Imagine: The List
Fic posted by members of Vo's Imaginings YahooGroup
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This is a work of fiction owned by the author, and may not be reproduced in any fashion without the author's explicit permission.  The A-Team is owned by NBC and Stephen J. Cannell.  Star Trek: The Next Generation is owned by the heirs of Gene Roddenberry. Copyright infringement is not intended. 

This story was published in Plans, Scams & Vans #6 in February 1999 by Sockii Press.

Author’s Note: Pi Pharosi II, otherwise hailed as Direidi, is a real place in Federation history. They are aligned politically with the Federation. There is a large population of Klingons, as the Empire owns the contractual rights to mining dilithium. The planet is literally crawling with the precious mineral. 

For more information, read: Ford, John M., How Much For Just The Planet? Pocket Books: New York, 1987. Star Trek (The Original Series) novel #36. 

Ford owns the rights to Pi Pharosi II / Direidi, and I use them here without permission.

“Well, Team, I’m now accepting suggestions for getting out of this,” said Hannibal. He, and the other members of the infamous A-Team, were crouched, weapons at the ready, behind the van. The MPs were everywhere, and Decker was already beginning to gloat. 

“Give it up, Smith!” Decker’s voice rang out, stridently and with a considerable amount of glee in his voice.

“Let me be sure I understand, Hannibal.” Face shot the colonel a look. “We’re more or less cut off, there’s nowhere to run to, even if the van was available to us.” He glanced at his weapon. “And we’re almost out of ammo.”

B.A. growled. “Shot out the tires in my van, man. Dude’s gonna pay.”

Hannibal shifted his cigar in his mouth. “That’s about the size of it, Face.”

The lieutenant grinned. “Well, then, I think I have an idea. It’s not a very good idea, admittedly, and I can’t say I’m happy about using it.” He crept to the open door of the van, and retrieved the cell phone.

“Why not, Faceyguy?” 

Face glanced at Murdock, an expression of doubtful resignation on his features. “Because every time I do business with these two, I regret it. And this,” he gestured to the sea of MPs and curious onlookers, “is gonna give them a hell of a lot of leverage against me.” He sighed. “Not to mention the bunch of us as a whole.”

“A hole?” commented Murdock, indignantly. “I’ve never been a hole in my whole life. Do I look like Swiss Cheese to you?” This last comment was accompanied by a frantic waving of limbs.

B.A. growled once in Murdock’s direction. Hannibal shot them both a look, and then nodded at Face. “Do it, Face.” The blond nodded, and began dialing a number.

Decker’s voice rose again. “Last chance, Smith! Give yourselves up!”

“Not on your life, Decker!” called out Hannibal. 

Face clicked off the cell phone, and scrambled back to the relative safety of the van. “Our ride’ll be here in a few minutes, Hannibal.” He shot the colonel a look, which Hannibal -- due to long experience -- easily interpreted: I don’t like this.

“How’ll we know, Colonel?” 

“We’ll know,” interrupted Face. “Believe me, we’ll know.”

A scream of tires around the nearest corner proved Face’s prediction. 

The Team became on edge immediately. “MPs?”

“No way,” sighed Face, answering Murdock’s question. “Not if it’s the car I remember.” A cherry-red and white 1957 Chevy Bel Air shrieked to a halt next to the Team. A violet-nailed hand waved at them from behind the wheel. The MPs, recovering from their momentary shock, released a hail of bullets. Hannibal shouted, and the Team surged forward into the car, returning fire.

Slamming the car into gear, the driver - a brunette - flew the car forward, swerving the car directly into a flock of MPs, who sensibly scattered. The car hurtled forward into the clear. Hannibal, who had claimed the front passenger seat, pointed out a direction to the driver. She glanced at him, and took a left, ignoring his instructions. Long raven-black hair streamed behind her like a flag.

Military police in hot pursuit, the car threw itself around a corner. “Hannibal,” Face said plaintively, while hanging on to the side of the car. “Where are we going?”

Hannibal shot a look at the driver, who merely grinned inanely and flashed her pale blue eyes at him. 

“I gotta pick up my sister,” she shouted. 


