Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [9]
“It’s a good blend, though,” said Wu.
“It is,” Ben Zoma agreed. “No complaints.”
“Glad you liked it,” she told him.
They both fell silent. But it was clear that they didn’t really have coffee on their minds.
From the time the second officer poured their first cups, she had studiously avoided the subject of Captain Picard. After all, Ben Zoma and the captain were more than colleagues—they were close friends—and Wu had seen no point in adding to her superior’s anxiety.
At least, until now.
“I hate to say it,” she began, “but it looks like—”
“The rendezvous was a flop,” Ben Zoma said, sparing her the trouble. “It never came off.”
“And the captain hasn’t communicated with us,” Wu reasonably concluded, “because he’s attempting to improvise.”
Her superior looked at her for a moment. Then he shook his head from side to side.
“No. If he could have contacted us, he would have. Something is stopping him.”
Wu smiled. “You sound so certain.”
Ben Zoma shrugged. “You work with someone day in and day out, you get to know him pretty well—what he would do, what he wouldn’t do. If we haven’t heard from the captain, it’s because he’s got his hands full.”
“So what do we do?” the second officer asked.
“That’s a good question,” he said. “We can’t just swoop in with the Stargazer and try to pull him out of there—not unless we want to alert the Cardassians, the Ubarrak, and everyone else in the sector that something’s going on.”
Wu couldn’t argue with the man’s logic. “We hold our present position, then?”
“For now,” Ben Zoma told her.
She didn’t ask how long “now” would last.
But even if the captain was in some difficulty, there was no one more clever or resourceful in Wu’s estimate. Surely, Ben Zoma appreciated that as well, and would give his friend every opportunity to succeed on his own.
“A day,” he said abruptly.
Wu looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s how long I’m giving him,” said Ben Zoma, as if he had read her thoughts. “One day.”
Picard gazed across his cramped, brightly illuminated cell at the individual who served as chief of security for this section of Oblivion.
His name, according to the other security personnel in the detention facility, was Steej. Like all Rythrians, he had a lean frame, generous flaps of skin for ears, and eyes that appeared eager to escape their sockets.
His uniform, like those of the city’s other security officers, was black and blue, with what looked like an inverted fleur-de-lis emblazoned in silver on the left side of his chest. His rank was denoted by a series of three concentric silver ovals that sat on his right shoulder.
The security director consulted the padd in his hand. Then he looked up at Picard.
“Your name is Hill?” he asked in a surprisingly calm and melodious voice.
“Yes,” said the captain. “Dixon Hill.”
It was the name of the hero in a habit-forming series of twentieth-century pulp detective novels. Picard had felt confident when he assumed the identity that no one in Oblivion would have heard of it.
“Mister Hill,” said Steej, “we have a problem here. An explosion. Casualties. Property damage. And though we’ve secured a suspect, we have no idea why he would do such a thing.”
“Nor do I,” Picard said.
The Rythrian tilted his head, as if to examine his subject from a different angle. “You claim innocence, then?”
The captain shrugged. “I was headed for the plaza to get a bite to eat when the explosion took place. I know as little about it as you do.”
“Yet we have a witness who pointed you out. He says he saw you set off a bomb in the center of the plaza.”
“He’s lying,” said Picard.
An unpleasant, high-pitched piping sound emerged from Steej’s throat. “I doubt it, Mr. Hill. Ioro Tajat is no stranger to this place. He knows what I would do to him if I discovered he was purposely misleading me.”
“Nonetheless,” said Picard, “he’s lying.”
The skin around the Rythrian’s eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. “And Ioro has reason to do this because…?”
Picard shook his head. “I don’t know what his reasons are. I only know I didn’t set off