(no subject)
§ 3 §
“Ouch!”
Hoshi watched Malcolm put a hand under Travis’s chin and tilt his head a bit to the side, as he dabbed disinfectant onto a cut on the helmsman’s cheekbone.
“‘Tis but a scratch, Ensign.”
“Not from where I stand, Sir,” Travis countered flatly.
“You’re not standing, Ensign.”
Indeed Travis was sitting on a large rock. That’s all there seemed to be on this dreary planet - rocks. Well, it could’ve been worse; it could’ve been water, or a forest filled with dangerous wild life.
From the rock she herself had collapsed upon after leaving the smoking pod some ten minutes before, Hoshi tried to get her body to stop trembling, as she looked on to the scene. It had been a scary experience, as the rough groove running for what must be at least a kilometre behind the pod, marking their ‘landing strip’, witnessed. It was kind of ridiculous to bicker about semantics, with all they had to worry about. But apparently her crewmates didn’t think so.
“It hurts, Sir.”
“Of course it does, Ensign. It’s a cut.”
“I thought you said it was a scratch.”
Hoshi rolled her eyes. They could consider themselves lucky to have survived this with only a few bumps and bruises. And one cut. She herself had come away virtually unscathed. Malcolm… one never knew with Stoic Lieutenant Reed. As for Trip…
“Yup, the exhaust ports are clogged alright,” the very man announced desolately, rounding the pod from astern. “And the engine has suffered some damage.”
Not only the engine - Hoshi mused, watching him rub his left shoulder and wince.
Malcolm interrupted his first aid to shoot the Engineer a rather icy look. “One might have anticipated that,” he said in a dark voice where a hint of sarcasm was noticeable.
“Oh, yeah?” Trip replied likewise, just an octave higher. “And how was one supposed to do that? Crystal balls aren’t Starfleet standard equipment yet.” He snorted. “Might be wise to include such an upgrade in the next batch.”
“One didn’t need a crystal ball to predict that the dust from the asteroid I had just blown to smithereens would clog the exhaust ports.”
Trip narrowed his eyes. “You could have raised the issue then, Lieutenant.”
Hoshi sighed. Males. Butting heads instead of working together.
“I…” Malcolm faltered for a moment, then continued with renewed determination, “I didn’t realise our zigzagging inside that asteroid belt was taking us through the debris from the rock I had destroyed, Sir.”
“That was my fault. I should’ve plotted our course more carefully,” Travis croaked out; but his contrite words fell on deaf ears.
“Oh - and how come ya didn’t?” Trip went on confrontationally. “Were you takin’ a nap?
Right; Malcolm, like her - Hoshi realised - had undoubtedly closed his eyes during Travis’s acrobatic flying.
“Guys…” she tried, soothingly.
“Dreaming about Stinky?” Trip continued, ignoring her.
Stinky? Now Trip had lost her; Hoshi couldn’t remember anyone by that peculiar name.
“Perhaps I thought you could be trusted to be in command, Commander,” Malcolm spat out.
That arrow had definitely found its mark, judging by Trip’s face. Hoshi shot Travis a puzzled frown, which he returned. This was hardly the Trip Tucker and Malcolm Reed they were used to. Enough was enough. She was still shaken and also a bit scared; she needed Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed; Trip and Malcolm would do. But not this… twisted copy of them.
Making her hands into tight fists, Hoshi filled her lungs with the rather pestilential air of the barren planet.
“GUYS!”
The two officers startled, as if they had forgotten that they weren’t alone.
“Stop it,” Hoshi added, going for a less hysterical tone of voice. “Please?”
The result was immediate; Malcolm snapped to attention.
“I apologise, Commander,” he muttered, troubled grey gaze fixed straight ahead. “That was out of line.”
Trip’s blue eyes softened, into a strange expression that was a mix of regret and embarrassment.
“Forget it,” he mumbled. “I guess I asked for it. We’re all a bit upset, after that landing.”
There was a pause of uncomfortable silence.
“That landing?” Travis exclaimed, tongue-in-cheek. “I thought it was one of my best.”
