Maker - Michael Jan Friedman [46]
Of course, now it was too late. Even if Nikolas had escaped the doom that befell the Iktoj’ni’s crew, it didn’t seem likely he would be alive to tell the tale.
“Maybe when we find Brakmaktin,” Kirby proposed, “we’ll find Mister Nikolas too. And—”
Iulus, who was sitting next to Kirby, put his hand on the ensign’s shoulder to make him stop. And a moment later, Cadwallader saw why.
Lieutenant Obal was ambulating by their table on his way out of the mess hall. The Binderian had been a close friend of Nikolas—the closest he had on the Stargazer—and it might have upset him to hear them talking about his pal’s chances.
Only after Obal had left the mess hall did Kirby say, “And if we do find him, maybe he’ll still be alive.”
Unfortunately, Kirby was the only one who thought there was a chance of that.
Turning her attention to her dinner, Cadwallader reached for her customary glass of apple cider—and realized she had forgotten to get one. Where’s my head? she wondered.
Excusing herself, she pushed her chair out and headed for the replicator. But she had barely left the table before she found Kirby at her side, empty glass in hand.
“Going for a refill?” he asked.
“Actually,” Cadwallader admitted, “I forgot to order one in the first place.”
She might have felt embarrassed telling that to one of the more veteran officers. However, Kirby was only a year or two older than she was. She was sure he had done some equally silly things.
A moment later, he confirmed it. “I’ll race you,” he said, a distinct twinkle in his eye.
“I beg your pardon?” Cadwallader returned.
“I’ll race you to the replicator. Ready? Go!”
There was no time to think about it. There was only time to do it or decline—and being who she was, she chose to do it.
Of course, it wasn’t a straight path to the replicator. It required her to weave among the intervening tables, of which there were six or seven.
But she had always been agile, and she believed she was in the lead—if only by a step—when she bumped into someone. It was only a glancing contact, not nearly enough to injure anybody, but still she felt compelled to stop and apologize.
It was only then that she realized the identity of her victim. Looking up into Dojjaron’s shapeless face and shiny black eyes, she was prepared to find indignation there, even a little annoyance. But she wasn’t expecting raw, red-faced fury.
“Filth!” he gargled.
“I didn’t mean—” she began.
“I’ve been soiled!” the foremost elder shouted, his voice a clashing of stones.
Cadwallader didn’t understand how she had soiled him, but it didn’t matter. Clearly, she had managed to give offense. She would never have considered accepting Kirby’s challenge if she had suspected that this might be the result.
The ensign didn’t want to be responsible for some kind of incident—not when the Nuyyad was so important to the success of their mission. Lowering her head, she tried to walk away.
But Dojjaron didn’t seem eager to let her off the hook. “Where do you think you’re going?” he bellowed.
Sensing that any answer she gave would only make things worse, Cadwallader remained silent and kept walking. And instead of heading back to her table, she made a beeline for the exit.
Please, she thought, let him settle down.
But Dojjaron didn’t settle down at all. “Stop where you are and face me!” he rattled.
Cadwallader was tempted to keep going despite the foremost elder’s instructions. But for better or worse, she decided to do as he insisted.
Seeing her stop and face him, Dojjaron advanced on her, his mouth spread wide to expose his peglike teeth. But Cadwallader held her ground. It was too late to retreat now. Whatever the alien had in mind, she was compelled to endure it.
But before he could reach her, Kirby intervened. “Don’t you touch her,” he told the Nuyyad.
Dojjaron didn’t even slow down.
“I said don’t—” Kirby began.
Before he could get the rest out, the Nuyyad backhanded him across the face, sending him flying into a bulkhead. Then he bore down on Cadwallader,