Death in Winter

by Michael Jan Freidman

  Pushing himself up out of the snow, he took a step and dove flat-out across the gully.

  But he was too weak, too starved for air. His dive carried him only as far as the centurion’s feet.

  Turning to Decalon, the centurion frowned in annoyance. Then, calmly and methodically, he reset his disruptor.

  Decalon grabbed the centurion’s leg and tried to push him back. But it was no use. He didn’t have the strength. Without comment, the centurion trained his weapon on Decalon again.

  And depressed the trigger.

  Picard had to fight his fatigue and confusion as much as his enemy as he pulled back his fist and let it fly.

  The centurion, who had been reeling already as a result of the captain’s other blows, took this one on the point of the chin. He staggered for a moment, eyes rolling back in his head, then collapsed.

  Finally, Picard thought.

  Pouncing on the disruptor the centurion had dropped, he looked around. The battle had moved away from him for the moment, leaving him alone in the falling snow.

  And giving him a chance to go after Beverly.

  Shielding his eyes, the captain approached the gully into which Beverly had vanished, but couldn’t discern anyone down there. Yet he was certain that Beverly and Sela had fallen that way. So with his borrowed weapon in hand he hastened down the incline, hoping he wasn’t too late.

  He had almost reached the bottom when he saw two figures lying there, either dead or unconscious. Then he noticed two others just beyond them, still on their feet—and facing each other.

  One was a centurion, a disruptor pistol in his hand. And the other…was Beverly.

  Picard felt a pang as he saw her, her hair flying free from the confines of her Kevratan hood. But he didn’t dare call to her lest he alert the centurion.

  Slowing his descent, he got within thirty meters of them—the maximum effective range of a disruptor. Then he stopped, took aim, and squeezed off a beam.

  It went straight and unerringly to its mark. Or rather, where its mark had been.

  Unfortunately, the centurion chose that moment to move forward and strike Beverly—effectively removing himself from the line of fire, and leaving the energy bolt to bury itself in the snow.

  Instantly, Beverly’s captor turned in Picard’s direction. Before the captain could get off another shot, the centurion grabbed the doctor and used her for a shield. Then he put his disruptor to her head.

  “Drop your weapon,” he snapped, his voice audible even over the hiss of the wind, “or I will kill her!”

  Picard knew that once he was unarmed, the Romulan would destroy him. But he had no choice. He couldn’t roll the dice with Beverly’s life at stake.

  “All right,” he said, “I am dropping it. See?” And he let the disruptor fall to the snow-covered ground.

  “Step away from it,” said the centurion.

  His teeth clenched, the captain stepped away.

  As he had predicted, the centurion’s weapon swung in his direction. A smile spread across the bastard’s face. He had Picard exactly where he wanted him.

  But in the same moment, Beverly made a motion with her hand. Nothing too overt—just enough to let the captain know that something was coming.

  He had known Beverly a long time. He knew what she would do as surely as he knew his name. And he knew also that the opening she gave him would only be a brief one.

  Without warning, she grimaced and pumped her elbow into her captor’s ribs. As the Romulan folded in pain, Picard dove for his weapon and came up firing.

  By then, Beverly had freed herself, and there was nothing to protect the centurion. The captain’s blast struck him in the shoulder, spinning him about.

  Even then, the Romulan managed to get off a shot of his own. His beam cut a hot, steaming path in the snow, coming within a meter of Picard’s elbow.

  Refusing to give his adversary a second chance, the captain took more careful aim this time—and struck the centurion squarely in the chest, driving him backward head over heels.

  Warily, Picard got up and regarded his enemy. However, it was clear that the centurion was unconscious, his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Half-running, half-sliding, the captain covered the distance to Beverly in a heartbeat. Then, separated from her by mere centimeters, he drank in the sight of her.

  In truth, she had looked more composed. There was a dark swelling under one eye and blood in the corner of her mouth. However, she had never seemed more appealing to him.

