Death in Winter

by Michael Jan Freidman

  But then, Cly’rana was not just beautiful. She was also exceedingly clever, and there wasn’t a family among the Hundred that could not benefit from a little more cleverness.

  Eborion’s place, which was nearly at the opposite end of the table from Claboros’s, was not one of advanced status. Only his cousins Tinicitis and Solops, who were seated to his right, enjoyed less of a say in family matters.

  But that will change soon enough, Eborion thought. After all, he had secretly made himself one of Tal’aura’s confidants. And he would shortly be her very closest confidant, if all the pieces fell into place for him.

  First, Claboros called for reports on the family’s holdings throughout the Empire. These were rendered by the youngest relatives in attendance. Solops described the profitability of their agricultural ventures, which he had lately extended to a fifteenth colony world. Tinicitis spoke proudly of their investment activities, which had allowed them to participate in the successful businesses of less wealthy families.

  When it was Eborion’s turn, he brought everyone up to date on developments in their weapons manufacturing plants. As usual, their technology was ahead of their competitors’, allowing them to maintain their position as the foremost supplier of disruptor systems to the Empire’s warbird fleets.

  “Naturally,” said Rijanus. “We have the best engineers working for us.” It was a reference to a precept put forth by Inarthos, Eborion’s paternal grandfather: Gather the brightest and most innovative individuals in their field, and make yourself wealthier on the strength of their gifts.

  Inarthos’s insights into the armaments business were used as touchstones around the marble table. After all, it was Inarthos who had supplied the Empire with directed-energy weapons during the war with Earth some two hundred years ago, trebling his family’s already considerable fortune.

  “Yes,” Eborion said in response to his uncle’s remark, “we do have the best engineers.”

  What he didn’t say was how thoroughly the weapons business bored him, and how glad he would be to give it up some day. Were it not for its place in the family’s history, he would have lobbied for another assignment long ago.

  “We have also made inroads into the hand weapons market,” Eborion went on. “Before the year is out we hope to be the second biggest supplier of such items, and a year later we should be at the top of the mountain.”

  “Excellent,” said Claboros. He glanced at Eborion’s cousins as well. “All of you.”

  The last three words got under Eborion’s skin. He wasn’t like his cousins in the least, and he hated being lumped together with them. But out of deference to Claboros, he kept his objections to himself.

  The young ones’ reports made and accepted, the family’s real agenda got under way. It was at this time that they would identify threats to their accumulated wealth, as well as unexplored opportunities to expand it.

  “As you know,” Claboros said soberly, “the praetor has to this point managed to put down any serious threats to her rule. However, Admiral Braeg seems to represent an exception.”

  “The people love him,” Obrix observed.

  Rijanus dismissed the remark with a gesture. “The people are fickle, brother. Today they love Braeg. Tomorrow they will love someone else.”

  “I don’t think so,” Obrix insisted. “Braeg is a war hero, remember. And he comes from common stock.”

  “And he has the loyalty of many of his old comrades,” said Cly’rana. “Enough, some believe, to hold his own in a civil war, if it comes to that.”

  “It won’t,” Rijanus argued.

  “But what if it does?” Claboros asked. “How will it affect us? In the long term? The short term? And what measures should we take to protect our assets?”

  “In the short term, it will bolster our weapons business,” Eborion reported dutifully, though it was a rather obvious conclusion.

  “In the longer term,” said Solops, “there may be food shortages. The price of our grain will go up.”

  “But our security costs will go up as well,” Obrix noted. “There will be widespread looting, and the occasional mob of commoners who have gotten their hands on a weapons cache.”

  “Yes,” said Rijanus, “civil conflicts always bring out the worst in the common people.”

  “Perhaps we should speak with Admiral Braeg,” said Cly’rana, “to get a sense of his intentions. Surreptitiously, of course. We wouldn’t want Tal’aura to imagine our unmitigated support for her has diminished.”

