"Good night, Miss - "

I shut the door in Broots' face, glad to be back in my hotel room and closer to the end of this evening. The day had been fine enough. Sydney, Broots and I had arrived in Columbus, Ohio by early afternoon and headed straight to the hotel that Jarod had lead us to. The lobby was bustling, and this vague knot formed in the pit of my stomach. It was either my ulcer flaring up or I was really going to hate what Jarod was up to. I knew it was the latter when I saw the banner hanging above the check-in counter. It said, Welcome TrekCON Guests! followed by indecipherable symbols and the equally indecipherable, (Qapla' Balth je'). I glanced at Broots and Sydney. Sydney was looking around, seeming vaguely interested in the people mingling about. Broots was fumbling with some papers. Neither had noticed the banner. The long line at the check-in counter made me decide to delegate.

"You two check us in. I'll be at the bar."

I didn't even give Sydney a chance to reprimand me about it.

One and half Scotches later, I saw Sydney and Broots walk into the bar. Sydney had that infuriating amused look, and Broots was talking excitedly. At least he had the good sense to calm down by the time they made it to my end of the bar.

"We're all checked in, Miss Parker. We had our luggage sent up." Broots gave me the pass key to my room. "You are in 307. We're below you in 205 and 207."

I raised an eyebrow. It was Centre SOP for us to be on the same floor and Broots knew it.

"Sorry. There's a convention and this is the Klingon headquarters so they're totally booked and...

Sydney, probably sensing Broots' imminent death, mercifully interrupted. "Jarod left us something."

He handed me an envelope. It was addressed to Broots in Jarod's neat block handwriting. Inside were three passes to this damned Star Trek convention (at the convention center just one block away, how considerate of you, Jarod) which started tomorrow. There was also a note: Have fun. J.

I stuffed everything back in the envelope and gave it back to Sydney. Before he could start theorizing why Jarod wanted us here, I said, "I don't want to hear it, Syd."

In truth, I didn't need to. It was pretty obvious to me why Jarod wanted us there: to annoy me. Sydney would be fascinated to observe the geeks in their natural habitat (and to contemplate why Jarod found it so interesting), and Broots would be in his natural habitat. Jarod probably felt that Sydney would see this trip as a pleasant diversion and Broots would accept it as a gift. But Jarod knew I would hate this.

I waived them away, a gesture that they both understood very well after so many years of working with me. Sydney pulled Broots away saying, "Call us later, when you are ready for dinner."

I vaguely nodded and watched them walk away. I finished my Scotch in one quick gulp and signaled the bartender for another. The bartender refilled my glass and said, "You're not here for the convention."

The only other customers were two couples seated at a table on the other side of the room. I had been in enough empty hotel bars to know that many bartenders chatted up customers either because of boredom or for better tips. I replied with a standard I-don't-want-to-talk response.

"No. Business."

"Ah." He chuckled, wiping the bar. "They're an interesting bunch."

For the first time, I took a good look at the bartender. He was an older man, late fifties maybe, with kind, chestnut eyes, a full head of graying hair and wrinkles that were better described as laugh lines. His name tag said his name was Frank, and I almost laughed at that. I found it amusing that the bartender's name was Frank, but I couldn't say why.

"Why is that, Frank?" I asked, not really interested in his answer.

"They are just people...who live their ordinary lives. Go to work or school. Raise a family. But for one weekend, they are not confined to the trappings of their everyday lives. They become a part of something they feel is greater than their lives. They can be someone else or, in most cases, who they want to be, if only for a few days. Here, a housewife can become a great warrior or a starship captain. They come here, surrounded by others who understand them, and they belong."

I took a sip of my Scotch and corrected him. "They pretend to belong."

I tried not to think of my choice of words as Frank said, "Perhaps. But you have to admit, there's a certain...freedom to it. The freedom to become whoever you want to be."

My initial reaction was to scoff, but instead I found myself saying, "Not everyone needs to be someone else. I'm pretty happy with me."

