Trials and Tribble-ations Page 9

  "Gentlemen!" Odo warned. "What are you doing?"

  O'Brien didn't even look at him. There wasn't time to explain either the choreography or the attraction of a good old-fashioned pub brawl.

  Now that the truce was blown, Montgomery Scott made no bones about the fact that he'd committed himself. He picked another Klingon and roundly backhanded him into the carpet.

  The bar broke into full-blown chaos, throwing the punches O'Brien so much wanted to throw himself. The young ensign climbed a table and launched himself at another Klingon, and it was on. The Scotsman was grappling the Klingon who had taunted them into this, and—

  "Incoming!" O'Brien shoved Odo aside as another Klingon plunged at them. Cramming Odo under his elbow, he managed to take the body blow himself. Ah—a reason!

  O'Brien staggered back, his battered chest aching, and took another punch that drove him back farther, but he rounded with a coiled fist and let fly into the Klingon's broad nose. God, that felt good!

  As the Klingon dropped before him, O'Brien saw the bartender dodge past, heading out of the room, and a flash of Worf crashing about with two Klingons. That bartender would be going for help. There was only a minute or two—

  O'Brien braced his back against the edge of a table and pushed off, filling his hands with the silver tunic of the Klingon he was fighting. At first he hesitated, knowing Odo was still there and might be crushed if this Klingon were shoved backward—no, there was Odo, shimmying to one side, shaking his head. Good.

  With a mighty heave, O'Brien growled, "Denebian slime devil!" and hurled the Klingon backward into the fighting mob.

  The big merchant at the bar was dodging the fight and now found his way behind the bar, where he procured a couple of drinks for himself on the house. O'Brien noticed him particularly because there was a target Klingon exactly halfway between him and the merchant. Good as any.

  Grinding out, "Tin-plated dictator, eh?" O'Brien lunged at the Klingon and landed the heel of his hand on the Klingon's chin, but the Klingon had seen him coming and braced himself for the blow. He spun, but didn't go down, then lunged for O'Brien. O'Brien was sucked off his feet and onto the defensive.

  Fists flew and bodies spun all around him, and he took a hard blow to the back, then whirled.

  "Garbage scow!" he snarled, and landed a fist into his opponent's left eye. The Klingon stumbled back and disappeared behind two other grappling forms.

  O'Brien's arms ached, but a good ache. Been a long time. Just before he had a chance to enjoy the sensation, Julian Bashir flew past him and staggered against a particularly large Klingon who resented the attention. The Klingon grasped Bashir by both arms and spun him like a toy, then twisted the doctor's elbow into a vicious angle behind his back. Bashir's features crumpled in pain until a desperate gasp was choked out.

  Enraged by what he saw, O'Brien gouged the heel of his hand into the eye of the Klingon who grappled him, spat, "Regulan bloodworm, right?" and lashed out with a foot into the kidneys of the Klingon twisting Bashir into a pretzel. The Klingon jolted, and Bashir spiraled sideways, then the Klingon turned on O'Brien.

  As he joined the Klingon in a fierce dance, O'Brien tried to keep track of Worf and Odo, too—Worf would hold his own against these Klingons, and probably so could Odo, with all his experience in law enforcement on Deep Space Nine, but Bashir wasn't the physical type and would be quickly puréed. Rather than let the angry Klingon round on the doctor again, O'Brien launched onto the Klingon's back and straddled him like a cowboy bucking a bull.

  We should get out of here while we can, he thought, but his fists were tingling for more and he couldn't make himself stop. Only a few more seconds—

  An elbow caught him in the side of the head and knocked the precaution from his brain. The bar whirled crazily and he lost equilibrium, but knotted his fingers into the nearest Klingon's hair and held on for life and breath. In an attempt to shake him, the Klingon made a wild dash for the bulkhead, spinning at the last second so that O'Brien took the blow of the unmoving wall square in the spine.

  As every nerve ending in his body blistered with pain, he went numb all over and slid to the deck, tingling. Beside him, the door rushed open and several security guards came in running. The bartender followed them, and on his way in took one of the glasses away from the big merchant who was about to make use of the moment.

