By Royal Appointment

Posted on Tue Dec 31st, 2019 @ 5:49pm by The Narrator & Senior Chief Petty Officer Sharona Deluna
Edited on on Tue Feb 4th, 2020 @ 11:01am

Mission: S2:1: Into The Drowning Deeps
Location: Canopus Station, Administrative Block
Timeline: MD 2 : 10.45

The word was out: we are not alone.

That had been a truism since a little no nothing place in Montana had been used as a parking spot for a Vulcan survey ship, but now that same sense of joyful optimism had infected a new generation. The Carcosian's were survivors of the Romulan War, Humans and Trill and Vulcans according to scuttlebutt. Of course how they had got out here, and what were they like were still questions left in the air.

Which made the mess in the reception area a little depressing.

Protectorate Bar'soon'fo'da'gree'nars, Third of his Title, holder of the lightning throne, guardian of the sacred skulls of Antiok and ruler of the world of Shishimi and all its celestial companions, sat with his hands held over his lap. The graceful blue-skinned alien, with his big eyes, floppy ears tied back in a braid, and bewildered expression on his face, acted with stoic indifference as the two medi tech's debated how to remove the spatula from his chest.

"I have said it once, I will say it again, I am not leaving this waiting room," Bar'soon said in a huff. "I have waited here for six hours and four of your minutes, and I will not lose my place in line. I have been trying to arrange this meeting since I was offloaded like so much cargo from the Traveller and by the Glowing Green Bones of my mothers immolated and defiled corpse I will not be denied."

He suddenly stood up, a spurt of blue blood painting one of the medi tech's white uniforms with a garish touch.

"I demand to speak to a supervisor!!" he screamed, his voice rising up until a glass display pane began to rattle.

"Would. You. Shut. Up?!" a melodious female voice raised above the screeching blue alien that was busy painting everything with his/her/its blue blood. Then a silver haired, pointed eared Senior Chief Petty Officer stepped forward between the two bickering medics and saw the alien.

"You. Yes, you. Who are you, why are you bleeding everywhere, and why ...is there a cooking utensil in your chest?" Sharona demanded.

"Because the swine of a short-order cook couldn't find a filleting knife to save his life! There! I said it! And you all know it now," Bar'soon said with a grin on his face that only avoided the manic postcode by a generous amount of gerrymandering. "I have come to claim what is rightfully mine by the right of my noble birth! I am Protectorate Bar'soon'fo'da'gree'nars, Third of my title, holder of the lightning throne-"

"He goes one like this for a bit," one of the medic's sighed.

"We got called to a medical emergency on the Medina Level, an altercation being mediated by station security," the other explained.

"Tamarian owned dining establishment on the fourth level. 'You Are What You Eat'. Good noodles." The first continued.

"Anyway when we got there we found this guy with a spatula in his chest, not in any pain and according to the medical scanner fit as a fiddle."

"Screaming 'Diplomatic Immunity' in a really funny accent." The first finished.

"-and all her celestial companions!" Bar'soon finished with a gasp. "I am of the royal blood, the throne of my people! Though to be fair that throne is now being warmed by the rotund buttocks of my villainous sisters! When I return to my home I will mount all forty of their heads on spikes! The entire east wall will be a family portrait gallery for the chubby little carrion birds."

Between murderous, incompetent short order cooks, a flood of long winded titles, diplomatic immunity, which Sharona didn't believe he now possessed but wasn't sure, talk of decapitation and rotund buttocks on spikes, she was completely nonplussed. She also couldn't get the image of carrion birds impaled on stakes out of her head.

A part of her wanted to know what he was there for since the spatula wasn't killing him and the medics covered the important parts. Except for the Tamarian restaurant. She didn't even want to consider how to place an order but she gave it a try in her head. Sharona at You Are What You Eat. Good noodles! and smirked. Maybe she would try it.

The other part of her wanted to give him Form J-17a, which was the longest and most detailed and verbose form that Starfleet had to offer. To her knowledge, no one had ever finished one and usually forgot why they were there or complaining about, and not only that, she had no idea and doubted anyone else even knew what the form was for.

"And?" she asked as the alien hadn't told her why he was there making demands and being murderous.

"And? And she says?" Bar'soon chuckled, laughing at the medics before pulling the spatula from his chest, and pointing it at her. "I am a king! A KING! I was crowned on the morning of my mothers passing, once I'd flensed the flesh from her bones and set them alight with copious amounts of ignition fluid. Do you know how tedious that is? And all the while she's just complaining! 'Why can't you be better at this! Your brother Far'kuum used a bomb! He used his skills and not a bottle of pear brandy!' Oh it went on for days, you have no idea."

The front of Bar'soon's jerkin was now stained a deep blue, as the sizeable wound pumped blood out of the internal space it was meant to occupy.

