Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [89]
“How good is the deal you offered Larrak?” he asked.
“Very good,” said Ralk.
“No doubt. But trust me on this—it pales by comparison to what he can make with the Federation, now that Criathis is becoming his plaything. Add to that the difficulties and the dangers involved in upsetting the status quo, the concessions and compromises Larrak will have to make to reinstate trade with the Ferengi, and then you tell me: which way do you think Larrak is going to go?”
There. That sounded pretty plausible, if he said so himself—even though he was lying through his teeth. Criathis wasn’t benefiting from the trade agreement that much.
More to the point, Ralk seemed to have swallowed it. He took a couple of steps toward Riker and backhanded him across the mouth. For a moment the human forgot about his wound.
The three retainers in the room were starting to look fidgety. It was understandable. A few moments ago it had clearly been their duty to protect Ralk. Now, with a possible conflict brewing between the Ferengi and their employer, they weren’t so sure.
Of course that was just the icing on the cake. Riker’s real goal was to raise Ralk’s temperature a bit. And then a bit more.
So instead of cursing, he just grinned. “Someone once told me you Ferengi are stronger than you look. I guess he was just kidding.”
His face twisting with hatred, Ralk belted him again. This time Riker tasted blood.
“Love taps,” he got out. “But then, you don’t really want to hurt me, do you?”
“Shut up,” said the Ferengi. “Just shut up!”
“After all, I’m one of the humans who skunked you out of Imprima in the first place. I’m—”
As Ralk pulled back for a third blow, Riker rocked forward and stood up, chair and all. The idea was to take the impact on his chest, where he was still wearing his communicator under his Impriman tunic—no one having thought to search him that thoroughly.
But the Ferengi’s fist never landed. One of the retainers intervened, catching Ralk’s wrist in mid-swing.
“That’s enough,” said the man, allowing the Ferengi to twist free. With his other hand, he shoved Riker backwards and, with a small adjustment on the human’s part, hit Will just where he wanted to be hit. The chair landed on the floor, jarring his spine all the way up to his neck and sending shoots of agony through his shoulder. But he heard the muffled beep that told him the communicator had been activated.
He looked around quickly. Apparently no one else had heard it—not even Lyneea. There had been too much going on.
“All right,” said the retainer who’d come between Riker and Ralk. “I’ll have no more of that. The first official said we were to kill them”—a remark addressed to the Ferengi—”but that doesn’t mean we have to torture them, too.” He turned to Riker. “As for you, keep your mouth shut. We weren’t told we couldn’t hurry things along—if you know what I mean.”
Riker nodded. “Sorry. It’s just that being tied up and held at gunpoint makes me a little edgy. Not to mention being threatened with death.”
The retainer muttered something and took his place by the wall again. Ralk cursed and went to stand by the window.
How long would it take before Captain Picard was alerted to the situation? And then how much longer before help might arrive?
“I mean,” he went on, “I don’t mind sharing a room with a Ferengi, despite what happened just now, but three retainers armed with blasters—all to watch me and my friend Lyneea? That’s enough to make anyone nervous.”
“You were told to shut up,” Ralk reminded him. “You know, you are just like your friend, the trade liaison. He would not keep quiet either.”
“Who was it that actually killed him?” asked Riker, taking advantage of the opening. “You, Ralk? Or Larrak?”
“Larrak,” said the Ferengi. “Of course. It is a host’s responsibility to dispatch spies.” His lip curled. “Though in your case I may insist on doing it myself.”
The retainers looked at him. They seemed to have other ideas.
But that wasn’t his chief concern now. He was trying to buy time and, whether he