Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [45]
“It’s this way,” she said, barely able to catch her breath. And she started in the direction of the exit.
Phigus Simenon didn’t often have to discipline the crewmen who reported to him in engineering. By the time they arrived in his section, they usually knew how he felt about the importance of their individual contributions.
But every once in a while, there was an exception. In fact, he was looking at one.
What really annoyed the Gnalish was that the slacker in question wasn’t a newcomer to engineering. He had worked a rotation under Simenon before—twice, actually, if memory served. And both those times, he had acquitted himself well.
But he wasn’t doing that this time. For some reason, he was screwing up royally.
Waddling over to the workstation where Ensign Nikolas was sitting, Simenon peered over the man’s shoulder. He could see Nikolas’s monitor screen, where a brightly colored graphic was tracking the efficiency of the ship’s recently upgraded power-distribution system.
“Well,” said the chief engineer, “we now know ever so intimately how the EPS grid is working on Deck Six. But to get some idea of how it’s working on all the other decks, you might want to call up some additional data.” He tapped a key on the workstation’s board. “Like so.”
Nikolas kept his eyes on the screen. “Sorry, sir.”
“Unless, of course,” said Simenon, “there’s some reason you were focusing on Deck Six to the exclusion of all the others.”
“No, sir,” said the ensign. “No reason.”
The engineer maneuvered himself into a position between Nikolas and the screen, forcing him to meet his superior’s gaze. “Then why were you dwelling on that particular information?”
The ensign frowned as he looked into Simenon’s eyes. “I have no excuse, sir.”
No excuse, the Gnalish thought. But he had been around humans long enough to know when they were suffering from lack of sleep—and Nikolas, with his dark, fleshy lower lids, was a textbook example of the problem.
“You can barely keep your eyes open,” Simenon spat. “How do you expect to carry out your responsibilities in my section?”
Nikolas didn’t seem nearly as offended as the engineer had intended. “All I can do is my best,” he said.
Wrong answer, thought the Gnalish, a tide of anger rising in his throat—and he proceeded to address the ensign’s mistake with a colorful array of his favorite words and phrases.
Though he had a feeling it wouldn’t do much good.
Picard stood alongside Guinan in a small but handsomely furnished apothecary shop, and regarded the Dranoon who appeared to be the shop’s proprietor.
The fellow was as every bit as broad and powerful-looking as Guinan’s friend Dahlen. Being a male, however, he was understandably a bit taller. He also seemed older, judging by the thinning of his sleek, black mane.
“May I help you?” he asked in a deep, resonant voice.
Guinan placed her hands on the polished-wood counter between them. “How about a little information?”
The Dranoon laughed. “Information is a most precious commodity. It could be rather costly.”
“Even for an old friend?” Picard’s companion asked.
The Dranoon’s expression changed to one of surprise, then disbelief. “Guinan? Is that you?”
She smiled. “It’s me, all right.”
The proprietor examined her from various angles. “Remarkable. And if you don’t mind my asking, what occasioned this rather ill-advised change of appearance?”
“Believe me,” she said, “you don’t want to know. Just tell me one thing—did a Zartani come in here recently to buy a bottle of Geyanna extract?”
The Dranoon nodded his squarish head. “Yes. Just this morning, actually. He purchased a small supply, though he could have saved on a larger one.” His brow knit. “Why do you ask?”
“You don’t want to know that either,” said Guinan.
The Dranoon considered the remark for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he expelled a husky sigh and said, “All right. If you say so.”
Picard felt grateful. As Guinan had pointed out, it would