Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [50]
The rights of the Kevrata were restricted in accordance with the needs of the Empire. Public communications were all but eliminated. Curfews were established. And personal fortunes were seized-purportedly because the Kevrata no longer required them as wards of the Empire, but in truth because the Romulans wished to add to their coffers.
The Empire assumed control over the planet’s three major industries-trading, mining, and the manufacture of curiously beautiful native artifacts. All but the tiniest fraction of profits went straight back to Romulus.
For the Kevrata, the loss of personal freedom was a cut to the bone. But the loss of wealth cut them even deeper. They had measured their worth as individuals by how much they could give to others. Suddenly, they had nothing to give… and therefore, no worth.
A sad state of affairs indeed. And yet, the Kevrata were enduring Romulan rule a lot better than other subject peoples.
Anyone who wears such coats has to harbor hope, Picard thought. It must be in their nature. And if his mission were successful, the Kevrata would get what they were hoping for.
He turned to Decalon. “Which way?”
The defector looked around for a moment, making an effort to get his bearings. After all, it had been a long time since he lived on this world, and the snow made it difficult to discern one building from another.
Finally, he pointed and said, “This way.”
Picard again took stock of his companions. It was tempting to see Joseph and Greyhorse as he had seen them on the Stargazer-as subordinates who would reflexively carry out his commands.
However, decades had passed since they served under him. They were no longer the men they had been. And Decalon was an even bigger question mark.
But this was the team assigned to the captain, and this was the team he had accepted. “Let us proceed,” he said.
And they set out through the storm for the dwelling of a Romulan named Phajan.
7
HUNKERING DOWN AGAINST THE COLD, PICARD AND his comrades waited in the lee of a well-appointed stone building just off one of the city’s main thoroughfares.
The snow had stopped for the moment, but the sky looked bruised and battered above them, and it promised another blast of weather before too long. The captain frowned behind his flap of thermal protection. Yet another reason it would be good if someone answered the door.
Finally, they heard a voice say, over the whistling of the wind, “What is your business here?”
Decalon moved closer to the grid beside the door, which appeared to be part of an audio-only intercom system. “I have come to see an old friend,” he said. “His name is Phajan.”
The voice that said the words was Decalon’s. Obviously, he had disabled the mechanism that made him sound like a Barolian.
“You sound familiar…” said the individual on the other end of the intercom conversation.
“I should,” said Decalon. “Or have you forgotten the night we spent drinking ale at the foot of the firefalls?”
A pause. And then: “Decalon…?”
“The same,” said the Romulan. “Though as you will see, I do not look like myself these days.”
A few seconds later, the door was flung wide, and a Romulan came out as far as the threshold. He was tall and thin, with hair graying at the temples and eyes that seemed to have witnessed a great deal of sadness. When he saw what Decalon looked like, his mouth fell open, letting out a wisp of frozen breath.
“I told you I do not look like myself,” said Decalon.
His friend swore softly. Then his eyes moved in the direction of Picard, Pug, and Greyhorse, and he asked, “Who are they?”
“I will vouch for them,” said Decalon.
Phajan hesitated-but only for a moment. “Come in,” he said, “before we all freeze to death.”
Picard didn’t have to be told twice. As soon as he and his comrades were inside, Phajan closed the heavy wooden door behind them. Then he turned to Decalon.
“What are you doing back in the Empire?” he demanded.
Decalon smiled, contorting his features. “I am on a mission for the Federation.” Touching the controls on his portable holosystem,