Most often, it was positive—an expression of delight. But not always. The durien, for instance, that Ensign Jaiya had recommended, which ended up tasting like rotten eggs—that was definitely not one of Beverly’s fonder breakfast memories.
But she could still taste her favorites—especially the uttaberry pudding, a specialty of Betazed. Sweet, pungent, and bitter by turns, it seemed to excite every taste bud in her mouth before it was done.
She wished she had some now. Hell, she thought, under the circumstances I might even give the durien another try.
But it wasn’t just the food that made those breakfasts so wonderful. It was the company.
For a short time each day, she could just be herself. Not a highly regarded researcher, not a doctor with a ship full of patients, not even a high-ranking officer on a starship. Just a woman with a normal complement of quirks and weaknesses and out-and-out failings.
Because she was with Jean-Luc, she could let all that show. She had known him so long and had grown so comfortable in his presence, she could say or do anything.
They were precious times—Beverly had acknowledged the fact even then. But now, as she fought for her life on a dark, cold world, they seemed that much more precious.
Donatra had been so intent on her fleet’s latest round of weapons diagnostics, she forgot to eat her dinner and then missed her regularly scheduled meeting with her chief engineer.
But she didn’t forget the opportunity that presented itself only once every twenty-six hours, when the rotation of Romulus brought the capital closest to her ship’s coordinates.
Activating a com link, Donatra stared expectantly at her monitor screen. However, it insisted on showing her the imperial insignia of a warbird with its wings outstretched, grasping Romulus in one talon and Remus in the other.
Then the predator vanished, leaving in its wake a different image altogether—that of a tall, broad-shouldered man who had once had many warbirds under his command, but had chosen for the moment to bind himself to the ground.
Donatra couldn’t help smiling, her heart was so full of pride and longing. “Braeg,” she said.
He smiled back at her. “Even when you are only an image on a viewscreen, you take my breath away.”
“You’re well, I take it?”
“Well enough,” he said, “considering how little sleep I get these days. There is too much to think about, too many plans to make, too many people with whom I must speak. Every morning as I watch the sun come up, I promise myself I will sleep for a week—just as soon as the praetor has been overthrown.”
“Take care your sleeplessness doesn’t turn into carelessness,” Donatra warned him.
Braeg’s expression told her it wasn’t a possibility. “I’ve been sleep-deprived before, haven’t I?”
She chuckled. “As I recall, you have. But it was I who kept you awake, not some worm of a praetor.”
“Ah yes,” he said, “I remember now. A secluded villa in Ch’rannos, wasn’t it?”
“It was. I wouldn’t mind taking you back there some time—perhaps in the wake of Tal’aura’s defeat. That is, if you’re not too busy taking a nap.”
“For that,” said Braeg, “I would stay awake indefinitely.”
Donatra checked the time on her chronometer. It wouldn’t be wise to converse much longer. Tal’aura would almost certainly be monitoring communications with the surface.
“We need to say good-bye,” he observed.
“Again,” she sighed.
“But not forever,” Braeg reminded her.
“Say the word,” she told him, “and I will descend on Romulus like vengeance itself.”
“No,” said Braeg, a note of concern in his voice. “Tomalak wants you to rush in. Whittle him away little by little. And then, when he’s good and—”
He stopped himself. “Listen to me—giving advice to the commander of the Third Fleet.”
Donatra shook her head in mock derision. “Always the admiral.”
“Not now,” he told her. “Now I’m just a rabble-rouser. It’s you who must seize victory.”
“And I will,” she assured him.
Then, with infinite reluctance, she cut the link. Once again, the warbird insignia dominated the screen.
Sitting back in her chair, Donatra closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then she had her com officer contact Suran, so they could go over the latest data on Tomalak’s forces.
Tal’aura stood on her north-facing balcony, looked down at the geometrically perfect web of streets below, and mulled what she had learned from the spy’s communication.
“Interesting,” she breathed, knowing no one would hear her.
But not pleasant. Not even remotely so.
Federation intervention. A variation of the Kevratan disease that could affect Romulans. And no end to the natives’ resistance movement. Rather than getting better under Sela’s hand, the situation appeared to be deteriorating.
I am losing my grip on the outworlds, the praetor admitted, if only to herself. Braeg is right.
And he hadn’t missed an opportunity to say so. He had been everywhere in the last couple of days, rallying the citizens of the capital against her.
To that point, Tal’aura had refrained from crushing the admiral beneath her heel, though it was well within her power to do so. But that was before she received Manathas’s report, when she still believed Sela was defusing the rebellion on Kevratas.
Now she was less confident in that regard. And if events on Kevratas unfolded as she feared, Braeg would gain momentum from them—making him too much a factor to be ignored, regardless of how his death might turn him into a martyr.
A praetor dared not display even a glimmer of weakness. She would have to deal with the general…and soon.
Beverly was warm…ever so warm.
She was in her grandmother’s house on the green planet Caldos, a lovely old place with a stone hearth, and in the hearth blazed a merry golden fire. Bathed in its heat, she didn’t have to wear anything more than a robe.
