CHAPTER TWENTYSEVEN
“Tam? Tammas Parkin, you need to get up now.”
Tammas stirred. His head hurt something fierce, but it wasn’t bad enough that he would seek medical assistance. A face was staring curiously at him, almost concerned, and this distracted him from his head ache. The world seemed blurry, all but her face. The purple and blue hues in her hair drew his attention, reminding him of the rich colors found in a peacock’s feathers, or the delicate wings of a butterfly. He admired the way it framed her face. It was short, squared off, and the cut reminded him of an Egyptian Queen. A medallion hung from a necklace, a swirling blue and pink liquid display which was almost as hypnotic as her eyes. Her eyes were out lined with a dark blue fading to black, mixed with glitter. Her lips, painted grey, pursed as she studied him. She wore clothing that conformed to her figure, accentuating every curve, leaving nothing to imagination, and as she leaned over closer to his face he could see that she was not shy about what she had, nor did she lack the confidence to use it. She smiled when she realized he was indeed awake and acknowledging her presence. Her outfit was comprised of dark shades of grey and black.
“You slept the entire way,” she said, patting him on the cheek. Even her fingernails were painted black. “We’re at K7.”
There was a song in his head that he had picked up from re-enacting a movie. “I see a red door and I want it painted black…” He closed his eyes for a moment to resist the song. When he opened them, she was still there, but the world was less blurry. “Who are you?” Tammas asked.
“Duana,” she said, seeming shocked. “You don’t remember me? Star Fleet special, ops? McCoy assigned me to be your body guard. Are you feeling alright?”
“Pa Pa is here?” Tammas asked.
“No,” Duana said. “And if he heard you call him that, you’d loose your commission.”
“Deanna? She was here with me,” Tammas said, sitting up. He sat up too fast and braced himself on the shuttle’s bed. He didn’t remember pulling it out of the hidden recess, much less climbing into it for a nap.
“No, I’m the only one here with you,” Duana said, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “You must have been dreaming.”
He shook his head and stood. When he had left the Enterprise, he had thought everyone had been immobilized by the Kelvan stasis. Perhaps he had been mistaken. It seemed to make sense that McCoy would have assigned him a body guard. He picked up his back pack and slipped his arms into the straps. He then pulled a poncho over his head.
“You remember the plan, right?” she asked, adjusting his poncho and brushing off some lint.
“Where is my uniform?” Tammas asked.
“Please, Tam,” Duana said, grasping both his arms. “We’re not going through that again, are we? You can’t hire a Klingon Mercenary ship wearing Star Fleet uniforms. Now, I packed everything you told me to, so if you’re ready to transport over, let’s do it. We’re running out of time to save Counselor Troi.”
Tammas nodded. “Of course,” he said. He noticed he was wearing the Kelvan wrist band and started to remove it.
“No, you’ll want to leave that on,” Duana said. “You can’t afford to misplace it. You might need it when you arrive at your destination.”
Tammas agreed. It might be his only weapon against the Kelvan should he have a close encounter. He set the coordinates and together they used the shuttle’s emergency transporter to beam over to K7. Tammas and Duana appeared outside a popular bar slash restaurant. He looked around to make sure no one had notice their arrival.
“Our transport will have registered on the station’s security sensors,” Duana said. “I’ll go take care of that, while you go get us a ship.”
“Alright,” Tammas said. “I’m sorry for being a little out of it.”
Duana kissed him. “Don’t worry. You’re under a lot of stress.”
“Thank you,” Tammas said. He watched her just long enough to realize he was admiring her maybe too closely. Too closely for work associates and he had to assume that they were indeed associates. Then again, he thought while glancing back, that wasn’t just a peck on the cheek she had just given him. He steeled himself up and headed towards the bar, for regardless of what she was, Deanna and Selar needed him to complete his mission. He needed to save them. To enter the bar, one had to pass through an anular force field, and under a sensor arch, that checked incoming patrons for weapons. The force field prevented the bar’s air from mixing and contaminating the regular station’s air. It was no doubt a safety feature to protect non-patrons from the second hand smoke that filled the air in the bar. It was “cliché” thick, enough to cut with a knife, and Tammas felt his eyes watering and his lungs tightening up. He had to use his biofeedback to stop a potential allergic response. In addition to smoke, the air was being saturated with water from a moisturizer. A thin veil of fog crept along the floor. As he walked, his boots stirred a small wake allowing him to get brief glimpses of the floor, which was covered with saw dust. He had never known a place to use such an archaic technique, and imagined it was only good for ambiance. It made a curious sensation under his feet that he hadn’t expected.
