“Who, lady?” one of the guards asked.
“I don’t know. I . . .” Then suddenly, Troi knew what was behind all those rectangles. There were hundreds of them like boxes in a warehouse. Liquid slurped in and out of the tubes. The wires hummed, and there was the faintest smell of electricity, a sharp ozone smell.
Troi backed away from the wall, clutching her hands to her stomach. “Oh, my god,” she whispered.
“Counselor, what is it?” Picard asked.
“Babies . . .” she whirled to look at all the holding tanks, “babies.”
“These are the lifeless children,” Breck said. “I told you that.”
“But they’re not dead,” Troi said. She walked up to him, staring up into his face. “They’re alive inside there.”
He shook his head. “They are lifeless.”
“No, I can feel them thinking, dreaming. I know they’re alive.”
“You are mistaken, lady,” the guard said.
Troi shook her head, backing away from the guard. “Captain.”
“I’m here, Troi,” Picard said, coming to stand beside her.
“They are alive.”
“I believe you, Counselor, but why would the guards lie?”
“I don’t know.” She stared at the warehouse of dead children. It was impossible. They were keeping them alive. The tubes and wires were feeding them—why did they say the children were dead? It made no sense.
“Is this what woke you, Counselor?”
“No.” She started walking through the huge room toward a small door at the end. “Behind there.” Troi knew now that it was a woman whose terror she had shared. The woman was sleeping now, but whatever had started her terror and then her grief was still there. They could drug the woman, but when she woke, the emotions would still be there, raw and waiting to suck her down. Would they swallow Troi up again, as well? The counselor didn’t know. She could not remember when a stranger’s pain had so affected her.
The door at the far end of the room opened. An Orianian stepped through. She was bare-faced, with the typical high-boned cheeks and huge luminous eyes. She was dressed in orange surgical dress. A doctor perhaps?
The woman did not see them at first. Her eyes were downcast, staring at something she carried. The orange wrapped bundle was the color of the surgical gown and so small that it would not have filled Troi’s two hands. The Orianian woman looked up at them, almost in slow motion. Her eyes were pale brown, large in her face, but filled with unutterable sorrow.
Troi looked away from that haggard face, but the emotion did not leave. It was not a matter of eye contact, but of the woman’s need. Her despair reached out for Troi like a blanket, wet and gray and suffocating. Troi pushed the emotion away. She could not accept this woman’s pain. In any case, it wasn’t this one who had woken her.
“Guards, who are these people, and how dare you bring them here?” There should have been anger in her voice, but there was none left. It was as if the despair had eaten everything else.
The first guard went to one knee before the woman.
“Dr. Zhir, this is the Federation ambassador and his party. This one,” he pointed at Troi, “is a healer of some kind. They said they could help.”
“You know no one is to enter this place on the night of a birth. You know that.”
The second guard, Breck, went down on one knee beside the first. “Dr. Zhir, Colonel Talanne gave orders that the ambassador is to be denied nothing. He is to have full access.”
“I am sure she did not mean for you to bring strangers into our holy places.”
Picard stepped forward. “Dr. Zhir, we meant no harm. My counselor was awakened by the pain of one of your patients. We want only to help.”
Doctor Zhir laughed, an abrupt, bitter sound. “Help? You cannot help us. No one can help us, Federation Ambassador. Our sins are too great.” She hugged the tiny orange bundle to her chest. It made a small protesting sound, almost a cry.
“We are here to stop the war, Doctor. Surely that will help.”
“Stop the war if you can, but it is too late for our race.”
“I do not understand, Doctor,” Picard said.
“What sort of healer are you?”
“I would be called a mind-healer,” Troi said.
Zhir nodded, slowly. “Then you know what is in this room. You know what our greed and hatred have done to the children.”
Troi shook her head. “The guards say the babies in the tanks are dead.” She glanced at Picard. “We don’t understand.”