I could just hear Jarod's voice, "Are you really, Miss Parker? Or is that just a façade? Who do you really want to be?" I'm not even sure I believed myself, and by the way Frank looked at my mid-afternoon Scotch, I'm pretty sure he didn't believe me either. He was a good bartender, though, because he was smart enough not to comment and sacrifice his tip. I did know that I wasn't going to talk to Frank (or Jarod) about it. In fact, I didn't even want to think about it. I swallowed a good bit of Scotch. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Frank continued on, "I have to say, though, the Klingons tend to be the best guests."

I glanced at Frank, raising an eyebrow. He smiled. It was a gentle, somewhat impish smile. "The bloodwine, of course."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I smiled anyway. I kinda liked Frank. He reminded me of Ben.

I considered just staying in the bar till Sydney hunted me down for dinner. But this little game of Jarod's was somehow much worse than usual. Not even the admittedly decent Scotch would numb this pain...no, this required something more therapeutic: a new pair of shoes. Ridiculously expensive and woefully impractical shoes. I asked Frank where the nearest mall was and off I went.

I returned to the hotel with the new shoes (red patent faux alligator heeled oxford Bandolinos with a respectable three inch heel - I even surprised myself that they were not the strappy stilettos that usually soothed my soul, but this pair was really, really exquisite), a few other purchases and the distinct feeling that Jarod had followed me all afternoon. I had dinner with Sydney and Broots, after waiting over an hour to be seated. (All restaurants in the area had a long wait because of the convention.) Then I had to suffer through the meal with a blissfully happy Broots. I think the only thing that would have made him happier was if Debbie could have been here with us. At least, the girl had been spared. (Note to self: take Debbie shopping when we get back.) By the time I made it back to my hotel room, I was done and slammed the door in Broots' face.

Waiting for me on the bed was a large box covered in shiny cobalt blue paper and a silver bow. Jarod. Of course. I sighed, kicking off my shoes and then sat on the bed. I slid the bow off the package and lifted the lid. I pulled each item out in order. First were three books; I glanced at the titles (The Klingon Dictionary, The Klingon Way: A Warrior's Guide and Klingon for the Galactic Traveler) then tossed them aside. Next, a note from Jarod:

Room 4A 11am.

They won't let you in if you are not dressed properly.

Love,

--J.

I flicked the note across the room and debated whether I needed more Scotch before continuing. The next item in the box was a three piece costume - pants, bodice and a cape. There was no question Jarod would die; the real question was where could I get the spoon to scoop out his eyeballs. The cape was made of an interesting material I could not identify; it wasn't too stiff and not too flowy. At first, I thought the rest of the costume was pleather but upon closer inspection, I realized it was genuine leather and handmade. The pants were simple enough; the bodice was tight-fitting, low-cut and designed to lift my girls in open defiance of the law of gravity. (Note to self: get pliers. I will wipe that smirk off his face by removing one tooth at a time.) The shoulders had these elaborate epaulets shaped somewhere between a scroll and a curved blade; the sleeves had a row of short rubber spikes on the forearm painted silver to look like blades. Returning to the box, I then removed the boots that would complete the ensemble - tall, thick rubber heels, more rubber spikes on the side and one large rubber talon in the front. I shrugged. If the spikes and talon had been real, I think I would have grudgingly admitted to liking the boots (or, at least, the damage I could do to the wayward Pretender with them). The last item in the box is what made me seriously consider handing Jarod over to Lyle: it was a wig, complete with the Klingon forehead ridges.

"What. The. Hell." I didn't even realize I had said that out loud. Before I had a chance to properly curse Jarod in four languages, my hotel phone rang. After the second ring, I grabbed it roughly. "What?!"

"Miss Parker," said Sydney (and I could just see that amused smile on his face), "did you receive a gift from Jarod?"

"Yes. What is your lab rat up to now?"

"I'm not sure. But his notes indicated that if we wore the costumes- "

"No, Sydney. I will not be humi- "

Sydney cut me off with a warning tone. "Parker. The note I received suggested that we would see him tomorrow in person if the three of us wear these costumes. I do not think you would want to pass up this opportunity to catch Jarod."

