STAR TREK: The Sands of Time

Hello! Just a quick note before the story starts. This is my new Star Trek: TNG story and it's a sequel to my other story (also on here), Star Trek: Shifting Sands. I have to recommend reading "Shifting Sands" before this one as it provides a lot of the back story that comes into play in this sequel. That said, I really hope you're read 'Shifting Sands' and the come back and read 'Sands of Time' because this is the first sequel I have ever done. Enjoy!

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 affective, 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.

"I don't want to be the one to tell him that," I informed Kixa. It was universally known that Lainsk was cheap and even better known that he hated people complaining about it. If you couldn't do your job with what he gave you, he'd find someone who could. Most people learned pretty fast to not complain.

Kixa retrieved her pad a few seconds later and turned towards me again. "Let's go seat some ignorant imbeciles," she said cheerily. I followed her through the doors, holding back a laugh as we reentered the main room of the restaurant. Restaurant was perhaps a little generous as the place was really just an open area at the hub of the spaceport. It had been converted a good dozen years earlier to serve as an eating area complete with staggered tables and a gas-powered kitchen where they used to store broken plasma coils. Despite these additions, it still looked like the rest of the old space port: worn, dirty, and crowded.

Looking out across the room with a well-practiced eye, I noticed a group of Bolians seating themselves at one of the far tables. I gave them a few minutes to take their seats and then walked over to them. The tables were plain, fitting in well with the rest of the port and with thinly-padded chairs that suited them. They were made completely of worn metal except for the holographic menus that rose from the center of the tables, the only thing that gave any indication that we were in the 24th century instead of the 22nd. They, at least, were still working.

"Would you like something to drink?" I asked the group of five.

"Oh, hello!" one of the Bolians, a man, said, sounding like I was a new addition to their party rather than their waitress. "You must hear Niggs' story!"

I noticed that the other Bolians were laughing uproariously, presumably at the story that had just been told. While I enjoyed a good story as much as anyone else, I didn't really have time at the moment. I'd also been cornered by Bolians in this way before. One story turned into five as fast as warp and could go on for hours.

I smiled at the five of them and politely shook my head. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I'm afraid I'm busy. We're really crowded at the moment. "Sometimes I wished that I, like Kixa, could just say whatever was on my mind without worrying about peasantries and politeness. I wasn't a Zaldan, though, but a Sandorian. Politeness was becoming as natural as talking to me and I couldn't imagine saying whatever was on my mind. I doubted the straight-forward tactic would go over well with the Klingons, in any case.

"Would you care for some drinks, though?" I asked instead. I leaned down and hit a button on the table, brining up the drink menu. "We have a large variety."

All five Bolians, three male and two female, leaned forward to examine the holographic projector as if they had never seen one before.

"The Vulcan Sparat looks interesting," one of them said.

"What about Klingon fire whiskey?"

"Oooh, Bajoran aulm juice sounds good!"

"You think?"

They continued on in this way for a while longer. I shifted impatiently from foot to foot, trying to resist saying something. I had served many groups of Bolians while working here, as one of their trade routes went through this sector, so I had long since discovered their tendency to have long, drawn out discussions out of the most inconsequential things. While it was something amusing, most of the time it just took up time I didn't have. It was also aggravating.

"Might I suggest the Betazoidian flavored water?" I cut in after five minutes. I had introduced the drink to the cooks a few weeks after I had started working here when I realized that there were no other non-alcoholic or non-incredibly spicy drinks on the menu. I didn't think Bolians needed alcohol.

They immediately latched on to the idea and ordered the waters. After stopping to get orders from a pair of Andorian engineers, I returned to the kitchen to input the orders. As I finished, I saw two other servers, a human and a Terellian, pushing carts laden with food. I smiled as they passed as I always did, and the human man nodded while the Terellian woman ignored me, as they always did. I leaned against the computer as I waited for the orders to upload, thinking. I had only been on Karos VII for four months now, but it seemed much longer. I'd already fallen into the routines of the place, gotten used to the rush and business of the spaceport and the crowdedness of the settlement surrounding it. Karos VII had started out as a Federation colony but it had quickly deteriorated and, after attempting to declare themselves an independent planet, been abandoned by the Federation and labeled: failed. Now, Karos VII was largely self-sufficient, or at least autonomous from the Federation, and survived by trading with the many freighters and cargo ships that stopped to refuel or resupply. Lainsk had taken advantage of the bustling trade by opening a restaurant at the center of the spaceport and specializing in alien food.

