Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [52]
Picard began to wonder if it had been a good idea after all to put the doctor in such a crucial situation. Not that there was anything he could do about it now, except keep an eye on Greyhorse and hope for the best.
Perhaps sensing Picard’s discomfort, Decalon changed the subject. “You live well,” he observed of Phajan.
Their host looked around at the furnishings-a collection of sleek, overstuffed chairs and boldly wrought wall hangings made of burnished metals. They were rather opulent-looking, especially by local standards.
“One of the advantages,” said Phajan, “of being a tax collector. In fact, the chief tax collector.”
“You collect taxes from the Kevrata?” Greyhorse asked, and not in an especially kindly tone of voice.
Their host turned to him, his features strained. “Do not presume to judge me.”
“That is not his intention,” said Picard. He looked pointedly at the doctor. “Is it?”
Greyhorse looked lost for a moment. Then he said to Phajan, in a softer voice, “I apologize if I gave you that impression. People do what they must to survive.”
“They do indeed,” said Phajan, relaxing a bit.
“We appreciate your hospitality,” said Decalon, again cutting in on an awkward moment, “but we don’t want to stay long. Every moment we remain here places you in danger.”
Phajan shrugged. “You need not be concerned about that. Now sit down and tell me how I can help.”
Opening their thermal suits, they deposited themselves in their host’s overstuffed chairs and waited while he brewed them a drink-a tart, clear beverage called cijarra, which Picard had sampled in his time on Romulus. Then, as they sipped the steaming cijarra with unanimous regard for its subtleties, Decalon told his friend what they required of him.
“We need a way,” he said, “to contact the underground.”
Phajan’s brow bunched above the bridge of his nose. “Easier said than done.”
Decalon frowned with disappointment. “I thought, perhaps- “
“That I would know, since I was once part of an underground myself?” Phajan shook his head. “That was a different time, my friend, and a different life.”
“Then you cannot help us?” asked Picard.
Phajan considered the question for what seemed like a long time. “If it were easy to find the underground,” he said at last, “Commander Sela would have done so by now.”
The captain felt a pit open in his belly. “Did you say… Commander Sela?”
“Yes,” said Phajan. “She took over the administration of Kevratas a few weeks ago. Do you know her?”
“I have run into her,” Picard confirmed. “More than once, in fact.” He didn’t go into Sela’s relationship with Tasha Yar, seeing no point in it. “She is formidable, to say the least.”
“So it would seem,” said Phajan. “I have lived on Kevratas for decades now, and I have never seen it governed so strictly-or so cruelly. The natives speak of Sela with fear in their voices.”
“Then she has not changed,” said Picard.
“And the underground?” asked Decalon. “Is there no way to let them know we are here? Without alerting Sela as well?”
“I have an idea,” said Phajan. “I have long suspected that one of my servants has contacts in the underground-though of course, she has never said anything about it. If you wish, I will pursue the matter with her. Carefully, you understand. And with some luck, I may succeed.”
“We would be most grateful,” said the captain. “There is a great deal at stake here.”
Not the least of which was the fate of Beverly Crusher. And only after Picard’s team brought a cure to the Kevrata could they turn their attentions to finding her.
“I understand,” said Phajan. He crossed the room and got a dark green thermal suit off a wall hook. “One way or the other, this will not take long.”
Worf gazed at the desktop monitor in front of him, which hadn’t been hooked up until the day before, and took in the sight of Captain Idun Asmund.
“You look well,” she told him.
“So do you,” he said.
It was not a lie. Had Worf not known better, he would have believed