Bless the man and his sense of humour. Hoshi wondered what had really passed inside that Shuttlepod a few weeks before. No amount of Starfleet training could prepare one to see death in the face as Trip and Malcolm had. The experience had obviously marked them.
Trip jerked his head playfully to the side. “You scratched the paint, Travis.”
“As well as yourself,” Malcolm added, returning to tend to the helmsman’s wound.
“Fussy,” Travis muttered under his breath. His mouth started to curl up, but smiling obviously didn’t agree with a cheekbone injury.
“Ouch!”
“Will you be still, Ensign? You’re a terrible patient.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
That was better. Hoshi heaved a sigh of relief.
“Right, then.” Trip passed a hand through his hair. “I guess I’ll start purgin’ the exhaust ports.”
“What about that shoulder, Commander?” Malcolm asked, with a pointed look at the obviously sore spot in question. “Don’t you want me to take a look at it first?”
“Nah, it’s just a bump.”
Malcolm looked unconvinced, but didn’t comment. “I’ll give you a hand in a moment,” he called after Trip as he went off.
Yes, that was definitely better.
§§§ - §§§
“Shuttlepod One to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise.” Hoshi smirked. She was beginning to feel frustrated and tired. Trip handed her a canteen, which she accepted with a grateful nod.
“Still no luck?” he enquired.
He and Malcolm had worked non-stop for the past hour. At least the exhaust ports were purged; now they were going to take a look at the engine damage.
Wiping a hand over her mouth after drinking the water, Hoshi heaved a deep sigh. “Enterprise must be still out of range.”
Framed in the open hatch, Malcolm shrugged. “There are still seven and a half hours before our rendezvous. They must be quite far away yet,” he said. He shot a glance at Trip; then added, “Don’t worry, Ensign: soon we’ll be airborne again. We have our Chief Engineer with us.”
Optimism didn’t come natural to Malcolm, and Hoshi thought his voice had betrayed how little faith he put in his own words.
“Yeah, provided the Chief Engineer has the right spare parts,” Trip muttered dispiritedly under his breath.
Hoshi felt bad for the two of them. This misadventure came a bit too soon after the terrible one they had experienced a few weeks before on the same vessel.
“Anything I can do to help?” Travis enquired, hobbling into sight behind Malcolm.
His cheek sported a large dressing, and under it, it looked quite swollen. A bruise was developing too, and he had an arm wrapped around his midsection.
“Thanks, but you’ve already done your part, Ensign,” Malcolm said. “You’d better take it easy.”
§§§ - §§§
It was maybe twenty minutes later that Trip closed the tool-box and passed an arm over his sweaty brow. “Sorry,” he muttered to the rest of them looking on. “The impulse manifold is too badly damaged. I can’t fix it here.”
“Great.” Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest. “Are we supposed to twiddle our thumbs on this inhospitable planet till Enterprise finds us?”
“You could always read Ulysses,” Trip snapped. “If you have any other suggestions, feel free to share them with us.”
Things were beginning to get tense again between the two. Hoshi was about to throw some water on the fire when a beep was heard and a light started to flash.
“They’re hailing us,” she said unnecessarily, for all eyes had turned to the console.
“Enterprise is back early,” Malcolm said with a frown.
Hoshi opened the link. “Shuttlepod One. Go ahead Enterprise.”
The voice that answered wasn’t Captain Archer’s or T’Pol’s; and, what was more, it spoke no English.”
§ 4 §
“... Do you require assistance?” the UT finally caught on.
Trip felt Malcolm’s eyes on him and turned to see him shoot a warning look, of the kind that said ‘Definitely not: better safe than sorry’. Typical. Averting his gaze, he tried to clamp down on his irritation. This misadventure was making re-emerge some of the tension there had been between them on that fateful Shuttlepod One mission.
“This is Commander Tucker of Starfleet,” he said through the open link. “Will you please identify yourself?”
“This is Commander Obne of the... Felon ship... A Shot In The Quadrant,” the UT translated with a bit of difficulty, in a metallic voice.
