“I guess not,” she said.
“You don’t mind our cutting this short, then?”
“Not at all,” said Jiterica.
“Sorry,” he said—a bit lamely, he thought.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she told him. “I understand.”
No, he thought, I don’t think you do. But he said, “Thanks. See you later, then?”
“Yes,” said Jiterica, “later.”
And she got up to leave. Paris got up as well, purely out of habit. However, he wasn’t feeling particularly chivalrous after what he had just done.
He watched Jiterica turn and walk away from him. As she got closer to the doors, they opened for her, and he felt an unexpected urge to call her back—to tell her he wanted her to stay after all. But he resisted it.
Then the doors closed, and she was gone.
He took a deep breath, then expelled it. He hoped that he hadn’t hurt Jiterica’s feelings. After all, it wasn’t her fault that he felt this way about her.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It had just happened.
But Paris wouldn’t let it go any further. From now on, he told himself, I’ll have to steer clear of Jiterica.
It wouldn’t be easy. She was used to getting together with him on a regular basis. No doubt she would find it odd that he was suddenly unavailable.
And she wasn’t the only one who would miss their get-togethers. I’ll miss them too, Paris thought.
If only he hadn’t walked in on her while she was out of her containment suit. If only their friendship could have remained exactly what it was, without any awkward surprises.
Unfortunately, things had changed. For both their sakes, he had to keep his distance.
It was the only way.
* * *
Picard tore off a piece of Andorian spice bread from the dark brown loaf he was sharing with Guinan, leaned back against the bulkhead of an Anjottu freighter that had been converted into a gaudy, badly illuminated marketplace, and pondered the situation in which he found himself.
In less than four hours, Demmix’s flight—or rather, the flight the captain had come to think of as Demmix’s—was scheduled to depart. And despite their having canvassed every Zartani hotel and restaurant in the area, neither he nor Guinan had the slightest idea of Demmix’s whereabouts.
If they couldn’t catch up with him before he got on that flight, Picard would forever lose all that Demmix knew about the Ubarrak’s warships.
He was determined to keep that from happening—though he couldn’t imagine how.
“There must be another way to track him down,” said the captain, “something we’re overlooking….”
Guinan looked at him. “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”
Picard met her gaze. “Yes.”
“Well, you must know something more about him than the fact that he’s a Zartani.”
She was right, of course. Demmix had other needs besides a place to sleep and a place to eat. Picard just had to remember what they were.
He thought back to Elyrion III and its expanses of bone white prairie, baking beneath an immense, red sun. He and Demmix were among the galaxy’s elite back then, individuals with something to prove both to their peers and to themselves.
And for that reason, they were very much on edge. But Picard had learned to conceal his emotions, whereas Demmix wore his anxieties on his sleeve.
Then again, he was a nervous individual, even for a Zartani—so much so, in fact, that when he and Picard went through the mandatory, pre-race bioscans, Demmix’s blood had shown trace quantities of—
Suddenly Picard had the answer he had been seeking. “That’s it!” he rasped.
Guinan looked at him. “What is?”
He smiled triumphantly. “I think I know how we can locate Demmix.”
By the time Steej reached the alley between the last two warehouses in the line, a crowd had gathered at the alley’s mouth. But then, corpses were rare in Oblivion, and this one was so fresh that the blood had barely clotted.
At least, that was the report Steej had received from Yiropta, a stocky, bowlegged Enolian who was one of the security director’s most trusted officers.
Yiropta hadn’t discovered the body; that was the work of a passerby who had noticed something strange in the depths of the alley. But it was Yiropta who had responded to the calls for security, assessed the extent of the victim’s injuries, and sealed off the alley until his superior could arrive.
He was nothing if not efficient. But then, Enolians were widely known for their efficiency.
The assembled onlookers had their backs to Steej, so none of them noticed his approach. But he wasn’t about to shove his way into their midst.
“Security business,” he said, wielding the phrase like a well-honed knife.
Suddenly, faces turned—all kinds of faces, representing all kinds of planetary origins. A moment later, Steej found that a path had opened for him.
Yiropta stood at the end of it. “Over here, sir,” he said, jerking a stubby thumb over his shoulder.
As Steej joined him, he saw a body lying in the alleyway. As Yiropta had noted when he called in, it was a Cardassian. A big one, too.
“Any idea who he is?” he asked.
“His name is Olij Merant,” said Yiropta, eyeing his superior over prominent, slitted cheekbones. “He arrived aboard a Phebracian passenger transport a few weeks ago. He was the only Cardassian aboard.”
Steej knelt beside the dead man. The blackened hole in his tunic made it clear how he was murdered.
“Cut down at close range,” the Enolian noted. “A robbery? Or perhaps something more personal…a dispute between friends. Or between business associates.”
Steej considered all three possibilities—and rejected them. There was more to this than met the eye.
In all the time he had worked security on Oblivion, he had never seen a Cardassian involved in a crime. Now, all of a sudden, it had happened twice in a matter of just a few hours—in locations that, interestingly enough, weren’t very far apart from one another.
