Or how quickly he could snap the neck of the centurion who attempted it.
I have to hang on, he told himself. I am the only chance the Kevrata have. And Beverly’s only chance as well, since they couldn’t look for her until the Kevrata were saved.
Greyhorse wished desperately that he were someone else—someone more at peace with himself, more predictable. Someone who wasn’t carrying so many burdens.
But he was what he was. He could only hope that would be enough.
Beverly slumped against the stone wall, but it didn’t mean she was ready to give up. She wouldn’t allow herself to do that with so much at stake.
Unfortunately, the material the centurion had used to tie her wrists—which had been relatively easy to untangle from her ankles—was proving almost impossible to cut through. And at this point, every up and down motion of her hands sent excruciating bolts of pain through her shoulders.
Beverly hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink in a long time—at least a day and maybe two. Her throat was as dry as she could ever remember it, so dry that she could barely swallow.
The cold was getting to her too, stiffening her joints and numbing her extremities. But more important, it was affecting her ability to think, and she needed to be able to do that if she didn’t want this place to become her tomb.
It wasn’t so much the centurion Beverly was worried about—not anymore. In fact, she was beginning to grow certain she would never see him again. For him to have been gone so long, he must have been caught by Sela’s men or attacked by a resentful crowd of Kevrata, or in some other way gotten himself injured or killed.
That meant she alone was responsible for getting herself out of there. And she couldn’t do that with her hands tied behind her back.
Get back to work, the doctor told herself. Do it now.
But if the centurion was no longer part of the picture, her need was no longer quite so urgent…was it? She could rest another few seconds. She could try to get her strength back.
Again, she wished Jean-Luc were there with her. He would have known what to say, what to do. He would have found a way to make everything all right.
That’s what happened when they were trapped in an underground cavern on Minos, after Beverly had suffered a broken arm and leg and multiple lacerations. She was getting sleepy, slipping into shock from loss of blood. But Jean-Luc applied a tourniquet and kept her conscious until their colleagues could find them.
She could still hear him, his voice thick with concern as it echoed through the cavern: “Come on now, stay with me. Come on now, stay awake—that’s an order!”
Beverly was cold that time as well, her teeth chattering, her skin turning clammy. At one point, she actually asked Jean-Luc if he had a blanket—or so he told her afterward.
What I wouldn’t give for a blanket now, she thought. Or a steaming cup of breakfast tea. Or some hot scones, like the ones Jean-Luc gave me this morn—
No. It wasn’t that morning that he had given her the scones. Of course not. It was on the Enterprise, a few days ago. Or…was it a few weeks?
It was hard for her to remember, so very hard. And all she wanted to do was lie down and get some sleep. That wasn’t so much to ask, was it? Just for a few short minutes?
“Come on now, stay awake—that’s an order!”
Startled, Beverly opened her eyes and looked about, expecting to see Jean-Luc kneeling over her. But he wasn’t there. She was alone.
And she needed sleep.
“Come on now, stay with me!”
This time, Beverly didn’t bother to look around. She was too weary, too firmly lodged in the embrace of encroaching slumber. It felt so good to finally give in to it…
And to set the voices aside.
Akadia shoved his fellow centurion into the unyielding stone wall of their barracks, to which they had returned after a long day of searching. Then he snarled, “I do not care to hear that spew a second time!”
His victim, a rangy fellow named Retrayan, glared at him. “With all due respect,” said Retrayan, his voice rank with sarcasm, “you will hear it—if not from me, then from a dozen others.”
Retrayan held out his hands, the backs of which were liberally adorned with tiny green spots. They were the same sort of marks displayed by the Kevratan corpses so routinely found frozen in the snow.
Until a day and a half ago, they hadn’t been seen on a Romulan. Suddenly, it seemed everyone had them—Akadia included.
“Then I will see to it,” said Akadia, “that those dozen others are graced with cells in this very building. That is the reward of those who defy Commander Sela.”
The other centurions in the room—all twenty or more of them—appeared to take the warning with the seriousness Akadia had intended. But he feared it was only a matter of time before their panic overcame their good sense.
All the more reason to find the human doctor, and to do it quickly. If she could devise a cure for the Kevratan version of the plague, why not the Romulan one?
“On the other hand,” said Akadia, “they who carry out their assignments without complaint will be the first to receive a cure when we obtain one.”
That got their attention, he noted, seeing the glimmer of self-interest in the centurions’ eyes. Just as Sela said it would. Nothing motivated a Romulan like the promise of advantage over his peers—especially when it was so intimately intertwined with his chances of survival.
“Of course,” Akadia went on, “there will only be a cure if we find the prisoner.” He glanced meaningfully at Retrayan. “And that will only happen if we keep our wits about us. Do I make myself clear, Centurion?”
Retrayan frowned but said, “Eminently so.”
Akadia nodded. “Good.”
After all, he had had ample opportunity to witness the suffering of the Kevrata. He wanted to avoid firsthand knowledge of it as much as anyone.