“Brilliant,” Malcolm snorted under his breath.
“We have picked up your vessel,” Commander Obne continued. “This planet seems an odd place to make a stop at: do you require any assistance?”
“We... have had a minor problem with our engine,” Trip replied noncommittally. “Thank you for the offer, but I think we’ll be okay.”
“Oh, but I insist, Commander,” the voice pressed. “I wouldn’t be a very good Felon if I left you with engine trouble on that barren rock.”
“Who’s ever heard of a good felon?” Malcolm muttered.
“Ah, no, really, we’ll be fine,” Trip began, but the alien Commander didn’t even listen to him.
“We’ll be landing in the vicinity of your vessel in approximately ten noonortrth,” the cheerful voice piped in. “See you soon.”
The link was cut off and Trip turned to his crew. “We have ten noon… whatever to shine our boots,” he quipped.
“I wouldn’t joke about it,” Malcolm ranted. “These are not ideal conditions to make a first contact. Especially with a species bearing such an inauspicious name. Oh, and lovely designation for a ship too.”
“Come on, Malcolm, you can’t be that biased, for heaven’s sake!”
There it was again, that damned pessimism that grated on his nerves; like a few weeks before, when the man had driven him to distraction by counting them dead before time, and recording his good-byes to half the girls in San Francisco.
There was a clearing of the throat. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to this either, Commander,” Hoshi said. “Even if those guys were called... Cherubs and were travelling on... Pink Cloud.”
Trip drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly out. “Look, there’s nothin’ we can do about it. You heard them; they didn’t take no for an answer. So, let’s prepare to receive them.”
Someone was already doing so; by rummaging in the compartment under one of the rear benches.
“Good thing I insisted with the Captain to make a phase pistol for each person on board standard equipment,” Malcolm said, straightening again. He started to distribute the weapons.
Hoshi took hers with obvious reluctance. “Must I really?”
Good luck convincing our Security Officer of the contrary, Trip thought. He conveyed the idea with a lift of his eyebrows and a light shrug.
“Of course, Ensign,” Malcolm indeed replied, strapping on his own pistol. “Your score entitles you to carry one.”
“Shooting at a target is different,” Hoshi commented, looking at the weapon in her hands in discomfort. “I really wouldn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“We’ll keep the pistols set on stun,” Trip butted in. “Don’t worry, Hoshi. I doubt we’ll even have to use them. These people are probably the Good Samaritans of the galaxy.”
“I sure hope so,” Travis muttered. “I’ve already had my share of bruises for one day.”
§§§ - §§§
A Shot In The Quadrant was the ugliest ship Trip had seen in a long while. It was a graceless grey oblong thing, not much bigger than their Shuttlepod, which had certainly seen better days. Its hull was all banged up and stained - probably rusty. If these were their saviours, then heaven help them!
The vessel landed with a rough bump which made Mayweather raise both eyebrows.
“Holy mackerel!” the helmsman exclaimed. “No wonder that hull is in such bad shape.”
The dust raised by such a graceful landing hadn’t finished settling down again when the hatch started to open with the hair-raising screech of badly-oiled mechanisms. Malcolm automatically took position in front of everyone, hand resting on the handle of his phase pistol.
“I don’t need you to protect me, Lieutenant,” Trip muttered, trying to overtake him. “I can look after myself.” A flash of Malcolm dragging him down from the airlock at gunpoint went through his mind, and he felt a stab of guilt, which he quickly pushed aside.
“I’m only doing my job, Commander,” Malcolm replied with determination, getting in front of him again.
“Ah, Commander Tucker!” a gleeful voice interrupted.
It belonged to a man who was, possibly, even more ungainly than his ship. Short and round, he wore a bright shirt with large yellow and orange vertical stripes, tucked into a pair of dark green pants. Tall boots and a black sash made him look a bit like a pirate of the old days, a resemblance which was emphasised by the ear-ring on his left lobe. Trip was almost disappointed not to see a sabre hanging from his side. He had loved pirate stories as a kid.
