Rolling my eyes with exasperation, I heaved a long sigh and shook my head at the one and only Alan Christopher. We were curled up on the soft, black sofa in our quarters attempting to find a name for our unborn child… but after hearing Alan’s first several suggestions, I was starting to think that ultimately, the decision would be mine alone.
Slowly, I turned my head to meet his curious gaze—and shook my head again. “Can’t you think of anything halfway normal?”
He chuckled. “What’s wrong with Kor’cha? That is completely normal.”
I shook my head. “For a Klingon. The last time I checked, I was human. We’re still trying to figure out what you are.”
He shrugged indolently. “Maybe I’m part Klingon.”
I didn’t believe him for a second, and quickly worked to disprove his alleged theory. “Then where are your ridges?” I asked, pointing at his forehead.
Quickly, Alan pulled in a deep lungful of air. “We do not discuss that with outsiders,” he said, imitating the deep, powerful voice of a Klingon.
Giggling like a schoolgirl, I sheepishly buried my head in Alan’s shoulder and shook my head. “You’re so silly,” I told him amidst my giggles.
“Watch your tongue, human,” said Alan, continuing his Klingon ruse, “or I may be forced to extract your heart with a … dagger-like-thing… and… eat it before your very eyes.”
It was then that I realized Alan was no Klingon warrior, for all true warriors knew their weapons like the back of their hand. I very much doubted that many Klingons were proud to wield a ‘dagger-like-thing.’ Slowly, I raised my lips to his ear and whispered, “d’k’tahg.”
He rolled his eyes. “Since when are you the Klingon expert?”
“Since the course on Klingon culture at Starfleet Academy… you know, the one every cadet is required to take?” I scooted a few centimeters away from him, and rose to my feet. “I guess you slept through it.”
Almost immediately, Alan cast me a sarcastic look, then proudly proclaimed, “nuqDaq ‘oH puchpa’’e’”
I only smiled, and let him believe he was the master of all things Klingon. Of course, I wanted to be there the day he arrived on the Klingon Homeworld and asked some mighty warrior were the nearest waste extraction facility was located. Perhaps after that, Alan would even get to see a d’k’tahg.
But for the time being, I would have to settle for him seeing the interiors of sickbay. It was time for my prenatal exam, and today’s meeting with Doctor Hartman was the one I had been anticipating for weeks: we would soon know the gender of our child.
My heart raced with excitement at the prospect. I very much wanted a daughter; I could teach her all sorts of girly things, mess around with her hair and dress her up in the cutest little outfits. Of course, if it was a boy… I guess I would be a bit disappointed—but I wouldn’t go so far as to complain.
Swiftly, I grabbed Alan’s hand and—at seeing his relative resistance—practically dragged him from the sofa. He quickly came to his senses and rose to his feet before he could fall to the floor—a sight that would have been humorous, but ultimately, wasting time. From what I could tell, we were already running behind schedule, and this was one appointment that I didn’t want to be late for.
“Come on,” I chirped, again grabbing Alan’s hand and leading him through the doors.
As they hissed shut behind us, we quickly ventured through a series of short corridors before coming upon a turbolift. After a brief ride therein, we arrived on deck five, and shortly thereafter, stood in the middle of sickbay.
Doctor Hartman stood waiting with her hands on her hips, and a frown on her face. “You’re late,” she said sternly as we wandered closer.
The Doctor was never one for pleasantries. She simply did her job, and nothing more. Of course… she did her job very well, which very much justified her lacking bedside manner—to a point. But not wanting to quarrel with her on this day, I simply smiled and rolled my eyes back to Alan. “He was fooling around,” I said cheerfully.
Immediately, the Doctor’s eyes darted to Alan. “Men,” she grumbled with a hint of a smile on her face. With that said, she hastily came about and headed for the surgical bay in the back of the sickbay. I started to follow, but even before I could move an inch, a pair of hands gently fell upon my shoulders, holding me in place.
“I was fooling around?” asked Alan softly.
Without looking back, I shrugged and said, “You think a delicate flower like me could be at fault?”
Alan smiled—though I couldn’t see it, I just knew he did. “Of course not,” he said warmly, releasing me from his gentle grip.
“What do you think about Angela?” I asked Alan as I made my way to the surgical bay. After a brief moment of silence, I turned to him to see a quirky look resting upon his face.
“Angela?” he repeated.
I nodded. “You know, if it’s a girl, we could name her Angela.”
“And what if it’s a boy?”
I shook my head. “It won’t be,” I chirped, sounding much more sure of myself than I actually was.
“Hell, with instinct like that, who needs me,” said Doctor Hartman as I came up alongside of her. Her gaze shifted to the bed. “Up you go.”
I nodded, and started to make my little hop up to the bed—but quickly found that particular task not as easy as it had been four months earlier. Slightly embarrassed by my inability to complete such a simple task, I blushed, and sheepishly turned to Alan. “Help?”
A smile melted his face, and he quickly came to my side and helped me onto the bed. “What would you do without me?” he asked.
“I might be a little thinner,” I quipped. Carefully, I scooted onto the bed and made myself as comfortable as possible—quickly noticing that comfort was a relative term. I felt bloated, my back was killing me, I ached almost everywhere else, and a sudden wave of nausea seemed to be coming over my body. If I had known pregnancy felt like this, I probably wouldn’t have been so eager to start a family.
Once I was settled, Doctor Hartman stood at the foot of the bio-bed with her medical tricorder in hand. “Are you ready?”
My gaze shifted from the Doctor, to Alan, and back. “Yes,” I said confidently. I could feel the excitement flowing through my veins, an excitement that grew as the gentle chirps of Sarah’s tricorder started to float through the air—but just as suddenly as it started, the chirping stopped. “What is it?” I asked, concerned that something was wrong.
But when my gaze fell upon Doctor Hartman, I knew my fears were unjustified. The smile on her face was wide—something I had never seen before. “Nothing is wrong,” she said. “You’re daughter is perfectly healthy.”