s pie.
Groaning, Harry lifted himself slowly up off the floor. He looked up to see the Talaxian cheerfully mashing some spuds with a German stick grenade.
“There’s no need for any of this,” said Neelix amiably. “Just tell me what I want to know.”
“After four years of your cooking I can put up with anything you dish out,” muttered Harry, promptly doubling over as Neelix jabbed him in the stomach with a stale bologna.
“Really?” queried Neelix. “We’ll see about that!” He slapped a buzzer on his desk.
Ensign Kim heard the door open behind him and two sets of boots stride across the room. Trembling with fear he turned around in his chair...and his eyes bulged in their sockets.
Standing behind him in tight-fitting Nazi uniforms stood Megan and Jennifer Delaney, carrying long whips that they cracked against their knee-length jackboots. Evil smiles played across the beautiful features of the twins.
“If you do not co-operate,” threatened Neelix. “These women will take you down to the cells, strip you naked, tie you to a rack and flog you mercilessly until you beg to do everything they ask!”
Harry couldn’t help it. He came in his pants.
* * * * * *
“The other members of the cell have arrived, Katrine,” said B’Elanna, leading in a group of Resistance fighters. Janeway was pleased to see they were all Voyager crewmembers, including the capable Ensign Vorik, who was calling himself ‘Pierre’.
Vorik/Pierre was eyeing B’Elanna/Brigitte with aesthetic appreciation.
“I wouldn’t get involved with that one Pierre,” advised one of his men, rubbing a circular scar on his cheek. “She bites.”
Tuvok gazed solemnly at Vorik’s pointed ears. “You worked in an automated rice-picking factory too, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” replied the Vulcan ensign. “My sausage was affected as well. For some reason it only works once every seven years.”
“All right, quiet everybody,” began Janeway, hefting a rifle that was taller than she was. “Here are your instructions. I want__”
“Pardon me for interrupting, Mademoiselle.”
Janeway blinked. “Yes...er, Pierre?”
“Mademoiselle Katrine,” said Vorik. “We are all aware of your reputation. And of course we all appreciate the vital work you have done in the service of our cause. However the time for gathering intelligence and running messages is over. What is required now is fighting, and that is the province of men. Women are far too emotional for this task. It only logical therefore that a man should lead this…”
His voice trailed off as Captain Janeway fixed him with the full force of her Glare of Death. Pierre was suddenly beset by a strange vision of himself endlessly scrubbing the outside of a large futuristic rocket ship called ‘Voyager’ with the aid of a very small toothbrush.
“Now listen very carefully you lot,” said Janeway, her tone of voice making everyone shiver as the ambient temperature dropped several degrees. “I shall say this only once. Over the past four years I have encountered many men who thought they could fuck with me, but none of them succeeded, not even Chakotay on New Earth. In a situation like this there is no room for petty disputes and power plays. I know you have always been divided amongst yourselves. Catholic, Communist, Socialist, Monarchist, Giraudist, and Gaullist. The Nazi’s have used this against us. But our diversity, our different ideals, make us rich and cultured, not decadent and weak as the Germans claim.” She looked around at the assembled Starfleet, former Maquis and Borg in the room. “I know that if we work together, we represent a force no-one in the universe can stop. For we are all fighting for the one cause. FRANCE!”
“Vive la France!” shouted Seven, with all the pride she had previously reserved for the Borg Collective.
“Vive la France!” shouted the Resistance men, brandishing their weapons.
Janeway turned an ersatz smile on Vorik. “And in case anyone here doesn’t think I have what it takes to be your leader…”
The captain pulled out a silenced Beretta .32, aimed it at a bottle of Mouton Rothschild and executed the priceless vintage in cold blood. Every Frenchman in the room gasped in shock at the ruthless atrocity.
“Does anyone in this room question Katrine’s right to lead us?” growled B’Elanna, her Sten gun pointing as if by accident at the groins of the Resistance men.
They all hastily agreed that Mademoiselle Katrine would indeed make a formidable commander.
Seven reached into a cupboard and removed a single shot German panzerfaust. “Their technology will adapt to service us,” she said, proudly hefting the anti-tank weapon.
“Aim very carefully,” advised Janeway. “You can fire it only once.”
“Well you’ve become awfully gung-ho,” sneered B’Elanna as she grabbed the rocket launcher off Seven. “When the Nazi’s first arrived in 1940 you said that resistance was futile. France lacked harmony, cohesion, greatness. It would be our undoing, you said. But you’ve changed your tune now that the Allies are winning, huh?”
