Deep Space Station S-8
A full-on brawl was underway in a general store on the promenade. Rival space travelers and prospective prospectors had turned the mercantile establishment into a melee. Fists, fur, and feathers flew as an impressively diverse mob of upset customers tore into each other, making Sulu glad that unauthorized phasers and disruptors were not allowed in the public areas of the station. He and Grandle and their respective security teams arrived on the scene only moments after receiving an alarm. Sulu had six crew members backing him up. Grandle had two.
“Welcome to my life these days,” the security chief said. “You ready to get your hands dirty?”
“Lead the way,” Sulu replied.
Even though his team outnumbered Grandle’s, Sulu deferred to her in the interests of collegiality. The way he saw it, he and the crew members from the Enterprise were here to provide backup and support, not to butt heads with the station staff.
Let Grandle call the shots for now.
The mixed security force waded into the fray, intent on separating the combatants, which proved easier said than done. The mere arrival of the authorities did nothing to abate the pandemonium, which continued as though nothing had changed. Bodies slammed into counters and shelves and display cases, many of which, Sulu noted, looked woefully picked over. A few less bellicose customers were squeezed into corners, trying their best to stay out of the brawl while waiting for an opening to dash out of the store. Hand-to-hand combat was the order of the day, with some prehensile tails, trunks, and tentacles added to the mix. Sulu ducked as a small gold-skinned Ithenite flew over his head after being flung by a red-faced bruiser who looked big enough to have some Vegan blood in him. The Ithenite crashed into a force field protecting a case of valuable merchandise, causing the field to flash and crackle from the impact. Slams, crashes, grunts, and curses competed with the Antarian muzak playing in the background. Exotic profanities blistered Sulu’s ears.
“That’s enough!” Grandle shouted over the hubbub. She clambered onto a large circular counter at the center of the store the better to be seen and heard. “Break it up!”
Her commands fell on deaf ears and antennae, forcing Sulu and the others to resort to more physical forms of persuasion, while dodging punches and blocking blows thrown in their direction. Sulu was half tempted to stun the whole mob and sort them out later, but that would be unfair to any innocent bystanders caught up in the chaos. An angry Bolian, his blue face flushed all the way to indigo, hurled a can of unsequenced protein at Sulu, who ducked just in time to avoid a broken nose. The can crashed into a bare display case behind him.
“You heard the woman!” Sulu said loudly. “Stand down!”
A head popped up from behind the central counter. Mint-green skin and elaborately coiffed orange hair identified the man as a Troyian. “Thank the stars you’re here, Grandle!” he exclaimed. “Stop these barbarians before they wreck my store!”
“That’s the idea, Naylis.” Grandle jumped off the counter into the fracas, landing between two furious shoppers who were doing their best to batter each other senseless. She shoved them apart, trying to keep them at arm’s length from each other. Her fierce expression would have done an ancient Greek Fury proud. “Get a hold of yourselves! What do you think this is, the twentieth century?”
More force fields, guarding shelves and displays, crackled as brawlers collided with them. A stack of self-heating rations was knocked over, spilling onto the floor. An irate Tellarite, wielding a steel thermos as a bludgeon, charged at Sulu for no reason in particular. His attack boasted more enthusiasm than finesse, so Sulu deftly employed a judo move to hurl the porcine brawler out of the store into the hallway, only to gape in surprise as a burst of energy jolted the Tellarite as he passed over the threshold. The thermos slipped from his grasp as he collapsed onto the floor.
“Shoplifting precaution,” Naylis explained, noting Sulu’s confusion. “Nobody leaves without paying.”
Good to know, Sulu thought. As the security teams pulled more and more people away from the brawl, restraining them as necessary, he headed into the thick of the commotion, hoping to defuse it at its core. His eyes zeroed in on a hooded figure, wearing a poncho-like garment, who appeared to be at the heart of the donnybrook, holding its own against three other brawlers despite being outnumbered. Rapid-fire kicks and punches sent the figure’s opponents reeling. Sulu was impressed even as he saw a problem to be dealt with. The hooded one had serious moves.
“Whoa there!” He seized the furious fighter from behind. “Let’s just take a moment to chill out here.”
