Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [79]
Demmix frowned. “What are you going to do with me?”
“I’ve been giving that some thought,” said Picard. “My first officer suggested I throw you out an airlock.”
The Zartani’s brow creased. “You wouldn’t.”
“But instead,” the captain continued, “I think I’ll drop you off on some neutral planet—one that is not too far from Zarta, so you can find your way home.”
Demmix didn’t seem to like that option either. “Why not take me back to the Federation for judgment? After all, I tried to kidnap one of her captains.”
“So you did,” Picard agreed. “And as the captain in question, I wouldn’t mind that. But the Federation has no jurisdiction over what happens in a place like Oblivion. And with tensions already running high in this sector, the last thing we want is a political incident.”
Demmix’s features knotted with something very much akin to fear. “But the Ubarrak—”
“Will find you,” the captain interjected, “and perhaps extract a price for your failure. It’s certainly possible. Then again, maybe you’ll be lucky.” He smiled. “Who knows?”
“Jean-Luc,” said Demmix, “we were friends once. Surely that still means something.”
Picard nodded. “It certainly does. It means I’ll be up late the next few nights, trying to figure out how I could have misjudged you so badly.”
And with that, he left the brig.
Enabran Tain sat with his back against a bulkhead and considered the company he was forced to keep—a couple of staring, openmouthed corpses, both of them the direct result of his own ruthless ambition.
He didn’t relish the prospect of spending his entire trip back to Cardassia Prime with such silent and accusing company—and a long trip it would be, considering the limited capabilities of his vehicle’s antiquated engines.
Nor did he dare return to Oblivion. Steej and his people would be inclined to ask some rather uncomfortable questions of him.
And then there were the Ubarrak. Their warship hadn’t thought enough of him to pry him loose from the cargo hauler, but they couldn’t be happy that their plans had been ruined.
Tain sighed.
If he could fix the cargo hauler’s communications system—one of the few systems on the ship that no longer worked—he might be able to cut his time in it to a few weeks. Otherwise, it would be months before he reached the nearest Cardassian-controlled star system.
A damned eternity.
In any case, Tain mused, a slow passage might work to his advantage. After all, he had suffered a crashing defeat at a critical juncture in his young career—a defeat at the hands of a mere human, no less—and he would need some time to figure out how to make it sound like a victory.
This time, Paris didn’t just show up at Jiterica’s quarters. He called ahead to let her know he was coming.
He only waited for a few seconds. Then the doors slid open and he saw Jiterica standing there. She was wearing her containment suit, as he had expected.
Her features were placid, accepting. And maybe a little curious. “You wanted to see me?”
“Mind if I come in?” Paris asked.
“No. Not at all,” she said, and stood aside so he could walk past her.
Her quarters looked as they had the first time he saw them—sparsely furnished, but otherwise not unusual. There wasn’t any mist in them, dazzling his senses, making him feel things he hadn’t wished to feel.
“Do you wish to sit down?” Jiterica asked.
“Thanks,” he said, “I’ll stand.” That way, she didn’t have to maneuver herself into a chair.
“All right,” she said.
Paris licked his lips. He had practiced what he was going to say, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings.
“The other day,” he began, “when I was here in your quarters…I rushed out because I thought I had violated your privacy. And maybe even more than that.”
“I understand,” she said.