Disclaim:  In case of glass, break fire.  Void where prohibited by law.  Do
not administer to farm animals without veterinary prescription.  Paramount is
god, the fierce and terrible; they own the Trek multiverse, & I'm just playing
with it for a bit...  The character of Harb Tanzer belongs to Diane Duane; no
infringement of her copyright is here intended.  The events of this story
belong to me; archive 'em if ye like, but keep my name and this preface
attached, por favor.  Not to be used for commercial endeavours.  Feedback is
welcome; email or in the NG, either is fine.  Flames divert to alt.dev.null.

Be warned: there ain't hardly no plot at all in this 'un, folks!  'Tis but to
have a good time.  After all, you live once; it's to enjoy, nu?

                          The Music Never Stopped; TOS, 
				      by
				   Graywolf 

      Something was going on, dammit.  Something was happening, on his ship,
and James T. Kirk was bound and determined he was going to get to the bottom
of it.  He'd seen the surreptitious glances, the raised eyebrows, the nervous
expressions on some of the younger officers when he entered the room...
Lately it seemed like an awful lot of conversations were stopping just as he
happened to walk by.  And last night he'd gone looking for Spock, to invite
him to a game of chess, and hadn't been able to find him anywhere.  His pride
wouldn't let him ask the computer.  Now granted, the Vulcan's time off was his
own -- but still!  Something was definitely off-kilter here, and the Captain
wasn't going to rest until he found out what it was.
      Enterprise had just finished a grueling six-week mission in the
Kwa'ndebele system.  They'd been providing shelter and supplies to the
survivors on the system's fifth planet, Kirinyaga; and helping to rebuild the
planet's weather control net, which had been damaged in a severe meteor
shower.  Half the orbital components had been destroyed, and two (fortunately
small) asteroid strikes in the northern hemisphere hadn't helped matters any.
      Scotty and his engineering department had worked around the clock to
fabricate replacements for the damaged equipment.  Kirinyaga's natural weather
was pretty severe this time of year, even *without* asteroid strikes; the
weather control system usually diverted the worst of it away from the
colonies.  Without it, much of their infrastructure would have washed into the
ocean by the following spring.  Even with the parts made, repairing the system
had been a difficult and dangerous job.  Scotty and his top assistant had
handled the remote controllers; Spock had done most of the programming,
with help from Astrophysics.  Jim knew for a fact that at one point the Vulcan
had gone without sleep for a week, during the critical phase of the operation.
Kirk had tried to talk him out of it, and Spock had simply looked at him,
eyebrow raised, his face as calm as ever, and said,
      "Captain, it is the logical answer.  I can function without sleep for
much longer than this, if I must -- and time, here, is of the essence."  Kirk
knew there was no point in repeating himself, for Spock was correct also --
no-one else on the ship could do it faster or with more accuracy.  But
afterwards, when the Enterprise was warping outsystem, the captain and his
accomplice, the doctor, had hovered over the first officer like a couple of
hawks.  In the end he had gone to his quarters "in search of some peace and
quiet," and had, of course, as McCoy expected, fallen asleep almost at once.
So that was all right, then.
      Medical and Life Sciences had put in endless hours on the surface, first
erecting field hospitals to replace the damaged buildings, then manning them
around the clock.  They rebuilt a goodly portion of the colonies' drinking
water system, and got the pumps running again.   Then there were the long
hours spent dealing with the many casualties.  They hadn't been able to save
all of them -- some had simply gone too long without care, by the time the
Enterprise arrived.  McCoy had taken every lost patient personally; finally
Kirk and M'Benga had cooperated to slip him a Mickey Finn, otherwise the
doctor probably wouldn't have slept at all, either.
      It had been rough.  The whole crew was tired.  Some had been injured on
landing party duty -- Scotty was still limping a little, and Kirk himself had
some shiny new skin on his hands, where he'd burned himself at one point.
He'd been helping to put out a fire that got started in one of the shelters. 
In the end they'd had to just get out and let it burn; it was pure luck they'd
been able to get everyone out safely.  After all of that, ship's supplies were
getting dangerously low, and Enterprise was still two weeks out from Starbase
Eight, where they were supposed to resupply and take some much-needed
shore leave.  From here, that two weeks was looking as long as forever...  He
was almost out of his private coffee stash; within a few days he'd be stuck