Dammit, dammit, dammit! I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. "I'll see you in the morning, Syd."

I hung up. I put my costume back in its box, changed into my pajamas and grabbed two bottles of Vodka from the minibar. I made myself comfortable in my bed and quickly downed the vodka. I looked at the books which still lay beside me. If I was going to battle Jarod tomorrow, I would be fully armed. I picked up one of them, The Klingon Way: A Warrior's Guide and began to read, already cursing my photographic memory for making the contents of the book a permanent part of my life.

I told Syd to head to the lobby with Broots and that I would join them in a few minutes. I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door. I have to admit, once I finished zipping up the boots, I felt…powerful, invincible. When I donned the wig, I felt stupid, humiliated and angry all over again.

Exiting the elevator, I spotted Sydney first. He wore a lavender robe similar to a judge’s robe and matching loose pants. A large gold medallion hung from his neck. I tried not to smile when I noticed his elfin ears. I didn’t know who he was supposed to represent, but he was of the same race as Spock. I’m sure Broots would inform me soon enough. Speaking of Broots, I almost didn’t recognize him. He stood next to Sydney in a Starfleet uniform that I vaguely recalled from the original show. His shirt was a green wraparound number adorned with gold braiding rank insignia on the sleeve cuffs. The black pants were fitted and tucked into black boots. The outfit actually complimented his lean physique, his broad shoulders tapering to his slim waist and hips. But, most amusing of all, was the toupee of blond hair. A picture of William Shatner in the very same outfit with the same hair flashed in my head. I was able to stifle my laughter but did not succeed in smothering my smile. I shook my head lightly, as I headed over to them. At least I got a good laugh before the hell that I was sure would follow the rest of the day. I started walking towards them with a purposeful stride; my cape flared and floated behind me. (I hated to admit it, but it was truly a fabulous cape.) I didn’t fail to notice that I turned some heads, even with the damn Klingon forehead.

Sydney saw me before Broots, but it was Broots who recognized me first.

“Miss Parker,” Broots said somewhat flustered, “you look…”

“Can it, Broots.” I focused my glare on Sydney. “If your boy doesn’t show up today, You. Will. Pay. And if either of you breathe a word of this to anyone back at The Centre, I will take that as a personal challenge to make your lives a living hell.”

I knew the warning was unnecessary. Both Broots and Sydney respected me too much, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t say anything. They knew that, too. I started walking towards the exit and the boys dutifully followed.

“So, Syd, who are you supposed to be?” I asked.

Broots answered, “He’s Sarek, a Vulcan ambassador to the Federation and father of Mr. Spock. They were estranged for a while, but later made up. You know, Spock, right? From the show and movies?”

My glare shifted back to Broots who continued, “Anyway, Sarek was greatly revered and most notably worked on peace treaties between the Federation and the Klingons…”

At that point, I stopped paying attention. “Broots! Why is that information even in your brain?”

He looked a little angry. “It wasn’t. I looked it up last night after I saw Syd’s costume. I thought it might be important.”

Sydney had a faint smile on his lips. “Miss Parker,” he said with only mild admonishment in his tone, “I’m sure Jarod has his reasons for picking these costumes for us. The more we know, the more we will understand what Jarod’s motivations are for bringing us here.”

The symbolism behind the costumes was now blindingly obvious to me. Sydney as Sarek was masquerading as himself – a mediator and father figure, and being a Vulcan, someone who suppresses his emotions and true feelings. Similarly, Broots was outfitted as who he wants to be – the captain of his own ship, the hero who saves the day and gets the girl. Of course, I’d never tell Sydney any of this and just let him come up with his own theories. I think it would hurt him to know that I know Jarod better than he does.

