The Last Stand - Brad Ferguson [70]
“What’s the matter, Bitt?” Riker asked mildly. “Is there something wrong?”
“Tube cleaner!” Bitt shouted into Riker’s face. “Shirker! What piece of wasted hull did they scrape you off, you functionless knob?”
“I really don’t think this kind of language is called for,” Wiggin said, his eyes wide. “After all, this is a—”
“Quiet, wreckage!” Bitt roared, not bothering to look at Wiggin. “I’m talking to the garbage master here. Listen, you lump of used protein, you stuck us for a double pitcher back there, and I mean to collect!”
A gasp seemed to run all around the bistro, and the crowd quieted. The soft background music continued to drift easily through the sound system for a moment or two until someone finally thought to stop it.
The bistro was silent. “A double pitcher?” Riker asked Bitt. “Do you mean the two empty—ah. I see. Are you somehow under the impression that I intended to supply you with two pitchers of, uh, whatever had been in the pitcher?”
“You took them from me, slag,” Bitt spat. “Then the facilitator came to me a few minutes later with two filled pitchers and a debit notice, and I see you sitting in here with this dead weight.”
“Hey, wait a minute—” Wiggin began.
“Spin down, waste bag,” Bitt told him. “You’re not involved in this—yet.”
“That’s more than enough,” Riker interrupted. He allowed his own expression to darken by tapping into his lingering resentment of an unfortunate and embarrassing incident that had happened during his plebe year at the Academy. Riker’s controlled anger welled up so strongly that Troi, sensing it, blinked at its suddenness.
“First, you are mistaken,” Riker said bitingly. “Neither my spouse nor I ever intended to join you or your friends. Second, you thrust the pitchers on me. I incurred no obligation to you or anyone else. I did more than I had to do when I gave the pitchers to the facilitator and directed her to return them to you.”
“Wait a minute,” Bitt said. “That’s not the way—”
“Quiet!” Riker barked. “Your breach of etiquette in this matter is obvious. Even a child knows better.”
“‘Breach of etiquette’?” Bitt cried, outraged. “You’re babbling nonsense, shaft scraper. You took the pitchers! Just who in hull do you think you are?”
Wiggin rose quickly. “How glad I am that you asked,” he said. “Allow me to present my friends Dex Portside Sanitation Systems Supervisor and his spouse, Pralla Portside Consumables Monitor.”
Bitt’s color faded. “Supervisor?” he echoed in a small voice. His friends took a step back.
“And his spouse,” Wiggin said cheerfully. “Dex and Pralla, I call them, seeing as how we’re friends and all.”
“But he isn’t wearing his insigne,” Bitt said weakly. “Neither is she.”
“Are you now presuming to tell us how we’re to dress off watch?” Riker said in a threatening tone. “I didn’t intend to bring rank into this, but—”
“No!” Bitt said hastily. “Not at all, Dex Portside Sanitation Systems Supervisor!” He looked very worried indeed.
Riker pursued it. “Can’t my spouse and I enjoy a party on this great day without some drunken idiot like you ruining it for us? What in—in hull is your designation, anyway?”
“Bitt Portside Ship’s Stores Accountant Journeyman,” the Krann stammered. “Forgive me, Supervisor. I—I did not know w-who you were.” One of the females with Bitt looked stricken.
“You were never introduced, Bitt?” Wiggin asked, marveling. “You didn’t even know their names, and yet you think they were under some sort of obligation to buy you a round? It does appear that the breach of protocol isn’t on my friend Dex’s side, not at all.”
“Quiet, scuttler,” hissed Bitt.
“No, you be quiet,” Riker grated. “Now listen to this. You’ve disgraced yourself, and you’ve embarrassed our hosts on this great and special day. You will apologize to