drinking the slop that the replicators thought of as coffee.  All in all, he
was *not* having a good time.
      And to top it all off, the last few days there'd been something nagging
at him, and it was driving him nuts.  Something that he ought to be doing, or
remembering, or...?  Whatever it was, it refused to come clear, and he was
getting more than a little annoyed, both with himself, and with the universe
in general.  So here he sat, alone in his quarters, in a bad mood which was
rapidly getting worse.
      So of course, the doorchime sounded.
      "Come!" he growled, unable to decide if he was pleased or annoyed at
having his gripe session interrupted.  The door obligingly slid open to reveal
his chief medical officer, grinning, bouncing on his toes with his hands
behind his back, looking, for all the world, like a little kid in front of a
candy store window.  Jim couldn't help it; he laughed out loud.
      "Well, Bones -- you're indecently cheerful tonight.  Come in; what can I
do for you?"  McCoy sauntered in and stopped in front of Kirk's desk, still
grinning.  The faint odor of sour mash accompanied him, and as he sat, he
brought out from behind him a small cut glass bottle, covered in dust and
spiderwebs.  Kirk's eyebrows shot up, in unconscious imitation of his first
officer.
      "Is that what I --?"  The doctor nodded, and the grin grew, if anything,
a little wider.
      "Yup, that it is.  Saurian brandy of the first water, from the reign of
HkKh'rrh'tht'sk--", and he coughed, spluttering, as he tried to pronounce the
name, "well, anyway, The Right Stuff."  He got up and fetched two of the
brandy glasses that Kirk kept on his shelf, sat down, and ceremonially poured
each of them a generous belt of the warm amber fluid.
      "Now Hear This," he said, hoisting his own glass.  "The crew informs me
that you have been lurkin' in here like a grouchy ol' bear with a sore paw,
bitin' the heads off of ensigns and generally behavin' downright antisociable.
On account of which, I have prescribed for you a liberal libation of ol' Doc
McCoy's World Famous Hair Tonic and Snake Oil Lotion, guaranteed to put hair
on yer chest an' curl up yer toes.  All ladies, small animals, and computers,
beware!  Now be a good boy, Jim, an' take your medicine."  So saying, he
upended his glass and followed his own advice.  This resulted in a grimace and
a cough, and a pause while he wiped his eyes.  Kirk laughed again, and took a
generous swig from his own glass.  He rolled it around in his mouth for a bit,
savouring the rich and complex flavour, and the good sharp bite of the alcohol
itself.  When he swallowed, it left a pleasant trail of warmth all the way to
his belly -- and most of the rest of his bad mood evapourated, just like that.
      "Aaahhh," he said.  "Now that, Doctor, hits the spot.  I'm not going to
ask where you got that--"
      "Nope.  Better not -- statute hasn't run out yet..."
      "Yes, well.  All the same, thanks, Bones -- I needed that!"
      "Welcome, Jim.  It's all part of the service."  McCoy poured them both
another slug, and sat back, his grin now of positively Cheshirean dimensions.
Jim thought for a moment that he saw the doctor sneak a glance at the
wall-chrono -- but the light in here was dim; he could've been mistaken. 
He chided himself for being paranoid and let it drop.  Besides, McCoy was off
and running now, on a rant about the ancestries and sexual tastes -- or lack
thereof -- of StarFleet's Quartermaster Corps, and like most of his rants, it
was funny as hell.  The captain topped off his glass and leaned back, the
better to appreciate the maestro at work...
      What with one thing and another, a fair bit of time went by; when McCoy
finally did sit up and announce that he'd better be going, the captain was in
a much better mood.  He saw the doctor out, had himself a luxurious stretch,
then reached for the comset and put in a call to Spock, suggesting a game of
chess.
      "Actually, sir, I was about to call you.  If you will meet me at Rec 3,
I believe I can show you something that will be of interest."  Jim fished a
little for details, but the Vulcan was as elusive as always.  Finally he
agreed to come, since his curiousity was piqued.
      What the devil was Spock up to now?  Rec 3 was a vast space; at need,
almost the entire crew could crowd in there.  It was used in its entirety for
diplomatic receptions, emergency passenger accomodations during evacuations,
and not much else.  Usually the space was split up by temporary partitions,
and put to several different uses at once.  As he walked through the
corridors, on his way there, Kirk was surprised to notice how empty the
corridors were.  True, it was halfway through evening shift now, which was
never as busy as the day shift.  But even so, traffic was scarce.  It looked
more like 0330 hours, than 2030.  Go figure...
      Finally he reached Rec 3, to find Spock already waiting there for him to