In addition to preventing the contaminated air from leaking out into the rest of the station, the force field also contained the noise of the bar to the bar. There was a band playing at full volume. There was the sound of customers laughing, quarreling, and dining. One of the patrons ate a live rat like creature that squealed, and Tammas had to constrain himself against going to the aid of the remaining little creatures. He sucked it up and pushed on, resisting the entertainment lasers and lights that danced around the room from lulling him into a daze. It was hypnotic and he was willing to surrender to it, but he needed to function for just a while longer.
A Catian headed for the door paused by Tammas and sniffed. “I know you.” Its voice was hardly audible over the din of the bar.
Tammas remembered the large cat like creature, not by face, but by smell and the quality of its voice. Its fur coat was grayer than he remembered, and it was shedding, but he was definitely the cat whose tail Tammas had stepped on when last here. The large cat was much less frightening now that Tam had some height and experience with aliens.
Tammas bowed to the Catian, folding his hands together out of respect. “I was a child and you taught me proper etiquette.”
The Catian nodded, sniffing, his memory of the event coming back to him. “Ah, yes. I remember you as a child. You appear to have learned manners as well as the ability to speak. Good. It fills my heart with gladness that I had a part in this. I’d stay away from the keetle, here. They say they’re fresh, but I think they grow them out of a Petri dish in the back room. Farewell, child.”
The Catian pushed through the anular field and moved on down the corridor. Tammas was relieved the old cat didn’t want to talk, because he was feeling ever more anxious about time. He was running out of time. Everybody was. Things were going to change and these poor people were just going about their lives as if nothing was coming. Couldn’t they sense the inevitable slipping up behind them?
It was the kind of bar normally associated with low lifes and scum and it had a reputation that went back as far as the feud for Sherman’s planet. Bar fights were so common that weapons had been banned, hence all the security screen arches he had had to walk under to enter. It was a good thing Tammas had decided not to bring a weapon, because getting caught with one could get you sent straight to the Brig, no “special” immunity allowed. And with his luck, he would have ended up on the “Other” Klingon side, where treatment of prisoners was considered harsh even by the “biological” Klingons standards.
K7 was jointly owned and operated by the “Other” Klingons and Earth colonists that had settled here nearly one hundred and fifty years ago. The “Others” and humans were physically indistinguishable from each other. As for their cultures, one hundred and fifty years of blending had made the “Other’s” less harsh and the humans more so. As Tammas had noted in his research for his fictional book, “The Others” lacked the prominent ridge formation on the head that the “biological” Klingons were heir to. Both human and “Others” had co-colonized Sherman’s planet, competing to see who could best develop the planet for their respected paternal nation state. Both the Federation and the Klingon Empire had invested great amounts of energy into “the project” as this planet was well suited for a Starbase, making this solar system a critical defensive point between their two nations. So critical that neither could afford to loose it, but to openly fight for it meant an all out war, something neither side could afford at the time. That was how “the Arrangement” had come into being. The Federation and the Klingons actually sat down at a legitimate conference and decided to make a game of it: the side that could best demonstrate their ability to adapt Sherman’s planet could call it their own.
Tammas had always wondered what happened to Sherman in the process. One would think that, as the first settler, he would have some rights to it. None the less, the agreement was made and the New Cold War was started. The whole situation could have easily escalated into a full fledge war, had the curator at the time, a Baris Nilz, failed to convince Captain Kirk of the necessity of protecting his station, and a valuable shipment of quadrotriticale. Of course, some would say that just bringing Kirk into the mix could have started a full fledge war between the Federation and the Klingons, and Tammas found himself hard pressed to dispute some of those arguments. After all, was it not Kirk who had transported an undisclosed number of Tribbles onto a Klingon ship, which consequently “infected” the Klingon outpost that was only one parsec away from Sheman’s planet, and consequently “infected” several other Klingon ships, which infected several other outposts? Of course, no one ever pinned that one on Kirk. The Klingons certainly blamed him, for it took much of their resources to contain the “epidemic” and eliminate the Tribbles. So, if it was Kirk, some still argue it was Kirk’s cleverness that lessened the threat of the Klingon Empire by giving them something other than the Federation to worry about: Tribbles.