The man approached with a purposeful gait, his large belly swaying. There was a mad quality to him. It wasn’t only his outfit: there was a spirited glint in his dark eyes. These were framed by tanned stripes that, crossing his temples, lost themselves into curly red hair. On the whole it was quite a garish sight.
“It’s a pleasure,” the Felon exclaimed, stopping in front of Malcolm and raising both arms to form a sort of triangle over his head, fingertips touching.
Malcolm studied him straight-faced and as still as a statue. “Good day,” he said, oozing distrust.
“Actually, I am Commander Tucker.” Trip feigned a step to the left; then quickly by-passed Malcolm on the right. “You must be...”
“Commander Obne.” The glittering gaze shifted a couple of times between Trip and Malcolm.
“This is Lieutenant Reed,” Trip provided, waving a thumb in acknowledgement of the man’s puzzlement. “Our Security Officer.”
“Security? Are you expecting trouble?” Obne looked behind him, to a couple of his crewmates, just as round and short and obnoxiously outfitted as he, who had come out of A Shot In The Quadrant. “You didn’t think we were trouble, did you?”
“Ah, you know,” Trip mumbled. “Just a precaution.”
Obne broke into a loud, infectious laugh, which was echoed by his men and brought a smile to everyone’s lips but Malcolm’s. He must teach the damn man to relax a little - Trip mused. These people seemed very sociable. But then again, that was probably why Malcolm didn’t like them.
“These are Ensigns Hoshi Sato, our Communications Officer; and Travis Mayweather, our helmsman,” Trip continued the introductions.
Obne sobered up and repeated the greeting gesture, which Hoshi mirrored, imitated, more tentatively, by Travis.
“A gwèp?” the alien wondered, the UT stumbling over the word.
Trip frowned. “Gwèp?”
“Gwèp,” Obne repeated, pointing to Hoshi.
“A woman, I suppose,” Hoshi provided with a shrug.
“A woman soldier?” Obne broke into peals of laughter again. “That is unheard of!”
“Maybe where you come from,” Malcolm muttered darkly to the side.
Trip quickly butted in, “Actually, we aren’t really soldiers. We’re explorers.” He shifted his gaze from one Felon to the next, repressing the desire to shield his eyes against the gaudy colours of the ensemble. Let anyone call his Hawaiian shirts loud again.
“Explorers with a broken ship.” The alien Commander ended his laughter in a wide smile that bared two rows of crooked teeth. “We must set this right again. Allow us to give you a hand.”
“Commander.” Malcolm’s voice meant business. “May I have a word with you? In private.”
“You aren’t going to let them into the Shuttlepod, are you?” he was asking tensely a moment later. “Get their podgy hands on the engine’s schematics and---“
“Relax, Malcolm,” Trip interrupted him. “We’re talkin’ about an impulse drive, here. It’s hardly a military secret!”
“Still, we know nothing about these Felons.”
Watching Malcolm cross his hands over his chest and shoot a thoughtful look to the side in typical Reed fashion, Trip took a moment to consider his words. He was tempted to accept these people’s help.
“Alright,” he conceded at last. “I won’t let them inside the pod; but maybe they have what I need to fix the engine: no harm asking, right?”
“Right,” Malcolm agreed after a moment’s hesitation. “Though I doubt they carry many spare parts with them, judging by that bucket of bolts they call a ship.”
“Never judge by the looks,” Trip joked, with a conciliatory smile.
Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “I suppose.”
“Commander...” he then quickly put in, as Trip was about to return to Obne and his men. “I’ve been kind of...” An uncomfortable smirk appeared on his face. “I apologise,” he finally croaked out. “I believe subconsciously I’m still a bit shaken by our… misadventure.”
“Yeah, me too,” Trip said with a grimace. “I guess it takes more than a warm blanket and a few hours of sleep to get over what we went through.” He saw Malcolm shift self-consciously on his feet, so he added, “Come on, let’s see if these Felons can get us off this rock. I don’t really want the Capt’n to find us here like this.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. “No arguments there,” he replied.
