A NORMAL DAY AT WORK

(PART 7)

Bruce Sommer

Ensign Serena Carthos and Ensign Christopher "Thomas Jefferson" Edwards stood on the transporter pads, dressed in formal attire, for dinner at Christopher's parents. Christopher was dressed in an old-fashioned black tie and tails dating back to 19th century England while Serena was dressed in a gold and purple sparklegown common to the Martian colonies. The only thing out of the ordinary was their conspicuous display of phaser-II's; in order not to offend their hosts by their unwillingness to defend the lives and property of the Edward's household, if the need should arise.

The only way he was allowed to carry a phaser-II was to have a neuroparalyser implanted in him that would arrest his primary muscular functions if the tampered part of his brain was to activate any possible programming or post-hypnotic suggestion.

In the meantime, Ship's Security - in the guise of a shore leave party - was searching for the perpetrator of the whole mess - an olive-skinned terran villain-for-hire masquerading as one former LT Joshua O'Halloran of Starbase 5.

Their molecules disassociated under the careful guise of Senior Transporter Officer Evans to reassociate seconds later at the coordinates supplied by Christopher's mother, whom he only found today after eight years. Standing on a black rubbery surface, Serena scanned the area around her for any potential dangers. They were on the coast facing the ocean, the 3 meter radius pad completely surrounded by the sand of the beach.

Turning to face Christopher, she noticed his Personal Gravity Generator start beeping, activating its programmed audio "Planetary gravitational constant is equal to PGG programmed constant. Commencing shutdown."

"Outside of your quarters, that's the first time I've seen it do that. I guess this gravity is perfect for you."

"Yep," Christopher nodded. "Perfect as home can be. How's yours doing?"

"Operating at Mars normal," Serena grinned. "I thought I'd take a break tonight."

As she looked behind her, she saw whom she recognized as Irene Edwards, from tricorder records of the previous dilithium negotiations, dressed in a glowing gown of gold. Alongside of her, walking through the sand, was a gentleman dressed in a tuxedo common to 20th century Earth. He appeared to be in his late 40's with a thin but muscular build, sharp angular face, and black hair graying at the temples. From TJ's reaction, specifically running at full speed and colliding into him with a tremendous bear hug, she guessed that he was TJ's father.

Then, to her surprise, they both withdrew into what looked like Martial Arts stances. "Patrick, is this really the time for that?" Irene pleaded.

"Restrain to win?" Patrick asked.

"Agreed, upper body only," Christopher responded.

A sudden flurry of grabs, claw maneuvers, and blocks - that Serena realized would have finished her off in the first few seconds - flashed between the two combatants. However did Heather take him down those several weeks ago? When the action froze, she saw that TJ had his father's left arm tangled with his own right arm, his right hand grabbing his father's ear and twisting - his head being forced to the left. TJ's left hand had a simple wrist lock on his father's right hand.

"I concede," his father laughed. "Before your mother gets this on media."

"Too late dear," Irene grinned. "I overrode the intruder control cameras to record Christopher's arrival. I tried to warn you."

"Make sure I get a copy mother," Christopher let go of his father. "This is the first time I've ever beat him."

"It must have been your Starfleet Academy training dear."

"Aha!" Christopher cast a sideways glance at his father. "So, Starfleet is good for something."

"Hell!" his father retorted. "If you pour enough of the taxpayers' money into something you're bound to get it right. But the end still doesn't justify the means."

"And besides," his mother added. "The private sector can come up with better quality for a lower price. We'll match one of our Pinkerton detectives with one of your Ship's Security any day of the week."

"I'll be glad to take you up on your offer Mrs. Edwards," Serena broke in with a grin.

"Call me Irene," she replied automatically. "But it will have to wait after dinner. I'm afraid one fight before a meal is enough for me."

"That won't be necessary Serena," Christopher broke in. "They know I was just baiting them. I always have enjoyed that."

"You mean all these years you've been more difficult than you needed to be?"

"Of course! If you were going to insist on making me study five times as hard as all my friends - I figured you deserved to work a little bit harder yourself."

"So when we were going through complexities of female behavior," Patrick whispered to his son. "You understood it the first time? The other six explanations weren't necessary?"

"That was different," Christopher whispered back. "It actually took five explanations to understand it. The last two times it was hard to keep a straight face. Has anyone ever scored higher than thirty percent in predicting the most probable response of women to those specified situations?"

"I'm afraid not," Patrick withdrew his head and laughed.

"Are they always like that?" Serena asked Irene.

"I really don't remember. It's been so long," Irene replied, brows furrowed in concentration. "Actually...I do remember the sparring. But, the whispering? Never!"

