For a while, they continued to accept overtures from potential defectors, who expected to obtain passage to the Federation like those before them. Thanks to Phajan and the other traitors, these people were instead seized and destroyed.
Eventually, the truth about their fates must have leaked out. The flow of overtures slowed to a trickle and then stopped altogether.
With the ring disabled, there was talk in the Defense Force’s inner circle of turning Phajan and his cohorts over to the praetor, who would almost certainly make examples of them. Then Shinzon took over and the discussion was set aside.
Because of that turn of events, Phajan and the others were allowed to live. Sela was glad of it, considering the opportunity it was even now presenting her. But then, traitors often managed to come in handy.
Come in handy…
It was one of her mother’s expressions. Sela felt like spitting—and would have, were it not for the flap of garb that kept her face warm. She wanted nothing to do with her weakling of a mother. It was bad enough that she had inherited some of Tasha Yar’s genes when it came to her appearance.
Inside, she was a Romulan—and she would kill the individual who said otherwise.
“Commander Sela,” said Akadia, her second-in-command on Kevratas. “Your centurions are in place.”
Sela nodded. “Then let us root out these intruders.”
“As you wish,” said Akadia. He turned to Phajan, looking down on the tax collector with the hauteur of a career military officer. “Come with me.”
Without a word, Phajan did as he was instructed. They were followed by the rest of the troops Sela had brought with her, except for the two Sela had designated as her bodyguards. As Akadia’s party approached Phajan’s front door, his centurions fanned out on either side of it.
Sela couldn’t hear Akadia’s instructions to Phajan over the incessant hissing of the storm, but she had an idea of what he was saying: something along the lines of “Open it.”
The tax collector punched a code into a narrow strip beside the door, which sat just below a communications grate. The security system was of the type Sela had ordered installed in all Romulan domiciles. In fact, it was one of the first commands she had issued after her arrival on Kevratas.
After all, these were dangerous times. Romulan citizens had to be protected from the vagaries of the natives.
As she thought that, Phajan’s door opened and Akadia led the charge into the house. Phajan remained outside, his face turned away, his back pressed against a wall lest he be struck by an errant disruptor beam.
It is merely a matter of time now, Sela told herself, and pulled her hood further down over her face.
But as the seconds passed, nothing happened. And the longer the commander waited, the stronger became her suspicion that something was amiss. Then Akadia appeared in the doorway shaking his head, and she was sure of it.
Picard and his comrades were no longer in Phajan’s house. Most unfortunate, the commander thought, tamping down her disappointment.
Tramping through the snow, oblivious of the cold, Sela made her way past Phajan and Akadia and took a look inside the house herself. It was painfully and undeniably empty.
When she emerged, she went straight to the tax collector. His brow knit as he saw the expression on her face.
“There is no sign,” said Sela, working hard to keep her voice free of emotion, “that Picard was ever here.”
“Commander,” said Phajan, his voice rising in pitch, “I swear that what I told you was true. Picard and the others were here less than an hour ago.”
Sela gave him a long, hard look. He appeared to be telling the truth—and indeed, she couldn’t imagine why the fellow would have lied to her.
Unfortunately, it didn’t matter whether his intentions had been honorable. The results were unsatisfying, and to the commander’s way of thinking, results were all that mattered.
“They were here,” Phajan insisted.
“Of course they were,” said the commander. “We were simply too late to apprehend them.”
Phajan’s fear seemed to drain from his face. “I am glad you understand, Commander.”
She didn’t say anything more. She simply turned and walked in the direction of her waiting hovercraft, leaving Phajan standing there by his open door.
I don’t like being disappointed, she reflected as the sleet slanted into her face. Especially in front of my centurions. So far from Romulus, she needed the unmitigated trust and cooperation of everyone who served under her at all times. Anything less could be her undoing.
Fortunately, Sela had someone to blame for this disaster. Despite what she had said to Phajan, the turncoat had to at least suspect that she was not pleased with him, and that his days among the living were numbered.
After all, Romulan commanders weren’t renowned for their stores of patience, and Sela was even less patient than the rest of her ilk. It was, as she had been told on more than one occasion, one of her better qualities.
8
PICARD HAD KNOWN FROM THE MOMENT HE AND his team abandoned the shelter of Phajan’s house that there were drawbacks to their Plan B. Significant ones.
On one side of the ledger, they knew where the rebels had hidden themselves—in an elaborate network of catacombs below the fortresslike edifice that, in ancient times, had housed the region’s royal family. In fact, everyone possessed this bit of information, including the occupying Romulans.
But that didn’t mean they could easily make use of it. The catacomb complex was so expansive and confusing that it could conceal a moving target indefinitely—which was why Sela’s centurions had yet to snare a single member of what was, quite literally, the Kevratan “underground.”
“With all due respect,” said Decalon, a little more than two hours after they had entered the tombs via one of the tunnels exposed by the Romulans, “we should have remained with Phajan.”
