Picard began to wonder if it had been a good idea after all to put the doctor in such a crucial situation. Not that there was anything he could do about it now, except keep an eye on Greyhorse and hope for the best.
Perhaps sensing Picard’s discomfort, Decalon changed the subject. “You live well,” he observed of Phajan.
Their host looked around at the furnishings—a collection of sleek, overstuffed chairs and boldly wrought wall hangings made of burnished metals. They were rather opulent-looking, especially by local standards.
“One of the advantages,” said Phajan, “of being a tax collector. In fact, the chief tax collector.”
“You collect taxes from the Kevrata?” Greyhorse asked, and not in an especially kindly tone of voice.
Their host turned to him, his features strained. “Do not presume to judge me.”
“That is not his intention,” said Picard. He looked pointedly at the doctor. “Is it?”
Greyhorse looked lost for a moment. Then he said to Phajan, in a softer voice, “I apologize if I gave you that impression. People do what they must to survive.”
“They do indeed,” said Phajan, relaxing a bit.
“We appreciate your hospitality,” said Decalon, again cutting in on an awkward moment, “but we don’t want to stay long. Every moment we remain here places you in danger.”
Phajan shrugged. “You need not be concerned about that. Now sit down and tell me how I can help.”
Opening their thermal suits, they deposited themselves in their host’s overstuffed chairs and waited while he brewed them a drink—a tart, clear beverage called cijarra, which Picard had sampled in his time on Romulus. Then, as they sipped the steaming cijarra with unanimous regard for its subtleties, Decalon told his friend what they required of him.
“We need a way,” he said, “to contact the underground.”
Phajan’s brow bunched above the bridge of his nose. “Easier said than done.”
Decalon frowned with disappointment. “I thought, perhaps—”
“That I would know, since I was once part of an underground myself?” Phajan shook his head. “That was a different time, my friend, and a different life.”
“Then you cannot help us?” asked Picard.
Phajan considered the question for what seemed like a long time. “If it were easy to find the underground,” he said at last, “Commander Sela would have done so by now.”
The captain felt a pit open in his belly. “Did you say…Commander Sela?”
“Yes,” said Phajan. “She took over the administration of Kevratas a few weeks ago. Do you know her?”
“I have run into her,” Picard confirmed. “More than once, in fact.” He didn’t go into Sela’s relationship with Tasha Yar, seeing no point in it. “She is formidable, to say the least.”
“So it would seem,” said Phajan. “I have lived on Kevratas for decades now, and I have never seen it governed so strictly—or so cruelly. The natives speak of Sela with fear in their voices.”
“Then she has not changed,” said Picard.
“And the underground?” asked Decalon. “Is there no way to let them know we are here? Without alerting Sela as well?”
“I have an idea,” said Phajan. “I have long suspected that one of my servants has contacts in the underground—though of course, she has never said anything about it. If you wish, I will pursue the matter with her. Carefully, you understand. And with some luck, I may succeed.”
“We would be most grateful,” said the captain. “There is a great deal at stake here.”
Not the least of which was the fate of Beverly Crusher. And only after Picard’s team brought a cure to the Kevrata could they turn their attentions to finding her.
“I understand,” said Phajan. He crossed the room and got a dark green thermal suit off a wall hook. “One way or the other, this will not take long.”
Worf gazed at the desktop monitor in front of him, which hadn’t been hooked up until the day before, and took in the sight of Captain Idun Asmund.
“You look well,” she told him.
“So do you,” he said.
It was not a lie. Had Worf not known better, he would have believed Asmund to be ten years younger than her chronological age. But then, as a student of the Klingon martial arts, she exercised vigorously on a regular basis.
Some years earlier, when she and some of Picard’s other former colleagues visited the Enterprise, the ship was plagued by a series of vicious murder attempts. In time, the evidence seemed to point to Idun Asmund.
Worf, who was Picard’s security officer at the time, was forced to place the woman in the brig. Still, he became the only one who would heed her protestations of innocence.
But then, he was a Klingon born and she—despite her blond hair and unmistakably human features—had been raised as a Klingon on Q’onoS. Worf could see beyond the appearance of guilt and conclude that Asmund was telling the truth.
Though no one would listen to him, she told him she was grateful for his efforts on her behalf. Later, of course, she was proven innocent of the charges. But being a Klingon, she would not have forgotten Worf’s faith in her.
Hence, his decision to contact her under these circumstances. If any of the captain’s former colleagues might consider helping him, it would be Idun Asmund.
“Congratulations,” said Worf, “on your promotion to captain.”
Asmund smiled a tight, controlled smile. “That happened several months ago, and you did not see fit to contact me then. To what do I owe the honor now?”
Worf wasn’t surprised by her directness. Klingons weren’t in the habit of mincing words.
“I have a question,” he said, “that you may be able to answer.”
The captain nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Doctor Crusher has been declared missing in action and Captain Picard—along with some of your old colleagues—has been assigned to find her. I thought you might know where the captain’s mission was leading him.”