She was content, at ease, unthreatened, and she could have stayed that way for the rest of her life. Especially with such a tall, handsome fellow sitting beside her, adding his warmth to that of the fire.
She snuggled into the hollow of his shoulder and said, “I’m so glad you’re here.” And some other endearments, of which she was barely aware.
He whispered something in return and stroked her cheek. Then he took a step back and turned into a shimmering green mist. A moment later, the mist entered her, making use of her every pore. And with it inside her, she felt a dark and undeniable passion.
Beverly’s eyes closing, she gave into it without reservation. “I had no idea I could feel this way,” she murmured.
“We’re nearly merged now,” said the tall, handsome man, whose name was Ronin—or was it the glowing green mist? “As two candles join to form a single light…”
She didn’t hear it all. She was too caught up in the emotions running through her. But she did hear him say he loved her, and she said she loved him in return.
Just as she was about to merge with him forever, she heard a knock on the house’s wooden door—a hard, abrasive knock that roused her from her lover’s embrace. Before she realized it, the door was open.
And Jean-Luc was standing just inside the threshold.
Beverly pulled her robe around herself and got to her feet, feeling vaguely ashamed. But why? She hadn’t done anything of which she should be ashamed.
“I’m sorry for startling you,” said Jean-Luc, his features hard and suspicious. “I knocked, but there was no answer.”
“What do you want?” she asked, surprising herself with her curtness, her eagerness to be rid of him.
“I hoped to meet your new friend,” he said, his eyes searching the room.
“He’s not here,” Beverly said quickly, knowing of course that it was a lie.
“Well,” said Jean-Luc, “if you don’t mind, I’ll wait. I’
m anxious to meet this remarkable young man…”
“Jealousy doesn’t become you,” she told him.
It was a hurtful thing to say. A vicious thing. But she longed so much to be left alone with the tall, handsome man, she would have done and said things that were even crueler.
“This is my life,” she spat. “I’ve made my decision and I’m not going to change my mind, so leave me alone.”
Jean-Luc looked at her for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No. There is something wrong here. This is about more than just an obsessive love affair.” And he asked why no one had seen her lover except her.
Just then, he appeared—the tall, handsome man she had come to love, whose name was Ronin. “All right,” he told Jean-Luc. “Here I am.”
Beverly moved to him, took his arm.
“And,” said her lover, “I believe Beverly asked you to leave.”
But Jean-Luc stubbornly remained where he was. “So you’re Ronin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And he asked where Ronin was from, and how long he had lived there on Caldos.
“All that matters,” said Ronin, “is that I’m here now. And that Beverly and I plan to be together for the rest of our lives.”
“That’s a very romantic notion,” Jean-Luc observed, “especially for two people who have just met. Don’t you think perhaps you are rushing into things a bit?”
Ronin’s expression turned as hard as rock. “I think you’re a jealous man who can’t bear the thought of losing a beautiful woman like Beverly.”
“How did you come to Caldos?” Jean-Luc pressed. “What ship did you arrive on?”
“Jean-Luc,” Beverly said, “leave him alone—” But as she said it, she felt like a traitor.
After all, she and Jean-Luc had been friends for a long time. They had been through a lot together.
Yet she couldn’t help herself. She wanted Ronin, needed him….
Jean-Luc went on despite Beverly’s pleas. “Answer the question,” he told Ronin. “What ship? I would like to look at the passenger list. Where have you been living here on Caldos? What is your position here? Who are your neighbors?”
Ronin’s eyes flashed in anger and he lifted his hand. A flash of green energy emerged from it, enveloping Jean-Luc, snaking around him as if it meant to crush the life from him.
“Beverly,” he groaned as he fell to the floor, “you have to get out of here…!”
Seeing the pain her friend was in, her concern for him overcame the feelings she had for her lover. Rushing to Jean-Luc’s side, she took him in her arms and tried to protect him, to save him from the evil that was killing him.
Suddenly, it turned cold in the room—cold and dark. Beverly turned to the hearth and saw that the fire had gone out. And it wasn’t all that had disappeared.
Ronin had vanished as well, and so had the emerald energy he had unleashed. The only thing left in Beverly’s house was Jean-Luc. And as she looked on, heartbroken, he faded from her embrace.
She sat there on the floor, looking at her empty arms, and shivered. It was cold, so cold….
It was then that she woke up.
Beverly was sitting on a marble floor, her back propped up against a stone wall, her hands bound behind her. But she didn’t know how she had gotten there.
Then, with a start of panic, she remembered.
It had taken longer to cut her bonds than she had expected, and finally her calves had cramped from standing on her toes. The pain had forced her to sit down for a moment, to put her back against the wall and give her legs a rest.
Just a second or two. At least that was what Beverly had promised herself. Obviously, it had been longer than that, though she couldn’t say how much longer.
A tired curse escaped her lips. It echoed briefly, then died.
Struggling to her feet, she again felt the pain in her calves. And in her hamstrings. And in her shoulders—especially the one that had absorbed the disruptor bolt when she was captured.
