Tarik was working the late watch on the station's command deck. Normally this was a very quiet shift; other than routine maintenance or personnel issues there wasn't much for him to do.
But things were changing on the SB901. Even with the growing conflict against the Mullara and the Jem'Hadar, new settlers were still streaming into the Briar Patch: construction workers, miners, farmers, merchants, mercenaries, missionaries...everyone and everything was coming through the station of late.
Currently Tarik was going through lease papers for new station shop stalls. God I hate administrative work! he thought, wishing he were recertified as fit to go back out against the enemy.
A representative from the Essentialist Purity Movement was standing before his desk, awaiting Tarik's decision on the lease. The Essentialists were an extreme religious group, dedicated to maintaining the purity of the individual races of the Federation and restricting the entry of new members unless they met certain doctrinal requirements. Needless to say, they were not good friends of Starfleet under most circumstances. Nor were they very cooperative.
"Let's see...you've made the necessary deposit and shown proof of insurance for your meeting hall, but I don't see any evidence of the Class 'B' Missionary License you'll need on the station," Tarik said. The license would have permitted active recruiting of new members from the station's population, and was contingent upon meeting certain ethical requirements: no coercion, recruitment of minors without parental consent, or advocacy of violence against other religious groups.
"We do the work of the Divine," the representative said. "No mortal license is needed to pursue our aims."
Tarik fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Indeed, that may be true, but your cause will be greatly enhanced by complying with the law in the material realm. I will approve the lease, but you will only be able to operate under Class 'A' restrictions: meetings amongst your own membership, charitable works, and distribution of literature only. Until you apply for the Class 'B' license you won't be able to hold the public forums you describe in your application."
"You can't restrict us! Our mission is God's!" the representative protested. "God is not subject to mortal laws!"
"Indeed God is not. But you are," Tarik said firmly. "Given the nature and past history of your organization I'm tempted to reject your application out of hand. I'm being probably more lenient than I should be here. Get the Class 'B' license and you can do just about anything you want except take over one of the Commerce Pylons as a temple and sacrifice virgins. But we will be watching you. If I or any other senior officer on this station gets wind of anything untoward being done by your organization you will be evicted. Am I clear on this?"
"Yes, Colonel, very clear," the representative said, giving up for the moment.
"Very good." Tarik signed off on the PADD containing the lease and returned it to the man. "Your space is on Deck 17, compartment 17-489." The representative's mouth dropped when he saw where his space was located: directly between the station's Bajoran temple and a school run by a Kolinahr adept, and across from a storefront Baptist church. Hopefully being around saner organizations might temper these people, Tarik thought. The Essentialists were not pleasant people to be around by any definition; certain more radical Essentialist groups were responsible for a terrorist attack on Risa some years before.
"You should get a lot of traffic in that location," Tarik said. "Most of the peripatetics amongst the station population seem to congregate there. Good luck!"
The man huffed as he walked out the door, nearly knocking over the next gentleman in line.
Fortunately this one wasn't nearly so controversial: Eugene Loomis, recent arrival from Earth, wanted to open up a general store on the station for outbound prospectors. Good! After the Essentialists I'd let that band of Klingon mercenaries I turned down earlier this morning aboard! Tarik thought to himself. Of course, with the Essentialists around we may want those Klingons on hand before too long...
"Mr. Loomis, I've looked over your application. Everything seems in order. How soon will your inventory be arriving?" Tarik asked, wanting to make sure that Loomis had the means to support his business venture.
"Actually, sir, my inventory is already here awaiting Customs clearance," Loomis replied.
"As soon as you're cleared from secondary detention you may open your store, Mr. Loomis," Tarik said, handing Loomis the PADD with the lease and stall assignment on it, and shaking the man's hand.
It's said that a person can tell a lot from a handshake. As Tarik shook the man's hand, he could tell that Loomis was not a strong, assertive type. And this guy wants to go into sales? Tarik thought. Maybe he plans on hiring staff when he opens. Tarik looked Loomis over. The man was on the short side even for a human, slender, and very nervous-looking.
"Thank you, sir!" Loomis said, practically tripping over himself to get out of the office.
"Okay, next," Tarik said, calling for the final lease applicant for the day. Hans Schwarzenberger was quite the opposite of Loomis and, instead of the arrogance of the Essentialist representative had a strong, assertive presence about him. He was about Tarik's height and spoke with a deep German accent. He was also incredibly muscle-bound.
"Mr. Schwarzenberger, your application is in very good order. On a personal note, I like the idea of an all-purpose workout area for the station's civilian population. Especially the 20th century angle--the themed businesses here do quite well."
"Ja, I hope zhat Muscle Beach vill be ze right ting for zese little girley-men on ze station to become properly-pumped-up manly men!"
"Now, you know that because of the nature of this establishment you will need to carry extra liability insurance."
"Ov course, Colonel. My bruder, Franz, is making zhose arrangements as ve speak!"
"Very good! Once you've submitted proof of insurance to this office you may move in your exercise equipment. For now you can start setting up everything except the workout area and the showers. Contact Sickbay for a health inspection of your snack bar. Good luck, Mr. Schwarzenberger!" Tarik said, shaking the man's hand. Tarik noted that Schwarzenberger's grip was nearly as strong as his own.
