Trials and Tribble-ations Page 6

  The Vulcan offered a sympathetic gaze. "Nevertheless, Captain, the Klingons would not enjoy seeing us successfully develop Sherman's Planet."

  "I guess not." Kirk clunked his glass back on the bar, drained now, and swung toward Odo.

  Odo almost flinched—almost, but realized then that the captain was heading for this door. Before the two officers arrived here, the door opened and two more Enterprise officers strolled in—a young dark-haired ensign in Ops gold and an exotic black woman in Services red.

  Before they noticed the tricorder, Odo palmed it down and took a seat at the nearest table.

  "I see you didn't waste any time taking shore leave," the captain said to the woman.

  "And how often do I get shore leave?" she said in a softly low and musical voice.

  "She wants to shop, and I thought I would help her," the young man said. He had a thick accent of some brand which Odo couldn't identify.

  The door opened again, and this time a portly merchant rumbled in, grinning, and stepped past the officers. "Ah—excuse me, 'scuse me," the man said, catching eyes briefly with as many people as he could. Then he approached the bar and summoned the bartender.

  "Mr. Chekov," the captain began. He plucked a small vial from his first officer and handed it to the young ensign. "What do you make of this?"

  The ensign took the vial and looked inside. "Ohhh, quadrotriticale! I've read about this, but I've never seen any before."

  Exasperated for some reason, the captain grumbled, "Does everybody know about this wheat but me?"

  The young man looked up. "Not everyone, Captain. It's a Russian intention."

  "Oh." With a muted sigh, the annoyed captain led his first officer unceremoniously out of the bar.

  Odo buried a shudder of relief that they had gone. He knew about captains, leaders. They were always running with sensors on. They could pick up on subtle signals. He didn't know yet whether or not he had been sending any. Was he staring too much? Was his facial mask too alien? How many aliens did this culture know? Would he attract attention by simply being here? Were there regulations he didn't know about and might be violating?

  Was there a look in his eye—curiosity, concern, displacement—that the dynamic James Kirk would notice?

  The bartender raised his voice then, arguing with the big merchant. "I don't want any, I told you before, I don't want any more spican flame gems. Thanks to you I already have enough spican flame gems to last me a lifetime."

  A brown-haired waitress in a pink outfit approached Odo's table. "What's your pleasure?"

  "I'll have a Raktajino," Odo told her, speaking very clearly.

  The waitress paused. "You're the second person today who's ordered that. What is it?"

  "Surely you want," the merchant at the bar went on, "some Antarian glow water."

  Odo kept one ear on the conversation as the bartender sharpened his sales resistance. "I use that to polish the flame gems."

  "Klingon coffee," he told the waitress. "The second person … who was the first?"

  "He was an older man. A human."

  "Where is he now?" Odo pressed.

  "I don't know. He left about an hour ago. He said he might be back. We don't carry any Klingon beverages. Would you like something else?"

  "Tarkalean Tea." It didn't matter, since he wasn't going to consume anything.

  Now at least he knew he was on the correct trail. An older man—human—asking for a Klingon drink. Even one hundred years back, one plus one was still two.

  "You're a difficult man to reach," the merchant at the bar said then, once again attracting Odo's attention. "But I have something from the far reaches of the galaxy!" He plucked into his lapel and pulled out a palm-sized puff of round fur. "Surely you want …"

  "Not at your price," the bartender drawled.

  "Oooh, what is it?" the lady officer asked. "Is it alive? May I hold it?"

  The merchant grinned clownishly and placed the puff in the woman's hands.

  "Oh, it's adorable! What is it?" She stroked the tiny pink puffball, and as Odo watched and listened, the creature began a soft magnetic purring. . . .

  "This ship sure is crowded."

  The purr of Bashir's medical tricorder was slightly different from the typical science tricorders O'Brien had handed out to Sisko and Odo. He felt as if there were people all over, all listening as he and Bashir hovered in the corridor of Deck Twenty-one. He had a panel open and was pretending to work while Bashir scanned the general area. They'd had to do one deck at a time, because each deck was sensor shielded to certain intensities. Only the main sensor system of the ship itself could scan through the decks. A hand-held tricorder just couldn't.