“I gotta pick --”

Hannibal sighed, interrupting the raven-haired girl. “Well, guys, let’s get the MPs off our tail.” He hefted his rifle and began firing. The others followed suit. One of the cars immediately blew a tire and slammed into a parked RV. The MPs began to return fire, and the Team’s temporary driver began swerving the classic vehicle, preventing any MPs from passing. A second car lost both tires, flew over a parked car, and landed in a small restaurant. Shortly, another car took a hit in a radiator and its hood flew up, obscuring the front windshield. It slammed into a parked car and swung to the side, not-so-neatly blocking the surviving MP cars. 

“Nice.” Hannibal smiled. Then he looked more closely at the slender girl’s outfit: a black leather jacket, a black tank top, black lace gloves under black leather fingerless gloves, a black lace micro-mini-skirt, two silver concho belts, black seamed pantyhose, and spike heels. And a two-foot-tall wide-brimmed multicolored fluffy hat that looked like it was created out of one of Doctor Seuss’ nightmares. 

The Chevy careened around a few more corners and sped down a few more straight-aways, before the dark-haired driver hit the brakes in front of a Kinko’s. She pounded a staccato tune on the horn. “Come on, woman!! Places to go, people to annoy!!”

A trimly-built woman with shoulder-length fire-engine-red hair trotted out of the shop and waved her arms at the car. “What’s the matter?” Hannibal noted what the girl was wearing: a lacey black tank top, blue denim short shorts, white high-heeled sandals, black-pink-and-turquoise-striped knee socks, and enough gold jewelry to rival B.A..

The brunette howled with laughter. “Who do ya think ya are? Daisy Duke?”

The redhead grinned impudently. “Nah. Luke Duke, the cooler cousin.”

“Luke Duke never wore shorts like that,” commented Murdock, casting a look at the redhead’s attire.

“I guess he didn’t have the legs to carry it off," grinned Hannibal, in the midst of relighting his cigar. The brunette waves furiously at the other girl, as sirens screamed in the distance.

“Jeez! What’s the hurry? Are you being chased by the police or something?” She stopped short in the road, hands on hips, her vivid blue eyes flashing.

Hannibal blew out smoke. “Well, now that you mention it . . . .” The sirens got closer, and just then a squad of MPs appeared at the far end of the street.

The redhead stared briefly at the fast approaching squad of MPs. “Oh. I see.” She ran full-tilt at the car, jumping on the hood, scrambling over the windshield and into the front seat. The brunette gunned the motor, and the force of the car flying into gear threw the redhead into the back seat, where she landed atop Murdock and B.A. 

The chase began again, but now it wasn’t possible for the Team to return fire at their persistent pursuers. The driver took a left heading for the outskirts of the city, driving like a maniac, accompanied by cheers from the back seat. 

After the third time around corners on two wheels and the second time where he suspected the car had left the ground entirely, B.A. yelled to the driver. “Hey, man! Where’d ya get a license ta drive, man!!”

While screeching around a corner so tight she held on to her hat with one hand, she called back, sweetly, “What license?” B.A. didn’t say a word, but ground his teeth and gripped the side of the car.

Murdock sighed dreamily. “I feel a new part of myself emerging, guys. I feel . . . I feel . . .” He arched his back and opened his arms wide, as if embracing this newly emerging side of his insanity.

“You’re gonna feel my fist in your face iffen you don’t shut up,” growled B.A.

The impromptu parade continued for several minutes. Hannibal glanced back to check on Decker’s position, and saw that the redhead had settled herself across the other Team members, with her butt settled on Face’s lap and with her legs stretched across the other two’s laps. Face didn’t look as if he minded too much, though.

The brunette had caught the backward look, and grinned at Hannibal. “Don’t worry, Smith,” she confided. “I’ve got a plan.” She looked at her T-Rex watch, and grinned again. “No sweat.”

The Chevy was now flying in the outskirts: a rocky, desolate area, filled with grasslands. Hannibal supposed that the area must be up for sale. Better ask Face to check on it, and see whether it’s worth our while, he thought.

In the distance, Hannibal glimpsed smoke . . . and heard a whistle . . . . He glanced sharply at the brunette. “You’re trying to beat the train, aren’t you?” He grinned suddenly, and chortled.

“What!” shouted Murdock.

Face swallowed. “Ah, I think I’ll get out here, okay?”

B.A. just sighed and shook his head. “Another crazy fool. And Hannibal’s on the jazz, man. He’s on the jazz.”

The car got closer to the train crossing, but so did the train. The railroad blew its whistle, and Hannibal could see the crossing gate drop down and the flashing lights. He could also, he realized, hear the redhead singing lustily -- and at least one octave off-key -- in the back seat. “Feegaro, Feegaro, Feeeeeegaaaaaaroooooo!!!!”

