by Diane Carey
124
easily to English, practically on the attack for an
Argelian. "You're late! I do a favor for Chamberman
Yiri and what do I get? I'm expected to operate
shorthanded on the first night of the Archtide. You...
take this tray." He shoved a wide metal tray heavy
with confections into Merete's arms and ordered,
"Serve those Klingons over there. Keep them happy.
And you," he said, gesturing to McCoy, "pour more
drinks. Over there."
Within seconds, I was alone with this charming
round curmudgeon and he was walking me through a
sea of legs and pillows. "It'll be your turn soon. Do
you know the litika ?"
"I... might," I stammered, stepping over a sleep-
ing Argelian. "Have you seen any Vuicans around
lately?"
His hands waggled in the air. "Who can tell? Vul-
cans, Romulans, they're all the same." He led me to a
shimmering curtain and told me to stand there until he
came back, which was fine with me. I took the moment
to slip behind the curtain and retrieve my communica-
tor from the folds of the veils, which had sounded a lot
easier when I'd told Spock and Scanner I could hide it
there. The communicator chirped when the antenna
screen flipped up. "Piper to Rex," I said quietly.
"Spock here."
"Any change, sir?"
"None as yet. I am continuing to send the carrier
waves. Since only one of us is needed here, Mr.
Sandage requested to join you on the planet, and I
agreed. He has changed clothing and should be meet-
ing you there within a few minutes. What is Your
situation?"
"I think we've just been hired on for the season. We
won't be too conspicuous here. I'll be able to ask a few
questions, maybe get some answers or a lead to fol-
low. Sarda's alive and he's in the area--I can practi-
cally feel him."
125
There was a stern, reproving silence after my exu-
berant claim, a kind of logic-to-nonsense wrist slap-
ping, but he didn't make any direct comments "Yes.
.. Advise me if there is any change of plans. I shall
hail you in thirty minutes for a check-in."
"Affirmative. Piper out."
I tucked the communicator into the pocket of my
folded flight suit, dumped the whole wad behind the
shimmery curtain, then slipped back out into the can-
tina, only to get a faceful of chubby proprietor.
"There you are! I told you to stay here and where
did you go? Behind a curtain. Those cubicles aren't
meant for you. You stay out in the open and do your
job. Well? Go ahead!"
The music had stopped. The patrons were all look-
ing at me. I blinked back at them. "Well?" the proprietor urged.
"Yes .... Well .... "I straightened my veils. The
patrons started banging their hands on squat tables
Finally I asked him, "What am I supposed to be
doing?"
"Doing? Dancing, of course! What do you think
you're dressed for?"
"Ah. Of course. Sorry."
"Don't 'sorry.' Dance!"
From across the cantina, McCoy's eyes became
very wide when I stepped hesitantly onto that velvet
podium. The podium, fringed with silver, looked fairly
nice from a distance, but up close I saw that the
threads were separated and rotting from years of being
trod upon. It felt mushy. I could barely stand on it,
much less dance.
Dance? Me, dance?
The pounding grew louder. A gaggle of faces leered
up at me in brutal expectation. Klingons, humans,
Argelians, two Mengenites in the back... not a very
promising group as audiences go.
The proprietor got impatient and clap ped his hands
126
sharply. The band groaned to life. Their music once
again whined. The audience kept pounding the tables.
I raised one veiled arm and lowered it, letting the
veil softly fly. Then the other. Two steps left, two right
.. dance, huh? Now I could see Merete also frozen in
place, staring at me with the same saucer eyes I was
getting from McCoy. And now there was Scanner at
the doorway dressed in a waiter's ecru shirt and red
vest and holding a tricorder. Wasn't this nice? What a
privilege to have my Star Fleet colleagues on hand to
watch my un-Fleetlike gyrations.
Whatever I was doing, I was doing it wrong. The
audience howled their complaints, and I tried to im-
prove my twisting to imitate what I'd seen the other
girl doing earlier. Not to much avail. I simply wasn't
trained to move in those combinations. After a few
minutes of this, I managed to find the beat of the tune
they were assaulting us with and was able to improve
my act by making the veils and feathers fly. Eventu-
ally, the audience started to treat me better. It was
probably just sympathy.
The Klingons at the table to my left began showing
their appreciation by snatching at my veils, and suc-
ceeded in yanking some free before I got possessive
and yanked back. They hooted at my un-Argelian
defiance and raised their mugs of a favorite Klingon
wine involving distilled butterflies. The smell identified
it quite well. They took my reaction for encourage-
ment-as I should have guessed Klingons would.
Their sooty complexions shined in the torchlight, cut
by bright teeth and sharp black beards One of them
grasped my ankle.
