Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [37]
Maybe because they sensed his preference for solitude, people left him alone. Most of the time. But as Nikolas forked a piece of meatball into his mouth, he saw someone approaching him out of the corner of his eye.
Damn, he thought.
It was Hanta. And he had a hard look about him.
The Bolian walked right up to Nikolas. Then, as if he meant to confide in him, he bent over and planted his hand next to the ensign’s tray.
“Can I help you?” Nikolas asked.
“I want to tell you something,” said Hanta, his voice seething with barely subdued animosity.
“I’m listening, sir,” the ensign said evenly.
“You took me by surprise back there in the mess hall. It won’t happen again.”
Nikolas turned to him. “Are you trying to scare me, sir?”
“You should be scared,” said Hanta. “Because you’re going to be decorating a bulkhead when I’m done with you.”
“Permission to speak freely?”
“Permission granted.”
“That’s a rather hostile tone, sir. You might want to find somebody who can help you channel that anger into something positive.”
Hanta’s mouth twisted. “I can’t think of anything more positive than shutting you up, Ensign.”
“Then, if I may say so, sir, you also seem to be suffering from an acute lack of imagination.”
“Suffering,” said the Bolian, “is precisely what I had in mind. But it’ll be yours, not mine.”
“You sound pretty certain of that, sir.”
“You’ll get to be certain of it, too, Ensign. That is, if you’ve got anything resembling a brain in your head, which I’m beginning to doubt.”
Nikolas managed a smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get me to take a swing at you.”
“Not now,” said the Bolian, “and not here. But the time will come. You can rest assured of that.”
“Thanks a lot,” Nikolas told him blithely. “It’s so hard to be certain of anything these days. At least I know there’s one thing I can rely on.”
Hanta didn’t answer. He just glowered at him for a moment. Then the Bolian walked away, leaving his violent intentions hanging in the air behind him.
“Well,” the ensign said to no one in particular, “that was a refreshing exchange of ideas.”
Tain hadn’t remained in the hotel lobby to watch Merant and the others. However, he had loitered outside the hatch that led to it and sampled the comments of the Zartani who emerged.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t especially pleased with what he had overheard.
In point of fact, Tain hated the idea of delegating tasks to others. In the final analysis, he trusted no one’s judgment but his own.
However, he was a glinn. He had a responsibility to separate himself from any crimes his lackeys might end up committing. If something went wrong, he was supposed to let Merant or some other underling take the blame—and they would, knowing all too well the punishment if they didn’t.
They, after all, were disposable. Tain was not.
Besides, there were three hotels and two restaurants in this part of Oblivion that catered to a Zartani clientele—and with Picard on the loose, Tain couldn’t have taken the time to investigate them all in order. Sending out squads was the only practical solution.
As long as they kept a low profile. As long as they were discreet about their objective.
And then, the glinn thought with a hot spurt of anger, there is Merant….
Tain had hoped that here, at least, the investigation would proceed to his liking. Obviously, he had been overly optimistic in that regard.
As Merant and the others emerged from the hatch, Tain studied their faces. Merant, at least, seemed oblivious of his glinn’s displeasure. He looked pleased with himself, as if he had done his job and done it well.
Tain frowned. Obviously, he would have to disabuse his second-in-command of that notion.
He waited until Merant and the others had rejoined him. Then, his emotions fully contained, he said to Beylen and Karrid, “I’ll see you back at our quarters.”
Neither of them replied. But it seemed to Tain that they understood what was happening.