"So when I came here I was assured I would be welcomed as a refugee, a state in exile, and I demand to be kept in a manner to which my royal personage is accustomed," he pushed the spatula into one of the medic's hands. "Here, take that. Now, where was I? "

"How was she complaining if she had passed?" Sharona wanted to know in a fit of morbid curiosity. She looked at the insane amount of blue blood pumping out of his wound now that he had pulled the spatula out and wondered why he wasn't dead yet.

"I know, right? You'd think she'd take some time for her self, take in the sulphur spas on the west coast. But no, she has to sit there in her evening chair and complain whilst I defile the corpse," Bar'soom sighed heavily. "Mothers, am I right?"

She perked up when he said the magic word refuge and grabbed a PADD to check it, then loaded information from the computer on it before she handed it to him. "Here you are, King," she said politely. "Everything due a refugee. One cot in cargo bay six, three ration bars per day from any available replicator as well as water on request, one standard outfit to be exchanged daily, and this." She handed him PADD J-17a before he was still yelling instead of being nice. "You're all set."

"But I have been assured a berth befitting my station! I am the Royal Court in exile! When my people find out you have debased me so mightily, they will rise up and murder you all! We've had a lot of practise you know," Bar'soom let out a sigh and his legs folded under him. He landed on the floor, leg's folded uncomfortably beneath him as the blood flowing from the wound began to stop. "See this is why I wanted to come here, instead of going to your witch doctery cave of medicine! Here is where the heart of my malady is! I am of the royal blood, look how blue my blood is! It is the very deepest Saphire!"

He looked at his stained hand, and then pushed the PADD against his chest, and pulled it back, looking at how the blood clung to the plastic.

"Huum...this does make it more aesthetically pleasing. Can I have the entirety of the cargo bay?"

"Well, I would, but we have to have room for other refugees," Sharona said before she turned her full gaze on him. It would be easy to use The Knack on him, but for some perverse reason, she didn't see the need. He'd find something to complain about.

Some professional part of her reminded her that he could actually be a refugee and a diplomat since the medics said he had been screaming about diplomatic immunity. She accessed the computer and input her authorization, then looked at him. "Could you please spell your full name?"

"No, not really. You see I had people for that, lots of people in fact. Entire districts of intellectuals all vying for the right to be my advisor. My Gladiatorial Science Fairs were the hit of the social season. I would hate to deprive one of them the chance to work for a living, it gives them something to do. I'm all about championing the rights of the workers to work for me," Bar'soom explained slowly He then looked at the medic holding the spatula. "Huum, you seem somewhat physically capable. I will require a litter. Preferable lined in the pelts of lava otters. You must have them, they are the most delightful creatures."

"People?" Sharona asked and looked around. "Would People please step forward to spell the King's name, please?" She saw a few intellectual types in the office, but none seemed interested in fighting to the death to spell his name for him. "I'm afraid people must have stepped out, Sir. Your name. Please. Spell it slowly."

"Bah-ar then a little wiggly thing, suu-ooom fo dah gr-eeh' nah-reess. Emphasis on the Bah, the ar, the suu, the ooom...oh you know what, its emphasis on everything except the little wiggly things. Now, as for my titles, I am willing to par them down to the bare essentials. The essence of which I was born into," Bars'soon said and took a fortifying breath. "I am Third of my Title, guardian of the sacred skulls of Antiok and ruler of the world of Shishimi and all its celestial companions"

"Wait isn't that your title anyway?" Medic Two asked.

"No. I did not mention that I am the holder of the Lighting Throne. But if I am honest, it's a horribly unflattering piece of furniture. Not very comfortable. But it sets the tone at dinners when a guest I don't particularly like gets to sit in it. Speciality on stormy nights. Ends the party on a bang!" Bar'soon sighed happily. "So many dinner parties, so many good memories. Huum, and now I hunger for this most delightful of foodstuffs they gave me on the starship that brought me here! Barbeque! Oh, you must try it! It summons so many good memories for me."

Sharona sighed inwardly and typed in Bar'soon, then stopped as alert after alert came up with his complete name. Sadly, the titles were there, too, as well as many warnings about what not to do while engaging him. As she watched, stab him with a spatula was added to the list.

She glanced back at the man, then back at the growing file before she did a search for his diplomatic immunity status. "Just one moment, Sir," she said.

"More waiting? How dull?" Bar'soon sighed, and looked down at his ruined tunic. He tugged on the slash in the abdomen where the spatula had gone in, and began to tug at the fabric until it began to rip apart. Before anyone could stop him the tunic was gone, revealing his white and blue striped chest, and smooth abdomen where there was no sign of a wound.

"Throw that away, it has blood on it," he said with a distasteful sniff as he tossed it at Medic One. He then looked down, noticing a droplet of sea blue blood on his trousers.

