Friday, July 24, 2020

Enjoy Chapter Two of Thrace McCoy--A Fan Fiction Tribute to Star Trek!

He's the troubled grandson of a Federation legend, Admiral Leonard McCoy, who served as Chief Medical Officer aboard the Enterprise and is recently deceased. He's got big shoes to fill, but no desire whatsoever to fill them.

His father and mother divorced when he was nine. He has no other siblings. His father is human, whereabouts unknown; his mother Vulcan. She resides there, a Federation mathematician who only occasionally bothers contacting him.

His temper and his inhuman strength, along with his smarts, keep landing him in penal colonies. This latest send-up, however, is likely permanent, for he was convicted of murdering a Federation officer who was on leave. A Vulcan.

Sitting in a cell in a penal colony on Mars, Thrace McCoy doesn't know it, but his life is about to change--radically.



Chapter 2
The Test

Three weeks later the computer announced, “You’ve got a visitor.”

   He was half in, half out of consciousness, that unsatisfying state of napping that results from utter boredom. He wasn’t sure he had heard it or dreamt it, but the computer repeated itself half a minute later, this time much louder:

   “You’ve got a visitor, Thrace.”

   He sat up and wiped his eyes. “What? Who?”

   “He is identified by Starfleet Records as Elim Garak.”

   “Garak? I don’t know any Garak. Tell him to buzz off.”

   “I cannot do that.”

   Thrace grunted, “Fine, fine. Viewscreen on.”

   “I cannot do that either. Please stand.”

   “What? Fuck off!”


   The unsettling, odd thrumming sensation that told him his atoms were being converted into energy by a transporter beam made him yell, “What the fuck? Wait—!

   But the beam had him; an instant later everything went black, like he had fainted; an instant after that brilliant, sparkling, cascading light surrounded him, quickly fading away.

   He was still in a sitting position; but now there was nothing under his ass. He fell on hard, cold floor, bouncing painfully.

   He glanced up at the ceiling. “You fucking asshole!”

   The computer didn’t respond.

   “God-damnit!” he yelled, slamming his fist on the floor.

   He looked up. He had never been in here before—what had to be where prisoners were allowed to talk face-to-face with visitors. He’d never had any visitors.

   The room was small and darker than his cell. A chair was within reach; it was pushed up against a counter, which was under thick pane of glass. From the other side, an alien regarded him with what he immediately sensed was patient amusement.

   A ... Cardassian!

   “Who the fuck are you?”

   The Cardassian tilted its head left, then right, a slight smile playing on his gray face as he regarded him. He wore colorful tailored clothes, not the usual ugly-as-fuck gray uniform/armor that the entire species seemed to wear birth to death.

   “I came to speak to Thrace McCoy.”

   Thrace got to his feet. “Yeah? What about him?”

   “I have read his profile. I believe the computer may have made an error.”

   “Why’s that?”

   “Because you seem entirely too stupid to be him.”

   He launched himself at the glass, slamming into it and knocking the chair back. “Fuck you!”

   The Cardassian didn’t flinch. “Computer ...”

   The quick succession of tones sounded.

   “I asked to speak to Thrace McCoy. Is this he?”

   “It is,” answered the computer.

   The Cardassian somehow frowned and smiled at the same time. “My, my, my. You are sure, computer?”


   While that exchange was taking place, Thrace paced around the room, yelling, “I want to go back to my cell! Take me back!

   The Cardassian sat. Thrace heaved his chair against the glass when he did. It smashed harmlessly into the pane and bounced off, careening off the floor and into the near wall, where it settled.

   Again, the Cardassian didn’t flinch.

   Thrace came and dropped on the counter. “I asked you a question, you seagull-looking piece of alien trash. What the fuck do you want with me?

   “I am always intrigued when humans use that word—‘fuck.’ Are you aware that in half a dozen or more Cardassian dialects that ‘fuck’ means ‘walk’?”

   Thrace couldn’t help but take that one. “I going to take a long fuck now. See you later.”

   Garak smiled wanly. “Precisely.”

   “So how ‘bout you take a long fuck off a short pier.”

   Garak nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. May I presume I have your full attention?”

   Thrace stood and began pacing again. Garak watched patiently. A minute or more later: “Who the fuck are you again?”

   “Elim Garak.”

   “And what the walk do you want with me?”

   “I have yet to state my intentions for visiting you.”

   “Would you mind getting to it? I have three more years of hard time waiting, then three of intensive labor, and then another four of intensive psychotherapy and drug therapy. I’d really like to get to them.”