“You know Mademoiselle Brigitte, when you snarl like that your forehead ridges really stand out!”
“Save it for the Germans!” snapped Janeway, grabbing B’Elanna before she could clout Seven with a rocket-propelled grenade. “Now get into your positions and wait for my signal. If anyone opens fire before I give the order, I’ll have the whole lot of you scrubbing the plasma exhau__, I mean the exhaust manifolds of every wood and charcoal-converted internal combustion vehicle in Occupied France!”
Janeway picked up the rifle that was taller than she was and followed them out the door, only to find B’Elanna blocking her path.
“Oh Katrine,” said B’Elanna, her eyes afire with Klingon passion. “Whenever you act all butch and commanding like that I have this rampant desire to tear off your clothes with my teeth and ravish you.”
“Not now Brigitte,” said Janeway, shoving her aside. “We’ve run out of clothing ration coupons.”
Unfortunately Janeway had forgotten that handling a Klingon in an aggressive manner was regarded as flirting. B’Elanna shoved Janeway back against the wall, stuck a tongue down her superior’s throat and proceeded to conduct a Level One diagnostic on her tonsils.
With the first kiss Captain Janeway regretted the fact that she was a Starfleet captain and would have to refuse the sexual advances of a subordinate. When B’Elanna started biting her neck and growling how she wanted to lick black market cream off her beloved Katrine’s body, Janeway began to think that regulations were a load of bureaucratic Starfleet crap best left back in the Alpha Quadrant. And when the fiery engineer stuck her hand up Janeway’s dress and started to finger her pussy the captain began making serious plans to have Tom Paris thrown out an airlock.
“Katrine!” came a shocked gasp from the door. “What are you doing with that serving girl?”
Janeway shoved B’Elanna away from her, a move that made the Klingon hybrid growl in unrequited lust and wonder why she had this strange urge to throw heavy objects.
“You stupid woman,” said Janeway to Seven. “Can’t you see that I have a secret message concealed in a vial between my legs and Brigitte is just trying to get it out?”
“It is an inefficient place of concealment,” the sexy Borg replied, pouting for the hundredth time. “I am frequently strip-searched by German security patrols, and they always examine that part of my body thoroughly.”
* * * * * *
They came marching down the main street of Sainte Claire like they had in 1940, the proud German army, showing the same incredible stupidity they always do in war movies. But then again the Germans had reason to be confident, for they were well equipped with panzers and armoured half-tracks instead of the horses that the vast majority of the Wehrmacht were actually using during World War Two.
Leutnant Gruber/Neelix was in the lead, driving a little tank of his own. It was hung with spare lengths of tank track, jerry cans of petrol, and several boxes of looted Brie cheese.
The members of the Maquis, hidden in the buildings above them, trembled as they listened to the clatter of tank tracks on cobblestones. But one look at the fearless command mask of The Killer Dame restored their bravery. And if that was not enough, the sensuous lips and large bosom of the young French girl crouched next to her reminded every man of what they were fighting for.
Seven of Nine, like Janeway, was dressed in a dark commando outfit. Her hair was dyed black, to stop it reflecting the light, and tied in a long ponytail down her back. A black t-shirt and shorts emphasised the Borg’s huge breasts and athletic legs. A Colt .45 automatic was strapped to each thigh.
“OK Lara,” said Janeway, using Sioxante’s codename. “Now!”
Seven pulled the pin out of a hand grenade with her teeth (fortunately she had Borg-enhanced teeth, otherwise they’d have come out with the pin) and chucked it at the Germans, yelling, “Sales Boche! Assimilate this!”
There was a deafening roar as the Resistance fired down into the street. The Nazi’s and Hirogen ducked for cover behind their vehicles and fired back up into the buildings.
Janeway pointed the rifle that was taller than she was into the street and pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked the diminutive captain right onto her ass.
“Great Cappuccino!” she said, staring at the .55 calibre Boys anti-tank rifle in disbelief. “Now I know why they invented phasers!”
“Look!” said one of the Resistance members, holding up a dented metal container. “The Boche bullet got stopped by my grandfather’s cigarette case!”
“Why that’s amaz_” began Janeway, and then stopped as the man fell over dead from the blunt force trauma to his heart.
“Katrine!” B’Elanna shouted up the stairs. “We’re running out of ammunition!”
