“What’s Upp?”
Introduction
This story has been in my files (perhaps "crypt" is more apt, considering the total lack of writing I've done of late). It is set in the immediate post-Dominion war era in the United Trek universe. It is not, however, a Starfleet or Border Service story (though there will be cameos aplenty). Rather, it is a tale focused on a rather enigmatic and eccentric character by the name of Elvis Upp.
If you recall the TOS episode, "Assignment Earth," then you remember a character by the name of Gary Seven, an agent from the 24th century who traveled back in time to 1968 to prevent a nuclear war. There, he encounters Kirk, Spock and the Enterprise crew who have gone back in time to research that era. I won't bore you with the plot details; suffice it to say that Elvis Upp is a former member of the same agency as Gary Seven. As the story unfolds and we meet the other main character, Tygreta "Tyg" Germaine, Elvis Upp now operates as a free-ance Troubleshooter, though Gary Seven considers him more of a trouble-maker. In truth, the story is a bit of "Star Trek" meets "Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy." My apologies to both the late Gene Roddenberry and the late Douglas Adams.
I've dusted off this story that I originally wrote eight years ago. The opening tale is just a few chapters long, so I can gauge whether there is sufficient interest to move the story along.
Chapter 1: "Irony"
14 September 2377
Nagasaki, Japan, Earth
Tygreta Germaine (“Tyg” to everyone but her mother) sipped tea on the balcony of her midtown micro-hab apartment. The morning sun that slowly rose over Nagasaki provided a pleasant contrast to the morning chill that still hung in the air. Her bare feet rested on the smooth dura-crete rail of the balcony.
Tyg idly fingered the rune that hung from the chain around her neck. She had picked it up in a curio shop, an impulse purchase, the previous day. It was a small Mandarin character that translated as “irony.”
For three hundred years, Nagasaki was known as “The City of Irony.” Nearly destroyed by atomic fire at the end of the Second World War, it was one of the few major cities on Earth to come through World War III relatively unscathed.
Ironic, indeed.
She had asked the shopkeeper why a Chinese symbol was used to represent a Japanese city. He had merely nodded sagely, smiled and replied, “Ironic, isn’t it?”
Turning the glyph over, she saw tiny letters engraved on the back. “Made on Rigel IV.”
She bought the trinket anyway.
It was also ironic that, having survived the Borg incursion (barely) and the Dominion War (with more than a few lingering nightmares), Tyg was now beginning to long for the old days of excitement and adventure she had left behind when she resigned her Starfleet commission some seven months earlier. A counselor might suggest that she consider a less stressful and dangerous path. Her close friend, Sophie, suggested she was crazy and that she should pursue a life of excess drink and wild orgies.
At the time, leaving Starfleet has seemed like a good idea. Tyg had planned on reconnecting with her mother in New York City, the semi-employed stage actress and professional hypochondriac, Dame Nessarine Lynatta, (formerly Betty Jo Hurkler of Sioux City, Iowa). However, after 24 hours in her mother’s Manhattan flat, Tyg remembered one of the main reasons she had joined Starfleet in the first place.
Her mother drove her nuts.
It wasn’t that her mother was a bad person. Betty Jo, er, the Dame, loved her daughter deeply and was generally kind and caring. But Dame Nessarine Lynatta’s first love was the theater. The eccentric actress tended to be as dramatic at home as she was on stage. Perhaps if she were a good actress, it would have been tolerable, but Tyg’s mother was not. Nor was she a bad actress, exactly. Hers was the mediocre lot of the supporting cast where stardom remains perpetually out of reach.
Yet in Dame Nessarine’s mind, she was a star – a thespian icon cast in the mold of the immortals of Broadway’s glitzy past. She even named her only daughter “Tygreta” after her one and only lead role from the stupendously dreadful production of “Brunch on Betazed.” It held the dubious distinction of having the shortest run on Broadway of any play in history. It was so bad that on opening night, bodyguards had to escort the playwright from the theater as the patrons sought to lynch him.
And that was at the end of Act One.
But even though she despised her name, Tyg dearly loved her mother. Her father also loved her mother, though from a distance of 234.6 light years. Roger Germaine had emigrated to the Capadocia system when Tyg had left for Starfleet. “Tyg, I love your mother too much to throw her out an eighth floor window,” he had explained, “but one more year with her and one of us would end up as pavement pizza.”
Dear old Dad now ran a shuttle rental agency on New Cyprus. He called his estranged wife faithfully each year on her birthday to remind himself what a smart move leaving Earth had been.
So after a week of visiting with her mother, Tyg had decided that she needed a bit of space. Thus, she had rented the micro-apartment in Nagasaki. It was about as far she could get from her mother and still remain on the same planet. Her mother, God bless her, had spent their few days together either complaining about various imaginary ailments, complaining about her agent, complaining about how holo-movies were, oh so gauche! And of course, she had complained about Tygreta’s complete lack of fashion sense. (Dear, would it really hurt to spend a few hours with a decent hair-dresser?)