* * *

"So, Mr. Drayen," LTSG Berl Rally studied the Andorian's image on the monitor. "How goes the hunt for our alleged murderer?"

"Not too well I'm s-s-sorry to s-s-say LT Rally," the Security Patrolman's antennae quivered in frustration. "These Arbosians treasure their privacy too highly for us to find out - or to do a search of those hotel rooms - those people who have checked in during the day."

"They don't seem too concerned about letting a felon run around loose on their planet, do they?"

"Well LT, they seem pretty convinced that he'll try something else while down on the planet. And when he threatens the life or property of one of the Arbosians, they claim he will die a quick death."

"So Mr. Drayen, I suppose there are advantages to a completely armed populace."

"Yes sir. Something every warrior race would be glad to practice with diligence."

"I guess that's true," Berl agreed. "You might as well distribute his description, and molecular recording from the transporter, to the private defense companies down on the planet. They may be able to be of some help."

"Yes sir!"

* * *

Father and son walked silently on the beach, the younger kicking at sand in his bare feet and rolled up slacks while the elder whistled an improvised tune. Both of them had many things to say - but neither knew where to start.

"So after all these years you remembered that lobster drenched with butter is my favorite dish," Christopher started the conversation. "How did they become so big?"

"Genetic engineering," Patrick answered. "We isolated the genome for the growth hormone and altered the manufactured protein."

"We?"

"Genepool Industries - a subsidiary of Jansen Dilithium."

"Grandfather's company?"

"It was until eight years ago when he died in a cave-in on an inspection tour of one of our dilithium mines."

"A cave-in," Christopher was stunned with disbelief. "But Earth had solved that problem decades ago."

"Not when the cause is sabotage."

"Did you ever find the saboteur?"

"Pinkerton Private Police and Detective Agency was assigned to the case. A miner who had been bitching about the contract he signed, calling his salary slave wages, was found to be responsible. He later committed suicide during arbitration. Pinkerton believes there was someone else behind his actions, but they never found out who."

"And this prompted your return to Arbos-II," it wasn't a question.

"That's correct," his father replied sadly. "We couldn't tell you about it becaues of your connections with Starfleet and the possible leaks that would occur to certain extremist groups. Groups like the Committee for Equality, Partnership for a Drug Free Federation, Citizens for Decency in the Federation, Organi..."

"Citizens...," Christopher interrupted, only to be thrown to the ground in an epileptic fit, spasming and regurgitating a white frothy substance onto the dry sand.

"Emergency alert!" Patrick yelled into his wrist communicator. "Get a healer and a quarantine unit down to the south end of the beach immediately."

"On our way," the thin voice from the communicator responded. "Pinkerton dispatch out."

The froth of bubbles, on contact with the air, started growing legs in a tripod formation and began to move along the beach at a furious pace. Patrick Edwards pulled ou his phaser, went into his well practiced Fornay-Harley combination stance and started sweeping the area - his thumb already having flicked the setting from stun to disintegrate.

Serena, having seen this event from the patio, where she was keeping a watch on TJ, threw off her high heels and was running toward them with her phaser drawn, snapping off quick accurate shots at those tripods exceeding Patrick's range. Alerted by the heat of the phaser fire, the remaining tripods separated into two groups and started to converge on Patrick and Serena. Having plenty of distance between herself and the tripods, Serena was easily able to disintegrate the ones that got too close to her. Regrettably, Patrick found that he wasn't so lucky as one got close enough to absorb itself into his skin. Not feeling any immediate ill effects, he started cordoning them off into an area between him and Serena. Setting his phaser to overload he listened to the high pitch whine rise to its crescendo.

"Dive for cover!" he yelled at Serena, who promptly threw herself behind the sand dune she was standing on, as he threw his phaser into the remaining tripods and thjrew himself onto his son's postrate form.

With a satisfying explosive flash, the ground shook throwing sand and molten glass in all directions. When he looked up, he realized his eyebrows were singed and his hair was partially burned off - but there were no more tripods in sight. Serena, from her vantage point, didn't see any either.

A Pinkerton flitter chose at that time to appear in the air above. "What should we be scanning for?" A voice asked from his communicator.

"Macroviruses!" he yelled in his excitement.

"What in the hell are macroviruses?"

"Just do a regular viral scan Cooper."

"Yes sir," a pause. "None loose in the immediate vicinity. But you and the prone male under you are swimming with them - internally that is."

"Got it," he sighed, removing himself from his son's body. "You know what to do."

"Yes sir," came Cooper's voice, as the quarantine unit dropped onto them - leaving only blackness.

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