  “Our father dealt with a rebel once,” said Obrix. “And that fact preserved us when other families fell.”

  Claboros made a face. “It would be a delicate maneuver. And a dangerous one.”

  “It might be more dangerous to assume a posture of complacency,” said Cly’rana. “If we are precise, we can play both sides with a minimum of risk.”

  “We need to find out what the other houses are doing,” Claboros told them. “We don’t want to inadvertently put ourselves at odds with any of our allies—or in league with any of our enemies.”

  “Would Braeg even be receptive to an overture from one of the Hundred?” asked Obrix. “Sometimes these rebels are too idealistic to accept help from a noble house.”

  “Or too stupid,” added Cly’rana. “But I don’t believe Braeg is guilty of either charge. If it pleases the council, I will personally see to the—”

  “The praetor will deal with him,” Eborion announced, though it was customary for the family’s elders to resolve their differences of opinion before anyone else had a say.

  It was as if he had dropped a pebble into a still mountain pool. Everyone turned to him, eyebrows raised in surprise and—in the cases of Cly’rana and Rijanus, at least—amusement.

  “How can you be so certain?” asked Claboros.

  How indeed, Eborion thought, feeling a cold drop of perspiration make its way down his back.

  He had resolved not to reveal his position in Tal’aura’s court until he knew it was perfectly secure. He had promised himself that he would keep his mouth shut. But he was sorely tempted now to tell his uncle everything he had done and where it had gotten him, and where it would get all of them if they accorded him the respect he was due.

  No, he insisted inwardly. It was not the proper time. And as his uncles were fond of pointing out, Inarthos had been a great believer in timing.

  “I have observed the praetor,” was all Eborion said in the end, “and I am confident in her abilities.”

  “I wish I were so confident,” said Obrix. A ripple of laughter followed on the heels of his remark, turning Eborion’s cheeks a hot, dark shade of green.

  “What about the rim worlds?” asked Claboros, mercifully turning the conversation in a different direction. “Braeg seems to mention them often enough in his diatribes.”

  “They are in turmoil,” said Obrix, “by all accounts.”

  “However,” said Rijanus, “our exposure there is minimal. We have few interests on the planets in question.”

  “What if the spirit of rebellion spreads?” asked Obrix. “We have interests on planets in the next tier.”

  Rijanus shrugged. “Rebels are always poorly armed and poorly organized. They are not visionaries. They are simply opportunists, taking advantage of the confusion that inevitably follows a change in regime.”

  “So you discount them as a threat?” asked Claboros.

  “To our house,” said Rijanus, “yes.”

  Cly’rana shook her head, loosening her nest of braided black tresses. It was all it took for her to gain everyone’s attention.

  “Need I remind you,” she asked Rijanus sweetly, “that what affects one house often affects another? Three of our closest friends among the Hundred will be profoundly affected by what transpires on Kevratas.”

  Rijanus laughed scornfully. “We have no allies with substantial holdings on the rim.”

  “I did not say they were our allies,” Cly’rana replied in the same inoffensive tone
. “I said they were our friends. What else would you call someone who furthers your interests and adds to your wealth…whether he is aware of it or not?”

  Claboros nodded, then looked around the table, wordlessly soliciting further comment. No one spoke—Eborion least of all. He was not about to make the same mistake twice.

  “It seems,” said Claboros, “that the situation on the rim worlds requires investigation. Braeg as well, if he is as formidable as some of us appear to believe.”

  “You will receive full reports on both matters at our next meeting,” promised Tinicitis, presuming to speak for everyone at his end of the table.

  Eborion wanted to rebuke him, to tell him what a sniveling rodent he was. But he held himself in check.

  “I am glad to see you take the initiative,” Claboros told Tinicitis. “However, considering the urgency of these matters, I think we would be ill advised to wait until our next scheduled meeting.” He looked around the table. “I will see you all back in this chamber in four days.”