The Chevy hurtled toward the crossing. 

The train hurtled toward the crossing.

Face closed his eyes.

The car crashed through the lowered barrier, and bounced over the railroad tracks, beating the train by seconds. The train roared behind them, the sound so loud it was deafening, like . . . well, a train. Decker and his entourage shrieked to a messy stop, and the enraged colonel pounded on the roof of his car in frustration. Murdock and the driver howled in gleeful triumph.

Looking back at the speeding train and the sudden halt of pursuit, Hannibal puffed on his cigar and chortled. “So much for Colonel Decker.”

The driver giggled. “He jumped in the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn’t looking.” She grinned again. “What do you think, sis?”

The redhead stopped singing . . . Thank God . . ., and answered. “I think he’s a gross ignoramus.” She paused. “That is, a hundred and forty-four times worse than an ordinary ignoramus.”

Murdock snickered. “Nah, he just gets watered twice a week.”

“So,” Hannibal began, interrupting the flow of creative insults. “Where are we going?” This question was directed at the driver, who had changed direction once again.

“Our place, of course. Ya’ll need a chance to plan.”

Face cleared his throat. “I guess I’d better make the introductions. Hannibal, Murdock, B.A., these are the MacGillivray sisters, jewel thieves extraordinaire.” He gestured at the girl sprawled on his lap. “Screech.” He gestured at the driver. “Howler.”

Realizing that the wild child Screech’s earrings were emeralds, and that the grunge-baby Howler wore diamond earrings and a solitaire diamond necklace, Hannibal still couldn’t believe that any parent would give such names to their children. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did --” 

“Our parents were strange people,” grinned Screech, who had cheerily interrupted Hannibal’s question. “We’re sorta emotionally challenged ourselves, if ya’ll haven’t noticed.” Howler said nothing, just grinned cheerfully, and played with the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

The ride to the MacGillivray’s house passed, mostly in silence -- unless one counted when Murdock, Screech, and Howler sang their way through most of The Pirates of PenzanceHello Dolly, and several television theme songs. Finally, the car pulled up at a large white Victorian house, which appeared to have been partially built into a mountain -- not a mountain like the Rockies, but a friendly sort of mountain, round and knobbly, with lots of trees. The pair led the Team inside: warm colors, comfy floppy furniture, framed prints, everything mixed-and-matched, a well-used fireplace, and what appeared to be a polar bear rug.

“You’re doing well for jewel thieves,” grinned Hannibal, knowingly.

Screech grinned at him. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that crime doesn’t pay.” She wandered off, and reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a white Persian cat.

“This is Wordsworth,” said Howler. “He’s our mascot. And he roller-skates.”

Murdock whooped suddenly. “But what do you do about income tax?” He cast a mischievous look at Face.

The sisters glanced at one another. “We have in-house businesses, of course, and they’re doing very well.” Screech put the cat back down on the rug, and he hurriedly scampered off to find a warm place to sleep.

“This way,” said Howler, and gestured toward a set of carved mahogany double doors at the far end of the hallway. The group walked through the beautiful doors, down a steel circular staircase, and down a short hallway --that had been turned into a photographic gallery -- and set eyes on several computers and a printing press that ran the length of the room. 

“My business,” announced Howler proudly. “Welcome to the offices of the Daily Trauma. We publish a newsletter every day, containing news features, photographs, fiction, non-fiction features, and poetry.” She gestured to the professional-looking printing press. “Our subscribers list is nation-wide, and we’re not even in the red.” 

“Obviously, you haven’t seen my work,” sniffed Murdock haughtily, who was good and well deep into a new persona. “I am the greatest writer that was ever born. You know that question: who wrote Shakespeare’s plays?”

“Just a guess here,” sighed Face. “Shakespeare?”

Murdock snorted with contempt, fixing an imaginary monocle in one eye. “Of course not.” He looked affronted at the mere suggestion. “Lies. All lies. Vicious rumors. It was me. Me! I will send you some of my work immediately, of course.” He peered at them through the monocle.

Face picked up a newly-printed newsletter, glanced at the headline, and looked up at Howler with some considerable dismay. He read the headline out loud. “I Had A Vampire Elvis’ Baby Onboard An Alien Ship.” He didn’t say a word, but rolled his eyes expressively.

