Hogan vs. Quark
by 80sarcades
A sincere note to my female readers:
Of late, I have received a number of derogatory PM's concerning the misogynistic tone of this fictional tale. Rest assured, dear friends, that I do not personally espouse the Neanderthalish nonprogressive nomenclature conveyed by my speakwrite. I have no desire to be malquoted by my oldspeak but would instead rather be known as a doublepluspositive conduit for goodthink.*
To express that my deliberately doctored duckspeak is not in line with the perceived wordcrime presented in this thoughttale I've asked the distinguished Doctor Benjamin Franklin 'Hawkeye' Pierce to express his views on the rest of the forthcoming chapters. Dr. Pierce?
(snoring)
Hawkeye!
A dark haired man rose slightly from the bed before he gratefully sank down into its gentle embrace. "You again," he groused tiredly. "Can't you at least send a blonde to wake me up?"
Hawkeye...
"All right, already," the doctor grumbled before he rose up to switch on the overhead light. Tired eyes blinked as he tried to focus on reality. "Yeah, ok, I remember," he wearily slurred. "You wanted me to look at that story of yours." He then rummaged though the untidy pile of magazines next to his cot. "Let's see...Vixen Volleyball, Nudist Monthly..."
"While I dearly appreciate fan fiction authors," a grumpy Bostonian accent piped up, "could we possibly do this when I don't have to listen to a recitation of Pierce's filth?"
"Lay off, Charles," B.J. Hunnicut interjected, defending his bunkmate and friend. "That's the price of fame." He blearily looked at the canvas ceiling. "Of course, anytime other than three am would have been nice..."
At that moment Hawkeye started to giggle. "A planet of women that runs around naked?" he blurted incredulously. "Better not tell Margaret. She'd have a fit."
Uh, Hawkeye, that's not what it's about...
The doctor, ignoring the unseen author, continued to flip pages as his now-alert eyes scanned the contents. "So this General Hogan, whoever he is, can do that?" he snickered, a trace of sheer envy in his eyes. "You'd think someone in the M*A*S*H universe could give me a storyline like that..."
"Dear God," Major Winchester moaned through the pillow covering his face. "Make him stop!"
B.J. propped himself onto his left arm. "Hawk," he began reasonably if not irritably. "Can this wait until morning? And if not, can I set that on fire?"
His friend barely registered the threat as the chortle turned into a full hyena's peal of laughter that echoed across the camp. Curious, B.J. picked up the discarded manuscript and glanced at the last page.
"Wouldn't want to be that guy...," he muttered.
At that moment the door to the Swamp almost flew off its hinges as a stern looking blonde tornado wearing a pink bathrobe made her presence known.
"PIERCE!" she screamed. As one, the men cringed. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY ARE YOU KEEPING EVERYONE AWAKE WITH YOUR RIDICULOUS LAUGHING?! SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!"
The head surgeon dazzled the irate woman with his most charming smile. "Did I tell you how lovely you look today?" he innocently asked.
"Stuff it, Captain!" Major Margaret Houlihan spat, not giving an inch. "Or have you forgotten about the patients in Post Op?"
"Sorry, Margaret," Pierce said, his voice genuinely contrite. The nurse's stance eased ever so slightly in response. "It wasn't our fault, either-" he started to explain.
"Ours?" Charles said indignantly, rising up to protest. "Don't include myself in your shenanigans, Pierce!"
"For once I agree with Chuck," Hunnicut declared. "We had nothing to do with this!"
"Majors, Captains," a tired voice, its owner cradling a M1 rifle against a red dress, broke in behind them. "Could you pipe down? It's hard enough to sleep on guard duty."
"Stay out of this, Klinger!" Margaret snarled, her voice returned to full roar before she rounded on Hawkeye. "And just what were you laughing at?"
