MILES O'BRIEN LED the way into the bar on Deep Space Station K-Seven. This place was like the ship—much brighter than anything they were used to. And over there were Odo and Worf, at a table just past two other tables, which were crowded with several Enterprise crewmen and another surly dark-haired group in matching silver tunics with black shirts underneath. Probably a crew from some other division.
O'Brien and Bashir crossed the room to Odo and Worf, and O'Brien couldn't help feeling a bit odd—he caught the glances of the other table of Starfleet crew, who were probably wondering why he and the doctor were joining a pair of civilian traders instead of other Starfleeters.
Well, some chips had to fall, anyway.
"Chief," Bashir said, as the two of them joined Odo and Worf, "clearly we've been going about this search business all wrong."
"You're right, Julian," O'Brien fell in. "Why bother manually searching thirty decks when you can just plunk yourself down at a bar and wait for Darvin to come to you."
"We have reason to believe," Odo bristled instantly, "that Darvin will return to this area."
"Ah, yes," O'Brien prodded. "For his raktajino."
Bashir quickly added, "A vital clue others might have missed. How fortunate that vital clue has kept you glued to this bar for the past three hours—having drinks—while we're crawling through conduits."
As they sat down, the ribbing was interrupted when the door panel parted again and three more Starfleet personnel came through. O'Brien automatically looked, knowing they were indeed searching for someone who, in the large scheme, might come wandering back in here.
"My God," he croaked, as he stared at the three Starfleet officers who had just entered. "There he is!"
At the door were three officers, two in gold and one in red. The red-shirt was a man of medium build with dark hair, but that wasn't what caught his attention. One of the gold-shirts was very young with relatively long dark hair for the era, but that also wasn't what caught O'Brien.
"Who?" Bashir asked.
Leaning a little toward him, O'Brien continued staring at the third man. "Kirk!"
"Where?" Worf craned to see past his crewmates.
The three Starfleet officers strode in, glanced at the table full of silver-tunicked men, then took a table of their own.
"Right there," O'Brien whispered anxiously. "He's just sitting those other two guys! The one in gold, on the left."
"That's Kirk?" Bashir asked.
"Look at him! The way he walks … that glint of command in his eye … that's him, all right!"
His hands quivered as the piece of history took a seat mere paces from him. He wanted desperately to clamber over there like a starstruck kid and ask for James Kirk's autograph. The dubious looks in Bashir's and Odo's eyes annoyed him. Of course that was Kirk! The sandy hair, the tall stature, the muscles, the strong expression … of course, it was Kirk.
"It would be an honor to meet him," Worf said.
"Let's buy him a drink!" O'Brien gushed.
"Gentlemen," Odo drew up. "No one's buying anyone drinks."
Glancing at Worf, O'Brien took the scolding with a blush. "He's right. We can't risk altering the timeline."
At the bar, one of the men in silver and black poured a drink for a jovial merchant, and with great dripping contempt he asked, "The Earthers like those fuzzy things, don't they?"
"Well, yes!" The merchant chuckled nervously, then took a drink of what had been poured.
"Well, frankly, I never liked Earthers. They remind me of Regulan bloodworms," the bearded man said, directing his comment right at the three Starfleeters who had just come in. This antagonist had drunk too much and was giving in to the tensions already flowing in the bar. The urge to pick on humans.
O'Brien had seen it before.
"No!" the bearded man howled over the laughter of his own crewmates. "I just remembered! There is one Earth man who doesn't remind me of a Regulan bloodworm. That's Kirk!"
He sidled between the chairs to just outside of kicking distance from the three newcomers.
O'Brien felt his hand start to tremble. Insulting Captain Kirk! While Kirk was sitting right there! He started to wonder how much it would wreck the timeline if he just beat a little of the hell out of a few people. He looked around to see what others were thinking—the Enterprise crewmen were boiling in their seats, but no one moved much. In fact, they didn't move at all. They all looked frozen to their places by their very anger.
And so was he.
"A Regulan bloodworm is soft," the antagonist went on, "and shapeless. But Kirk isn't soft. Kirk may be a swaggering dictator with delusions of godhood," the bearded man droned on, "but he's not soft!"
Unbelievable nerve—O'Brien felt a twitch of frustration run across his forehead.
The ensign at the Starfleet table tensed visibly, but the red-shirt stopped him from challenging the antagonizing man.
The waitress, looking overworked and nervous, came to them and asked, "What'll it be, boys? And don't say raktajino—if I have to say we don't carry that one more time—"
"Who ordered raktajino?" Odo asked vigilantly.
"The Klingons."
"Klingons?"
"Yes."
O'Brien looked around, as did Odo and Bashir, but he didn't see any Klingons. He glanced at Worf, who was noticeably twitching, but Worf said nothing.
"Right over there," the waitress said with an are-you-blind inflection.
She nodded to the table with the silverbacks sitting around it. A little surly, maybe, but Klingons? These men were no bigger than any average muscular human, and none had the Klingon turtle-shelled browridge O'Brien had seen all his life. They had ordinary black hair. The uniforms weren't Klingon either, so far as he recognized. The only trait these had in common with Klingons was that every last one of them was bearded.
Bashir looked at Worf. "Those are Klingons?"