Not wishing to hurl her mother (or herself) from the eighth floor, she had profusely thanked her mother for her hospitality and explained that she wished to see the planet a bit before exploring other possibilities. Since then, she had hiked across Europe, cycled through the Serengeti, and climbed a rather tall mountain in the Himalayas. She had told her friend, Sophie, that she was working off a bit of excess energy. Sophie had opined that Tyg was daft and that the offer of excess booze and risky sex with her cohabitants was still open.
Tyg had considered sailing around the world with an old academy chum, but “chum” reminded her of shark bait so she put the kibosh on that plan. Thus, Tyg decided it was time to find something productive to do with her life. She had considered re-joining Starfleet, but concluded she would like a bit less regimen at this point in her life but still challenging, yet more laid-back. Her engineering and computer skills were marketable, but there was no way she was going to work for one of the huge conglomerates on Earth or one of the other major planets.
Instead, she had set her customized PADD to work. “Patti,” as she affectionately called the extraordinary device, was scouring the quadrant for job opportunities that would be challenging, interesting and (hopefully) fun. Tyg had built the PADD herself, using a surplus Starfleet model and adding upgraded processors and a personality sub-routine she had developed over the years. Patti was now more powerful than a cargo pod full of PADDs and her A.I. made her almost lifelike. Unfortunately, the personality matrix had a sarcastic streak that Tyg had been unable to modify.
Instead of chiming, Patti emitted the first few bars of the William Tell Overture to indicate she had found something of interest.
“Can’t you just ‘ding’ like other PADDs?” asked Tyg.
The PADD uttered a sigh. “If I must . . . Ding! There, happy now?”
“Elated. I take it you found something?”
“I ‘dinged,’ didn’t I?”
“So you did. Screen display, text only, please.”
“Don’t you want me to read it to you?”
“No, thanks. Just open the message. I can read it myself.”
“I’m amazed, considering the gray goo you have for a processor.”
“I can trade you in for a used replicator, you know.”
“Whatever. Text on display in Fed-Standard. Anything else?”
“I’ll let you know. Sleep mode, Patti.”
“Okay, I can take a hint. By the way, I think you should take the job.”
“Oh, really? Why?”
“Anything to get out of this city. The stasis unit in the apartment keeps making suggestive remarks to me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Sleep mode, please.”
“Complying.”
Tyg picked up the PADD, knowing full well that Patti wasn’t in sleep-mode, only being quiet for the moment. She glanced at the screen to read the advert.
AlphaQuad-List – Help Wanted – Molari Sector
- Category: Engineer/Mechanic
- Listing 0078922AE22 – Stardate 54697.16
Wanted – Full-time engineer competent with impulse/warp drives. Experience with Leyland-TATA HD48 transports a definite plus. Must be willing to travel for indeterminate periods. Pay, negotiable – commiserate with experience. Applicants must tolerate small, furry, Terran quadrapeds. Vacation and retirement benefits. Apply in person, Star Station Echo, berth 17-C, SS Westwind. Contact Ship’s Master, E. Upp at comm. code L6488KM3A to forward resume’ and bona-fides. Psychos, miscreants, and mercenaries need not apply.
A smile formed on Tyg’s lips and she shook her head slightly at the eccentric nature of the want-ad. Still, she had cut her teeth on her Dad’s Leyland-TATA HD68 – itself a vintage starcraft. An HD48 was an earlier and more opulent model. Probably not too many engineers around familiar with those sturdy but cantankerous transports.
It sounded like a challenge. It sounded interesting. And, it sounded fun.
She scooped up Patti and stepped back inside the single-room apartment. Stopping before the mirror, she absently ran her fingers through her shag-cut brown hair – styled more for comfort and ease of maintenance than glamour. Her reflection revealed an attractive woman, tall and slender with large brown eyes. She had rebelled against her mother’s efforts to instill charm and grace in her as a teenager, so she was far more comfortable in jeans and t-shirts than formal wear. The last time she had worn high-heels she had nearly fallen down a flight of stairs.
“Patti, wake up.”
“Now what?”
“Close out my local accounts and get me booked on a transport to the Molari Sector.”
“I take it you are applying in person?”
“You bet your tritanium case. I need to pack. Oh, and send a message to Mr. Wantanabe that we’ll be leaving. I’m sure he has a waiting list for this jail cell.”
“He will miss you.”
“He will miss flashing me in the hallway, though I must admit – for a 110 year-old man, he has a cute ass.” One of the downsides of the shared bathing facilities in the micro-hab was dealing with the local custom of parading buck-naked down the hallway. At least, Mr. Wantanabe claimed it was a local custom.
Tyg set about gathering her meager possessions and tossing them in a clam-shell case. The stasis unit in the kitchen emitted a plaintive beep.
“Loser,” retorted the PADD.
To be continued . . .