“Some would say,” Tammas mumbled. “Some would say Kirk walked on water.” And though Kirk did save the quadrotriticale, he didn’t help the Federation win Sherman’s planet. After all that fuss, the colonist, both human and “Others,” up and joined forces and ran both the Federation and Klingon Empires out, in favor of self rule. They were simply sick of all the hostilities, threats of war, but most importantly, none wanted to see their homes lost should the other side win. Both the Federation and the Klingon Empire had been so caught off guard by the event that they were both left scrambling for ways to recover their lost property through legal loopholes, all the while accusing each other for having secretly undermined “the project” out of poor sportsmanship like behavior. Probably the only thing saving Sherman’s planet from a straight out bombardment from either the Federation or the Klingon was that both sides had colonist there, and neither side could really afford to go to war.
A platter of food floated by, distracting Tammas. He was starving, but when his stomach turned, just like the food on the platter, he decided he wasn’t as hungry as he thought. The food was still alive and the waitress, who was smoking a cigarette, didn’t seemed to be concerned that her ashes were falling onto the platter as she maneuvered around the tables, slapping the wandering hands of several patrons. The waitress was greasy, and not in a sexy way. Either her species was just naturally oily, or she had put on a self protective lotion barrier to protect her from germs. Or worse. Not that the oily skin was unattractive, Tammas thought as he reconsidered its nature further. The longer he looked, the more he admired the rich skin colors, no doubt enhanced by the moistness. The colors reminded him of the color of poison dart frogs of Earth. She had bright red and dark purple splotches, more alluring and deeper tones than even an artificial tattoo could reproduce. He took a second look, his eyes lingering longer than he knew he should allow them. But damn, he thought, she was interesting. How could he not be expected to stare?
“Hey, don’t you think you should stay focus?”
Tammas turned to the girl on his right. She almost looked like the compulsory blond bimbo type that would be in one of those old, B movies. The blond hair, long and straight, and the baby blue eyes were not her only prominent features, but instead of focusing on the hour glass figure highlighted by the tight clothing, he managed to maintain eye contact. She was dressed in shades of white. White boots, white hose, white skirt, white blouse, and a white sweater. The whiteness of her dress seemed to accentuate the freckles on her face, and the red of her lips, painted glossy with sparkles.
“I beg your pardon?” Tammas asked.
“You don’t have to beg, Tam,” she said.
“I know you?” he asked, his head tilting as he sought the information in his head. He never forgot a face, so, why was it that here was the second person today that he had not at least recognized by looks alone? After all, she was certainly unforgettable in appearance.
“Ilona? Hello?! Did the frog girl just totally wipe your hard drive clean? Do you need to reboot?” Ilona asked. “Now wipe the drool off your mouth and let’s get back to work.”
Tammas repressed an anger response.
“The group you’re looking for is over there,” Ilona said, pointing. “You better get going, too. You’re standing around is starting to draw unnecessary attention. I got your back. Good luck.”
It was obvious to him, and everyone else, that Tammas looked out of place in the bar. He wore an earthy, gray poncho, and his trousers were black with the legs stuffed into his boots. His whole outfit suggested he might be a ranger, or a priest, or a ranger priest from one of his games. He drew the hood back and down to reveal his humanity. Though it was a hazard to be human and on this side of the bar, he wanted complete use of his periphery vision. His ears didn’t carry enough of the Vulcan signature points to make him readily recognizable as a hybrid, which no doubt saved him from a few fights. The only thing less tolerated on this side of the station than humans were Vulcans. Any peace loving creature that stumbled over here was going to have to fight or run for its life because these folks just weren’t having it. He surveyed the room. The waitress went by him again, winking as she did so. Her uniform barely contained her.
