DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of Paula Smith and is copyright (c) 1975 by Paula Smith. This story is Rated NC17. Originally published in Warped Space #10.



A Private Little Amok Time

Paula Smith



Sara Dekker made good pizza. That much was obvious. And assembling all the ingredients her recipe called for - tomato paste, unbleached flour, the correct strain of yeast, genuine Terran sausages, sweet basil - "fresh, goddammit!" - wasn't too difficult. The members of Landing Party 6 could scour ship's stores and friends' closet gardens for her demands. The hardest part had been to convince the little linguistics lieutenant that the T'Kaht, Girc'N, was missing a major part of Terran culture - certainly the culinary aspects - by never having had a pizza, and that it was up to her, said Faulwell, to remedy this sorry lack in the furry-cheeked alien's social development.

Dekker gave her former co-worker in the linguistics department a dim look, and returned her nose to the much-thumbed Orion pornobook that was currently making the rounds in the USS Enterprise. "Aw, come on," wheedled Faulwell, her front teeth showing in a planetary smile, and she played her ace. Leaning over the table, the shirt, thin woman whispered, "I'll get him to give up a bottle out of his stash."

Dekker sat bolt upright, immediately intrigued. "Koh-kah-koh-lah!" she trilled happily, her eyes brightening. Faulwell nodded. "You want large, jumbo, or gargantuan?" the shorter lieutenant drawled, rising from the table with a sly, hungry look -- the depraved look of a confirmed cokaholic.

Every man has his price. Some come cheaper than others.

So it was that the Great Pizza Party was set. Faulwell dragged along Dr. McCoy, though his stomach wasn't in it; however, he came for Sadie's sake, feeling slightly foolish. Partly to return a favor, Mitya Razumov invited one of her friends, an Ensign Cashok Ituk from the physics labs. Dekker let in her roommate, a reluctant lieutenant from engineering by the name of Truda Halls - reluctant, because she had come up against Commander Girc'N's sense of 'humor' before. Nevertheless, food is food, and what's a little pride where your stomach's concerned? Ensign Shippe brought along one of his old buddies from Security, Bill Hickock, a two meter, 100 kilo, red-haired gorilla, with fists like a meat sledgehammer. Finally, Girc'N and Kimeya Maya came, apparently with each other.

"Do you know," Lieutenant Commander Girc'N inquired at large of the group assembled in the otherwise empty corner of Rec Room 5, and everybody, awaiting the pizza, and now a bad gag, to boot, steeled themselves. "What you would have if Sara and her roommate were going - Truda Halls, of course - carrying a book of Javanese statutes?"

Somehow everybody found their fingernails intensely fascinating, no one caring to call for the inevitable. Whistling and staring pointedly at the ceiling became suddenly popular, too. Finally, Razumov grimaced and said, "Oh, all right. What would you have if Sara and her roommate blah blah blah blah?"

"Dekker, Halls, with laws of Bali, of course," the T'Kaht explained, his lips spread wide in a self-satisfied grin.

"Walla Walla, Washington, and Kalamazoo," muttered Halls disgustedly. "Let's eat," as the pizza was finally brought to the table.

They attacked with relish, and although the relish lost, they all managed to secure a slice of the pie. The redolent greasy slabs blopping tomato sauce, green peppers and allworthy, were ferried reverently up to the proper gaping maw, gasping in attempts to cool the cheesy mess. Just as he was about to shovel the first bite in, Shippe caught sight of, peeping out malevolently from under a piece of pepperoni -- a mushroom. "Bill! No! Mushrooms!" he shouted.

Hickock, hunched over, mouth open to inhale the drippy hot food, dropped the pizza slice as if it had suddenly turned into a tribble, and he was a Klingon. "Arr!" he snarled, grabbling it back again, and flung it across the room, where it dissolved into a greasy red splat on the wall. "Grrrrr!" reaching to his hip for his phaser, as everyone jumped up and back, and Shippe jumped on his arm, shouting, "No, Bill, no! Down, boy!"

