Jemima ex machina

Jemima ex machina

(for previous posts, see Jemima’s Annotated Guide to the Blog Wars)

Kira was distracted from Chekov’s heavily-accented attentions by a comm hail, informing her that an unusual ship had requested permission to dock. “Put it on the viewscreen in here,” she told Ops, glad for the distraction.

A large black van was approaching the docking ring.

“What is that?” Kira asked.

“That’s a truck, ma’am,” Tucker informed her. At her puzzled stare, he added, “A ground transport vehicle powered by fossil fuels. Watch that baby fly!”

“That van looks familiar,” Buffy said, climbing down from Worf’s shoulder.

“Is that the Death Star painted on the side?” Xander asked.

“Right-o,” Willow said, plucking a stray leaf out of her hair and edging away from Chakotay. Her witchly senses told her something big was up - a crackle in the air like lightning, in which case she didn’t want to be caught standing under a tree.

“Why is a truck docking at my space station?” Kira asked.

“We picked one up in the Delta Quadrant a few years back,” Chakotay told her. “They get around.”

A hush fell over the conference room, and lasted until the door opened.

“Cool!” said a rather short, dark-haired geek in a Star Wars t-shirt. “T’Pol, Seven of Nine, Kira–”

“Jonathan, what are you doing here?” Willow asked.

“Would you believe following the Slayer around as part of a nefarious scheme to take over Sunnydale?” the short geek asked.

“As if!” Buffy said, and the other Scoobies laughed.

“Fine,” he said huffily. “I’m Jemima’s driver. Warren installed a warp drive in the van, and here we are.”

“Where’s Jemima?” Lori and Seema asked in unison.

“She and Anya stopped at Quark’s for a drink. She said something about always having wanted to try Romulan ale.”

“Anya!” Xander choked out. He let go of Ezri, who fell a full two feet to the floor and sprained an ankle.

“Jemima is on her way,” Jonathan said, wagging a finger at the crowd. “You know what that means.”

“Weddings,” Spike said.

At the mention of marriage McCoy and Chekov, sixties characters to the core, filed out the door of the conference room. Riker was edging towards the exit himself when a tall, buxom, blonde woman strode through the doorway, carrying a box marked Ivory. She placed it on the ground in front of the crowd.

“Is that Jemima?” Kira whispered to Willow.

“No, that’s just Anya.”

“Anya…honey…how was your trip?” Xander asked. His fiancee eyed the gnome on the floor, then dragged Xander into a corner for a good scolding.

Suddenly, everyone noticed a figure framed by the heavy Cardassian architecture of the doorway. She was of average height, with wavy, flowing locks and flashing eyes of indeterminate hue. “Hi, Lori,” she said, and “Hi, Seema - fancy meeting you here.”

“Welcome to DS9,” Seema replied. Lori gave Jemima the secret handshake.

“Now, about this blog war…” Jemima said as she mounted the soapbox. The poolboys tensed, Buffy drew her best stake and Spike’s fangs appeared. Willow began replicating wedding dresses. “When someone says war, I expect to see photon torpedos and Genesis waves and Chakotay weeping over Janeway’s apparently-dead body - whole planets assimilated by the Borg, species wiped out, redshirts bleeding profusely, and Harry Kim dead again.”

Buffy cleared her throat.

“Oh, yes,” Jemima added, “and giant snakes eating the high school, Earth getting sucked into an unknown hell dimension, Spike saving humanity just because they’re so snackable, and Buffy dead again.”

“Sounds messy,” Seema observed.

“That’s the idea. So the next time you declare war, I want to see a war, not a round robin.” Jemima caught Lori’s eye. “Is that so much to ask?”

“I guess not,” Seema said. Lori shook her head, but there was a sparkle in her eye that made her poolboys nervous.

“Now that that’s settled, we can move on to the weddings. Kira, will you do the honors?” Jemima asked. The Bajoran agreed to perform the wedding ceremony, hoping to appease this Victorian Prophet and get her station back as quickly as possible.

“Thank you. Now, when I call out your names, pair up and don your formalwear.” The crowd shuffled nervously as Jemima took a little purple notebook out of her pocket and opened it. “Crusher and Riker…” Riker turned pale and Beverly looked positively ill. “You two are dismissed. Lori has pairings prepared for you when you get home.”

Lori raised an eyebrow as Beverly and Will fled the conference room in relief.

“Anya and Xander,” Jemima announced, and Anya squealed in delight. Xander shrugged on the tuxedo jacket Willow was holding out for him, looking resigned.

“Tucker and T’Pol,” Jemima said next. Tucker gave out a whoop.

“This procedure is highly illogical,” said T’Pol, “yet strangely fascinating.” Willow replicated a pecan pie with a tiny bride and groom on top.

“Worf and Ezri Dax,” Jemima announced.

Seema protested. “What about those trill rules?”

“You’re the ones who were bashing the writers,” Jemima explained. “Do you expect me to follow their idiotic rules?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but named the next couple, “Chakotay and Seven of Nine.”

Chakotay maintaned his arboreal calm, but Seven protested. “I have no established interest in Commander Chakotay.” Captain Janeway would be highly displeased, as well. “May I marry Ensign Kim instead?”

“No,” Jemima said, with a touch of regret.

“The Doctor?” Seven suggested, but the matchmaker merely shook her head. “Axum?”

“Sorry, Seven, but you and Chakotay are canon.”

“I will…adapt.” Seven pulled a white dress on over her catsuit.

“Last but not least,” Jemima pronounced, “Buffy and Spike.”

“Bollocks!” Spike exclaimed. “Wait a minute - this means I get to move in.” Willow helped the lucky vampire into a tuxedo with tails.

Buffy watched in shock, then approached the soapbox. “I can’t marry Spike,” she said. “He doesn’t have a soul.”

“Don’t talk back to the author,” Lori warned her.

Jemima was tired of the soul excuse. “You’re not doing your Vamp Tramp of the Hellmouth routine in my blog, young lady,” she said. “It’s high time you settled down.”

Buffy frowned, but took the dress Willow handed her.

“What about me, o bloggy one?” Willow asked, eyeing Kira Nerys. Jonathan hid himself under the conference table.

“Sorry,” Jemima replied, “it’s the Season of Evil Willow. I can’t marry you off until you clean up your act.”

“What about Kira?” Willow protested.

“Seema can handle Kira.” Seema nodded, and Willow pouted. “I can give you Evil Jonathan under the table there,” Jemima offered, relenting slightly.

“I’ll pass,” Willow said.

Jemima looked down upon the collection of couples in their tuxedos and white dresses, and saw that it was good. “Make it so,” she instructed Kira as she dismounted her soapbox. Kira began the traditional Bajoran group wedding ceremony, and Jemima opened her box and placed five bottles of Bajoran blue wine on the conference table, next to the pecan pie.

“Where did you get those?” Seema whispered to her.

“Quark’s,” Jemima whispered back. “My work here is done, ladies. If you need a lift, my van’s parked on the docking ring.”

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