“Ouch!”
Hoshi watched Malcolm put a hand under Travis’s chin and tilt his head a bit to the side, as he dabbed disinfectant onto a cut on the helmsman’s cheekbone.
“‘Tis but a scratch, Ensign.”
“Not from where I stand, Sir,” Travis countered flatly.
“You’re not standing, Ensign.”
Indeed Travis was sitting on a large rock. That’s all there seemed to be on this dreary planet - rocks. Well, it could’ve been worse; it could’ve been water, or a forest filled with dangerous wild life.
From the rock she herself had collapsed upon after leaving the smoking pod some ten minutes before, Hoshi tried to get her body to stop trembling, as she looked on to the scene. It had been a scary experience, as the rough groove running for what must be at least a kilometre behind the pod, marking their ‘landing strip’, witnessed. It was kind of ridiculous to bicker about semantics, with all they had to worry about. But apparently her crewmates didn’t think so.
“It hurts, Sir.”
“Of course it does, Ensign. It’s a cut.”
“I thought you said it was a scratch.”
Hoshi rolled her eyes. They could consider themselves lucky to have survived this with only a few bumps and bruises. And one cut. She herself had come away virtually unscathed. Malcolm… one never knew with Stoic Lieutenant Reed. As for Trip…
“Yup, the exhaust ports are clogged alright,” the very man announced desolately, rounding the pod from astern. “And the engine has suffered some damage.”
Not only the engine - Hoshi mused, watching him rub his left shoulder and wince.
Malcolm interrupted his first aid to shoot the Engineer a rather icy look. “One might have anticipated that,” he said in a dark voice where a hint of sarcasm was noticeable.
“Oh, yeah?” Trip replied likewise, just an octave higher. “And how was one supposed to do that? Crystal balls aren’t Starfleet standard equipment yet.” He snorted. “Might be wise to include such an upgrade in the next batch.”
“One didn’t need a crystal ball to predict that the dust from the asteroid I had just blown to smithereens would clog the exhaust ports.”
Trip narrowed his eyes. “You could have raised the issue then, Lieutenant.”
Hoshi sighed. Males. Butting heads instead of working together.
“I…” Malcolm faltered for a moment, then continued with renewed determination, “I didn’t realise our zigzagging inside that asteroid belt was taking us through the debris from the rock I had destroyed, Sir.”
“That was my fault. I should’ve plotted our course more carefully,” Travis croaked out; but his contrite words fell on deaf ears.
“Oh - and how come ya didn’t?” Trip went on confrontationally. “Were you takin’ a nap?
Right; Malcolm, like her - Hoshi realised - had undoubtedly closed his eyes during Travis’s acrobatic flying.
“Guys…” she tried, soothingly.
“Dreaming about Stinky?” Trip continued, ignoring her.
Stinky? Now Trip had lost her; Hoshi couldn’t remember anyone by that peculiar name.
“Perhaps I thought you could be trusted to be in command, Commander,” Malcolm spat out.
That arrow had definitely found its mark, judging by Trip’s face. Hoshi shot Travis a puzzled frown, which he returned. This was hardly the Trip Tucker and Malcolm Reed they were used to. Enough was enough. She was still shaken and also a bit scared; she needed Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed; Trip and Malcolm would do. But not this… twisted copy of them.
Making her hands into tight fists, Hoshi filled her lungs with the rather pestilential air of the barren planet.
“GUYS!”
The two officers startled, as if they had forgotten that they weren’t alone.
“Stop it,” Hoshi added, going for a less hysterical tone of voice. “Please?”
The result was immediate; Malcolm snapped to attention.
“I apologise, Commander,” he muttered, troubled grey gaze fixed straight ahead. “That was out of line.”
Trip’s blue eyes softened, into a strange expression that was a mix of regret and embarrassment.
“Forget it,” he mumbled. “I guess I asked for it. We’re all a bit upset, after that landing.”
There was a pause of uncomfortable silence.
“That landing?” Travis exclaimed, tongue-in-cheek. “I thought it was one of my best.”
