A word from the author--

Yeah, yeah, I know--I already posted this part.  Well, I did some
expansion on the juxtaposition bits, and tossed in some more
dialogue, so I thought it was worth posting again.  Part Two to
come tomorrow. . .

MAM



Revisiting the Visit to a Weird Planet Revisited
or:  
Patrick, I Don't Think We're In L.A. Anymore. . .

by Melanie Miller


Part One


	Mornings in Hollywood aren't all that different from
mornings in other parts of the country.  Even the members of the
Industry force themselves out of bed, yawn in the bathroom as they
step on the scale, wonder where that extra two pounds came from,
and start preparing for the day like everybody else.  
	And then, there are the unfortunate few who have to get out
of bed at an ungodly hour for makeup.  _Like me,_ Brent Spiner
thought, trying to keep his eyes open and failing miserably.  The
overhead lights weren't helping--heat pouring down from the lamps
were making him cranky and even more sleepy at the same time.
"Wake me if we ever start, okay?" he murmured, trying not to yawn.
	"Keep yawning, and Data's going to look like he needs a
facelift," Patrick Stewart said, folding his arms across his chest
and grinning.  The older actor was a self-described morning person,
and took a special delight in teasing Brent about his nocturnal
habits.  "Then again, if you mess up your makeup a bit, you can
always nap in the chair."
	"Oh, right--with Gerald poking liner around my eyes and
bitching about my pores," Brent replied wearily.  "I'm tired,
Pat--I ain't stupid."  It was bad enough he had to spend 75 minutes
every morning getting made up as Commander Data, but _volunteering_
for more time in the Makeup Chair from Hell?  Brent glanced up at
the bright soundstage lights, narrowing his eyes against the heat
and feeling the thick makeup at the corners of his eyes start to
stick.  "However," as he switched to a creditable imitation of the
Wicked Witch of the West, "I think. . .I'm mel-l-l-lting, I'm
mel-l-l-lting--"
	From his position behind the camera, Jonathan Frakes
glanced over at the warbling actor.  He managed to mask the
resulting sigh with a fake smile.  This was his fourth directing
stint for ST: TNG, and "The Price of Peace" had all the earmarks of
being in the fast track for an Emmy--solid plot, good casting,
enough clout from Paramount to swing the nomination.  "And this
time," he growled through the smile, "I want a nomination, too.  No
more of this fading pretty-boy, 'Oh, look--he's getting a tummy'
crap."
	"Jon, babe, we're doing our best," Rick Berman said
soothingly.  The executive producer had cut his teeth on directors
with major prima donna complexes--compared to them, Jon was sane
and humble.  "You know and I know that Paramount wants to walk away
with as much gold as possible, right?  Just do your usual--which is
terrific--and leave the rest to me."
	"Yeah, okay."  _I've heard that before,_ he didn't say. Of
course, Jon reminded himself, it all depended on how well the cast
performed their parts.  And from the looks of things, it was going
to be a long day with Spiner.  Sighing again, he gestured to one of
the makeup artists standing nearby.  "Ger, go powder Brent down,"
he said, loudly enough so that the actors could hear.  "He's
getting shiny again."
	"Shine this, buddy," Spiner muttered under his breath.  
	Patrick snorted, grinning.  "Maybe we should give him some
motivation," he suggested.
	Brent looked at the director, back in conversation with the
camera crew, and nodded.  Simultaneously, the actors started
singing, "It's hot up here/And strange up here/no change up
here/foreverrrrrr--"
	Jon closed his eyes, the sheer bizarreness of the song
cutting through some of his irritation.  "Okay, enough with the
Sondheim--I get the hint," he said, holding up his hands in
surrender.  Giving the cameraman one last instruction, he jogged
over to the transporter area as the makeup person finished dusting
more iridescent power onto Brent's face.  "You know, you guys never
do this to the other directors," he said accusingly.
	"Of course not," Brent said primly.  "We don't like them as
much."
	"I should be so lucky," Jon sighed as he took his place on
the pad.  The change in his bearing was slight but noticeable--all
business now.  "All right, let's get to work.  Patrick, you're
going to start off-camera, then come in, hit your mark and give
your line.  Now, remember, I want to see a lot of concern in your
face and bearing--a little tense, but confident at the same time.
You're going in there to kick ass and take names. . .in a
diplomatic sort of way, of course."
	"As usual."  The actor nodded and took his place.  "Ready."
	Jon glanced over at Rick Berman and the camera crew, giving
them the signal to begin.  "Rolling."
	"And. . .ACTION."
	The soundboard clapped.  With that click, the three men's
attitudes changed, firmed into the bearing of Starfleet officers.
Patrick tugged at his jersey and stepped onto the transporter pad,
turning smoothly to face the camera and deliver his lines.  "Once
we arrive on the planet, we will become committed to this treaty
session," he said, diction clear and precise as Captain Jean-Luc
Picard.  "I only hope the Zeboim are willing to negotiate."
	Patrick glanced off camera, where Colm Meany would be
standing later in the shot, and nodded.  "Energize."  The actors
then froze into position, silently counting the necessary seconds
for the FX shot.

