Stargazer Oblivion

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “I believe you,” said Tain. But before he was finished speaking, he had pulled his disruptor out from beneath his tunic.

  “What—?” Merant sputtered.

  “It’s unfortunate,” Tain told him, “that your best has proven so woefully inadequate.”

  Then he depressed the trigger, skewering his fellow Cardassian on a lurid red beam.

  Merant went flying into the wall behind him with bone-rattling force. Then, much more slowly, he slumped to the floor and lay still.

  Tain frowned. His underling’s display of violence in a crowded hotel lobby had been ill advised. The authorities would be looking for the person responsible for it, regardless of what the manager had promised Merant.

  And their search would end when they found his corpse in this narrow alley.

  No one fails me twice, Tain mused. Merant wasn’t the first of his associates to learn that lesson, and he probably wouldn’t be the last.

  Putting his weapon away, the glinn walked out of the alley as if he had nothing on his mind more pressing than a pleasant meal, or perhaps a drink at one of the area’s many bars.

  Inside, however, he was burning.

  It had nothing to do with what he had done to Merant. He wouldn’t be giving that a second thought any time soon. But he was no closer than before to finding Demmix, and time was not his ally in this enterprise.

  The last thing Enabran Tain wanted was to be found in a dirty alley on Cardassia Prime, the victim of a failed mission here in Oblivion.

  Chapter Ten

  COMMANDER STEEJ WAS SITTING in a café carved out of the bowels of an Orion slave ship, eating a plate of unfortunately overcooked Rythrian tubers, when he got the call.

  Trying to contain his eagerness, he snatched his personal com device off his belt and said, “Steej here.”

  “This is Ardin,” came the slightly tinny reply—but then, Ardin was a Zintekkan, and all his people seemed to have that vaguely metallic quality in their voices. “I’m at The Northern Sky. The manager here says he was manhandled by a Cardassian asking a lot of questions.”

  Steej frowned. It wasn’t the report he had hoped for. “What kind of questions?”

  “The Cardassian was looking for a Zartani named Demmix. He wanted to know if the fellow had taken a room at the Northern Sky.”

  “I see,” said the Rythrian, leaning forward in his chair. “And what did the manager say?”

  “He said he didn’t know. That’s when the Cardassian laid his hands on him, and warned him not to tell security about it if he knew what was good for him.”

  Steej grunted. “But he contacted us anyway.”

  “He was afraid of the Cardassian,” said Ardin, “but he was more afraid of what might happen if he was found withholding information from us.”

  The Rythrian smiled to himself. It was a wise move on the part of the Zartani. When someone asked questions in Oblivion, security often wanted to know the answers as well.

  “As it should be,” he told Ardin.

  “Shall I pursue this matter?” asked the Zintekkan. “Or keep looking for the humans?”

  Steej thought about it for a moment. “The humans remain our priority. But let the others know to be on the lookout for nosy Cardassians.”

  “As you wish,” said Ardin.

  “Steej out.”

  As he reclipped his communications device to his belt, he pondered the incident at The Northern Sky. It wasn’t unusual in a place like Oblivion for someone to demand information of someone else. After all, most of those who frequented the city were merchants, and information was perhaps the most valuable commodity of all.

  But it was unusual for Cardassians to be involved. They always seemed to keep to themselves, conducting their business under a mantle of privacy.

  The security director was intrigued. He wished he had the time and the resources to find out who this Cardassian was, and why he had been so eager to locate a Zartani named Demmix.

  And eventually, he would. But first he had to run Hill and his companion to ground.

  When Picard and his companion walked into the restaurant, heads turned. Zartani heads, for the most part.

  But then, like the hotel the captain had visited earlier, this place catered to Demmix’s people. The only non-Zartani he could see were a few humans and Bolians, who had obviously developed a taste for Zartani fare.

  Picard had never done that, unfortunately. He could barely tolerate the boiled-licorice smell that seemed to pervade the place.

  “The owner,” said Guinan, “who is also the cook, will be in the back. It’s considered rude for him to serve food he hasn’t taken a hand in preparing. The Zartani are funny that way.”

  “I know,” said Picard. After all, he had learned a great deal about the Zartani through his association with Demmix.

  Guinan pointed to a likely door in the rear of the dining room. “Let’s go.”

  “By all means,” he said.

  He led the way, in the improbable case that they were walking into some kind of trouble. But as the door conveniently slid aside for him, he could see they were only walking into a small, well-lit kitchen.

  There were three people working there, all of them Zartani. They regarded the intruders, apprehension evident in their black, shiny eyes.

  “We’re looking for the owner,” the captain told them.

  None of them replied. But one of them glanced at another door, off to the side of the room.

  “Thank you,” said Picard.

  “Judging from their expressions,” said Guinan, “I don’t think you’re welcome.”

  Nonetheless, Picard crossed the room, with his companion right behind him. As there was a heat-sensitive plate beside the door, the captain knew it wouldn’t open automatically.

  With the workers looking on silently, he placed his hand on the metal plate. After a moment or two, the door whispered aside, revealing what looked like an office, with a workstation and a couple of black chairs.