  A few feet away, Odo suddenly grabbed Worf, pointed out the open door, and shouted, "It's Darvin!"

  O'Brien shoved himself up on an arm and cranked around just in time to see the old man they'd been searching for dash out of sight. Amazing he could move that fast—

  Shoving to his feet, O'Brien aimed for the door, but never made it. A Klingon tackled him, but this time he had his balance and pitched the Klingon off. He rounded on his opponent to drive home the point.

  Instead he came face-to-face with one of the meaty Enterprise security officers. Fresh and ready, the security man had him in an instant bodylock. O'Brien's arms and legs still tingled, his breath coming in heaves, and he was caught.

  Gathering himself for one more hard push, he entertained the notion of tossing off this one last man, then dodging for the door and clearing out before anything worse happened. If he could only get Bashir—

  The guard's grip communicated very well that O'Brien could no more break away than fly away.

  As he twisted to gauge distance, he made a plan to break free and corral the doctor out of here, but the plan died aborning when he noticed Bashir already pressed to the wall by the forearm of another security guard. The fight was over. The trouble was just starting.

  Busted.

  CHAPTER 9

  "BAR … FIGHT … TIMELINE … arrested … consequences—"

  "Easy there. It's going to be all right."

  "How can you say that, Dulmur? For all we know, we could be in an alternate timeline right now!"

  Sisko watched the two time guys as near-panic surged and faded, then surged again. Their imaginations were going crazy, and he was enjoying the spectacle. Lucsly was lying on the office couch, pale and weak. Sisko brought him a cup of tea.

  "Your men could've avoided that fight, Captain," Dulmur said.

  From memory, Lucsly droned, "Regulation one-fifty-seven, section three, paragraph eighteen: Starfleet officers shall take all necessary precautions to minimize any participation in historical events."

  "All right," Sisko allowed. "It was a mistake. But there were no lasting repercussions."

  "How do you know that?" Dulmur challenged. "For all we know, we could be living in an alternate timeline right now!"

  "If my people caused any changes in the timeline, we would've been the first to notice when we got back."

  Wasn't that right? That was the way it had always been described to him—that people who went through a timeline change were somehow protected from the alterations. At least, that was the going theory.

  "Why do they all have to say that?" Lucsly agonized.

  Dulmur turned to Sisko. "So … your men were arrested?"

  "I want to know who started it."

  The voice cut through the middle of Miles O'Brien's spine, did a double somersault, and vaulted up to the back of his neck. How he could possibly have mistaken Lieutenant Freeman for Captain James Kirk, he had no idea. Especially now, as he stood in a lineup in the captain's office, with James Kirk pacing before them like a drill sergeant.

  All faces were forward, all eyes focused flat on the bulkhead. No one dared meet the captain's eyes.

  But O'Brien keenly felt the captain's eyes. There was no ducking the blinding glare of reputation.

  James Kirk had neither imposing stature nor a Grecian musculature, yet he was compact and tightly strung. He looked strong and quick, and he strode the line of his errant crew like a bully on the street. In contrast to the way his legend had rumbled through history, the reality of James Kirk was a shock. He was no Viking, yet there was voltage in his presence, and this room was charged.

&
nbsp; "I'm waiting," Kirk said, as he reversed his pace and came back.

  No one said anything. Fate brought the captain to the center of the line, where O'Brien stood stiff as a graveyard cross, with Bashir at his side, both overstaring.

  James Kirk's fierce eyes fixed on O'Brien's. "Who started the fight?"

  With every fiber of his existence, O'Brien wished he were back in Father Fitzpatrick's parish, facing Sister Mary Asumpta. This was a dream. A mistake. A trick. Halloween. O'Brien was glad he was standing next to a doctor because he wanted very much to have a heart attack.

  "I don't know, sir" was all he could think to say.

  Never in his life had he been stared at by a man who knew he was lying in quite the degree that James Kirk knew. The captain moved on, but the eyes stayed for an extra second or two.

  "All right." The captain went to the next man in the line. The ensign, now with a bruise on his face. "Chekov. I know you. You started it, didn't you?"