The captain frowned. He was leading the way through the frigid darkness, his palmlight probing just a little deeper than those of his comrades. “I believe,” he returned, “that you have expressed that opinion several times already.”
The Romulan fell silent again. But if he wasn’t saying the words out loud, it didn’t mean he wasn’t saying them to himself. And Picard had yet to demonstrate that his backup plan was capable of bearing fruit.
After all, the rebels had to have lookouts positioned in the tunnels surrounding their encampment. And if they had eluded the Romulans to that point, they also had to be able to relocate at a moment’s notice.
For all the captain knew, their presence underground had already triggered such a move, and they would run out of supplies before they got near the rebels a second time. That was one possibility. Another was that the underground would confuse them with the Romulans and decide to ambush them.
If that happened, Picard and his companions wouldn’t stand a chance. They would be outflanked and outnumbered before they knew what was happening.
The third possibility was even worse: that they would encounter a Romulan search-and-destroy patrol, which was likely to show them even less mercy than the Kevrata would. Hardly a pleasant prospect in the bunch, Picard conceded.
He was still hoping for the fourth possibility—the one in which they stumbled across the rebels before too long and were greeted without violence. But as he made his way from tunnel to cold, dank tunnel, that seemed less and less likely all the time.
The tricorders they had brought down to Kevratas with them could have made their task a good deal less difficult. Unfortunately, they were fouled most of the time by the same mineral deposits that made it impossible to beam to the planet’s surface.
Joseph came up beside the captain, his eyes darting everywhere. “We’ll find them,” he said. “Just watch.”
Picard had to smile. “I miss your optimism, Pug.”
“Still have that marble?”
“Of course,” said the captain. “It is in a safe place in my quar
ters on the Enterprise.”
Joseph had given his lucky marble to Picard to help him through a competency hearing more than thirty years earlier, shortly after the captain took command of the Stargazer. It didn’t let Picard down that day, nor had it let him down since.
He had offered to return it on more than one occasion. However, Joseph had always refused to take it back, saying that Picard needed it more than he did.
“Well,” said Joseph, “that explains why we’re still wandering around in these tunnels. If you had brought the marble, we would have been toasting marshmallows with the rebels by now.”
“Forgive me,” said Picard.
“Not a chance,” said Joseph.
The captain glanced at him. “I don’t remember your being so insubordinate when we were on the Stargazer.”
“Back then, you were a god to me. Now you’re just a guy who forgot his marble.”
Picard sighed in mock frustration. It was good to have Joseph alongside him again. Damned good.
He glanced back at his other former comrade, who had been silent since they left Phajan’s house. Greyhorse was inscrutable as he searched the beam-shot darkness of the tunnel, his thoughts very much his own.
Picard preferred that to what the doctor was saying earlier. It was not a comfortable thought that the man most indispensable to the success of their mission might also be a little insane.
The administrator of Greyhorse’s penal colony had said he was capable of taking part in a mission. She had assured the captain of it. But he feared now that she had been wrong.
And if that was the case, it wouldn’t matter if they found the rebels or not. It would all be for nothing if Greyhorse couldn’t focus enough to come up with a cure.
“I am sorry,” Decalon said suddenly, “but this is futile.” He gestured to the length of tunnel behind them. “We should turn around and return to Phajan’s house. He may have made contact with the underground by now.”
“The captain’s already told you,” said Joseph, “we’re no longer pursuing that option.”
Picard put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I can speak for myself, Pug.” He turned to Decalon. “We are not going back. We are moving ahead. Now.”
The Romulan regarded him for a moment. “This is a mistake.”
“Perhaps,” said the captain. “But again, I remind you that when you undertook this mission, you agreed to follow my orders.”
“That,” said Decalon, “was before I realized how fallible you are. As fallible as any other human.”
“And Romulans aren’t?” asked Joseph. “If you dust off your memory a little, you’ll remember it was we humans who—”
Picard didn’t hear the rest, because suddenly he realized why he had pulled them out of Phajan’s house. For a reason he couldn’t articulate at the time, but a valid one nonetheless.
“The dust,” he said.
Pug and Decalon looked puzzled. Greyhorse too. “I beg your pardon?” said the Romulan.
“Phajan’s house was full of it,” said the captain. “And yet he told us he had servants. If that were true, why wouldn’t they have dusted the place?”
His question echoed in the frozen air of the tunnel. Pondering it, his companions looked at him and at each other, but more than anyone they looked at Decalon.
“Romulans are meticulous housekeepers,” Picard noted. “Surely, if Phajan had even one servant…” He allowed his voice to trail off, leaving the rest for his companions to fill in.
Decalon’s eyes went flat and stony. He remained that way as he considered the captain’s insight, no doubt looking for a loophole in its logic. But in the end, he seemed unable to find any.
Finally, the Romulan lifted his chin. “As you have deduced,” he told Picard, “Phajan was attempting to deceive us. I regret that I did not see it. And I regret even more that I was so foolish as to question your judgment.”