Bless the man and his sense of humour. Hoshi wondered what had really passed inside that Shuttlepod a few weeks before. No amount of Starfleet training could prepare one to see death in the face as Trip and Malcolm had. The experience had obviously marked them.
Trip jerked his head playfully to the side. “You scratched the paint, Travis.”
“As well as yourself,” Malcolm added, returning to tend to the helmsman’s wound.
“Fussy,” Travis muttered under his breath. His mouth started to curl up, but smiling obviously didn’t agree with a cheekbone injury.
“Ouch!”
“Will you be still, Ensign? You’re a terrible patient.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
That was better. Hoshi heaved a sigh of relief.
“Right, then.” Trip passed a hand through his hair. “I guess I’ll start purgin’ the exhaust ports.”
“What about that shoulder, Commander?” Malcolm asked, with a pointed look at the obviously sore spot in question. “Don’t you want me to take a look at it first?”
“Nah, it’s just a bump.”
Malcolm looked unconvinced, but didn’t comment. “I’ll give you a hand in a moment,” he called after Trip as he went off.
Yes, that was definitely better.
§§§ - §§§
“Shuttlepod One to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise.” Hoshi smirked. She was beginning to feel frustrated and tired. Trip handed her a canteen, which she accepted with a grateful nod.
“Still no luck?” he enquired.
He and Malcolm had worked non-stop for the past hour. At least the exhaust ports were purged; now they were going to take a look at the engine damage.
Wiping a hand over her mouth after drinking the water, Hoshi heaved a deep sigh. “Enterprise must be still out of range.”
Framed in the open hatch, Malcolm shrugged. “There are still seven and a half hours before our rendezvous. They must be quite far away yet,” he said. He shot a glance at Trip; then added, “Don’t worry, Ensign: soon we’ll be airborne again. We have our Chief Engineer with us.”
Optimism didn’t come natural to Malcolm, and Hoshi thought his voice had betrayed how little faith he put in his own words.
“Yeah, provided the Chief Engineer has the right spare parts,” Trip muttered dispiritedly under his breath.
Hoshi felt bad for the two of them. This misadventure came a bit too soon after the terrible one they had experienced a few weeks before on the same vessel.
“Anything I can do to help?” Travis enquired, hobbling into sight behind Malcolm.
His cheek sported a large dressing, and under it, it looked quite swollen. A bruise was developing too, and he had an arm wrapped around his midsection.
“Thanks, but you’ve already done your part, Ensign,” Malcolm said. “You’d better take it easy.”
§§§ - §§§
It was maybe twenty minutes later that Trip closed the tool-box and passed an arm over his sweaty brow. “Sorry,” he muttered to the rest of them looking on. “The impulse manifold is too badly damaged. I can’t fix it here.”
“Great.” Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest. “Are we supposed to twiddle our thumbs on this inhospitable planet till Enterprise finds us?”
“You could always read Ulysses,” Trip snapped. “If you have any other suggestions, feel free to share them with us.”
Things were beginning to get tense again between the two. Hoshi was about to throw some water on the fire when a beep was heard and a light started to flash.
“They’re hailing us,” she said unnecessarily, for all eyes had turned to the console.
“Enterprise is back early,” Malcolm said with a frown.
Hoshi opened the link. “Shuttlepod One. Go ahead Enterprise.”
The voice that answered wasn’t Captain Archer’s or T’Pol’s; and, what was more, it spoke no English.”
§ 4 §
“... Do you require assistance?” the UT finally caught on.
Trip felt Malcolm’s eyes on him and turned to see him shoot a warning look, of the kind that said ‘Definitely not: better safe than sorry’. Typical. Averting his gaze, he tried to clamp down on his irritation. This misadventure was making re-emerge some of the tension there had been between them on that fateful Shuttlepod One mission.
“This is Commander Tucker of Starfleet,” he said through the open link. “Will you please identify yourself?”
“This is Commander Obne of the... Felon ship... A Shot In The Quadrant,” the UT translated with a bit of difficulty, in a metallic voice.
