This Site was Created
with
SFI Template
Technology...
S.S.
Maverick
WEST TEXAS STAR TREK FAN CLUB
Sace Station Maverick: Lubbock, TX
"Honor, Courage,
Commitment"
Fan Fiction
This is a section devoted to fiction written by our crew members. Feel free to read and enjoy, just don't put your name on it!
A New Maru
by Doug Hogan
© 2003Yellow, yellow, green.
Yellow, yellow, green.
The small light blinked over and over in its housing up high on the wall. McCoy squinted at it through his swollen eye. The open hand of the Centurion slapped him hard across the face.
"Talk!"
McCoy tasted blood on that strike.
The guard's next blow was harder, knocking him to the floor. He felt rough arms pick him up and drop him into the corner of his cell. The guards left him, although he knew they, or some others just like them, would be back soon. The abrasions on his cheek and jaw throbbed.
"No lasting damage," he said in a mutter, thinking through the mental fog caused by his beatings. His captors had been thorough and unyielding during his confinement. In the past two weeks he had dropped 10 pounds from his already lanky frame, being denied food and water due to "unresponsive answers." Along with his bruises, he had gained insight to what it must feel like to live on their homeworld and have knowledge they wanted. They would continue the beatings and deprivations until he told them what they needed to know.
Damned Romulans.
"It must have been the bourbon," he thought. He had been to Starbase 11 for a medical conference and, during an evening out, his date had insisted on a nightcap with her. "Something that's not synthehol!" she said in response to his questions of what she had in mind. As she pulled out a square bottle of amber liquid, his eyes lit up.
"What do we have here… there's not a chance that's what I think it is!" As his eyes closed with the first sip of the alcohol, the room started moving about him. When he opened them again, he was in his ever-bright cell, the blinking light on the wall repeating the sequence every four seconds: yellow, yellow, green.
He had told them nothing. Despite going without sleep for extended periods of time; despite being dragged from one interrogation to another; despite being exposed to various forms of physical and mental stresses, he had given them nothing. Nothing.
"Get up." He had heard this one called Jaron. The Centurion's tunic looked fresh compared to his own ragged clothing. Jaron gave his partner a nod and they roughly lifted the doctor to his feet.
"I am a citizen of The United Federation of Planets. I am being held against my will and demand release." He had never told them he was an officer in Starfleet and, since he was kidnapped while off-duty, did not wear his typical blue Starfleet uniform. He remembered his Escape and Evasion lectures from his Academy days and would not give his captors anything to work with other than what they already knew.
The Centurions took him to a different interrogation room this time. His boots were scuffed from the dragging about from one room to another. Even though his body was sore and exhausted he had willed himself to keep mentally alert. He must find some way to escape. His guards left him sitting at a table in the center of the room, a bright light focusing on his chair.
"Well, Dr. Leonard McCoy, I hope your past few days haven't been too harsh." The battered prisoner looked into the dark corner, trying to find the source of the new voice. He tried to not give away his recognition of his name.
"I am a citizen of The United Federation of Planets. I am being held against my will and demand release." The words he had said so many times came out as a monotone; it was all he had said for the past 14 days… all he would say to these - what?!
The man slowly stepping forward into the light wore a Starfleet uniform, complete with admiral insignia on the collar.
"Doctor McCoy, you've passed." A warm smile spread across the admiral's face. "We've put you through the whole regimen. You never broke down; never compromised the Federation, and in fact, are probably right now thinking of some way to get past me and through that door!"
"Passed?" half-whispered McCoy. He licked his cracked lips. "Passed?"
"Doctor, I am Admiral Armstrong of Starfleet Special Operations. What you've just done is our latest Kobayashi Maru."
"This -was- all -just- a- test?" The words fell from him onto the metal surface of the table. "Just a test?" He looked up into Armstrong's face with a flash of fire coming from his eyes.
"Too many have heard of our original tests, in fact your captain is legendary at the Academy. We needed something… new. Starfleet wanted to test it on someone they knew was above board, a true challenge. We planted the information about the medical conference, knowing you'd be there. The rest was easy - the fake uniforms, the "cell," etc.
"The beatings I took?"
"Well, we had to make it realistic. I mean, if it wasn't, you'd never have believed it. Don't worry; you'll be given complete regeneration, leaving no outward appearances of anything out of the ordinary. I do apologize for any…excesses of my operatives. They did play their parts well, didn't they?"