"Margaret, relax," Pierce soothed before he retrieved the manuscript from B.J.. "It was all a big misunderstanding. I was just reading this fan fiction story for one of the authors and I-"
At that moment the rest of his sentence was cut off by a long gasp of shocked breath as the woman's eyes locked onto one of the nudist magazines laying on the floor. Just then, a gruff voice broke the still air.
"Would you mind explaining the confab at three in the morning?" Colonel Sherman Potter's aged - yet still powerful - voice sounded out. Margaret snatched the magazine from the floor and held it in front of the camp commander's face.
"And what would you say this looks like, Colonel?" she asked, her voice dangerously low.
Potter studied the buxom - and quite nude - woman on the front cover. "Well, I think I can say she's not Doris Day," he offered.
A high-pitched growl emanated from the female officer's throat. "It's filth!" she declared resolutely. "Disgusting filth!"
"That would have been my second guess," Potter deadpanned kindly. A recognizable chuckle from behind send Margaret whirling.
"Pierce!" she screeched, throwing the magazine down on the floor. "You're an officer! You're supposed to be responsible!"
"I've always been responsible!" Hawkeye shot back, unfazed. "When have I ever failed to bring alcohol on a first date?"
The head nurse looked scandalized. "You pervert!" she spat, disgust in her eyes. "What kind of man does that to innocent women?"
"There is a reason we call it the Swamp, Margaret," Pierce hotly protested. "Besides, none of this is my fault!"
"And just whose fault is it?" Major Houlihan growled, her strident voice attracting a small - and somewhat awake - crowd assembling outside the walls of the tent. In response, Hawkeye looked at the ceiling and the author above it all.
Well...I hesitantly began. My apologies, ma'am, I said formally, but it really wasn't Hawkeye's fault. I asked him to look over the story and I used the nudie magazines as a prop-
"MEN!" Margaret screamed, fully enraged as she yelled to the world above. "YOU'RE ALL THE SAME! NOTHING MORE THAN A LOUSY NO-GOOD BUNCH OF PERVERTS!"
"I'm beginning to regret even coming over here..." Potter muttered.
But ma'am, I said weakly in protest. You can't even see anything in fanfiction-
"And I wish we could be written out of this scene so we can get some sleep!" Winchester finished, his tired voice infused with anger.
"Me, too," Hunnicut piped in.
"Me, three," Klinger moaned.
"Oh, all of you, SHUT UP!" With that pronouncement she stormed out of the tent.
"Well, I guess she's better now..." Pierce began.
Suddenly, a primal scream of womanly rage erupted into the night moments before the long-suffering front door was torn from its hinges by female hands and thrown across the compound. The owner of the appendages, her anger briefly sated, turned to the shocked occupants of the tent before gracefully bowing to a light clapping from the outside crowd.
"Gentlemen..." she smiled, the cheerful grin not quite reaching her fiery eyes. With that, she turned for her tent.
"...and I think that deserves a drink," Hawkeye finished morosely, looking gratefully at the still.
Hawkeye...
Pierce looked towards the ceiling. "What now?" he moaned.
You didn't tell me what you thought of the rest of the chapters.
"Oh, that," he nodded. He paused and fixed drinks for the other men before he raised his glass in a toast. "Great job," he declared before he took a healthy swig of alcohol. "The girls are going to kill you."
Thanks, Hawkeye, I sarcastically groused. Not to worry, though. I'll write you a good story one of these days.
"At least make it interesting," Pierce muttered. "I'm getting tired of being stereotyped."
Not to worry, I promised. It'll be an all new plot! Something you haven't done before.
"Finally!" the head surgeon declared, relieved to hear the good news. "You don't know how tiring it is to repeat the same bad jokes over and over again. No one is original nowadays." He took another sip from his martini glass and looked upward. "So tell me," he began, his voice turning low and seductive, "are you setting me up with a blonde, brunette...or redhead?" He wagged his eyebrows suggestively while flashing his trademark grin.
Oh, definitely brunette, I told him. It'll be that whole mysterious-object-changes Hawkeye-into-a-woman bit. What'ya think?
