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The summer air in San Francisco, so close by the Bay, was sticky and humid and windy. Jankom Pog knew about weather. Of course he did. He wasn’t stupid. He didn’t have to catch up . If anything it was the cadets, getting sunburned outside, that needed to learn a thing or two. When the Academy campus was dotted with perfectly good, perfectly air-conditioned buildings, why would they choose to subject themselves to the whims of air currents and stellar radiation?
Murf and Dal were traipsing through a desert somewhere on one of the other continents of Earth, surviving, as if they needed some old guy with a delta to teach them that. Zero had taken Gwyn to a museum to cheer her up, and while Jankom Pog’s idea of cheering up included many things, it did not include the old things of dead people. And Rok would be walking along an underwater mountain by now, looking at underwater animals. She had been very adamant that they were animals, despite looking like salad to Jankom Pog when she had shown him the database entry.
No, Jankom Pog had something much better to do on this summer afternoon. He would take the chance to fine tune his replicator while the staff - and most of the students - were out of the cafeteria.
There was a whole row of replicators in the vast, mostly empty room, sure. But one of them had a loose access panel in the Jefferies tube at the back, and if you weren’t afraid of campus security you could stick just about anything into its menu database from there.
Something like an isolinear chip with his hot dog recipe, arranged just so in their crunchy-outside, fluffy-inside buns with sauces, tangy pickles and alliums fried to perfect sweetness. None of his friends, not even Jankom Pog himself, had known about the Federation. This had been the small part the Janeway had shown him. Not the simulation of Archer’s Enterprise on the holodeck, or even the historical database came close. The hot dogs were something he could touch and smell and bite into. Sweet. Sour. Tangy. Crunchy. Fluffy. Juicy. Chewy. Processed beyond all recognition. Warm and nourishing and easy to take in and share with the others.
Home, in a way. Something new his home had turned into while he had been out in space.
Somebody else was at his replicator. Jankom Pog heaved a sigh, but he was feeling magnanimous. So he stood politely behind the tall, slender woman with the sleek, black hair and started quietly see-sawing from the heels to the balls of his feet while she went through the menu.
Jankom Pog looked around the empty hall. Empty chairs, empty tables, empty counter where they served the cooked meals during the semesters. Almost empty. A Human was quietly but intensely talking with a Ferengi in Operations Gold. Every so often the Ferengi hissed uncomfortably, bouncing a cane in his grip. If anything, that seemed to stoke the Human’s enthusiasm.
The woman made a huffing noise, evidently still looking for something very specific.
That was odd. Jankom Pog spotted a cluster of small, silver-grey scales on her knuckles. He looked up at her again with a thoughtful hum. She wasn’t Human. And her shoulders were very broad. A row of scales ran up both sides of her neck.
“No luck?” he asked.
“I just need a moment”, she hissed back with exasperation.
Jankom Pog rolled his eyes and gave her a moment. He clapped his hand against his multi-mitt, first in front of him, then behind his back. He hummed, thoughtful.
“So, are you supposed to be, like, a… a Kazon?”
The woman in front of him turned, looked down from where she had expected his face and chuckled. She covered her mouth with her hand and launched into a full laugh.
Jankom Pog pouted. It wasn't like he could just ask Janeway - the real Janeway, not the Admiral. Although she seemed nice, he conceded. Nice-ish. For someone who had hunted them across the galaxy.
He pondered the alien woman like one of Zero’s holonovels. No tusks to speak of, same as all his friends. Shiny black hair arranged in a halo around her face, like the Kazon. Greyish-pinkish skin, with more faint grey scales clustered around the eyes, the jaw, and the forehead. Her nose was smoother than Jankom's, but not as smooth as Dal's, with barely pronounced ridges between dark eyes. A fine net of wrinkles ran alongside her nose, creasing up when she smiled. There was a lump in the middle of her forehead. Jankom Pog considered and dismissed the possibility of a bruise from a fight. She was too well put together for that.