"I'm going back to the Enterprise and I'm pressing charges against you, you sadistic bastard!" McCoy spat back. "You'll never do this to anyone else! Never, you hear?"
Armstrong looked at the broken McCoy sitting in front of him. He crossed his arms and replied, "Actually, just the opposite. We thought you'd have some, ahh, residual resentment. It's all in your file." He laid an electronic device in front of him, its screen dark in the harsh light. "Command predicted so, what with your predilection towards, 'independence, emotionalism, and an underlying reservation towards established power.' So, here's the deal, as they would say in your much revered, 'South.' If you say anything about the test to anyone before you've been cleared to do so, say goodbye to your posting aboard the Enterprise. In fact, we'd love to try the test out on some of your fellow crewmembers, say, that lovely little nurse Chapel. What about the young man, what's his name? Oh, yes, Mr. Checkov. Or there's always your friend, the esteemed Captain Kirk. Now there's a test subject! He did bypass the first test, didn't he? Maybe he needs a true shot at it."
"If I see your face again, I'll kill you," said the doctor. He laid his head down on the table, feeling the coolness against his scraped cheek.******************************************************************************************************
"I hope you enjoyed your stay at Starbase 11, Bones," said Captain Kirk, his attention on signing the forms just given him.
"Jim, I…"
"Yes?" He swiveled his command chair, glancing at the retreating back of the yeoman. He looked around at his ship's doctor.
"Well, it was an experience all right, but I'm glad I'm back." A slow smile spread across his face as he realized he was right where he wanted to be. The apex of his career with people he cared for surrounding him. He'd never say a word about the test; it never happened, he told himself as he walked toward the turbolift. With a swish, the doors closed behind him and he was soon lost in thought of the myriad duties of a Starfleet ship's doctor.
He never felt the subdermal subspace transceiver blinking to the cloaked Romulan ship off the starboard bow.
Yellow, yellow, green.
Yellow, yellow, green.
Marky
by Doug Hogan
© 2004I'm a spanner wrench. Actually, I'm a Wrench, Spanner, J-12/5542mark3. I'm pretty good at what I do, that is, in the right hands. What, you've never heard of me? Sure you have! I played a prominent role in Devil in the Dark and starred again in Day of the Dove. You can even catch me in a cameo, sort of a carry-on role, in What are Little Girls Made Of?
Well, that was before he came on the show. I had it made - endorsements, a book deal, trade show appearances. Then along came that mark4. You'd think Jimmy Doohan had died and gone to the Emmys!
He carried it everywhere in Engineering; never put it down. Oh, sure, it was belt sized. I know, lightweight. One week it was in the dumpster, next week it was on the set. You should have heard that grip crowing "Look what I found in the trash! It'll look good on the set!" I mean really! No training! No paying your dues! It makes you wonder what that tool did to become an overnight success. I'm not saying anything, but the look on the propguy's face said it all… So what am I- chopped lugnuts? I hung on the wall - nothing more than set dressing. Relegated to a life of being dusted by some intern once a week.
I hung there and watched as Jimmy caressed that mark4. Talked all about his new tool to the extras. I saw their eyes light up when he handed it to them. They'd ask to borrow it for this or that but he never let it out of his sight. Oh, he was proud of the new tool LIKE HE USED TO BE OF ME.
I hung there, all misty eyed. I'd never let him down. Never once slipped from his hands, never caused the director to yell, "Cut!" What did it get me? A box. Thirty-five years of storage. Not one thank you, not an invitation to the cast party when the show ended - a box.
Then one day that box opened. I heard the words I had longed for - "Look, the mark3! You know, from TOS!" Someone had actually recognized me! Well, it wasn't long before my old agent called up and said, "Markyyyyy! Hey buddy, have I got a gig for you!"
Well, that's how I got here. Who'd have thought, little old me on the set of Enterprise! Who says old tools can't learn new tricks? Now I've got a new outlook on life and a new best bud. His name's Conner. And he treats me like a real tool. Carries me around, takes me on appearances, he and I are just like this. Well, if I had fingers, we'd be like, well, you know. Engineering, docking bays, he even took me on an away mission to some alien landscape. He did something Jimmy never did, he wiped me off before he put me away. I know, you're impressed. I was too. He's a real toolman.