A white sheen of sweat suddenly appeared on Hawkeye's pale skin moments before he downed the last of the alcohol. "You wouldn't..." he whispered, his now-fearful voice trailing off into a deathly silence. His bunkmates, terrified they would be included in the author's fendish plot, remained silent.
But it'll be great! I went on, happily enthused. The scene where you have a 'girl's night out' with Major Houlihan and swap nail polish will be so majorly awesome! Then, I'll set you up on that hot date with Colonel Flagg! And that's just the beginning!
Pierce slumped to the floor, dazed. "It's not fair..." he murmured, tears streaming down his handsome cheeks before he began to sob openly.
Uh, Hawkeye?
Hawkeye?
(more sobbing)
Oh, boy... The author turned and bowed to his unseen audience. Uh, ladies and germs, my apologies! While I fix this please enjoy the rest of the story!
Meanwhile, back in Roswell...
The craft, though well lighted inside, was enough to give General Hogan a slight chill. Granted, most of the instruments were probably harmless. However...
...with my luck so far I'd probably hit the self-destruct. Which, on reflection, might not be a bad thing.
Even so, the intangible feeling from his last visit hovered at the edge of his senses. Again, it was nothing he could put his finger on. Still it was enough to keep him alert as they began their search
The two men poked around the small bridge for a long moment but found nothing of real interest. Sadly, the rest of the ship was just as disappointing. It reminded Hogan of a cramped cargo plane more than anything else.
The only real curiosity lay in one of the rear areas of the ship. A number of sturdy looking yellow and gray barrels, their sides dented, lay haphazardly on the metal floor of what was obviously a cargo area. Some of the lids had blown off the containers to reveal empty blackened interiors.
But not on the outside of the barrels, Robert thought. Indeed, none of the exterior surfaces were scorched in any way. Odd. Some kind of explosive? he wondered, discarding the possibility almost immediately. The container would have blown apart if that we were the case. Curious, they upended one of the intact heavy vessels and removed the lid to find...
...rocks?
The two officers looked at the pile of multicolored nuggets before they stared at one another in confusion.
"Fuel, maybe?" Kinch ventured, though the doubt came through loud and clear. The General merely shrugged and picked up a handful of the contents. He twirled several tiny pieces between his fingers and was startled to see them spark with a harmless orange light. Carefully, he laid the rocks back in the container and closed the lid.
"This just gets stranger and stranger..." he muttered. The captain, for his part, merely nodded in agreement.
"So what do you want to do?" he asked. The older man gave the barrel a thoughtful look before he turned back to reality.
"We keep looking," he announced. "And pray we get lucky."
Unfortunately, the rest of the search proved to be fruitless. Kinch, ever the tinkerer, continued to nose around the engine area while Hogan returned to the front of the small starcraft.
Once there he stood behind a white and gray half circular ball that had been described as a sort of 'helm' that controlled the ship. As he looked at the shiny black viewscreen - off now but it had showed a true-to-life color view of the hangar interior during their earlier visit - it was hard to imagine that anything so odd shaped could travel between the stars.
But why not? He questioned. After all, it wasn't too long ago that Lindbergh flew across the Atlantic in a single-seat airplane. Now we send planes across the water without a single thought. That's progress. Given time, we could develop our own space ships and reach for whatever's out there. Of that I have no doubt.
I wonder if there are other humans out there right now?
It was a dubious thought, given the appearance of their visitors, but he would always wonder...
And I guess I'll never really know. Yet the inconsistency of the alien presence still bothered him.
Hogan pondered the situation before his aide-de-camp returned. "We're out of luck, General," he reluctantly admitted. "Unless they have a hidden safe somewhere there's nothing here. No souvenirs, except for this." He pulled a shiny token out of his bellows pocket and handed it over. "Found it in one of the crew quarters," he explained. "Some kind of symbol, I think."
