Tarik had just returned from Sickbay, a daily pilgrimage he made to check on his wounded troops. Only three remained there now; of those, one would be going home, retired because of his wounds.
They'd gotten off light, and he knew it--only forty-four dead, when by all rights every one of them should have been received by the spirits of their ancestors. He still held the earring of Corporal Juran. I'll have to send that on to his family on Bajor as soon as mail service gets restored to the station, he thought. Juran was in the embrace of the Prophets now and would have no further need of the traditional ornament.
He stopped in his office briefly to check his messages. Two routine messages from Hartman and Wallace asking about equipment requisitions, and another one from an address he didn't immediately recognize. He played the message. On the screen appeared Troy, Kassia's brother. A man with whom Tarik seemed perpetually at odds.
<I was wondering if you could meet me sometime today; there is much we need to discuss,> Troy said. <I'll be at Soma at 1600 hours to begin reopening; you can meet me there if it's convenient for you.>
Tarik thought for a moment. I'm really not in the mood for this, he thought. But, if I want Kassia I've got to contend with Troy. May as well get it over with.
He left his office and headed for Soma, the trendy but raucous nightclub where Troy was employed as bartender and bouncer. The place was rapidly being put to order by waitstaff and kitchen help; a Pakled janitor seemed particularly confused by the commotion but still plugged on about his work. Though chaotic, everything seemed to be getting done. A scantily-clad Andorian female--the head waitress--seemed to have everythign under control. A playbill outside advertised a Klingon band that specialized in an 20th century Earth genre of music known as "heavy metal" that was to perform for the club's grand re-opening after the evacuation. What transuranic elements had to do with music Tarik had no idea, but the band seemed to look quite at home.
Perhaps I'm a bit overdressed, Tarik thought as he glanced down at his uniform, which caught the attention of the practically-attired kitchen staff and the scantily-clad waitresses. Troy immediately spotted him.
"Tarik! It's good to see you could make it! Come on over," Troy said has he motioned to a table. "What'll you have?" he asked.
"Just coffee," Tarik said. Not only did he not want to take advantage of his host's hospitality, he wanted his mind clear for whatever it was Troy wanted to discuss.
The Pakled janitor brought over a cup of coffee for Tarik and a glass of some unidentfied purple liquid for Troy. "Antarean grape juice," he said. "I can't afford the hard stuff while I'm working."
"So, what was it you wanted to discuss?" Tarik asked.
Troy was caught a little off guard by Tarik's directness. "Well, it's about Kassia," he started. "I know there's something between the two of you that I just can't understand. She's been with other men before, but it's always turned out badly for her. I worry about her. I hope you can respect that."
"Believe me, I do," Tarik said. "I have no intention of anything dishonorable toward your sister. I hope you understand that."
"I understand that you think you don't," Troy replied. "But you have to remember that her childhood wasn't easy. Our father was not the most benevolent of men, and she's had a lot of trouble with relationships as a result of that. Two men in particular hurt her very badly."
"Physically?" Tarik asked, his visage darkening.
"It may as well have been," Troy answered cryptically. "But no matter how she was hurt, she was hurt nonetheless. I don't want to see that happen to her again. And even though what I've seen of you--and what she's told me of you--says that you're an honorable person, there's still the chance that you could hurt her very badly by not coming back from your next mission. This last action was nothing less than a nightmare for her!"
So that was her! Tarik thought. "Believe me, I more than understand what you're saying," Tarik said, reaching into his pocket. He retrieved Juran's earring. "This belonged to a young man under my command, a Bajoran named Juran. This was also the only thing left of Juran worth sending back to his family on Bajor. The disruptor beam he took was meant for me. I'll be haunted by his screams for the rest of my life, and for a Romulan that's a very long time. It's not a safe occupation I have, but I'd like to think that in the midst of all this mayhem I've done some good.
"But what's safe? My parents were renowned poets on Romulus before they defected. They settled on Vulcan, the one planet in the entire galaxy where they could be safe. And what could be safer than writing poetry for Vulcans? You know what? They were hunted down by the Tal'Shiar anyway and killed when I was only nineteen. I started the Academy in the Engineering track but switched to the Marines largely because of that. The Corps has been the only family I've had since then. Kassia knows this and she accepts this. Don't ask me to give that up!" What Tarik didn't say--and would never have said to Troy or anyone else--was that he'd joined the Marines because he wanted the best possible preparation to send the Tal'Shiar operatives who killed his parents to join their accursed ancestors in the lowest pit of the underworld.