“I think it is too late, Ambassador. I think that even if peace happens tomorrow that race is doomed, but you don’t believe that, do you?”
“No, Doctor, I don’t. You will find most humans believe a great deal in hope,” Picard said.
Zhir stood a little straighter. Her thin face became smooth and calm. She had made some sort of decision, and with it came a moment of peace. “Come, Ambassador, let me show you why I have given up on hope. Look upon the sins of Oriana.”
“Doctor, it is forbidden,” the first guard said.
“I am a doctor, I am allowed, and they are strangers. Our laws do not hold them.”
“Are you sure, Doctor?”
“Colonel Talanne said to show them everything. Well, by the withered leaf, I shall.”
The two guards still kneeling on the floor laid their foreheads on their bent knees. They covered their faces with their gloved hands.
Zhir stepped around the kneeling guards to stand next to Picard. Worf started to move between them, but Picard waved him back. “It’s all right, Lieutenant, I trust her.”
Doctor Zhir stared at him for a moment, a puzzled expression on her face. “You are either a fool or a wise man to be able to decide who to trust.”
“We come to make peace for your people, Doctor. Trust must begin somewhere.”
She nodded. “Yes.” She stared at Troi. “The guard said you were a healer. Is that true?”
“I am a healer of the mind, yes.”
The doctor laughed, that same abrupt and almost ugly sound. “Oh, we need such healers as yourself. There is so much I cannot heal. Perhaps you could alter their minds so they do not care if they are healed or not.”
“I would be glad to help in any way I can.”
“Do not promise until you see the task I set you, Healer,” Zhir said. “Come closer, you and the Federation ambassador, come and see what I hold in my arms.”
Troi moved forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with the captain. She felt Zhir’s fear, disgust, anticipation.
Doctor Zhir balanced the orange bundle in the crook of her right arm. With the left hand she began pushing back the cloth. A tiny fist thrust into the air. Tiny feet kicked free of the bundling. Troi leaned forward to touch the smooth reddish skin. Soft, almost furlike in its texture, like that of all newborns.
The cloth fell away from the face. A tiny mouth opened wide with a high-pitched and keening scream. The rest of the face was smooth skin, blank as if all the parts hadn’t been put together yet. No eyes, no nose, only a thin red slit of a mouth.
Picard took a sharp breath. He steadied himself, Troi felt the effort it cost him. “Is this typical?”
“Typical?” the doctor repeated, “yes and no. We have many deformities. The pollution has contaminated our water, air, the ground. All our food, our world, is poisonous to us. And it does this.” She began to rewrap the crying baby.
Troi stroked a tiny fist. It reacted, grabbing her finger, squeezing. “What will happen to him?”
“He will go in one of the vats,” the doctor said, “and we will reconstruct eyes and a face. We will build him into a whole person.”
“Do you have to do this with many of your children?” Picard asked.
“Reconstruct them, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Most of our children in the last ten years have been beyond saving. The deformities were too serious. Few women even carry a baby to term. Their
bodies are too full of poisons to support life.”
“But we saw Colonel Talanne’s son, Jeric,” Troi said.
“Yes, Jeric.” The doctor shook her head. “I do not explain miracles. I am merely thankful for them. This,” she held the tiny baby closer, “is what we usually find if we are lucky.”
“The guards called this the place of lifeless children,” Troi said, “but they aren’t dead.”
“We can keep them alive, but we cannot bring them to life,” Doctor Zhir said.
Troi frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“We have the technology to keep them from dying, but we cannot cure what is wrong. We cannot help them become real children. Children that can walk and run, laugh and think. They are alive but they are not. Do you understand?”
Troi stared round the room, at the hundreds of boxes. “You can’t cure them?” she made it a question.
“No, we cannot cure them, but we can repair some of what is wrong,” the doctor said.