General Hogan took the proffered piece and studied it. A silverish stylized triangle superimposed on a rounded golden rectangle greeted his inquisitive eyes. "It might be their version of a unit patch," he offered in lieu of a better explanation. Kinch merely shrugged.
Robert handed the triangle back to his aide. "Well, we tried," the senior man sighed, accepting apparent defeat. "You might as well let Quark know we're ready to return." The look that crossed his face indicated what he thought of the idea. "Personally, I'd rather deal with Burkhalter," he declared, meaning it. "At least you know where you stood with him."
His aide chuckled knowingly as he looked around the bridge. "Never thought I'd say it, but this almost makes me miss Stalag 13." Kinch's lips, widening into a small grin, contrasted sharply with the coldness in his eyes. "Almost."
"Yeah," Hogan breathed, understanding the feeling.
"I'll let them know, General," he quietly acknowledged. With that, he left his boss alone in the orange-tinged chamber. Impulsively, and against his better judgement, Robert reached out to tap some of the black displays and was unsurprised when they failed to light up.
They did earlier. I guess they shut them down to save power on whatever's running this ship.
He eyed the few functioning panels - illuminated in blocks and lines of what he assumed to be the Ferengi language - and stepped forward. As he did so his foot caught on an unseen object and he stumbled forward. Fortunately his right hand managed to catch the edge of a padded chair moments before he would have struck a panel with his head. A dry laugh escaped his lips as he shakily, if not embarrassingly, composed himself.
Here lies Robert Hogan, he quipped darkly. He survived Stalag 13 only to be done in by his own shoelace aboard an alien starship! A grim smile spread across his tight lips. Someone else would have to take over the negotiations, wouldn't they?
He then frowned at the supposedly happy thought.
My replacement would probably give them whatever they wanted. Hell, a few of my so-called colleagues would probably turn over their mother-in-law just to get their hands on one of those phaser rifles. All in the name of national security, of course.
It's a win-win for everyone. Or so it seems.
So why do I have the feeling that Quark has another plan in mind? The idea, hovering around his gut, was impossible to shake.
There's just too many problems with his story, Hogan judged. First off, you have three aliens - all of them related - and only one of them proposes an important business deal. Who in their right mind does that? In contrast, the State Department would have sent a team of seasoned professionals to negotiate. That doesn't even include the advisers that would show off their wonderful goodies.
Secondly: they have weapons but no security detail. There is no way that I would go into a potentially hostile situation without someone to back me up.
Third: The cargo. You'd think their hold would be filled with more examples of technology than the ad-hoc display they put on earlier. Instead they're carrying the alien equivalent of...well, shiny rocks.
Of course there are probably differences. They may negotiate alone for all I know. Quark was right about one thing: trading is a game of skill. Still, I'd bet my pension that something's up.
I have no doubt that this 'Ferengi Alliance', whatever it is, exists. On the other hand the chances of these guys actually representing them are pretty low. I'd go further and say nonexistent. Honestly, if I represented an all-powerful alliance I'd bring proof - a letter from their Grand Nagus would have done the trick - instead of just showing up out of the blue.
Final point, and one worth making: they're comfortable around us. Too comfortable. Much more than I would have been if I had been watching their people from newsreels or whatever they use. What's more, I have the feeling they've done this before. And the kid…
He recalled an earlier conversation between the uncle and his nephew.
The kid has me intrigued. He knows something. Nearly blurted it out before his uncle shut him up. What it is, I have no idea. I almost considered questioning him separately. Guess I should have, he regretted inwardly. Still, I'd swear he knows something important.
But what?
The General tapped his finger on one of the dark consoles.
What if my hunch is correct? Let's play it out to the obvious conclusion: The Ferengi are trying to escape. They'll promise the natives - us - whatever we want to let them go. After that, we'll never see them again.
