He pours coffee into two cups and asks me how I take it. Everyone knows that trekkers and whatever starwarsians call themselves aren’t supposed to have anything to do with one another. As though we haven’t totally betrayed the stupid uniforms we’re standing around in. “I feel totally thrashed,” he says as though we haven’t committed a terrible crime. He signs something and comes back with the tray of dishes in metal domes. Pulling them up and shoving my feet into my boots, I turn around as he opens the door. He gets up and I fumble around in the covers until I discover my pants. Not with an Ewok-cuddling, Force-feeling, Padawan-braid-wearing, lightsaber-rammed-up-his-ass Jedi. Tall riding boots, outer tunic, tabard, obi. The buzzer on the door rings, but I’m still staring. I know I look completely stupid, but I just stand there in the doorway. There, sitting on the bed, is a thin guy with blond hair and a cute, lopsided smile. I wish I had my pants, but I pull down my pleather tunic as low as it can go and walk out of the bathroom. I feel better, like the aspirin is kicking in, and I take a deep breath.
” I fill a water glass from the sink and guzzle it. “I ordered coffees and some food,” he says. “Are you okay?” comes a voice from beyond the door. Blinking at my own face in the mirror, I realize how different I look. I pull off the braided wig that’s twisted around anyway, peel off my ridge and bald cap, and wash off as much of the makeup and adhesive as I can without cold cream or Bond-Off. For another, he had a Vulcan girlfriend who was watching us both like she wanted to have some kind of pon-farr excuse to kick my ass. I remember arm-wrestling a cadet, but I can’t believe I would have gone back to his room. There were a couple of cute guys with really proper costumes and phasers that glowed a little bit when they were fired. I don’t see any pots of makeup or prosthetics, so I figure he’s not a Klingon. Whoever is in the bedroom is really tidy his toiletries are still in a little bag. I splash water on my face and chew up a couple of aspirins. A party seething with costumed people for us to growl at: Peacekeepers, Cobra Command, Stormtroopers, Browncoats. Then we rode the escalator, raising our weapons in the air with a single shout, to the party that was happening on the main floor. I think back on how we sang rousing battle songs in our hotel room, accompanied by swigs of that horrible blood wine. In the bathroom, I turn the lock and go over the night before. The only thing that’s familiar is my bat’leH leaning against the wall, the curved blade gleaming in the little bit of sun sneaking through the drawn shades.
It must be in the same hotel, but none of my stuff is here and there is only one single big bed instead of the two doubles that Kadi, D’ghor, and Noggra were sharing with me. The voice has an accent that might be Irish. “Arizhel?” someone says from the other side of the bed as I stagger toward a door I hope isn’t a closet. Pushing off the sheets, I realize that I’m still wearing my uniform and that my bra is still on. I open my eyes and reason with myself that if I can crawl into the hotel bathroom, I can get some ibuprofen from my bag and stop my head from hurting quite so much. So when Kadi and D’ghor decided last night that we had to make blood wine with Everclear instead of tequila, and twice as much Tabasco as the recipe called for, I had to drink it or be a wimp. The thing about advancing in the Klingon ranks is that you have to be badass. Immediately, a wave of nausea makes me regret moving and I try to lie as still as I can until it passes. The spirit gum I used to attach my nose ridge and eyebrows sticks to the sheets as I roll over. I awake tangled up in scratchy sheets with my head pounding and the taste of cheap alcohol and Tabasco still in my mouth. ONCE YOU’RE A JEDI, YOU’RE A JEDI ALL THE WAY