"Oh, good! You've got a strong manly-man grip!" Hans commented.
"I should hope so--between Vulcan and boot camp I'd hate to think I've spent all my life as a deluded 'girley-man'!" Tarik laughed as the bodybuilder left the office.
Good. Now I can head to lunch! Tarik thought.
Tarik decided to forego MacDonnell's in favor of something simpler: a buffet-style eatery that had opened up recently (he'd approved the lease for that one as well). After dishing up a meal of fish and chips, he tried to figure out where to sit down. Kassia was busy with a counseling appointment; Wallace and Garek were off-shift; Deveraux was busy with the Mullaran intelligence files; and both the Banshees and the Hammerheads were currently deployed (a situation Tarik wanted to rectify for himself desperately). While not normally an elitist, Tarik felt very uncomfortable about fraternizing with enlisted crewmen on duty. So, he looked for a seat alone.
He found one--a bistro-style seat near the edge of the main promenade, when he smelled something that unnerved him: burning grain. The scent reminded him of the battle on Morristown that had gone so horribly and quite nearly cost Tarik his life. A few months ago a roast beef sandwich had nearly triggered a psychotic episode for Tarik. About the only good thing that could have been said about that was that he made contact with Kassia for the first time that night.
Fighting to control his emotions, Tarik sought out the source of the smell. He found it: at the table of Eugene Loomis. Loomis was drinking a cup of dark fluid that resembled coffee.
"Oh, hello Colonel! I just sat down for lunch. I wanted to let you know that my merchandise made it through secondary! I should have the store up and running tomorrow!"
"Very good, Mr. Loomis. Might I inquire as to what it is you're drinking?"
"Oh, this? It's a non-caffeinated coffee substitute, made from grain. My doctor back on Earth said it would be good for reducing my nervous tendencies," he replied. "I'm sorry--I know it must smell odd. I'll move--"
"No, that's quite all right, you don't need to move," Tarik said, thinking to himself that 1) Loomis' doctor's advice wasn't working and 2) perhaps he'd come on too strong for someone like Loomis. "I was just curious."
"Okay, thanks!" Loomis replied, breathing a sigh of relief. "If you get a chance, stop in sometime!"
"I'll be sure to. Good day, Mr. Loomis," Tarik said, returning to his own table.
Tarik sat down to his fish and chips and began plowing through the meal. About ten minutes later he heard something loud and obnoxious.
"Loomis, I knew I could find you here! What'd you think--going to the ass-end of space would get you away from me?" a male voice, definitely an arrogant voice, said loud enough for half the Commerce Section to hear.
"What do you want from me, Wayne?" Loomis asked very nervously.
"Oh, just to let you know that things aren't straight between us yet," the newcomer--Wayne--said as he casually knocked over Loomis' drink. "Oops--did I spill that? I'm sorry!"
Terrific! As if we didn't have a sufficient supply of adolescent jerks already--we're importing them now! Tarik tapped his combadge. "Tarik to Security. I need two officers at Homestyle Cafeteria on the double!"
[Acknowledged, sir. On our way!]
Tarik decided to step into the situation to keep Loomis from being pounded into the ground--physically or emotionally. While Wayne was not in the league of either Tarik or Schwarzenberger, he was certainly more than a little guy like Loomis could manage.
"Gentlemen, is there a problem?" he asked casually.
Wayne turned around to see Tarik standing behind him. "Oh, hello...uh..."
"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Tarik, commander of the Marine garrison and acting CO for the station. If you have any problems during your stay here--either of you--feel free to contact me. We pride ourselves on having a friendly community with very little trouble. Our Security detachment in particular," he said, indicating the two Security officers who had just arrived, "is very efficient. I'm sure you'll encounter no trouble here."
"Of course, Colonel. I was just saying hello to my old friend here, then I was going to move on," Wayne said, slapping Loomis a little too hard on the back. "We're really good friends, aren't we, Loomie?"
"Yes, of course, Wayne," Loomis said, nodding vigorously. More here than meets the eye--a lot more!
"Well, if either of you have any trouble at all, feel free to contact the Command Deck or Security. We've been rated as one of the most responsive stations in the Federation to civilian concerns," Tarik continued. As if to emphasize the point, the Security officers (as much in tune to the true situation as Tarik) stepped forward.
"Thanks again, Colonel...I've got some business to attend to elsewhere on the station," Wayne said, backing off quickly. "Good day!" As he left, he whispered to Loomis: "I'm not through with you yet!"
Tarik, of course, heard this, but before he could do anything about it Wayne was gone.
"Care to explain what that was about, Mr. Loomis?" Tarik asked.
"Oh, it's nothing, just an old school rivalry...."
"If you should decide it's more than nothing, let us know. In the meantime, you might want to consider visiting a friend of mine," Tarik said, producing Kassia's card from his pocket. "She might be of help. Just don't let this stuff get to you; you'll be fine."
Tarik then drew the Security officers aside. "Loomis is clean--I ran the check on him when I processed his lease. Check out this 'Wayne' person. There's a lot about him I don't like."
"Aye, sir," the senior of the two said as Tarik dismissed him. Tarik gathered up the rest of his meal and returned to the Command deck.
Eugene Loomis sat for a moment, completely shellshocked, as his spilled coffee substitute soaked into his good suit.