The doctor was sore and stiff and cold to the bone, and she would have dearly loved to lie down and get some real sleep. But if she did, her body temperature would continue to drop and she might never wake up again.
Can’t let that happen.
Finding the cracked stone in the wall, she backed up to it and started sawing again. The exercise got her blood pumping, but she was immensely hungry and weak as a result.
At least, she thought, Jean-Luc isn’t at the mercy of that energy creature. What she had dreamed had actually happened, of course. She had fallen in love with Ronin only to discover that he was a parasite, preying on generations of Howard women, and finally on Beverly as well.
She had forgotten how brave Jean-Luc had been—how willing to place himself in deadly jeopardy in order to bring her to her senses. Forgotten consciously, that is. Her subconscious, apparently, had recalled the incident quite well.
Beverly smiled to herself, despite her misery. What she wouldn’t have given to see her friend right now, breaking down the door with a squad of security officers in his wake.
But that wasn’t likely to happen. If Jean-Luc was there at all, he would be helping the Kevrata. And by the time he got around to helping her, she would be long gone.
Which was why she would have to help herself.
12
GREYHORSE SAT BACK FROM THE EYEPIECE ON HIS biomolecular scanner, closed his eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Then he reached for the mug of pojjima Kito had left him and took a sip from it.
The pojjima was bitter, but not nearly as bitter as a Klingon dish Gerda had once shared with him. He couldn’t recall its name, but he recalled with perfect clarity the expression on her face as she watched him eat it.
One of triumph, for Gerda had taken another step toward molding Greyhorse into a Klingon warrior. But also one of impatience, because he couldn’t make the transformation as quickly as she would have liked.
In only one regard had Gerda approved of the doctor from the start, and that was his ability to absorb punishment without complaint. In truth, he had endured his share of it during his stint on the Stargazer, only part of it at the hands of his lover.
The one whose dishonor and death Greyhorse had taken so badly. The one he had hoped to avenge by committing murder on the Enterprise.
Gerda had been wrong in some respects—he saw that now. But she had been right to honor him for carrying his burdens without a whimper, for that wasn’t just the hallmark of a good warrior. It was also the hallmark of a good doctor.
The ability to stay with a task, even when it meant going without sleep…to maintain one’s focus, even when conditions were less than optimal…these were virtues in the medical profession. Indispensable virtues, if one was to remain true to one’s oath.
Greyhorse had possessed such virtues. But that, he noted as he put down the pojjima, was a very long time ago.
Feeling a wave of panic coming on, he took a deep breath and held it, exactly the way his therapists had taught him. Then he let it out, as slowly as he could.
When a problem seems overwhelming, he had been told, consider what you know about it. Break it down into its most rudimentary components, its most basic facts.
All right, he thought. I will.
Most vaccines were essentially just pieces of dead virus. Exposed to them, an organism’s immune system would come up with a new category of antibody, which would then fight off the living virus when it launched its invasion.
However, the virus afflicting the Kevrata was toxic to their species—so much so that even in an attenuated form, it was certain to kill its host before an immune response could be triggered. This was what made it so difficult to arm the Kevrata against the ravages of the plague.
Back at Starfleet Medical, Beverly had begun her research into the virus with a sample of her own blood. After all, it contained something precious—antibodies that had enabled her to survive as a teenager when so many of her fellow colonists had perished.
W
ithout her grandmother’s herbal remedies, even her natural ability to produce these antibodies might not have been enough to keep her alive. However, the herbs worked to bolster her immune response, enabling her to destroy and expel the virus.
In her laboratory at Starfleet Medical, with Greyhorse’s assistance, Beverly had extended her biological advantage to other Federation member species—first humans, then Vulcans, then Andorians, and so on—by splicing the antibody-producing portion of her genetic material with their DNA. This circumvented the toxicity problem, and effectively girded the Federation against further exposure to the plague.
It was too late for Beverly to help those who had succumbed to the disease on Arvada III. However, she had seen to it that those colonists hadn’t died in vain, and that appeared to have been a great comfort to her.
Greyhorse had never been exposed to the virus directly, but—like all space-traveling citizens of the Federation—he had been immunized against it. Therefore, he carried the key to the virus around with him the same way Beverly did.
All he had needed to do was obtain blood samples from the Kevrata, isolate the appropriate portion of their DNA, and combine it with the appropriate portion of his own. Not a terribly difficult task, just one that necessarily took a while.
And he had very nearly come to the end of it. After many long hours, the vaccine was practically within his grasp. Or rather, he thought it was.
But it had been a long time since Greyhorse had worked with lab equipment, and even longer since he had held so many lives in his hands. He couldn’t help asking himself questions.
What if I fail? What if I give the Kevrata hope, only to kill it when they see the vaccine doesn’t work? What if I’m not as good as I think I am?
What if I never was?
More than once in the last several hours he had felt unreal, like a wraith haunting his own instruments. He had drifted, unable to keep from mulling things that had nothing to do with his research. Like how quickly a disruptor beam could kill him if the Romulans discovered the rebels’ camp…
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