And my costume? My reading last night gave me much insight into Klingon culture. It was a violent culture, but the violence had rules. It also had great poetry and song. The Klingon way was about living in the moment because you may die in battle the next day. It was about family and friendship and, most importantly, honor. It was a warrior culture that reminded me of various martial arts disciplines. Had Jarod provided this costume to show who I was or who I wanted to be? Was he seeing me as a great warrior, worthy adversary or a dishonorable friend? I pushed all those thoughts aside. Maybe he just wanted to see me in this particular leather outfit.

A few minutes later, we entered the convention hall. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Suburbia is a freakshow. There were aisles of vendors selling anything and everything from the Star Trek universe. One area was designated an autograph area and had snake lines set up to various tables. Some tables had banners proudly declaring their allegiance to a Federation Starship. I saw people step up to them, exchange a few words and then greet each other with hugs. The majority of the people here were NOT in costume, which was NOT required for entry which just confirmed that the reason for the costumes was to annoy me. Walking through the crowds proved somewhat difficult because Sydney was too busy observing and absorbing and Broots would stop at every other vendor to check out their wares. Fed up with both of them, I parted ways and headed to Room 4A. It wasn’t 11 yet, but I figured I could scout the area and perhaps see what kind of trap Jarod was leading me to.

I turned a corner into the hallway leading to conference rooms and was immediately surrounded by five guys in some kind of cyborg costume. They wore black clothes and pale make-up and had various tubing attached to assorted body parts. The make-up made it hard to tell their age, but they were definitely in their twenties. One even had a red LED attached to a bastardized com headset. The one directly in front me was bald with a tube attached to his neck going down to his leg. He vaguely reminded me of Raines, which immediately incensed me.

Following some unspoken cue, all five said at the same time, “We are the Borg. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. Resistance is futile.”

Behind them and just off to the right, I noticed a small group of Klingons (three men and two women) observing my predicament.

I took a step closer to the ‘Borg’ in front of me. I was tall, and with the added height from my Klingon boots, I towered over him.

“Get out of my way,” I snarled, in much the way I’ve often done to Willie.

The kid flinched a little, but I’ll give him credit for staying put.

With my frostiest glare and a calm, menacing voice, I added, “Out of my way or I’ll make sure that not even your mommy will be able to identify your body.”

That made him move. I strode past him in full Ice Queen mode. The Klingons laughed boisterously with genuine humor. They said something to me in Klingon and from the tone, I don’t think it was insulting. Then they yelled something at the Borg which clearly was insulting since they broke out in laughter again.

The sign outside Room 4A only had the letters KLI. The rest of the sign was in Klingon symbols, but unlike the banner at the hotel, it did not have the English letter equivalent. I entered the room and quickly surveyed it. Everyone was dressed as a Klingon. There was a small stage set up and two “actors” were on stage, their lines spoken in Klingon. Several rows of seating faced the stage. Most folks were watching the stage. A few were loitering in the back of the room near a water cooler and speaking in hushed tones so as not to disturb the performance. As I got closer to the water cooler, I realized that they, too, were speaking Klingon. So it seemed that Jarod’s little game required that I speak Klingon.

Klingon was a harsh, guttural language. I have a natural ear for languages (or maybe it’s that pesky Pretender gene?). I speak seven languages fluently and four more conversationally. Of those, several fell into either the harsh or guttural category, so I was sure I could pick up some conversational Klingon fairly quickly. I closed my eyes briefly, going over the books I had read last night and what they had said about pronunciation and common words. I tried to listen in on the water cooler conversation, but couldn’t quite understand what they were saying because they were speaking too fast. Still, I listened carefully, trying to pick up how to speak it.

Next to the water cooler was a table with little booklets neatly piled up. They were meant to look like Playbills, but the writing was in Klingon script with the English lettering equivalent beside it. I grabbed one and flipped through it. The pages were filled with text and I soon realized that it was organized like the text of a play. I took a seat then focused my attention back on the stage. There were three people on stage now and I flipped through the book to a page where there appeared to be three names. There was something familiar about the rhythm of the words, but I couldn’t quite place it. Slowly, using the text as a guide, I started to match the written word to the sounds. My brain quickly made the connections, matching the sounds to words I had read and soon I understood some of the words…then more and more. I did not recognize the play they were reading from. Maybe it was an original work. They walked off stage to some applause. Nothing happened for a few minutes then a lone actor came to the stage. He began in Klingon, “To be or not be. That is the question. [not understood] nobler in the mind to suffer, the slings and arrows of [not understood] fortune…”

Hamlet. In fucking Klingon. This violence against Art will surely land these people in the 7th Circle of Hell.

