Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [3]
Turning to the replicator mechanism on the wall behind her, she punched a code into its data pad. A soft yellow glow became visible through the device’s transparent door. When it subsided, she opened the door and removed a steaming black cup.
Even before she placed it in front of the captain, he could smell the familiar, soothing aroma. Earl Grey, he thought with a rush of contentment.
“There you go,” said the bartender. “You know, I don’t get many requests for tea, Earl Grey or otherwise.”
The captain grunted. “Really.”
She tilted her head as if to get a better look at him. “Obviously, you’re from Earth.”
“I am,” he said, “yes.”
“But,” she added appraisingly, “you don’t miss it much. You’d much rather be out here, in the far reaches of space, where every moment brings the possibility of adventure.”
It was true. Picard could have followed in the footsteps of his father, a distinguished vintner, but instead he had chosen to make a career for himself among the stars.
But was his thirst for exploration that obvious? So much so that a person he had barely met could sense it?
“Are you sure about that?” he asked.
The woman nodded confidently. “Pretty sure. When you meet as many people as I do, you develop a knack for knowing what makes them tick.”
The captain wanted to speak with her further—on that or any other topic, well into the night if he’d had the time. Her manner was that pleasant, that inviting.
But he didn’t have the time. He was on a mission. And pretty soon, it would call him away.
“Impressive,” he told the bartender.
But he didn’t continue to engage her. In fact, he made a point of looking around the place, as if he had some genuine interest in the furnishings. By the time he turned around again, the woman had moved down the bar to one of her other customers.
Obviously, she had taken his hint. Picard breathed a small sigh of relief—or was it disappointment?—until he realized that the patron next to him was staring at him.
Like the bartender, she appeared to be human—in her mid-to-late twenties, if Picard was any judge of such things. Her long, charcoal gray dress and elaborate hat of the same somber hue concealed what appeared to be an unremarkable build.
Still, the captain might have called her attractive if not for the unexpected look in her dark brown eyes. It was a desolate look. A look that spoke of loss and missed opportunities, of pain and humiliation.
Of surrender.
It struck Picard that she was the exact opposite of the woman who had served him his tea. This person seemed dead inside, hollowed out by some terrible ordeal, while the bartender couldn’t have been more alive.
“Do I know you?” he finally asked the woman.
She stared at Picard a moment longer, as if caught in some strange kind of inertia. Then, in a voice as weary and defeated as her eyes, she said, “You’ve got hair.”
It was a bizarre observation, to say the least. “Apparently so,” he responded.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember…?” Her voice fell like a wounded bird.
The captain looked at her. “Remember what?”
Her brow puckered. “No,” she said with something like resignation. “Of course you don’t.”
Picard didn’t want to leave it at that—not after she had fired up his curiosity. But his mission prevented him from pressing her for the information.
After all, if she did know him, she could expose him for who he was—and that would pretty much throw a hyperspanner in the works, wouldn’t it? His best bet was to remain silent, and hope it was simply a case of mistaken identity.
The woman stared at him a moment longer, looking as if she was inclined to say something more to him. Then, with a deep and uncomfortably prolonged sigh, she shook her head and turned back to her drink.
And he turned back to his.
But as Picard sat there sipping his tea, he continued to watch his neighbor out of the corner of his eye—and every so often she would sneak a peek at him. Apparently, she still couldn’t decide if he was who she thought he was.
Less than eager to give her a chance to do so, he finished his Earl Grey as quickly