Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [39]
Steej frowned. It wasn’t the report he had hoped for. “What kind of questions?”
“The Cardassian was looking for a Zartani named Demmix. He wanted to know if the fellow had taken a room at the Northern Sky.”
“I see,” said the Rythrian, leaning forward in his chair. “And what did the manager say?”
“He said he didn’t know. That’s when the Cardassian laid his hands on him, and warned him not to tell security about it if he knew what was good for him.”
Steej grunted. “But he contacted us anyway.”
“He was afraid of the Cardassian,” said Ardin, “but he was more afraid of what might happen if he was found withholding information from us.”
The Rythrian smiled to himself. It was a wise move on the part of the Zartani. When someone asked questions in Oblivion, security often wanted to know the answers as well.
“As it should be,” he told Ardin.
“Shall I pursue this matter?” asked the Zintekkan. “Or keep looking for the humans?”
Steej thought about it for a moment. “The humans remain our priority. But let the others know to be on the lookout for nosy Cardassians.”
“As you wish,” said Ardin.
“Steej out.”
As he reclipped his communications device to his belt, he pondered the incident at The Northern Sky. It wasn’t unusual in a place like Oblivion for someone to demand information of someone else. After all, most of those who frequented the city were merchants, and information was perhaps the most valuable commodity of all.
But it was unusual for Cardassians to be involved. They always seemed to keep to themselves, conducting their business under a mantle of privacy.
The security director was intrigued. He wished he had the time and the resources to find out who this Cardassian was, and why he had been so eager to locate a Zartani named Demmix.
And eventually, he would. But first he had to run Hill and his companion to ground.
When Picard and his companion walked into the restaurant, heads turned. Zartani heads, for the most part.
But then, like the hotel the captain had visited earlier, this place catered to Demmix’s people. The only non-Zartani he could see were a few humans and Bolians, who had obviously developed a taste for Zartani fare.
Picard had never done that, unfortunately. He could barely tolerate the boiled-licorice smell that seemed to pervade the place.
“The owner,” said Guinan, “who is also the cook, will be in the back. It’s considered rude for him to serve food he hasn’t taken a hand in preparing. The Zartani are funny that way.”
“I know,” said Picard. After all, he had learned a great deal about the Zartani through his association with Demmix.
Guinan pointed to a likely door in the rear of the dining room. “Let’s go.”
“By all means,” he said.
He led the way, in the improbable case that they were walking into some kind of trouble. But as the door conveniently slid aside for him, he could see they were only walking into a small, well-lit kitchen.
There were three people working there, all of them Zartani. They regarded the intruders, apprehension evident in their black, shiny eyes.
“We’re looking for the owner,” the captain told them.
None of them replied. But one of them glanced at another door, off to the side of the room.
“Thank you,” said Picard.
“Judging from their expressions,” said Guinan, “I don’t think you’re welcome.”
Nonetheless, Picard crossed the room, with his companion right behind him. As there was a heat-sensitive plate beside the door, the captain knew it wouldn’t open automatically.
With the workers looking on silently, he placed his hand on the metal plate. After a moment or two, the door whispered aside, revealing what looked like an office, with a workstation and a couple of black chairs.
The fellow sitting at the workstation didn’t look up at first. He seemed to be engrossed in something on his computer screen.
He wasn’t very tall, for a Zartani, and his hair had streaks of yellow mixed in with the white. More than likely,