Picard stared at the boxes and at the kneeling guards. The enormity of the room, the slurping of liquid going through tubes, the faint hum of electricity, all washed over him in a cool horror. Troi could feel his instant sympathy with this beleaguered doctor, his instant repulsion at the contents of the room. “As soon as possible I would ask your permission to have my ship’s doctor beam down and look at your . . . children. There may be medical techniques that could aid you.”
“If you could truly aid us here, then it would be a powerful thing to bring to the peace table.”
Picard nodded. “I understand.”
“I am a doctor in a world of perpetual war and disease and deformity. There are not many doctors left, most of us became other things.” She rocked the crying baby until it stopped. “The pain, you understand.”
“It was your pain I felt, part of it, anyway,” Troi said.
“You felt my pain?” Zhir said. “And it woke you, brought you here?”
“Yours, and the woman who gave birth tonight,” Troi said.
Zhir smiled, ever so slightly. “You have given me hope, and I curse you for it. I thought I had given up such useless thoughts, but there it is, hope, the last refuge of madmen and dreamers.”
“Would you like me to see the mother tonight?” Troi asked.
“She is sleeping. Better that she sleeps as long as she can. It will be a long time before her son comes out of this room. Breck there,” she indicated one of the kneeling guards, “was one of mine, not so different from this one. Though he did heal better than most. Almost all of the people below twenty spent some time in this room.” She shook her head. “Go, go, I must put this little one to bed.”
“I have your permission to send my ship’s doctor as soon as she becomes available?” Picard asked.
Doctor Zhir nodded. “There is always room for another doctor on Oriana, Federation Ambassador. Now please go.” She spoke directly to the two kneeling guards. “Rise, the sin is covered.”
The guards uncovered their faces then looked up, blinking into the light.
“Escort the ambassador and his people out of here.”
“Yes, Dr. Zhir. We meant no intrusion,” the first guard said.
“Hope is never an intrusion but often a lie.” She smiled again to herself and spoke softly to the carefully wrapped baby. Troi could not hear what she said.
The guards stood and began herding Picard and the others toward the far door. “You heard the doctor, we must go now.” There was fear in his voice, as well as respect.
Doctor Zhir pressed a panel on the wall and a silver drawer popped open. Zhir was speaking softly to the baby.
The guards almost physically pushed them toward the door. Only Worf’s warning glare kept them from it.
Dr. Zhir began to sing clear and soft, but it carried. A song Troi did not know. The whispering echoes of the babies, hundreds of babies, thoughts, ragged bits of dream responded to the singing. Troi felt a brush of pleasure, like a whisper of happiness from the babies.
Doctor Zhir was singing to the lifeless children, and they heard her. Her voice, her . . . love for them.
The corridor outside seemed somehow wider, fresher. Everyone was relieved to be out of that room. Everyone. Troi was no exception, but she could still feel Dr. Zhir singing. Not the words but the feelings—grief, horror, pain, but under it all like something new . . . hope. The last refuge for madmen and dreamers.
Chapter Four
PICARD, TROI AND WORF were just outside their room when a guard hurried toward them. The Orianians pointed rifles at a nearly running figure. He or she, displayed empty hands. “Please,” the voice was male, “I am Breck and Colonel Talanne has sent me to find the Federation healer. A mind-healer.”
“What has happened?” Picard asked.
“The general’s son, Jeric, he is . . . not well,” the guard said.
“What is wrong with him?” Troi asked.
“I know not. Colonel Talanne ordered me to fetch the mind-healer from the starship. She said only that her son is ill and in need of help.”
“Counselor?” Picard said.
“He is telling the truth, Captain. He is worried about the boy.” Troi stepped out from between the still cautious guards. “I am the . . . mind-healer. I will come with you.”
“No,” Worf said. “It could be a trap.”
“He believes what he’s saying,” Troi said.
“He could have been lied to as well.”
“No,” Troi said.
“Captain, this could be a ploy to separate us. The counselor could be used as a hostage.”
“If I understand the word properly,” Breck said, “we do not take hostages. To hide behind a nonwarrior is an act of cowardice.”