As I returned my pad to my pocket, I heard cries form outside the double doors and the sounds of a table being flipped over. Apparently, someone else had grown frustrated with the failed translators and decided to resort to a more primitive form of communication. Sighing, I crept back out to the restaurant to reassure the more peaceful customers. It was going to be a long day.

"I think I'll just go straight home."

"Tasha, you never do anything fun," Kixa protested as we exited a service corridor out into the street. It was growing dark in the colony and the shops around us were closing up, preparing for the ten-hour night.

"I'll go out sometimes," I promised Kixa. "Right now I just want to go home and get some sleep." The day hadn't become any better after my encounter with the Bolians, especially after a group of Chalnoths had started a fight in the early afternoon. It had been broken up quickly enough, but one of our security guards had had to go to the medical bay for a long cut and a broken finger. All in all, I was glad the day was over, even though the next day would most likely be more of the same. Nothing much changed on Karos VII, each day exactly like the pervious in both climate and work, the ten-hour day following the ten-hour night over and over.

"Come to Zargell's tomorrow night," Kixa prompted me. "Charlie is off finally so we're going." Charlie was Kixa's sometime but not really human boyfriend who worked as a cargo loader in ship bay three. She rarely saw him because of conflicting work schedules, which contributed to their actual relationship problems. The other problem was that, as Kixa usually said whatever she wanted to without regards for niceties, Charlie found it hard to stick around for more than a few weeks in a row. Right now, though, they were apparently getting along.

"You're going to get old and alone."

Sometimes I found Kixa a little much to handle, too.

I promised Kixa I'd see her the next day and left her at an intersection. Kixa continued toward her inner-circle, second-story apartment while I turned and made my way to my third-circle tenant house. The original Karos VII colony had been divided into three concentric circles, growing steadily large as they went out, that separated the colony into areas of space docks and commerce, housing, and agriculture. Over the years, the lines had been blurred somewhat, with inner-circle stores turning into houses, second-circle apartments into shops, and the large, third-circle warehouses into cheap apartments.

After I parted with Kixa, I walked on for a few more minutes before finding a dark building to duck into. Night was approaching quickly now, the normally burnt red sky turning a deeper, blood tint. Standing in the doorway of a closed-up, darkened building, I watched a few people hurry past. When the street cleared, I closed my eyes, allowing myself to pull away from the world, shifting my form. A second later, I opened my eyes. My Sandorian form was gone. In my place sat a Karosian Desert Dove.

The bird was larger than a Terran Dove, its feathers longer and more ragged. A dusty red hue covered most of it, ending in white streaks on the wingtips and tail. At around five inches tall and nine long, the word was one of the larger native birds on the planet.

Stepping out of the shadows, I happened forward and spread my wings, beating them upward and lifting myself into flight. It only took a few wing beats to become accustomed to the absence of arms, instead tucking my legs up and stretching my neck forward. Coming up over the building, a few more wing beats brought me into one of the warm air currents coming in off the desert. Allowing it to carry me, I soared across the lights of the buildings below.

My nose wasn't as good as my Sandorian one, but I could still smell the desert in the air. The warm smell of sand mingled with the spicy scent of the Xiris trees that popped up in groves throughout the desert. The desert itself was endless, stretching out in all direction as far as the eye could see in innumerable dunes of burning sand. Whoever had dreamed of building a colony here had been mad, for it could never be self-sufficient. But it was beautiful.

Too soon, my flight ended and I alighted on the hard ground between two metal buildings. As I shifted back, a flock of Desert Doves fled up into the air, startled by my sudden appearance. The Dove was my favourite form here for a reason: there were hundreds of them around the city, feeding on what scraps they could find or given. They were native to the deserts but had long ago learned the advantages of civilization. No one gave them a second thought anymore.