  It was not the first time Claboros had convened the family on short notice. However, it was a rare occurrence, and a measure of his concern. Of course, that was how their house had risen to prominence and remained there—by dealing with problems before they became full-fledged disasters.

  “Until then, good health to you all,” said Claboros, “and long live the Empire.”

  “The Empire,” everyone echoed.

  The meeting was over. In twos and threes, Eborion’s relatives pushed their chairs out and got to their feet.

  Only Eborion remained in his chair, reluctant to face the patronizing looks he knew he would get from his relatives. He had been made to look the buffoon because he couldn’t divulge his dealings with the praetor.

  But that would not be the case forever. Eventually, he would let them know what he had accomplished. And after that, he would be listening to business reports instead of giving them.

  As he thought that, Eborion felt a hand alight softly on his shoulder. Turning, he saw that it belonged to Cly’rana.

  “You appeared overeager today,” she noted, looking at him askance. “It was unlike you, nephew. Usually, you are much more measured in your actions.”

  Eborion swallowed. “It seems I was not myself.”

  His aunt looked at him a moment longer. Then she said, “That is one explanation,” and walked away.

  She suspects something, he told himself, as the hiss of Cly’rana’s slippered footfalls marked her departure. I must be more circumspect in her presence.

  He remained seated at the crimson and white table until he was certain Cly’rana and everyone else had left the underground level. Only then did he get up and head for the circular stair that led to his family’s palace, and the light of the sun.

  As Decalon materialized on the transporter platform of the Annabel Lee, he looked to Picard much like any other Romulan. His eyes were dark and inquisitive, his ears pointed, his hair severely cut. It was unmarred by strands of gray despite his inclination toward what was—for Romulans, at least—late middle age.

  “Captain Picard,” said Decalon, stepping down from the platform. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  Romulans usually remained distant in their dealings with other species, giving away nothing of their inner thoughts. However, Decalon’s tone betrayed undeniable enthusiasm.

  “After all,” the Romulan continued, “it is largely because of you that I was able to emigrate from the Empire. One might say I owe you my life.”

  Ah, the captain mused. So that’s it. “Do not give it a second thought. I am glad I had the opportunity to help.”

  “No more than I,” said Decalon.

  “If you will follow me,” said Picard, gesturing to the exit, “I will introduce you to Captain Joseph and Doctor Greyhorse, the other members of our team.”

  “Actually,” Decalon said peremptorily, amid the beginnings of a frown, “I would like to ask you a question, Captain. Concerning Doctor Greyhorse.”

  The captain had a feeling he knew what the question would be. However, he allowed Decalon to frame it.

  “Admiral Edrich seemed to believe that Doctor Greyhorse was as capable as Doctor Crusher of devising a cure for the Kevatran plague. Is that your estimate as well?”

  It wasn’t at all the question Picard was expecting. It made him wonder how much Edrich had told Decalon, especially with regard to Greyhorse’s past.

  “It is,” the captain assured Decalon. “Doctor Greyhorse is a brilliant individual, and he worked with Doctor Crusher on a cure for other variants of the disease.”

  The Romulan nodded. “That is good to know.”

  Perhaps it was better that Decalon didn’t possess any other information about Greyhorse. If Starfleet was right about the doctor, he was no longer capable of committing the crimes he attempted on the Enterprise. He had rehabilitated himself, wiped the slate clean.

  And if that was true, who was Picard to scrawl warnings across it? “Come,” he told the Romulan. “Joseph and Greyhorse will be eager to meet you.”

  5

  I’M ALIVE.

  It came as a surprise to her. But if she was capable of being surprised, it had to be true: I’m alive.

  Opening her eyes, Beverly Crusher saw that she was lying on a bed, her Kevratan disguise gone along with her holo-unit. Without it, no one could have mistaken her for anything but human.

  The room in which she found herself was small and square, perhaps three meters across. It was bounded on three sides by gray stone walls that looked worn enough to be hundreds of years old. The fourth “wall” was a shimmering, yellow-white energy barrier.

