Part 13 (2/2)

”Does it show?”

”You're not exactly one of my regulars.”

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

”How would it look to have the captain on a constant synthehol high?”

”Not good at all, Captain. But sometimes you should stop by just to say h.e.l.lo. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.”

He sipped his drink. ”You're doing a fine job, Guinan.”

”Thank you. You know, Amba.s.sador Undrun came in yesterday.” She saw Picard's expression turn sour, as if he'd bitten into his lemon twist. ”Ah, sore point, is he?”

”Not my first choice as a dinner guest.”

”Also not the only thing bothering you, I'd guess.”

He frowned in mock anger. ”You and Counselor Troi are starting to sound very much alike.”

Guinan grinned. ”Our jobs do have similarities.”

”But you don't have her Betazoid empathic capabilities.”

”I get by,” she said lightly. She took his empty gla.s.s. ”More?” Picard shook his head.

”I'd better get back to the bridge.”

She let out a snort. ”Good thing the rest of your crew isn't so tight-upped, or I'd never feel as if I accomplished anything. You came in here to unwind, but you still look wound up to me, Captain.”

”Let's just say I'm less tightly wound”

”Captains never really unwind, do they?”

”We get by.” He smiled. ”Thanks for the chat.”

He did feel better as he left the lounge, aware that the eyes of crew members were watching him as he pa.s.sed. Guinan was correct about captains never 143 unwinding completely. Too much tension and you'd snap. Too little, and you'd founder at the first sign of a storm. Just enough, he thought, and you're braced for action. As he headed for the bridge, Picard felt braced for the next few hours, when the decisions he would have to make might save Thiopa and Commander Will Riker-or condemn them.

Rut's woxw comprised a shade more than one cubic meter, and it was dark, except for pinpoint rays of light filtering through two breathing screens, each the size of his hand. It also shook to an irregular rhythm of bone-jarring bounces. Once he'd awakened, it hadn't taken long to figure out he was being transported by motor vehicle, like a trapped animal. And, as an animal might, he wondered if he was being taken to a place of safety or slaughter? He'd tried banging on the sides and shouting, without response.

The frequent b.u.mps and noises from outside made it clear they weren't traveling at a very high rate of speed. But since he couldn't even guess how long he'd been boxed and unconscious, there was no way to estimate how far he'd been taken from the warehouse in Bareesh. His communicator was gone-that he knew. Nothing much to do but wait ...

It must have been three hours later when the vehicle rolled to a stop. Riker could hear distant voices, as if they were near a bazaar or shopping district. Then he heard the unmistakable click-slide of latches unlocking. Riker crouched on bruised haunches, prepared to spring at whomever or whatever he saw first. The lid opened a crack-and a blaster muzzle poked in. He made a fatalistic grab for it, but the person on the outside held fast.

”Let go or you're dead,” said a gruff voice.

Riker did as he was told. The lid fell open, forcing him to squint against blinding daylight. As he took a gulp of outside air, Riker prepared to fight back his cough reflex.

Compared to the city, though, this air was fresh and pure.

At least breathable. After a couple of seconds of adjustment, his eyes focused on the grizzled whiskers of the Thiopan with the blaster pointed at him.

”Who the h.e.l.l are you?”

”Durren.” He thrust a bundle of dirty tan clothing at Riker. ”Out of yours. Put these on.”

”One size fits all?” The man didn't seem to get the joke. ”Sojourner, I presume?”

The man continued to ignore him, and began humming a mournful folk melody. So Riker unzipped his uniform and stepped out of it. He felt a little foolish getting undressed under these circ.u.mstances.

He could see that his packing crate was in fact on the bed of a small cargo vehicle with a bubble-shaped cab up front. And they were indeed parked just off a bustling marketplace. As he put on the gauzy leggings and s.h.i.+rt and tied a blue sash around his waist, he took in the surrounding area. The marketplace and its alleys and stalls were filled 146 with people, but they looked more like refugees than shoppers or traders. Many appeared to have their meager belongings with them, some heaped on emaciated animals, a few in decaying motor vehicles overloaded with packs and people, but most of the Thiopans were stooped by the weight of duffels and sacks strapped to their backs and clutched in whatever arms were not already holding small children. Older children were themselves carrying backpacks.

”Put the hood on,” Durren said. Riker did, but Durren tugged it farther forward, making it harder for anyone to see that he wasn't Thiopan.

”Where are we?”

”Get out.”

Riker would have preferred to vault out of the crate and make a gymnastically perfect landing on the ground.

But his head throbbed from whatever had been spritzed in his face back at the Bareeshan warehouse, he'd been knocked around inside the box for an indeterminate period of time, and he was wobbly from hunger. So discretion won out and he clambered over the side carefully. Still pointing his blaster barrel, Durren hopped off the truck bed after Riker, who found himself facing two more Thiopans, with rifles and knives hanging from their bright sashes.

The other two were younger than Durren. One had a baby face and burning eyes. He held his weapon with palpable affection. The third man was somewhat older, with a nervous blink and darting eyes.

”Tritt,” Durren said to his nervous companion, ”don't take your eyes off him. If he tries to get away, shoot him.”

”Shouldn't we burn his uniform?” Tritt asked.

”You couldn't,” said Riker. ”It's flameproof.

Besides, I'm kind of fond of it.”

”Forget the d.a.m.n uniform,” the young Thiopan said.

”I'm starving.”

”Mikken, you're always starving,” Durren complained.

”We haven't eaten since before daybreak. We have to eat something before we cross the Sa'drit.”

Durren acquiesced. ”But make it fast.”

Durren fell back to Riker's side as Mikken led the way along one of the narrow streets, looking for a booth that sold food. Durren resumed his soulful humming, and Tritt trailed so close behind that Riker could almost feel the blaster muzzle in his ribs. Except for Durren's humming, they walked in silence. Riker noticed that there were precious few luxuries on sale here-utilitarian clothing similar to what he'd been given, baskets and sacks, harnesses and halters for livestock, well-used pans and pottery, and some tools and hand weapons. Mikken finally found a food stall to his liking, apparently by following the trail of the tangy aroma of sizzling meat. On an open grill, charred nuggets were interspersed on skewers with chunks of fruits and vegetables, the flames in the pit hissing and flaring as juices dripped down.

Riker's stomach rumbled. ”How well do you treat your prisoners?” Durren nodded to the stall keeper. ”We'll take four.”

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