Worf had barely gotten the first sentence out when he saw the look of surprise and concern on Asmund’s face, and knew by that sign that she wouldn’t be able to help him. If she hadn’t heard yet about Beverly’s disappearance, she certainly wouldn’t be able to point Worf in the captain’s direction.
“I am sorry to hear about Doctor Crusher,” said Asmund, who had served with the physician’s late husband on the Stargazer. “Unfortunately, I have heard nothing about this mission, so I cannot be of help to you.”
“I understand,” said Worf, containing his disappointment.
“But missing-in-action reports are not always as final as they appear to be. Doctor Crusher may yet turn up unharmed.”
“That is our hope,” said Worf.
But he could tell by Asmund’s tone that she wasn’t optimistic, despite her words of encouragement. In her view, no doubt, the doctor was as good as dead.
Of course, she didn’t know Beverly the way Worf did. “I will not take up any more of your time,” he said. “Qapla’, Captain.”
Asmund inclined her head. “Qapla’, Worf, son of Mogh.” A moment later, her image on the screen was replaced with that of the Federation logo.
Expelling a sound of disgust, Worf sat back in his chair. Asmund had turned out to be a dead end. But surely, there were other avenues he and Geordi could pursue.
He just hoped one of them bore fruit.
Worf’s sleep had been interrupted by a vision the night before, a dark and unsettling drama in which he learned that the doctor had perished on some obscure and foreboding world trying to help a species oblivious to her efforts. In the dream, it fell to Captain Picard to bring her body home, just as he had done with Beverly’s mate decades earlier.
At the doctor’s funeral, the captain said that only one thing could have saved Beverly from death—the intervention of the Klingon warrior who had been her comrade. Unfortunately, said Picard, Worf had not made an effort to reach out to her. He had forgotten ab
out her, allowing other matters to command his attention.
To a greater degree than most other species, Klingons put stock in dreams—and for all his exposure to humans and Starfleet, Worf was no exception. If Doctor Crusher perished, it would not be because he had forgotten about her.
With that in mind, he asked the computer for Geordi’s location on the ship. He had to tell his fellow conspirator that his conversation with Captain Asmund had availed them nothing.
And that they were back to square one.
Picard had spent much of the time since Phajan’s departure thinking about Beverly Crusher, and what hardships she might be overcoming at that juncture. But as the seconds ticked away, something else rose to the surface of his mind.
Not a thought, exactly. More of a feeling.
He had made decisions based on feelings before in the course of his career, and seldom did he have occasion to regret them. Eventually, they all turned out to be based on something—a half-remembered fact, an unconscious observation.
But at the times they first came to him, they seemed only to be feelings—faceless, formless, and yet compelling all the same. This, Picard told himself, is one of those times.
Even as he thought this, he saw Pug sit down on the chair opposite his. The former security chief seemed concerned—perhaps as concerned as Picard himself.
“What’s wrong?” Pug asked. “And don’t tell me nothing. I’ve seen your shoulders bunch that way before.”
You know me too well, the captain thought. “I have a bad feeling about this, Pug.”
“How bad?”
Picard frowned. “I think we should leave.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Decalon, who was standing at the far end of the room.
“I think we should leave,” the captain said a little louder, drawing Greyhorse’s attention as well.
“Why?” asked the doctor, still cradling in his powerful hands a dusty metal curio he had picked up from an end table.
Picard turned to him. Why indeed?
“Phajan has been gone a long time,” he said. “Too long, it seems to me. The more I consider the situation, the less inclined I am to trust him.”
Decalon cursed beneath his breath. “Phajan’s character is beyond reproach. He was an integral part of the underground railroad, trusted implicitly by your Federation.”
Picard acknowledged the fact. “Despite all that,” he said, thinking out loud, “Phajan never left the Empire himself. What kept him here all this time?”
“He didn’t want to abandon his family,” said Decalon. “He was attached to his mother and sisters.”
“Who live on the homeworld,” Picard pointed out, “while Phajan lives here on Kevratas. Not a terribly strong attachment, I would say.”
It was a good point. What’s more, the Romulan didn’t have an answer for it.
“And now he is a tax collector,” the captain continued, “helping the Empire to exploit the Kevrata.”
“These are not easy times,” said Decalon. “It is difficult for people to find employment.”
“Perhaps,” said Picard. “However, I cannot imagine that this was the only position available. The most lucrative, possibly, but not the only one.”
Decalon straightened. “It is not Phajan’s fault that he is paid well for his services.”
“Those who live in comfort,” said the captain, “are seldom eager to take risks. I have seen it over and over again. And Phajan very definitely lives in comfort.”
The Romulan’s face darkened. “He risked his life for me and others like me. He is a hero.”
“Was,” said Picard. “But by his own admission, he has changed. He is no longer the person you knew. And now we are sitting here—at Phajan’s insistence—relying on him to help us. But will he? Or will he betray us?”
Decalon made a gesture of dismissal. “Wild speculation. Where is the proof to support it, Captain? Where is the evidence so overwhelming that we should cast Phajan aside, and with him our best chance of contacting the Kevratan underground?”
It was a fair question. And Picard was certain that if he pondered it long enough, he would find an answer. But there was no time for that. If there was even a chance that Phajan would violate their trust, they had to move quickly.