The captain nodded. “Then let’s go on.” But before he could lead them deeper into the embrace of the catacombs, their tunnel was filled with long, seething needles of emerald fury.
Disruptors! he thought. But what he yelled was “Down!”
It was too late to help Joseph, who took a shot square in the chest and went skittering backward. But Picard and the others were able to douse their palmlights and flatten themselves against the rough stone floor.
“We are not Romulans!” the captain called out, hoping that it was the underground they had encountered rather than one of Sela’s patrols.
But there was no answer and no respite in the enemy’s volleys. So much for that, Picard told himself.
He couldn’t tell if Joseph was still alive, but he didn’t have the luxury of worrying about it. Pulling out his phaser, he aimed in what seemed like the right direction and returned fire.
A moment later, Decalon and Greyhorse did the same, their ruby beams clashing violently with the green ones of their adversaries. Unfortunately, Picard and his comrades were compelled to fire blindly, obtaining only glimpses of their intended targets in the flash of energy fire, so they had no idea if their blasts were hitting anything.
Suddenly, the captain heard a cry—deep and resonant with pain. Greyhorse, he thought with a pang of concern. There was a reason the doctor hadn’t been brought on a great many away missions: he was a decided liability in a firefight.
“Doctor?” Picard called out.
“Here,” said Greyhorse, though it sounded as if he were responding through clenched teeth.
But at least he was alive. That meant they could still carry out their mission, as long as they could beat the odds and maneuver their way out of this mess.
Simplicity itself, the captain thought.
Even though it was left to only Picard and Decalon to carry on. Even though it was clear they were vastly outnumbered, given the number of beams erupting at them.
The captain was desperately trying to come up with a method of escape when his adversaries did the last thing he would have expected—they stopped firing. At first he thought it was just a momentary respite, but it stretched on. And on.
In the eerie silence, Picard was left with one burning question…
Why?
Geordi had every reason to be happy as he stared at his monitor screen. After all, he had added another important piece to the puzzle of where Captain Picard had gone in pursuit of Beverly.
But all he could do was sit there, his mouth as dry as the deserts of Kolarus III.
Worf, who was standing beside Geordi with his hand on the engineer’s chair, was the one who finally said it out loud: “The Romulan Empire…?”
Geordi wasn’t a big fan of the Romulans. Sure, he had worked with his share of them during the Dominion War, when they were officially allies of the Federation. But he couldn’t forget what they had done to him years earlier, capturing him and programming him to murder a Klingon dignitary.
He still shuddered when he thought about it, and not with fear. There weren’t a lot of things that made Geordi angry, but that was one of them.
And now an old comrade from his days on the Victory, who had been transferred recently to a Starfleet monitor station, had responded to his request for data on the Annabel Lee. Without question, her course was taking her into the heart of the Empire.
“Looks that way,” said Geordi, in answer to his friend’s question.
“But why would the Romulans call for the doctor?” asked Worf. “Unless—”
“Unless it wasn’t the Romulans,” said Geordi, “but one of their subject worlds. One in need of medical expertise.”
Worf nodded. “That makes sense. But we do not know which world, and there are scores of them.”
The engineer frowned. “I could swear Beverly once said something about treating people from a Romulan outworld.” He glanced at Worf. “Sound familiar?”
Worf considered the question, then shook his head. “It does not.”
Geordi leaned back in his chair. “Maybe if I go over a l
ist of the outworlds, one of them will ring a bell.”
“With that sort of information in hand,” said Worf, “all we would need is a spaceworthy craft—and we have enough of them in the shuttlebay to take our pick.”
The engineer nodded. “I just have to remember.”
Calling up a list of the worlds in question on his monitor, he went to work.
The silence around Picard was so deep and vast, it seemed he could lose himself in it and never be found. What is going on? he asked inwardly.
“Who are you?” came a voice, cascading suddenly through the corridor.
The question hadn’t come from a Romulan—the captain was certain of that. The tongue that fashioned it was too rough, too guttural to be anything but Kevratan.
Picard’s unseen adversaries hadn’t answered his remark earlier, perhaps because they couldn’t distinguish between a human voice and a Romulan one. But clearly, he had planted a seed of doubt in their minds.
“We are not the enemy,” said the captain, hoping to grow the seed into a certainty.
“Then who are you?” asked one of the Kevrata—a different one, Picard thought.
“A team from the Federation,” said Picard. “We are here to help you defeat the plague.”
“You are not the doctor,” observed the first Kevrata, making it sound like an accusation.
“Doctor Crusher is not among us,” the captain conceded. “But I have brought you another physician—one who studied the plague at Doctor Crusher’s side.”
The Kevrata exchanged muted comments. It seemed to Picard that one of them was doing his best to overrule the others.
“How do we know you are telling us the truth?” a Kevrata asked.
There was but one way to convince them. Putting his phaser away and deactivating his holodevice, the captain got to his feet in the darkness. Then he switched on his palmlight and turned its radiance on his undeniably human countenance.
More comments, as muted as before. But this time, there didn’t seem to be as much controversy.
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