“Decaf!” cursed Janeway, realising that this holonovel was based on old WWII movies, where the heroes never carried spare ammunition. She could use the phaser, but that would tip off the Hirogen that there were crewmembers that were no longer under the influence of the neural inhibitors. Thinking quickly, the captain stuffed a rag down a bottle of Chateau La Tour ‘28, lit it and threw the Molotov cocktail at Gruber’s little tank. It landed on the back of the vehicle and ignited the petrol cans stashed there.
“To waste a good ‘28 on Germans is not logical,” said Tuvok, pulling a chamber pot out from under Chakotay’s bed and pitching it as hard as he could at Neelix, who was struggling out of the burning panzer.
“Shit!” cried the Talaxian, as he was showered by the stinking contents.
“Yes it is,” growled the Hirogen crouching next to him, as he screwed a rifle grenade onto the end of his Kar-98 carbine.
“What’s going on out there?” The voice of the Hirogen Alpha crackled over the radio.
“It’s the Resistance sir,” said Neelix, wiping faeces off his uniform. “They’re throwing all kinds of crap at us!”
“Keep them pinned down,” ordered the Alpha. “I shall order all my Hirogen to proceed to your location at once. The hunt has begun.”
The Hirogen Beta raised his rifle and fired the grenade into an upper window, blowing out a large part of the wall. It fell away to reveal Chakotay still in his bed. “Cut out that noise!” he complained, waving his cane at them. “I’m trying to get some sleep!”
Coughing the smoke and dust out of her lungs, B’Elanna Torres stumbled through the wreckage of the Coeur de Lion’s attic. She found Tuvok, Seven and the captain lying unconscious in the rubble. Using the opportunity to get a good feel of Janeway’s thigh, B’Elanna felt the bulge of the phaser in her pocket. “The British secret weapon!”
Seven of Nine woke up, her hands flying instinctively to her aching head. The Borg gave a hysterical scream. “I’ve got this great piece of metal stuck in my forehead!”
“You’ve always had that you stupid klutz!”
B’Elanna frowned as she studied the futuristic weapon. It was obvious which was the business end, but where was the trigger? She decided that the only thing to do was to point it at the Boche and push every button she could see.
A blinding ray of phased energy shot out from the weapon, vapourising two panzers, four half-tracks, fifty Nazi’s, ten Hirogen, half the main street of Sainte Claire and punching a hole through five whole decks of Voyager.
“Er...sorry,” said B’Elanna, staring open-mouthed at the damage.
A punch-drunk Janeway staggered up and snatched the phaser off her. “You mad Klingon bitch! You nearly wiped out half my ship!”
“The Boche are running, Katrine,” said Seven, pointing to a group of Germans fleeing down what was left of the street, a short lieutenant with smouldering whiskers in the lead. A wounded German soldier had been left behind, screaming as he held his phaser-burned legs.
“Sioxante,” said Captain Janeway, feeling this would be a good opportunity to teach the former drone some lessons in humanity. “Go help that poor man.”
Seven shot him between the eyes.
“Compassion is irrelevant,” said the Borg in response to Janeway’s glare.
“Yeah, that’s the Maquis way!” said B’Elanna. Looking at Seven with adoration, she whispered, “I love you.”
Flushed with their victory the Resistance fighters clattered down the stairs to what was left of street level, leaving Chakotay to complain that someone had stolen his pisspot. On exiting the café Janeway and the others ran straight into a platoon of American GI’s led by Tom Paris.
“The cavalry’s arrived!” drawled First Lieutenant Paris. “Say, you must be the French Resistance. You fellas know where we can find some good booze and get laid?”
“Geez,” said Private First Class Ayala, peering into the massive hole through which he could see half of Voyager. “You Frenchies have got some weird-looking subways.”
“Hey honey,” said Corporal Carey, chewing gum and staring at B’Elanna. “How come you’ve got those strange ridges on your forehead?” B’Elanna responded by breaking Carey’s nose for the second time.
“Americans!” gasped Seven, her large breasts and bare legs drawing immediate attention from the horny GI’s. “Do you have nylons?” she asked, eager to sleep with the first man who said yes.
“Do you have real coffee?” inquired Janeway with equal lust, pulling off her knickers.
“Sure!” answered Paris, taking a tin and some stockings out of his backpack with one hand and undoing his flies with the other.
Fortunately for Janeway’s much vaunted celibacy the Doctor was at that exact moment able to disable the neural interface controls for the rest of the crew. Tom Paris was overcome by total confusion. One minute he was in a phaser battle with the Hirogen on the bridge of Voyager, next thing he knew he was standing in the middle of some twentieth-century buildings with a steel helmet on his head and his dick in his hand, flashing the captain.