Eborion smiled to himself as he sat in front of his computer monitor and reviewed his family’s weapons manufacturing accounts for the last several days. In point of fact, he had been smiling that way all morning.
But it wasn’t his expertise at expanding his house’s wealth that gladdened him so. He had reached the point where he could do that with his eyes closed. Rather, it was his investment on Kevratas that was giving him cause for celebration.
Manathas’s communication to Tal’aura had discredited Sela’s ability to command much more thoroughly than Eborion ever could have. Soon, the half-human would be no threat to him at all.
Engaging the services of Manathas had been a stroke of genius on Eborion’s part. Unfortunately, it left a thread dangling. He couldn’t take the chance that the spy would someday betray him or try to blackmail him.
So when this Kevratas affair was all over, he would arrange to have Manathas killed for his trouble. If all went well, the spy would be dead long before he got the opportunity to set foot again on Romulan soil.
And Eborion, the praetor’s sole confidant, would go on smiling for a good long time.
Manathas slipped through the doorway of the government hall, placed his back against the wall beside it, and waited for the door to close behind him. Only after he heard the wooden relic lock into place did he allow himself to relax.
He had expected his fellow centurions to be a thorn in his side, an impediment and perhaps even an occasional danger to him as they scoured the city. But he hadn’t expected them to be everywhere, as ubiquitous as snowflakes.
Three times, they spied Manathas at the opposite end of a street and demanded that he identify himself. And when he wouldn’t, they chased him, their beams vaporizing the falling snow.
At one point, he had been forced to conceal himself in a pile of Kevratan corpses—the result of a skirmish, perhaps, or possibly just the product of the centurions’ frustration. Had the corpses not still been warm, he might have frozen to death.
It occurred to him as he lay there that the plague might still have been alive in them. But wh
at did that matter? It was alive in him too.
Obviously, the spy had underestimated Sela’s ability. The sting of her lash on the backs of her centurions was a more effective motivator than he had anticipated.
And the commander’s net tightened after he was spotted, her troops concentrating on that part of the city. It became nearly impossible to secure the supplies he and the doctor needed. In the end, after eluding patrol after dogged patrol, he gave up on the clothing and the drink, and settled for the food alone.
But even that didn’t assure Manathas of anything. On his way back to the government hall, just a few blocks from his goal, he found a squad of centurions blocking the street.
The only way to get past them was to scale a three-story building in a swirling, wind-driven snowstorm and come down on the other side. Half a dozen times, he slipped on the pitched roof and felt sure he was plummeting to his doom. But each time, he managed to arrest his fall and go on.
Had his only concern been his own survival, he wouldn’t have taken such a chance. However, he had left the doctor in the government hall as long as he dared. Humans were not Romulans. They were weaker, more fragile. And, having told Tal’aura of the spreading plague and Crusher’s importance in devising a cure for it, he could hardly show up on Romulus empty-handed.
Now that Manathas was back, he could only hope that Crusher hadn’t yielded to the cold and the lack of sustenance. Dreading what he might find, he made his way through the foyer and emerged into the main hall.
But the human wasn’t anywhere in sight. Cursing inwardly, he hastened to the center of the hall and spun around, searching its extremities.
That was when Manathas spotted her. She was sprawled next to the western wall beside its mounting ranks of wooden benches, her face concealed by a veil of her hair.
Rushing over to her, he saw that she had managed to free her ankles, and slowed down in anticipation of a trap. However, her hands were still bound behind her back.
Manathas knelt beside her, took a deep breath, and brushed the hair back from her face. She was terribly pale and her parched, cracked lips had a blue tint to them, but she was shivering—a sign that she hadn’t yet perished.
Thanking his ancestors, he pulled her over to the wall and propped her up, then dragged his stolen sack of food off his back and opened it. By then, the human’s eyes had fluttered once or twice and she had begun muttering something.
“What are you saying?” he asked, thinking it might not be a bad idea to get her talking.
This time it was intelligible, if only barely: “If you…find one, go.”
“Find what?” the Romulan asked, removing a stiff, cold loaf of bread from the waterproof sack.
“An exit,” Crusher groaned.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, tearing the loaf in half and pulling out a puff of the softer bread inside.
His captive did something strange then—she smiled, despite the dryness and inelasticity of her lips. “You never do.”
She’s delirious, Manathas reflected. But what he told Crusher was “Eat.” And he inserted the piece of bread into her mouth.
It was clear that she wanted to eat it because she began chewing furiously. But after a few seconds, she gave up and spit the bread out.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Water…” she whispered.
Manathas frowned. There was plenty of it outside in the form of snow, both on the ground and in the air. But as cold and debilitated as the human was, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to let it melt in her mouth.
“Just a moment,” he said.
Then he emptied the sack, took it outside, packed it half-full of snow, and returned. But before he gave it to Crusher, he treated it to a needle-thin burst of disruptor fire at his weapon’s lowest setting—thereby turning the snow into warm water.
“Here,” Manathas said, offering his captive a sip.