“When you became part of this mission,” Picard told Decalon, “you agreed to follow my orders. This is one of them.”
Exasperated, the Romulan turned to Greyhorse for help. “Reason with him,” he said.
But the doctor was already on his feet. “I would say I’m the wrong person to speak of reason, having exhibited certain deficiencies in that area.”
Decalon looked at Greyhorse askance. Having never been apprised of the doctor’s difficulties, he could not have known what Greyhorse was talking about.
Peremptorily, Picard asked, “Are you coming, Decalon?”
The Romulan regarded him again and shook his head. “This is madness. Phajan will return and wonder what became of us.”
“Which, I believe,” Greyhorse said as he put the dusty curio back on its table, “is the captain’s intention.”
Decalon looked disgusted. However, as Picard had pointed out, he wasn’t the one in charge of their mission.
“Let’s go,” said Pug.
Reluctantly—because Phajan really had been their most promising lead—Picard pulled his thermal suit back on, hood and all. Then he opened the door to Phajan’s house and led the way outside, where a stinging, lashing sleet had begun.
The captain bent into it. He didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know the others were following him—including Decalon, however grudgingly.
Picard had likely seen his last of Phajan, so he would never have his assessment of the Romulan validated. Once, in the earliest days of his captaincy, that would have bothered him. It didn’t bother him any longer.
He wasn’t in this for the satisfaction. He was in it to see his mission accomplished and Beverly brought home again.
With those two very important objectives in mind, he left Phajan’s house behind.
Sela and her troops had put down at the last square large enough to accommodate their hovercraft, and continued the rest of the way to Phajan’s house on foot.
After all, in the seemingly perpetual storm that plagued Kevratas, the hovercraft couldn’t run as silently as it was supposed to, and the commander didn’t want her prey to suspect that something was wrong. If even one member of the Federation party heard the craft’s deep, metallic moan, he and his comrades would be seeking a new hiding place.
Sela wasn’t looking forward to a house-to-house search of the city. Not when night would be falling soon and the already low temperature would be dropping even further.
As the house loomed out of the rush of ice and snow, Sela signaled for half of her troops to surround the place—in case her prey tried to escape through a window or the rear exit. With a dozen centurions slicing through the weather to carry out her order, the commander glanced at her informant.
“Four of them, correct?”
“Yes,” Phajan confirmed, his voice muffled by the part of his garb that covered his mouth.
And not just any four, Sela mused.
One of them, beneath his holo-disguise, was a Romulan traitor. And two others were former Starfleet officers.
But the prize, in this case, was Jean-Luc Picard, Sela’s longtime nemesis, the human she loathed above all others. She had any number of scores to settle with the captain, and she knew oh so many ways to settle them.
When the commander first heard from Phajan about his guests, she speculated that Picard had crossed the Neutral Zone specifically to rescue Beverly Crusher—a typical human gesture. Surely, that would have been enough to explain his appearance on Kevratas.
Then Phajan told her that one of Picard’s companions was a doctor—leading Sela to the conclusion that the captain wasn’t just there to retrieve his chief medical officer. Like Crusher, he meant to provide the natives wi
th a cure for their plague.
One they would never receive—though without question, a vaccine would have made Sela’s job a good deal easier. The fear and misery caused by the disease had rendered the most desperate of the Kevrata even more so. With little or nothing to lose, they had become bolder, more vocal in stirring up the masses.
Were there a way for Sela to take credit for a cure, she might have allowed Crusher to pursue one. Certainly, it would have placed the Romulans in a different light, presenting them as benefactors rather than occupiers and oppressors. Under those circumstances, the rebellion would have swiftly lost its appeal.
But the rebels knew of Crusher’s appearance on their world. And they knew also that the Romulans had proven quite ineffectual in fighting the plague—both this time and on that other occasion, when Sela was but a child and had yet to hear of Kevratas.
If Sela were to offer them a cure, they would suspect it was the work of the human physician. Instead of the Empire receiving credit for an uncharacteristic act of kindness, the Federation would be identified as the natives’ benefactor—and far from dampening the fires of revolt, Sela would find herself fanning them.
So the Kevrata would remain at the mercy of their disease. And if that created more of a mess for her to clean up, so be it.
Squinting against the assault of the weather, Sela watched her centurions take their places around Phajan’s house. “Your vigilance,” she told the tax collector, “is to be applauded.”
“I only did my duty,” said Phajan. “May the Empire vanquish all her enemies.”
Sela nodded in approval of the sentiment. Picard was certainly an enemy worth vanquishing.
As for Phajan…it was not so long ago that he had been an enemy himself. Now he was reduced to a tool, to be used by whoever was in charge on Romulus.
More than a decade earlier, Phajan had been part of a scheme to smuggle defectors to the Federation. Both the Imperial Defense Force and the Tal Shiar had become aware of the operation at about the same time.
Fortunately, the Defense Force got to it first. The smugglers it took into custody were given a choice: they could give up the identities of their comrades or they could die a crushingly painful death. Most of them opted for death. Only Phajan and a couple of others chose to live as turn-coats.
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