  Folding her into his arms, he felt her slump against him, battered and exhausted and not embarrassed to show it. “By now,” she rasped, “you should know I don’t need rescuing.”

  He couldn’t help smiling at the irony. And as he gazed into the depths of her glittering blue eyes, he couldn’t help something else as well.

  Lowering his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “I love you, Beverly. I have always loved you. And I always will.”

  It wasn’t something she didn’t know. However, Picard had never said it that way—so urgently, so fervently.

  He withdrew a little, eager to see the look on her face. After all, she loved him too. She had said so. And at that moment, she had to be feeling the same way he did—clutching with all her strength what had almost been lost to them forever.

  But when he saw Beverly’s expression, it wasn’t a happy one. She looked hesitant, uncomfortable. And by that sign, Picard realized he had blundered.

  He had violated the unspoken laws of their friendship, upset its delicate balance, sent it whirling out of control. By striving to make something more of the feelings they shared, he had inadvertently made something less.

  Slipping free of his embrace, Beverly moved to one of the other figures in the gully—one Picard recognized as Decalon. A curse escaped his lips.

  Beverly knelt beside the Romulan’s blackened, blasted corpse. Then she turned back to the captain. “The Romulan who came with you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “He died trying to save me,” she told him.

  Picard recalled how introspective Decalon had been in the catacombs. As if he were just waiting for an opportunity to redeem himself.

  And he had.

  Then he saw the other figure lying in the gully, and he recognized that one as well. “Sela.”

  Picard hated to just leave her there, knowing she would be trouble again in the future. But he didn’t dare risk taking her along with them.

  Suddenly, he heard someone call his name from the top of the slope. It was Pug.

  “Come on!” he yelled, beckoning them—signifying, no doubt, that the Kevrata had opened a window of opportunity for them. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Without looking at the captain, Beverly started up the slope. As Picard went after her, he wished he hadn’t said what he said to her. He wished he had exercised more control.

  But it was too late. And for all he knew, the damage was irreparable. What have I done?

  17

  TAL’AURA WATCHED BRAEG RAISE THE BRONZE GOBLET to his lips, his dark eyes full of pride and brash defiance—unlike the trepidation others had displayed in similar situations.

  Without hesitation or stint, the admiral drained the goblet’s clear sweet contents. Then he put it down on the marble-topped table beside him.

  For a moment, there was no change in his expression, not even the faintest crack in his composure. The praetor found herself wishing he had not been her enemy, that he could have served her instead of opposing her.

  Then it was too late, because Braeg’s handsome face had already begun suffusing with blood, turning greener than the homeworld’s deepest seas. A heartbeat later, he fell dead beside the marble table—the martyr Tal’aura had not wished to make of him.

  She sighed as her men dragged away the corpse. A monstrous pity. And yet she could not have allowed Braeg’s treason to go unpunished.

  Wisely, she had kept the proceeding a private one, attended only by governmen
t officials. But Braeg had exercised his right of statement anyway, knowing his words would be recorded for posterity. He had spoken of Tal’aura’s tyranny, of the purity of his motives in trying to overthrow her, and finally of Donatra.

  Oh, how he spoke of her.

  Even the praetor had been moved by his words—and, she conceded it now, made envious. For as long as she lived, she would never be loved as Braeg had loved Donatra.

  Enough of this, she told herself. Other matters require my attention. Tapping a command into the control device in her hand, she called up a different image—that of the individual in command of her Defense Force.

  Tal’aura saw Tomalak swivel in his chair to face her. He looked as if he had come from a refreshing sleep, not a battle with a rebel armada.

  “Congratulations on your victory,” the praetor told him.

  “It was my pleasure to serve you,” he said.

  Not yet, she thought. Tomalak’s pleasure would come later, after she had arranged for some of Eborion’s lands and wealth to be transferred to the commander’s name.