arrive.
      "Alright, Spock -- what's going on?  Why drag me down here, of all
places?"
      Spock clasped his hands behind his back, tilted his head, and raised one
elegant eyebrow.  Though his face remained as properly calm as ever, there was
something that, in anybody else, Jim would have called a twinkle, in his eye.
Of course, everyone knows that Vulcans do not twinkle.  No.  Must be the
brandy; yeah, that was it.
      "Captain -- if you will accompany me, you will see for yourself."  And
with that he turned, activated the doors, and gestured for Kirk to enter.
      The captain took two steps in and stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes
wide with amazement.  Rec 3 had been transformed -- instead of a vast empty
space in sterile grey and white, it now resembled a large old-fashioned
cabaret nightclub.  At the far end was a stage, flanked by artfully arranged
draperies of dark blue velvet.  The main floor was filled with small round
tables, each surrounded by anywhere from 2 to 8 chairs.  Most of them were
filled already -- no wonder the corridors had been so empty.  On the left hand
side of the room was a well-stocked bar, manned by smiling Rec Department
personnel.  Along the other side was a buffet, or rather, a series of them,
featuring cuisine from many of the crew's home worlds.  In the center of each
table a candle flickered in a tall glass; otherwise the lighting was dim, just
bright enough for safety.
      At the sound of a throat being cleared, he turned, to find McCoy beside
him, sporting a huge grin.  He started to speak, but the doctor just smiled
wider and said,
      "Hush up now, Jim -- the show's about to start.  Come on over here -- I
saved us one of the good tables."  The captain looked back at Spock, only to
find that the Vulcan had vanished again.  Finally he sighed, admitting defeat,
and let the doctor lead the way.
      McCoy hadn't been joking; it *was* a good table; near to the front, but
far enough from the stage for a good viewpoint.  And sitting there waiting for
him were Scotty, and Lt. Harb Tanzer, head of the Rec Department and another
old friend.  The captain took his place and accepted the glass of brandy that
Tanzer pushed toward him.  It seemed that *all* of his senior officers had
been in on this one...
      Just then, the pleasant light jazz that had been playing in the
background was switched off, and the lights onstage were turned up high,
revealing Lt. Uhura -- and Spock, of all people.  Now Kirk was *really*
curious.  Spock was dressed as he always was, in Science Department blues, but
Uhura had been transformed, even as the room had been.  She was wearing a long
flowing dress, so dark a blue that it was almost black, sprinkled all over
with tiny varicoloured lights.  The effect was much as if she were clad in a
piece of the night sky.  Kirk felt his pulse rate kick up a notch, and
reckoned that most of the crew probably felt the same way.  Just then she
tapped the small mike patch that was pinned at her neck, and began to speak.
      "Ah-hem... testing...  OK.  This thing's on, and it seems to be working.
Now that the guest of honour is here, let's begin.
      "We are gathered here tonight for a celebration.  Back home on Earth my
own people are celebrating Kwanzaa, the Feast of the First Fruits.  For
others, it is Chanukkah, the Festival of Lights.  For many humans, this time
is the celebration of Christmas, and to others it is Yuletide, the Winter
Solstice Feast."
      Ah-hah.  So *that's* what all this is about, thought Kirk.  Now he knew
what it was he'd been trying to remember, *and* why he'd seen all those
nervous glances and interrupted conversations...  Up on the stage, Uhura
continued.
      "Other peoples have different celebrations, at different times, and
those are as true to them as ours are to us.  That's not important, though --
one of our strongest holiday traditions is tolerance and acceptance of others'
beliefs.
      "In any case, tonight, in honour both of the season, and of our success
on Kirinyaga, the Rec Department is pleased to present our own Celebration, a
collection of music and dance, poetry and prose -- an expression of the joy we
all feel at being here.  Life is good, and we are fortunate to be here now,
enjoying it."
      She turned and spoke with Spock for a moment, then reactivated the mike
patch and faced the audience again.  Behind her the Vulcan had picked up his
ka'athyra and quickly checked the tuning.
      "This song," said Uhura, has been one of my favourites for years.  It
belongs to a different tradition from mine -- but a lot of the sentiment in it
is true to this day."  And with that, after the first few ripples of notes
from the harp, she began to sing.
      "Silent night, Holy night; All is calm, all is bright..."
      Her voice was warm and smoky, deep and rich, and the audience fell
