| Stories → Star Trek: For Hire/No Job Too Small, No Galaxy Too Large |
Dardanelles Station, on the border of Federation space
Stardate 57004.2
"You gonna be alright there, honey?"
Dr. Andrew Wolfe, who had been drowning himself in increasingly potent glasses of Aldebaran whiskey -- he was well into the darker green hues of the libation by now -- looked up to the direction of the voice that had addressed him. Through his blurred vision, he made out the lovely vision of the waitress who had been bringing him the beverages all evening, decked in her skimpy, lighted uniform.
He smiled weakly to the girl, shaking his head with a slow simplicity. "I don't suppose I could possibly be any worse," he slurred, chuckling to himself at his own maudlin joke with an audibly bitter laughter.
The waitress tilted her head, picking up on the melancholy nature of the joke. "What's the matter, honey?" she asked, offering herself a chair as she sat down next to the depressed doctor. "You lose your girlfriend or somethin'?"
"Oh, if only," he said, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. "No, my dear, something far more grisly than that. I am here today because I am a failure." He grinned through the self-deprecation, locking eyes with her as well as he could in his state of inebriation. He raised his right hand and whirled his index finger around, indicating the various uniforms also relaxing around the establishment. "You see them? That used to be me. Starfleet officer."
"What happened?" asked the waitress, naively.
"What happened is I let an Arbazan ambassador die on the operating table," said Dr. Wolfe. "Nothing I could do. She had complications on top of complications. But, at the hearing, the Arbazans sued to have my commission revoked, and in the interest of galactic peace, I was declared incompetent and drummed out of Starfleet in disgrace." He took another swig of his whiskey. "And now, here I am in this terrible no-place, this crappy way-station between Federation space and the great unknown, waiting for the only job I could find to get started so I can finally put that miserable part of my life behind me."
The waitress looked distraught, unable to find words to console the man. Seeing his glass emptying, she smiled politely and snatched it up. "Why don't I fetch ya a refill, sweetie," she said. "This one's on the house."
Dr. Wolfe smirked. "Thanks," he offered, weakly.
She smiled wider, turning as she stood up to head to the bar. As she spun around in her fervor to get Dr. Wolfe's refill, she ran headfirst into a Klingon. "Oh!" she exclaimed, stepping back as she realized her mistake, "I'm so sorry! Please forgive me, I was just on my way to the..."
Her sentence was cut short by the Klingon's backhand smashing against her jaw, sending the waitress flying with a painful yelp. "Hu'tegh petaQ!" exclaimed the Klingon.
"Hey!" yelled Dr. Wolfe, standing up as he addressed the Klingon, far too drunk to decide whether or not this was a good idea. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size, seashell-head?"
The Klingon sized up Dr. Wolfe, laughing at him openly. "Does your mother know you're out past bedtime, human?"
"No," said the increasingly irate Dr. Wolfe, "but your mother does!"
At that, the Klingon lunged at him. Even as a Starfleet medical officer in top condition, combat was never Dr. Wolfe's forte, and in his debilitated state he was clearly no match for a Klingon warrior. He tried blocking and swinging in vain, but the Klingon overpowered him in no time, knocking him flat on his back with several well-delivered blows.
As Dr. Wolfe looked up, his face bloodied from the beating, he saw the Klingon standing over him, grinning madly as he extended his d'k tahg.
"Yield," came a stern, female voice. "This human is my responsibility. Do not harm him."
The Klingon turned around. Before him was a petite, slim woman, apparently Human herself. She was keenly dressed and stood primly. He began to laugh again. "Go home, little girl, before you get yourself into trouble you can't get out of."
"pI'chu' SoSIl', bIv 'orghenya' rojmab," answered the woman, simply and without raising her voice.
The Klingon became immediately furious at this, and turned to attack the woman. She moved lightning fast, sidestepping the Klingon's assault and using his bulk against him with a martial arts move that sent him flying. The Klingon regained his feet and came at her again, swinging his dagger. The woman evaded his thrusts deftly, again waiting for her opportunity, and then used a series of precisely-placed strikes to knock him out.
She looked down as the Klingon lay unconscious at her feet, his d'k tahg lying next to him. After a moment, she turned, walking to Dr. Wolfe and offering him a hand up. "You are Dr. Andrew Wolfe, former lieutenant aboard the USS Hokkaido."
Dr. Wolfe gratefully took her hand, allowing her to help him up. "That's right," he said, impressed with the strength with which she helped him to his feet. "And you must be my liaison."
"My name is Zes," she answered simply. "I am first officer aboard the Filthy Targ, the ship on which you will be employed. Captain Bron has sent me to retrieve you."
"And not a moment too soon," Dr. Wolfe said, stepping out the door of the establishment with Zes as the bar patrons looked on in awe. "You're pretty strong for a Human."
"Elasian," corrected Zes, as they disappeared down the station's promenade. The Klingon stirred on the floor, raising his head in time to see the two leaving, a snarl growing across his face.
Act 1[]
(to be continued...)