“Brilliant,” Malcolm snorted under his breath.
“We have picked up your vessel,” Commander Obne continued. “This planet seems an odd place to make a stop at: do you require any assistance?”
“We... have had a minor problem with our engine,” Trip replied noncommittally. “Thank you for the offer, but I think we’ll be okay.”
“Oh, but I insist, Commander,” the voice pressed. “I wouldn’t be a very good Felon if I left you with engine trouble on that barren rock.”
“Who’s ever heard of a good felon?” Malcolm muttered.
“Ah, no, really, we’ll be fine,” Trip began, but the alien Commander didn’t even listen to him.
“We’ll be landing in the vicinity of your vessel in approximately ten noonortrth,” the cheerful voice piped in. “See you soon.”
The link was cut off and Trip turned to his crew. “We have ten noon… whatever to shine our boots,” he quipped.
“I wouldn’t joke about it,” Malcolm ranted. “These are not ideal conditions to make a first contact. Especially with a species bearing such an inauspicious name. Oh, and lovely designation for a ship too.”
“Come on, Malcolm, you can’t be that biased, for heaven’s sake!”
There it was again, that damned pessimism that grated on his nerves; like a few weeks before, when the man had driven him to distraction by counting them dead before time, and recording his good-byes to half the girls in San Francisco.
There was a clearing of the throat. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to this either, Commander,” Hoshi said. “Even if those guys were called... Cherubs and were travelling on... Pink Cloud.”
Trip drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly out. “Look, there’s nothin’ we can do about it. You heard them; they didn’t take no for an answer. So, let’s prepare to receive them.”
Someone was already doing so; by rummaging in the compartment under one of the rear benches.
“Good thing I insisted with the Captain to make a phase pistol for each person on board standard equipment,” Malcolm said, straightening again. He started to distribute the weapons.
Hoshi took hers with obvious reluctance. “Must I really?”
Good luck convincing our Security Officer of the contrary, Trip thought. He conveyed the idea with a lift of his eyebrows and a light shrug.
“Of course, Ensign,” Malcolm indeed replied, strapping on his own pistol. “Your score entitles you to carry one.”
“Shooting at a target is different,” Hoshi commented, looking at the weapon in her hands in discomfort. “I really wouldn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“We’ll keep the pistols set on stun,” Trip butted in. “Don’t worry, Hoshi. I doubt we’ll even have to use them. These people are probably the Good Samaritans of the galaxy.”
“I sure hope so,” Travis muttered. “I’ve already had my share of bruises for one day.”
§§§ - §§§
A Shot In The Quadrant was the ugliest ship Trip had seen in a long while. It was a graceless grey oblong thing, not much bigger than their Shuttlepod, which had certainly seen better days. Its hull was all banged up and stained - probably rusty. If these were their saviours, then heaven help them!
The vessel landed with a rough bump which made Mayweather raise both eyebrows.
“Holy mackerel!” the helmsman exclaimed. “No wonder that hull is in such bad shape.”
The dust raised by such a graceful landing hadn’t finished settling down again when the hatch started to open with the hair-raising screech of badly-oiled mechanisms. Malcolm automatically took position in front of everyone, hand resting on the handle of his phase pistol.
“I don’t need you to protect me, Lieutenant,” Trip muttered, trying to overtake him. “I can look after myself.” A flash of Malcolm dragging him down from the airlock at gunpoint went through his mind, and he felt a stab of guilt, which he quickly pushed aside.
“I’m only doing my job, Commander,” Malcolm replied with determination, getting in front of him again.
“Ah, Commander Tucker!” a gleeful voice interrupted.
It belonged to a man who was, possibly, even more ungainly than his ship. Short and round, he wore a bright shirt with large yellow and orange vertical stripes, tucked into a pair of dark green pants. Tall boots and a black sash made him look a bit like a pirate of the old days, a resemblance which was emphasised by the ear-ring on his left lobe. Trip was almost disappointed not to see a sabre hanging from his side. He had loved pirate stories as a kid.
