Death in Winter

by Michael Jan Freidman

  But the last thing Greyhorse needed was an unnecessary distraction. And that was exactly what the captain would have been—a distraction.

  For a while, Decalon had maintained a silent vigil in the doctor’s company, for reasons only he understood. But after a while, even he had seen the need to leave Greyhorse alone.

  It wasn’t as if Picard didn’t already have enough on his plate. When he wasn’t planning the distribution of the vaccine with Hanafaejas, he was taking his turn standing guard in one of the corridors. He didn’t even have a moment to sit with Pug and reminisce.

  But the entire time, he was thinking about one of two things. One was how quickly Greyhorse could come up with the Kevrata’s vaccine. The other was how he would go about rescuing Beverly.

  Picard was as certain as ever that she was alive. The question was where she was being kept. In a prison he and his Kevratan comrades could break into? Or some more secret place, of which even Hanafaejas might not be aware?

  He wished he knew.

  And he wished also that he could tell Beverly he was on Kevratas, moving closer to the moment when he could help her. It wasn’t easy biding his time when he wanted to get out of the rebels’ warren and find her.

  As she, years ago, had managed to find him.

  It was a time in his life he had tried hard to forget, though it still woke him in a cold sweat every now and then. For the first time, a Borg cube had invaded Federation space and Picard had been dispatched in the hope that he could stop it.

  In the midst of an encounter with the cube, the captain was kidnapped off the bridge of the Enterprise- D and taken to a surgical alcove, where long, spidery probes planted mechanical prostheses in his flesh—the first step in his assimilation into the Borg collective.

  Riker, who was left in command, beamed an away team over to the cube in an attempt to retrieve Picard. When the Borg recognized the team as a danger, a wave of drones was sent to deal with it. Picard was one of them.

  Beverly was part of the away team—and not just because she was the medical authority on the Enterprise. As Picard learned later, she had demanded to go. When she saw Picard on the Borg cube, with the bizarre appliance that had been attached to his hand and the eyepiece that had become part of his face, she gasped.

  He was a monster, an unfeeling thing with only a vestige of humanity left to him. But the doctor wasn’t so daunted she would give up on him. She started toward him, unmindful of her peril.

  Fortunately, Data restrained her. Otherwise she would have received the same shock from Picard’s energy shield that sent Worf flying backward. The tactical officer survived the experience, but Beverly might not have.

  Then Geordi beamed the team off, before the Borg could overwhelm them. But the portion of Picard that was still human studied Beverly’s face as long as he could, until the last of her molecules had departed.

  In the end, she hadn’t been able to rescue him. But she had made the attempt. She had tried.

  It was that comfort he drew about himself afterward, trying hard not to relinquish it even when the collective stole all else from him. It was, above all else, what kept him from losing his sanity in the dark, screaming complexity of the Borg’s biomechanical hell.

  Eventually his people came back for him, and this time managed to spirit him off the cube. When they deposited him in sickbay, Beverly and Riker were waiting for him.

  Even in his sedated state, Picard could hear the doctor talking, though she seemed very far away. But it wasn’t what she said that caught his attention, for she was simply analyzing his altered condition. It was the sound of her voice, soothing him, providing an alternative to the madness of the collective.

  Then Beverly injected him with a stimulant and he heard her voice again, stronger now and a good deal closer. In fact, it was right beside his ear….

  “Jean-Luc,” she breathed, “it’s Beverly. Can you hear me?”

  There was more than compassion in her question. There was something so pure and bright it could pierce the relentlessly multiplying layers of machine-self and find his humanity huddling in a dim, cold corner of his consciousness.

  In reply, Picard’s mouth made the words “Beverly…Crusher…Doctor.”

  But through them he was crying out in gratitude, for she had bestowed upon him something precious without realizing it. She had retrieved him, in a way only she could.

  “Yes,” Beverly said, smiling because she recognized that a bridge had been built, however fragile it might be. “Don’t try to move.”