The fighter struggled to break free, making Sulu wish he knew how to administer a Vulcan nerve pinch. He narrowly avoided an elbow to the gut. An angry voice accosted him.
“Get your hands off me, you grabby slime devil!”
He recognized the voice and accent immediately. Startled, he released her.
“Helena?”
She spun around to face him. Her hood fell away, revealing the unmistakable features of Helena Savalas. Her striking brown eyes widened.
“Hikaru?”
Fond memories surfaced, but the middle of a brawl was no place for reminiscing. One of her opponents barreled at her, intent on mayhem, so she leaned forward, bracing herself against Sulu, as she delivered a solid backward kick to the other brawler’s solar plexus, staggering him. Looking past Sulu, over his shoulder, she calmly alerted him to another threat.
“Behind you.”
He appreciated the warning. Spinning around, so that he and Helena were back to back, he found a wild-eyed Saurian swinging a scaly fist at him. Sulu deflected the blow and kicked the reptilian backward.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Helena.
“Ferrying a load of would-be miners to Baldur III.” She grabbed a hostile Trill by the arm and swung him into a wall. “You?”
“Trying to contain disturbances like this.” Sulu drew his phaser and stunned another attacker at short range. “Mind making my day easier . . . for old times’ sake?”
“Well, since you asked so nicely . . .”
By now, the combined security forces had largely gotten things under control, having broken up the fights and restrained the most combative participants. Tempers were still running hot, but there was more glowering and muttering than actual bodily harm going on. Split lips and black eyes suggested that there was about to be a run on the infirmary. A Ktarian spit angrily onto the floor. Naylis scowled at the offense, but let it pass.
“All right, then,” Grandle said, laying down the law. “That’s enough of that. This is a Federation station, not an Orion slave market. Disperse peacefully, if you don’t want to end up in the brig . . . or have your station privileges revoked.”
Sulu understood why Grandle was giving the brawlers an opportunity to avoid arrest; besides the danger of re-igniting the violence, if they tried to run them all in, they would find the station’s detention facilities already near capacity. Better to just let everyone go their own way. I would have made the same call.
“But she started it!” a spiky male Nausicaan protested, pointing at Helena. A mane of greasy brown hair framed his irate features. A vertical row of thorn-sized horns creased his forehead, giving him an intimidating appearance that didn’t seem to cow Helena one bit.
“Like hell I did!” she shot back. “You and your brutish cohorts literally yanked that last universal translator unit out of my hands just as I was paying for it, and laughed when I demanded it back.” She reached into her poncho and drew out the item in question: a baton-sized translator. “Who’s laughing now, Tuskface.”
“You human pestilence—” The Nausicaan lunged for her, but was held back by Ensign Banning, a burly Canadian security officer who had won more than his share of arm-wrestling matches in the Enterprise rec room. Sulu drew his phaser on the Nausicaan for good measure.
“I don’t care who started it,” Grandle insisted. “I’m ending it. Anybody else got a problem with that?”
People griped under their breath, but nobody seemed inclined to push their luck. Grandle nodded in satisfaction.
“That’s more like it.”
“Excuse me.” Naylis rose to his feet after hiding behind his counter. He was a slight individual who looked to be middle-aged, by Troyian standards. His double-breasted violet tunic had a satiny sheen. A sculpted hairdo rose fin-like on both sides of his scalp, with nary a strand out of place despite the recent violence. His features had a vulpine cast. “Who is going to pay for the damage to my store, not to mention the lost business?”
Sulu glanced around. Aside from the general disarray, he didn’t see much in the way of actual damage, thanks to the protective force fields shielding much of the merchandise. He assumed that Naylis had activated the shields as soon as the fighting started.
“File a claim with the station manager,” Grandle advised, “unless you want to press charges against anyone in particular?”
Naylis mulled it over for a moment, then shook his head. “It’s a shortsighted shopkeeper who jails his own customers.” He looked over the mess and sighed. “I don’t suppose you can loan me some of your people to help clean up?”
“Sorry,” Grandle said. “We’re security, not maintenance.”