And then there was the matter of the bomb, in a city that hadn’t seen that kind of incident in years. He couldn’t believe it had been a coincidence.
As the ancient Rythrians were fond of pointing out, there were no coincidences in life. Clearly, there was something going on—something bigger and more complicated than Steej was initially inclined to believe.
“Place him in stasis,” Steej said of the corpse. “I may want to take a closer look at him later.”
“As you wish,” said Yiropta.
The security director got to his feet and looked out the mouth of the alley. The faces of the crowd looked back at him—among them, perhaps, the face of the Cardassian’s killer.
Or the bomber.
Or both.
He was less and less convinced that Hill was responsible for what had happened in the plaza—at least on his own. Not if this murder and the bombing were at all related.
Briefly, Steej toyed with the idea of prohibiting all Cardassians from leaving Oblivion. After all, he was already monitoring departures in his search for Hill. But the city’s administrators didn’t like him to impose travel restrictions, as they were bad for business.
Besides, he didn’t know that the murderer was a Cardassian. It might have been the Zartani hotel manager. Or anyone else in the city, for that matter.
“Yiropta,” he said, “one other thing.”
“Commander?” said the Enolian.
“Send word to the other quarters that we’ll need to borrow some of their officers. I want to find our friend Hill and I want to find him now.”
Even if he wasn’t guilty, he might be able to shed some light on those who were. In Steej’s mind, that alone was reason to continue the search.
Yiropta nodded. “Of course, Commander.”
“And the Cardassian who choked that hotel manager—I want to find him as well.”
“Right away,�
�� said Yiropta.
Steej spared the Cardassian’s carcass one last glance. Then he made his way through the crowd and headed back to his office, more determined than ever to get at the truth.
Chapter Eleven
“SO WHAT’S YOUR IDEA?” Guinan asked her companion.
Picard, who was sitting next to her in an obscure corner of the bazaar, had a serious fire in his eyes. But then, he seemed to believe that he had come up with the lead they needed.
“Demmix had a medication,” he said. “He always carried it with him. Something for stress.”
“You said he was the nervous type,” Guinan recalled.
Picard nodded. “To say the least. And in a Zartani, stress is a much more serious condition than in, for instance, a human. It can even be fatal.”
Guinan hadn’t been aware of that. But then, she hadn’t had occasion to speak with many Zartani.
“This medication,” said Picard, “had to be made fresh all the time. After a couple of days, it would have lost its potency. I left orders to have some waiting for Demmix on my ship, but—”
“But thanks to that bomb,” she noted, “he’s not on your ship. And if he’s feeling as stressed as we think he is—”
“He’ll need to obtain some medication,” said Picard, picking up the thread. “The question is—”
“Where would he find it?” Guinan smiled to herself. “I know just the place. It’s not far from here, either.”
“Then let’s go,” said her companion.
He got to his feet and extended his hand to her. As she took it, she imagined that she could feel a current of energy running through him—a current of optimism that she hadn’t felt in the longest time.
Like a drowning woman, she clung to Picard for as long as she could. Then she was on her feet and she no longer had an excuse to do so.
“It’s this way,” she said, barely able to catch her breath. And she started in the direction of the exit.
Phigus Simenon didn’t often have to discipline the crewmen who reported to him in engineering. By the time they arrived in his section, they usually knew how he felt about the importance of their individual contributions.
But every once in a while, there was an exception. In fact, he was looking at one.
What really annoyed the Gnalish was that the slacker in question wasn’t a newcomer to engineering. He had worked a rotation under Simenon before—twice, actually, if memory served. And both those times, he had acquitted himself well.
But he wasn’t doing that this time. For some reason, he was screwing up royally.
Waddling over to the workstation where Ensign Nikolas was sitting, Simenon peered over the man’s shoulder. He could see Nikolas’s monitor screen, where a brightly colored graphic was tracking the efficiency of the ship’s recently upgraded power-distribution system.
“Well,” said the chief engineer, “we now know ever so intimately how the EPS grid is working on Deck Six. But to get some idea of how it’s working on all the other decks, you might want to call up some additional data.” He tapped a key on the workstation’s board. “Like so.”
Nikolas kept his eyes on the screen. “Sorry, sir.”
“Unless, of course,” said Simenon, “there’s some reason you were focusing on Deck Six to the exclusion of all the others.”
“No, sir,” said the ensign. “No reason.”
The engineer maneuvered himself into a position between Nikolas and the screen, forcing him to meet his superior’s gaze. “Then why were you dwelling on that particular information?”
The ensign frowned as he looked into Simenon’s eyes. “I have no excuse, sir.”
No excuse, the Gnalish thought. But he had been around humans long enough to know when they were suffering from lack of sleep—and Nikolas, with his dark, fleshy lower lids, was a textbook example of the problem.
“You can barely keep your eyes open,” Simenon spat. “How do you expect to carry out your responsibilities in my section?”
Nikolas didn’t seem nearly as offended as the engineer had intended. “All I can do is my best,” he said.