  Picard didn’t have to. He had been moved. And because of that, he could go on.

  Now it was Beverly who was the prisoner of an implacable enemy, facing torture or death and terribly alone. Could he do less for her than she had done for him?

  He would remain underground until Greyhorse gave the Kevrata their vaccine. He would do whatever it took to facilitate that outcome, for as long as it took.

  But not a second longer.

  Eborion ascended the broad stone steps that led to the praetor’s palace, a boyish lift in his step. But then, he had ample reason to feel good about himself.

  The spy had done his job, Sela had been diminished in Tal’aura’s eyes, and Eborion had become the praetor’s favorite. Had a plan ever been so perfectly executed as this one?

  He could hear Tal’aura now: “I am disappointed in Commander Sela, Eborion. She has not performed up to my expectations. You will be interested to know that she captured a human—a doctor—sent to find a cure for the plague there. Unfortunately, she lost this human just as quickly.”

  And so on.

  Savor it, he told himself. You don’t know if you’ll ever again taste a moment so delicious.

  A dozen fully-armed centurions stood at the top of the steps, eyeing Eborion as he approached. As a familiar figure at court, he knew they wouldn’t bar his way. However, they also didn’t move to notify the praetor of his arrival.

  Obviously, she had left word with them to let him enter the palace unannounced. A most agreeable privilege, he mused.

  The columned hall beyond the steps was populated by centurions as well—more than the usual number, given the unrest in the capital. But none of them reacted to Eborion’s presence. They simply stood there and watched him go by.

  I can get used to this, he thought.

  He didn’t encounter Tal’aura’s personal guard, a cadre that wore black tunics instead of silver, until he reached the doors at the far end of the hall. Unlike their comrades, these centurions didn’t merely watch Eborion.

  They opened the doors to let him through. Yes, he thought, I can easily get used to this.

  Beyond the doors, he encountered the stair that led up to the praetor’s suite. He felt like taking the steps two at a time, but restrained his eagerness. He had to comport himself with dignity if he wanted to garner respect, not only from Tal’aura but from the rest of her court as well.

  At the top of the stair there was another set of doors, a good deal more ornate than the ones below. They were open, inviting him into the chamber on the other side of the threshold.

  As Eborion entered, he saw that Tal’aura was standing by a balcony—one of two that graced the chamber. It was something he had seen her do more and more lately, as if she hoped to find a solution to her problems out there.

  He inclined his head. “You asked to see me, Praetor?”

  “I did,” she said. “Something has come to my attention that will be of interest to you.”

  He was flattered. Tal’aura had never before considered what might be of interest to him.

  “One of my advisors,” she said, declining to identify the individual by name, “had occasion to intercept a message recently. It was from Kevratas.”

  Eborion felt a rush of blood to his face and smiled through it. “Kevratas?” he repeated numbly.

  “Yes. It seems there is some treachery afoot there.”

  Eborion felt his guts soften. “What sort of treachery? Not aga
inst you, I hope?”

  Tal’aura smiled a thin-lipped smile. “Actually, yes. It is very much against me. You see, I hired a spy to be my eyes and ears on Kevratas—a master in such things, called Manathas. Perhaps you’ve heard of him…?”

  Eborion’s first impulse was to deny it. But Manathas was practically a legend. A great many people in his stratum of society had heard of the spy, though few had met him.

  “Of course,” he got out.

  “Well, it turns out that Manathas is not only working for me. He is working for someone else as well.”

  The patrician swallowed back a hot spurt of fear. “A spy,” he said, with lips that seemed not his own, “is not very useful if he cannot be trusted.”

  “Who is?” asked Tal’aura.

  At first, he believed it was a rhetorical question. But the praetor didn’t say anything more. She just looked at him, her eyes boring into his skull.

  Finally, she broke the silence. “I asked you a question, Eborion. What good is anyone who can’t be trusted? A citizen? A centurion? Even a counselor to the praetor?”

