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black goo.
    “Meet Gary Severin, my pet Horta,” Matt said. “You know what a Horta is?”
    “Not a clue,” Jim lied again, when in fact he knew all about the lumpy, silica-based, acid-spewing subterranean monsters that debuted in the classic
Trek
episode, “Devil in the Dark.” But he played dumb, forcing Matt to spend more than a minute explaining the concept.
    “I call Gary a Horta because he’s large and lumpy, too,” Matt concluded, just in case the comparison wasn’t clear.
    “I also suffer from acid reflux,” Gary said forlornly.
    Jim frowned. “Is that why you’re covered in slime?”
    Matt walked over to Jim and put his arm around his shoulders. He left it there, as if they were old friends. “Gary had a run-in a few miles back with a psycho soccer mom . . . or something.”
    “Or something?” Jim asked.
    “He can tell you all about it. As a matter of fact I guarantee he’ll tell you since he hasn’t shut up for one goddamn minute since it happened. But never mind all that. Right now we need to find our rooms and change our clothes, because the Klingon Feast starts at . . . T’Poc?”
    “Seven o’clock in the Gweagal Room,” the Vulcan said tone-lessly.
    “We’ll be there ten minutes early,” Matt decided, “so we can find a table big enough for all five of us.”
    Jim did the math and then shot a look at his sister, who seemed to have found something very interesting on the garage floor to observe. “You told me
we
were meeting for dinner at seven,” he reminded her. “This was your plan?”
    “I’m booked all weekend,” Rayna apologized. “But I really want to see you.”
    “Trust me, you’re going to love it,” Matt said. “There’s a bat’leth demonstration, barrels of bloodwine, and all the gagh you can eat.”
    “I don’t want to spoil your Trek buzz,” Jim said. “You go eat your gagh and have fun.”
    “Please come,” Rayna said. “For me?”
    “Actually . . .”
    “Did I mention that Matt has been hitting on me nonstop for the last three hours?”
    “I’ll be there,” Jim decided. He retrieved a trio of room keys from his pocket and distributed them to Matt, Rayna, and T’Poc. “You’re all checked in,” he explained. “Just take the elevators over there. Gary and I will take the freight elevator way over
there
, so he won’t scare off the paying guests.”
    “Where are the elevators?” Matt asked, his head swiveling around. “I don’t see them.”
    “Lose the shades,” T’Poc said.
    Matt, with great reluctance, finally took off his Ray-Bans.
    “Ah, target acquired,” he said. “See you later, Jim, Brother of Rayna. And here’s something for your college fund.”
    He slipped a ten-dollar bill into the breast pocket of Jim’s jacket.
    Jim felt a flash of true anger. He was about to suggest someplace else where Matt could slip his money when, once again, he caught a glimpse of his sister. And he refrained. Instead, he grabbed Gary’s duffel bag from inside the RV and then led him across the dimly lit garage toward the service elevators.
    “Hey, Oscar,” he said into his radio. “I’ve got my sister and her friends. Thanks for letting me know they were coming.”
    “Can’t talk now, buddy,” came the static-filled reply. “I got some knuckleheads causing trouble out here. Standing in the street. Harassing cars. Drunk frat boys, I’m guessing.”
    “You need help?” Jim asked.
    “Go have fun with your sister,” Oscar told him. “I’ve got this situation under control.”
    Jim clicked off his radio and turned his attention to Gary. “I don’t mean for this to come out the wrong way,” he said, “but is your buddy Matt as big of an asshole as he seems?”
    “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Gary promised. “Once he settles down at the Klingon Feast and has a few drinks, his douche-bag powers will go to full strength. He’ll crank it all the way up to warp 9.95.”
    Jim assumed this was bad. Very bad.
    The two plodded the