Doctor Phlox was, at that moment, about as close to 'blissful' as it was physically possible for him to be.
Denobulans in general were inclined to take the cheerful view of life whenever possible, and Phlox was an optimist even by Denobulan standards.
He had enjoyed the visit to Madam Chang's in San Francisco and renewing his acquaintance with her renowned egg-drop soup, which had been every bit as delicious as he remembered. But the disturbance in the bar had upset him, and the persistent manifestations of xenophobia had made him uncomfortable. It had been the ideal solution when he'd heard of the refit being carried out to the medical center on Jupiter Station. Until the repairs to Enterprise were completed he could hide himself away – to use the strange Human idiom, 'as snug as an insect in a carpet' – and be both safe and happy, catching up on the latest research in between contributing his expertise in alternative medicine to the medical staff there. In what spare time he had he could even manage to resume his correspondence with his old friend Doctor Lucas, which had suffered sadly during the months in the Expanse.
He'd naturally considered going back to Denobula for a visit to catch up with his wives and extended family, and that would have been splendid too. But his home planet was a long way distant, and not all of his wives were there at present. All things considered, it seemed a better use of his time to retreat to the comforts of Jupiter Station; so that was what he had done, and was supremely happy in the company of several other doctors who were equally broad-minded in their opinions.
Today had begun as a day like any other. He had been given the use of one of the new laboratories, where he settled down with a set of slides and a marvelous new neutron microscope which he was more than inclined to believe his dear Feezal would have been involved in designing.
His work was absorbing, of course, but from time to time he noticed in passing that the assistants who were also working there were oddly inexpert. Perhaps they were trainees, but they seemed clumsy in handling the instruments and seemed to take an inordinate interest in the contents of their PADDs or even in their surroundings rather than what was on the table in front of them.
Still, security on the station was high, so they would not have been admitted unless they had Starfleet clearance. And it wasn't as if they had appeared out of nowhere one day; they were there on quite a regular basis. Phlox reminded himself charitably that everyone had to start somewhere, and resumed his study of the slides.
He was about to start documenting his findings when the door hissed open. This was not exactly an unusual event, but one of the assistants glanced around nevertheless. And suddenly – far too much so for Phlox to see exactly where it had come from – there was a gun in his hand, and the laboratory was crisscrossed by plasma fire.
Phlox would never have described himself as heroic. He knew when discretion was the better part of valor and flung himself under cover – in this case, the nearby table. Nevertheless, he grabbed the leg of one of the stools, hoping that somebody might come close enough to get a violent and unexpected shove in the knee with it.
There was a sudden thud behind him. He twisted around, coming almost face to face with one of the rather incompetent assistants.
He was quite dead. Half of his head was missing, the cross-section of the remaining half cauterized by the plasma blast.
There was more firing. It seemed to go on a lot longer than it probably did, but eventually there were sounds of a struggle. It ended with a short, brutal noise that sounded a lot like something breaking that wasn't going to be mendable.
There were now three pairs of feet in the room. Phlox gripped his stool leg and hoped one of them would come closer.
Unfortunately, none of them did. He had only a few seconds to register the sight of a face looking in at him, its details largely obscured by the phase pistol leveled in front of it. Though he had time to notice the ears.
'What on Denobula do you think you're doing?' wouldn't have been much by way of memorable last words, on reflection.
But he didn't get time to utter them anyway.