completely silent.  Between and around the words wove the music of the harp,
sounding now like a harpsichord, now a guitar -- then back to harp again.  It
was beautifully done, and when the last few notes had faded away, the applause
was thunderous.
      The lights fades for a short time; when they brightened again, Kevin
Riley, Seamus O'Flaherty from Dietary, and Gunner's Mate Donal Jamieson stood
there, in old fashioned starched white shirts and baggy trousers -- of real
tweed, by God.  Jim wondered where the hell they'd found that -- he knew damn
well the replicators weren't up to it.  He was about to lean over and ask
McCoy when Riley stepped up and cleared his throat, obviously a little
unnerved at the size of his audience.  His brogue was as thick tonight as ever
Jim had heard it.
      "Good evenin' to ye, lads an' lassies an' all; sure an' it's a grand
evenin' for a ceilidh!  My mates an' I thought we'd bring ye all a touch of
the auld country tonight -- and by Special Request From On High, it'll NOT be
`I'll Take Ye Home Kathleen'!"  Loud groans and cheers greeted that
announcement, and a ripple of relieved laughter swept the crowd, including
Kirk.  He wouldn't mind at all if he never heard *that* song again as long as
he lived...
      "So, then," Riley said, producing a traditional flat Irish drum with a
flourish, "tonight we'll bring ye a good auld Irish drinkin' song -- an' if ye
happen to tip yer glasses an' have a wee dram while we're singin' it, I'm sure
the wee folk will bless us all!"  He tapped out a rhythm on the drum, Donal
pumped up the bellow on his uillean pipes, and they were off...
      "Fine friends and companions, come join me in rhyme; come lift up your
voices all at one time; come lift up your voices all grief to refrain, For we
may or might never all meet here again...  So here's a health to the company,
and one to my lass; let's drink and be merry, all out of one glass; let's
drink and be merry, all grief to refrain; For, we may or might never all meet
here again..."  The rhythm was infectious; by the time the song was done Jim
was tapping his feet and drumming on the edge of the table, and not only was
the brandy gone, but half of the beer that had replaced it.  Now this was more
like it; he could feel the tension flowing out of him, like water from a pond.
      The lights dimmed again, and rose to reveal Pavel Chekov, and Yevgeny
Ismailovich Servitsin from Data Processing, both dressed in traditional Kazakh
finery.  They bowed to the audience and to each other, and Pavel stepped
forward.
      "Umm...  Good ewening, Gospazhan y Gospodin!  We are w-w-w-wery pleased
to be here tonight."  He didn't look pleased; he looked like a man praying for
the stage to open up and swallow him.  "Tonight we are bringink you
traditional dances from Russia, where dancing was inwented..."  There were a
couple of snorts of disgust at that, and a few laughs, but not many.  People
wanted to see this...
      Yevgeny walked to one side and tapped at a terminal for a minute.  The
sound system, which was excellent, began to play the traditional music.  Both
men leapt up with a shout, clapped hands, and they were off, bouncing and
spinning across the stage, kicking and crouching and leaping again.  It was
vigorous and exciting, and the crowd loved it -- and it made Jim's knees hurt
just to watch it.  However uncertain Pavel might be in social situations, in
this he was strong and graceful and sure, and the huge smile on his face
showed that he knew it.
      Once again the applause was thunderous; one young woman actually tossed
Pavel a rose.  He caught it, blushed fire-engine red, and beat a hasty retreat
backstage as the lights dimmed again.
      They came up to reveal Scotty, and Dai Jones of Security, clad in full
Celtic regalia.  Behind them were Jamieson and Riley again, on pipes and drum.
They conferred a moment, and Jones stepped forward.
      "We are going to sing a song that was written by a Welshman, many years
ago.  'Tis a fine and lovely song; although the land it sings of is burned to
ash and gone, still there is power in it.  The name of it is called,
`Jerusalem'."  There followed a brief instrumental passage, and the four of
them began to sing.  Scotty's strong deep baritone was the anchor; Riley's
fine clear tenor hit the high notes, and between them the other two voices
filled the gaps...
      "Bring me my bow, of burnished gold; Bring me my arrows of desire..."
As he listened, Jim flew back in time, to his days at the Academy.  One spring
break he'd spent traveling through Ireland and Britain, and many a pleasant
evening he had passed in various pubs, listening to this and other songs.  On
one memorable occasion he and two classmates had been arrested for singing
this very song -- at four in the morning, in the lobby of Alioto Hall!  Hell,
the acoustics in there had been marvelous -- it had almost been worth the
extra punishment duties they'd been given... 