"Protectorate Bar'soon'fo'da'gree'nars, Third of his Title, holder of the lightning throne, guardian of the sacred skulls of Antiok," Sharona said formally and without a hint of snark. "You're quarter assignment for yourself and your...staff," she looked around and still didn't see People. "They are in the diplomatic section of the station and your People will have access to supplies, Sir."

"Splendid!" Bar'soon said jubilantly, his thoughts torn away from his blood-stained pants before he could tear off his blood-stained pants. He gave a little clap. "Oh I just knew you'd come to see things my way, after all my title suggests I am someone who should be listened to! We'll get on like a peasant roasting!"

...He probably meant a comedy event. Hopefully.

"Now, there is one small detail that your little fingers can help me with! You see, I do not have a People to speak of. My people now toil under the yolk of my sisters and brothers, whose corpses shall be defiled in a manner that will become tedious and boring with repetition! No doubt they are being spoiled by uncommon generosity! I am sure Far'kuum has already lifted my ban on sewage treatment to the eastern continent. They depicted me most unflatteringly in a audio visual medium." He tsked. "But, I know that I am not living within the sphere of my own influence. So I must make do with a lesser degree of servant. I will require a staff, bodyguards willing to die in my name and on my command, a chef to be poisoned to set an example of for the other members of the catering staff, and a valet!"

"No," Sharona said as she looked directly at Bar'soon's eyes and attempted to use The Knack on him. "You will get no servants, staff, willing or unwilling bodyguards who will not lay down their lives at your command, and certainly not a chef or catering staff, let alone a valet. You will be content to serve yourself, use the replicator, and be polite to those around you. Sir."

"Then I must have you!" Bar'soom said lavishly. His eyes had gone from wide and excitable to dinner plate-sized dilated pupils that promised someone was going to have a bleed on the brain soon. "That commanding voice! That authoritative stance! The way your phalanges work against the display of your little computer, as though it were the hide of a small fluffy mammal you are contemplating butchering...I have only just now become aware of how attractive I find such traits! If you join me I can give you not only pelts, but people, entire nation-states baying to be your playthings! You would be a queen!....If-only-slightly-lesser-in-stature-to-myself-but-I'm-willing-to-negotiate-that-point."

"My...your..what?" she stammered and realized that his species not only weren't susceptible to The Knack, but were apparently very easily swayed in the romance department. She backed away from the desk slowly. "Er, no...I don't think so," she managed as she wondered if she could bolt past him and out the door. There had to be a ship leaving the station for somewhere he wasn't. "Nice thought, though," she added. "Thanks but no thanks."

"But you don't understand! I must have you! It was cosmic fate that brought me here! Well technically a techno being called Abboarx did so after I'd wandered Messier 4 with him for a century, and then a long two weeks on your crampy little starship, but it was the hand of fate playing in the foamy bathtub of destiny!" Bar'soom followed her directly. He climbed onto the desk in this direct line of site travel.

"You don't want to be queen! What about Empress! Yes! YES! Empress is a fine title! More jewels! More rings! Skimpy clothes for the courtiers yes!" Bar'soom said with far too much zeal in his tone of voice. "Our's shall be a throne room whose stained glass windows are steamed by the heat of our-"

That sentence was brought to an end by gravity as he crawled off the edge of the desk and landed on the floor in a heap.

If ever Sharona saw an opening, the one presented by the rather ungraceful floppy eared heap on the floor was a sign sent by the highest possible power. She didn't remember planning to leap him and vault over the desk he had just crawled over, but she found herself landing on the other side and running for the door. "Security!" she yelled as she exited and turned left, heading down the corridor as fast as her legs would take her.

What had she done? Why had The Knack had that kind of impact on him? What was the release for it? She knew she could take it away, but would that make him worse? Was it possible for Bar'soon to get worse? That thought inspired her to run faster.

"Oh you'll fit right in on Shishimi! The yearly peasant races will be a treat! You won't even need to use nerve gas to slow them down with your powerful thigh muscles pumping your ankles around like that!" screamed a delighted voice from behind her.

Sharona darted around a corner and saw an open hatch to a Jeffries Tube. She had never explored them or felt a desire to, but now she felt like getting intimately familiar with them. She had a feeling she'd be using them. A lot. She dove into it and started the life out of a small Engineering being, shoved him aside and began to clamber her way forward like a crewman at bootcamp going under barbed wire with someone shot at her.

"You cannot run from your fate! We are destined to rule together! As soon as I've ruined the lives of a good majority of my immediate family, our wedding will be a carnal powerhouse of debauchery!!!...Hey, you with the spanner, are you looking for a job? I have openings on my staff for a-"

The sound that echoed down the Jefferies tube after her sounded like meat being tenderised.

Repeatedly.

Whatever was happening behind her, Sharona didn't know and didn't want to know. What she did know was that she now needed a new identity, some radical facial surgery, and a fast ship. What had she done?