Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [80]
At one point, he had been forced to conceal himself in a pile of Kevratan corpses-the result of a skirmish, perhaps, or possibly just the product of the centurions’ frustration. Had the corpses not still been warm, he might have frozen to death.
It occurred to him as he lay there that the plague might still have been alive in them. But what did that matter? It was alive in him too.
Obviously, the spy had underestimated Sela’s ability. The sting of her lash on the backs of her centurions was a more effective motivator than he had anticipated.
And the commander’s net tightened after he was spotted, her troops concentrating on that part of the city. It became nearly impossible to secure the supplies he and the doctor needed. In the end, after eluding patrol after dogged patrol, he gave up on the clothing and the drink, and settled for the food alone.
But even that didn’t assure Manathas of anything. On his way back to the government hall, just a few blocks from his goal, he found a squad of centurions blocking the street.
The only way to get past them was to scale a three-story building in a swirling, wind-driven snowstorm and come down on the other side. Half a dozen times, he slipped on the pitched roof and felt sure he was plummeting to his doom. But each time, he managed to arrest his fall and go on.
Had his only concern been his own survival, he wouldn’t have taken such a chance. However, he had left the doctor in the government hall as long as he dared. Humans were not Romulans. They were weaker, more fragile. And, having told Tal’aura of the spreading plague and Crusher’s importance in devising a cure for it, he could hardly show up on Romulus empty-handed.
Now that Manathas was back, he could only hope that Crusher hadn’t yielded to the cold and the lack of sustenance. Dreading what he might find, he made his way through the foyer and emerged into the main hall.
But the human wasn’t anywhere in sight. Cursing inwardly, he hastened to the center of the hall and spun around, searching its extremities.
That was when Manathas spotted her. She was sprawled next to the western wall beside its mounting ranks of wooden benches, her face concealed by a veil of her hair.
Rushing over to her, he saw that she had managed to free her ankles, and slowed down in anticipation of a trap. However, her hands were still bound behind her back.
Manathas knelt beside her, took a deep breath, and brushed the hair back from her face. She was terribly pale and her parched, cracked lips had a blue tint to them, but she was shivering-a sign that she hadn’t yet perished.
Thanking his ancestors, he pulled her over to the wall and propped her up, then dragged his stolen sack of food off his back and opened it. By then, the human’s eyes had fluttered once or twice and she had begun muttering something.
“What are you saying?” he asked, thinking it might not be a bad idea to get her talking.
This time it was intelligible, if only barely: “If you… find one, go.”
“Find what?” the Romulan asked, removing a stiff, cold loaf of bread from the waterproof sack.
“An exit,” Crusher groaned.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, tearing the loaf in half and pulling out a puff of the softer bread inside.
His captive did something strange then-she smiled, despite the dryness and inelasticity of her lips. “You never do.”
She’s delirious, Manathas reflected. But what he told Crusher was “Eat.” And he inserted the piece of bread into her mouth.
It was clear that she wanted to eat it because she began chewing furiously. But after a few seconds, she gave up and spit the bread out.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Water…” she whispered.
Manathas frowned. There was plenty of it outside in the form of snow, both on the ground and in the air. But as cold and debilitated as the human was, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to let it melt in her mouth.
“Just a moment,” he said.
Then he emptied the sack, took it outside, packed it