Well, that's my story. Drama, excitement, new lease on life. So, do you want the exclusive rights or think it needs a little rewrite? I could spice it up; you know a little "kiss and tool" - get it? Ha! I've got a million of 'em! What, you think it needs more? I'm not proud; I'll take a ghost writer (look at what it did for Shatner!). I'm thinking of a title, maybe You Don't Have to Crank Your Way to the Top. What do you think? Do you have my agent's card? You do? So, I'll hear from you soon, right? I mean, I've got a gig at Home Depot coming up and I'll be out if you call this weekend. I know, it's not the national Ace Hardware show in Vegas, but, you know there's potential for store openings and stuff…Ok, you're busy, I'm busy, give me a ring okay? I've got feelers out at some other places, so don't wait too long, you know?
The File Room
by Doug Hogan
© 2004
The hallway was long and deserted. It was dimly lit; the light panels had not been replaced since the Occupation. The steel door at the end said, simply, "Files." This part of the station, while having access to it, was far from the bustling Promenade. To get here, one had to know exactly where one was going, or had to be very lost.
Odo knocked on the door softly, with a respectful pause between knocks. A small panel slid open and he heard gears cycling. The door opened, spilling a golden light into the darkened corridor. "This must be one of the oldest parts of the station," he thought to himself. It didn't show up on any of the construction plans or scans and, for the most part, was completely unknown by the current inhabitants of Deep Space Nine, as it had been by the previous tenants, the Cardassians.
"Ah, Odo, do come in."
Odo stepped into the musty, softly lit room, noting the stacks of paper, haphazard piles of padds, and the single, small, lit display panel on one wall.
"Hello, Eevan," Odo said, regarding the elderly Cardassian, as his eyes grew accustomed to the light in the room. He quickly scanned his surroundings and noted they were alone. "A small gift," he said, handing Eevan a package.
"Thank you constable," he said turning toward the ancient food synthesizer on the wall. "I was just making some ratala tea. Please make yourself comfortable." He set the package on a table beside the wall, watching Odo wander around the room touching shelves almost absent-mindedly. Eevan carefully opened the gift of cookies ("Probably picked up in one of the shops along the Promenade," he thought), placing them on the tray he had ready for them. He pushed a series of buttons on the synthesizer, and took out the cup of the barely-steaming tea. "This machine's like a lot of things in life - they quit working like they should, then get readjusted and work awhile longer, then… it's cyclic, don't you think?" He took his tea and tray of cookies to an often-used chair amid the stacks of journals.
Odo tried not to register his understanding of the Cardassian's political analogy. "Has anyone been to see you recently?"
"Now who would want to come all the way down here to look at some dusty historical papers? I'll tell you, there's not much call for my little repository of the history of the Alpha quadrant." As he slowly sat down, his wrinkled face belied his discomfort of old joints bending to accommodate his slight frame in the chair.
Odo glanced at him and brought a chair next to his. He knew of at least 3 visitors, beside himself, to Eevan's file room: Garak, the sometimes tailor, Jadzia Dax, and, recently, one Commander Benjamin Sisko. It was the latter that bothered him. He probably found out about the file room from Jadzia, but he could keep the secret. Why would he have need of Eevan's special gift - the talent of putting together scraps of treaties, pages of ships' manifests, and passages of logbooks to come up with answers to some of the biggest mysteries of many empires?
The secret of this little archivist was one of the best kept, and most important tools Odo had at his disposal. He had his handful of informants and his shape-changing abilities allowed him to listen to felonious conversations. Eevan was different. His talent- no, his gift, was near Vulcan-like in its capacities to bring together seemingly unimportant wisps of information into an incredible intelligence product. It allowed Odo to see the unraveling of the Lorain Consortium months before it happened, letting him advise the Commander on the possibility of refugees of the now-historical civil war. "I have many contacts," is all he replied when asked about it later.
"Let me show you something," the wizened little man said, picking up a dusty padd. "Look at this - the shipping manifest of the 'Garthou.' It was a small freighter from Ferenginar that crashed on Bejor somewhere on the Southern Plateau. It lists something you might find interesting - 4 cases of ebana nectar. I know the information is 100 years old but…" The old Cardassian's voice trailed off. Odo took the padd from Eevan's hand, looking at the old man quizzically. Then, slowly, the light of understanding spread across the changling's face.
"Ebana? That fruit hasn't been seen in decades, since the Benthic System had a blight. You say it was nectar?"
"In bottles."
"Preserved…" Odo understood, as the old man knew he would, that ebana fruit had an enzyme that closely matched one found in ketracel. If the crash site could be located, and if the cargo was still salvageable, and a hundred more "ifs," then they would have a tool to let the esteemed Doctor Bashir find a way to break the enslavement of the Jem'Hadar from the Founders. "Was this information shared with the Commander?"
