Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [37]
As Decalon materialized on the transporter platform of the Annabel Lee, he looked to Picard much like any other Romulan. His eyes were dark and inquisitive, his ears pointed, his hair severely cut. It was unmarred by strands of gray despite his inclination toward what was-for Romulans, at least-late middle age.
“Captain Picard,” said Decalon, stepping down from the platform. “I am pleased to meet you.”
Romulans usually remained distant in their dealings with other species, giving away nothing of their inner thoughts. However, Decalon’s tone betrayed undeniable enthusiasm.
“After all,” the Romulan continued, “it is largely because of you that I was able to emigrate from the Empire. One might say I owe you my life.”
Ah, the captain mused. So that’s it. “Do not give it a second thought. I am glad I had the opportunity to help.”
“No more than I,” said Decalon.
“If you will follow me,” said Picard, gesturing to the exit, “I will introduce you to Captain Joseph and Doctor Greyhorse, the other members of our team.”
“Actually,” Decalon said peremptorily, amid the beginnings of a frown, “I would like to ask you a question, Captain. Concerning Doctor Greyhorse.”
The captain had a feeling he knew what the question would be. However, he allowed Decalon to frame it.
“Admiral Edrich seemed to believe that Doctor Greyhorse was as capable as Doctor Crusher of devising a cure for the Kevatran plague. Is that your estimate as well?”
It wasn’t at all the question Picard was expecting. It made him wonder how much Edrich had told Decalon, especially with regard to Greyhorse’s past.
“It is,” the captain assured Decalon. “Doctor Greyhorse is a brilliant individual, and he worked with Doctor Crusher on a cure for other variants of the disease.”
The Romulan nodded. “That is good to know.”
Perhaps it was better that Decalon didn’t possess any other information about Greyhorse. If Starfleet was right about the doctor, he was no longer capable of committing the crimes he attempted on the Enterprise. He had rehabilitated himself, wiped the slate clean.
And if that was true, who was Picard to scrawl warnings across it? “Come,” he told the Romulan. “Joseph and Greyhorse will be eager to meet you.”
5
I’M ALIVE.
It came as a surprise to her. But if she was capable of being surprised, it had to be true: I’m alive.
Opening her eyes, Beverly Crusher saw that she was lying on a bed, her Kevratan disguise gone along with her holo-unit. Without it, no one could have mistaken her for anything but human.
The room in which she found herself was small and square, perhaps three meters across. It was bounded on three sides by gray stone walls that looked worn enough to be hundreds of years old. The fourth “wall” was a shimmering, yellow-white energy barrier.
A prison cell, she concluded.
Not that Beverly was complaining. Being in prison was still a significant improvement over what she had expected when she felt the kick of that point-blank disruptor.
Obviously, whoever had shot her had set his weapon on a lower energy level-one that would knock her out, but fall short of killing her. Romulans didn’t often settle for that option. Most of the time, they preferred their enemies dead.
If they had diverged from that policy, it was because they had questions to ask her-for starters, what was an offworlder doing on Kevratas disguised as a native?
Romulans were experts at getting answers to their questions. That much was common knowledge. But some of them were more expert than others. And if one in particular had taken an interest in Beverly’s case…
No, she thought. I’m not going to go down that road. I’m going to take this one step at a time.
Beverly tried to get up, but found her right shoulder was too stiff to be of help in that regard. It was the shoulder that had been torn up by the first disruptor blast she absorbed-the