	"Begging the captain's pardon, but I don't like any of
this," Commander William Riker grated.
	"I'm aware of your concern, Number One," Captain Jean-Luc
Picard replied, keeping pace with his first officer.
"Unfortunately, the Vondans specifically requested my presence at
the negotiating session, and I'll need you and Data to act as
liasons between them and the Zeboim."  He thought of the group
waiting for him down on Vonda IV and sighed to himself.  Another
round of peace talks, another treaty negotiation--why Starfleet
kept sending the Enterprise on these diplomatic missions was fast
becoming a mystery to him.  "If it makes you feel any better, I'd
much prefer to stay on board the Enterprise and let you handle the
negotiations," he added.  "When will these people realize that I'm
a starship captain, not a diplomat?"
	The comment brought a ghost of a smile to Riker's lips.
"I'm afraid your reputation as a peacemaker tends to preceed you,
sir," he replied dryly.  "It seems that whenever Starfleet can't
get a member of the diplomatic corps out in time, they reroute you
to the area."
	"I'm going to have to do something about that," Picard
snapped.  
	On that note, the two officers entered Transporter Room
Three, where Data was waiting for them.  The android, clad in the
mustard and black uniform of an operations officer, was involved in
a conversation with Lieutenant O'Brien.  "I am afraid I do not
understand the connotation of that joke," Data was saying, a slight
frown on his face.  "It seems illogical that a blonde would use
Liquid Paper for corrections on a computer terminal screen--"
	"Uh, I'll explain it later, sir," O'Brien muttered,
noticing the other officers.  "I think the captain's ready to beam
down."
	"And not particularly happy about it," Picard muttered
under his breath.  He took his place on the pad, followed by the
officers.  "As you know, once we arrive on the planet, we will
become committed to this treaty session," he said.  "I only hope
the Zeboim are willing to negotiate."  He glanced at O'Brien, and
nodded.  "Energize."

