Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [3]
There, he thought. All I require, tucked away where no one will find it.
Later, Manathas would meticulously package the items-using another, even more effective set of sterile gloves, lest he come in contact with the humans’ assuredly virulent bacteria-and send them back to Romulus through a series of cargo vessels, each of which had a clandestine agent aboard to assure the items’ safe passage. And in a matter of weeks, the genetic material of Jean-Luc Picard, Leo Blais, Walker Keel, and Marielle Kumaretanga would become the property of a most grateful praetor.
But Manathas wouldn’t reap the harvest of the praetor’s gratitude quite yet. After all, he had worked long and diligently to become a trusted employee in Starfleet’s main dining room. And with all the interesting conversations that took place in that establishment, there was more than DNA to be harvested…
Arvada III
2339
IF THERE WAS ANYTHING BEVERLY HOWARD HATED more passionately than brussels sprouts, it was Bobby Goldsmith. That night she got to sample both of them at once.
Doing her best to ignore Bobby, who was peering across the oval dinner table at her with his dark brown eyes, she separated one of the round green sprouts from all the others and cut it into the smallest sections she could manage. Then she speared one of them and put it in her mouth.
Beverly would have let the sprout lie there on her plate in its dissected form, but her grandmother wouldn’t have taken kindly to that. When she served something, it was either eat it or hear about it for hours afterward.
“Waste not, want not,” Felisa Howard was fond of saying, though it had been many generations since a member of the Howard family had actually wanted for anything.
“These brussels sprouts are delicious,” said Mrs. Goldsmith, a rawboned woman with a thick, dark ponytail who was sitting on Beverly’s right.
“You must have a knack with the replicator,” said Mr. Goldsmith, a tall man with close-cropped hair.
“Actually,” Beverly’s grandmother said with a quirk of a smile, “I grew them in my garden.”
As one of the founders of the Arvada III colony, she seemed to feel it was her responsibility to help newcomers feel at home. The Goldsmiths had arrived two weeks earlier on a shuttle from Alpha Sindaari along with three other families.
But none of the others brought teenage kids, Beverly reflected. She wished the same could be said of the Goldsmiths. Not that Bobby had gone out of his way to annoy her or anything. But every time she turned around he was staring at her, making her wonder if she had dirt on her nose or something.
And sometimes she did-not just on her nose, but under her fingernails and in the creases of her hands. After all, her grandmother didn’t like to tend her garden alone, and Beverly was the only family around to help her.
She barely remembered her parents. They had died when Beverly was very young, victims of an Ubarrak attack on their research vessel. She had lived with her grandmother ever since, way out there in the Arvada system.
“Your garden?” said Mrs. Goldsmith. “Really?” She glanced sideways at her husband. “I’d love to start a garden.”
“It’s not as easy as you might think,” said Beverly’s grandmother, her face still strong and handsome despite her age. She looked a lot like Beverly’s father. “Not with all the acid you find in the soil around here.”
“Mind if we take a look?” asked Mrs. Goldsmith.
“Not at all,” said Beverly’s grandmother. “Right after dinner, if you like.”
Her eyes, which were blue and slightly almond-shaped like Beverly’s, seemed to gleam with delight. After all, it wasn’t often she had a chance to show off her garden, and even less often that someone asked to see it.
Beverly was happy for her grandmother, but hoped the Goldsmiths’ tour would be a quick one. The sooner she was able to escape