The hover taxi pulled over and Marcus stepped out onto a sidewalk winding along the Covington River. He placed his “Alexander” Account card back into his pocket, thankful it still worked, and watched as the taxi pulled away. Pulling up his collar the looked up at the night sky. The stars were all wrong. Of course they were he mused to himself. He was in the Beta Quadrant now.
Looking to the West he started walking, reviewing in his mind the last day or two. The taxi had brought him here from the spaceport. He had come back, or was it just “to” Omega Colony on a shuttle from the Governors station. He had teleported there from the medical base on Atlantica. T’Ros had been through in creating documentation he had just departed a civilian transport, having arrived from New Terra. The cover story for his absence was he had been recalled by the Federation on a moments notice and was now returning to his civilian life again. How T’Ros would place the necessary files in Star Fleet she would not share with him.
A young couple approached and passed him, he turned and watched as the man put his coat around her shoulders, against the cool breeze coming off the water. A feeling of envy washed over him. Wishing for a simpler life. Without the death and destruction he had caused and would no doubt continue to cause. Then hatred washed over him. Hatred for the people who had stolen six months of his life. Dorothy Gale. She was his only lead. There was no doubt in his mind she was the assailant. “What is that on your cheek Mr. Dinn.?” she had said as she touched him. Was that brief touch all it took to infect him?
He came to Phoenix Boulevard and turned South. No one followed him, the streets were nearly empty. A taxi pulled over and a robot driver asked if he needed a ride. “No thank you, enjoying the night air” he replied.
“Be safe” the automated voice called and the taxi pulled back onto the street. Marcus did not wish anyone to be aware of his arrival. A ten minute walk brought him to the corner of Phoenix and Warren Street. Across the intersection stood the Marshal Building, The red letters of “Ricks” were cold and dead.
“Six months” Marcus muttered. God only knew in what shape his accounts were in. Would his contacts even be accessible from this quadrant? All of his plans had been washed away. He crossed the street and went down an alley to a side door. T’Ros had told him she had been sure to keep the lease in his name in her hope someday she would find the vaccine. Keying in the security code the door came open, almost as a surprise to him.
“Lights.” he called out. The storage room was neat as a pin if it was covered an a layer of dust. Making his way to the forward lounge the light came up as he went along. He stood in the center of the lounge, able to hear the crowds from the past. So much work to do. Would it be worth it? Maybe it would be better to just start over again somewhere else. Maybe New Terra. But then there was T’Ros. He owed her his life. There was debit to pay he could only do from here.
Behind the bar he found a bottle of his favorite Andorian Whiskey and poured two fingers into a shot glass. Dorothy Gale, Dorothy Gale. Where am I to find you Dorothy Gale he thought as he pressed the controls for the cleaning robots to remove the dust from the tables. Out of a small door in the opposite wall a half dozen little machines emerged and started their task.
Just as he was about to pour another shot he heard someone knocking on the front door, voices calling.
“Computer, open the front door please.”
The muffled voices burst thru the door and group of young men and women were suddenly at the balcony above him.
“Are you open? We saw the lights. Everyone else is closed for the night.” asked the youngest of the group.
Marcus was always one to believe in signs. Putting on his best innkeepers face the waved a hand. “Sure, come on down, don’t mind the cleaning crew.”
***********
Outside, across the street a large dark figure watched as the group of young people entered the Bar. The sign, "Ricks" came to life, the red light briefly illuminating a dogish face before the figure stepped back into the shadow. Pulling a communicator from a pocket he whispered "He's in."
Off:
Marcus Dinn
Owner of Ricks