"For an Argelian woman, you're a supernova," he
snarled upat me. "Come down here." "Can't," I said. "I'm working."
"You'll still be working." He stripped off my slip-
per, brought it to his face and started sniffing it while
he leered at me. "tlhlngan Hol Dajatlh'a' ?"
127
I didnlt know what he was asking me and wasn't
about to get into a discussion with him anyway. I
twisted my foot, hoping to break his grasp, but he held
fast to my ankle.
"You're not much of a dancer," the Klingon Said.
The only female member of the group threw her
head back and laughed." 'elaS-ngan ghaH." What-
ever she said, they got a roar out of it at my expense.
The first gorilla pulled harder on my foot. "Kyrtu
calls you a woman of Elas. Is that why you fight? You
don't look like an E!asian!" More laughter.
Another male downed the last gulp from a dented
goblet. "There are other things Argelian women can
do, Gelt. She's not working in this place without
qualifications."
I stopped dancing. I glared down at him, gritting my
teeth to keep in what I was thinking.
Gelt laughed along with his companions, then
turned that gray face up to me again and gave my ankle
a rough tug. "Enough dancing," he said.
My eyes grew narrow. My voice rumbled across the
cantina. "Let go of the foot," I suggested, "or you'll
be wearing it."
The laughter faded. A moment later, the music.
"I will teach things to you," Gelt said. "Things of
Klingon. Strong things. A salute to things of Klingon !"
He raised his mug and addressed the others, still
holding my foot. "May you die angry !"
After a group swig, they watched for my reaction.
My lips grew flat. "Not bad for somebody who just
learned to walk upright."
He had no misconceptions of my meaning. The grip
on my ankle tightened. In my periphery, the
tavernkeeper had his fists clamped to his mouth in
frozen panic. McCoy was poised for trouble. Scanner
and Merete were out of my line of vision. This wasn't
the time to worry about them. This was the time to
kick the lard out of a Klingon.
There was no sense in trying to talk my way out of
this; that was clear in the Klingon's eyes. So I closed
them with my other foot--a good, clean, Star Fleet
kick to the bridge of his nose. His hand fell away from
my leg, but the blow that would've floored any human
merely echoed briefly within the misshapen Klingon
skull. Gelt collapsed backward, his face crumpled in
astonishment, but he was soon clawing his way back
to me through a forest of his companions, who were
also grabbing for me. I felt myself going down in a sea
of Klingons, and caught a glimpse of Scanner's. body
flying head-on into the clutch like a giant brown-haired
torpedo.
Star Fleet self-defense tactics did their best to keep
our heads above those slimy waters, but there were
five of them and only two of us. McCoy was trying to
reach us, but the flood of Argelians who were trying to
escape kept him from making much headway. Merete,
too, was lost somewhere in the rush for the door. A
party of three human vacationers hesitated for a mo-
ment, then cast their lot with Scanner and me, smooth-
ing out the odds a bit, but we still had that awful
Klingon ruthlessness to deal with, as well as their
superior strength. I heard a bone crack somewhere in
the forest of arms and legs before I fully compre-
hended the Klingon bar-fight mode. After that, I quit
playing Star-Fleet fair.
I pulled ears and gouged eyes and even took a bite
out of a fuzzy forearm. Scanner flew by me at least
twice, neither time in control of his course, and by
now McCoy had discovered the art of smashing bot-
tles over Klingon heads. But Klingon heads are hard,
and the Klingon temper short-fused. Gelt was still
furious and he kept me occupied. I could barely keep
him from getting a grip on me much less worry about
128 129
helping my friends. I landed a few good blows, still
kicking at that tender spot on his forehead where I'd
kicked him before, and this dazed him. He was slow-
ing down, though his copper-gray face was still
screwed up with rage. Where moments ago this had
been only a saloon free-for-all, something had
changed. The Klingon sense of pride had taken charge.
If Gelt got a good hold on me, he would kill me.
It was a lucky thing that Argelian edicts prevented
the possession of any weapons while on the planet, or
I'd have been dead already. As the Argelians
scrambled into the alley, the cantina slowly emptied
out, leaving only a tangle of humans and Klingons, and
one petrified tavernkeeper who was frantically ringing
an alarm bell. The sound of an alarm on Argelius
usually translated into, "Run in the other direction,"
so if help was to arrive, it wouldn't be soon enough.
Gelt was circling me. I had managed to get the
podium between us. Roaring, he dived over it, fingers
waggling at my throat. I slithered clumsily to one side,
feeling his scratch rake across my upper arm, and I
tore one of the veils from the waistband of my plume
pants. I jumped up onto the podium and for a frantic
moment lost my balance. Gelt rolled over, but a solid
slam on the ear rocked him back onto his stomach. I
looped the veil around his neck, dropped onto his
back, and twisted.
