Death in Winter

by Michael Jan Freidman

  Picard agreed. “Let us submit our request. The sooner we beam down, the better.”

  For Beverly’s sake, he added silently, as well as that of the Kevrata.

  6

  AS BEVERLY LANGUISHED IN HER CELL, SHE WASN’T optimistic about her chances of escape.

  Had she been captured by a Romulan with a less thorough knowledge of Federation prisoners, she would have stood a better chance. But Sela was hardly what one might call ignorant on that count.

  More than likely, the doctor would be executed. That was the standard fate of prisoners who refused to cooperate with the Romulans. The method of execution might vary, but not the result.

  It was all right. Beverly had expected to perish when she absorbed that disruptor blast. In that one moment, she had said all the good-byes she could ever hope to say. Whatever happened to her now, she was prepared for it.

  What nettled her, keeping her from the peace that should have come with resignation, was the prospect of what would happen to the Kevrata. According to the intelligence supplied by the underground, the plague had already claimed the lives of nearly five percent of the native population, and another twenty-five percent were afflicted to one degree or another.

  And the situation would get worse before it got better. Beverly knew that from the work she had done at Starfleet Medical. The Kevrata would be decimated—a population of more than a million reduced to perhaps a couple hundred thousand.

  All because they had been denied the proper vaccine—a vaccine Beverly could easily have developed for them if only she were allowed to do so. It was too hideous to contemplate.

  Fortunately for the Kevrata, the Federation wouldn’t give up on them. Once it became apparent that something had happened to derail the doctor’s mission, Starfleet Command would huddle and come up with a backup plan.

  First and foremost, they would need another physician to deal with the epidemic. Unfortunately, there weren’t a great many options to pick from. The only other person who had had any real experience with the disease was Carter Greyhorse, the former chief medical officer of the Stargazer and Beverly’s colleague in her first go-round at Starfleet Medical.

  It was she who had made the disease a research priority. However, Greyhorse had plunged into the work as deeply as she had, making major contributions along the way. Beverly might have come up with the cure without him, but her path would have been more arduous, and it would have taken a good deal longer.

  So there was no question about Greyhorse’s viability as a scientist. But his viability as a clandestine agent? That was an iffy proposition, at best.

  That means he’ll have to have someone dependable with him, she thought. Someone he’ll respect. And someone who’s had experience with the Romulans.

  To her mind, there was only one person in the universe who fit that description—Jean-Luc Picard. Of course, he was also the last man Greyhorse had tried to kill. But that was many years and thousands of hours of therapy ago.

  As far as Beverly knew, Greyhorse again saw Jean-Luc as he had during his earliest days on the Stargazer, as someone who deserved his loyalty and respect. If that were so, the two of them might do what Beverly had been prevented from doing—find a cure for the Kevrata’s plague.

  Part of her prayed that it would be so. But another part feared for her friends. Sela had a grudge against Jean-Luc, the product of more than one stinging defeat at his hands. If she had even an inkling that he was on Kevratas, she would do everything in her power to get her hands on him.

  And squeeze until he begged for mercy.

  On the other hand, Beverly allowed, I may be way off base. It was possible that neither Jean-Luc nor Greyhorse would wind up anywhere near the Romulan Empire, just as it was possible that she would be the last doctor sent to help the Kevrata. But her knowledge of Starfleet told her otherwise.

  As she thought that, she heard the sharp report of footfalls on the naked stone. Sela? she wondered. Had the woman come back to obtain the answers she had failed to get last time?

  Beverly moved forward in her cell until her face was almost touching the energy of the barrier. It allowed her to see all the way down to the end of the corridor.

  Moments later, someone turned the corner, all right—but it wasn’t Sela. It was one of her centurions. Probably the one who had looked in on her every hour or so since she woke up.

  No, Beverly thought as he got closer. This is a different one. The other centurion had been tall and broad-shouldered, with high, aristocratic cheekbones and a thin, cruel mouth.

  This one was shorter, slimmer, more wiry-looking. And his features were less remarkable—downright bland, in fact. As good as the doctor was with faces, she would have been hard-pressed to describe his with any accuracy.

  Like the other centurion, he approached her cell and gave it a visual inspection. When he got to Beverly, she returned his scrutiny. She might have to endure it, but she certainly wasn’t going to be meek about it.

  In any case, the centurion wasn’t likely to linger. There was nothing amiss in her cell, nothing to address. The doctor expected him to do what his predecessor had done—cast a final warning glance at her and go back the way he came.

  Until he spoke.

  Beverly was so surprised and his voice was so low, so soft, she couldn’t make out a single word. Her expression must have communicated the fact, because the centurion spoke again—a little more distinctly this time.

  “Not all of Commander Sela’s centurions are eager to follow her orders,” he breathed. “Some believe the Kevrata deserve their freedom.”

  Beverly studied him, trying to decide why he would say such a thing. If anyone overheard him, his life would surely have been forfeit. And yet he had taken the risk.

  “Right now,” she whispered back, “they need freedom from their plague.”

  The guard eyed her for a moment. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Then, without another word, he went back down the corridor and disappeared around its bend.