   That made the alien smile. “Cardassians don’t believe in prison. You’re either executed, or you are altered. We don’t spend time and valuable resources caging our own.”

   Thrace stopped pacing. “You find this amusing?”

   “Yes, somewhat. Although I must admit that Cardassians are peculiar with respect to punishing their own criminals. We’re but a handful who don’t bother.”

   Thrace had heard of Cardassian “altering”—the procedure where convicted Cardassians have their minds essentially altered into workable and non-offensive personalities. It astonished him that despite this blatant lack of respect for the rights of individuals, that the Federation had still offered them membership five years ago. A political decision, almost certainly. These “seagull-looking pieces of alien trash” had something the Federation wanted. It was likely how this Garak could be here, who asked:

   “I served aboard Deep Space Nine. Ever heard of it?”

   That stopped him from pacing. “You served aboard a Federation outpost?”

   “Are you hard of hearing?”

   “My hearing is excellent, bitch.”

   “You do have a strong grasp of insulting words and phrases, I must give you that. For a Vulcan—”

   Thrace heaved the chair at the glass again. “Fuck you!”

   Garak watched him with dispassionate amusement. “You said something about three more years’ time here, three more hard labor, then four of psychotherapy, correct?”

   “Are you hard of hearing?”

   “Even as an elder Cardassian, I assure you that my hearing is superior even to yours.”

   “Vulcans have excellent hearing.”

   “But you just threw a temper tantrum when I called you one.”

   Thrace launched himself at the glass.

   “I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Garak, standing. “I’ll return soon. Computer, please beam me back to the main foyer.”

   The beam was instantaneous; in another second he was gone. As Thrace backed away from the glass, the beam took him back to his cell.

Eleven days passed. “You have visitors, Thrace.”

   “Fuck me,” he murmured, sitting up. “That ugly-ass Cardassian again? Wait! I said—!”

   He materialized and fell on his ass—again.

   “You cocksucking asshole!”

   The Cardassian was indeed back. But this time he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a Vulcan female, who eyed him dispassionately. She was young, lithe, and very attractive, dressed in a black mini-skirt and leggings, her hair pulled back, exposing her ears.

   “Mister McCoy,” said Garak, “this is Tannui Q’añé. Tannui—Thrace McCoy.”

   “The grandson of Admiral McCoy?” she asked, an eyebrow rising.

   “The very same,” answered Garak.

   “I guess the apple does fall far from the tree on occasion.”

   Thrace stood at that. “Fuck you, bitch.”

   “I think not,” she replied. “I’m ready anytime.”

   “He has a violent temper, I will remind you one more time. Also, as I said, his strength is rated 4.8 on the Pajyl-Doil Scale, a full sigma above the mean for Vulcan men. Are you sure?”

   She studied him as he glared back. “Yes. Let’s go.”

   Thrace thought they might beam away.

   Garak glanced up. “Computer. Execute command Garak-1a.”

   The Vulcan named Tannui Q’añé dematerialized in the transporter beam ...

   ... and into his holding area.

   “What the—?”

   The heel of her boot arced up and around, slamming into his chin and sending him careening backward into the wall. Before he could respond, she sent another kick into his groin, doubling him over, which brought her knee into his face, shattering his nose.

   He collapsed to the ground sucking air and bleeding like he’d sprung a leak.

   “Get up,” she ordered with that ever-irritating Vulcan calm.

   “Fuck you!” he gurgle-roared into his arms.

   She approached until she was a meter away, studying him dispassionately. “I’m sorry, Mr. Garak,” she said, “but this one is as useless as—”

   She didn’t move in time. His foot lashed out and connected with her shin. She backed against the far wall, limping, too slow. He had her by her neck and lifted her off the ground. She boxed his ears, but it didn’t release her; it only made him choke her more. Her face began turning green. He heard Garak say:

   “Computer, Garak 2C, initiate immediately.”

   A hard shock stung him in the middle of his back, forcing him to release her. When she did, the transporter beam had her. He tried diving into it, but it was too late.

   He could barely see through the blood in his vision and the throbbing headache, not to mention the agony in his groin, radiating up into his solar plexus.

   It didn’t matter. He launched himself at the glass again, pounding it.

   Garak was kneeling over the Vulcan, who was unconscious. That was the last he saw of them, because the transporter had him. A moment later he was in his cell again.

   “What the fuck was that?” he roared at the ceiling, the pain of his broken nose almost unbearable.

   “It was a test,” the computer answered calmly. “One you passed.”