  Eborion felt a whimper escape his throat. He hated himself for his weakness, but he hated himself even more for his stupidity.

  He had been mad to think he could hide such a thing from Tal’aura. He had only one chance to save his life now—to fall on his praetor’s mercy.

  “Forgive me,” he said, but it escaped his dry, constricted throat as little more than the rasp of twigs rubbing together. He fell to his knees on the hard marble floor and laid his chin on his chest. “I never meant to betray you.”

  “Yet you did,” Tal’aura observed, her tone a sword’s edge.

  Eborion looked up at her and saw the fire in her eyes, and knew she had no mercy in her. So he tried one other approach, one last attempt to find a niche in which he could shelter his guttering hope of survival.

  “My wealth,” he said, “has been most valuable to you, Praetor. It can continue to be so.”

  Suddenly, Tal’aura laughed—as if he had said something funny. “No need to worry,” she assured Eborion. “Your wealth will continue to serve me—long after I reveal your treachery to the Empire and seize your personal estate.”

  Then she tapped a com device on a table beside her and called out the names of her guards. A moment later, two of them came through the open doorway.

  “What is your wish, Praetor?” one of them asked.

  Tal’aura considered Eborion. “Put him in a cell, for now. I’ll decide the manner of his execution at my leisure.”

  “No!” cried Eborion, his lower lip quivering uncontrollably. “At least leave me my reputation!”

  He was part of a noble family, to which he had intended to bring honor. The prospect of dirtying its name was as bad as any torture Tal’aura could devise for him.

  She gazed at Eborion from beneath hooded lids. “You ask me to let you take your own life?”

  “I do,” he said, his voice cracking miserably. Even thieves and murderers were given the option of ritual suicide.

  “By what means?” Tal’aura asked.

  He licked his lips. “Poison.”

  “Fast-acting or slow?”

  Eborion didn’t want to push his luck too far. “Whatever my praetor wishes.”

  She nodded. “And if she wishes you to take your life here and now—by the sword?”

  He felt as if he would retch. “Then,” he moaned, “I will embrace that option.”

  Tal’aura considered him a moment longer. Then she said, “Your request is denied. When you die, it will be a public spectacle, an entertainment available to every Romulan. That is the punishment for treachery, Eborion.”

  Before he could plead any further, she made a gesture of dismissal and her guards advanced to grab the nobleman by his arms. Only as they dragged him out of the room did he began to appreciate the magnitude of what he had brought down on himself.

  And of course, on his family.

  Beverly trudged through freezing slush on pain-stiffened legs, her hands still bound behind her under a dead Kevrata’s coat.

  Snow was falling in heavy flakes from a dense, gray sky. It made for limited visibility, which must have been to the centurion’s liking. The less noticeable they were, the easier their path to the transport site.

  None of the Kevrata seemed to discern anything unusual about them. But then, they were too intent on their own troubles to give anyone else a second look.

  Beverly and her captor passed a number of centurions as well, but Sela’s men didn’t take any interest in them. They were looking for a human and a Romulan, after all, not a couple of natives—and in their nyala-skin coats, natives were what they appeared to be.

  The doctor had thought about running from the time they left the government hall, regardless of what shape her legs were in. But she knew it would only draw the Romulans’ attention and get her thrown into another prison cell.

  Besides, she had a disruptor pressed against her spine. One wrong move and she would be skewered by an energy bolt, her smoking corpse providing a distraction as her companion left the scene alone.

  As he had said, he didn’t want it that way. But if Beverly refused to cooperate, she would give him no choice.

  So they plodded along, moving no faster than anyone else but steadily nearing their destination. Before long they would stop and the centurion would contact his ally in orbit, and their molecules would be seized by transporter beams. And soon after, they would begin their journey.

  And she would live out her life, however long that might be, in thrall to the Romulan Empire. Not exactly what I had in mind when I accepted the assignment.