"Who?" said Eevan, slowly sipping his tea. The Cardassian was cagey, a necessary attribute to stay unnoticed as he had been for this many years. "No, he was here about another matter, something to do with Romulan sensor design." He did not share the information with Odo, as he had with Sisko, that the chief scientist on one of their projects disappeared near their border with the Federation a few years ago.
"Commander Sisko and I had a visit and, I think, are becoming friends. He said he would have to see what my records say about something called baseball." He set his teacup on top of a large bound edition and slowly got up from his chair.
Odo realized his conversation with the Cardassian was over and stood, being careful to not dislodge any of the papers piled about him. "Thank you for your time, sir."
"I appreciate our conversations; they break up the quietness of my day. Thank you for the cookies," he said as he slowly walked the constable to the door. "Come back anytime."
As the steel door closed behind him, Odo was already formulating the response in his mind, "Dr. Bashir, I have many contacts…"
Honest Al
by Doug Hogan
© 2004"I wasn't doing anything wrong - well, anything illegal, anyway," Alvin Johnson told himself for the tenth time that day and the fifth day that week. "They had no right to move me." He shifted his weight as he leaned in the doorway of his shop. "I mean, business was good, sales were up…"
The repair tech said nothing as he pressed patterns on the padd in his hand; his only register of actually hearing the whining human was to arch his eyebrow in concentration. The sign above his shop said REPAIR STATION 4. It was in monochrome letters and the number simply meant there were 3 others closer to the city center than his. In stark contrast, the garish (although no one would actually say that) sign above Al's shop next door said Honest Al's Used Flyer Corral. The bucking neon -colored horse actually had sound effects and Al thought it was quite the attention-getter! At least, it was back in Toledo…
Was it only a month ago? There he was, on top of the world; he had just gotten "salesman of the month" at Lou's Flyer Emporium, his credits actually wound up in his landlady's account, and the food replicator made his coffee inside the cup this morning. Life was good!
Until she showed up. How was he to know she was the mayor's daughter? He was friendly, she was friendly, he was making the sale, she was making eyes - how was he to know? Daddy wasn't too happy when he got the bill for the used flyer with the tiniest-little-almost-not-even-there fluctuation in the drive coil. Hey, a deal's a deal, right? Well, not always. Not only did the mayor get his money back, he also got Al transferred to, of all places, a franchise of Lou's Emporium, Inc. "A place," the mayor said, "that can really use your talents!" So that's how Al came to be the owner/operator of Honest Al's Used Flyer Corral - on Vulcan.
Stannik polarized the windows for optimum shade variance in his repair shop. He set the microrobs about their tasks, examining chips here, measuring wavelengths there. All in all, a very balanced day, as they all were. Later he would go home to his music and family, a nourishing bowl of soup, some nutrient pills, meditation, and sleep. Get up the next morning and begin his day again. His job was necessary to the smooth running of his city. If he was capable of showing his emotions, he would say his life was a "satisfied" one.
That was before Al moved in next door. That was before Al kept dropping by Stannik's when he got bored of moving the signs around the flyers' hatches. Now Stannik knew what exasperating beings these humans were. At the sound of Al clapping his hands together, rubbing the palms against each other, while saying, "Pally, have I got a deal for you!" Stannik always found he was needed in the back of the shop to recalibrate the phase variances in some piece of machinery. It was getting worse as time went on.
As he sat in his office for the 30th day without a customer, Al mused, "I wasn't doing anything wrong…" aloud. Suddenly, it hit him! What he needed was a headline! Some media coverage! Maybe leading to a…a…a sale! He knew if he got them on his lot, he could land those fish, er, pigeons, er whatever Vulcans landed. "Now, let's see…, what can I do to grab some news?" he wondered. "I've got it! I can show 'em how tough that little '23 Plomat is. It's almost indestructible. Just a little taste of the safety features in it and they'll be flocking in. Yep, that's right folks, step right up and digitize on the dotted line here at Honest Al's - the buck stops here, but the values don't!"
Stannik's ears picked up the whine of the Plomat's engine as it picked up speed leaving Al's lot. He looked out his door as the old flyer whizzed by, wobbling as it left the curb and jumped the bushes. Doing the calibrations in his head, he quickly alerted the medical authorities just before the Plomat hit the Jungo trees across the small meditation park, just in front of the Fountain of Peace. The holy trees burst into flame as the flyer bounced first off one, then the other, then landed in the fountain, putting out the resulting grass fire with now-contaminated water.