	Brent noticed it first--the odd, close feeling surrounding
him, making the air shimmer strangely out of focus.  And then the
dizziness--  _Oh, wonderful,_ he thought wildly.  _Heat
poisoning--just what I need. . ._  For a brief, horrible moment,
everything seemed to go black, twisting down some endless tunnel
into eternity--
	--before snapping into focus again.  The jolt was
physical--slight, but enough to rock him on his heels.  "Wow," he
muttered, aware that he had just blown his line and not really
caring, "remind me not to do those Alabama Slammers anymore."
	"That wasn't just you," Patrick said weakly, shaking his
head.  "Whatever it was, I felt it, too."  For him, the
disorientation had left everything swimmy, slightly vague.  Hell,
it almost looked like there was some kind of wall behind the
transporter controls--
	_Wall?_
	"Sorry about that beam flux, sir," the transporter chief
said apologetically.
	"What--"  Patrick had his mouth open to reply, then left it
open in shock.  Everything. . .was different.  There was no other
way to describe it, not while maintaining his sanity.  Where the
set had opened to allow for the cameras and lighting crew, there
was now a solid wall curving up to a low ceiling, completely--and
impossibly--enclosing the room.  The heat from the lights had
disappeared as well, the temperature stabilizing at what felt like
a comfortable 70 degrees.  And in front of the wall, someone who
appeared to be Colm Meany stood at his usual post with the
transporter equipment.  _But he wasn't there a minute ago,_ Patrick
thought dazedly, _none of this was. . ._  "What the hell is going
on here?" he finally managed.
	  "We experienced a brief power surge during your pattern
transmission," the man explained.  "The automatic dampers cut in,
but not before some fluctuation had occurred.  It won't happen
again, sir."
	Patrick blinked, taking in the unexpected wall, the absence
of the cameras.  "Fluctuation--" he repeated, before noticing the
other man's address.  "Wait a minute--why are you calling me sir?"
	"Well," Lieutenant Miles E. O'Brien said, uncertainty in
his voice, "I usually call you sir.  Sir.  Or Captain Picard, of
course."
	"Captain--"  Slowly, Patrick's eyes widened, glowing with a
look of utter shock.  "Oh, my God."
	"This is too much."  Jon hopped off the transporter pad,
anger and amazement mixing in his voice as he walked past O'Brien
to the unexpected wall.  "I mean, this is great, a really primo
gag," he said, banging his hand against the corrugated material,
"but we've got a long day ahead of us--"
	"Will!" Patrick snapped suddenly.
	"What--"  Jon turned back and caught the look in the other
man's eyes--SHUT UP NOW.  With some reluctance, he obeyed.  And
glanced up.  "Holy shit. . ." he trailed off.
	Deliberately slipping into his "Picard" persona, Patrick
stepped down from the transporter pad.  "Lieutenant O'Brien, I need
to speak to--" he glanced at the other actors, who were staring at
the ceiling in shock, "--Commander Riker and Data alone."
	O'Brien looked puzzled, but nodded his head.  "Of course,
sir."
	"Um. . .here, I mean."  When O'Brien didn't move, Patrick
made a shooing gesture.  "Go check on Keiko or something.  Leave us
alone for a bit."
	"Yes, sir."  The transporter chief turned for the door,
stopping once to glance back at them.  
	Patrick fixed him with a glare.  "Go!"
	O'Brien jerked guiltily and left.  As the doors closed, Jon
turned back to the other actors.  "Would either of you like to tell
me what's going on here," he asked, confused, "or should I just
assume that I cracked under the pressure?"
	"You didn't crack," Patrick muttered, closing the short
distance to the offending wall.  He felt the surface carefully,
fresh shock blooming in his face.  "This wall is real.  You can
feel some kind of vibration through it."
	Jon joined him, running his fingers lightly now across the
corrugated surface.  "You're right," he admitted, pushing
tentatively.  "And it feels like--"
	"--it's bolted to the floor," Patrick finished.  "A
permanent part of the room, wouldn't you say?"  He backed away,
turning in a full circle to take in the entire station.  "I know
this is going to sound insane, but all of this is real," he said,
in a low tone of wonder.  "I don't know how or why, but it's real."
	"What are you talking about?"  Stepping off the pad, Brent
was trying to take the situation in stride and failing miserably.
"Look, blackout or no blackout, this can't be real.  We're still on
the set--"
	"We _were_ on the set."  Slowly, the older actor was
recovering from the initial shock of transition -- and now he knew
that it _had_ been a transition.  The impossibility of what had
happened to them was being muted, transformed into amazing reality
by a simple memory of something Gene had once said.  "Now, we're
here," he finished, wonder in his voice.
	"Yeah, and that's the part I'm having a problem with,"
Brent said nervously.  "I mean--where's here?"
	Patrick glanced around again.  "The Enterprise," he said
simply.  "The _real_ one."
	Brent blinked.  Then again.  "Um, Pat," he finally said,
"you haven't been indulging in recreational herbs and spices, have
you?"
	The other man sighed.  "Look, I know it sounds crazy--"
	Jonathan decided this was the perfect time to interrupt.
"Yes, it does," he said, as soothingly as possible, "but hey,
that's okay, because it's been a long morning for all of us.  So
maybe what we need to do now is just step back, take a few deep
breaths, get some perspective--"
	"Oh, can it, Frakes," Patrick replied smartly.  "Whatever
you may think, we are now standing in a transporter room on the
U.S.S. Enterprise, in a universe where the United Federation of
Planets and the Klingon and Romulan Empires all exist.  Somehow,
gentlemen, we've been transported to a fictional 24th Century."
Patrick leaned again the transporter control bank, rather enjoying
himself now that the shock was wearing off.  "I know it sounds
completely loopy, but it's also completely true.  And I know it's
true. . .because it's happened before."
	"WHAT?"
	"I'm serious.  In fact, I heard about it at the second
season wrap party," he continued.  "I was talking to Gene--we'd
both had a few beers, and he was talking pretty freely about the
old show, bloopers, things like that.  We started trading stories
about weird events that had happened on the show.  That's when he
mentioned the switch."
	"Switch?" Brent said weakly.
	"A switch of universes.  According to Gene, some kind of
weird spatial anomaly had hit the set of the original show during
its second year, with one incredible consequence.  Somehow--and
only for a brief time--Bill Shatner, Len Nimoy and De Kelly were
transferred into the Star Trek universe, and Kirk, Spock and McCoy
were transferred into ours.  Gene said it caused hell on the set
until Scotty--the real one--managed to figure how to transfer the
actors back through the anomaly, which also sucked the Starfleet
types back to their own universe.  After it happened, none of the
actors really talked about it again, for fear of being called
insane," and he glanced meaningfully at Jon.  "But it did happen.
And then everything went back to normal--until now."
	"Until now," Jon repeated, incredulous.  "And you believed
this?"
	Patrick glanced around the room meaningfully.  "Don't you?"
	"Aw, God."  Brent started clicking his heels together.
"There's no place like Paramount, there's no place like
Paramount--" he muttered feverishly.
	"Will you knock that off?" Jonathan said, surprised at the
sudden fear in his own voice.
	"It worked for Dorothy, didn't it?" Brent fired back.  "I
don't wanna be an android so please God send me back, there's no
place like Paramount--"
	The other man held his hands up, trying to maintain
control.  "Okay, listen," he said patiently, "there's only one way
to find out what's going on--we have to check out the ship.  If
Patrick's wrong, then all three of us are having a very weird
hallucination and probably need a nice long vacation.  If Patrick's
right--"
	"God forbid," Brent muttered, still clicking.
	"--and we _are_ on the Enterprise, then we've got to figure
out a way to get back before this, uh, spatial anomaly closes or
disappears or does whatever anomalies do."
	Patrick shook his head.  "We also have one other problem,"
he reminded them.  "If we've been pulled through to the 24th
Century and the starship Enterprise, it's logical to assume that
three very confused Starfleet officers have just appeared on our
set, and are going to be taken for us."
	Brent and Jon looked at each other, then at Patrick.  "Oh,
boy."

	"What do you mean, cut?" Captain Jean-Luc Picard said
angrily.
	Rick Berman sighed.  "Ten minute break," he announced,
collaring Riker and herding him off to the side for a chat.

Copyright 1992 by Melanie Miller.  All rights reserved.