Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [90]
“I am sorry to hear about your headache,” the captain said, “but it was sustained in a very good cause.”
Greyhorse blinked a couple of times. “You used to say things like that when we were on the Stargazer.”
Did I? “I am sorry I am not more original these days.”
“It’s all right,” said the doctor. “I like hearing it. Those were good days, even if I didn’t know it at the time.”
They were good days. Greyhorse had been a trusted member of Picard’s command staff then, and a respected medical officer-not someone trying to put his past behind him.
Not for the first time, the captain wished he had seen some sign of the doctor’s transformation in time to do something about it. But like everyone else, he had missed it until it was almost too late.
“There will be good days again,” Picard said. “I promise. In the meantime, we need to get your vaccine to the Kevrata.”
Braeg looked out across majestic Victory Square, with its soaring fountains and its venerable statuary, where thousands of Romulans had assembled to hear him speak.
When he began his campaign against Tal’aura, he had been fortunate to draw an audience of even a hundred. Clearly, his popularity had grown, and that of his cause along with it.
Braeg smiled to himself as he ascended the sun-drenched stair before a statue of Pontilus, the Empire’s revered first praetor. It was Herran who had suggested that, at this critical juncture, the admiral align himself with Pontilus in the people’s minds. Judging from the enthusiasm of the crowd, the suggestion had been a good one.
But he wouldn’t speak quite yet. Wait another moment or two. Let their eagerness build to a crescendo.
And it did, much to his delight.
The admiral had known this feeling on other occasions, after some long, carefully planned series of maneuvers had given him a strategic advantage over a formidable enemy. But then, he was going to fight a battle here, wasn’t he?
A battle for the soul of Romulus. But he had plotted and deployed and maneuvered enough. It was time to attack.
“We have met in this square before,” he said, his first words quieting the crowd. “We have shared our concerns about the waves of unrest threatening Romulus’s stake in the outworlds. And we have talked about what this portends for the future of the Empire.
“When I commanded a fleet of warbirds against the Dominion, I took responsibility for my actions. After all, the decisions were mine. If they went awry, I looked to blame no one but myself. That is how a leader leads-by putting his pride and ambition aside and doing what benefits the Empire.
“Shinzon showed us what happens to those who put pride above all else. And yet Tal’aura insists on making the same mistake. She sees the numbers in which we gather, and she cannot ignore the strength we represent. But in her overwhelming pride, she continues down the path of ruin, and she takes us with her.”
Suddenly, he raised his voice, lashing the crowd with his discontent. “No more! Let us show Tal’aura, once and for all, that the people are disgusted with her inadequacies! Let us tell her unmistakably that we have had enough of her failures!
“Let us act,” he said, “in the name of our ancestors, who built what we have with their blood and their toil. Let us act in the name of our descendants, who deserve an Empire proud and strong. But most of all, let us act in the name of what is right-and tear this praetor down!”
Braeg had expected a cheer of approval. What he got was a storm of sound, so thunderous and sustained that after a while he feared for his hearing.
Clearly, he had the molten material he had hoped for. It was then a matter of forging it into a weapon that could pierce the heart of Tal’aura’s regime.
And with his next words, he did just that.
Praetor Tal’aura stood before her viewscreen, icewater collecting in the small of her back, and watched Braeg whip the crowd in Victory Square into a frenzy.
She saw now that she had made a grave mistake. She had been so careful not to