Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [67]
“The ones on the back of your hands.”
Warily, the Romulan examined each hand in turn-and saw what Beverly was talking about. There were bumps on the backs of them, small but a dark and distinctive green in color.
“Do you know what those are?” she asked. When her captor didn’t answer, she said, “They’re symptoms of the disease that’s afflicted the Kevrata.”
That got the Romulan’s attention-to an even greater degree than Beverly had hoped. He looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. “You’re lying.”
She shook her head. “Not a chance. I’ve seen them more times than I care to say. They’re definitely a sign of the disease.”
“But I’m not Kevratan.”
“I’m afraid the virus isn’t that choosy. Of course, your species might be more resistant to it. You might not get as sick as the Kevrata-or it might kill you in a matter of hours. At this point, I can’t say.”
The Romulan looked like the sort who suspected lies everywhere. But all Beverly was doing was telling the truth.
“What I can say,” she continued, “is that if you’ve got the plague, other Romulans will get it too. And considering the merchant traffic that goes through Kevratas, it will almost certainly spread to other worlds in the Empire.”
Her companion’s face drained of color.
“Of course, that also creates an opportunity,” said Beverly, “because anyone who produces a cure for it will be doing both himself and his people a great service.”
The Romulan scowled. “And you can accomplish this, I suppose.”
“I did it for several humanoid species,” the doctor said. “I don’t see why I couldn’t do it for the Romulans.”
Her captor still looked suspicious, but he wasn’t calling her a liar anymore. He licked his lips-a sign of indecision in a number of species, Romulans among them.
“I need to get you offworld,” he said, thinking out loud. “Preferably back to Romulus.”
Beverly didn’t comment. The centurion was on the right track-why say anything that might derail him?
“That will involve a transport,” he noted. “It will take time to arrange such a thing.”
If you say so, she thought.
“And what will I do with you in the meantime?” asked the Romulan. “How will I keep you from running off?”
“I promise- ” Beverly began.
But her captor held his hand up for silence. “What kind of fool do you take me for? Did you really think I was going to take you at your word?”
“Maybe not,” she allowed.
“But what is the alternative?” asked the centurion. He cast a glance over the room. “There is nothing at hand I can use to bind you. I will need to look for something.”
The Romulan adjusted the setting on his disruptor again. This time, he turned it to the lowest one.
Beverly was about to ask what he had in mind. But before she could open her mouth, he fired at her.
Manathas watched the human crumple to the flawless marble floor, her hair pooling around her like molten copper.
Then he looked at the back of his hand again, no longer constrained to conceal his panic and revulsion. Once Crusher pointed out the lesions, he remembered that he had seen such things on Kevratan corpses. But the bumps had been black, not green, or he would have made the association sooner.
Manathas couldn’t stand the thought that some alien germ had invaded his body and was slowly wreaking havoc inside him. It made him want to retch.
Calm yourself, he thought, exercising a discipline he had honed over the long years. Now.
The Romulan’s anxiety ebbed, slowly but surely, until it was little more than a vague discomfort. But he didn’t know how much longer he could maintain this level of control.
He had to get Crusher to another world, where she could work on a cure for the Romulan variant of the disease. Only then would he breathe easily again.
As for the reward he might receive… it was a motivating factor as well, as the human had rightly pointed out. But it was nothing compared with the abatement of his fears.
Dragging his eyes away from his hand, Manathas pulled his hood back on and prepared to go out into the cold again. The doctor would only be unconscious for a short time, after all, and he