Death in Winter

by Michael Jan Freidman

  Or was he reading something into the admiral’s remarks that wasn’t there? Yes, he told himself, that is certainly possible.

  Janeway looked around the shuttlebay. “You’re just itching to get out of here, aren’t you?”

  Worf stiffened. “Admiral?”

  “It’s understandable,” said Janeway. “You’ve spent all this time in drydock. You want to get out there and put the Enterprise through her paces.”

  “Uh…yes,” said Worf. “Of course.”

  “But you can’t rush a job of this magnitude. You’ve got to give it time. And you can’t stick your finger in every little detail, as much as Mister La Forge would no doubt like to. As I used to tell my first officer, ‘Relax, Chakotay. Everyone will do the job assigned him. Just make sure you do yours.’”

  As she said it, she arched an eyebrow at the Klingon. “I trust we are in agreement on that point?”

  The blood rushed to Worf’s face. Now he was certain that the admiral knew. And he was just as certain that she would keep an eye on him and Geordi, twenty-four hours a day if necessary.

  They would never get off the Enterprise, even if the engineer did recall what planet Beverly had mentioned. Worf’s nostrils flared, but he otherwise contained his frustration.

  “Admiral,” he said, knowing he was taking a chance in asking such a thing, “is it possible that some parts may turn out to be superfluous here on the Enterprise—and therefore more advantageously deployed elsewhere?”

  Janeway regarded him for a couple of seconds before speaking. “I’ll concede,” she said at last, “that it’s possible. But it’s also possible they’d just get in the way. Our record in these matters isn’t perfect, Mister Worf, but we usually know what we’re doing. If I were you, I’d give us a chance.”

  “Aye,” he said grudgingly.

  But he had a terrible feeling that without his help, Doctor Crusher would die as she had died in his dream.

  Beverly’s hood kept out most of the snow but every now and then, when she turned her head and the wind came at her from the wrong angle, she felt a splash of cold against her neck.

  She tolerated it, just as she tolerated the fact that she could barely feel her feet anymore. No matter the hardship, it was still better than passing the hours in a prison cell, waiting for Sela to decide what to do with her.

  Beverly didn’t know how long they had been making their way through the storm. An hour, she guessed. Maybe more. It was difficult to say.

  Time lost its meaning in the face of such elemental violence. It felt as if she had always been plodding through the snow this way, and might do so forever.

  For all Beverly knew, they were going in circles, impossibly lost. But the Romulan didn’t seem the least bit uncertain of himself. Leaning into the wind, he planted one foot after another. And not wanting to lose sight of him, she made sure to keep up.

  Suddenly, as if by magic, a building rose up in front of them—a huge thing, strong and ancient-looking. It was made of black stone, which provided a stark contrast to the whipping veils of snow, or the doctor might have missed it.

  Her companion came close and shouted something in her ear. But between her hood and the howling of the wind, she wasn’t able to understand him.

  “What?” she shouted back.

  This time, she was able to make out the word: “Inside!” And for emphasis, the Romulan pointed to an arch in the building’s façade that looked as if it might house a door.

  Trudging through hip-high drifts, they received a respite from the wind once they got inside the arch. It was only then that Beverly realized how green her companion’s cheeks were, the blood in them having risen to the sting of the cold.

  As she had surmised, there was a door recessed within the arch. Like the ones she had opened in her escape, it was made of a single, heavy-looking piece of wood—but in this case, there was no obvious way to swing it open.

  Beverly was about to remark on the problem when her companion pulled his protective garment up and drew something else out of his tunic—a device no bigger than his fingernail. Depressing one of the studs on its face, he turned to the door.

  Nothing happened.

  The centurion pressed the stud again. Still nothing. But his expression didn’t change. He just kept pushing, looking at the door, and pushing again.

  Beverly couldn’t believe it.

  The whole way here, she had managed to endure the cold because she was generating heat with her exertions. Now that she had stopped, she could feel the storm reaching into her, weakening her. If she remained in place much longer, she would grow sleepy and finally succumb.

  “Is there another way in?” she asked.

  “None,” said her companion.

  “We could use our disruptors,” she noted.

  “We could,” he agreed. “But then the cold would follow us in. And Sela’s centurions as well, if their sensors take note of our disruptor fire.”

  All right then, the doctor thought. No disruptors.

  But they couldn’t just stand there pressing her companion’s device. That wasn’t an option either.

  Finally, just as Beverly was starting to conclude that the thing wasn’t working, or that the door had frozen into place, she heard a creak and the slab of wood swung inward. Without a moment’s hesitation, she and her companion moved inside.

  A blast of snow followed them into a foyer and scattered itself over a black marble floor. Then the door closed behind them, sealing them off from the weather.

  The silence was almost shocking after the clamor of the storm. Beverly pulled her hood back and basked in it.

  And it felt even better to be out of the cold. As she rubbed her hands together to get the feeling back into them, she followed her companion into a much larger room, which had cascades of wooden seats descending from its gray stone walls.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “It used to be a government hall,” her companion informed her, removing his hood and then his gloves. “But the Kevrata haven’t been allowed to assemble here since the beginning of the occupation. And when Commander Sela arrived, she posted notice that anyone seen congregating anywhere would be imprisoned.”