  He reached for the panel, fingered the circuits, then retreated. This had gone on for fifteen minutes now. Hand in, hand out. Don't touch anything.

  "Moments like this, I wonder why I ever left home," he muttered after three security officers passed by a little too closely for comfort.

  "Your old granny's garden-moated bungalow in Ireland?" Bashir asked distractedly as he scanned.

  O'Brien humphed. "My old granny lives in a condo in Miami. She's a real estate broker. Claims to have sold the Blarney Stone half a dozen times and the Atlantic Ocean twice."

  He sighed again and stared at the circuit box, frustrated. Who had put this ship together this way? This certainly wasn't the original design, yet there was a strange reasoning behind the alterations he could decipher. They were reworked for added power and for simplicity, but he couldn't tell which was which unless he pulled them apart. He'd tried twice, and twice he'd been wrong. His hands clenched and fidgeted at his sides. How could he pretend to work on something he was afraid to bungle? He dared not leave a mechanical trail or do something that might compromise the ship's action, even in the months to come. That would change the future, too—

  "Chief," the doctor said, "you're supposed to be working."

  "I'm afraid to touch anything! It's all cross-circuited and patched together. I can't make heads or tails of it!"

  "Sounds like one of your repair jobs."

  Prodded by the doctor's tease, O'Brien stuck his hand into the panel again and tried to pretend that he was doing something.

  "No sign of Darvin in this section," Bashir said quietly. "I'm going to widen the scan radius." He opened the panel on the unfamiliar tricorder. "If I can figure out how …"

  "Keep the scan field below twenty milliwatts," O'Brien warned. "Otherwise you'll set off the ship's internal sensors."

  Bashir rolled his eyes. "Thank you, Chief. I was listening at the mission briefing."

  "Thought maybe you dozed off as usual."

  "What are you two doing here?" A strange voice lanced between them and O'Brien knew he visibly flinched.

  He spun around, looking guilty.

  A fresh-faced engineer had cornered them—lieutenant, j.g. He carried one of the old trident scanners and seemed surprised, maybe shocked, to see O'Brien with his hands in the pie closet.

  "Scotty told me to do this," the lieutenant said.

  O'Brien stared. He had no idea what "this" meant. "Oh—oh, you were going to do this …"

  The lieutenant tipped his head. "It's on the duty roster."

  There must've been a dozen things to say, but O'Brien couldn't think of a single one. Not a one.

  "Must've been a mix-up," Bashir filled in affably.

  Unfortunately, that brought the engineer's attention to a doctor standing around the engineering decks without anybody to treat.

  "Isn't that a medical tricorder?" the young man asked.

  Bashir looked down at the device in his hand as if he'd just discovered it there. "Yes. Yes, it is. I'm a doctor."

  The lieutenant looked more puzzled. "Why do we need a doctor to repair a power relay?"

  O'Brien swung to Bashir and gave him the same look, as if he had no idea either. Bashir didn't seem to appreciate that.

  "You don't," Bashir said. "Obviously. I was doing a study … it
has to do with work-related stress."

  "Oh," the engineer responded. He wasn't suspicious at all, despite their bizarre stumbling. Apparently he had no reason—no, of course, he didn't—to believe there would be anything going on. After all, both men were dressed as crewmen of this ship and that's all. There was no reason for every neck hair to be standing. No reason at all.

  "You two go on," Bashir encouraged, getting in his revenge on O'Brien. "Pretend I'm not even here."

  Feeling like a smokestack about to blow, O'Brien smeared the doctor with a dirty look, dirty enough that Bashir turned back to his bioscan.

  The young engineer joined O'Brien at the panel. "So where should we start?"

  In granny's bungalow. "Well … obviously … the first thing to do is take this transtator here and …"

  O'Brien tugged the transtator from its socket and it thanked him with a scolding zap across the ends of his fingers. Half the lights in the corridor went dim and the whole deck's power grid started ebbing and moaning.

  He put the thing back.

  "And leave it right where it is." He sighed.