Al pressed his face as close to the force field as he could without getting a shock. "I wasn't doing anything wrong!" he whined to the security personnel. "Who would've guessed the crack in the injector would go, and after I patched it myself and everything!" His trial had been short and his punishment long. The High Counselor said he would have to get used to the "rehabilitation treatments." Al guessed the Vulcans weren't really up on the human psyche just yet so it was going to take awhile. "Honestly," Al muttered, "They called me 'an irritant to civilized society.'" Ouch! Between the soup, meditation, and music, it wasn't really like any jail he had ever been in. But it was still a jail.
With no one to talk to.
No one to sell to.
It was the third month of his sentence and he was gradually going nuts. He had gone through all of the benefits and features of every flyer model he could remember. He had practiced his body posture and smile in his mirror every day. "Hi there, welcome to Al's! The buck stops here but the values don't!" echoed off his cell to the upraised eyebrows of his captors down the hall. He was a salesman and even if he didn't have flyer, an aircycle, or even an antigrav scooter, he was still a salesman. "Low, low monthly credits. Just think about how much you're saving!" he crooned into the mirror.
The slight blue shimmer of the force field door winked off as the music suddenly stopped. Two security guards motioned for him to follow as they led off down the hallway.
"You are well?" the High Counselor asked when Al was brought before him.
"Never been better, your judgeship," replied Al.
"Most fortunate. You are hereby released and your record expunged."
"What?" Al couldn't believe his ears! (He couldn't believe the counselor's ears either; they were huge!)
"There is, of course, a condition upon your release."
"Your honorship, name your price! I mean, I was just beginning to make that change you were talking about when you banged that gavel thing, you know, at the hearing and all and not to say the soup was bad or anything but the candles at meditation time were beginning to sort of smell up the place, but you know…"
"Silence! As I was saying, there is a condition upon your release. It has been brought to my attention that a person of your… qualities… is needed for a matter of importance in the Ferenginar System."
"The Ferenginar System? Never heard of it."
"As I was saying, your assistance is requested. A survey vessel has just made first contact with a race calling themselves Ferengi. A most disagreeable sort, but as the philosopher Salpeth said, 'Look not at faults but at possibilities.' Do you understand?
"So, let me get this right. You need my help on making contact with a new race of beings, huh? And this will get me out of "rehabilitation" and leave me with a clean record? And no hard feelings about the holy trees or nothing?"
"Correct."
Al clapped his hands, rubbed the palms together and said, "Pally, have I got a deal for you!"
Trust
by Doug Hogan
© 2004They trusted him. They shouldn't have, but they did. It had taken Talik three years but he had built up the company's faith in him. Never late, never absent, never doing more than he should have. His was just a name on a list - the good list. After all that time, he had worked up to level 20 in the Ceroptian genetics research complex and that was enough for what he needed.
Now he sat here in an out of the way bar, in an out of the way space station named Deep Space Nine. He had been on the station for a while, waiting on his contact. He worked hard to blend in. Talik was a normal-looking Ceroptian of normal size. His brow ridges were plain, his beak slightly smaller than others of his kind, his skull spots were nothing to catch anyone's attention. Of his many non-descript qualities, he was patient. He was very patient. As he stirred his drink, he mused how easily things were going according to his plan.
He had come to this meeting place called Quark's Bar for 4 days in a row, spending a couple of hours, never drinking too much. He sat alone at a corner table, keeping his thoughts and his company to himself. He came at different times, sometimes afternoon, sometimes evening. He would stay long enough to eat some Kava beans, tap a message or two on his padd, watch the bartenders subtly dilute drinks, and generally watch the humanoids that frequented the bar. He gradually got used to the patterns that emerged: one large slug-like being that seemed to always be sitting at the bar, talking to whomever would listen about a myriad of topics (none of which interested Talik), Starfleet officers frequenting the holosuites (he wondered what an "Alamo" was), and the clink-and-rattle of the dabo players (only occasionally followed by a shout of a winner).
Talik wasn't here for the drinks, or the games; he was here to sell ten vials of transgenetic biogel that he had slipped out of the research complex. He was here for Quark.
