Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [46]
Just then, he caught a glimpse of a blue-and-black uniform through the shop’s transparent display window. “Guinan,” he whispered urgently.
She had noticed it too, it seemed. But if she had even considered asking her friend to conceal them, the option quickly became unavailable. Before either Guinan or Picard could make a move, a Tyrheddan security officer walked through the wide-open doorway of the apothecary shop.
He wasn’t alone, either. The captain saw several of the officer’s colleagues outside, waiting for him.
If the Dranoon was nervous, he didn’t show it. “Good day, Lieutenant. How can I help you?”
The security officer didn’t respond with the same warmth, scanning the shop with his single cyclopean eye. “We’re looking for a couple of humans.” He handed the proprietor a padd. “Have you seen them?”
The Dranoon studied the image on the padd’s tiny screen. Picard saw his face there, right beside Guinan’s. But thanks to Dahlen, they didn’t look like that anymore.
“Can’t say I have,” the Dranoon said. He handed the padd back to the officer. “What did they do?”
Muscles twitched around the officer’s eye. “Never mind that. Just watch for them. If you catch sight of them, report it immediately.”
“I will,” the Dranoon promised him.
The officer stared at him for a full second, as if to impress the store owner with the seriousness of the matter. Then he turned to Picard and Guinan.
For a moment, he seemed to see that there was something odd about them. Something familiar, even. The captain felt a drop of perspiration trickle down the back of his neck.
Then the officer said, “That goes for you too.”
Picard nodded. “Of course.”
“No problem,” Guinan assured him.
With a last glance at the Dranoon, the officer left the shop. It wasn’t until after he and his men were all out of sight that Picard felt a wave of relief.
Turning to Guinan’s friend, he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?” the Dranoon asked. “I answered honestly. I haven’t seen those people.” He glanced at Guinan in a conspiratorial way. “Lately, at least.”
“Before we were interrupted,” said Picard’s companion, “we were talking about a Zartani. I don’t suppose he made mention of where he was staying?”
The Dranoon’s features squeezed together as he thought about it. “I don’t believe so,” he said at last.
Picard’s hopes fell.
“Do you remember him saying anything about where he was headed?” Guinan asked.
Her friend thought some more—and a light went on in his round, dark eyes. “As I was preparing the extract, he asked about a footwear vendor. He said his heel hurt him.”
The captain nodded. “That sounds right.” The same slender leg and foot bones that made Demmix’s people such splendid runners also made them vulnerable to injury.
“Where did you send him?” Guinan asked.
“There’s a place two hulls down,” said the Dranoon, “in that direction.” And he pointed with a thick green finger.
Picard followed the gesture to a distant hatch. Then he turned to his companion. “Do you know of any Zartani accommodations in that direction?”
Guinan shook her head. “No. There are a couple of hotels that way, but neither of them is designed to accommodate Zartani.”
The captain frowned. Would Demmix have risked staying in a non-Zartani sleeping environment in order to avoid detection until he left Oblivion? It might explain why they were having such a difficult time finding him.
“Thanks,” Guinan told the owner of the apothecary shop. “I guess I owe you one.”
He smiled paternally. “You owe me more than one, but you can take your time paying me back.” Then, to Picard, he said, “I hope you find the fellow you’re looking for.”
“So do I,” said the captain.
Enabran Tain eyed the manager of the Singing Waters across the top of the fellow’s stained metal desk.
The glinn declined to guess what kinds of stains they were, considering the fact that this had once been the galley of a Klingon transport, and Klingons were known to eat their