"Wha-?" screeched Sara, echoed by Ituk and Kim, outraged that her creation should be

treated so cavalierly.

"It's all right, it's all right," Dr. McCoy soothed, going over to the red-shirted Laurel and Hardy. "Ensign Hickock is simply hyperallergic to mushrooms."

"And I don't like 'em either," Hickock sniffed. "Thanks, Manfred," he said, clapping Shippe on the back, nearly driving all the little ensign's breath out. "Y'saved m'life."

"Don't mention it!" Shippe husked, wheezing for air.

"There you have it," said Girc'N philosophically, sitting down at the table again. "A friend in need -- well, obviously that's--"

"Don't say it," sobbed Halls, dropping her forehead into her palm.

"That's 'fredshippe' ... in action."

* * *

For a while after that, Hickock stuck by Shippe, partly for the shorter one's use a food taster, but mostly out at a sense of gratitude, and a desire to repay somehow the favor. He even managed to wangle the Security assignment to go with Landing Party 6 down onto E-Lancinge in System MSU-317, for a week's reconnaissance and survey work. Before the Enterprise took leave of the crew of six in the shuttlecraft Anthony Wells, it had made a quick scan of the M type planet, finding no inimical or otherwise unpleasant lifeforms. Landing Party 6 would be safe enough for a week, until the mother ship could return from the necessary run out to Epsilon Bootes IV to pick them up again.

The shuttlecraft cruised down, Girc'N at the controls, through the .92 standard atmosphere, orbited over the type AC-95 (basalt/granite) surface, inspected the Jefferson-normal deciduous forest that stretched like any other, and arbitrarily set down near the shore of the largest fresh water lake -- practically an inland sea -- on the 45th parallel north. There they made camp. For the next three days, the six from the Enterprise, Girc'N, Kimeya, Razumov, Faulwell, Shippe, and Hickock, took turns by pairs watching the camp, while the other four went out cataloguing the planet. Not much was discovered -- some iron, a few lodes of noble metals, a decent quantity of fossil fuels, traces of pergium -- nothing amazing, barely even interesting. Girc'N had used up only about four tapes. The single use this particular rock might conceivably have was in a second line of defense againrt the Klingon Empire, and maybe not even there. It was a dull planet. With unspoken accord, the members of the landing party worked long and diligently, so as to finish the survey and have the remaining few days as a holiday.

On the fourth day, with only the poles yet to be mapped, the team slept in, or rather, out in the open, as opposed to cramming into the Wells, somewhat later than usual. They made a leisurely breakfast, easing into a vacation routine already, complaining about the work load, the area's mosquito surrogates, and Shippe's cooking. Suddenly, from beyond the tangle-covered rise to the west came the distinct sound of a transporter hum. Kimeya stood from the table, her round face intent as she hearkened to the sound. "That's not a Federation beam," she said slowly. "Girc'N, come with me. The rest of you stay put. If we don't come back in -- oh, fifteen minutes, get ready to leave.''

She started off, trailed by the elf-eared T'Kaht, who was delayed in a short search for an empty tricorder tape. The two of them clambered up the low hill; as they neared the top, they crouched over and continued the scramble through the brambles and vines. Over the crest and down a short way, until, hidden by a clump of bushes, they stopped -- frozen by the sight of a large pile of food supplies, putative building materials ... and four Klingon men in black and spangled sea-blue.

"Oh, no," groaned Kimeya softly into Girc'N's shoulder. "What could be worse than for Klingons?"

"Would you believe," asked Girc'N, pointing to a haze in the creating that grew denser and materialized into four equally dark women in various states of gold undress. "Four more Klingons?"

"What are they doing there?" the human wondered, peeping out through a small hole in the bracken at the eight aliens rapidly expanding the four sections of lattice from the pile of supplies, propping them up against each other, and beginning to construct the edifice's conical ceiling.