“Lieutenant Paris, put that thing away!” ordered Janeway, ripping open the coffee tin with her teeth and pouring the beans straight down her throat.
“Yes ma’am,” said Paris, gawping at Seven’s bare legs, which earned him a punch on the jaw from B’Elanna.
Everyone gaped as Chakotay ran out of the café dressed in an old woman’s chemise and carrying a Sten gun. “Someone get me a bloody uniform! I look ridiculous!”
“Who broke my nose?” wailed Carey, clutching his face. Janeway looked at B’Elanna. “Well I certainly don’t recall doing it!” the half-Klingon protested truthfully.
Neelix came waddling down the sidewalk, fiddling with an MP40 submachine gun. “Mr Vulcan, there you are!” he shouted joyfully to Tuvok. “Do have any idea where the power activation button is on this weird-looking phaser?”
Everyone hit the deck as Neelix accidentally shot out the front window of the Coeur de Lion.
“VOUS PEU DE MERDE!” shouted Janeway (it was one of the more interesting phrases she’d picked up from this holonovel). “Are you all right Seven?”
“I am undamaged Captain. There is no need to run your hands over my body like that.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Paris, snatching a hand grenade off Ayala, who was trying to pull the pin out to see what would happen. “Captain, we haven’t got time to give everyone a crash course in twentieth-century weaponry!”
There was a deafening roar as a 150 mm anti-tank rocket shot across the street and slammed into the buildings opposite. The frontage exploded in a ball of red fire and an entire row of apartments collapsed like a line of dominoes. An enormous cloud of brick dust swept across the street and enveloped them.
“Er...sorry,” said B’Elanna sheepishly, a smoking panzerfaust in her hands.
“Anyone got an atomic bomb they want to set off?” asked Paris.
“All right everyone, stop it! Put your weapons down before you all kill each other!” ordered Janeway. “We don’t have to fight the Hirogen, we just need to lure them onto the holodeck.”
Everyone gingerly placed their weapons on the ground, a decision they instantly regretted as a horde of Nazi soldiers poured out of a nearby alley and surrounded them.
“Tie the swine up,” ordered the evil Nazi Hauptsturmführer. He was dressed like all SS officers in war movies: polished boots, immaculate black uniform, and a nice shiny iron cross on his chest. ‘To wear your dress uniform in the middle of a battleground is not logical,’ thought Tuvok.
One of the soldiers binding them, a Hirogen, used the opportunity to get a good feel of Seven of Nine’s tits. “Large mammary glands. An interesting trophy.”
Seven frowned. “What possible use could you make of my mammaries?”
“Unusual relics are prized. I have seen for myself how your large breasts have made you pursued by men and envied by women!”
“One day you will be assimilated by the Borg despite your arrogance,” said Seven. “When that day happens I shall radically dislocate your head and defecate down your neck.”
“Silence!” roared the SS captain, striking the former drone with his gloved hand. “Anyone talking will be shot! Oberscharführer Hirogen! Leave a squad of men and continue the hunt for the enemy. I shall deal with these schwein myself!” He proceeded to strut up and down, threatening them with all kinds of dire fates. Concentration camp, summary execution, Leutnant Gruber’s cooking…
Ignoring the illogical rants of the holographic human, Tuvok tried to make eye contact with Seven of Nine. They had been forbidden to speak, but fortunately the Vulcan and the Borg shared a common language. They could understand each other quite well without the need for irrelevant conversation.
Tuvok looked at Seven and raised an eyebrow.
The young Borg realised that Tuvok was enquiring if she was all right. Seven quirked her ocular implant in reply, conveying that such a question was irrelevant and she was currently trying to free her bonds. Tuvok raised his other eyebrow, conveying his disapproval at the emotion of arrogance that might distract one from the task at hand. Seven answered with a scowl, conveying that she was experiencing some difficulty with the knots but she was Borg and would adapt, and that she would be as arrogant as she wished thank you! Tuvok took a deep breath, dropped his eyebrows to normal level, then raised first the right brow, then the left brow, then both brows together, then the left, then the right brow, two raises of the left again, then a wiggle of his pointed ears, then a slight twitch of his right brow again, and last of all a final poetic dance of supercilium motion by the two hairy arches.
In response Seven of Nine turned up her pert nose, conveying that she’d already thought of using the enhanced strength of her exoskeleton-covered left hand to apply a sheer force to the knot, she wasn’t wriggling around for the fun of it, and having your nose itch when your hands are tied is very annoying!
“Achtung!” came a voice from the alley. Everyone stared as the Doctor, dressed in a snap-brim hat and black leather trenchcoat, walked out of the darkness.