  The fellow sitting at the workstation didn’t look up at first. He seemed to be engrossed in something on his computer screen.

  He wasn’t very tall, for a Zartani, and his hair had streaks of yellow mixed in with the white. More than likely, one of his ancestors had been a member of some other species.

  But he had enough Zartani in him to run this eatery. That was all the captain cared about.

  “If I may…?” he said.

  The Zartani looked up and registered surprise. “You’re not Tomani,” he said.

  “That’s true,” said Picard. “Would you be the owner of this establishment?”

  The Zartani tilted his head to one side—the equivalent of a nod in his culture. “I am.”

  “Good,” said Picard. “We would like to ask your help with a matter of some importance to us.”

  He might as well have said that he was going to burn the place down. The Zartani’s eyes grew wide with fear.

  “Please,” he said, “leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough to us already?”

  Picard didn’t know what he meant. And when he exchanged glances with Guinan, it was clear that she didn’t know either.

  “I beg your pardon,” said the captain, “but we haven’t done anything at all.”

  The Zartani looked at them, obviously uncertain whether he should believe Picard or not. “You’re not with the Cardassians?” he asked.

  Picard looked at Guinan again. She shrugged.

  He turned back to the restaurant owner. “We are not with anyone. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

  The Zartani stiffened again. “That’s what they said.”

  “They…being the Cardassians?” Picard ventured.

  The restaurant owner nodded. “A few questions, they told me. And when they didn’t like my answers, they did this.”

  He held up his right hand. It was swathed in a translucent steri-seal bandage, through which Picard caught a glimpse of angry, red flesh.

  “I was boiling w
ater to make soup. They held my hand in the pot until they were certain I didn’t know anything about this Zartani they were looking for.”

  Picard winced. “I assure you, we are completely on our own. And we have no intention of hurting you, whether you help us or not.”

  The fellow looked skeptical. But then, he had been burned before—quite literally.

  “How do I know you’re not lying to me?” he demanded.

  Guinan looked as if she wanted to intervene. No doubt she would have said something effective.

  But in this case Picard didn’t need any help. “You don’t know,” he said. “So if it makes you feel better, stay right where you are—and we promise to stay right where we are.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Guinan staring at him. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” she muttered.

  “Now,” Picard continued, “you’re under no obligation to help us. And if you refuse, nothing’s going to happen to you. But our friend is in trouble—and if you do help us, it might enable us to save his life.”

  The Zartani frowned. “You’re looking for the same person the Cardassians showed me?”

  “I would imagine so,” said Picard. “Lean, long hair twisted into braids, sharp features…?”

  “That’s the man they showed me,” the restaurant owner confirmed. “But as far as I know, he hasn’t been in here.”

  The captain was disappointed, but he believed that the Zartani was telling the truth. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I wish I could be of more help,” said the Zartani.

  So do I, Picard reflected.

  But their visit hadn’t been entirely unproductive. They had learned at least one thing they didn’t know before.

  There was a coldblooded bunch of Cardassians looking for Demmix just as he and Guinan were—and they couldn’t be allowed to find him first.

  Otherwise, Demmix might receive the same sort of treatment that the restaurant owner had received. Or worse.

  As Guinan and her companion left the Zartani restaurant, she couldn’t help admiring what she had seen in Picard.

  After all, he was bucking a considerable amount of adversity—the kind that might have caused a lesser individual to start showing some cracks.

  It would have been different if they were making any real progress. However, they weren’t much closer to finding his friend than they were when they started out.

  And now their task had been made more complicated with the introduction of a mysterious pack of Cardassians—a pack that obviously had some idea of who the Zartani was and why he had come to Oblivion.

  Guinan had a sneaking suspicion that it was the Cardassians who had planted the bomb in the plaza. And even these days, her suspicions were usually on the money.

  In any case, someone had set off that bomb—someone who was willing to do more than just plunge people’s hands in boiling water, horrible as that was. Some interested party, either the Cardassians or someone else, was willing to shed blood to get what they wanted.

  Yet Picard didn’t seem worried. In fact, he seemed eager to take the next step in their search, regardless of where it might lead them.

  He reminded her more than ever of the man she had met all those years ago in San Francisco. A man as steady as a rock, who had unhesitatingly risked his life and his mission to stay behind in that cave with her.

  And the fact that he had no hair made it even easier to think of him that way.

  For the first time in a long time, Guinan felt safe, protected from the forces that had tried so hard to tear her apart…and in some ways were trying still.

  Picard didn’t know that, of course. He thought he was following her, dependent on her for his salvation. But in truth, it was she who was following him.

  “Mate,” said Paris.

  Jiterica looked surprised as she gazed at him from her seat on the other side of his table. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mate,” he repeated.

  Only then did he realize she could have derived a different meaning from the word than the one he had intended. Blushing fiercely, and hoping that Jiterica wasn’t capable of discerning it, he pointed to the chess-board between them.

