The Night Before Christmas:

The Second Millennium

By Celeste Hotaling (with apologies to Clement Moore)

T’was the night before Christmas and all through the ship,

The sensors were silent, not even a blip.

The stockings were hung on the flightdeck with Kerr,

For Gan had got angry and hung Avon there.

“There isn’t a Santa Claus,” Kerr Avon hissed,

“I’ll show Gan ‘Gorilla’ he doesn't exist!”

He pulled himself down, then he turned with a jerk,

He gathered up Orac and went right to work.

He plotted trajectories, pondered statistics,

Figured the odds, played with quantum physics,

In the end he gave up and threw ORAC's key forcibly,

For all the computers could tell him was—possibly!

When from the hull sensor board came such a noise,

The notorious tech lost his infamous poise.

He punched up the viewscreen in furious dread,

While visions of Servalan danced in his head.

The stars by the hull of the portside nacelle

Shone so bright that the details were as clear as a bell.

For what to his wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature rocket and seven tiny reindeer!

With a space-suited driver, so lively and quick,

Avon knew in a moment he was going to be sick.

As their landing lights pulsed, Avon's knees grew much weaker,

While the voice of Saint Nicholas blared from the speaker.

“On Challenger, Enterprise, Columbia, too!

On Discovery, on Pathfinder, I'm calling you!

Supersonic fly straight! Mind your partner, Atlantis!

A quick and true course may the solar winds grant us!”

Avon ran to the armory, grabbed up a gun,

Turned on his heel, came up at a run—

Then he stopped to consider what action was best,

For the scent of a profit had heightened his interest.

So when Santa transported himself to the flightdeck,

There wasn’t a sight nor a sign of the tech.

Santa pulled out a list, read it off with a shout,

And this is exactly what St. Nick read out:

“For Jenna, a Blake doll—she’s been a good kid;

A decanter for Vila, with lockable lid;

For Cally, a new dress, her ship clothes are tacky;

For Rojie, some red pants, he looks lousy in khaki.

“They’ve all been good girls and good boys, that is true,

but some of the names on this list just won’t do!

Servalan, Travis, the Grant girl, and Shrinker—

But of all of this gang, I'd say Avon’s head stinker!

“He punches out women! He’s nasty and snide!

He's mean to poor Vila! He’s puffed up with pride!

I find his behavior disgraceful and shocking!

This Kerr Avon fellow gets coal in his stocking!”

Up popped Avon as red in the face as a rose,

Clothed in black leather, dramatic in pose.

A terrible sight for poor St. Nick to see.

“Is it true, Santa?” Kerr cried, “Did you betray me?!”

But before the enraged tech could shoot (bang, bang, bang)

A sonorous voice from he corridor sang,

“Don’t do it, Avon! Don't kill Santa Claus!

He may be my newest recruit—for the cause!”

Blake threw himself into the tech’s line of fire,

Screwing up Avon’s aim (and increasing his ire,)

In true hero-fashion, Blake grabbed for the gun!

Of course, it went off (it was just set on stun.)

By the time Avon pushed off the sleeping gawk’s bulk,

His quarry had gone, so he started to sulk.

Then the speakers blared out, “Reindeer, standard by wow!

Happy Christmas to all! Let's get outa here—NOW!”