"Building some sort of shelter, I should surmise," murmured Girc'N, raising the tricorder

slightly to clear the leaves. "A simple sort of structure ... not unlike the Mongolian ger."

"Ger?" Kimeya turned to him questioningly.

"Yurt," he explained. "Or, transposing initial consonants, yer-gurt."

"Girc'N," she hissed sharply.

"Sorry." He poked his head up through the leaves, setting the recorder on wide scan as the Klingons finished their hut, spread a few mats out on the ground, split off into pairs - male and female, pulled off their boots ... and shirts ... and pants ... and ...

"Girc'N!" Kimeya's jaw dropped, as she stared, wide-eyed and appalled, at the most recent developments in the Klingon camp. "They're ... they're ..."

"Yeah ..." agreed the T'Kaht, also wide-eyed, but rather less than appalled. A glint of concupiscence flickered in his now sky-blue eyes -- or what could be seen of the irises, the pupils having dilated so - and he flapped his hand absently at his CO. "I'm ... I think I'm going to be needing more tapes..."

"What??"

"...More tapes..." he mumbled again in a happy daze. He leaned forward with the tricorder on a tighter focus, his teeth showing in a lecherous grin.

Kimeya sat back, a bit staggered by the T'Kaht's lustful preoccupation. She went "hunmf" and pushed back through the brush to the camp.

"What was it?" demanded Razumov, when Commander Maya jogged back from the hill into their clearing -- alone.

"Get everything into the ship," the dark-haired leader snapped. "I want to be able to leave at moment's notice. Hustle!" when the four hadn't jumped immediately.

As they scurried off to do her bidding, Lt. Faulwell murmured to Kimeya, falling into stride alongside her. "What was it? Where's Girc'N?"

"Klingons. Girc'N is all right," she hastened to reassure the gangly junior officers "He stayed to make notes ... ah, they might be useful." Kimeya rigidly suppressed the memory of that one tall, slender woman, naked as an egg, squatting down onto her partner's erect -- "And keep quiet as you can!" she hissed to the other three as they stowed the gear away in the shuttlecraft.

Five minutes later when they had finished, the commander lined them up for instructions. Her elbows at her sides, Kimeya paced before them. "Hickock -- no. Shippe, you'll come with me back to where Commander Girc'N is. Faulwell, I want you to hold the fort. If you hear anything at all suspicious, I want you to raise ship instantly. Don't wait for us; don't even stick around to see what it is, just move. Understood?"

"Understood, ma'am," Faulwell answered reluctantly. Just at that moment, from over the hill came a loud shriek -- of a timbre pitch Girc'N couldn't possibly have attained, but still Kimeya started. "Suspicious like that, ma'am?" the thin lieutenant inquired.

"Never mind. Just be ready to leave." She summoned Shippe with a flick of her hand, and the two, started off toward the other encampment as the remaining three hesitantly climbed into the Anthony Wells.

Shippe gasped when he first caught sight of the Klingons and gasped again when the portent of their activities hit home. The two slid the last half meter down into place beside Girc'N; Kimeya gasped when she saw the two apparently highest-ranking -- difficult to tell with their clothes off -- Klingons barely (well...) two meters down the slope from the humans' hiding place. "It's all right," Girc'N whispered to her, meanwhile making some astoundingly precise records of klaani anatomy. "They're making too much noise to hear us."

Kimeya rolled her eyes to the sky, then turned her attention to the scene before her. If you didn't think of it as ... as actual ... well, it could be ... sort of interesting. Like those two muscled ones, for instance. You wouldn't think that it was possible to do it in a tree -- and not fall out. And the shortest girl was kind of cute really, sitting in the tallest man's lap, sitting facing him with her legs around his waist, sitting on ... Ah, hum. One thing you can say about Klingons -- they certainly were ... endurable.