The street in front of my living quarters was line with similar buildings, all of originally built to house food stores or equipment but most now converted into living spaces for workers in the inner circle. The inner circle was truly the heart of the city, where most of the work took place. Dozens of spacecraft arrived and departed daily, stopping to refuel or trade with the numerous merchants who set up shop here on Karos VII. All those merchants and docks need workers so every morning a flood of them entered the inner circle while every night they returned to their homes in the second or third. As I was doing.

Emerging onto the darkened street, I fell into step behind a group of humans and followed them into our building. Inside, a narrow hallway led straight through, branching off to provide access to first floor apartments. I took the stairs up to the second floor, where I lived. The stairs were a sturdy metal and continued up to the fourth floor. I left them at the second and walked straight into the heart of the building. Nondescript doors opened up on either side of me as I walked, with the occasional offshoot of the hallway to lessen the monotony. Finally, almost at the back of the building, I came to a stop in front of my door, gray and undecorated just like all the rest. Reaching into a few pockets, I eventually found my key and unlocked the door, pushing it open. There were no fancy automatic doors or turbolifts here, just manual ones and stairs.

Inside, I closed the door and relocked it, bolting it as well. There wasn't much crime on Karos VII, not in the third circle at least, where there was little to steal. What was worth stealing would be found at the ship docks, but there was no harm in being careful. It was habit.

I found the light panel by touch and pushed a button, illuminating the dark room with panels installed in the ceiling. After setting my key keys on the small table to my right, I made my way over to the sink along the right wall to wash up. Dust was everywhere in the city when the wind blew and was hard to avoid. When I flew in the warm air currents, as I usually did on my way to and from work, the dust was impossible to avoid.

My apartment was sparsely furnished but it did have a refrigeration unit and a cooker, both of which had come with the apartment. The couch had, too, and was bolted to the floor against the left wall. I'd acquired the table, coffee table, and two stools myself, either by trading or buying them. The table I had actually found in a discard pile, and I wasn't about to turn my nose up at it.

Just because I had a refrigerator didn't mean I had food in it, though. Opening a few drawers by touch, I pulled out a few nutrient packs and stood up. I needed to go shopping at the market in the inner-circle but I hadn't gotten around to it yet. Flying to work nearly everyday had become a habit and was so much easier than walking that I hadn't been willing to burden myself with groceries. I got paid the next day, though, so I could go shopping then. Nutrient packs weren't exactly my favourite food.

I placed the two packs into the cooker (where they would expand and reconstitute) and then went to the portion of my flat designated the bedroom. The bedroom was actually a part of the main room with no wall separating the two and held only a bed and a shelf for clothing and other knickknacks. There wasn't much in the rooms except for the furniture, no pictures or books. Four months wasn't long enough to collect the kind of things to make the apartment into a home, not for me, anyway. I was used to traveling light and taking nothing, not even clothes, with me. I was getting better, building up the kind of things most people had all along, but it was slow.

Letting my clothing disappear, I took some real clothes off the shelf and slid on a pair of pants and a shirt. I wasn't sure how I created clothing, didn't know how it worked. I did know that I wore my created clothing most days for at least a few minutes before I changed into my uniform at work. We had lockers at work, something I was grateful for, because it meant I could leave my clothes at work and fly in. Walking to the inner circle wouldn't take longer than forty-five minutes or so but I preferred flying.

Stretching out on the bed for a minute, I lay still until the cooker began to chime loudly, indicating that the nutrients packs were now reconstituted, edible if not exactly delicious. Collecting it and then sitting down at the small table, I took my time eating and then went straight to bed.

Author's Note: This first chapter doesn't have any TNG characters in it, obviously. They are going to show up in Chapter 2, but for now I want to show what Tasha has been up to since she left the Enterprise. I really enjoyed writing about her in "Shifting Sands" so I want to giver her a chapter to come back into her own before bringing in the canon characters.

Oh, and if you liked this first chapter, please review it! Doesn't even have to be long or a critique, just whether or not you liked it. Thanks!