“Today?” Ilona said more than asked.
Sufficiently motivated by Ilona’s impatient tone, Tammas headed towards the Klingons. They were biological Klingons. The non biological Klingons, the “Others,” gave their table a wide berth. Tammas crossed his arms, his hands nicely concealed beneath the poncho. To say Tammas got a few stares from the patrons would be an understatement, but if there was a lull in the conversations, he didn't hear it until he got within a meter of the Klingons. He heard the dull roar of the bar drop a notch, which revealed some subtleties in the pounding beat of the music he had previously missed. There was still the sound of cutlery against plates, the clattering of glasses, and, as always, the music that played over and over in his head. The song in his head was a dangerous, punk rock mix, playing like a funeral march, and it sort of fit, in an odd kind of way, to the popular Klingon song the band was playing.
Tammas made a quick study of the group he intended to meet. They were Klingon, old school judging by their dress. They would have made a perfect research study group if he were in a more sociological frame of mind. It didn’t take too long of a study for him to figure out the hierarchy of their little gang, as he circled and made his final approach to their table.
If there had been any laughter or challenges directed at him from his entrance, there were none now. There was a definite, and sudden, reduction of noise as Tammas approached the table where the seven Klingons sat huddled in a private conversation. That, or his heart just doubled in volume. Two of the Klingons were female. Tammas had made it his purpose to approach opposite to their leader, Captain by virtue of owning a ship, not by military rank. Tammas had wanted to make sure the Klingon Captain could see him coming from a kilometer away, and he had been successful in that, at least. He stopped an arm’s length away from the table, wondering if Ilona really had his back, because he wasn’t sure where she had run off to. If she were still present, she might as well have been invisible.
The two Klingons with their backs to him put their drinks down and snarled at his proximity, watching their Captain’s eyes for the command. None of the Klingons approved of his presence, their disgust indicated by their nose actions. They were in no subtle way telling Tammas that they didn’t care for his odor.
"Back off, Human," the Klingon Captain said.
"You're mercenaries for hire," Tammas stated. "I wish to conduct business with you."
"We don't conduct business with humans, Human!" the Captain stated, not hiding his contempt for Tammas. When he said "Human," he meant it as an insult.
Most humans would have taken this as a cue to leave the immediate area, but Tammas was not most humans. Tammas had handled Klingons, so how bad could this get? he wondered. He disconnected a small bag of coins from his belt and tossed it to the table.
"I will pay you to listen to me," Tammas offered.
Perhaps he had made a mistake offering money after the deal was already closed. The tension around the table escalated, but the Captain still had a reign on his people. They chose not to act, but he was aware that their grips tightened on their mugs.
"Perhaps you didn't hear me, Human," the Captain said. "Turn around and walk away from my table, or die."
The Klingon directly in front of Tammas leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs, and smugly added, "puj qoH!" His friends laughed and the Captain smiled.
Tammas smiled, too, briefly, and then kicked the chair out from under the Klingon comedian, landing him neatly on his back, legs up in the air, with a resounding thud. His mug and drink went flying. Before the Klingon could move, much less recover from the surprise and indignity of it all, Tam's foot pinned the comedian’s neck to the ground, effectively cutting off the Klingon’s air supply.
The Klingon’s companions stood, except for the Captain. Every conversation in the bar stopped, even the band quit playing, as the patrons assessed the situation. Some found excuses to be else where, paid for their drinks and left. That included all the patrons nearest the Klingon table.
Tammas pointed a hand held unit at the downed Klingon, warning the others off. "I wouldn't," Tammas said, his voice echoing in the strange quiet of the bar. They hesitated long enough for the Captain to tell them to hold, using sign language. The Captain's curiosity was piqued. Tammas looked down to the Klingon beneath his foot.
"If you wanted to fight, you should have insulted me in standard," Tammas said. "Since you didn't know I spoke some Klingon, I suppose that makes you a coward."
His friends growled, but they held their ground, waiting for their Captain to give the word. The Captain only watched, intrigued by the turn of events.
"You must be a weak coward, since all of your friends stood to help you against one weak, fool of a human!" Tammas continued.
