Night of the Living Trekkies by Kevin David Anderson, Sam Stall, Kevin David, Sam Stall Anderson

quickly. Its glass walls offered a panoramic view of the Botany Bay’s vast lobby.
    “You’re a professional punching bag,” Jim said.
    “An extremely well-paid professional punching bag,” Gary said. “But I’ll give Matt some credit: at least he doesn’t make stuff up. He says I’m fat, and I am. He says I can’t get a date, and I can’t. He says I live with my mother, and I do.”
    “If you’re so well paid, why don’t you get your own place?”
    Gary’s face suddenly grew serious.
    “Look, Mom’s sixty-seven years old and she’s been confined to a wheelchair since I was in high school. Ever since . . . the accident. She tells me I should get my own place, live my own life, but I can’t just dump her in a rest home and walk away. I want to take care of her, the way she used to take care of me. Do you understand?”
    “Yeah,” Jim said. “Actually, I do.”
    “Awesome. Because I just made all that shit up. My mom is healthy as hell. I live with her because I’m a social cripple.”
    Jim smiled.
    “And I thought Matt was a jerk,” he said.
    The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival on the lobby floor. Gary started to exit, but Jim stopped him with an arm across the chest.
    “Sack,” he said.
    Gary adjusted himself once more, and then they were on their way.

Chapter 6
Wink of an Eye

    Jim pointed Gary toward the Gweagal Room and then detoured to the Botany Bay’s front desk. He found Janice at the counter, all by herself.
    And none too happy about it.
    “Why are you still here?” he asked.
    “Dwayne hasn’t come in,” Janice said. “And his phone’s out of service, or something. I can’t reach him.”
    “Isn’t there anyone else?”
    “Would I be standing here if there was?”
    Janice gave Jim a long, appraising look. He thought he could hear the wheels in her head turning.
    “I suppose
you
could fill in,” she finally said.
    “Can’t,” Jim said. “I have a thing.”
    “Oh, a thing,” Janice repeated testily. “What’s her name?”
    “It’s not like that. My sister is here for GulfCon. I’m meeting her at the Festival of Klingons, or whatever it’s called. I can’t get out of it.”
    He backed his way down the hall before she could press him further.
    “Way to take one for the team,” she called after him.
    Jim had no idea what took place at a Klingon Feast, but he had assumed it would be a little livelier than the scene he discovered in the Gweagal Room. It was in one of the Botany Bay’s smaller meeting areas and seated 150 guests for receptions, banquets, and corporate functions. Tonight, Jim pegged the head count at fifty, sixty tops. Most were either huddled around the bar or clustered in tight groups at tables. A few wore various iterations of Starfleet crew uniforms. The rest were done up in leather or faux leather and carrying fake blades.
    In one corner, several Klingons were engaged in a head-butting contest, slamming their cranial crests together like rutting mountain goats. And over by the bar, someone pounded out a monotonous Klingon opera on a synthesizer keyboard. A few onlookers sang the libretto in guttural, artificially low baritones. Jim’s understanding of the Klingon language was sketchy, but he recognized the words “fight,” “kill,” and “death” in the lyrics.
    He surveyed the banquet table, laden with Terran approximations of various Klingon delicacies. The sights and smells ranged from exotic to flat-out disgusting. Among the more palatable items were krada legs (smoked turkey), pipius claw (conventional crab), and heart of targ (a quivering, livid, red Jell-O mold).
    Two men in full Klingon drag bellied up to the buffet. One grabbed a mock krada leg and took a hearty bite.
    “How is it?” Jim asked.
    “Bland,” the Klingon replied. “Needs more crapok sauce.”
    Jim grabbed what he hoped was an ordinary cheeseburger and then set off for the large, round table where Matt, Rayna, Gary, and T’Poc were already eating.