He clawed at me, scoring my wrists. I kept pulling.
His throat grew taut against the veil, and he drew
blood on his own neck in an attempt to free himself.
He gagged and spat, then twisted around to grasp the
veil near my hands. Neck muscles stiffening, he made
me believe he wasn't going to let himself black out. So
I snatched up the nearest stone jug and introduced it to
the side of his head. He wavered under me, and at the
first sign of recovery, I clubbed him again. This went
on three, count 'em, three more times. Finally his eyes
rolled UP and he drooped back. As soon as I felt his
130
struggle slacken, I let go of the veil and leaned over
him long enough to be sure he was breathing. It was a
ragged, throaty kind of breathing, but the job was
done.
I rolled off the podium only to realize that I was
wrong; the job was far from done. Scanner was being
pummeled by a large Klingon, two of the human
vacationers were trying to rescue him while holding off
their own problems, and Dr. McCoy was grappling
with the spitting Klingon woman--and losing. With a
deep breath, I steeled myself for more.
Hardly had I drawn the breath when the ogling
crowd at the alley door parted and the cavalry sailed
in. Meret followed by Mr. Spock, cape flying, and to
my astonishment, Captain Cavalry himselfmKirk.
Though I was stunned with relief, McCoy knew
exactly what to do. He grimaced with effort and
shoved the Klingon woman straight at Spock, who was
able to down her with a slightly modified version of the
Vulcan nerve pinch. Evidently he'd bothered to learn
how to numb a Klingon nervous system in his years of
dealing with them. Handy data.
Kirk was not so subtle. He ran headlong into the
fight, took a leap, and bodyslammed two Klingons
right into the tavern wall. He was on his feet before
they had a chance to shake off the surprise. He picked
one, hauled him to his feet, and let fly a classic right
cross that rearranged the Klingon's jawline. In spite of
the victory, I saw the captain wince and shake his
aching hand before turning to deal with the second
Klingon. Number two was quickly dispatched, but it
took an extra punch.
The cantina was littered with bodies. At every door
and window, Argelian faces goggled at us, amazed at
our willingness to defend ourselves and each other
with physical force. This would keep their gossip lines
buzzing for years.
Kirk rubbed his knuckles, surveying his happy hunt-
131
ing ground. A quick glance around the room gave him
a head count, and he seemed satisfied when he turned
to me. "Ah, Piper. On the job as usual. And looking
dapper."
I turned red, quite aware of the torn veils, the one
bare foot (which
was almost as bad as the foot still
wearing the absurd slipper), the filmy harem pants,
and the sca nty top. I would've told him it wasn't my
idea, but that meant having to tell him it was Spock's
idea, and I decided not to do that. Of course, Kirk
wasn't in uniform either. He also wore some version of
Argelian clothing a simple toast-brown tunic, beige
trousers, and Federation boots. Well, riobody's per-
fect.
Limply I said, "I think I blew my cover."=
Captain Kirk raised his brows and blinked. "Yes,
you do seem rather uncovered." He surveyed the
clumps of Klingon. "Well, it was worth it."
Scanner stumbled to my side, holding his elbow.
"Bet you're a fun date,"
"Klingons !"
We all turned abruptly at Merete's warning call as
she stood near the dockside window.
Kirk took a step toward her. "Where?"
"Heading this way," she told him. "They must've
heard the noise."
McCoy joined her and leaned out the window for a
better look.
The captain asked, "How many, Bones?"
McCoy pushed himself off the windowsill and
blurted, "Too many!" "Let's go. Move."
The captain led us out of the tavern and down the
alley, stepping aside to herd us through a narrow
doorway into the next building, then out again into the
open Argelian night. He'd barely given me time to
132
retrieve my gear, but we got away before the Klingons
discovered us standing over their fallen comrades.
Panting, we slipped behind a huge stone cistern and
knelt there for horrible moments while a barrage of
Klingons thundered past, looking for us and frothing
for revenge. 'We held our breath as their hard-soled
boots clattered down the docks.
Scanner slid to his knees between Merete and Spock
and pressed his shoulders back against the cool stone.
"Gawd-a-mighty. Klingons really give me the colly-
wobbles. Ugly with a capital ug!"
"Predictable human reaction," Spock commented. I
watched his expression and McCoy's double take and
decided it was another of those odd Spock-McCoy
barbs that I was only beginning to pick up on.
I stanched the scratches on my arm with a veil and
turned to Captain Kirk. "Sir, we didn't expect you so
soon."
