Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [2]
If all went according to plan, Picard would be doing just that in a little more than an hour. But he didn’t want to appear at his prearranged rendezvous point too soon, lest he attract undue attention.
He could have returned to his hotel, but it was a little too far away. Or he could simply have wandered about the place. But he preferred to remain there at the bar, which was only a short walk from his destination, and minimize the possibility of something going wrong.
Besides, no one would question the notion of someone sitting in a bar for half an hour. Even a short walk in the warm, dry environments of Oblivion was likely to make a fellow thirsty, and Picard was no exception.
Aiming to address the problem, he crossed the room and took one of the few empty seats in front of the bartender—a human-looking female, though appearances were often deceiving in a place like Oblivion. There were a number of species that looked human at a glance, but were something else entirely.
At the moment, the bartender was attending to a Tellarite—a corpulent, white-haired specimen—who was in the midst of what seemed to be a long-winded tale, if the eye-rolling of his fellow patrons was any indication.
“And then,” the Tellarite said in that blustery tone characteristic of his species, “I told him to take his phase coils and get out of my sight. I’d been trading too long to lay out good credits for shoddy merchandise. ‘Shoddy?’ he bellowed. ‘You wouldn’t know a quality phase coil if it was inserted into your left nostril!’ Naturally, I wasn’t going to stand for that sort of abuse…”
Picard could see why the other patrons were rolling their eyes. Unless one was a dealer in phase coils, the Tellarite’s saga was anything but riveting.
Nonetheless, the bartender didn’t take her eyes off the Tellarite for even a second. She appeared to hang on his every word, no matter how uninteresting it might have been to anyone else in earshot.
And she wasn’t just listening because she had to, it seemed to Picard. She was listening because she wanted to, because she actually enjoyed it.
Of course, it might just have been an act on her part, a tactic designed to help business. But if it was, it was a bloody convincing one.
The captain didn’t even mind having to wait to place his order. He was content for the moment to watch the woman smile a serene and knowing smile at the Tellarite, and fill his mug with something viscous and ocher-colored.
The Tellarite seemed to appreciate it too, if his delighted snorts were an accurate measure. And his species wasn’t known for getting along well with humans.
Picard admired anyone who turned in a good job, whether it was commanding a starship or maintaining a food replicator. And in his opinion, the bartender wasn’t just doing a good job—she was doing a great one.
It would have been nice to have such a person doling out libations on the Stargazer. There was plenty of stress involved in running a starship; there were plenty of raw nerve endings at the end of the day. A bartender in the right setting would go a long way toward helping everyone unwind.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t even remotely practical for the captain to try to shoehorn a bar into the Stargazer’s cramped, little lounge. And even if he could get one in there somehow, he doubted he could bend regulations enough to staff it with non-Starfleet personnel.
As he pondered the idea, the bartender began to move in his direction, appearing to glide the length of the slick, black surface. “What can I get you?” she asked, smiling at him as warmly as if they were old friends.
Very old friends.
In fact, Picard had to wonder for a moment if they had actually met somewhere before. But he ruled out the possibility in short order. He had been blessed with an impeccable memory when it came to faces, and the bartender’s wasn’t at all familiar to him.
Nonetheless, he found himself smiling back at her. “Tea,” he said. “Earl Grey, if you’ve got it. Hot.”
“Oh,” she said, “I’ve got it all right.