  “Naturally,” said Beverly. “That’s what all tyrants do.”

  Her benefactor shot her a smile to acknowledge her comment. But it was a guarded smile, typical of what she had come to expect from his people. Romulans always reserved a part of themselves, even when they weren’t risking their lives by betraying their superior.

  She explored the place some more, leaving the centurion behind. “What made you decide to help the Kevrata?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. All Beverly heard was a slithering noise, like a blacksnake making its way through the loose dirt of the Arvadan hills.

  Turning around, she found herself looking down the barrel of her companion’s disruptor.

  Beverly looked up at him. “What’s this?”

  “What does it look like?” he asked.

  She shook her head in mock reproach. “You mean you weren’t just helping me out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “No Romulan would.”

  “Then why bother freeing me from my cell?”

  He chuckled dryly. “I needed to make sure Commander Sela didn’t profit from your capture.”

  An internecine conflict, then. Between Sela and who else? And what’s at stake? “Why is that important to you?”

  The Romulan didn’t say.

  “So what now? You’re just going to kill me?”

  “I am afraid so,” he confirmed. He adjusted his disruptor to its most powerful setting—one that wouldn’t leave a trace of her. “Nothing personal, you understand.”

  The doctor gauged the distance between them. She would be taking a chance if she tried to rush him, considering his superior strength and the prowess he had demonstrated as a fighter. But what did she have to lose?

  Beverly was about to spring at the Romulan when she no
ticed something—and realized she might have a better card in her hand after all.

  “When did you get those lesions?” she asked.

  Her companion looked at her. “Lesions?”

  “The ones on the back of your hands.”

  Warily, the Romulan examined each hand in turn—and saw what Beverly was talking about. There were bumps on the backs of them, small but a dark and distinctive green in color.

  “Do you know what those are?” she asked. When her captor didn’t answer, she said, “They’re symptoms of the disease that’s afflicted the Kevrata.”

  That got the Romulan’s attention—to an even greater degree than Beverly had hoped. He looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. “You’re lying.”

  She shook her head. “Not a chance. I’ve seen them more times than I care to say. They’re definitely a sign of the disease.”

  “But I’m not Kevratan.”

  “I’m afraid the virus isn’t that choosy. Of course, your species might be more resistant to it. You might not get as sick as the Kevrata—or it might kill you in a matter of hours. At this point, I can’t say.”

  The Romulan looked like the sort who suspected lies everywhere. But all Beverly was doing was telling the truth.

  “What I can say,” she continued, “is that if you’ve got the plague, other Romulans will get it too. And considering the merchant traffic that goes through Kevratas, it will almost certainly spread to other worlds in the Empire.”

  Her companion’s face drained of color.

  “Of course, that also creates an opportunity,” said Beverly, “because anyone who produces a cure for it will be doing both himself and his people a great service.”

  The Romulan scowled. “And you can accomplish this, I suppose.”

  “I did it for several humanoid species,” the doctor said. “I don’t see why I couldn’t do it for the Romulans.”

  Her captor still looked suspicious, but he wasn’t calling her a liar anymore. He licked his lips—a sign of indecision in a number of species, Romulans among them.

  “I need to get you offworld,” he said, thinking out loud. “Preferably back to Romulus.”

  Beverly didn’t comment. The centurion was on the right track—why say anything that might derail him?

  “That will involve a transport,” he noted. “It will take time to arrange such a thing.”

  If you say so, she thought.

  “And what will I do with you in the meantime?” asked the Romulan. “How will I keep you from running off?”

  “I promise—” Beverly began.

  But her captor held his hand up for silence. “What kind of fool do you take me for? Did you really think I was going to take you at your word?”

  “Maybe not,” she allowed.

  “But what is the alternative?” asked the centurion. He cast a glance over the room. “There is nothing at hand I can use to bind you. I will need to look for something.”

  The Romulan adjusted the setting on his disruptor again. This time, he turned it to the lowest one.

  Beverly was about to ask what he had in mind. But before she could open her mouth, he fired at her.

  Manathas watched the human crumple to the flawless marble floor, her hair pooling around her like molten copper.

  Then he looked at the back of his hand again, no longer constrained to conceal his panic and revulsion. Once Crusher pointed out the lesions, he remembered that he had seen such things on Kevratan corpses. But the bumps had been black, not green, or he would have made the association sooner.

  Manathas couldn’t stand the thought that some alien germ had invaded his body and was slowly wreaking havoc inside him. It made him want to retch.

  Calm yourself, he thought, exercising a discipline he had honed over the long years. Now.

  The Romulan’s anxiety ebbed, slowly but surely, until it was little more than a vague discomfort. But he didn’t know how much longer he could maintain this level of control.

  He had to get Crusher to another world, where she could work on a cure for the Romulan variant of the disease. Only then would he breathe easily again.

  As for the reward he might receive…it was a motivating factor as well, as the human had rightly pointed out. But it was nothing compared with the abatement of his fears.

