Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [14]
The ensign shook his head. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” he told Obal. Then he got up, lifted his tray off the table, and started for the matter-recycling bin.
Too late, Nikolas saw a flash of scarlet uniform. Before he knew it, his meal—whatever it had been—was decorating the front of his tunic.
And a tall, broad-shouldered Bolian, who had been adorned with the steaming contents of his own tray, was standing there glowering at him with angry black eyes.
Nikolas knew the guy. His name was Hanta. He worked in the science section under Lieutenant Kastiigan.
Hanta was known for having something of a temper—a rare quality in a Bolian. To that point, Nikolas had never considered it a problem.
But it became one when Hanta uttered a curse in his native tongue and shoved Nikolas backward into another crewman, who was in turn knocked halfway off his chair.
Nikolas felt the hot rush of anger flood his face. He could have tried to quell it, subdue it—but he didn’t want to. All he wanted to do was shove Hanta’s curses back down his throat.
His teeth clenched, Nikolas got his feet underneath him and launched himself forward again. Then he drove his fist into the Bolian’s bifurcated face.
Hanta staggered back a couple of steps, and bellowed with rage and surprise. But before he could strike back, Nikolas came at him and hit him again, snapping his head around.
And the ensign would have landed a third blow if someone hadn’t grabbed his wrist and held it back. Before he knew it, he was being borne to the floor by his crewmates, despite his demands that they release him.
“Nikolas,” said a familiar voice, “please stop struggling. There is no need to fight.”
The ensign turned and saw Obal looking down at him, his expression one big plea for reason. And with a deep, shuddering breath, Nikolas felt the fight start to go out of him.
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice sounding distant, like someone else’s. “You can let me up now.”
“You sure?” someone asked.
“I’m sure,” he breathed.
Little by little, he felt the weight lift off him. He got up on one knee and saw that Hanta was being let up as well. The Bolian’s nose was leaking dark blood.
And his eyes were still full of fury. But then, he hadn’t managed to get a blow in.
Nikolas felt a little pang of satisfaction as he realized he had finally won a fight on the Stargazer. But it went away when he saw a trio of security officers crossing the room, headed in his direction.
“What’s going on here?” asked Pug Joseph, the sandy-haired acting chief of security.
“Nikolas attacked me,” said Hanta, in a tone that could have cut duranium.
Joseph turned to the ensign. “Well?”
Nikolas didn’t feel compelled to offer a counter argument. What was the point? Whether he was justified or not, he had gotten into a fight.
And it would cost him. He could hear the captain’s words all over again, but this time they had an ominous ring to them. I would take special care to avoid physical conflicts with your colleagues….
“I’m waiting,” said Joseph, a more patient man than most.
Nikolas shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
Joseph’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s your statement, I’ll put it in my report.”
Nikolas didn’t object.
Frowning, Joseph took stock of the place. “I’d clean this up if I were you,” he told the combatants. Then he led his security officers out of the mess hall.
As Nikolas bent to pick up the debris of his meal, he saw Obal kneel beside him. The Binderian glanced at him with disappointment etched in his features.
After all, Nikolas’s chances of a promotion had just diminished to less than nothing. He and his fists had quite effectively seen to that.
Picard had hoped that his newfound companion might know Oblivion better than he did. As it turned out, she knew the place a lot better.
It was a good thing, too. As they made their way from hulk to increasingly obscure and dilapidated hulk, the captain saw a number