“That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”
She turned her back on him again, flicking through the replicator’s menu. Jankom Pog glanced around her, but the flitting letters revealed no further insights to him.
“And what are you supposed to be anyway? Some kind of Tellarite?”
Jankom Pog flinched. She grinned at him over her shoulder, but looked worried when she saw his expression.
The replicator menu stopped spinning. Jalfreezi. Jambalaya. Jamug Tunvik.
“Is everything alright…”, she hesitated, “...cadet?”
“Yeah. Jankom Pog is just trying to make conversation, you know.”
Jankom Pog crossed his arms defiantly. He didn’t give a sharper reply - for all he knew this bigwig was yet another person who held his fate, or worse, his friends’ citizenships, in her hands.
She narrowed her eyes, just eluding recognition. “Jankom Pog. Is that your name? It sounds familiar. Have we met?”
“Nope. Jankom Pog has met many people, but not your species.” He gestured to the replicator behind her. “Did you make up your mind or can Jankom Pog get his hot dog now?”
“Oh.” She turned around. “Computer, show me what you have for jumja.”
Jankom Pog leaned in closer.
Jumja fruit, whole. Jumja fruit, dried. Jumja juice. Jumja juice, cloudy. Jumja stick, Quark’s Bar original* recipe** ©***. Hard candy, jumja flavour. Sponge cake, jumja filling.
“Computer, a bottle of kamoy syrup, 200 grams of salt-fried ants, and two dozen jumja fruit, whole. In a carrier bag. And a coffee, skim milk, salt and honey, hot.”
The young mechanic watched in horror as the cafeteria replicator struggled through the triple order. A doleful hum started emanating from behind the panel.
“Uh. That’s a good way to get ant syrup and two dozen coffees, ma’am”, he ventured.
The woman turned back to him with a faintly amused expression. “I know it’s only the Academy, but surely Starfleet replicators are up to this. Don't worry!”
There was a pitiful whine from the replicator as it tried materialising something, gave up, tried again, and finally settled on “Unable to materialise ants, salt-fried. Specify request.”
“Why would Jankom Pog worry?!” He threw up his hands with the absurdity of this woman rattling off her shopping list in a cafeteria. “All this poor replicator does is make one food from the menu for one person. You just made it cross-reference with the cultural databanks over in xenoanthropology-” Jankom Pog threw his arm up, pointing across the echoing expanse of the cafeteria, and out across the courtyard to a sleepy giant of glass and steel, “-and if it can work out what you want it’ll give you your two dozen jumja fruit individually. Because that’s what it’s supposed to do. Then you’ll complain about your order because it isn’t the recipe you wanted. And then you’ll try again, while Jankom Pog will starve and die! Nothing at all to worry about.”
She looked between the small Tellarite behind her and the replicator in front of her, and decided to address Jankom Pog.
“Look, if you want to go ahead and order, why don’t you just use this one?” She gestured two metres to the right, then tried her luck again. “Computer: Cardassian rock ants, dead . 200 grams. Salt-fried at 56 degrees R until the chitin peels off, then tumbled in the salt until you have just the meat. Room temperature. In a sealed container.”
Jankom Pog followed the line of her arm and put on a magnanimous smile. The prospect of Hot Dog álà Protostar boosted his patience. “No, no. Jankom Pog will wait. This is Jankom Pog’s replicator.”
“Acknowledged. Consulting xenoanthropological databank for: Rock ant, Cardassian”, the machine chirped.
“See? Jankom Pog’s replicator is very good”, Jankom Pog said with a note of pride.
She raised her eye ridges at him. “Okay. I’ll bite. What makes this replicator yours?”
Jankom Pog straightened up another inch with pride. “You’ll see if you try one of Jankom Pog’s hot dogs. After you’re done with your groceries.”
Finally, finally the replicator whirred. A golden light appeared, winked out and left behind a plain tub in the food slot.