I checked the playbill. “Khamlet Soliloquy” was the next to last entry. At least I was familiar with the English words and soon enough, all the Klingon I had read last night was on the tip of my tongue, ready for my use.

If I wasn’t so angry with Jarod, I would have admitted that “Khamlet” was actually a pretty good actor. As he walked off stage, I checked the playbill. Poetry was next. Oh, joy.

Someone slipped into the seat next to mine, but before I could look, a voice said, “qavan, Miss Parker.”

I’d know that voice anywhere. Gemini. With a genuine smile, I turned my head to him and replied in Klingon, “It’s good to see you again.”

He smiled and his face lit up. He, too, was dressed as a Klingon, but the forehead ridges on his wig were not as pronounced as I had seen on the adults here. He was taller than the last time I had seen him, but not quite as tall as Jarod. His face and voice had lost some of their softness and were becoming more like Jarod’s. Another growth spurt and he would look and sound like Jarod the man.

I suddenly realized that I hadn’t seen Jarod at this age. I had been shipped off to boarding school years before and did not see him again until I worked Centre security and we were both grown adults. The boy was handsome and still had that innocent spirit that I remembered fondly.

“So,” I said in Klingon, “what should I call you now?” It was an awkward question made more awkward by my Klingon.

He smiled in understanding. “Joshua. Dad and I picked it together.” He looked down at his lap with a look I recognized as guilt. “I’m glad you came.” He looked up at me with sad puppy dog eyes that even this cold, heartless Klingon could not resist. “Jarod said you wouldn’t, but I hoped you would.”

“This was your idea?”

He nodded.

“The notes and the costumes?”

He nodded again then tilted his head with a quick smile in a way that reminded me too much of Jarod. “Well, I chose yours. I mean, I told Jarod that you should be a Klingon warrior. Jarod picked the others and made all the costumes.”

“Why here?”

“I wanted to come and Jarod was able to meet up with us and…” He let the sentence trail off. He ducked his chin looking like a shy boy. “I…I wanted to see you again, and we had to come up with something that would be safe for all of us.”

He shifted in his seat, then looked at me. His eyes were full of an emotion I couldn’t quite identify. “I wanted to thank you in person for trying to get me out.”

“But I didn’t– ”

“But you tried,” he interrupted. “No one else had.”

I felt tears forming in my eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder. I squeezed it gently. “I’m sorry I didn’t save you sooner.”

Joshua glanced at the stage then back to me. “Miss Parker, Jarod wants to tell you something as well. He is about to do it in a way that will probably make you angry.” He gave me lopsided grin. “Actually, I know it will make you angry, but that’s the best part. You can be angry.” He opened a backpack at his feet then looked at me with a mischievous smile. “You can throw any of this at him. Our fellow Klingons will expect it. You can hit him, if you want, too, just promise me you won’t hurt him too bad.”

My eyebrows went up in surprise. What the hell were they up to?

Before I could ask for details, Jarod’s voice came from the stage. He was dressed in a Klingon style doublet and leather jerkin with boots similar to mine. Somehow, even with those stupid forehead ridges he looked in control, self-possessed and at ease. At first, I didn’t pay attention to what he was saying because I was too focused on trying to figure out what he was up to.

Joshua whispered in my ear, “Listen!”

Jarod’s velvety voice took some of the bite out of the Klingon he spoke. He was reciting,

“In secret we met

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.”

He looked straight at me then continued,

“La Vita Nuova, Dante Alighieri

In that book which is

My memory . . .

On the first page

That is the chapter when

I first met you

Appear the words . . .

Here begins a new life."