“You use assassins and poison,” Worf said.
“Yes, but not hostages,” Breck said. He seemed to find nothing wrong with his code of honor. Poison, but not hostages. Interesting.
“Lieutenant, we must trust our hosts,” Picard said.
The look on Worf’s face said plainly how far he trusted their hosts. Picard chose to ignore it. “Counselor, do you feel safe going to the aid of this child?”
“Yes, Captain.”
He nodded. “If you could help the general’s child, it might help negotiations.”
“Understood, Captain.”
“But that is not worth sending you alone. Lieutenant Worf, you may accompany Counselor Troi.”
“I agree someone should accompany her, Captain, but what of your own safety while I am away?”
“I managed to stay alive long before I met you or Commander Riker. I think I can manage a short time alone. Besides, the Orianian guards should be able to stave off the attackers until your return.”
Worf frowned. “Your safety is not a laughing matter, Captain.”
“I am not laughing, Lieutenant Worf.”
The guard who had come to fetch Troi was shifting from foot to foot. “Please, Colonel Talanne was most insistent. Will you come now?”
“Yes,” Troi said, “I’m coming.” She followed the guard down the hallway, the opposite way from the nurseries. Worf trailed behind her like a frowning shadow.
The boy’s room was nearly identical to the one where Troi had awakened—was it only an hour ago—only the wall hangings were different. Scenes of nearly life-sized children playing games. Beautiful Orianian children. Children like Jeric, not like the babies in the nurseries. There were no wounds or deformities here. The running, laughing children were as perfect as the flowers they picked.
Had Oriana been like this once? The vibrant green trees, the flowers like melted rainbows covering soft, rolling hills. The golden-skinned children with their liquid, bright eyes. Laughter, play, life.
Troi stared at the two bodyguards in their everpresent face masks and goggles, their rifles. What had happened to this planet, these people, to make them destroy everything? Surely, nothing was worth such total destruction.
Talanne sat on the edge of a
sleeping mat holding her child. Jeric cried softly, his small hands clutching her loose blouse. She was stroking his silky hair, whispering, “It’s going to be all right, Jeric. The healer is here now. She’ll help you.” Talanne met Troi’s eyes as she said the last. She wanted her words to be true, but she feared they were lies.
In that moment Troi wanted to help the boy, not just for his own sake, or for the peace talks, but to take that haunted look from Talanne’s eyes. The look that had seen too much that was bright and wondrous wither and die. Troi knelt beside the mother and child. She spoke softly, “Jeric, can you look at me?”
The little boy peered at her through his mother’s arms. His large, brown-gold eyes shimmered with tears.
Troi smiled at him. “Did you have a bad dream?”
He nodded solemnly.
“Can you tell me about it?”
He just blinked at her.
“It’s all right, Jeric,” Talanne murmured. “Tell the healer what you dreamed.”
The boy’s fear was fading, replaced by puzzlement. He didn’t understand the question.
“Jeric,” Troi said, “did you see scary pictures in your head?”
He nodded.
“Can you tell me what the pictures looked like?”
He nodded. Talanne held him tight, as if her arms could keep him safe.
“I saw Bori.”
Troi looked a question at Talanne. “It is . . . was his sentinel,” Talanne said.
Troi nodded. “What was Bori doing?”
“He was talkin’ to a man.”
“Could you hear what they said?” Troi asked.
Jeric shook his head.
“They just stood and talked?”
He nodded.
“Nothing else?”
Jeric shook his head solemnly, eyes too large for his tear-stained face. He was telling the truth as far as he knew it. But it wasn’t the whole truth, just the truth as his conscious mind understood it. Underneath, in the subconscious, was another truth. Down where his nightmare had come from, Jeric knew why seeing two men talk was terrifying. But he was not ready to face what he had seen. Troi thought it likely that Jeric had seen his sentinel die in defense of his life. It was a terrible burden for one so young.
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