  The rest, of course, would be given to Eborion’s aunt Cly’rana. After all, it was she who had exposed Eborion for the traitor he was.

  Suspecting her nephew was up to something, Cly’rana had arranged to monitor all his communications. Otherwise, his message from Manathas would almost certainly have gone undiscovered.

  And why had Cly’rana torn the veil from Eborion’s treachery? Out of loyalty to the praetor—or so she claimed. But she had not pleaded for the life of her nephew, who must have been a threat to her within her family, nor had she turned down the share of his wealth Tal’aura gave as a reward.

  In the process, the praetor had learned a valuable lesson: that even the Hundred could be bought.

  “Nonetheless,” she told Tomalak, “it was a great achievement.”

  Of course, the odds had been in his favor all along. Only the rebels’ fervor had allowed them to think otherwise. But it was left to the victors to say how treacherous a battle had been, and how courageous those who had fought it.

  “We are going through the ships we captured,” said Tomalak, “and sending their crews down to face charges of treason. Unless, of course, you would like us to address their actions up here.”

  In other words, Tal’aura interpreted, kill them without a trial. She appreciated the value of expedience, but even she wouldn’t deprive the rebels of their right of statement.

  “That will not be necessary,” she told Tomalak. “I prefer to deal with them myself. Besides, you will have your hands full repairing their vessels—and your own.”

  “As you wish,” the commander responded.

  Unfortunately, nearly half of the rebels’ fleet had gotten away, the ships commanded by Donatra and Suran among them. Tal’aura was forced to assume that both fleet commanders had survived the battle and were at that moment replotting her downfall.

  Also, she had to deal with Sela and Manathas.

  The latter, being a master of disguise, would be difficult to apprehend. However, it would be impossible for him to find work in the Empire, as no potential employer would want to incur the praetor’s wrath.

  Sooner or later, Manathas would make a mistake, and someone would identify him and turn him in. It was just a matter of time.

  As for Sela…she had allowed the Federation to win the admiration of the Kevrata, and thereby fan the flames of rebellion on the outworlds. And into the bargain, she hadn’t snared a single Federation agent.

  Most disappointing, Tal’aura reflected. But Sela had at least been loyal to her, whereas others had not.

  For now, she would leave the half-blood on Kevratas to wallow in her failure. Sela would hate that—and want more than ever to regain the standing she had enjoyed under previous regimes. And when the praetor needed her again, she would be ready.

  But neither Sela nor Manathas was the worst of Tal’aura’s problems—not since the Kevrata’s plague had demonstrated an affinity for Romulans. With all the commercial traffic going in and out of Kevratas on a daily basis, there was no telling how many ships might already be carrying the virus, or how far it might have spread.

  One thing was certain: It needed to be stopped.

  The praetor had not previously felt a need to deploy research teams to Kevratas, since the disease had been a strictly Kevratan concern. Now, of course, she felt otherwise.

  She just hoped her scientists could devise a cure before the virus reached Romulus….

  Back in his lair beneath the ancient castle, surrounded by his comrades in the artificial lights of their new camp, Hanafaejas sat on his haunches and lowered his head into his hands.

  They had succeeded in their effort to buy Picard the time he needed. As far as Hanafaejas knew, all five of the Federation people had escaped to Pug Joseph’s ship—not only Picard and his companions, but Doctor Crusher as well.

  However, one of the rebels had perished in a blast of disruptor fire. Hanafaejas let his head loll on his chest as he keened the name of the dead one.

  “Jellekh…”

  His comrades responded in kind, filling the alcove with the thin, high sound of their mourning. But then, Jellekh had been the bravest and most dependable of them.

  And he might still be alive if there weren’t a traitor in their midst. Hanafaejas raised his head and regarded the comrades facing him in a rough semicircle.

  Someone had told Sela where Captain Picard would be meeting Doctor Crusher, or those centurions wouldn’t have known where to find them. Clearly, there was a leak in the rebels’ camp, and Hanafaejas vowed not to rest until he found out who it was.