  "No, sir, I didn't," the young man said truthfully.

  "Well, who did?" The words shot like pellets out of a weapon.

  Ensign Chekov twitched, then smiled. "I don't know, sir!"

  "I don't know, sir," Kirk muttered back mockingly.

  They knew, and he knew they knew, and they knew he knew they knew.

  "I want to know who threw the first punch," the captain demanded.

  He reached the end of the twitching line, turned again, and walked slowly back.

  "All right. You're all confined to quarters until I find out who started it. Dismissed."

  The line of crewmen turned on a proper heel and marched for the door. As they filed into the corridor, O'Brien felt he was breaking out of prison. Would he remember how to breathe?

  "Scotty, not you," the captain's voice broke, and O'Brien almost turned back automatically.

  The door gushed closed and the crewmen dissipated without a word.

  Bashir pulled him aside. "That was close!"

  "Me!" O'Brien heaved, awestruck that he had been singled out and had spoken, in person, to James Kirk! "Out of all the people in the lineup, he asked me who threw the punch!"

  With a sorry glower, Bashir deliberately tortured, "And you lied to him."

  "I lied to Captain Kirk!" O'Brien agreed happily. "I wish Keiko had been there to see it!"

  "Scotty, not you."

  Engineer Scott drew up short at the captain's words. Trouble.

  It was command-officer-to-command-officer time.

  Jim Kirk saw the shame and resignation in his chief engineer's face as Scott hungrily watched the others leave and the door close, then turned reluctantly back to his captain. He'd almost made it.

  Kirk squared off before him. "You were supposed to prevent trouble, Mr. Scott."

  Miserably, Scott sighed. "Aye, Captain …"

  Shifting to a more sympathetic mode—and no more nonsense—Kirk asked, "Who threw the first punch, Scotty?"

  Dressing down Montgomery Scott wasn't easy. He had more years' experience than Kirk and could pull the ship apart and put it back together in a week and a half, and he took over command when Kirk and Spock were gone. That was a lot of trust to be scolding.

  Scott inhaled, held it, then held it some more. "Umm …"

  Surprised at the hesitation, Kirk quietly urged, "Scotty …"

  His eyes working with shame, again Scott paused, resisting the question, but there was no getting around an answer. "I did, Captain," he said pathetically.

  "You did, Mr. Scott?"

  The engineer's eyes flickered with candid embarrassment.

  "What caused it, Scotty?" Kirk pressed.

  "They insulted us, sir!"

  "Must've been some insult—"

  "Aye, it was!"

  "You threw the first punch …" Kirk pressed his lips and shook his head sadly in mock astonishment.

  Scott clarified, "Chekov wanted to, but I held him back."

  "You held—why did Chekov want to start a fight?"

  "Umm … the Klingons, they … is this off the record, sir?"

  "No, this is not off the record!"

  "Well, Captain, eh … the Klingons called you a … a tin-plated dictator with delusions of godhood."

  "Is that all?"

  Suddenly anxious to prove that he'd had cause, Scott said, "No, sir, they also compared you with a Denebian slime devil!"

  "I see."

  "And then they said that you were—"

  "I get the picture, Scotty," Kirk cut off sharply. He worked—hard—at keeping his face stern, avoiding showing the sniggering pride that his crew would brawl with Klingons rather than have their captain insulted.

  Realizing he'd gotten carried away, Scott drew a breath and held it again. "Yes, sir."

  Kirk battled with his facial muscles. Don't grin, don't grin. "And after they said all this, that's when you hit the Klingons."

  "No, sir."

  Was that the careless drone of some damned bagpipe in the background?

  Kirk frowned. "No?"

  Like an errant boy with a slingshot behind his back, Scott said, "No, I didn't … you told us to avoid trouble."

  "Oh, yes—"

  "And I didn't see that it was worth fighting about. After all, we're big enough to take a few insults … aren't we?"

  "What was it they said that started the fight?"

  "They called the Enterprise a garbage scow!" the engineer offered, sneering at the taste of the words in his mouth. At the last moment, he added, "Sir!"