“Oh!” The woman lit up and reached for the tub so fast the hem of her long skirt flared out. She cracked the lid of the container with impatient fingers and inhaled. Her enthusiasm faded just like the light in the replicator.
“What?” Jankom Pog asked.
She shook her head. “They don’t smell right. They don’t have any smell.”
Jankom Pog titled his head. “They have existed for a few seconds and they’re room temperature. How much of a smell were you expecting?”
She seemed to consider this. “You’re right. I’m sure they’ll be fine.” She sighed and added, “Better than nothing.”
The replicator chirped to acknowledge her acceptance. Then it glowed again, leaving behind a dark blue canvas bag with the Delta emblazoned on it in white.
“You want to grab that now, ma’am”, Jankom Pog said dryly.
“Huh? But where is-”
Another glow interrupted them. A fist-sized purple lump covered in small spines rolled gently towards the edge of the food slot and dropped.
Jankom Pog caught it in his multi-mitt, offering it upwards. “Is that the fruit you wanted?”
Another glow.
“Oh, prophet’s tears”, the woman cursed and hastily picked up the next lump, and the next, and…
Jankom Pog laughed, consequences be damned, but held out the net attachment of his prosthetic to catch the rapid dispensation of fruit. The bottle of syrup came last, and the woman put that into her bag very delicately, so it wouldn’t squash the fruit.
She stepped aside and gestured for Jankom Pog to step up to the replicator.
“Thank you for your help, Mister Pog.”
He chuckled. The flattery worked, even though he dismissed it. “Oh, Jankom Pog’s not a mister.”
He offered his hand in the standard Earth greeting he had adopted in the few weeks since they had arrived in San Francisco. His fleshy one. People seemed keen to avoid touching the multi-mitt. Which suited Jankom Pog just fine, because the multi-mitt was his and he didn’t like the grubby bigwigs touching it anyway.
The slender woman shook it, her own hand disappearing in Jankom’s. Jankom Pog was surprised at how cool her skin and the few scales scattered along her knuckles were - not quite as chill as the air conditioned cafeteria, but not far off either. She surprised him again when he determined dark stains under her nails and in the creases of her palms. She must have been working with some kind of oil. But her grip was definitely not strong enough for a mechanic.
She dipped into a half-curtsy, making the handshake a little more convenient for the looming alien.
“Tora Ziyal.”
There was an expectant pause after Tora Ziyal. As if she wanted him to say something.
So Jankom Pog said, awkwardly, “Jankom Pog.”
Another laugh.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
Jankom Pog squinted, suspecting a trap, but detected nothing but delight in the question.
“You sound so happy that Jankom Pog doesn’t know you, you’re making Jankom Pog think you’re some kind of criminal”, he said, only half-joking.
She grinned again, ear to scaly ear. “I’m not.”
He shrugged and rested his arms on his hips, making himself seem bigger and less concerned.
“Well, Jankom Pog doesn’t care if you are one, Tora Ziyal.”
Her eyes sparkled with a challenge. “Oh? Have you met many criminals, Jankom Pog? Ruthless Kazon bounty hunters perhaps?”
“Yes.”
She observed him now, and the creases around her nose faded.
“You’re serious, aren’t you? You really had a run in with bounty hunters?” She frowned. “What could you possibly have done to earn a bounty?”
Jankom Pog grinned widely, extending one tool of his multi-mitt for every count. “I deserted my colony ship. I broke out of a labour camp. I stole a ship. And then I blew it up.”
The woman shook her head in disbelief. “You didn’t. You’re lying.”
Jankom Pog nodded wistfully and walked past her. “Jankom Pog forgives you.” He cleared his throat and addressed his replicator. “Two Jankom Dogs with napkins, please.”
Another chuckle. “A custom recipe?”
“Thank you”, he said to the replicator.
Jankom Pog reached up to grab his food and offered one to the woman.
“Thank you”, she echoed him, shuffled her coffee mug and grocery bag into one hand and took the hot dog in the other. She sniffed again.