  A prison cell, she concluded.

  Not that Beverly was complaining. Being in prison was still a significant improvement over what she had expected when she felt the kick of that point-blank disruptor.

  Obviously, whoever had shot her had set his weapon on a lower energy level—one that would knock her out, but fall short of killing her. Romulans didn’t often settle for that option. Most of the time, they preferred their enemies dead.

  If they had diverged from that policy, it was because they had questions to ask her—for starters, what was an offworlder doing on Kevratas disguised as a native?

  Romulans were experts at getting answers to their questions. That much was common knowledge. But some of them were more expert than others. And if one in particular had taken an interest in Beverly’s case…

  No, she thought. I’m not going to go down that road. I’m going to take this one step at a time.

  Beverly tried to get up, but found her right shoulder was too stiff to be of help in that regard. It was the shoulder that had been torn up by the first disruptor blast she absorbed—the one that hadn’t been taken down a level of intensity.

  Under the circumstances, Beverly would accept a little stiffness. Gladly. It beat losing the arm altogether, which had been a real possibility.

  Whoever had administered to her had done a good job—one she could appreciate as a doctor. She made a mental note to thank the person if she ever got the chance.

  Rolling onto her left shoulder, she tried to get up again—this time with a bit more success. Wrestling herself off the bed and onto her feet, she experienced a wave of vertigo—a vestige of the punishment her nervous system had taken. She stood there a moment, feet spread wide, until the dizziness went away. Then she approached the energy barrier.

  Beyond it was a corridor, also made of stone, also ancient-looking. And all along it were cells just like Beverly’s. But they were empty, their barrier projectors inactive. At the moment, it seemed, she was her captors’ only prisoner.

  Looking around, she saw a sensor high on the wall opposite her cell. Obviously, her captors didn’t trust their energy barrier completely. But then, Starfleet personnel had been known to defuse such things on occasion.

  And who knew that better than the Romulans?

  The doctor felt another wave of dizziness, even worse than
the first. She felt like retreating to her bed and lying down until the discomfort went away, but she knew that her captors would be watching her.

  It wasn’t wise to let a Romulan know you were hurting. It would only encourage him—or her—to take advantage of the fact. Better to make her think you had your wits about you. Then there was at least a chance she would leave you alone.

  It was Jean-Luc who had told her that, wasn’t it? And a number of other things as well. But then, he had had a lot more experience with Romulans than she had.

  Beverly remembered surgically altering his features before he left the Enterprise-D to look for Ambassador Spock. How silly he looked with his Romulan brow ridges, though of course she had refrained from saying so….

  Just then, she heard something—a clatter of boot heels, echoing sharply from the stone walls. Obviously someone was coming to see her, having taken note of the fact that she was awake.

  And Beverly knew who it was, without the slightest doubt. Pulling herself up to her full height, she forced her pain aside and waited—and saw that she was right.

  Her visitor was tall, slender but strong-looking, and more fair-haired than any other Romulan Beverly had seen. And even with the shadows in the corridor obscuring the woman’s features, Crusher knew them almost as well as her own.

  Of course, back on the Enterprise-D, she had seen that face every day for nearly a year.

  “Sela,” she said.

  Regarding her from the other side of the energy barrier, the blond woman feigned delight. “I’m so glad you haven’t forgotten me, Doctor.”

  Beverly hadn’t forgotten her first compound fracture either. Things like that tended to stay with you.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” said Sela, her tone only vaguely remonstrative. “The last thing the Kevrata need is a human stirring up unrest.”

  “I didn’t come here to stir up unrest,” Beverly said. “I came to find a cure for the disease that’s ravaging the Kevrata, which is more than the Romulans have done for them.”

  Sela smiled. “Perhaps. But it won’t be difficult to make it appear that you came here to start trouble. That would make you a provocateur. And those convicted of such a crime in the Empire are made to pay dearly for their transgressions.”