"Life is risk, Troy. If I wasn't a Marine I'd probably be working a merchantman someplace, and I can tell you firsthand how dangerous that is! I could switch back to Engineering--I'm mostly current on the technical journals, particularly where transporters and shields are concerned--but Starfleet in general isn't what one would consider a safe occupation. Or I could become a banker and get hit by the next passing ground transport. When your time is up, it's up!"
Troy was silent for a moment. "I suppose you're right. But still, I worry about her," he finished.
"As well you should. Just don't worry so much about her that you extinguish her life in an effort to preserve it."
Troy smiled. "Point well taken, Tarik--can I call you Tarik?"
"You're a civilian; call me anything you want except a Klingon!" The two men laughed.
"So, forgive me if I'm treading on sensitive territory," Troy began to ask. "Is there anything in particular Romulans need to do when attached to someone? I know about Vulcans--"
"Not at all the same thing," Tarik replied. "We're not much different from humans or Bajorans in that regard. Once I'd graduated from the Academy my parents would most likely have had me betrothed to another Romulan--Rihannsu in our language--in exile on Vulcan or Earth, but that's strictly a cultural thing, like the arranged marriages noble families on Earth used to practice. Nothing biological about it. Were Kassia and I to become partnered, it would be no different than if she partnered with a human."
"And do you plan on this happening soon?" Troy said, somewhat alerted.
"Tradition and good manners dictate that I go to you first," Tarik replied, "but if Kassia wants it, I'm more than amenable. It's time I settled down and became respectable anyway!"
Troy laughed, sensing the irony in that last remark. This man's easily the most respectable one Kassia's come up with yet! Raised among culture, steadily employed--as a Starfleet officer, no less!--and willing to communicate. Maybe he is the one...
"If you were to settle down," Troy asked, "where would it be?"
"If I were to settle down...that's a tough one. Vulcan's still a little painful for me, but that will pass, I suppose. Someday I'll go back. I've always liked Earth. My last duty post wasn't far from there, and I visited quite often. Some of the best people I've met in the service have been Earthmen--Captain Wallace, Lieutenant Deveraux, a couple of others who were responsible for getting me here. For a world so new to the stars, Earth is one of the most sophisticated places I've seen."
Okay, no third-rate mining colonies, Troy thought. And at least he's not going to haul her back to Romulus!
"I have to say, Tarik, I completely misjudged you. I'm still not sure what to make of you with my sister but I'm sure I'll get used to it," Troy replied.
"That, my friend, would be a very good idea!" Tarik answered. "But really, I do need to go. I've got a thousand things to do, and it looks like you're going to be pretty busy, too."
"Yeah, you can say that. Only three more hours to get this place put together, and the manager still hasn't shown up. I wonder what's keeping him?"
"Well, I'll let you get back to work. Anytime you need to call, you know where to reach me," Tarik said has he reached into his pocket for a credit note.
"Keep your money, Tarik--on the house!"
"Thanks, but I should at least leave a tip," he said, placing a one-credit note in easy notice of the Pakled. It was far more than the coffee itself, but Tarik had the money and was reasonably sure he made considerably more than the janitor.
Tarik left the coffee shop, scarcely noticing the three large men who walked in as he walked out.
"All right, where's our payment?" one of the thugs demanded of Troy.
"I have no idea what you're talking about!"
A standard rule of thumb amongst nightclub bouncers is that if a situation cannot be resolved by the staff in ten minutes, the authorities are called. One of the thugs had shorted out Soma's communication link, while another channelled the staff away from the entry. The third was interrogating Troy.
"Our weekly payment--six hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum, for insurance," the thug--a big, ugly man with a large scar running from his temple, down across his cheek to the point of his chin, and then down his throat--demanded.
"The manager said nothing to me about any payment! As for insurance, we already carry a standard liability polic---"
The thug with the scar planted a fist into Troy's abdomen.