The Hauptsturmführer gaped at him. “Who are you?”
“I am Herr Flick of ze Gestapo. You are to release zese prisoners into my custody.” The EMH strode down the line of Voyager crew, stopping at Mr Paris. “Vot a pathetic specimen. I do not know vot vimmen see in him.”
“How dare you!” cried the SS captain, outraged to encounter someone even more arrogant than he was. “We are in the field, the secret police have no jurisdiction here! I accept orders only from General Von Klinkerhirogen!” He lashed out at the Doctor with the back of his hand...and promptly fell flat on his face as his blow passed harmlessly through the hologram’s body. The officer struggled to his feet, face white with fear.
“Impudent schweinhund!” roared the Doctor, getting into his role completely. “Zis leather coat is vun of ze Fuhrer’s new Vonder Veapons. It vakes me completely invulnerable. Now get out of here before I have you all thvown into a concentration camp!”
The Nazi captain and his men turned and fled.
“That’s the last we’ll see of him!” said the EMH smugly, not knowing that the same actor would turn up in ‘Drone’ with Doc’s mobile emitter buried in his skull. He tapped on his emitter and the Gestapo coat changed instantly into a Winston Churchill outfit. “You will be pleased to know Captain,” Doc said, swelling with pride. “That I have successfully irradiated the hydroponics bay, as per my brilliant plan.” The Doctor gave a mighty puff on his cigar, blowing the smoke in Tom Paris’ face. “We shall fight them on the holodecks, we shall fight them in the turbolifts and in the corridors__”
“That’s all very inspiring Doctor,” said Janeway. “But will you kindly__”
“__FUCKING UNTIE US!” B’Elanna roared.
* * * * * *
Clutching their enormous weapons the Hirogen hunters prowled through the streets of Sainte Claire. Smoke from the Doctor’s cigar filled the holodeck, making it difficult to see. But off in the distance, from the direction of the hydroponics bay, something large and menacing moved.
The Hirogen Alpha raised his phallic symbol in anticipation. Whatever their opponent was, they would hunt it down and kill it. The bones and internal organs would be stripped and hung on their bulkheads; the flesh consumed to honour the strength and courage of their enemy.
But the arrogant hunters could only tremble in fear as out of the smoke appeared the most terrifying thing they had ever seen, a gigantic thirty foot high mutant leola root, crushing buildings with its tendrils. There was no way they were going to eat this! To a Hirogen they turned and fled in panic before the horrible, inedible creature.
* * * * * *
Captain Janeway stumbled over the twisted alloys and fractured conduits of Voyager’s holodeck. They hadn’t suffered this much damage since they were in Kazon territory, though Janeway had the unusual feeling that everything would be repaired and back to normal by next week.
“Well how was I supposed to know?” the Doctor was protesting. “I’m a doctor, not a movie buff!”
“He called up a holographic subroutine of John Wayne to help us fight the Nazi’s,” explained Paris, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Only it was the one from ‘The Alamo’. The Germans machine-gunned The Duke to death while he was trying to reload his single shot musket.”
“Where’s Harry?” asked Janeway. “I need to know if the Hirogen have__ENSIGN KIM! What the hell are you doing?!” Her foremost ensign was holding a squealing Neelix by the hair while bashing him repeatedly over the head with a long salami.
“The Hirogen have fled the ship Captain,” said Harry. Despite the fact that he was wincing in pain from numerous whip marks on his back the young man seemed as cheerful as ever. “I don’t think they’ll come anywhere near Voyager again.”
“But what are we going to do about THAT?” asked Chakotay, pointing at the leola root which was still rampaging through the holodeck, splintering houses like a cellulose Godzilla.
“Yumm!” said Neelix, smacking his lips. “I’ll start carving it up right away, Captain. That should feed us all the way to the Alpha Quadrant.”
Janeway and her entire senior staff turned pale at the thought. “Shall I signal the Hirogen inviting them to return, ma’am?” Harry whispered in her ear.
Janeway threw her hands up in the air. “That’s it, I’ve had enough for one day. I’m going for coffee. Chakotay, you handle it.” She hit the button for the turbolift.
The doors slid open to reveal Seven of Nine and B’Elanna Torres. The former drone had her hand down the front of the half-Klingon’s trousers and was making her pant like rampant targ.
“Seven of Nine!” cried a shocked Janeway. “What are you doing with my Chief Engineer?!”
“You stupid woman,” answered the Borg. “Can’t you see that we are copulating?”