Somehow I have the feeling that's what happening here. Hogan let out a long breath of frustration as he stared into a unknown future. This reminds me of the story of the guy who fooled the Brits into believing he was the leader of some distant country. He got away with it and a bunch of loot, too.**
History could be repeating itself. In a manner of speaking.
Robert walked to the front of the 'bridge' and studied the smooth surface for a moment. The rest of the small room, now reflected in the dark glass, came into sharp focus.
This is a no-win situation. A wry grin then curled his lips in sudden humor.
A no-win scenario would be one heck of a training exercise!
So how do I prove my hunch? Hogan narrowed his eyes at the mirrored reflection.
What am I missing?
General Hogan turned and let his eyes slowly roam across the cramped bridge once more. As he did so a sudden glint of reflected light caught his attention. He followed the source and saw a small rounded protrusion breaking the smooth gap between one of the consoles and the lighted electronic wall. Frowning, he carefully used his fingertips to ease the hidden prize from the narrow opening.
Souvenir number two, I presume?
That thought was quickly followed by:
What the heck is this?
He studied the dark glass that covered the upper half of the strange flat object. A rainbow mixture of colored rectangles on the bottom part of the gray oddity gave off a soft glow that indicated a unknown purpose.
Some kind of device, the General logically reasoned. Their version of a notepad?
Hogan turned the object over and was surprised to see a brown label located on the lower backside. Even more shockingly, the white lettering was in English:
DataPADD
And then, in smaller letters to the right:
Personal Access Display Device
Below the second phrase was a series of numbers and letters that were instantly recognizable.
Some sort of serial number. He flipped the item over several times in disbelief.
It's in English, he repeated dully, looking at the words again. English. He hefted the light 'padd' in his hand.
I've never seen anything like it.
Girding himself, he hesitantly reached out to touch one of the colored keys...and was instantly rewarded as the dark glass flared to life. As if by magic, golden words formed beneath the smooth surface. The photo of a handsome Negro man - a human! - stared at him from the right side of the glass. He drank in the readable text beside the image with unabashed interest.
Gabriel Bell? Sanctuary Districts?
It was the dates that shocked him the most. September 1st-3rd 2024. Robert blinked, then yet again. For a moment he finally wondered if he had gone crazy.
Maybe I have, he thought. I'm reading the impossible on something that shouldn't exist aboard a ship built by aliens. If that wouldn't drive someone bonkers, what would?
He tapped another 'button' and was surprised when the words disappeared to show a title page.
It's a book, his stunned mind belatedly realized. A book. The title said it all:
A Cadet's Guide to Sector 001: Earth
A/N: This was the second of two major issues I had with the episode. Honestly, you can't tell me that the guys that searched the shuttle (and unless the Ferengi trio staggered outside into the desert they would have) missed the equivalent of an iPad with all of Earth's future history on it? It'd be the same thing as someone finding a recent copy of Grays Sports Almanac back in the 1950's! Someone should really make a movie about that...
Gabriel Bell was a character in the DS9 episode 'Past Tense'.
No, I won't turn Hawkeye into a woman. At least for now (insert evil laughter here).
*'1984', a novel by George Orwell, is a classic telling of futuristic Britain. Wikipedia has a list of the above terms; I couldn't resist using them!
**This actually happened. In the early part of the 19th century a guy by the name of Gregor MacGregor swindled 200,000 pounds out of investors by pretending he was the leader of a county called Poyais (located in Honduras). He even went so far as to charter ships full of settlers for the nonexistent land. Of the 250 colonists that sailed off for Poyais only some 50 returned. Believe it or not but he was never brought to justice until he tried the same scheme in France. Even then, he got away and was able to hang on to some of the money. Real justice there...
It's not beyond the realm of possibility that Nog (the owner of the guide above) could have received a Starfleet com badge (or a deactivated one) as a going away present prior to his departure from DS9. He was on his way to Starfleet Academy at that point.
Character side note: Sorry for making you two-dimensional, Margaret. You were such a great character in the later seasons! I'll make it up to you. I promise...ish...