  Strange, Beverly thought.

  She had dealt with Romulans enough to know that even the humblest of them had his own agenda—and that it might not be the one he professed. Nonetheless, she embraced the hope that the guard was willing to help her.

  As her grandmother had said often enough, beggars couldn’t be choosers. And at the moment, the doctor felt very much like a beggar.

  Kito wasn’t sure when or where or how the wave of Kevrata started moving through the city, but it had reached mammoth proportions by the time he caught sight of it flooding Wophan Square.

  “What is this about?” he asked.

  A female in a red robe turned to shout to him through the pelting snow. “A physician was dispatched to help us, but the Romulans imprisoned her!”

  A physician? “From what place was she dispatched?” Kito wondered out loud.

  “From the Federation!” called a male. “She was sent here to stop the plague!”

  Hands of the generous, Kito thought, a spurt of anger climbing his throat. Could even the Romulans be that cruel? If they could not—or would not—come up with a cure for the killing sickness, why not permit someone else to do so?

  It was but one of the questions he would have asked if given the opportunity. Unfortunately, the Romulans were not in the habit of discussing their policies with the species they oppressed. They were more inclined to deal with questions across the length of a disruptor rifle.

  Joining the broad, moving flow of Kevrata, Kito pressed closer to a fellow in a black and red robe. “Is there any way we can liberate this physician?”

  A gust of wind tore away most of the fellow’s response. However, Kito caught enough of it to understand.

  The mob was on its way now to the wrought-iron gates of the Romulan compound, where it would demand the physician’s release. Not that it would do them any good. If the Romulans had meant to take the Kevrata’s misery into account, they would have done so a long time ago, when the plague claimed its first victi
ms.

  Still, it was better than doing nothing. That way lay only despair and slow death.

  So Kito added his indignation to that of the others and moved with them through the snow-choked thoroughfares of the city, crying out against the tyranny of the Romulans until his throat was raw. And though it was difficult to see much of anything in the swirling chaos of the storm, he could tell by the buildings they passed that they were getting closer to the oppressors’ compound.

  They had only two streets to go when the female in front of Kito fell and nearly tripped him in the process. Helping her to her feet, Kito caught a glimpse of her face under her hood.

  It was ravaged by the plague, the black flesh beneath her fur stippled with tiny bumps. Kito didn’t know where she had found the strength to come even this far.

  Part of him wanted to run, to escape the fate that had overcome the female, because the plague was highly contagious. But there was no escape. Every Kevrata in the city had been exposed many times over. It was just a question of how long Kito had until his immune system succumbed.

  As he thought that, something moved overhead—a shadow, blotting out even the faint light descending through the filter of the storm. Then Kito heard the moan of an engine, growing louder as the shadow grew denser and more distinct.

  And someone yelled, “Romulans!”

  A hovercraft, Kito thought, his blood pumping hard through his veins. He had seen its kind before, moving through the air above the city like a slow, patient predator.

  It was equipped with disruptor cannons. He had heard they could reduce a living being to a soup of burning flesh, though he had never seen it. But he had also never seen a hovercraft confront a crowd so large and defiant.

  Kito couldn’t have been the only one who noticed the danger overhead. But the crowd didn’t do anything to get away from it. It just kept moving in the direction of the Romulans’ compound, caught up in its own momentum.

  And then everyone knew the craft was overhead, because it started firing disruptor bolts into the crowd.

  Suddenly, death was wading among the Kevrata on long legs of green fire, grinding victim after victim under its heels. There were shouts of astonishment and horror, and the river of Kevrata eddied violently in confusion.

  Kito reached for the female who had fallen, hoping to get her back on her feet. But before he could get ahold of her he was forced backward, pushed that way by the fleeing mob. And amid cries of fear, some of them regrettably his own, he was swept in a direction he could neither predict nor control.

  Somewhere along the line, he realized there was more than one hovercraft—as many as three, perhaps. Not that it mattered. One was enough to get the Romulans’ message across.

  Kito spun and struggled to maintain his balance, knowing that if he fell he would be crushed beneath the boots of his neighbors. But at the same time he couldn’t help tracking the progress of the Romulan craft, their beams stitching death from one end of the square to the other.

  The smell of burning fur filled Kito’s nostrils, sickening him, making him want to empty his stomach into the wet, churned snow. However, he blocked out the stench and kept moving with the crowd—because if he failed to do so, he wouldn’t have to worry about the plague taking his life.

  Finally, Kito felt the pressure of his people’s bodies begin to fall away from him. He could see past a hundred hooded heads that the crowd was dispersing, releasing itself into the half-dozen streets that projected from the square like spokes.

  As the mob thinned out, it began to run. And Kito ran too, knowing the Romulans could skewer him at any moment.

  He didn’t notice anything about the streets he ran through, or who was running beside him. He just ran. But the energy beams kept touching down behind him, harrying him, striking some Kevrata and driving the others like a herd of burden beasts.

  Kito’s breath rasped harder and harder in his throat. His body grew warm and heavy beneath his clothing, his legs burning with the intensity of his effort.

  He didn’t dare stop running, not even for a second. However, he couldn’t keep up such a pace forever. Eventually, he thought, I will simply collapse.