  The engineer peered at him as if looking into a funhouse mirror, unsure of what he was seeing.

  O'Brien stepped back and was two seconds from running off at the mouth about coming back in time and chasing Klingons who were disguised as humans and really working on a space station a hell of a long way from here near a planet nobody had discovered yet, when Bashir stepped in and took him by the arm.

  "The job pressure's been getting to him," the doctor explained, leaning conspiratorially toward the young lieutenant. "Why don't you take over?" The engineer nodded sympathetically, and Bashir tugged on O'Brien. "All right, Ensign, I think I've seen enough. Let's get you back to Sickbay."

  And put you back in your straitjacket.

  O'Brien glowered at him but was glad enough to have a way out of this. He offered his most puppyish look to the other engineer and acted as if he'd just pulled his trousers on after being caught without them. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone …"

  "No problem," the engineer said with annoying gentility. "Hope you feel better."

  A little groan of frustration garbled up in O'Brien's throat. "Thanks."

  He and Bashir moved away down the corridor, with Bashir ushering him custodially.

  "Isn't this nice?" Bashir murmured. "Now you have a reputation on the classic Enterprise as being a stressed-out incompetent."

  O'Brien inhaled sharply, then couldn't get it all out.

  "Lovely!"

  Odo sat at his table and ignored the tea which had been served to him. The idea of participating at all in this era frightened him. The smallest change could mean ruination eighty years from now, and he was determined such catastrophe would not be his fault. It did smell good, though. Perhaps just a sip or two. He felt somewhat more content and peaceful now than he had when he first came in. Strange how much more at home he felt now … am I smiling?

  The diamond-shaped door whispered open and Odo raised his eyes. Worf stood at the entranceway, scanning the bar. He still looked like a Klingon to Odo, even with the turban and civilian clothing, but not to all these other people.

  Worf spotted Odo and instantly angled toward him, joining him on the other side of the table. He glanced around the bar briefly to be sure no one was close enough to hear, as if anyone cared, then leaned forward a little. "I have completed my search of the primary habitat level and …"

  His voice trailed off as another sound bubbled between them. He frowned and shivered.

  "What was that sound?" he asked.

  "Soothing, isn't it?" Odo suggested. "The bartender called it a … a …"

  But Worf bolted to his feet as Odo raised the puff ball of fur he had been holding in his lap.

  Instantly the little animal's purring and cooing turned to squeals of alarm and it began quivering violently in Odo's hand.

  No doubt about the cause—

  Worf shoved to his feet, his chair flying out behind him. He stumbled backward in revulsion.

  Odo yanked his pet back and tried to calm it.

  Worf glared and scowled.

  "A tribble!"

  CHAPTER 6

  "EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT over here?"

  The waitress rushed over with an expression on her face that told Odo she sensed trouble between two patrons who looked as if they came from far, far apart.

  Worf was still glaring at the round puff in Odo's hands. To the waitress he ground out, "We … are … fine."

  "Sit down," Odo said to Worf as the waitress moved away. "You're drawing attention."

  Slowly and very unhappily, Worf took his seat once again, but did not shift toward the table. The tribble in Odo's hand stopped screaming, but did shudder and flinch repeatedly.

  "Where did you get that thing?" Worf demanded.

  "From a man named Cyrano Jones. He said tribbles like everyone, but it doesn't seem to like you," Odo commented with mild interest.

  "The feeling is mutual," Worf rumbled. "Tribbles are … detestable creatures."

  "Interesting," Odo said. "It's my experience that most humanoids love soft furry animals." He ran his hand along the ball of fuzz and was lost again in the creature's gentle cooing. "Especially if they make a pleasing sound …"

  "They do nothing but consume food and breed," Worf uttered with contempt. "If you feed that thing more than the smallest morsel, within a few hours you will have ten tribbles. Then a hundred. Then a thousand!"

  "Calm down."

  "They were once considered mortal enemies of the Klingon Empire."

  With unshielded mockery, Odo looked up at him and held the tribble higher. "This is a mortal enemy of the Klingon Empire?"

  "They were an ecological menace! A scourge! A plague that had to be wiped out!"