He couldn’t be saying what I thought he was saying. I glanced at Joshua who gave me a sweet, encouraging smile. He whispered, “I picked that one, but it’s from both of us.”

Genuinely touched, I smiled at him then looked back at Jarod who was completely focused on me. A quick look around the room revealed that everyone realized he was reciting that poetry to me.

“Every time I see you I remember

All the things you did for me when I

Was going through my adolescent hell.

Yet now I cannot speak unless I cry

I know you are no longer free to see me;

You've made your choice, and that I must respect.

But I've a need to say that I still love you.

I have no fear or pride I need protect.

Just as the sun must come back every morning

To shine upon the meadow it holds dear,

So I will from afar shine on your glory,

And hope someday again you'll let me near.”

Jarod was professing his love for me here? Like this? This had to be a joke. I was suddenly fuming with rage. How dare he?! How could make light of something so precious as love? How could he make a game of this? I found myself reaching into Joshua’s backpack and pulled out a paperback book. I didn’t even glance at it; I just threw it at Jarod with all the force I could muster. He deflected it then smiled, his voice prattling on…

“My love is like to ice, and I to fire:

How come it then that this her cold is so great

Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,

But harder grows the more I her entreat?

Or how comes it that my exceeding heat

Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold…”

I reached into the bag and threw another book at him.

“…Such is the power of love in gentle mind,

That it can alter all the course of kind.”

Growling with fury, I threw a succession of items from the backpack at him – another book, one of the playbills, a hard rubber toy that I was pretty sure was one of those targs I had read about last night…

“Beloved!

While I am I, and you are you,

So long as the world contains us both,

Me the loving and you the loth,

While the one eludes, must the other pursue.”

I felt inside the backpack. I threw a water bottle at Jarod, somehow hitting him squarely in those damned forehead ridges. Laughter and applause broke out around me. I heard someone behind me say, “Ah, true Klingon love!”

I suddenly remembered a phrase from one of the books I read last night. “Poetry plays a prominent role in Klingon mating behavior. The female typically roars, throws heavy objects, and claws her partner. The male reads love poetry and ducks a lot.” I’m going to kill him, I thought. I wanted to rip his heart out, claw his eyes out and snap his neck.

Jarod stood on the stage for a moment, finally silent. Then with as much tenderness as the Klingon language allows, he said, “The memory of you sings in my blood.”

Jarod jumped off the stage and headed towards me. I bolted out of my seat, jumped over the two rows of seats between us and tackled him, cursing him in Klingon and four other languages, but not knocking him over. We struggled for a bit and ended up with Jarod pinning me against a wall quite effectively.

He brought his head close to mine and smelled deeply. “I have your scent now.”

“The hunter does not lie down with the prey,” I reminded him of that Klingon proverb, then head-butted him right in the ridges. He was dazed enough to loosen his grip on me, and I took advantage of it to slip out of his grip. I grabbed him by the jerkin and pushed him back against the wall. The sudden stop caused his head to automatically whip backward against the wall with a satisfying thud. I could feel the crowd behind me, thrumming with excitement and enjoying the show, which I’m sure they believed was pre-planned.

Jarod had that infuriating smirk of his on his face. He looked at my eyes, my lips, my breasts and back up to my eyes. “I love a woman with spirit. You are made for me.”

He wanted me to be angry with him, to play my role in his little game. Both Jarod and Joshua expected me to be angry. Another Klingon proverb popped into my head, When in doubt, surprise your enemy.

I slammed him against the wall again then pressed my lips to his. It started as a hard, bruising Klingon kiss which evolved into a softer, more human one. I vaguely processed the raucous hoots and applause from the Klingons behind us. We kissed and kissed, just for the pleasure of kissing.

We pulled apart and I panicked, suddenly realizing what I had done and how good it had felt and how such an action will lead at best to a one-way trip to renewal wing and at worst to both our deaths.

Jarod took my hands firmly in his. His face was now devoid of all the humor and smugness. There was nothing but love in his eyes. He whispered, “You are my beloved.”