  Dragging his eyes away from his hand, Manathas pulled his hood back on and prepared to go out into the cold again. The doctor would only be unconscious for a short time, after all, and he had work to do before she came to.

  “Gone?” Sela echoed disbelievingly, her words careening in her office from one stone wall to another like a flock of suicidal avians.

  Akadia frowned. “Yes, Commander.”

  “How?” she demanded.

  “She had help,” said the subcommander. He looked as if his uniform had suddenly become a size too small. “From one of us.”

  Sela felt her anger rise into her throat, threatening to choke her. By force of will, she tamped it down. “Who?” she growled.

  “Jenophus, Commander. He was a much more accomplished combatant than anyone suspected.”

  Sela shook her head in disbelief. “You’re saying Jenophus alone was responsible for the human’s escape? With all the guards that stood between him and the front gate?”

  Akadia nodded. “Yes, Commander. That is the consensus of everyone who opposed him. It was Jenophus alone. And the prisoner, of course. She was of some help.”

  Sela’s teeth ground together. “Find them,” she told the subcommander. “Both the prisoner and Jenophus. Go door to door if you have to, but root them out—or you and your men will have reason to regret it.”

  He withdrew from her presence. “As you wish, Commander.”

  Sela waited until her subordinate had left the room. Then she tapped a code into the portable com device on her desk, opening a channel to her orbiting warbird.

  Whoever had gotten into the compound and escaped with the human might have had a plan for leaving Kevratas. The commander needed to stymie it.

  The response from Tresius, the officer in charge of her warbird, was almost instantaneous. He asked how he could serve her.

  “Be alert,” Sela said, “for suspicious vessels. Our prisoner has escaped and she may try to leave Kevratas.”

  “If she does,” Tresius responded, “I will prevent it. Rest assured of it, Commander.”

  Sela approved of his attitude. She always had. “If you do,” she said, “there will be a substantial reward in it for you. Rest assured of that.”

  “You are too generous,” said Tresius.

  No, she replied inwardly, I’m exactly as generous as I have to be—no more, no less. “Sela out.”

  Next, she deployed extra forces to the spaceport, and promised the officer in charge there the same reward she had promised Tresius. He too assured her that he would catch the fugitive.

  Finally, Sela sat back in her chair, knowing she had done all she could. In time, she assured herself, the doctor would be caught in her web, along with Jenophus and the Federation team that had to that point eluded her.

  But in the meantime, Sela’s discontent would slither inside her like a hungry serpent.

  10

  Captain’s log, supplemental. With the help of our friends the rebels, Doctor Greyhorse has set up a small lab here in the tunnels below the ancient castle, and is taking blood samples from Kevrata who are showing symptoms of the disease. He seems confident that his research, combined with what he learned at Starfleet Medical, will enable him to develop a vaccine in a relatively short time. For the sake of Hanafaejas and his people, I sincerely hope Greyhorse’s confidence is not misplaced.

  Decalon was neither a physician nor a biologist, so he could do nothing to help Greyhorse in his efforts to develop a vaccine. Nonetheless, he constantly found himself drawn to the tiny alcove where the doctor had set up his laboratory.

  The rebels, for all the primitiveness of their existence, had supplied Greyhorse with a computer, a biomolecula
r scanner, and the rest of the equipment he had requested. In their midst the doctor seemed like just another part of the system, as tireless and methodical as a machine.

  At times he said strange things, or merely said things at strange times—making the Romulan so uncomfortable that he felt compelled to change the subject. If Decalon hadn’t known better, he might have questioned the doctor’s sanity. However, he didn’t think the Federation would have dispatched a lunatic on such an important and difficult mission.

  Besides, Joseph didn’t seem especially concerned. In fact, he appeared to take pleasure from seeing his old colleague in such a workmanlike frame of mind.

  That is, when he wasn’t accompanying the rebels’ scouts on reconnaissance expeditions. But then, Joseph had been a security chief on Picard’s old starship, and he had navigated enough subterranean tunnels in that capacity to develop an affinity for them.

  Picard, by contrast, spent most of his time with Hanafaejas, planning a distribution network for the delivery of the vaccine to the Kevrata. After all, it availed them nothing to devise a cure if they had no way to get it to the victims.

  During those sessions with Hanafaejas, the captain seemed energetic and engaged. But in the moments between them, he seemed to withdraw inside himself and brood over something. Decalon had wondered what it might be—until Joseph cleared up the mystery for him.

  Apparently, Doctor Crusher had been a close friend of Captain Picard. In Joseph’s estimate, it was she who occupied the captain’s thoughts.

  Decalon knew what Romulans did to their prisoners. He wasn’t optimistic that they would find the doctor alive, much less with her psyche intact.

  However, Crusher’s status wouldn’t become an issue until they had completed their mission on Kevratas. Until then, there was no point in arguing the reality of the doctor’s situation.

  Besides, Decalon had his own distraction to deal with, his own set of disappointments and regrets. But in his case, they revolved around his friend Phajan.

  The night before, a rebel named Kito—a newcomer to the ranks of the tunnel dwellers—had confirmed in the streets of the city precisely what Picard had suspected. Shortly after they left Phajan’s house, a contingent of centurions had descended on it.