The green-tinted sun climbed up toward noon, and past, but the four couples were still at it. They had switched off several times, and performed some rather remarkable acrobatics. Right now, about half of them were in the lake and Kimeya idly wondered how they were able to maintain their, ah, engagements without drowning. Otherwise, she was pretty bored, and sleepy. Shippe and Girc'N seemed interested enough for three, so she tapped off the T'Kaht's shoulder and scrambled back to the shuttle.

"The Klingons don't seem to be making any threatening moves against us, Lieutenant," she said to Faulwell, stepping into the somewhat over-warm craft. "I think you can leave the ship now, if you wish."

"Could we go investigate, too, ma'am?" asked Razumov innocently, jumping down from the entrance. Hickock and Faulwell milled past Kimeya, who dropped herself into one of the chairs.

"I suppose so," replied their commander, "as long as you're careful. Girc'N is in charge. I want to take a nap." With that she slumped back in the seat and shut her eyes. The two ensigns and the lieutenant disappeared as the door droned closed.

When she awoke, she was sweaty and sore. Staggering to the doors she hopped down and halted. There was no one in the camp. The place was deserted and the Klingons were silent. As the sun lowered itself behind the hill separating her from the aliens, she charged up the rise, fearful that the Klingons had discovered her friends and -- well, she'd better hurry.

Up to the top, start down and -- "Commander, back here!" came a hissed voice behind a tree on the hill's crest. Kimeya scurried around and plopped down between Girc'N and Faulwell. "We moved up here," explained the lieutenant. "We thought it'd be safer."

"Especially after their leader started chasing the little one up through the bush," noted Razumov. "Girc'N got some good tapes. Want some popcorn?" she added, passing a cannister of the stuff.

Kimeya stared at the nurse, then turned to face the bottom of the hill. Down there, near the shoreline, outlined by the golden-green light of MSU-317 setting beyond the lake sat most of the klaani, just sitting and holding each other quietly, gazing off into the sunset. One of the women drew the black cape she had arrived with over her shoulder and around the light-brown haired, bearded one next to her. The tall, slender woman and the heavily-muscled man were still enthusiastically humping over near the ger, but otherwise, the scene as wonderfully tranquil and calm. Finally, the sun vanished and the black-bearded leader stood, hiked over to the hut and disappeared into it. The one broad-shouldered woman followed him, and they both reappeared a moment later with a short pipe and an oddly shaped box, which the Federation crew understood to be musical instruments as soon as the Klingons had produced a few chords and notes from them. The pair began banging and puffing away, joined by the raucous quavers of the rest in a caterwauling sort of song. Bushy-eyebrowed people passed in and out of the ger, bringing out wraps, camplights, food and drink, then settled down in a semi-circle about the musicians, screeching away with feeling.

"I'd call it a sex-taval system, but Razumov would probably hit me," Girc'N whispered to Kimeya. "Seriously, though, it is a six-toned musical scale, based just slightly off the key of G. That's something we didn't know before -- for that matter, we hadn't even known that Klingons did sing."

Kimeya answered, "That's nice," automatically, looking around her abstractedly. It was getting dark quickly. Hickock had raised the nightwork snooperscope to peer down at the shortest, black-haired woman who rose and went over to help her comrades behind the hut by rubbing her hands over the man's straining buttocks; he fended off Shippe and his persistent "Let me see, let me see!" with his elbow.

"I get it next," insisted Razumov.

"No," Kimeya stated flatly. "Nobody gets it next. We're all going back to our own ship. Right now," she added to stifle the low protest from her five subordinates. The usually genial woman was adamant in herding her people out of the blind and back to the Wells.

The singing could still be plainly heard, loudly and clearly, in the human camp. As the junior officers disgruntledly dropped themselves in and around the craft door, Kimeya and Girc'N slowly walked off to one aide, talking quietly.

"I think we ought to get out of here while we can undetected, Girc'N" the oriental human began.

The T'Kaht inclined his head to her. "But we really don't know what they're doing here," he objected.