  "Wiped out? What are you saying?"

  With relish, Worf actually inched forward. "The Empire sent an entire armada to obliterate the tribble homeworld. Then hundreds of handpicked warriors were dispatched to track them down and destroy them throughout the galaxy. By the end of the twenty-third century, they were completely eradicated!"

  With a groan, Odo parried, "Another glorious chapter in Klingon history. Tell me, do they still sing songs about the Great Tribble Hunt?"

  Worfs face crumpled, not exactly with embarrassment but with some mixture of that and frustration at Odo's lack of comprehension about the critical nature of eradicating purring fuzzballs.

  He parted his lips to speak, but the station broke into red alert. Klaxons blared all over, in the bar and in the corridor.

  Most patrons in the bar gawked and swiveled, not knowing what to do. The Starfleet personnel, though, in sharp contrast, all bolted for the door.

  Worf and Odo were among those who swiveled and gawked.

  "Bureaucrats. Summoning a ship of the line as if calling a moon shuttle. Never ceases to amaze me. Put a collar and a badge on a civilian, and he turns into a commandant."

  Aware that he was grumbling, Kirk pulled his cup of coffee out of the access port in the bulkhead and turned toward Spock. They were in one of the ship's briefing rooms, only because Kirk had wanted a few moments to grumble in peace.

  "Maybe I'm a snob, Mr. Spock," he went on obsessively. "I just expect a person to have a few experiences under his belt before he starts giving orders to people who actually have some. My crew deserves better than to be treated like hired help."

  "Agreed," Spock said impassively, but Kirk knew his first officer was only placating him.

  Spock was a steadying presence for him, both in times of tension and in times of prickly annoyance, like now. Like a brick in the sand, Spock seldom flinched, no matter how the winds rattled the stuff around him. Right now the Vulcan was amused. Though there was little outward hint, Kirk could tell. A twinkle in the black-dot eyes, the way Spock's Vulcan brows both went up at the same time, and just a mist of a smile, very subdued. Amused, for sure. Somehow, it helped.

 
; He blew across the top of his coffee and took a sip. "We're not at the beck and call of every administrator who can't tell the difference between a security detail and a fully rigged and armed starship. You don't summon four hundred and thirty people to do the job of two."

  "Mr. Barris would prefer to have many more than two guards," Spock observed, standing nearby with a profound economy of movement.

  "Times like this," Kirk grumbled on, "I wish I could retire to some barrier island someplace, get myself a little wooden ship with a narrow hull and a deep grip on the water and go cantering around the seaways … spearing bureaucrats with my bowsprit."

  He gritted his teeth over the last words. Felt good. Then he imagined it. Looked even better. Shishkebabed Barris.

  The comm on the table whistled. Fielding Spock's bemused gaze, Kirk turned and punched the button. "Yes, what is it?

  "Message from Starfleet, Captain, priority channel. Admiral Fitzpatrick speaking."

  "Put it on visual, Lieutenant."

  On the small centerpiece screen, a frosty man in a gold shirt appeared. "Captain Kirk."

  "Kirk here."

  "Captain, it is not necessary to remind you of the importance to the Federation of Sherman's Planet. The key to our winning of this planet is the grain quadrotriticale. The shipment of it must be protected."

  Kirk looked at Spock with unshielded annoyance, and Spock's only response was to passively fold his arms. It was his equivalent of sighing and leaning on a wall without really doing either.

  "Effective immediately," the admiral went on, "you will render any aid and assistance which Secretary Barris may require. The safety of the grain and the project are your responsibility."

  From exploration and defense to babysitting wheat in one drumming boom.

  "Well, that's just … lovely," Kirk complained.

  Spock nodded. "But not totally unexpected."

  No, it wasn't. Kirk knew Fitzpatrick and had never given him a serious thought. Whenever circumstances had required him to respect Fitzpatrick, he had been respecting the uniform and not the man. A terminally office-bound serviceman, Fitzpatrick had never commanded anything bigger than a bathtub and no farther afield than Starfleet Academy. He was a paper admiral, running paper battles in a paper universe. Now he was communicating with another paperpusher—Barris.