Wrong answer, thought the Gnalish, a tide of anger rising in his throat—and he proceeded to address the ensign’s mistake with a colorful array of his favorite words and phrases.
Though he had a feeling it wouldn’t do much good.
Picard stood alongside Guinan in a small but handsomely furnished apothecary shop, and regarded the Dranoon who appeared to be the shop’s proprietor.
The fellow was as every bit as broad and powerful-looking as Guinan’s friend Dahlen. Being a male, however, he was understandably a bit taller. He also seemed older, judging by the thinning of his sleek, black mane.
“May I help you?” he asked in a deep, resonant voice.
Guinan placed her hands on the polished-wood counter between them. “How about a little information?”
The Dranoon laughed. “Information is a most precious commodity. It could be rather costly.”
“Even for an old friend?” Picard’s companion asked.
The Dranoon’s expression changed to one of surprise, then disbelief. “Guinan? Is that you?”
She smiled. “It’s me, all right.”
The proprietor examined her from various angles. “Remarkable. And if you don’t mind my asking, what occasioned this rather ill-advised change of appearance?”
“Believe me,” she said, “you don’t want to know. Just tell me one thing—did a Zartani come in here recently to buy a bottle of Geyanna extract?”
The Dranoon nodded his squarish head. “Yes. Just this morning, actually. He purchased a small supply, though he could have saved on a larger one.” His brow knit. “Why do you ask?”
“You don’t want to know that either,” said Guinan.
The Dranoon considered the remark for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he expelled a husky sigh and said, “All right. If you say so.”
Picard felt grateful. As Guinan had pointed out, it would be better for the Dranoon if he didn’t have any knowledge of what they were up to. But it was even more important to the captain and his companion.
Just then, he caught a glimpse of a blue-and-black uniform through the shop’s transparent display window. “Guinan,” he whispered urgently.
She had noticed it too, it seemed. But if she had even considered asking her friend to conceal them, the option quickly became unavailable. Before either Guinan or Picard could make a move, a Tyrheddan security officer walked through the wide-open doorway of the apothecary shop.
He wasn’t alone, either. The captain saw several of the officer’s colleagues outside, waiting for him.
If the Dranoon was nervous, he didn’t show it. “Good day, Lieutenant. How can I help you?”
The security officer didn’t respond with the same warmth, scanning the shop with his single cyclopean eye. “We’re looking for a couple of humans.” He handed the proprietor a padd. “Have you seen them?”
The Dranoon studied the image on the padd’s tiny screen. Picard saw his face there, right beside Guinan’s. But thanks to Dahlen, they didn’t look like that anymore.
“Can’t say I have,” the Dranoon said. He handed the padd back to the officer. “What did they do?”
Muscles twitched around the officer’s eye. “Never mind that. Just watch for them. If you catch sight of them, report it immediately.”
“I will,” the Dranoon promised him.
The officer stared at him for a full second, as if to impress the store owner with the seriousness of the matter. Then he turned to Picard and Guinan.
For a moment, he seemed to see that there was something odd about them. Something familiar, even. The captain felt a drop of perspiration trickle down the back of his neck.
Then the officer said, “That goes for you too.”
Picard nodded. “Of course.”
“No problem,” Guinan assured him.
With a last glance at the Dranoon, the officer left the shop.
It wasn’t until after he and his men were all out of sight that Picard felt a wave of relief.
Turning to Guinan’s friend, he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?” the Dranoon asked. “I answered honestly. I haven’t seen those people.” He glanced at Guinan in a conspiratorial way. “Lately, at least.”
“Before we were interrupted,” said Picard’s companion, “we were talking about a Zartani. I don’t suppose he made mention of where he was staying?”
The Dranoon’s features squeezed together as he thought about it. “I don’t believe so,” he said at last.
Picard’s hopes fell.
“Do you remember him saying anything about where he was headed?” Guinan asked.
Her friend thought some more—and a light went on in his round, dark eyes. “As I was preparing the extract, he asked about a footwear vendor. He said his heel hurt him.”
The captain nodded. “That sounds right.” The same slender leg and foot bones that made Demmix’s people such splendid runners also made them vulnerable to injury.
“Where did you send him?” Guinan asked.
“There’s a place two hulls down,” said the Dranoon, “in that direction.” And he pointed with a thick green finger.
Picard followed the gesture to a distant hatch. Then he turned to his companion. “Do you know of any Zartani accommodations in that direction?”
Guinan shook her head. “No. There are a couple of hotels that way, but neither of them is designed to accommodate Zartani.”
The captain frowned. Would Demmix have risked staying in a non-Zartani sleeping environment in order to avoid detection until he left Oblivion? It might explain why they were having such a difficult time finding him.
“Thanks,” Guinan told the owner of the apothecary shop. “I guess I owe you one.”
He smiled paternally. “You owe me more than one, but you can take your time paying me back.” Then, to Picard, he said, “I hope you find the fellow you’re looking for.”
“So do I,” said the captain.
Enabran Tain eyed the manager of the Singing Waters across the top of the fellow’s stained metal desk.
Stargazer Oblivion Page 11