  It had been a gift from his father on the occasion of his graduation from the Academy, arriving in a cargo container with the expressed sentiment that the younger Paris could learn something about tactics from it.

  But Paris hadn’t been thinking of tactics when he suggested that he and Jiterica play the game. He had been thinking of how it would help her develop her manual dexterity.

  And, as well, he had been thinking of how it would give them something to do when they spent their off-duty time together. Somehow, the idea of just sitting and talking with her made him a little uncomfortable now.

  It wasn’t that way before. But since the incident in Jiterica’s quarters, Paris couldn’t help but look at his friend a little…differently.

  “Mate?” she echoed.

  Jiterica’s king—a crude rendition of the traditional Terran figure carved out of Vulcan amethyst, which had retreated into a corner three moves earlier—was now effectively surrounded by Paris’s amber queen and amber knight.

  Jiterica studied the situation for a moment, then looked up again. “It appears you have won.”

  Paris nodded. “But you put up a better fight that time. Much better. For a moment, I thought you had me.”

  Behind her faceplate, her phantom brow seemed to pucker like a real one. “Had you?”

  “Yes,” he said, feeling his blush intensify again. “You were all around me and…” He stopped himself. “I mean, your pieces were all around me…”

  Jiterica waited patiently for him to finish, apparently oblivious of Paris’s discomfort.

  “How about another game?” he said suddenly.

  She smiled. “I would enjoy that. And this time,” she added, “I will try to be aware of when you mate with me.”

  No, thought Paris, not mate with you.

  He was about to explain Jiterica’s grammatical error when he realized that he would have to provide a literal translation of what she had said—and decided to leave the matter alone. “Good” was the response he settled for.

  He forced himself not to look at his friend while they set up the board again. It gave his cheeks a chance to cool off. Finally, the pieces were all in place.

  “I go first?” Jiterica asked.

  Paris nodded. “Absolutely.” After all, he had gone first the last time.

  Jiterica moved one of her pawns forward a couple of spaces. Then she looked up at him. “You said I was permitted to do that, correct? Move two spaces, that is.”

  “Yes,” he said, “of course.”

  Apparently satisfied with her opening, she sat back in her chair. As she did, the light caught her faceplate, briefly obscuring the ghostly visage behind it.

  In that one moment, Jiterica’s helmet looked strangely vacant—just the way Paris remembered seeing it when he barged into her quarters. That was when he looked around and came to the conclusion that she was elsewhere….

  “Is everything all right?”

  Jolted by Jiterica’s voice, Paris blinked and realized that his friend was peering at him, her features arranged in a slightly puzzled expression.

  “Uh, fine,” he said.

  Her puzzlement seemed to turn into concern. “Are you certain you’re all right? You seemed…distracted.”

  He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Not at all. You were saying…?”

  Jiterica smiled again. “I don’t believe I was saying anything. I was simply waiting for you to make your move.”

  Paris swallowed. Make my move…

  Again, he saw her empty suit in his mind’s eye, and felt the strangely intoxicating prick of cold, cloying mist…

  The ensign swore under his breath. How in the name of reason could he not be distracted? Being so close to Jiterica seemed to inexorably bring back the memory of how it felt to be enveloped
by her…trapped in her…

  It was a feeling of undeniable sensuality. Undeniable pleasure. And yes, undeniable intimacy.

  So undeniable, in fact, that it had scared Paris right down to his soul. He could admit that now, if only to himself. That was the reason he had left Jiterica’s quarters so abruptly, wasn’t it? Because he was scared to death of the sensuality he felt in every alien molecule.

  But it wasn’t just sensuality—it was more than that. When he was unexpectedly immersed in Jiterica, he felt a deep and profound sense of belonging—a sense of comfort, of familiarity and undiluted acceptance.

  A sense of something that felt to him a lot like love.

  Not that Paris knew what love was. Not really.

  After all, he had never been in love with anyone. As far as he could remember, he had never even come close. He had been too wrapped up in his studies, in his desperate attempts to meet his family’s lofty expectations.

  But, Paris asked himself, how could he love someone who was so vastly different from him? How could he have feelings for someone he couldn’t even hold?

  He didn’t know. And yet, he had those feelings. He wasn’t imagining them.

  So what was the right course to take? Was he supposed to tell Jiterica how he felt and try to make a go of it with her?

  No, Paris told himself. It’s too crazy. It would never work, no matter how much he might want it to.

  He had to stop it from going any further. And he had to do it now, before he did something he would ultimately regret.

  “Oh no,” said Paris, doing his best to look disappointed. He had never been very good at deceiving people, but he was hoping that Jiterica wouldn’t notice.

  She looked understandably surprised. “What is it?”

  Paris sighed. “I just remembered that I’m supposed to prepare a report for Mister Simenon.”

  “A report?” she echoed.

  “Yes, on the engine tests I ran for him this morning. I’m, er, sure you had to submit reports to him too. I mean, when you did your rotation in engineering.”

  “I don’t recall doing so,” Jiterica told him.

  “Well,” said Paris, “maybe he doesn’t ask everyone to do them. But he won’t be happy if they’re late.”