Jankom Pog took a hearty bite of his before addressing her. “You’re - mh, they’re good, well done, Jankom Pog - you’re welcome. It’s not yucky ants and syrup. You’ll like it. Trust me.”
She took a small bite, hummed approvingly and nodded appreciatively.
“Prophet’s, I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. Do you think I can get two more for my husband and the lieutenant over there?”
She took a ravenous bite - “They’re really good!” - and that was enough encouragement for Jankom Pog to replicate another two hot dogs and follow in Tora Ziyal’s wake to the table that was occupied by the two men, a recording microphone, an array of PADDs, several chewed pens, and a confetti spattering of bunched up and straightened out notepaper. The mess had spread in a semi circle from the epicentre of the Human, who was still gesturing excitedly.
“-don’t you think the public have a right to know what happened? I mean, come on, mysterious ships, wormholes, and what, time travel?”
“Nobody said anything about time travel!” the Ferengi with two gold pips on his collar protested. There was a note of panic in his voice.
A predatory grin spread across the Human’s face. “Allegations of time travel denied by anonymous Starfleet informant.”
The Ferengi raised his index finger like a phaser. “I’m not your informant!”
“Then just put in a good word with Admiral Janeway! Just one measly little interview, that’s all I’m asking. Come on, Nog, your father is the Grand Nagus! How can she say no to your divine mandate?”
“So ask her yourself!” he hissed. “Or did she already say no to your divine mandate?”
“Jake. Nog.” Tora Ziyal’s tone carried a weariness that betrayed familiarity. “This is Jankom Pog. You should try his hot dogs. Jankom - or is it Pog?”
“Jankom Pog”, said Jankom Pog.
She shrugged. “Alright. Jankom Pog, meet Sisko-Tora Jake and Nog.”
Both of the men looked at him, so Jankom Pog stuck his chin out and carefully added hot dogs to the mess on the table.
There were pips and divine mandates and mentions of the Admiral, so Jankom Pog chose the path of strategic courtesy. Like Gwyn had taught him.
“A pleasure to meet you”, he said to the table at large.
“Food!” cried the Lieutenant, relieved, and made a grab for the hot dogs.
Ziyal’s husband, the Human, picked up the other one. He seemed to be content to use the hot dog for gesturing, adding the odd piece of onion to his circle on the table.
“Nice to meet you too, kid. Good call on the hot dogs, sweet-taste. Did you get your ants?”
The Lieutenant swallowed a bite and pointed at Jankom Pog’s hands. “That is an interesting prosthetic, cadet”, he commented. “I haven’t seen anything like it from Starfleet Medical. Did you build it yourself?”
Jankom Pog saluted with his multi-mitt, setting several of his finger attachments whirring. “Yes, sir. This is a Jankom Pog original.”
Shrewd eyes lit up above a pointy grin. “Perfect! You can show me how it works! I’m on shore leave anyway until the Defiant-B is ready. I’ll meet you in the undergrad library tomorrow at fifteen hundred hours. Study room two.”
Jankom Pog was suspicious. He had braced himself for derision, but this sounded like curiosity. He decided to risk it.
“Uh. Yes, sir.”
“But Nog! You wanted to introduce me to Admiral Janeway!”
This Jake-person was persistent. Better to excuse himself from this particular group, before any the Admiral’s aides could accuse him of sharing classified information. He recalled Gwyn’s lesson.
“It was nice meeting you, but Jankom has to go now.”
Ziyal gave him a warm, mustard-stained smile. “It was nice meeting you too, Jankom Pog. Thanks for your help!”
"Enjoy your ant syrup, Tora Ziyal!" He grinned and turned, heading toward the service corridor behind the replicators, licking grease off his fingers.
The voice of the Lieutenant carried over to him and he went. "What did you say his name was, Ziyal? I think I know him from somewhere."
"Right?"
"Forget the kid, Nog. Now, about Janeway..."