Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [25]
“Have you seen him lately?” asked Lyneea.
The Pandrilite shook his head. “No, I haven’t. The last time was probably a couple of weeks ago, now that I think about it. And that’s a little strange, because he’s around here all the time.”
“Around where?” Lyneea pressed.
“You know,” said the Pandrilite. “The tavern.”
Riker didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. “
You’re lying,” he told the Pandrilite. “You’re in league with whoever’s framing him.”
“No. I’m telling the truth—I swear it.” He paused. “What do you mean, framing him? Is he wanted for something?”
Riker frowned. He’d already gone too far. “Never mind.”
“Conlon must have had agents,” said Lyneea, dragging the conversation back on course. “People he met at the tavern. Who were they?”
The Pandrilite didn’t seem eager to provide the answer. But he must have been less eager to face Drohner. “As far as I can tell, he worked with only one outside player. An Impriman by the name of Bosch. Reggidor Bosch.”
“You know,” said Lyneea, “if my companion is right and you’re lying to us—”
“I know, I know.” The Pandrilite held up his hands. “I heard you the first time. But I’m giving it to you straight. Bosch. You can find him in the Gelden Muzza. That’s where he stays.”
Lyneea nodded. “Thanks.”
It took a little while to find the projectile gun; it was mixed in with some of the garbage that had fallen out of the container. Riker had to clean it with a rag before he could shove it into his tunic for safekeeping.
When he was done, Lyneea gestured with the blaster. “Let’s get a move on,” she told the Pandrilite. “I think my companion is getting cold.”
It was untrue. Riker was all but oblivious to the weather. If anything, he was hot—seething, in fact—as he tried to reconcile the Pandrilite’s information with his faith in his friend.
Damn it, Teller. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
Chapter Five
THE FIRST TIME Wesley’s door beeped, he thought he’d imagined it. That’s how deep he was in his research.
The second time, however, he was listening for it, and therefore it was unmistakable. The boy sighed, the slightest bit annoyed at the interruption.
“Come in,” he said.
The doors parted to reveal Data. Suddenly Wesley forgot that he was annoyed.
Data was probably the only one on the ship—his mother included—who would listen to him expound indefinitely on whatever subject had most recently caught his fancy and never, but never, invent an excuse to leave before Wesley was finished. The boy still hadn’t figured out if the android was really interested or just too polite to leave him hanging, but it almost didn’t matter, as long as he listened.
Data greeted him. “I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said.
“Heck no.” Wesley motioned the android to a seat. “In fact, I’m glad to see you.”
“It is nice of you to say so,” said Data, folding himself into the chair. “Actually, I—”
“You see,” the boy plunged on, caught up in his excitement, “I’ve been curious about Commander Riker’s mission. But I haven’t been able to get the captain to drop a hint about it—Priority One and all that.” He frowned. “I think Mr. Worf knows something about it, too, but he’s just as closemouthed as the captain. So I decided to check out Impriman culture on the library computer and see what I could dig up.”
Data’s features seemed to recast themselves as Wesley spoke—a subtle change, but one the boy couldn’t help noticing. Was he boring Data now, too?
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said the android. “Please proceed.” “
You’re not just saying that so you won’t hurt my feelings? I mean, you really want to hear this?”
“Yes, Wesley. I really do.”
Thank God. “Okay—so where was I? Oh, yeah. Impriman culture. It’s pretty interesting—for instance, the institution of the madraga. In one respect, it’s like some sort of monarchy, with control passing from parent to child. But in all other respects, it’s more like one of Earth’s old business