Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [29]
The lift was in need of repair. It jerked as it came to a halt at the third floor, and the doors opened on completely different sequence schedules.
Bosch’s suite was to the left and all the way down the hall, which gave them a chance to sample the threadbare imitation Andorian-weave carpet. At one time, Riker knew from his last stay on Imprima, the Golden Muzza had tried to affect an offworldly kind of splendor. It had long since faded.
He knocked on the door, an elaborately embellished version of the sort found on ancient Earth. It sounded hollow.
For a moment or two, nothing. Then, “Who is it?”
“Room service,” said Lyneea.
The door swung open a crack, and a slice of Impriman features appeared in the opening. “I didn’t order any—”
By the time the Impriman realized that it wasn’t room service, Riker had inserted his boot between the door and the jamb. Lyneea pushed it open the rest of the way.
The occupant retreated a couple of steps and stared at them, fear etched on his narrow face. Riker felt sorry for him. Obviously this kind of thing didn’t happen to him very often, despite his line of work.
Lyneea closed the door behind them gently, so as not to scare the fellow any more than he was already scared.
“What … what do you want?” asked Bosch.
“Not what you may think,” said Lyneea. “We’re not here to rob you.” She smiled—a rare expression for her, but one she was quite good at.
“We’re friends,” said Riker. “Friends of Teller Conlon.” He glanced sideways at his partner. Well, it was half true. “We haven’t seen him in a while, and we’re worried. He mentioned your name a couple of times; we thought you might be able to put our minds at ease.”
Bosch shook his head. “I don’t know who Teller Conlon is. I’ve never heard of him.”
Lyneea chuckled. “Of course not. You’re not his outside player, right?” Her tone was mild but assured. “You’ve never taken a commission from him—is that correct?”
Bosch looked from one to the other, then gave a nervous half smile. “All right,” he said. “I admit that I’ve done some business with him.”
Riker cursed silently. “When was the last time you saw him?”
The smuggler’s agent shrugged. “A month ago. Maybe more.” He put his hand to his head, shivered a little. “Listen,” he said, “give me a moment, will you? I need to take my medication.”
“Medication?” echoed Riker.
The smuggler’s agent lifted his chin and pointed to his jawline, where he bore the scars of korrus fever. They were faint, but they were there.
The first time Riker visited Imprima, korrus had still been fatal. When he’d heard about the cure a couple of years ago, he rejoiced—with a toast in Ten Forward to the researchers who’d made it possible, some of whom were Federation personnel.
Of course there were still some lasting symptoms of the disease—like the involuntary muscle tremors Bosch was experiencing now—and, if left unmedicated, some rather grisly seizures.
“Sure,” said Lyneea. “Go ahead. Don’t mind us.”
Bosch crossed the room to a chest of drawers. But the closer he got, it seemed to Riker, the less he trembled.
Covering the room in three strides, Will arrived just in time to grab Bosch’s wrist as he started to open the top drawer.
The Impriman looked at him. “I thought you said you were friends.”
“We are,” said Riker. “But we’ve got to be careful. You know how it is.”
Lyneea was giving him a look of disapproval: We’re trying to gain his confidence, Riker, and you’re not exactly furthering the effort.
Maybe he had jumped to a conclusion. He released Bosch’s wrist.
As the Impriman opened the drawer, Riker saw the vial of tablets inside.
See? You’re getting paranoid.
He started to turn away, to return to where Lyneea was standing, so Bosch could have some privacy.
But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of something that was definitely not medicine. He whirled and kicked—and sent a blaster flying out of Bosch’s hand.
Lyneea was quick to recover it. She held it up, looked reproachfully at her fellow Impriman.
“What did you expect?” he asked, massaging his hand. “You say you’re Conlon