Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [101]
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 government 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