The New New Next Generation

by Norman C. Kluksdahl   8 June 1989

Earlier, someone posted a suggestion for getting Denise Crosby back on TNG, which was promptly (and appropriately IMHO) immolated. Now we find that we have musical doctors. Well, with all that going on, it's time for (drum roll, please)The New New Next Generation (as opposed to the Old New Next Generation, which is not to be confused with the Original Next Generation, except that the New New Next Generation has the best of the Old New Next Generation and the Original Next Generation, and other improvements!)

The Enterprise circles aimlessly about a Jovian-sized, ringed planet, which also happens to have an Earth-normal gravitational field and atmosphere, and whose residents speak English, though looking for the world like tiny penguins with enormous noses.

Picard:

Lt. Worf, open hailing frequencies.

Worf:

Hailing frequencies open. No response.

Data:

(Turning around, looking puzzled) It is not surprising, sir, that the natives of Bloom 4a are not answering our messages. They are, after all, closely related to an Earth species of flightless avian creatures which subsist largely on a diet of fish, and who lay eggs upon rocky beaches, although this species seems characterized by the wearing of a strange patterned piece of neck gear and possessing unusually large proboscides.

Picard:

(Looking puzzled) Proboscides?

Data:

Proboscides. From the Greek proboskis, to feed. Referring to an especially prominent human nose. A beak, a hooter, a ski-slope ...

Picard:

(Angrily. So angry, in fact, that he flushes red. His head takes the appearance of a pool 3-ball, with the exception that it lacks a number) I get the picture. Continue.

Data:

(Shrugs momentarily) The creatures on Bloom 4a are not technologically sophisticated enough to possess advanced communication equipment.

Worf:

Then what is this message I am receiving from the planet?

Picard:

(Sternly reprimanding Worf) Worf, you should have brought this to my attention sooner.

Worf:

Yes sir. I was distracted by the insulting interchange between yourself and commander Data. I was hoping it would degenerate into a battle.

Picard:

Get on with it!!!

Worf:

One of the natives, by the name of Opus, is enquiring whether we have any job openings for himself and a few friends. He attached computer copies of a few resume's.

Picard:

On screen. (A few well-known cartoon characters appear on the view screen, with a neatly typed resume beside each) Number One, do these creatures seem familiar to you?

Riker:

Now that you mention it, Captain, they do.

Troi:

(Stands, a shocked expression on her face) I sense danger! I sense deception! I sense that one of them wants my job! I sense that most of you want to get in my pants!! (She runs screaming from the bridge)

Riker:

(Looks at Picard, who is looking at him, and shrugs) Sometimes she is just too damned excitable.

Picard:

(He is intently staring at the screen) Number One, look at this! We may have something here!!!

Riker:

(Starts smirking) I see what you mean, Captain. Boy genius. And what an impressive resume. Transported his father's Jag to Pluto. Built an atomic weapon from watch dials. Interchanged his genes with a cat! Hacked into the Pentagon computers! Cloned a cat!! (Riker turns to Picard) Wow! This kid is good! We sure could use a quiet boy genius for a change!

Wesley:

(Stands up, his face contorted between bawling and anger shouting) You adults never did take me seriously! I'm going to my room, and I'm going to hold my breath until you apologize!! (Storms from the bridge)

Picard:

(Grinning maliciously) Number One, transport aboard our new crew member. And that brings us to our latest problem. Summon the regulars to the briefing room. Except for Troi. I'm sick of her worthless comments and sniveling!

Minutes later, assembled in the ready room, are Picard, Riker, Pulaski, Worf, Data, Geordi, O'Brien, and Gomez.

Picard:

The reason I've called you all here is that we are in the midst of a crisis.

Pulaski:

It isn't serious, I hope!

Picard:

I'm afraid it is. Our producers have decided that our old doctor, who was hard to get along with, is easier to get along with than you are.

Pulaski:

(Gasp!) You can't mean ...

Picard:

You are through on the Enterprise.

Pulaski:

I'm through? I don't understand??

Data:

Through. Finished. Kaput. Done. You've said your last lines. It's sayonara time. Farewell. Goodbye. Adieu. Auf Wiedersehen. Cheerio, and all that rot. Get lost. Scram. Beat it ...

Pulaski:

(Ashen, and in shock) When ... how is this to happen?

Picard:

The writers aren't sure yet. Maybe a meaningless death like Tasha. Maybe something dramatic and heroic like Spock. Perhaps you will commit suicide after a long session of listening to Worf's love poetry. (Worf snarls)

Pulaski:

How do I go?

Data:

Go? As in die? (Data starts sounding like John Cleese) You've passed on. You've ceased to be. Bereft of life, you rest in peace. If you hadn't been nailed to the perch, you'd have been pushing up the daisies by now. Your metabolic processes are extinct! You're off the cliff, kicked the bucket, shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain, and joined the bleedin' choir invisible. You are an EX-DOCTOR!! (Pulaski, tearfully, runs from the room. As the door opens, a smallish boy wearing glasses slips in and takes her seat)

Picard:

Oh good, Ensign Jones, I see you found the ready room. That brings us to our latest problems. First, we have to get rid of Wesley.

Worf:

We can use him as a combat dummy!! (He is quite enthusiastic over the prospect)

Riker:

Why don't we just beam him into a wall?

O'brien:

Sorry, sir, we can't do that. It's against my principles, and besides, I fixed the transporter so it won't do that anymore.

Riker:

(Leans close to O'Brien) I'll let you look at my nude photo collection of Counselor Troi!

O'Brien:

(Grinning) Consider it done!

Picard:

So now we have to come up with an excuse to tell his mother when she gets back.

Worf:

We can say he died honorably in combat!

Picard:

Worf, you are forgetting one thing. We don't have combat anymore, not since GR wimped out!

Gomez:

I know I shouldn't be saying this sir, but, well, can't we just tell Dr. Crusher that we sent her son to the Academy?

Riker:

What a brilliant plan! That ought to cover us for three or four years! In the meantime, we've still got a boy genius, but a polite one, to keep our teenage viewers happy!

Picard:

Then that's settled. Now, we have one final problem. It seems that some people are insisting that we resurrect Lt. Yar.

Riker:

(Disgustedly) What do they think this is, Dallas?????

Oliver Wendell Jones:

You could use the clone machines you stole to make a duplicate of her.

Data:

(Grinning for some unknown reason) Or three or four!!!

Riker:

But we don't have any of her original cells left!

Jones:

Then you could use the transporter, with some modifications I could whip together, to transform the genes to those of Lt. Yar, then use that cell to make the clones.

O'Brien:

Of course! The old 'Unnatural Selection/Long Ladder' transporter manipulation and genetic cloning ploy!!!

Picard:

Then we've settled all our problems until this time next year!

The crew rises to leave, and as the door closes, we can hear Riker talking with O'Brien.

O'Brien:

Sure, it'd work for anyone.

Riker:

Then we could selectively program a person's genes, then match them to the genes?

O'Brien:

No problem.

Riker:

And we could give all the women bigger ...

The door slides shut, mercifully sparing us from Riker's imitation of JTK and his galactic hormones.