“Can’t blame a fellow for asking,” Naylis said with a shrug. “In any event, thank you for your timely intervention, Mister Grandle. And you too, Lieutenant Sulu.”
Sulu was mildly surprised that the shopkeeper knew his name. “You’re well informed.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Grandle said. “Naylis probably knows more about what’s going on in this station than I do, most of the time. He can also get his hands on just about anything . . . for the right price.”
“Legally,” the shopkeeper stressed. “Of course.”
“Uh-huh,” Grandle said, sounding skeptical. “Anyway, Sulu, I hate to admit it, but you and your people handled themselves well in that ruckus. Probably couldn’t have shut it down as quickly without your help.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Sulu accepted her olive branch, despite being more than a little distracted by Helena’s unexpected presence. Although most of the disgruntled civilians were making themselves scarce, she lingered a few meters away, clearly waiting for him. He assured himself that the brawl was well and truly over before stepping away from Grandle and Naylis. “If you’ll excuse me, I see an old . . . friend I need to catch up with.”
“Friend” was not entirely a euphemism. They had certainly parted as friends, even if their history was a bit more complicated than that. He joined her as she was tucking her hard-won translator wand back into an interior pocket of her poncho. She looked up as he approached, her face again eliciting many warm and warmer memories. A purple bruise, left over from the brawl, discolored her chin, but otherwise she looked much as he remembered her.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “It’s been—what? A couple of years?”
A chance encounter at the worlds-famous botanical gardens on Arden VI had led to coffee, dinner, and, eventually, one of the best shore leaves ever. Although they each had their own lives and careers, they had always tried to make the most of it on those rare occasions that their paths had crossed.
“Something like that,” she said. “You’re still with the Enterprise?”
“Chief helmsman, temporarily reassigned to help things run smoothly despite the sudden increase in traffic.”
“Really? Has that caused any turbulence?” She massaged her chin. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’d be surprised,” he quipped back. “And what’s new with you?”
“First officer and communications specialist aboard the newly rechristened Lucky Strike, a commercial vessel far less impressive than a Constitution-class starship. We’ve been chartered to ferry a load of impatient prospectors to Baldur III, which is a booming business these days.”
Sulu could believe it. “How long you going to be in this neck of the woods?”
“Depends on how quickly we can get some minor repairs done and stock up on enough provisions. We’re also hoping to pick up a few more passengers, since we’ve still got room for more.”
“And every vacancy represents a lost fare?”
“Bingo,” she said. “Our skipper wants a full ship before we set out. In fact, I suspect he’s out trying to poach some passengers from the competition as we speak.”
Sulu didn’t like the sound of that. One ship stealing fares from another sounded like another brawl in the making. Still, he refrained from complaining to Helena about it, since he didn’t want to spoil their reunion. Something to share with Grandle instead, he decided. Just to give her a heads-up.
In the meantime, running into Helena again was a pleasant surprise.
“I hope you won’t hold it against me,” he said, “if I’m crossing my fingers that the Lucky Strike doesn’t depart too quickly.”
“Are you kidding? I’d be offended if you weren’t wanting me to stick around for a while.” She casually placed a hand upon his arm. “So, want to get a drink or something?”
“Sounds good to me,” he answered. “I hear there’s a cozy little bar on Level—”
His communicator chimed urgently, as did Grandle’s a few meters away. The interruption was as unwelcome as the news Sulu received when he answered the hail. Grandle sprang into action immediately, heading toward Sulu.
“Break time’s over,” Grandle announced. “Got another disturbance, this time at the customs center on Arm B.”
“So I hear.” Sulu gave Helena an apologetic look as he lowered his communicator. “Looks like I need to take a rain check on that drink. Duty calls.”
“Duty has lousy timing,” Helena snarked. “But what are you going to do? Go. We’ll have to catch up another time, if we get a chance.”
“Thanks,” Sulu said, summoning the rest of his security team. “Try not to start any more brawls until then, okay?”
She smirked at him. “No promises.”
“You coming, Sulu?” Grandle called from the hallway.
“Right behind you.”
He was already anticipating whatever uproar awaited them, and hoping that there weren’t too many frustrated travelers involved. One free-for-all a shift was already one too many.
We’re going to need a bigger brig.