Kimeya affected astonishment. "You can't tell what they were doing? I just don't like this," she said, pressing her hands together and ambling farther from the clearing. Girc'N followed. "If we're going to stay, we should make our presence known. We shouldn't be spying on them like this." She shivered, rubbed her upper arms.

"Which will we do, leave or go to meet them?" he asked, drawing her to his chest with his arms wrapped around her, both facing into the bright barren moon of E-Lancinge as it pulled away from the trees.

"I think, we should meet them, talk to them," she answered. They were halted in a minor glade a distance from either camp; the dark coolness was pleasant after the high sun all day. There was a carpet of moss underfoot.

"I think that's best, too" he said quietly and quite carefully stroked the tip of her breast with his thumb. Kimeya swung her head around to stare at him; the moon seemed to line every hair in his blond moustache and beard. Her eyes flicked back and forth considering him, then deliberately she opened her lips, as did he, to accept each other in a deep, lush kiss. Her hands traveled up his body slowly, up his neck, caressed his tapered ears, fingers running through the wiry dark blond hair; he, on the other hand, smoothed his down the line of her back to her full gleuti, which he cupped, stroked over, lifted the short skirt, and slid beneath the underpant to touch the flesh. Kimeya gave a soundless moan at this, squeezing shut her eyes, and pressed herself more strongly, more insistently against the tall alien's torso, a slight rocking against his pelvis, nowhere near matching the fierce throbbing in her own vulva.

Girc'N grasped her under the arms and lowered her to the puffy soft moss. He slid up the dress with his hands, trembling, drew the uniform over and away from Kimeya's face, bunched it into a pillow for her head, and laid himself atop her, still clothed. His fingers sought blindly for her stiffened nipples as his tongue washed with hers over and over again; she sent her nails scraping carefully, tantalizingly across his lower back under the red shirt. A span of caresses and pinches then he pulled up, knelt and opened his trousers. There in the cold light stood his penis, proud and strong. She nipped it delicately with her fingernails, dibbling lightly on its tip, which moistened. He shut his eyes and hove a lung-bottom sigh as she continued the millimetric massage. He waited silently, patient on his knees as she peeled his tunic off, waited as she slipped her own panties off completely, groaned as she eased herself onto the erect manling, as she took, as she took.

Sliding so carefully, so easily in the softness, over the pulsing hard, kneeling to each other as god, they kissed, holding tightly to one another. The pleasure depth was gauged, even as they were engaged, so rolling-bump eager, feeling his smoothing wrinkled underhang, her nipple-head strain breast, his papa ask too, flattened to the other, hard insistent, rubbing, caressing, stroking, deeply ... up to the final clutch-hold, the swell; grind it harder, drink, drink it all; because it leaves so soon...

It hadn't been bad, at that.

Quite early the next morning, back in the Federation camp, as the bird equivalents were sing-paralleling, Razumov appeared at the open door of the Wells. She stepped down from the opening, sat down in it heavily, and regarded the noisy animaculae blearily. Within, she heard Faulwell stir; before her, the two ensigns, who had slept in the open ecause of the warm night, twitched, and one sat up.

"Ucch. What time is it?" demanded Shippe, stretching, his jaw catching in a mighty yawn.

"About the fourth period," the blonde nurse replied, dangling her leg back and forth.

"When did they finally shut up last night?" Faulwell asked, coming to the door.

"I don't know," the little dark-haired ensign said. He rubbed his eyes. "Late. Practically dawn, I think."

"Well, they sure are quiet now," Razumov noted, as Hickock raised himself to a sitting position, blinking and smacking his lips. The men got up, brushed themselves off, while Faulwell listened closely for a few seconds.

"Yeah, very quiet." The bony woman looked around suspiciously. "Anybody seen Kim? Or Girc'N?"

"Aren't they -- they're not!" said Razumov. "Where could they -- the Klingons!" her eyes bugging in apprehension.

