Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [94]
But there was a blizzard of white snow swirling about them. It cut down drastically on visibility and dampened sound. All the captain could hear was the whisper of flake on flake.
Joseph looked around as he followed Picard out of the tunnel, as alert as when he was the captain’s chief of security. Then came Greyhorse, an imposing figure in his black thermal suit, with Decalon immediately behind him.
The Romulan had been quiet since he admitted he was wrong about his friend Phajan, gathering with the others in the corridors at mealtimes but contributing little to their conversations. Of course, he had almost hamstrung their mission, and that couldn’t have been an easy thing to live with.
The only person with whom Decalon seemed comfortable was Greyhorse. But then, he had spent a good deal of time in the doctor’s company.
Not being a scientist, the Romulan couldn’t have made Greyhorse’s work go any faster. However, his presence in the doctor’s makeshift lab might have been a positive factor, giving Greyhorse unspoken encouragement or keeping his energies from flagging. It was difficult to say.
“Activate your holoprojectors,” Picard said.
A moment later, he was in the company of three Barolians again. The rebels, who had seen the disguises before, appeared to take them in stride.
“This way,” said Hanafaejas, indicating the way.
Picard fell in beside him, embarking across a landscape of long, generous drifts. The snow lashed his face, causing him to pull his hood forward a bit.
“Nice weather we’re having,” he told Hanafaejas.
The Kevrata glanced at him. “It will soon get worse.”
Though Picard wouldn’t have believed it possible, Hanafaejas was right. As the minutes passed, the storm seemed to intensify. He could barely see among its twists and tatters. Were it not for the rebel beside him, he would have been terribly and hopelessly lost.
“Yes,” the captain said, his words all but snatched by the wind, “nice weather indeed.” Lowering his head, he pressed forward, comforting himself with an assurance that they would be on the Annabel Lee within the hour…
He, his team, and the woman whose death he hadn’t been able to accept.
16
THE PLACE WHERE PICARD WAS SUPPOSED TO MEET Beverly was a broad slope cut by deep, snow-choked gullies-in the midst of which sat a sprawling, opulent-looking Kevratan domicile that had at some point fallen into disrepair.
Despite the size of the place, the captain and his companions were almost on top of it before they saw it loom out of the storm. That was how dense the snow was.
Beverly wasn’t in evidence yet. Hardly a surprise, Picard thought, as he shifted his grip on his phaser. He had insisted on arriving a few minutes early, reluctant to let her wait for him any longer than she had to.
After all, he had his team and a half dozen armed Kevrata with him. She was bringing only her host, wishing to minimize the possibility of a security breach.
Picard glanced at Pug, then at Greyhorse. They looked back at him from within their hoods, eager to simply secure Beverly and be done with it.
Suddenly, an image came to him out of the featureless white of the storm….
Beverly standing on the deck of the medical Starship Pasteur, her red-golden hair drawn back loosely into a knot, a captain’s insignia emblazoned on the scarlet breast of her uniform. Frowning out of concern for him, her features softened by age, but as beautiful as when she first set foot on his Enterprise.
Perhaps more so.
That Beverly was part of a future that would probably never exist, a future Picard had encountered years earlier while jumping helplessly through time. In it, he had married Beverly and then divorced her, but they still loved each other as much as ever.
Why think of that now? he asked himself.
“Captain,” someone said, in the deep, stentorian timbre of a Barolian. “Look!”
Picard turned and saw that it was Joseph who had spoken. Following his friend’s gesture, he discerned a figure through