  Then his house deities smiled on him.

  An alleyway opened to his right, a few meters up ahead. If I slip inside it, he thought, the Romulans may overlook me. Then again they might dig him out like a stubborn parasite, but there was no telling when another such opportunity might present itself.

  Veering in the direction of the alley, Kito maneuvered himself inside it. Then he planted his back against one of the walls and hoped against pursuit.

  The Romulans’ green energy beams kept on hunting the Kevrata, illuminating the street outside with their fury. But mercifully, none of them came down inside the alley. And after a while, it seemed to Kito none of them would.

  I’m safe? he wondered, unable to believe it.

  Then some of the other Kevrata began slipping into the alley as well. Kito winced as they joined him, knowing there was a chance they would draw the Romulans’ attention. Of course, they had as much right to the alley as he did.

  And as it turned out, they didn’t attract attention. The pulses of green disruptor energy receded into the distance, and Kito’s hiding place gradually fell dark. Dark and quiet. He and the other Kevrata in the alley exchanged glances.

  Was it possible that their ordeal was over? That they could go home now? It was starting to appear that way.

  Plodding through the snow drifts that had accumulated in the alley, Kito emerged into the broader environs of the street. It was littered with heavily robed bodies, more of them than he could make himself count.

  There were flecks and streaks of blood all over the place, hissing as they ate their way down through the snow. It wasn’t Romulan blood. Theirs was a virulent green, the color of their death-beams. This blood was red, as red as ripe snowberries, as warm as the coals at the bottom of a hearthfire.

  “Hands of the generous,” Kito breathed.

  It was one thing for the Romulans to let his people die of the plague. But to kill them this way…it was intolerable. Kito couldn’t just let it be. He had to do something about it.

  And he knew exactly what he would do.

  Leaving the human prisoner in her cell, the centurion—who in truth wasn’t a centurion at all—made his way to Commander Sela’s office and waited in front of her desk until she was ready to speak with him.

  He didn’t know what Sela was looking at on her computer screen, but he couldn’t interrupt her. The last centurion to do so had been executed on the spot, or so the story went.

  And every story, he knew, had at least a kernel of truth.

  Finally the commander looked up at him, her strangely human eyes, as blue as the midday sky on Romulus, glinting in the light of the overhead fixtures.

  “Report,” she demanded, as if it were she who had been waiting for him.

  “The prisoner is secure,” he informed her.

  “All that means,” Sela said, “is that she’s still planning her escape. Make certain you are not lulled by her into dropping your guard.”

  The centurion nodded. “I will remain vigilant, Commander.”

  She eyed him. “See that you do.”

  Then, with a gesture, Sela dismissed him. There was something about the way she flipped her wrist, the way she held herself, that he found unspeakably attractive. However, he kept that fact very much to himself.

  She must have had lovers over the years, but the centurion hadn’t heard about any of them. That portended badly for anyone who served her in that manner.

  And yet, she was delectable. Undeniably so.

  It wasn’t the first time he had had a chance to appreciate her beauty. He and Sela had met twice before—once on Romulus at an advanced training facility and once on a warbird, where she was serving as second officer.

  But then, in his work as one of the Empire’s premier spies, Manathas often encountered people he had met before. Senator
s, ships’ captains, noblewomen, arms merchants—even, on a rare occasion, the bride in a Starfleet wedding celebration in San Francisco.

  Not that Crusher would ever have recognized him now. The day he served her and her groom their grotesque dollops of wedding cake, he was wearing a different face—one of perhaps a hundred guises Manathas had assumed over the years. His features had been surgically altered so often even he barely remembered the visage with which he had been born.

  But Manathas had recognized the doctor. The moment Sela and the other centurions brought her in, he knew who she was. And in that same moment, he understood the magnitude of the opportunity that had been presented to him.

  And of course, to his employers. Both of them.

  Ironic, he thought, isn’t it? Decades earlier, he had all but ignored the doctor, his assignment for the praetor compelling him to focus on the captains assembled in her honor. Now, with the praetor’s cloning scheme long since abandoned, those captains weren’t nearly as important as the woman they had feted.

  Tal’aura would be displeased when she received news of Crusher’s presence on Kevratas. She had made overtures to the Federation, and the Federation had answered them with duplicity.

  Yet she must have known that was a possibility. And with Crusher in her grasp, she would be able to respond to the Federation’s move with one of her own—based on whatever information she could squeeze from the doctor. And Manathas would have done his job, justifying the generous fee he would receive.

  As for Eborion—he too would be served. Rather than allow Sela to take credit for Crusher’s capture, Manathas would spirit her out of prison and then off Kevratas altogether. And in the process, he would let the praetor know how badly the half-blood had failed her in the matter of the Federation operative.

  So badly, in fact, that Manathas had himself been forced to bring Crusher to Romulus. Sela’s standing with Tal’aura would be crushed. And Eborion would survive as her favorite—thus giving the patrician his money’s worth as well.

  Seldom did such complicated affairs work themselves out with such beauty and symmetry. Just thinking about it brought a smile of satisfaction to the spy’s face.