Murdock spread his arms wide and assumed a Shakespearean pose. “Ah,” he shouted. “I, a stranger and afraid, in a world never made!”

Hannibal took his cigar out of his mouth. “Uh, Murdock, I think that was A.E. Houseman.”

Murdock glared, and assumed a new pose. “O Goddess! Hear these tuneless numbers, wrung by sweet enforcement and remembrance dear . . . .”

Howler grinned. “John Keats.  Ode to Psyche.”

The Team and their temporary-tour-guides continued into a connecting room. It was filled with electrical equipment and radio receivers, mixers, and other radio transmitting equipment. Screech grinned. “Welcome to KRAZ-FM radio. We’re in the top forty, and play ‘round the clock, twenty-four seven.” Compact discs and cassette tapes, even some ancient eight-tracks, were neatly stacked in shelves all over the room.

B.A. showed some interest for the first time in the tour. “What sorta music you play?”

“The best in Australian digeridoo music, all day, every day.”

The Team looked at each other. They’d never heard of Australian digeridoo music. Screech sighed. “Obviously not listeners. Check it out. One oh one point three on your FM dial.”

The two lead the Team back upstairs and, with quirked eyebrows, pointed out the combination wet bar/ hot tub that took up an entire back room, which opened up to a beautiful indoor solarium that was overrun by roses of every shade. The group found themselves in what Screech called “the den”, where the focal points of attention were life-size bronze sculptures of a howling wolf and of a screech owl. 

Hannibal glanced at Murdock briefly, who was by now quoting Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein at length. “This is all very nice, but . . .”

“You’re welcome to stay,” sighed Screech happily. “We don’t mind. We can be very helpful to y’all.” She suddenly snapped her fingers. “That reminds me, Face. We found Rina.”

“Rina?” Hannibal looked at Face.

“You remember, Hannibal. The model I dated who had all that trouble with Johnny Tullian.”

Hannibal nodded. He remembered.

“She’s changed her name to Sullivan, got a law degree, and she’s working as a public defender in New York City.”

Face looked pleased.

“We have a job . . . in St. Thomas . . . at a fancy-smancy hotel -- and the owner just happens to have five million smackers worth of diamonds that we,” Howler gestured to herself, her sister, and Face, “just have to relieve him of.”

“Won’t he mind just a leetle bit?” Murdock had tired of Shelley, and entered the conversation.

“Not bloody likely,” chortled Screech. “Considering he stole them from someone else, there’s no way he’ll call the boys in blue.”

Murdock immediately began singing the theme to West Side Story.

B.A. shook his head, not liking this idea at all.

Face didn’t seem too happy about it either, and said so. 

Howler’s eyes widened in pretended shock. “Why, Face. After all the help we’ve given you: that mess in Hawaii with all those assorted nasty mobsters shooting at you and trying to send you to the Pearly Gates via air mail . . . .”

Face looked startled.

“That wrestling deal -- most unlike you, I must say!” broke in Screech. “But those blue tights, quite, quite fetching, yes, indeedy --” 

Face looked mortified.

“And then there was that incident involving the UFO. Posing as an Air Force Intelligence officer, or Security Officer, or whatever it was . . . .” commented Howler.

The rest of the Team looked interested, hoping for more gory details. Hannibal looked at Face, his eyes twinkling, but with an all-business look on his face. “Details later, Lieutenant.”

Face sighed, and waved an imaginary white flag. “Okay, okay.”

Gleefully, Screech and Howler began to sing: “We’ve got the brains, you’ve got the looks, let’s make lots of money.” Murdock joined in. “There’s a lot of opportunities, if you know how to take them. There’s a lot of opportunities, if there aren’t, you can make them.” 

“Let’s all go!” Murdock turned pleading eyes on Hannibal. 

That worthy individual glanced at the sisters. “Fifty-fifty cut.”


B.A. just shook his head. “Man’s on the jazz again.”

Murdock grinned. “Behold! A new poem born of my greatness!!” The pilot assumed a lofty pose, adjusted his invisible monocle, and began to read from an imaginary sheet of paper. “There once was a mudsucker named B.A. . . .” he began.

B.A. swatted at him, who ducked and ran behind Face.

The phone rang.

Screech answered it. “Hello? Oh, right? Really? Are you sure? Okay. Yeah, bye.” She sighed, and shot a woeful look at her sister. “Work,” she explained. 