"All right," the waitress said gruffly, "you four have had enough. I'm cutting you off."
She turned on a heel and strode away spicily.
"Well, Mr. Worf?" Odo prodded.
Worf looked at him, then at Bashir, then O'Brien.
"They are Klingons," he admitted finally.
All three others looked again at the silverbacks, then they all looked again at Worf.
Klingons! That changed everything! Perhaps some disease had caused their personalities to migrate to the outsides of their bodies, because that man with the beard was prickling O'Brien like a cactus.
Worf fidgeted—and that was a sight. "It is a long story."
"What happened?" O'Brien pushed. "Some kind of genetic engineering?"
"Viral mutation?" Bashir suggested.
Twitching like an old lady now, Worf growled, "We do not discuss it with outsiders!"
O'Brien was about to spear him with another remark, but across the bar came the sharp scrape of a chair being shoved back. As he turned, he saw the younger officer in gold on his feet and glaring at one of the Klingons as if ready to peel the beard off hair by hair.
But the engineer at the table had the younger man by the arm. "Take it easy, lad. Everybody's entitled to an opinion."
Scottish. No doubt about that. Inverness, maybe. Someplace northish. Senior officer, too. No doubt about that either.
"That's right," the Klingon taunted, speaking very slowly, partly because he was drunk and partly because he was enjoying the surgery. "And if I think that Kirk is a Denebian slime devil … well, that's my opinion too."
O'Brien had seen this Klingon stalking the Starfleeters, but the order had been sent around the ship that there would be no trouble, and the Starfleet people in these bars were trying not to react to the picking and prancing of this one Klingon.
"Don't do it, mister, and that's an order," the Scotsman said firmly, holding back the young ensign who wanted to pull the Klingon's beard off.
"Look at the way Kirk is ignoring that Klingon," O'Brien mentioned admiringly. "He's letting the security officer handle it."
"Chief," Bashir murmured, "are you sure that's Kirk?"
"Absolutely."
"Then why is he wearing lieutenant's stripes?" The doctor held up his own sleeve and noted that the slashes matched the slashes on that other man's sleeve.
O'Brien peered across the room—and damn if Julian wasn't right. A lieutenant, not a captain! He was completely wasting a good slug of admiration!
"Of course," the Klingon was saying now, "Captain Kirk deserves his ship! We like the Enterprise, we—" He laughed. "We really do!" He confirmed with glances to the other men in silver tunics, then turned his invective to the man in red. "That sagging old rustbucket—"
Something inside Miles O'Brien clicked to full alert as fury boiled up from the pit. Insulting a man's ship!
"—is designed like a garbage scow! Half the quadrant knows it! That's why they're all learning to speak Klingonese!"
"Mr. Scott!" the ensign spat.
Now the man in red—an engineer! O'Brien's thoughts seized on what he was seeing.
"Montgomery Scott!" he choked. "My God … Montgomery Scott—it's Montgomery Scott!"
"Who?" Odo asked.
The Klingon raised his voice. "And if I think that the Enterprise is designed like a garbage scow, then that's my opinion, too."
Cautiously, Odo broke in with "I think we have bigger problems than a case of mistaken identity."
Across the room, the Scottish officer was involved in a slow burn. The situation was escalating, control blowing to the wind.
Yep, those were Klingons, all right. Delighting in torture no matter what their skulls looked like.
The Scot half-turned. There was a dangerous dare on his face.
"Laddie … don't you think you should … rephrase that?"
Tilting slightly forward, O'Brien got his feet under him and braced his legs. Strange, getting mad at something that happened a hundred-odd years ago. Oh, but wonderful, punching a few of those words back down a Klingon throat …
And there was the Klingon, who obviously knew perfectly well just who he was insulting. Fury built brick by brick until O'Brien was seeing only red. Criticizing an engineer's own personal work—his own ship! There was a line being crossed here, by damn!
The Klingon leaned teasingly on the bar, playing to his own crewmates as much as to the starship's chief engineer, speaking very slowly on purpose. "You're right. I should. I didn't mean to say that the Enterprise should be hauling garbage. I mean to say it should be hauled away as garbage!"
Enjoying his chance to pinch the fine hairs of a Starfleet officer, the Klingon reeled back in laughter, knowing he was free to prowl this station and that Starfleet personnel were not allowed to cause trouble based only on words.
But, oh, this was torture for O'Brien, this pretending not to be affected.
Then again, he was wearing an Enterprise crew shirt! He didn't have to pretend not to care!
Watching without a blink, he dug his fingernails into his palms. Please, oh, please …
The famous Scotsman slowly stood up.
Yes, yes—
The Klingon was still laughing, too drunk to notice that Montgomery Scott was on his feet.
When he turned, the Klingon wasn't on his feet anymore—in fact, his feet were on the table behind him, and the rest of his body was hanging over the other side.
The man O'Brien had mistaken for Kirk now burst to his feet and shoved two chairs out of his way, squaring off with the Klingons, who also came to their feet. Chairs scratched all over the bar.
As if propelled by some sorcerous force—for which he would've paid highly right now—O'Brien's chair flew out from behind him with Irish polite gentility, making easy room for him to dance. Worf jolted up as well, hands clenched, arms flexed.
"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.