  Beginning to realize just where he stood, Kirk accepted the sorry attempt to explain. "And that's when you hit the Klingons."

  Relieved that the story was out, Scott sighed heavily. "Yes, sir!"

  "You hit the Klingons because they insulted the Enterprise, not because they—"

  "Well, sir," Scott said, fishing for understanding, "this was a matter o' pride!"

  Pride … loyalty … oh, well.

  "All right, Scotty. Dismissed. Oh—Scotty, you're …" He shrugged, because they both knew what and why. Kirk shrugged in some kind of mutual acceptance. "You're confined to quarters until further notice."

  "Yes, sir," Scott said with obvious relief. They both knew this was only for the sake of the crew, just a token that would prove no one could break an order and receive absolution, but also to show that the brotherhood of officers did not stand together against the crew. A divided ship was no good to anyone.

  Scott started to turn away, then broke out in a flashing smile. "Thank you, sir! It'll give me a chance to catch up on my technical journals!"

  Damn. The point was just being missed here.

  The engineer spun in delight and rounded for the door.

  "Scotty—" Kirk called at the last instant.

  "Sir?"

  "Who were those two crewmen standing next to Chekov? The ensign and the lieutenant? Did they beam down with you?"

  "Oh, must've, sir. I sent every detail down with orders—eh, well, I went down in the last bunch from this watch. I think those two went before me."

  Strange. "Do you know their names?"

  "No, sir. The one's, I think, a doctor, and the other must be in security, because he's not on my staff. We've had some visitors on board lately, sir, Dr. McCoy tells me."

  "Mmm … too bad that they come on board and get involved in a fight first thing. Not the best report to show up on a man's record."

  Scott took a step or two back toward him. "Well, sir … I'm the one who started the trouble. I'd be willing to take the blame. No need to name the men. They were pretty much sticking up for me, after all."

  "Mmm." Kirk sighed.

  "And it always takes me a few weeks to put names to faces. I'm sure it's the same for you, sir. Perfectly understandable."

  "Yes, well You'd better go, Scotty. Before I become any less understanding."

  "Doctor, hello."

  "Oh, good afternoon, Doctor. I thought you went down to the station."

  "Yes, yes, I did, sir. But there was a
… disturbance. Shore leave has been canceled."

  Julian Bashir tried to look much more at ease in the sickbay than he actually felt. Ordinarily sickbays, hospitals, infirmaries, and clinics were second home. First home, more like. He'd skimmed trouble more luckily than O'Brien, but now they had to come up with an excuse to beam back down to the station and keep hunting for that Klingon. They knew he wasn't on the ship.

  If they beamed out on their own, the ship's sensors would detect it. They had to get clearance. O'Brien dared not show his face after the episode with the Klingons and the captain. He'd already gained far too much attention, and that man they'd thought was a security officer had turned out to be Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott, a man whose reputation in his field equaled James Kirk's in his. They'd brushed fate too closely, on two fronts.

  Of course, Bashir knew the identity of this easygoing surgeon. Leonard McCoy of the Enterprise had broken many barriers in the medical field, logging thousands of hours of discovery, research, and conclusions about alien metabolisms, viruses, and other new revelations in medicine during the days when the Enterprise was venturing where no man had gone before.

  All these men and women had reputations. The senior officers of this ship were famous. Other crewmen who had served any length of time aboard the Enterprise had been known to write books, go on lecture tours, become educators and explorers. As they grew older and became fewer and fewer, they were more in demand. Bashir himself had attended a lecture on deep-space medicine by a former intern aboard the Enterprise during James Kirk's third year as captain. That man had been very old at that lecture.

  Today, that man's boss, Leonard McCoy, was in his forties and rosy with good health. His brown hair was thick and his hands strong, his forearms well defined by the short sleeves of the medical smock. He wasn't yet the legend of medical science who had tackled a thousand new things. In fact, at the moment, he was plucking at one of the little furballs.

  And there were plenty of tribbles to choose from. There were dozens upon dozens littering the sickbay now, clustered masses of puff balls from white to brown to pink, all purring and trilling in happy chorus with the throbbing of the ship around them.