The man approached with a purposeful gait, his large belly swaying. There was a mad quality to him. It wasn’t only his outfit: there was a spirited glint in his dark eyes. These were framed by tanned stripes that, crossing his temples, lost themselves into curly red hair. On the whole it was quite a garish sight.
“It’s a pleasure,” the Felon exclaimed, stopping in front of Malcolm and raising both arms to form a sort of triangle over his head, fingertips touching.
Malcolm studied him straight-faced and as still as a statue. “Good day,” he said, oozing distrust.
“Actually, I am Commander Tucker.” Trip feigned a step to the left; then quickly by-passed Malcolm on the right. “You must be...”
“Commander Obne.” The glittering gaze shifted a couple of times between Trip and Malcolm.
“This is Lieutenant Reed,” Trip provided, waving a thumb in acknowledgement of the man’s puzzlement. “Our Security Officer.”
“Security? Are you expecting trouble?” Obne looked behind him, to a couple of his crewmates, just as round and short and obnoxiously outfitted as he, who had come out of A Shot In The Quadrant. “You didn’t think we were trouble, did you?”
“Ah, you know,” Trip mumbled. “Just a precaution.”
Obne broke into a loud, infectious laugh, which was echoed by his men and brought a smile to everyone’s lips but Malcolm’s. He must teach the damn man to relax a little - Trip mused. These people seemed very sociable. But then again, that was probably why Malcolm didn’t like them.
“These are Ensigns Hoshi Sato, our Communications Officer; and Travis Mayweather, our helmsman,” Trip continued the introductions.
Obne sobered up and repeated the greeting gesture, which Hoshi mirrored, imitated, more tentatively, by Travis.
“A gwèp?” the alien wondered, the UT stumbling over the word.
Trip frowned. “Gwèp?”
“Gwèp,” Obne repeated, pointing to Hoshi.
“A woman, I suppose,” Hoshi provided with a shrug.
“A woman soldier?” Obne broke into peals of laughter again. “That is unheard of!”
“Maybe where you come from,” Malcolm muttered darkly to the side.
Trip quickly butted in, “Actually, we aren’t really soldiers. We’re explorers.” He shifted his gaze from one Felon to the next, repressing the desire to shield his eyes against the gaudy colours of the ensemble. Let anyone call his Hawaiian shirts loud again.
“Explorers with a broken ship.” The alien Commander ended his laughter in a wide smile that bared two rows of crooked teeth. “We must set this right again. Allow us to give you a hand.”
“Commander.” Malcolm’s voice meant business. “May I have a word with you? In private.”
“You aren’t going to let them into the Shuttlepod, are you?” he was asking tensely a moment later. “Get their podgy hands on the engine’s schematics and---“
“Relax, Malcolm,” Trip interrupted him. “We’re talkin’ about an impulse drive, here. It’s hardly a military secret!”
“Still, we know nothing about these Felons.”
Watching Malcolm cross his hands over his chest and shoot a thoughtful look to the side in typical Reed fashion, Trip took a moment to consider his words. He was tempted to accept these people’s help.
“Alright,” he conceded at last. “I won’t let them inside the pod; but maybe they have what I need to fix the engine: no harm asking, right?”
“Right,” Malcolm agreed after a moment’s hesitation. “Though I doubt they carry many spare parts with them, judging by that bucket of bolts they call a ship.”
“Never judge by the looks,” Trip joked, with a conciliatory smile.
Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “I suppose.”
“Commander...” he then quickly put in, as Trip was about to return to Obne and his men. “I’ve been kind of...” An uncomfortable smirk appeared on his face. “I apologise,” he finally croaked out. “I believe subconsciously I’m still a bit shaken by our… misadventure.”
“Yeah, me too,” Trip said with a grimace. “I guess it takes more than a warm blanket and a few hours of sleep to get over what we went through.” He saw Malcolm shift self-consciously on his feet, so he added, “Come on, let’s see if these Felons can get us off this rock. I don’t really want the Capt’n to find us here like this.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. “No arguments there,” he replied.