Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [51]
Phajan shook his head ruefully, but ended up smiling a little too. Then he embraced his friend.
“Idiot,” he said. “It was so much trouble to get you out of here. And now you’ve come back.”
“Unfortunately,” said Decalon, “I cannot tell you what we are doing on Kevratas.”
“I do not wish to know,” Phajan assured him. “As always, the fewer who know such things, the better.”
“Your family,” said Decalon, “they are well?”
A shadow fell across Phajan’s face. “My mother died last year. But my sisters and their families still live on the homeworld.”
“Are they content?”
Phajan nodded. “Reasonably so.”
For a moment, there was silence between the two Romulans. Then Decalon said, “It has been a long time.”
“Too long,” said his friend.
Phajan was one of the disaffected Romulans who, more than a decade earlier, had helped spirit defectors like Decalon out of the Empire. Decalon had spoken at length of Phajan’s dedication and courage during the Annabel Lee’s flight across the Neutral Zone.
Picard had no reason to doubt the accuracy of Decalon’s memory. Nonetheless, there was a great deal riding on the success of his mission, so he had consulted the Starfleet database downloaded to Pug’s ship back in Earth orbit.
It corroborated Decalon’s claim: Phajan had indeed been a big part of the Romulans’ underground railroad, helping some fifty-five defectors escape to the Federation.
Why Phajan himself had chosen to remain in the Empire had been left unsaid. Of course, he was hardly the only Romulan who had enabled others to reach freedom without pursuing the possibility on his own.
“Do I know your companions as well?” asked Phajan.
He regarded Picard and the others, who were still disguised as Barolians. “Oresis, perhaps? Or Achitonos?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Decalon. “Both Oresis and Achitonos are back in the Romulan colony we established in the Federation.” He gestured to the captain. “This is Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Starship Enterprise.”
“Ah,” said Phajan, his eyes lighting up, “I have heard of Captain Picard. In fact, if I am not mistaken, he and I have worked together-though he probably never knew it.”
“If you were one of my contacts in the Empire,” said the captain, “I did not know it. For your protection, we were never apprised of any of your names.”
“A wise policy,” said Phajan, “which no doubt enabled many of our number to survive long after our operation outlived its usefulness and dissipated.”
Indeed, the once-torrential flow of Romulans who had wished to escape the Empire diminished sharply after the first year of the underground railroad, and soon after stopped altogether. No one in the Federation could ever understand why.
Nor could Romulans like Decalon shed any light on the matter. It was as if their rejection of the Empire and her ideals were no more than a fad, which had its time in the sun and passed.
“And these,” Decalon continued, indicating the doctor and their pilot, “are Carter Greyhorse and Peter Joseph, both former officers in Starfleet.”
Phajan took them in at a glance. “You are welcome in my house. As welcome as my friend Decalon.”
“It is kind of you to say so,” Picard told him.
Phajan dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “It is the least I can do for those who gave Decalon and others a life beyond the Empire.”
“I did not contribute to that effort,” said Greyhorse, a strange burr in his voice.
The remark came out of nowhere. Had it been articulated by a man without a record of criminality and psychological instability, the captain might have overlooked it. As it was, it put him on his guard.
Joseph, looking a little concerned, put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder and said, “It’s all right, Doc. I didn’t get that opportunity either.”
“However,” Greyhorse went on, as if his colleague hadn’t said a thing, “I wish I had contributed. There is nothing more important than freedom.”
Picard looked for Phajan’s reaction. But all the Romulan did was say, “I agree.”
He had failed, it seemed, to notice anything off-center about the doctor’s comments.