                            -----///-----

      The hall was silent now; the last of the dancers had gone, and the crew
had filed out, laughing and chattering happily as they went.  The bar was
closed, and little but crumbs remained of the buffet.  The only sound was a
soft, burring snore, from the captain, whose head was pillowed on his folded
arms.  Leonard McCoy tipped his chair back a little, and hoisted his glass in
the direction of Spock.  The Vulcan lifted his own glass -- tonic water,
thought McCoy with a shudder; who'd of think it? he hadn't even put in any
gin, to kill the taste -- and the two drank together in comfortable silence.
      McCoy was delighted.  The evening had been a huge success; the mood of
the crew was greatly improved, and best of all, Jim had finally loosened up
and had himself a good time.  Oh, he might have a little head on in the
morning -- and in that he'd be far from alone -- but one quick hypo'd cure
that, if need be.  In the meantime he was resting, blissfully unaware.
      "I'll tell you, Spock," the doctor murmured, "when Scotty first
suggested this I told him, `I'm a doctor, not a stage manager!'  But he was
right!  This was just what the crew needed."
      "Indeed," said the Vulcan, keeping his own voice low out of deference to
the sleeping captain.  "It seems that such events have a positive influence on
the morale of the crew.  A most interesting evening, doctor -- I must thank
you for arranging it."
      "Aw, hell -- Harb and Nyota did most of the work.  But thanks, anyway.
Now," he said, looking down at Kirk, "how the devil do I get him discreetly
back to his quarters?"
      "In that, I believe I can be of assistance, doctor.  It occurred to me
that such a situation might arise, given the captain's present level of
fatigue."  He stood next to Kirk and took out his communicator.  "If you wish
to accompany us, doctor?"  McCoy stood up, still puzzled.  Spock opened
the communicator.
      "Spock to Transporter Control.  Mr. Kyle, activate program Spock Alpha
One, on my command.  Mark..."  There was a moment of tingling numbness, and
the three of them materialized in Kirk's quarters, Spock and McCoy hastily
catching Kirk under the arms as they did.  The captain never even stirred as
they let him down on top of his bed.  McCoy made one pass with his Feinberger;
decided the readings were fine, and put it away.  Then he peered suspiciously
at himself, and for once, decided *not* to complain about the transporter.
What the hell -- even a Vulcan deserved a holiday gift, once in a while...
      "'Night, Spock."
      "Good night, Doctor McCoy."
      ...and all through the ship, not a creature was stirring, not even a
mouse...

                                                   -----///-----

Th-th-th-th-that's all, folks!!

Ochoyeh -- I haven't written to a deadline in years!  A most peculiar
sensation indeed...  Hope y'all enjoy this one!

Submitted for your approval
Greywolf the Wanderer, borrowing zepp's account