TNG - The Genesis Wave 2 (c) by Star Trek

Author:Star Trek [Star Trek]
Language: deu
Format: epub
Tags: \Star Trek
Published: 2011-01-02T07:59:45.116000+00:00

thirteen

Through a hazy fog and blaring music, Maltz thought he heard something troubling—a scream. He looked around the Pink Slipper, but he wasn’t able to focus on anything in the dimly lit tavern—not the laughing patrons or the grinning trapeze artists floating overhead. It was all a fuzzy blur.

The old Klingon had been drunk many times in his life, especially the last few years on Hakon, so he knew the feeling well. This wasn’t it. With a lunge, he slapped the mug out of Gradok’s hand, and it went banging across the bar into a row of bottles, resulting in a loud crash.

“Watch it!” the weapons master bellowed, his words slurred. “Why did you do that?”

“There’s something wrong,” muttered Maltz. He looked around, blinking to clear his eyes. “Where’s the captain?”

Gradok snorted. “Oh, she went off with that popinjay. When it comes to mating, she must prefer smooth-heads, jIyaj.”

Maltz looked around more thoroughly, and he spotted the Tiburonian, Krussel, lying at his feet, blissfully passed out. Their two younger comrades, Kurton and Burka, were leaning over the bar, semiconscious.

Angrily, Maltz grabbed Gradok and whirled him around to face his fallen comrades. “Have you ever seen two Klingons get drunk so quickly? Have you ever gotten drunk so quickly?”

Gradok gave him a smile that was missing several teeth. “Good ale!”

“No, bad ale! Drugged ale.” Now he looked around for the bartender, who had suddenly disappeared.

At that moment, a gangly Andorian approached them, an insincere smile plastered to his narrow face. “I bring word about your captain. She has gone off with Mr. Craycroft to see the—”

In a flash, Maltz whipped out his knife and shoved the point under the Andorian’s chin, while gripping his antennae with his other hand. “I’ve never gutted an Andorian before,” whispered Maltz. “Are your intestines as blue as your skin?”

“I ... aghh ... I can’t talk this way,” complained the waiter, trembling.

“I bet you can, and speak the truth,” hissed Maltz. “What is in these drinks?”

“Regulan ale.”

Maltz pressed the knife point home, drawing a drop of blue blood from the Andorian’s quivering chin. “I’ll tear off your antennae with my bare hands, so help me Kahless. Where is our captain?”

With a trembling finger, the Andorian pointed to the back of the tavern. Matlz removed the knife from his chin and prodded the Andorian’s back. “Lead the way. One false move, and it’s the last move you’ll ever make. Gradok, wake up those two children. Bring the Tiburonian, too.”

The big Klingon picked up the remaining mugs of ale and dumped them over the heads of Kurton and Burka, who jumped up sputtering and swinging their fists. “Qeh!” he barked, then he grabbed the old Tiburonian and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of targ food.

With the terrified Andorian in the lead, the wary party of Klingons stalked to the back of the tavern. By now, it was very quiet inside the Pink Slipper; the blaring music and gambling tables were stilled, and customers scurried out of their way.

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