Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [54]
And that they were back to square one.
Picard had spent much of the time since Phajan’s departure thinking about Beverly Crusher, and what hardships she might be overcoming at that juncture. But as the seconds ticked away, something else rose to the surface of his mind.
Not a thought, exactly. More of a feeling.
He had made decisions based on feelings before in the course of his career, and seldom did he have occasion to regret them. Eventually, they all turned out to be based on something-a half-remembered fact, an unconscious observation.
But at the times they first came to him, they seemed only to be feelings-faceless, formless, and yet compelling all the same. This, Picard told himself, is one of those times.
Even as he thought this, he saw Pug sit down on the chair opposite his. The former security chief seemed concerned-perhaps as concerned as Picard himself.
“What’s wrong?” Pug asked. “And don’t tell me nothing. I’ve seen your shoulders bunch that way before.”
You know me too well, the captain thought. “I have a bad feeling about this, Pug.”
“How bad?”
Picard frowned. “I think we should leave.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Decalon, who was standing at the far end of the room.
“I think we should leave,” the captain said a little louder, drawing Greyhorse’s attention as well.
“Why?” asked the doctor, still cradling in his powerful hands a dusty metal curio he had picked up from an end table.
Picard turned to him. Why indeed?
“Phajan has been gone a long time,” he said. “Too long, it seems to me. The more I consider the situation, the less inclined I am to trust him.”
Decalon cursed beneath his breath. “Phajan’s character is beyond reproach. He was an integral part of the underground railroad, trusted implicitly by your Federation.”
Picard acknowledged the fact. “Despite all that,” he said, thinking out loud, “Phajan never left the Empire himself. What kept him here all this time?”
“He didn’t want to abandon his family,” said Decalon. “He was attached to his mother and sisters.”
“Who live on the homeworld,” Picard pointed out, “while Phajan lives here on Kevratas. Not a terribly strong attachment, I would say.”
It was a good point. What’s more, the Romulan didn’t have an answer for it.
“And now he is a tax collector,” the captain continued, “helping the Empire to exploit the Kevrata.”
“These are not easy times,” said Decalon. “It is difficult for people to find employment.”
“Perhaps,” said Picard. “However, I cannot imagine that this was the only position available. The most lucrative, possibly, but not the only one.”
Decalon straightened. “It is not Phajan’s fault that he is paid well for his services.”
“Those who live in comfort,” said the captain, “are seldom eager to take risks. I have seen it over and over again. And Phajan very definitely lives in comfort.”
The Romulan’s face darkened. “He risked his life for me and others like me. He is a hero.”
“Was,” said Picard. “But by his own admission, he has changed. He is no longer the person you knew. And now we are sitting here-at Phajan’s insistence-relying on him to help us. But will he? Or will he betray us?”
Decalon made a gesture of dismissal. “Wild speculation. Where is the proof to support it, Captain? Where is the evidence so overwhelming that we should cast Phajan aside, and with him our best chance of contacting the Kevratan underground?”
It was a fair question. And Picard was certain that if he pondered it long enough, he would find an answer. But there was no time for that. If there was even a chance that Phajan would violate their trust, they had to move quickly.
“When you became part of this mission,” Picard told Decalon, “you agreed to follow my orders. This is one of them.”
Exasperated, the Romulan turned to Greyhorse for help. “Reason with him,” he said.
But the doctor was already on his feet. “I would say I’m the wrong person to speak of reason, having exhibited certain deficiencies in that area.”
Decalon looked at