  Beverly was still thinking that when she saw something she hadn’t expected to ever see again. She closed her eyes for a moment to make sure it wasn’t an illusion. But when she opened them, the coat was still there.

  A blue coat flecked with silver—like the one her contact had worn in the tavern.

  Was it possible he had escaped Sela in the melee, though Beverly could not? Or had he been working for the Romulans all along, helping them to bait their trap?

  Or was it even the same Kevrata? With all the coats in the city, might not more than one of them be blue with silver flecks?

  There was no way for Beverly to know. But if she played it safe, she would never escape her captor. She had to take a chance before the opportunity faded.

  It wouldn’t be easy to draw Blue Coat’s attention—not with the Romulan’s weapon pressed between her shoulder blades. She hoped he wasn’t expecting any resistance from her, because if he was, she was a dead woman.

  The doctor took a moment to gather her nerve. Then she stopped suddenly and dug her heel into her captor’s shin as hard as she could. As he cried out in pain, she whirled and kicked him squarely in the mouth.

  Before he could recover from the blow, she took off in Blue Coat’s direction. “It’s me!” she yelled, flinging her hood back with a toss of her head.

  Blue Coat stared at her for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise and apprehension. But he had probably never seen a human, especially under such strange circumstances.

  For what seemed like a long time, he gave no indication of how he would respond. Then he reached out and grabbed Beverly by the arm, and pulled her down the street.

  “Quickly!” he rasped, casting a look back over his shoulder.

  But Beverly had the heartsick feeling they weren’t going fast enough. After all, the centurion still had a weapon in his hand, and she had seen how deadly accurate he could be with it.

  Manathas put aside the pain in his shin, which was considerable, and went after Crusher. She had placed both him and his plan to spirit her off Kevratas in jeopardy, but he could still achieve his objective if he acted quickly.

  Raising his weapon, which was set to merely stun, he aimed it at the doctor’s back. But before he could squeeze the trigger, a Kevrata got in his way. He had no choice but to fire, sending the fellow sprawling in the sno
w.

  Then he pelted after Crusher and the native who appeared to have befriended her. A member of the rebellion? the Romulan wondered as he began to close the gap.

  He had almost caught up with Crusher and her new-found companion when a couple more of the Kevrata intervened. Obviously, they meant to stand there until they were cut down as well.

  “Out of my way!” Manathas snapped, in a voice calculated to command respect.

  Neither of the natives moved. A couple of quick blasts and they were no longer a problem.

  But half a dozen other Kevrata appeared to block his path. And as the Romulan slowed his pace to deal with them, Crusher and her friend vanished around a bend.

  Manathas started to take aim at the natives when he realized there were others closing in on him—not just from the front, but from all sides. And they were rasping curses at him, giving rein to their indignation.

  He had seen indignant crowds before. He knew what they were capable of, once their anger gathered momentum, and he didn’t relish the idea of being trampled to death.

  Manathas had lost his captive. He had lost his chance to leave Kevratas with his mission accomplished. But he wasn’t about to lose his life into the bargain.

  Whirling in the opposite direction from the one Crusher had taken, he fired at the first Kevrata he saw. As his victim hit the ground, the Romulan leaped over him and ran down the street.

  There was an uproar from the crowd, but it died with distance. And by the time Manathas turned the corner, he was among Kevrata who had no idea what had taken place.

  Slowing his pace to a walk, he blended in with the stream of gaudily colored coats. There were cries of outrage behind him as his pursuers railed at him, but he didn’t turn around. He was just another Kevrata going about his workaday business, inured to the violence fostered by the Romulan oppressor.

  Of course, Manathas would miss his appointment at the beam-up site, and thereby forgo his ride back to Romulus. But he couldn’t help that.

  Regardless of what he had told the doctor, he couldn’t leave Kevratas without her. Despite the danger, he preferred to remain there and attempt to retrieve her than to face the prospect of living—and dying—with a filthy plague inside him.