Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [36]
“There is,” Merant confirmed. He took out his recording device, punched up an image of Demmix, and held it where the Zartani could study it. “Have you seen this person?”
“And if I have?”
“Then I want to know about it,” the Cardassian said evenly.
The Zartani made that hideous wheezing sound that passed for laughter among his people. It grated on Merant’s nerves.
“Do you now?” the hotel manager asked.
Merant could feel a gobbet of anger climb into his throat. “Is there a problem?”
“I think there is,” said the Zartani. “But it’s yours, not mine. You Cardassians strut around as if you own this place, but you don’t. You’re just another species around here.”
“Really,” said Merant.
Suddenly, he reached across the counter and grabbed the Zartani by the throat. The fellow tried to pry Merant’s fingers loose, but he couldn’t.
As the Zartani around them took notice of what was happening, they backed away. Such a courageous lot, Merant thought. Had something like this occurred on Cardassian Prime, any number of citizens would have intervened.
Unless, of course, an official of some sort was doing the strangling. That would have been a different story.
“You see what you’ve done?” Merant said, his face inches from the Zartani’s. “You’ve made me angry.”
He saw Beylen and Karrid spread out to make sure none of the onlookers intervened, though it was still pretty clear that no one would do so.
Normally, they would have thought twice about confronting so large a crowd. But the scrutiny of Enabran Tain could be a powerful motivator. It could make a person stronger and braver than he might have been otherwise.
And more determined. Much more determined.
“I…can’t…can’t…” the hotel operator gasped, his face darkening from lack of air.
“I think the word you’re looking for is breathe,” said the Cardassian. “I guess that means you have a problem after all.”
“Please…” the Zartani croaked.
“But with a little cooperation,” said Merant, “we may solve both our problems. What do you think?”
“Y—yes…” the Zartani hissed, his eyes popping out of his head like a Rythrian’s.
Merant waited just a moment longer, for emphasis. Then he released the manager from his grasp.
The fellow fell backward against the wall behind him, drawing in air in great, moaning gulps. And all the while, he stared at the Cardassian.
But not with the disrespect he had shown Merant moments earlier. There was a distinct glint of fear in his eyes now—and fear was even better than respect.
Tain had taught him that.
“Where were we?” asked the Cardassian. “Oh yes…” He showed the Zartani the image of Demmix again. “You were about to tell me whether you recognized this person.”
The manager massaged his throat as he studied the likeness in front of him. But after a while, he shook his head. “I don’t,” he whispered hoarsely.
Merant scowled. “Are you certain?”
“This is a big place,” the manager explained. “Dozens of Zartani come through here every day.”
Merant doubted that the fellow was lying. He looked too scared, and he had nothing to gain by it.
“All right,” said the Cardassian. “But if I find out your memory is faulty, you’ll wish I had hung on to your throat a little longer.”
Something else occurred to him.
“And if I were you,” Merant added, “I wouldn’t go running to the authorities. Remember, I know where to find you.”
“You needn’t worry,” the Zartani told him.
Merant smoothed the front of his tunic. Then, with a withering glance at all the Zartani pretending not to peer in his direction, he led his underlings out of the lobby.
Nikolas hadn’t eaten with anybody except Obal since Gerda Idun’s departure. He just hadn’t felt like it.
As difficult as it was to fend off his friend’s encouragements, it would have been even more difficult to eat with people who had a less distinct idea of why the ensign was so distant.
His roommate, Paris, for example. Or Kochman. Or any of the other crewmen the ensign had been friendly with.
So when Obal wasn’t available, Nikolas just ate by himself