Talik had come across Quark's name five years ago, while working in a bar similar to this one on one of the moons of Ferengenar. Then, Talik was working as a waiter, trying to uncover some information to blackmail a minor government official. It had taken him countless nights of serving slug juice, but his keen ears and subservient attitude worked well. The Ferengis, while schemers, weren't hesitant to plan in public what should have been thought about in private. His patience paid off and the blackmail did too.
Quark was also patient, it seemed. After their initial contact in an anonymous message to Quark's private quarters, no other communication had happened between them, allowing each of them to verify information and make certain arrangements. Talik caught his eye occasionally, but never enough that anyone would notice. Quark would go about his normal duties of barking orders to his barmen, admonishing his waitresses and dabo girls that they weren't working fast enough, and generally playing the part of a hard working, I'm-up-to-my-lobes small businessman. Talik knew it was part of the act. He knew that there was a lot more to this big-eared Ferengi than there appeared.
"The owner would like to see you in his office." The Ferengi waiter interrupted Talik's musings. "If, of course, that's okay with you…" the waiter added quickly.
"You must be Quark's brother, Rom," said the Ceroptian. The Ferengi smiled, showing a mouthful of jagged teeth. Talik wondered to himself how much better it was to have a hard beak than that tangled mess.
"Uh, yes, right this way." With an abbreviated bow he led the way past other patrons' tables to a recessed door in a darkened area beside the bar. Rom entered a code on the keypad and scurried back to work, leaving the Ceroptian at the now-opening door.
As the door closed behind him, his eyes adjusted quickly to the brighter lights in the office. He scanned left and right, noting that he and Quark were alone in the box-strewn area. Padds lay scattered on a scarred desk. A couple of chairs, a wall replicator, and crates of bottles of different colored liquids occupied the rest of the office. There was one thing, though, that seemed out of place: the Bajoran phaser in Quark's hand.
"Trust is important to partners, Quark."
"Who said we were partners, Talik?"
"There are those who say you can move anything for a small profit. Like I said before, transgenetic biogel has lots of uses and you have lots of contacts. I have it nearby if you'd like to see it."
"Ah, "profit." You are using the right words…" Quark laid the phaser on the desk. "Let's just say that you do have the gel. You know it's illegal and I imagine I'll have to come up with some new transportation documents to make the vials look like something else."
Talik knew that this was just part of the normal verbal sparring of a Ferengi deal. "That's why I'm asking for just a fraction of what you'll get for it when you resell it. Think of it: your investment of 5 bricks of latinum will bring you ten times that much! Just in case you're wondering…" He pushed a button in the folds of his clothing and a soft hum accompanied the transporter scatter as a box appeared at his feet. "All ten are there; count them if you'd like." He stepped aside to allow access to the box of vials.
Talik's eyes grew wide as the scarred desk began to morph into the station's constable, Odo. As the Ceroptian turned to run to the door, Quark shot him in the back.
"That was unnecessary," said Odo. " I would have had him before he took another step."
"Sorry, it was an accident. Good thing I had it on "stun"." He laid the phaser on top of a crate and stepped around it to look at the figure on the floor. "So, is it a deal?"
"I will honor our agreement!" Odo spat at him. The very idea of working with the shady bar owner was repugnant. However, he did assist in recovering the stolen biogel before it was sold. "You'll have your latinum delivered here in an hour." His security assistants came through a back door to the office and transported with the still unconscious Ceroptian to the Security Office.
Later, as he leaned on the bar, listening to Morn tell the story, again, about his speech to the Bajoran Council, a brown-uniformed security officer dropped a bag at Quark's elbow. It clanked like nothing else in the quadrant and Quark knew that Odo had kept his part of the bargain. He took it back to his recently cleaned up office with its newly replaced oozewood desk. He knew that Odo's sense of "justice" would be profitable to him. He smiled and slowly poured out his payment. As he marveled over the strips of latinum clattering on his desk, he remembered the Rule of Acquisition: "Trust your partners but watch their hands." He got along with Odo and he understood him, but… After thinking for a second, he pulled out a tricorder and began a thorough scan of the metal…
Star Trek; Star Trek: The Next Generation; Star Trek: Deep Space Nine; Star Trek: Voyager; STARFLEET, STARFLEET ACADEMY all ® Paramount Pictures, a VIACOM company. No Infringement Intended. STARFLEET - The International STAR TREK Fan Association , Inc., is a non-profit corporation in the State of NC, is not connected with Paramount, VIACOM, or Star Trek: The Official Fan Club, and has been in existence since 1974.