The Last Stand - Brad Ferguson [69]
“Our newfound friend has gotten us a table,” Riker said resignedly. “He’ll probably keep yelling for us until hell freezes over. Well, maybe sitting down with us will keep him quiet.”
“Maybe we’ll learn something from him,” Troi added. “He’s already rather defenseless, the poor boy.”
“Think so?” Riker seemed amused by that.
“Dex?” came a plaintive voice. “Pralla?!? Where are you?”
“We really should go sit down,” Troi insisted. “People are starting to stare.”
“All right,” Riker decided. “We’ll stay with him for as long as it’s doing us some good. We haven’t really talked with any of these people yet. We might as well start with this one.”
“I think this young man might be helpful,” Troi said.
“There’s a grand tradition in old spy novels where the good guys—that’s us—pump drunks for information,” Riker said.
“There is?”
“Yes, there is—even when the drunk is a phony, like our friend over there.”
“He is?”
“I’m sure he is. I’m assuming he’s a plant and that our cover is blown. We ran into him too easily, and he’s sticking around us way too long. We should play along and see what happens.”
“Dex! Pralla! Where are you?”
“There he goes again,” Troi said. “I gather we shouldn’t let Wiggin know that we know that he knows—I mean—”
“You’ve got it.”
“My, you’re sneaky.”
Riker grinned at her. “You knew that already. Let’s rejoin our friend over there. And one more thing—”
“What is it?”
“Put ‘when introduced by name’ on the Do Bow list.”
“Right.” Together, they crossed the distance to the table where Wiggin was waiting for them. “Ah, there you are,” he said, pleased. “Facilitator’s been by already. I’ve ordered a couple of pitchers of green stuff for us, and there’s a free meal ration that comes along with it. Special occasion, you know.”
“Why, thank you, Wiggin,” Troi said as she and Riker seated themselves. Wiggin winked at her. Troi pretended not to notice.
“‘Green stuff’?” Riker asked. He’d already noticed that many in the room were drinking something that was colored a light, almost pearlescent green.
Wiggin gave him a strange look. “Sure, Dex,” he said. “Green stuff. Standard alcoholic beverage, category three.” He suddenly grinned. “Or four. Hull, I forget. It’s my favorite, anyway.”
“Of course,” Riker said smoothly. “We usually call it something else, though. Hey, this is a pretty good party, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” Wiggin said happily. “Not too many get held on the flagship concourse itself on Posting Day, but I hear Agrell is a systems analyzer who’s on his way up. That’s got to have greased some gangways for him. He’s one lucky son of a tube cleaner—oops. Pardon me, Pralla.”
“Quite all right,” Troi said politely.
“There they are!” someone cried from the front of the bistro.
Riker and Troi looked around quickly. Riker kept his hand ready to slap his emergency recall signal. He glanced quickly at Wiggin. Riker half expected the young Krann to pull a weapon in an attempt to arrest him and Troi, but Wiggin merely looked annoyed and a bit dazed. For the first time, Riker felt a flicker of doubt about Wiggin’s motives.
“Nice, quiet time we’re having here,” Troi muttered.
“Don’t I know it,” Riker said. “Excuse me.” He stood and looked above the heads of the crowd for the source of the commotion. He quickly found it. An angry-looking group of four Krann had spotted Riker and were coming straight for him—and they were being led by Bitt, the male who’d given Riker the two empty pitchers to fill.
The party was definitely getting livelier.
Riker frowned. “It’s our friends from outside,” he told Troi.
“What friends?” Wiggin asked, clearly puzzled. “I thought you two came here alone—?”
Riker ignored him. “I’ll take care of it,” he told Troi. He rose from his seat, and, turning to face Bitt and his companions, stood by the table, waiting calmly.
Bitt was obviously, clearly, magnificently