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

a drink quicker if he ordered it himself.
    “You want a Klingon martini?” the harassed-looking bartender asked him. “They’re gin and vermouth with a shot of bloodwine.”
    “What’s in the bloodwine?”
    “Everclear and red food coloring. It’s really popular tonight.”
    “I think I’ll just have a Bud,” Jim decided. “Make it a pitcher.”
    He returned to the table and offered the beer to the group. His new friends cheered—all except Matt, who appeared preoccupied with watching the entrance to the Gweagal Room. After everyone had a glass, Jim asked Matt if he was looking for someone in particular.
    “I’m supposed to meet a Klingon,” Matt explained. “He makes edged weapons. I ordered a bat’leth from him. All custom work. Made a fifteen-hundred-dollar down payment.”
    “I know that guy,” Jim said. “I think I met him right before you showed up.”
    “Well, he was supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” Matt said. “If he stole my down payment I’m going to kick his ass.”
    T’Poc answered with an amused snort. “Have you
seen
Martock? He’s, like, seven feet tall. The guy’s muscled up like an Augment.”
    “And he’s got enough knives and swords to arm an entire boarding party,” Jim added. “He’ll carve you up like a serving of bregit lung.”
    Laughter rippled around the table.
    “Screw you guys,” Matt said. “I’m a central character. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.”
    “You’re a what?” Jim asked.
    “I’m the star of this show,” Matt explained. “Flag personnel in the various
Star Trek
series never get killed.”
    “What about me?” Gary said. “Can I get killed?”
    “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably safe, too,” Matt said. “You’re the comic foil. The funny characters always live to see another episode.”
    “And me?” Rayna asked.
    Matt furrowed his brow.
    “It doesn’t look good,” he said. “The commander’s romantic interests are always transitory. You’re slated to die in a horrifying final plot twist.”
    Matt moved on so quickly that he didn’t notice the irritated look on Rayna’s face.
    “I know where
I
stand,” T’Poc said. “I’m a semiregular character, like Guinan on
Next Gen
. I don’t even have to die. I could vanish tomorrow and things would go on without me.”
    “That about sums it up,” Matt said.
    Jim took a swig of his beer. “Think about this,” he proposed. “What if you’re
all
extras? Do you know how many starships, with their captains and their yeomen and their crusty doctors and their comic relief guys, got blown to bits during various
Star Trek
episodes? Maybe you’re one of
those
crews. Maybe you’re all just phaser fodder for some other set of characters that truly matter to the story.”
    Jim took another drink and let the Trekkies mull it over.
    “Dude, that’s deep,” Gary finally said. “We go around thinking we’re the big dogs, but maybe we’re all just crewmen on the USS
Constellation
or the USS
Bellerophon
or the USS
Yamato
. We exist simply to die. We make some minor plot point, then get dispatched.”
    “Heavy,” T’Poc said.
    “Bullshit,” Matt said. “I’m not an extra. I’m in the goddamn opening credits.”
    Jim was still formulating a response when a female Klingon returned to the table from the bar, cursing under her breath.
    “Party’s over,” she said. “They just ran out of bloodwine and they aren’t getting any more.”
    “What?” Matt said.
    He directed a glare at Jim, as if he were personally responsible.
    “Fine with me,” Gary shrugged. “I need some sleep.”
    “You can sleep when you’re dead,” Matt said. “Let’s go up to my room and par-tay.”
    Jim couldn’t believe that anyone was still using the word “partay” to describe an experience that was supposed to be enjoyable. Even the Klingons at the table seemed skeptical. They looked at each other, then at their watches.
    “We’re just going to call it a night,” one