The Klingon's friends ceased their growling. More people relocated to new tables, or left the bar completely. Perhaps Tammas had somehow managed to complement the Klingon’s companion by insulting the downed Klingon, for they were much more amused by the situation than before, and not as eager to help their compadre. The Captain began to laugh. This was going along much easier than Tammas had hoped.
"muv maH, Human," the Captain invited.
Tammas removed his foot from the Klingon's neck, kicked him over, stood the downed chair up, spun it so its back was to the table, and sat on it backwards. The Klingon got slowly to his knees, choking, massaging his neck, and finally stood. The Klingon Captain pushed a mug over to Tammas and he drank from the cup, ignoring the officer who was upset about loosing his drink. The band, a little less timid now that Tammas had taken a seat, began to play. They played a peaceful song. At least, as peaceful as a punk rock band could muster and still be considered punk. It made Tammas think of a Punk Rock Christmas special he had performed on a holodeck.
"Agasht blood wine," Tammas noted, very much like the Klingon’s regulan Blood wine. He wiped his chin on his sleeve.
"You are strong, for a Human," the Captain said, again impressed.
"What I did didn't take strength," Tammas said. And that was the truth. "Physically, I am not strong at all, and, compared to you, physically, spiritually, as a warrior, I am merely a child. I hope that you can teach me bravery on our journey."
"And what makes you think I won't just kill you now, Human?" the Captain asked.
"Either kill me now or listen to me, but stop wasting our time," Tammas offered.
The Captain considered this for a moment, not showing his approval of Tam's show of strength, and then asked, "How did you get the weapon in here, Human?"
Tammas smiled and rolled the assumed weapon across the table. The Captain examined the small cylindrical device with some confusion.
"It's an extension to a medical tricorder, not a weapon," Tammas explained.
The Klingon Captain howled with delight. The offended Klingon tried to tackle Tammas, but two of his friends held him back, amused beyond no end. Their friend's time for attack had passed him. There had been nothing to have prevented him from doing so earlier, had he only chosen to act. Tammas ignored the commotion, keeping his focus intently on the Captain. Had he even flinched, the offended one's companions would have turned him loose to finish what he should have done earlier, while still on the floor.
"soH yoH," the captain said. "What need could you have that would require mercenaries, Human?"
"You honor me," Tammas said. "I need you. I need your ship."
"You know of my ship, Human?" the Captain asked, skeptical.
"Who hasn't heard of your ship, or of your conquests?" Tammas asked. "The Pa Nun, a Klingon battle cruiser, K't'inga class. If it were a Federation ship, I'd call her out dated, but I expect you don't have any trouble keeping her running."
"Of course not," he said. Flattery could only go so far with a Klingon, and Tammas was now at the ends of that rope. Still, calling it an old, piece of junk would not have gotten him any favors, either. "Our price is steep, Human."
"That bag is three pounds of trilitium-cobalt chips," Tammas explained. "Which is yours for allowing this conversation to take place. I'll give you three times that once I board your ship, and fifty times that on successful completion of our task. Here's my credit and pay authorization. You may verify it now if you have a portable."
The Captain took the disk and handed it to the girl on his right. It only took a moment for her portable to translate the codes into Klingon, access the information by remote processing, and get back to her with the answer. She gave her approval to her Captain.
"I'd rather have Gowr kill you than conduct business with you, Human!" the Captain stated clearly.
"I'm ready to die," Tammas informed the Captain simply. "Only, I don't think Gowr can kill me alone."
The Captain's laughter veiled Gowr's cry of rage, but still his friends held him back. "You can talk the talk, human. I doubt, seriously, you can back it up. However, I do believe you would die trying. And that's the only criteria I have for choosing my clients. Meet us at air lock seven in one hour. And don't be late. Human. Ha!"
The Klingon party departed, Gowr hanging back just long enough to glare menacingly at Tammas. It was the kind of glare that said "this is not over between us." Tammas hoped that as long as he was a client, he was protected, but then again, he would loose favor with them if he were to back down from a threat, cowering under the Captain's protection. The moment they left the bar, Tammas sighed in deep relief. "I should have been a god-damned actor," Tammas thought, holding his hands up to see if they were shaking as badly as he imagined. Then he wondered how much of that had been an act. It was more like his brain had just shut off. What did the sociologist call it? Identity Salience? Maybe he had just found another aspect of himself that needed to be entertained and explored. The Klingon warrior personality has emerged! Just another role to play.