Hannibal looked suspiciously at the pair. “I thought you said you both worked in-house.” He glanced at B.A., who straightened up, ready for orders.

“We do,” said Howler earnestly. “But we freelance for an outside company. I’m a computer engineer, and Screech is a cultural linguist.”


Howler shrugged. “Not really.”

“That’s right.” Screech glanced at Hannibal. “It’s Friday, so they won’t expect us in until Monday morning.” She grinned. “Which gives us three days to pull off the jewel heist of the decade.”

Murdock immediately began humming the Pink Panther theme, while Howler cavorted around the room. Screech giggled, and began singing something in a really bad Inspector Clouseau accent.

“Well, let’s go, then,” Hannibal decided. “Ladies?”

“We’ll be right there, Hannibal. Gotta get Wordsworth.” The Team began to exit, the jazz beginning to take effect. 

“There’s a plane hangar on the roof --” Screech called out.

Howler looked askance at her flame-haired sister. “There is?”

Screech tried to slap a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Take the elevator all the way to the top.”


“We’ll be right there!!”

Screech looked around the room and sighed. Howler had an unhappy expression on her face. “Cheer up, sis,” Screech said, trying to be comforting. “It’s okay -- you of all people should know that!” She looked up at the ceiling, and stated, very gently, “Computer, save program A-Team.” 

The response came back immediately. “Program saved.”

Howler sighed, and took over. “Computer, end program.” 

“Program ended.” All at once, the warm comfortable house -- even the Persian cat -- faded, revealing the black and neon green checked walls of Holodeck One. The women’s clothing had also dramatically changed; Howler wore a gold and black form-fitting jumpsuit, while Screech wore an identical outfit except for blue instead of gold.

“This is always so sad.” 


Glancing at each other, the sisters headed toward the door, not wanting to leave the relative safety of the holodeck. “Well,” began Howler, “at least there’s one good thing.” Screech raised a questioning eyebrow. “We can have a really kick-ass plane on the roof -- like a B-17 bomber or maybe the B-24 Liberator . . . .” 

They paused, while Howler removed the holodeck chip containing their private world. “You know,” Screech mused, “we should have a wet bar in the elevator.”

“And a couch,” agreed Howler. “And our plane will have to be refitted with a wet bar, and sleeping quarters --”

“And a kitchen.”

“Definitely a kitchen.” The pair exited the holodeck, and ran -- literally -- into Lieutenant Commander LaForge, Commander Riker, Counselor Troi, Lieutenant Commander Data, and Lieutenant Barclay. Shocked, neither sister could think of what to say. 

“Ah . . . um . . . well . . . .” was the best Screech was able to manage.

“It has been my experience that most humans, upon meeting friends and acquaintances, begin with ‘Hi’.” He looked at both women searchingly. “But your approach is most interesting.”

Amused, Commander Riker stepped in. “Don’t worry about it, Data.”

Glancing at each other, and shooting concealed looks at Barclay, both women stepped up and confronted Barclay. Howler glanced at the other officers, and said only “Excuse us, Sirs.” Standing on either side of him, Screech and Howler both kissed the astonished Barclay on the cheek, and began walking toward their quarters, pleased smiles on their faces, carrying the precious computer chip. 

LaForge and Riker hurried over to the shocked-beyond-comprehension Barclay, who was standing with both hands pressed against his face. “Reg,” confided LaForge, looking down the hallway to the departing women, “I think they like you.” He draped an arm over Barclay’s shoulders. “Remember, you ever need a friend for double dating, call me.”

Riker shot an amused glance at Troi, who said “They do like you, Reg, and from what I can sense from their emotions, it’s real.”

Data looked somewhat confused. “I am not certain I understand the actions of the Lieutenants MacGillivray. According to their records, they were born and raised on Pi Pharosi II, a world more commonly known as Direidi.” He paused briefly. “It is my understanding that natives of that planet tend to be given to . . . eccentricity.”

Deanna Troi went over to Barclay, and held his hands comfortingly. “Perhaps it was the only way they felt safe communicating with you. Perhaps that ‘eccentricity’ is a safety blanket for them.” 

Barclay looked up, removed his hands, and smiled tentatively. “You -- you really think so?” He looked hopefully down the hallway.

“Absolutely,” she said. Riker also nodded.

LaForge grinned. “After all, a little eccentricity can’t hurt anyone!” 


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