"That ain't the type of insurance we're talking about!"
The other thug--a Nossican--was busy trashing the bar. "There isn't anything here!" he yelled.
"Nobody make a sound!" the third thug, another human with a face pockmarked by acne scars, yelled.
The sound of the acne-scarred thug's yelling could scarcely be heard by human ears outside Soma, and that's what the three enforcers had in mind. They neglected, however, the acute hearing ability of Romulans.
What's up with that? Tarik thought, turning around for a moment. A few minutes later an extremely high-pitched whine let loose. Tarik remembered the Andorian waitress, and knew from experience that Andorians--whose hearing was on a par with his own--made that noise under stress.
Something's going on at the club! "Tarik to Security--I need assistance at Soma! There is a crime in progress!" he said has he slapped his combadge and began running back to the club.
The door was locked, its control panel fused shut. So much for the front door, Tarik thought as he sought the service entrance. The service entrance was an old-style door, easily opened. Whoever was in charge of this operation meant this as a way of escape.
Tarik found himself in the kitchen, surrounded by all manner of cooking implements--food was served at Soma, but only as a sideline. A large vegetable knife on a cutting board demanded Tarik's attention. Good--that'll help a bit!
Tarik peeped briefly out the kitchen door and sized up his opponents. Two humans--big, but not too much trouble. That Nossican, however, is going to be a little more difficult.
He listened as the thugs screamed their demands, continuing to work over Troy. The scar-faced man in particular was enjoying the work. Time for this to stop!
Tarik charged out of the kitchen and dove onto Troy's attacker, stunning him with a Vulcan nerve pinch. The other human and the Nossican began to converge upon him. The human, being smaller and faster, made it to Tarik first. Without thinking, Tarik brought the knife up and into the man's chest cavity. The thugh fell, gurgling and screaming.
The Nossican caught Tarik from the side, sending him crashing into a table. Tarik picked up a broken table leg and brandished it. "You want a piece of me? Come on!"
"Don't make me laugh, Fleet boy!" the Nossican yelled. Tarik dodged as the huge alien ran toward him, catching the alien in the gut with the table leg. A double-handed strike between the shoulder blades and the Nossican was on the deck.
"Don't ever mistake me for Fleet, you son of a bitch! You mess with the Corps, you mess with the best!"
At this point, Security showed up through the back entrance, phasers drawn. "Damn, Major! Trouble just seems to follow you around!"
"Well, what can I say? It's a talent!"
The three thugs were hauled away--two by Security and the one with a knife sticking from his sternum by Medical.
Troy sat on a barstool, dazed.
"You mind telling me what this was about, Troy?"
"It must have been some sort of protection racket...I...I don't know. The manager must have been keeping it secret all this time," Troy responded.
"You'll want to make a statement to Security. The Captain will have these three sons of bitches and whoever it is they're working for off the station in 24 hours. If he doesn't, I'll make sure they find their way out an airlock somehow," Tarik grinned evilly.
"Don't do anything drastic--I'll make a statement," Troy said. "Honestly, I had no idea what was going on!"
"That's what they count on. More than likely your manager was either running with the loot or trying to raise it. Or he was in on it the whole time and used the protection as a front for embezzlement. Are you sure you're up to opening tonight?" Tarik asked.
"Just get me to Sickbay and we can get up and running again," Troy said.
The Andorian headwaitress got her wits about her again and started strawbossing the cleanup.
As Tarik helped Troy to Sickbay, Troy couldn't help but laugh, even though the broken ribs he'd sustained made it painful.
"Try not to do that," Tarik advised. "Trust me--this is one time laughter is not the best medicine!"
"Why'd you do it, anyway?" Troy asked. "I mean, as badly as I've treated you, why did you go out of your way for me?"
"You're important to Kassia; that means you're important to me. Besides, you're the best drinking buddy I've had in years!"
Later that night (but right on schedule) Soma reopened. Troy couldn't help but smile when he saw no less than eight very large men who may or may not have been Marines enter the club. They said someting about 'dungaree liberty' (whatever that was) should 'those people' (whoever they were) showed up again.
In fact, Troy couldn't help but notice that an awful lot of Marines had started showing up at Soma...