Tammas had to laugh at that. He was becoming a true chameleon. It was the one problem with being an in-field sociologist, as opposed to being a strict theorist, and having a natural propensity for empathy didn’t help much. On some level, even normal humans took on attributes of those they studied, but his added empathy took it to a whole new level. In some respects, buried deep within his psyche were the actual personalities of those he had come in contact with. All humans did this to some degree, for the human brain was able to model the personalities of others to such a degree that it was possible to predict that personality’s future behavior. This was the best scientific explanation on how these “other” personalities could be so readily used in the dream state by the dreamer. The dreamer could utilize character details and personality traits so well defined that many people often thought of these characters as the real McCoy. It also explained the popular myth held by so many cultures that dream characters are the actual ghosts or spirits of your deceased family, or the spirits of live people “astral” traveling to visit with you.
Tammas tended to dismiss the mythic versions, accepting that dream characters were really aspects of himself, modeling what he had observed. Everything in a dream was oneself, even the table and chairs were merely self acting as table and chairs. Unfortunately, he couldn’t completely dismiss the myth explanations, for it was true that he had psychic connection to others. Because of these connections, there was more going on with him than simply acting like others in his dream. What was him and what was arch-other had been a problem since conception. He had spent years building appropriate boundaries, training that first started with Deanna, and in doing so he had chosen to favor the scientific explanations for dream characters as opposed to the myths. He understood the myths, and they could be psychologically appealing at times, but the science made it a little easier to deal with the variety of perplexities that came with the subject.
Tammas unconsciously downed one of the drinks that had been left unfinished, grimaced, and then pushed back from the table. God, that was awful stuff! He was about to get up, but Ilona and Duana sat down at the table with him.
“I thought you were dead when you floored that Klingon,” Ilona said.
“You floored a Klingon?” Duana asked. “And I missed it?”
“Did you arrange everything?” Ilona asked.
“Yeah,” Tammas said, frowning. He hadn’t booked travel for three.
“That waitress over there keeps staring at you,” Duana noted.
Tammas turned to look.
“Don’t encourage him,” Ilona chastised her. “We don’t have time for this.”
Tammas studied the two girls sitting across from him and took another sip of whine. He shivered. He had forgotten just how bad this was, and since the Klingons were no longer here to judge his reactions to the drink, he was less concerned about revealing them.
“You should really go easy on that stuff,” Ilona said. “You haven’t eaten in a while.”
The purple and red waitress hesitantly approached the table. Duana got up, pulling on Ilona’s arm. “Come on, give the man some privacy.”
“We don’t have time for every tramp that comes along…” Ilona protested.
“That’s not necessary,” Tammas corrected Ilona.
“What’s not necessary?” the waitress asked.
“Oh, I was just talking to my friends,” Tammas said.
“Someone on your personal communication device?” she asked.
“UH? Oh, no, um,” Tammas stuttered, turning to point to his new friends from Star Fleet Ops, only to find that they had departed. He shook his head, amazed at how quickly they could make themselves scarce. He made a mental note to ask them to teach him that trick.
“You’re Tam Garcia, aren’t you?” she asked.
“You know me?” Tammas asked.
“Oh my, like, who doesn’t know you?” she said. “May I sit with you a moment?”
“Sure,” Tammas said, indicating the chair next to him.
“Of all the bars in the universe, I just can’t believe you walked into mine,” she said.
Tammas chuckled, wondering if she knew where that line had originated. “What’s your name?”
“Karsat,” she said, the red in her face flushing even redder. “I’m off duty, but I would consider it a privilege to fetch you a better drink.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have any more drink,” Tammas said and scanned the bar. “What I really need is something to eat, but I don’t think I’d like to eat here.”
“Oh!” Karsat said. “I would find it the greatest honor if you would allow me to prepare you a meal. I have fresh foods and I’ve heard that humans find our f