"Klingons!" echoed Shippe. Immediately the two were off toward the enemy camp, scuttling up the hill with Hickock not far behind. "No, wait!" screamed Faulwell. "Kim told us yesterday - oh, damn!" as the three topped the rise and zipped down the other side. Shaking her head, Faulwell followed.

"Where is our Commander?" yelled Shippe, crashing into the camp, falling to his knees and yanking up by his light brown hair the bearded head of one of the sleeping male Klingons lying half out of the ger. The klaani blinked, coming awake, and focused on the diminutive Terran. With a general snarl, he lashed his hand out and caught Shippe with a resounding smack across the chops; the human released the man's head and tried to protect his own.

"You hit Fred!" bellowed an outraged Hickock and he stampeded forward to rake up the offender, along with the dark-haired tallest Klingon who chanced to poke his nose cut of the hut most inopportunely, and slammed the two of them together. Down they went simultaneously, just as Faulwell came puffing up crying "Stop!" with both Girc'N and Kimeya at her side.

"Right, stop," agreed the middle-height, black-bearded leader of the Klingons, hastily wrapping the gold cape from one of the women's uniforms about his loins as he stepped out to meet the mob. "Who are you people? Federales?"

"We are Landing Party 6 of the USS Enterprise, United Federation of Planets, registry NCC-1701. I am Lt. Commander Kimeya Maya. Who are you?" Kimeya said sedately, walking up to the dark-skinned man, while Girc'N kept a distrustful watch on the other five conscious aliens.

The klaani smiled slyly and met her stare directly. Stroking his scrawny black moustache into place, he announced, "I am Krass, Commander Krass, of the Klingon Diplomatic Corps. These two your trained ulph over there decommissioned are Krok and my ship's physician, Kwak. That's Korb," he pointed to the only clean-shaven male, the short, muscled one, "and the females are Koldstin, Lin, Sith, and Fver, of the Auxiliary Corps. We come in peace," he made a slight bow.

"You're the Diplomatic Corps?" Kimeaya smiled, relaxing her guard.

"Well, we're rather off-duty at the moment. As well as out of uniform. We had a two day leave which we elected to spend here on Norwuds-barronie, as we call this planet." At Krass' foot, the woman designated as Koldstin murmured, "Krass, Terrer?" He motioned her to shut up with a wave of his hand and continued, smiling toothily. "Our ship will come for us later today."

"Oh, okay. Fine," said Kimeya, as she turned to leave.

"Kim!" Girc'N blurted. "Why--"

She interrupted him. "They're the KDC; you remember them from Arconus 1."

"They're--" Girc'N stopped, peered at the head Klingon, who struck a pose. "So they are. I didn't recognize you without your shirt." He looked down suddenly, startled by the touch of a hand on his ankle. Sith smiled wickedly back up at him, and continued wrapping her arms about his lower legs. "Kim!" he shouted. ''Help!"

'Sith, g'fuk!" Krass snarled; chastened, the massive woman slunk off. "You're quite welcome, Commander," he said, shrugging off Kimeya's thanks. "Just one thing further..." he pressed his fingers against his temples and their delicate agony.

"What's that?" the human asked solicitiously.

"Would you happen to have -- I believe the phrase is, 'a hair of the dog'?"

* * *

There had been a bottle of Irish whiskey stowed, for God knew what reason, in one of the storage compartments, which the landing party presented with their compliments to the klaanis. They all sat around with each other for a while until the Klingon ship arrived, trading folksongs and hangover remedies. Shippe came to be quite impressed with their operations, almost wishing he conjoin with them. But at last the KDC left, with fond farewells on the part of all. Shippe stifled a sob at the parting and wiped away a surreptitious tear. Kimeya noticed it, however, and asked Girc'N, sotto voce, what was the matter with the little ensign.

"Because he can't be a Klingon, you see," the T'Kaht replied, understandingly. "To paraphrase Dr. McCoy - because he's Fred, Kim."

THE END