Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [48]
As Picard joined Pug, Greyhorse, and Decalon on the Annabel Lee’s transporter platform, he looked them over one last time.
It was one thing for them to fool someone who could only see them on a viewscreen and quite another to carry off the deception in person. However, as far as Picard could tell, he was among a group of bonafide Barolian traders.
Of course, a halfway thorough sensor sweep would have penetrated their disguises and exposed them as impostors. But according to Starfleet intelligence, their destination-a place that had never experienced a single threat from outside the Empire-possessed no sensor equipment.
“Ready?” asked Pug.
Picard nodded. “Energize.”
The former security chief pushed back the sleeve of his thick, black thermal suit to reveal the control band secured to his wrist. Punching in the requisite sequence, he remote-activated the nearby transporter mechanism.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a suddenness to which the captain had grown accustomed over the years, he found himself in an expansive, domed chamber made of large, black stones, illuminated by silver globes hanging from the ceiling.
He and his comrades were standing on one of more than a dozen pattern enhancer-equipped transporter platforms scattered across an ice blue marble floor. But then, according to Decalon, a large percentage of Kevratas’s ship-to-surface traffic was funneled through this particular checkpoint.
Clearly, the facility had been there for some time, long before the Romulans occupied the planet. Picard didn’t know what role it had played in Kevratan society, but it was certainly large and important-looking. An indoor marketplace? he ventured. Or perhaps a hall for state social gatherings?
Now there were at least fifty armed Romulan centurions positioned about the place in silver-mailed tunics, most of them lining the walls. One of them approached Picard and his party, his disruptor rifle held across his body.
“Come with me,” said the centurion, his tone as impatient as it was imperious.
“Of course,” said Picard.
Stepping down from the platform, he fell into line behind the Romulan, knowing that his companions would be doing the same. Picard followed the fellow to one of several black, functional-looking kiosks at the far end of the chamber, beyond which he could see the exit-a wide, well-guarded doorway marked in both the Romulan and Kevratan tongues.
Thanks to Admiral Edrich’s briefing packet, Picard could read a bit of both-though not as much as Decalon, who had lived for more than a year among the Kevrata. The others would be relying on Barolian translation devices to help them communicate.
When the captain reached the kiosk, the Romulan official there held out his hand. “Your documentation,” he said brusquely and without inflection.
Picard turned over a display device with the requisite information. It was all fabricated, of course, made up of whatever lies the Romulans seemed most likely to swallow.
The official studied it. He had the look of an individual who had long ago grown bored with his job.
“What is your business here?” he asked, though the display device would have answered that question for him.
“We are traders,” Picard replied dutifully, “dealing in impulse engine parts.”
Pug’s ship had containers full of them, just in case. But then, they didn’t know how seriously the Romulans might be taking their security these days.
The official scrutinized Picard for a moment, as if he could detect a clandestine agent simply by looking at him. Then, proving he wasn’t nearly as perceptive as he might have believed, he waved the captain on.
One by one, the others passed muster as well, and joined Picard at the exit. So far, so good, he thought.
One of the guards there gave them a once-over and then touched a metal plate built into the wall. A moment later the door slid aside, revealing a luridly lit passage beyond.
There were guards