Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [43]
It wouldn’t be easy. She was used to getting together with him on a regular basis. No doubt she would find it odd that he was suddenly unavailable.
And she wasn’t the only one who would miss their get-togethers. I’ll miss them too, Paris thought.
If only he hadn’t walked in on her while she was out of her containment suit. If only their friendship could have remained exactly what it was, without any awkward surprises.
Unfortunately, things had changed. For both their sakes, he had to keep his distance.
It was the only way.
* * *
Picard tore off a piece of Andorian spice bread from the dark brown loaf he was sharing with Guinan, leaned back against the bulkhead of an Anjottu freighter that had been converted into a gaudy, badly illuminated marketplace, and pondered the situation in which he found himself.
In less than four hours, Demmix’s flight—or rather, the flight the captain had come to think of as Demmix’s—was scheduled to depart. And despite their having canvassed every Zartani hotel and restaurant in the area, neither he nor Guinan had the slightest idea of Demmix’s whereabouts.
If they couldn’t catch up with him before he got on that flight, Picard would forever lose all that Demmix knew about the Ubarrak’s warships.
He was determined to keep that from happening—though he couldn’t imagine how.
“There must be another way to track him down,” said the captain, “something we’re overlooking….”
Guinan looked at him. “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”
Picard met her gaze. “Yes.”
“Well, you must know something more about him than the fact that he’s a Zartani.”
She was right, of course. Demmix had other needs besides a place to sleep and a place to eat. Picard just had to remember what they were.
He thought back to Elyrion III and its expanses of bone white prairie, baking beneath an immense, red sun. He and Demmix were among the galaxy’s elite back then, individuals with something to prove both to their peers and to themselves.
And for that reason, they were very much on edge. But Picard had learned to conceal his emotions, whereas Demmix wore his anxieties on his sleeve.
Then again, he was a nervous individual, even for a Zartani—so much so, in fact, that when he and Picard went through the mandatory, pre-race bioscans, Demmix’s blood had shown trace quantities of—
Suddenly Picard had the answer he had been seeking. “That’s it!” he rasped.
Guinan looked at him. “What is?”
He smiled triumphantly. “I think I know how we can locate Demmix.”
By the time Steej reached the alley between the last two warehouses in the line, a crowd had gathered at the alley’s mouth. But then, corpses were rare in Oblivion, and this one was so fresh that the blood had barely clotted.
At least, that was the report Steej had received from Yiropta, a stocky, bowlegged Enolian who was one of the security director’s most trusted officers.
Yiropta hadn’t discovered the body; that was the work of a passerby who had noticed something strange in the depths of the alley. But it was Yiropta who had responded to the calls for security, assessed the extent of the victim’s injuries, and sealed off the alley until his superior could arrive.
He was nothing if not efficient. But then, Enolians were widely known for their efficiency.
The assembled onlookers had their backs to Steej, so none of them noticed his approach. But he wasn’t about to shove his way into their midst.
“Security business,” he said, wielding the phrase like a well-honed knife.
Suddenly, faces turned—all kinds of faces, representing all kinds of planetary origins. A moment later, Steej found that a path had opened for him.
Yiropta stood at the end of it. “Over here, sir,” he said, jerking a stubby thumb over his shoulder.
As Steej joined him, he saw a body lying in the alleyway. As Yiropta had noted when he called in, it was a Cardassian. A big one, too.
“Any idea who he is?” he asked.
“His name is Olij Merant,” said Yiropta, eyeing his superior over prominent, slitted cheekbones. “He