Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations

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."