She gulped it down greedily, coughed it out, then gulped down some more. And she would have kept on gulping if he hadn’t withdrawn the sack, concerned that she would harm herself.
“Easy,” he told her. Then he reintroduced the water.
This time, Crusher tempered her enthusiasm. Before she was done, she had taken almost all the water in the sack.
“You drank more moderately at your wedding,” Manathas said.
She looked at him, a little stronger now but still dull from her ordeal. “What…?”
He grunted. “Nothing.”
Again, he tried giving Crusher some bread. This time, he met with more success. Afterward, he took some himself—just enough to keep him going.
Then he turned his captive to one side and inspected her bonds. They were red with human blood and almost completely worn through. It was a good thing she hadn’t severed them altogether, or he might have discovered her outside in the snow instead of in the shelter of the government hall. And then he would have had to explain her demise to the praetor.
Just then, his com device bleeted at him. Removing it from his thermal suit, he retreated to the far side of the hall and said, “Manathas.”
“This is the vessel charged with taking you home,” said a voice the spy didn’t recognize, speaking in terms that wouldn’t give anything away if his transmission were intercepted. “You have cargo, as I understand it.”
Impeccable timing, Manathas thought. “That is correct. When can I expect you?”
“In six hours. Send me a signal on this frequency and I will transport you aboard. But make certain you’re at a viable location. The magnetic fields on Kevratas—”
“I know,” said the spy, wishing to keep their conversation as short as possible.
“I suppose you would. Six hours, then.” A moment later, the com link was broken.
Manathas replaced the com device in his suit. Though it had looked bad for a moment, everything was in place.
It wouldn’t be difficult to find a viable transport site; he had surreptitiously identified them all with Sela’s instruments and made a mental map of them. However, getting Crusher to one of the sites would be a different matter entirely.
After all, Sela’s men would be looking for two fugitives, one Romulan and one human. In their thermal suits, they would be difficult to miss.
So Manathas would have to sneak out and obtain some less obtrusive garments for them, a task he had been unable to carry out the first time. He shook his head as he considered the magnitude of the job—even for someone like him.
At least I won’t have to worry about more food. For the next six hours, they could subsist on what they had.
Sighing, Manathas returned to Crusher’s side. She was sleeping again, but the nourishment had brought some color back to her cheeks. In a little while, he would wake her and give her more food.
He would need her on her feet if they were going to make it to the transport site.
Beverly opened her eyes, saw the centurion’s face come into focus, and shot backward in an attempt to get away from it.
Unfortunately, her hands were still bound behind her back, and the effort ignited rings of fire around her wrists. Clenching her jaw against the pain, she glared at the Romulan.
“I guess you’re still alive,” she said, her voice thin and harsh, and not at all like the one she was used to.
“I guess you are as well,” said the centurion.
Then the doctor remembered: He had given her something to drink, hadn’t he? And something to eat. When had he done that? An hour ago? A day? She had lost all track of time.
“Get up,” he told her.
He seemed to be in a hurry. Her instincts told her to drag her feet, figuratively if not literally. “I don’t think I can.”
The centurion trained his disruptor on her face. “Then you put me in a difficult position. You see, there is a ship entering orbit at this very moment, sent here expressly to transport us off Kevratas. That can only be accomplished after we reach a location a few blocks away. But for
us to get there, you will have to walk under your own power.”
“Can’t we wait a little while?” Beverly asked. “Until I’m stronger?”
“I’m afraid not. The ship will not linger—and I cannot remain here with Commander Sela combing the city for me. So rather than let my chance slip away, I’ll get on the ship myself.”
The doctor had no objection to that.
“Unfortunately,” the centurion continued, “I will have to make certain before I leave that Sela doesn’t get an opportunity to interrogate you.”
“You don’t want to kill me,” Beverly said. “I’m the only one who can cure you of your disease.”
“It is not my preference,” he said. “But if I must, I will. I assure you, I have killed a great many others.” He stepped to one side and showed her a pair of Kevratan coats lying on the black marble floor. “Including the two who wore these coats until less than an hour ago.”
Beverly swallowed back her dismay and thought, Bastard.
The centurion used the barrel of his disruptor to indicate the door and said, “Now, let’s go.”
Obviously, she had pushed her luck as far as she could. With an effort, she got to her feet and allowed her captor to drape one of the coats over her shoulders.
As he fastened it in front, she wondered what it was like on Romulus. All she had to go by were the descriptions Jean-Luc had given her.
“What are the chances,” she asked only half-seriously, “of your praetor sending me home after I’ve helped you?”
The centurion didn’t answer. He just moved to the door, opened it, and led the way outside.
13
FOR WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN THE TENTH TIME SINCE Picard finished his meager, tasteless breakfast, he felt the urge to look in on Greyhorse. And as on those other occasions, he resisted it.
True, Greyhorse had given indications that he might not be as stable as his therapists believed. And on top of that, he was working long hours under perilous conditions—a combination that could have cracked even the sanest physician.
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