  For now, however, he had a more urgent task. He had sworn to Captain Picard that he would send a brief, untraceable message to Sela’s headquarters, letting her know that he was in possession of a vaccine for the plague.

  And that he would part with it—for a price.

  It wasn’t the way of the Kevrata to make bargains with each other. When they gave something away, they did it unconditionally. However, when they dealt with other Kevrata, they could expect their largesse to be reciprocated.

  In this case, unfortunately, they were dealing with their Romulan oppressors—the other plague ravaging their planet—which meant the rebels had to adhere to a different standard. Besides, Hanafaejas wasn’t asking for wealth in exchange for a cure. All he wanted was something the Romulans owed the Kevrata anyway…

  Their freedom.

  To Picard, the journey to Kevratas had seemed painfully long. However, the journey back seemed even longer.

  One reason, of course, was the loss of Decalon. It was unfortunate that he could not have escaped the Empire a second time. However, he had gone down fighting, repaying his saviors for the sacrifices they had made to liberate him.

  There were worse ways to die.

  The other reason for the tedium—from Picard’s point of view, at least—was Beverly. She was acting as if nothing had changed, as if they were still the people they had been before.

  But Picard knew otherwise. He could see it in her eyes, in her smile, in the distance she kept from him.

  On the other hand, she seemed perfectly willing to converse with Joseph or Greyhorse. Especially when the alternative was to be alone with the captain.

  It saddened him that it should be so. He wished he could change what he had done, erase every trace of it from Beverly’s memory. But he didn’t have that option. He could only take responsibility for his mistake and endure its consequences.

  Eventually they received orders to rendezvous with the Zapata, a Surak-class starship that would take Beverly and Greyhorse to a starbase for debriefing. However, Picard would remain with the Annabel Lee the rest of the way to Earth.

  He was grateful. It would be less awkward that way.

  Days later, when they made contact with the Zapata, Picard and Joseph accompanied their comrades to the Annabel Lee’s transporter room. Feeling as if he were moving through a dream, the capt
ain clasped Greyhorse’s big hand and wished him well.

  Then he turned to Beverly, hoping he would find in her expression some trace of what had existed between them. But it was as if he were looking at a stranger.

  “Good-bye,” she said, and gave Picard a hug. But it seemed lacking in enthusiasm.

  “Good-bye,” he responded.

  “Don’t forget,” Beverly said as she pulled away, “you promised you’d come down for dinner sometime.” But her eyes didn’t sparkle the way they had when she first extended the invitation.

  “I will not forget,” he assured her.

  And he wouldn’t. But he had no intention of bringing the matter up again. That way, if Beverly was just being polite, it wouldn’t lead to any more discomfort.

  Picard watched as she said good-bye to Pug. If anything, Beverly seemed more genuine with him, more earnest in her intentions to see him.

  Joseph clapped the doctor on the shoulder. “Who knows, I may come by and see you too.”

  Greyhorse considered his old colleague. “I will look forward to it.”

  Beverly laughed. It was an easy laugh, the kind she had once shared with Picard. But not anymore.

  Someday, he believed, that would change. She would get over what had happened and grow comfortable with him again. But he didn’t know how long it would take, and in the meantime he felt a part of him was missing.

  As Picard watched, the two doctors assumed their places on the platform. Then they were enveloped in columns of light, and gradually faded away.

  “And there they go,” said Joseph.

  The captain nodded, staring at the emptiness.

  “Come on,” said his old friend. “I’ll buy you a drink. Nothing alcoholic, mind you. I’m supposed to be past all that.”

  Picard wished he could have enjoyed the jest a bit more. Silently, he allowed Joseph to lead him out of the transporter room.

  Geordi turned to Worf, as they stood there before the platform in Transporter Room One, and said, “Remember what Joseph told us.”