The Sands of Time (A Star Trek: The Next Generation Fan Fiction)

Chapter One

 "NuqDaq ghaj SoH gagh?!"

I shook my head, pointing at the display in the center of the table and hoping I was answering the question I thought I was.

"Ghobe'," I told him. "That's it." The Klingon angrily slammed his fist on the tabletop and shouted something. I held my ground when I remembered what one of my coworkers had told me about Klingons and how they held honour and courage above everything else. Stepping back would be an act of cowardice. The last thing I needed was for them to by angry and to think I was a to'paH. Instead, I stood more firmly and opened my mouth to reply to the Klingon's demands.

"TIq qo' yImev mej jIH," the other Klingon asked his companions, drawing the attention off me for a minute. I was grateful. I had dealt with many different species in my three months of working here but none of that experience helped when face with two hungry, adult male Klingons who wanted something not on the menu.

Not very hopeful, I checked my wristband translator once more. It still wasn't working, just as it hadn't been all day. My translator device was never very effective, missing maybe one word in four and only able to translate the most common languages, but this morning it had shorted out completely. I'd been struggling along all day, trying to take orders from Andorians, Ferengi, Algolians, Bolians, Napeans, and many other races using only hand signals and single-word sentences. I'd been involved in a few heated arguments, mostly from the customer's side, and had been forced to call security when attacked by an angry, knife-wielding Nausicaan.

These were the first Klingons I had had to deal with, though.

"HIghos!" the first Klingon said loudly. I looked up, 'come here' being one of the Klingon phrases I did understand. I was already standing next to their table, so I supposed it could also mean 'pay attention' or something.

"Yes?" I asked. Maybe they had decided on something they wanted, something that was on the menu.

"Your Federation food is too bland for us," he said, his voice mocking. "But we will settle for your Gladst and Chech'tluth. Can you handle that, pataQ?"

"HIja'," I told him, even though he obviously spoke English better than I could speak Klingon.

I hit a button on my pad, promised the Klingons that their meals would be coming shortly, and hurriedly left the table. I had dealt with a lot of different species over the past three months I had worked here and many were just as easily-angered as these Klingons so I had quickly learned to deal with them and, hopefully, calm them down. It didn't always work, though, and sometimes the only option was to get away as fast as I could. The Nausicaan was proof of that.

Weaving around the multiple tables full of more species than I could count, I made my way back through the double doors leading to the kitchens. Once there, I hooked my pad up to the main computer and transferred the Klingons' orders. The cooks in the kitchen would access the information and I could pick it up in a few minutes.

"Translator still cagey?"

I disconnected the pad and turned around to face the Zaldan woman standing behind me. I moved out of her way so she could step through the door completely and out of sight of the tables. The walkway was narrow here, barely large enough for two people to stand comfortably without bumping into the computer or the outward-opening doors.

"Yeah," I sighed finally as the Zaldan woman hooked up her own identical pad into one of the multiple ports on the computer face. "I was just almost beat up by a pair of Klingons who wanted gagh even though it wasn't on the menu." I pocketed the pad. "Yours isn't working either?"

The woman ran her fingers through her short, dark red hair, revealing webbing between her thumb and forefinger. "No. I got a pair of Vulcan scientists, so all I had to worry about was being polited to death. Lainsk is being cheap, though; we can't keep working if he won't pay for translators." She was blunt, saying exactly what she meant, as always. Kixa was years older than me, around fifty, but for her species she was still young and looked it, having a good 150 years left.